Brighton Belle (7 page)

‘My bad manners,’ he caught himself up, ‘not pulling out the chair for you, but my back is giving me gyp something chronic, Miss B. So, how are things down in Brighton? Did Ben
find that bird or what?’

‘I’m afraid she’s dead,’ Mirabelle told him.

Bert’s face betrayed no emotion about either Romana Laszlo or his money.

‘I’ve registered your interest with her executor and the money will come through in due course. There shouldn’t be any problems. Mrs Laszlo had a life insurance
policy.’

Bert took a sip of his drink and drew in a sharp breath. ‘Ooof, bites into you, that.’

‘I notice,’ said Mirabelle, ‘that you haven’t asked me what she died of.’

Bert looked at the ground. ‘Was it the nipper?’

Mirabelle nodded.

‘She was an odd one, that bird. Shame.’

‘Odd?’

‘Well, she was foreign.’

‘Do you have a London address for her, Mr Jennings? I’m just tying up some loose ends, you see.’

‘What loose ends?’ Bert asked. ‘You said I was getting my money.’

‘I don’t really know,’ Mirabelle squared with him. ‘Just that there’s something wrong. I thought I’d come to town and see what I could find.’

Bert paused, hoping for more information. ‘Seems a bit above and beyond, dunnit?’

Mirabelle raised the glass to her lips. ‘I’d like to look around, that’s all. I’m curious.’

‘You’re
curious?’

Mirabelle nodded.

‘But it ain’t your case, is it?’

‘Well,’ Mirabelle didn’t want to lie, but there seemed nothing for it, ‘I said to Big Ben that it seemed fishy. He said I should have a look about, if I liked, so here I
am.’

Bert regarded Mirabelle. There was a moment of dead calm where he seemed to be considering what to do. Then he decided. ‘Yeah, all right, then. Look, I got an address. She lived with her
sister over in Chelsea. Cadogan Gardens, right off the back of Sloane Square. You might even call it Knightsbridge, I suppose.’

‘And her sister is Lisabetta?’

‘That’s right, yeah. I checked the house the day I came down to Brighton to see Big Ben – just in case they was still there. They still got the lease on the place, it turned
out, but the flat was closed up. Romana had gone off to have the baby, of course. Where Lisabetta had got to, I dunno. You going to take a look, then?’

Mirabelle nodded.

‘Mind if I tag along?’

A flicker of doubt crossed Mirabelle’s mind. The cut of Bert’s suit would stand out a mile in that neck of the woods. On the other hand it might be good to have a man in tow as long
as he behaved appropriately, the odds of which she realised, given Bert’s manner and background were probably about fifty-fifty. ‘You’re going to get your money anyway,’ she
said doubtfully.

‘Yeah,’ Bert grinned, finishing the drops at the bottom of his glass, ‘but I can’t help myself – I’m a nosey bastard just like you. Come on, girl, I’ll
show you where it is. I got a car just parked off Portobello Road.’

When Bert finally turned down Sloane Street he almost collided with a huge olive-green Harrods van coming in the opposite direction. Furious, he hit the horn and Mirabelle jumped as she woke
from her daydreams. They missed the kerb by an inch at most.

‘You fucking idiot!’ Bert shouted, and then casting a glance at his passenger he apologised. ‘Sorry Miss B. But he was.’

At the bottom of Sloane Street they turned into the maze that made up Cadogan Gardens and Bert parked on a stretch with high brick buildings on one side and a locked park on the other.
‘It’s the middle one on that block,’ Bert indicated. He switched off the ignition. ‘I reckon the easiest way in is through the gardens at the back. There are French doors.
Don’t expect there’s much in the way of a lock.’

‘You’re going to break in?’

Bert stared. ‘What? You was planning to come here and just sit on the doorstep?’

Mirabelle took a deep breath. He was right, of course. If the flat was empty she would love to look inside. ‘And you think we can get in at the back?’

Bert shrugged. ‘Common sense,’ he pronounced. ‘Romana’s dead and Lisabetta isn’t here, is she? Least she wasn’t here a couple of days ago.’

‘Lisabetta’s down in Brighton. She came for the funeral,’ Mirabelle chipped in.

Bert’s eyebrows rose momentarily as if impressed at the amount of information that Mirabelle clearly had to hand. ‘Well, then, what is it you’re looking for anyways?’

Mirabelle surveyed the buildings rising up along the back streets. The Victorian brickwork was intricate with patterns picked out in cream over the upper floors. The paintwork was well
maintained. There was a general air of prosperity. Large planters of geraniums and shiny-leaved rhododendrons stood at many of the front doors and Mirabelle caught glimpses of expensive furniture
through the windows. A maid with a shopping basket slipped discreetly down the stairs to one of the basements. This was not an area where people had huge financial worries, or at least if they did,
it did not seem the kind of place they would require Bert Jennings to become involved in order to solve them.

‘Why did Romana Laszlo need to borrow money?’ Mirabelle asked.

Bert snorted. ‘You don’t know much.’

‘Well, look at it. It’s nice round here. They must have been doing all right. How did she get in touch with you?’

Bert shifted uncomfortably. ‘Lisabetta. She knew me through Lisabetta.’

Mirabelle nodded.

Bert grabbed the handle of the door. ‘Come on, then.’ His tone was insistent. ‘Let’s have a look while it’s good and quiet.’

They crossed the street and eyed the railings. There was no one around. Bert hauled himself awkwardly over the top and then turned to help Mirabelle. She took off her heels and threw them over
and then clambered across the wrought-iron spikes, grabbing his hand to steady her.

‘We’re a right couple of crocks!’ Bert laughed.

Mirabelle ignored him. She hadn’t dressed that morning for gymnastics and was not in the habit of scaling fences.

‘I saw Lisabetta, you know,’ she said, starting out across the lawn. ‘In Brighton this morning. With a prostitute.’

Bert nodded. ‘She runs ’em. You don’t miss much, do you? Wouldn’t have thought a lady like you would have noticed that kind of thing and the sort of girls Lisabetta touts
don’t advertise it too clearly.’

Mirabelle did not explain. ‘She didn’t seem very upset about her sister.’

A smirk crossed Bert’s face. ‘Them girls don’t feel much, if you see what I mean. Tough as old nails, Lisabetta. Looks like a china doll but she’d survive a nuclear
blast. Hiroshimaproof, she is!’

‘Is that how you knew her? Because she was running a game? It’s only that, if you don’t mind me saying so, you seemed uncomfortable when you mentioned her.’

‘Nah,’ Bert said, ‘I didn’t know her the way you’re thinking. You got a dirty mind, Miss B! I knew a couple of girls, posh birds, who got into trouble with money.
It’s been tough for some of them, after the war and all. I put them Lisabetta’s way ’cause she runs them sort of brasses upmarket. They was ever so grateful. Cleared their tabs in
a couple of months, both of them. Suppose you could say Lisabetta and I became friends after that.’

Bert loitered beside three iron steps that led up to tall glass doors with white painted frames. Mirabelle noted that despite his long explanation Bert hadn’t addressed why he had been
uncomfortable and now he was standing in an aggressive position.

‘I don’t like to pay for it, myself. Takes the fun out,’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘Oh,’ he mimicked her, ‘
of course
, is it? Don’t get all hoity-toity, sweetheart – you’re breaking and entering, you know.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. He had a point.

‘Right, then, do you want me to do the honours? I can tamper the lock no problem.’

‘Yes, please.’

Bert took a flick-knife from his pocket, opened it deftly and drew the blade upwards between the doors. When he reached the lock he manipulated it efficiently to one side. He had obviously
jemmied a lock more than once but that was hardly a surprise.

‘After you,’ he said.

Mirabelle stepped inside.

The room was decorated in a soft duck-egg blue with a matching carpet. There were large luxurious peach sofas with hand-painted silk cushions depicting humming birds in flight scattered along
the length. Beside almost every seat there was a brass-trimmed wooden side table with a glass top. All the furniture was arranged around an ornate white marble fireplace. It was a lovely room and
very light because of the aspect onto the lush gardens to the rear.

It suddenly occurred to Mirabelle that she wasn’t sure exactly what to look for, other than a general sense of Romana Laszlo, which was so far not apparent. There were no family
photographs, only some coffee-table books – one with Victorian photographs of London and another called
The Connoisseur
with pictures of fine porcelain. In all Mirabelle counted four
onyx boxes of cigarettes and three lighters dotted around the room, as well as a bowl containing half-used matchbooks from every smart club and bar in the West End. On one wall there was a large
gilt-framed mirror and a couple of colourful prints of exotic orange flowers, and in an alcove a well-stocked drinks tray with a variety of shiny crystal glasses arrayed around it, except,
Mirabelle noticed, running her eyes over the bottles, there was no gin. That must be the only drinks tray in England without it, she thought.

‘Have you been in here before?’ she asked Bert.

He nodded. ‘Yeah, two or three times. I always used to meet Lisabetta at the Kitten in Chelsea, up the road. Bit of a dive but that was her hang-out. She likes clubs does Lisabetta –
the dark and the smoke, you know? But Romana met me here a couple of times. Not a party girl like her sister and being in the family way and all. She said she needed a hand and that Lisabetta was
out of the country. She had some money she was inheriting. I dunno about that – people will tell you anything, but I knew Lisabetta and I thought that was enough.’

‘You handed over a lot of money though, Bert. What was she like?’

Bert took a cigarette from a box on one of the tables and lit it with a match. ‘Romana? Pretty girl. Like Lisabetta, attractive. Though Lisabetta is sexier. She wears those low tops and
all that. A cracker. Romana, she was more your classical beauty. It’s a lot of money, all right! Don’t I know it!’

‘Do you know where Lisabetta went when she left the country?’

Bert thought for a moment. ‘Not really,’ he shrugged. ‘Got the impression of it being family business, or something. But Romana didn’t really say.’

‘And they got on, the girls?’

‘Yeah, I think so,’ Bert said. ‘Never saw anything that would make me think otherwise.’

Mirabelle crossed the room and peered into the long dark hallway, which led to the rest of the flat. A small kitchen was fitted through a door to one side with a dining room ahead of it.

‘You go on.’ Bert motioned as he lit a cigarette and stood in the bay that led back to the garden, flicking his ash down the steps and onto the pathway. As Mirabelle stalked up the
hallway and into the kitchen she could hear him whistling as he smoked. She quickly checked the kitchen cupboards, which were mostly bare, although in one there were several jars of olives and a
treasure trove of syrup tins which in one fell swoop was worth weeks of sugar rations. Next she returned to the hall and checked the mail lying on the mat. There were a couple of shop accounts in
Romana’s name and some letters for Lisabetta – mostly they looked like invitations. After glancing at the dining room – still no photographs – she took the set of stairs
that led to the basement.

‘Bedrooms down there, I expect,’ Bert called.

Mirabelle descended. The bathroom contained only some lavender soap and a jar of faded blue bath salts. Not so much as a toothbrush remained. In both bedrooms however there were abundant
quantities of clothes. Mirabelle checked the drawers and noted that one woman favoured black underwear while the other preferred pale pink. There were no clothes, or indeed underclothes, suitable
for accommodating a pregnancy bump, though for what must surely be a short time it might be deemed unnecessary to waste money on more than three or four outfits, which probably had gone with Romana
to Brighton. Still, something was vexing about the cupboards. The clothes were perfectly lovely, but they niggled. In one of the bedside drawers there was a vicious looking flick-knife with a
serrated edge.

Mirabelle sat on the edge of the bed in front of the closet. She turned the knife over in her hand as she considered this but in seconds she was disturbed by a commotion upstairs. There was a
man’s voice shouting and the sound of a table with a glass top shattering. Then came a sudden roar like thunder and she saw Bert’s shoes flash past the sunken window of the larger
bedroom as he hared across the lawn, throwing his cigarette to one side as he was pursued by the boots of a uniformed policeman blowing a whistle. Her heart sank as she sprang up and made it back
up the stairs in record time. Gingerly she peered into the sitting room, ready to turn herself in and come clean about what they were doing. It had been her idea to come here, after all. It was her
responsibility. But as she entered, her heart pounding, there was no one there. Through the open door, across the gardens, Bert was jumping the fence with an extraordinary vigour that Mirabelle
felt sure would do his back no good. The policeman was in hot pursuit.