Brighton Belle (13 page)

‘My George might fix the window,’ she observed. ‘He’s handy. Leave it to me.’

‘Thanks,’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘If he doesn’t mind that would be terrific. And if you see Mr McGuigan can you say that Mirabelle came to look for him and that Detective
Superintendent McGregor would like him to call.’

‘Mirabelle. Yes. Detective Superintendent McGregor. Lummy, I hope he’s all right. Man in his line of business – well, there’s all sorts in that trade.’

Mirabelle didn’t want to think about that, far less discuss it. ‘Well,’ she said, to reassure herself as much as the other woman, ‘he wasn’t well the last time I
saw him. Perhaps he went to a friend’s to recuperate. I’m sure I’ll find him. Thanks for your help.’

Mirabelle strode more confidently than she felt back down Kensington Place towards the Pedestrian Arms. Big Ben’s house was located only a couple of miles from the racetrack – had he
been living some kind of double life? It didn’t seem like him but then what else could she think? She pushed open the door and took a seat on a pew-style bench next to the beer taps.

The landlord leaned over the bar. ‘You all right, Miss? Can I get you something?’

‘A whisky, please. Glenlivet if you have some.’

The man turned to fill the glass. ‘You’re not local,’ he said with a smile. ‘Visiting?’

‘I’m thinking of going to the races.’ Mirabelle raised the whisky to her lips.

‘Nothing on today, love. The big meeting is tomorrow. Friday. And they’ll all be down from London. A cup winners’ race weekend can be busy. Like the gee-gees, do
you?’

‘Actually a friend gave me a tip. Ben McGuigan. Do you know him?’

‘Yeah, course I do. Lives up the road, doesn’t he? Old school. Drinks light beer. Always asking when we’ll get in those fancy foreign bottles, but me, I’m a keg man.
Won’t catch on, I always tell him. Light ale! People want it off the tap, most of them, these days.’

‘I didn’t know Ben liked the races.’ Mirabelle shrugged.

‘Never heard him mention them, right enough. Most fellas like the races, though, Miss. It’s only human nature.’

‘I thought I might lay a bet with a bookie he mentioned – called Williams?’

‘What’s the form?’

‘Horse called Blue Diamond. And one called Casey’s Girl. Have you heard of this Williams? Do you think he’s all right?’

‘Don’t know the name. What with the new covered stand, I hear there are more bookmakers than ever over there. A right collection! I usually lay my bets with Houghton. Sam Houghton.
You look out for him, if you like. He’s reliable.’

‘Thanks,’ she said and finished the whisky. ‘I’ll pop along tomorrow.’

Mirabelle walked smartly back to the office. She wondered fleetingly what Vesta might make of Big Ben’s disappearance as she pushed open the door but the offices of both McGuigan &
McGuigan and Halley Insurance were empty. With a sigh she took a sandwich from her lunchbox, laid Ben’s notebook on her desk and grabbed some paper. As she ate she transcribed the figures in
the notebook from Ben’s bedside table. They were payments that ranged over a fortnight and totalled almost twenty thousand pounds. What was he up to at the racecourse? She checked her watch.
It was getting late and Vesta should be back by now. Mirabelle missed her a little. The feeling sat, a pang on her stomach. Sandor must have enticed the poor girl into tea and brandy.

Without thinking Mirabelle picked up the phone and dialled the number of the vestry at the Sacred Heart. There was no reply. She looked out of the window down onto the street.

‘Damn it,’ she said, glancing at the list she’d made. There was nothing more to do until she found out how Romana Laszlo died and, really, if she had that piece of the puzzle
Mirabelle had decided to go to Detective Superintendent McGregor. He seemed trustworthy enough. She could drop off Ben’s notebook at the same time – perhaps it might help him to make
sense of where Ben had got to. Mirabelle checked her watch again and then fixed her hat as she muttered under her breath, ‘I’ll just have to go down there and get her.’

Ever efficient she scooped the papers off the desk and locked them in the filing cabinet then made her way down onto the street and hailed a taxi to the church.

14

You only need a few people to effect a kidnapping.

W
hen Vesta woke it was dark. It took her a moment or two to remember what had happened. Her head ached and her mouth was dry – an
uncomfortable combination which she hadn’t experienced before. When she tried to get up she found she was bound to a chair and couldn’t move her arms or legs. She struggled but it was
no use.

Stay calm, she thought. Just wait until your eyes get used to the lack of light and try to figure out where the hell you are, Vesta Churchill.

As she became accustomed to the silence she heard the sound of shallow breathing and she remembered that when she’d blacked out, she hadn’t been alone. ‘Sandor,’ she
whispered. ‘Sandor, is that you?’

There was a moan.

‘Sandor, Sandor, wake up.’

The priest said something in Hungarian and then began to cough. Vesta waited. She heard him struggling and then there was a crash as he fell on his side.

Vesta squealed. ‘God, Sandor. God.’

‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Do you know where we are?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know who brought us here?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know how long we’ve been here?’

‘No.’

‘Are you tied up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me, too. My eyes aren’t so good these days. Can you see anything?’

Vesta squinted. ‘Not really.’

‘But you are all right?’

‘I guess. My head feels pretty bad and my mouth is dry. I could do with some water.’

‘All right. We have to try to work these ropes. Just keep moving. Tiny movements, Vesta. It could take a long time, but they will ease.’

‘Sandor, I’m afraid. Really afraid,’ Vesta admitted.

‘I know. I’ve been in worse situations, though. Honestly. Can you move at all?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good. We have to make little movements. It’ll ease the knots.’

There were a few moments’ silence, which Vesta broke. ‘Did you see how that guy died? The guy in the coffin?’

‘Yes, there were marks around his neck. I think he was strangled. Which is unusual for such a big man. He was strong. It takes a lot of strength to strangle such a man even if you get
behind him. I wonder who he was?’

‘I’ve seen him before,’ said Vesta. ‘At first I didn’t recognise him because he was dead and they’d put him in that funny position. But I know who he is, or
was. Ben McGuigan.’

The sound of Sandor struggling became louder. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘Ben McGuigan? He’s the guy Mirabelle works for. He’s her boss,’ Vesta replied. ‘McGuigan & McGuigan. Though I only ever heard of one McGuigan. I don’t
know if there ever were two of them. I’ve only seen him going in and out of the office.’

‘That means Mirabelle is in a lot of danger,’ Sandor said. ‘We have to get out of here.’

‘No shit, Sandor. Mirabelle’s in danger? I think we’re in a whole load of danger of our own.’

Then from one side they heard footsteps and a door opened. Outside it was sunny and the sudden light hurt Vesta’s eyes. A man walked into what they could now see was some kind of outhouse
with rough stone walls and a squint roof. The man was of medium height with grey hair and was wearing a suit. He was smartly turned out for a kidnapping murderer, Vesta thought. And he was cool in
his manner. She decided that she would try to match him.

‘Well,’ he said with a downmarket English accent that gave her a start, ‘it seems to me that you’ve uncovered something rather unfortunate in your investigations, Miss
Churchill.’

Vesta tried to stop herself but she couldn’t. She was furious. ‘You think you can get away with this! Kidnapping people – a priest as well!’

‘Oh, yes,’ he cut her off. ‘We will definitely get away with it. No question about that.’ The man walked around until he was standing directly in front of her. ‘The
question is whether you’ll end up in the wrong grave while we’re getting away with it. The question is do you want to stay alive, Miss Churchill? Or are you prepared to die for the sake
of the Prudential Insurance Company? Just how much do you think you owe your employer?’

Vesta spluttered. Luckily she didn’t say what came into her mind that moment – that she didn’t work at the Prudential at all.

‘I’m serious. I’m asking you a serious question, Miss Churchill. I have no qualms about killing you but it will be easier if you cooperate. Now if I were to let you go, would
you report back that everything was in order and make sure the money was released? That’s all I want. That policy.’

Vesta stared at him in disbelief as it dawned on her that her cover was working to her advantage – it was keeping her alive. ‘And the man in the grave?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about him. He was dead all along anyway.’

‘What happened to him? What happened to Romana Laszlo?’

The man kept stock still. ‘You don’t really expect me to give you details of that, do you? It’s none of your business. Now, here’s what we will do. You trot back to the
Prudential – naturally I’ll be keeping an eye on you – and you tell them everything is fine and you see to it the money is paid out. Take it from me, Romana Laszlo is no longer
with us, whatever you saw in that coffin. Just because she wasn’t in it, doesn’t mean she isn’t dead. So, you make sure that they pay out the money. And the day the money is paid
out you receive fifty pounds. Straight into your bank account. Or at least, a bank account that we’ll open for you. A little bonus, shall we say?’

‘You think I’d do that for fifty quid? I wouldn’t do that for any money! Are you mad? It’s fraud. And there are two dead people involved.’

‘I’m not mad, Miss Churchill. Not in the slightest. The cash is just another little insurance policy. It implicates you. Really, I think you’ll do what I want you to do to save
your own life and, of course, the life of the good pastor here. We’ll keep him, you see, until after the money is released. Think of it as a policy with a bonus. Of course, if you go to the
police I’ll kill him. If you tell your insurance colleagues, I’ll kill him. In fact, anything you do that I don’t approve of, I’ll kill him. You do care about the pastor,
don’t you?’

‘It’s all right, Vesta. You don’t have to worry about me,’ Sandor said. ‘They’ll kill me anyway. They’ll have to.’

The man hit Sandor hard and he slumped a little in his chair. Vesta screamed but he ignored it. When he continued his voice was completely calm – devoid of emotion – just as it had
been before. ‘Shortly after the money is paid out everyone involved in this will be long gone.’ Vesta could just make out his face in the shadows as he licked his lips in a way that
made her feel uncomfortable – as if he were hungry. ‘We don’t really want to kill anyone we don’t have to. Dead bodies are always difficult to clear up. So as long as the
money is paid out ...’

‘This is about some lousy insurance policy for a thousand pounds?’ she blurted. ‘You have to be kidding me.’

‘I can see you’re a practical lady,’ the man continued without turning a hair. ‘I can see that. So there’s no point in saying anything more. Now, do you agree to
the arrangement or do I shoot you both today and simply let the Prudential wonder why you never came back to the office? A lot of things can happen on the way back to the office, you know. All
kinds of things completely unrelated to insurance policies. Violent place, England these days. Especially for darkies. I do like to help you people, you know, when I can. Gave money to Africa to
help the black babies, and all that. Now, why don’t you let me help you, too, love? Eh?’

Vesta felt her knees weaken. She looked at Sandor whose eyes were burning with fury and for the life of her she couldn’t see that she had a lot of options. After all, if they knew she
wasn’t from the Prudential they’d probably kill both of them straight away. Suddenly Vesta felt at a dreadful disadvantage not having been through the war. She was sure there was a
clever way out of this. She was sure that Mirabelle would know what to do but as far as she could see she was caught in a rat trap and there was really only one option available to her. ‘All
right,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it. But I need to know Sandor is safe. I need to be able to check.’

The man smiled very slightly. ‘Good, very good. Well, you’d better give me a telephone number, then. A discreet one. We can certainly arrange that.’

‘Untie me,’ Vesta directed. ‘There’s a little office here in Brighton where I can use the phone – a regional office called Halley Insurance. I’ll give you the
number.’

15

Courage is not absence of fear.

M
irabelle strode down Norton Road and turned smartly into the Church of the Sacred Heart, heading straight down the aisle. Father Grogan was
sitting in the front pew. He looked up as soon as he heard the sound of her heels on the stone floor.

‘My daughter,’ he said, recognising her. ‘I’m afraid Father Sandor is out.’

‘Where has he gone?’

Father Grogan shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure. He had a funeral to conduct this morning and then he seems to have been called away suddenly. It happens sometimes – we are
a busy parish. Are you sure I can’t help you?’

‘No, thank you.’ Mirabelle looked through the side door of the Church, which opened onto the graveyard. She desperately didn’t want to enter the churchyard, but she knew that
she probably had to. ‘Is it all right if I go into the graveyard?’ she gestured along the transept.

‘Oh, surely.’

Tentatively she walked through the door. It was clear where the new grave was. A fresh mound of earth was marked at the head with a wooden stick. Mirabelle walked cautiously towards it. She
could make out where the mourners had stood, two men and two women. On one side there were shoeprints clearly visible in the mud – two sets of high-heeled shoes and two sets of flat wide
men’s prints. From the other direction there were the gravedigger’s footprints, the jagged patterns on the sole of their work boots etched into the mud. At the other end, at the foot of
the grave there were some smears as if something had been dragged – the coffin perhaps? She turned towards the gate to the street, avoiding looking at the plot where she knew Jack had been
laid. There are spring daffodils on his grave, she thought, without fully registering the flash of yellow. Then she turned to leave quickly with her eyes firmly on her own feet. It was then she saw
it. A half-eaten biscuit with a smattering of chocolate lay in the grass. It was only as she bent down to pick it up that it dawned on her what it might mean. It wasn’t like Vesta to toss
food aside. If she needed to get rid of it she’d put it in her pocket or, she thought with a smile, just as likely, in her mouth. Then Mirabelle suddenly felt sick. She stared at the smeared
mud. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ she said, turning back towards the church.