Brighton Belle (8 page)

Mirabelle stood away from the window. Weak-fingered, she thought for a moment and then turned back into the flat. There was nothing more she needed to see and there was no point in getting
caught as well. Comforting herself that it wasn’t the first time Bert would ever have been chased by the Old Bill, Mirabelle picked her way through the broken glass, turned smartly into the
hall, sneaked through the front door and slipped down the steps onto the pavement. There was no one around – not even a shadow in the high windows. She turned away from Bert’s car and
walked casually around the corner to the other side of the park. Ahead of her by two blocks, the policeman was racing towards King’s Road, the sound of his whistle intermittent as he ran out
of breath. There was no sign of Bert.

Mirabelle turned in the opposite direction and picked up the pace realising suddenly that she felt hot in her tan cashmere dress. It was so difficult to dress appropriately when the seasons
changed – the British weather was nothing if not erratic. Spring was the worst – freezing in Brighton this morning and then practically tropical in Knightsbridge in the afternoon. And
all at once it came to her. The clothes in the wardrobe. Of course. One wardrobe was for the winter season and the other for the summer. But did that mean that the sisters shared everything?
Mirabelle had no siblings and she really wasn’t sure what was normal. They must have been

close, she reasoned, they shared a flat, after all. Or, it came to her, more likely, poor Romana had known there was no point in leaving clothes in the flat because she wasn’t coming back.
Perhaps she knew she was going to die. Mirabelle shuddered. It felt as if she was looking for a ghost.

8

All knowledge begins with experience.

A
fter some consideration Mirabelle decided to have a look at the Kitten. Bert was long gone and if he had any sense he’d stay away from
Cadogan Gardens for a while. He’d said the club was in Chelsea and now it was her only outstanding lead.

Rather than join the main street she followed a warren of backstreets until she came to King’s Road, far enough from where Bert must have entered that she was sure no one would connect her
with a Notting Hill wide boy on the run. It occurred to her suddenly that he’d been a fool to stand about smoking in that suit in full view of every flat in the vicinity and, come to think of
it, whistling loudly, too. No wonder the police had arrived. Bert seemed savvy but there was no denying that he’d as good as advertised the fact he’d broken into the flat. Perhaps
he’d meant to. As the lightbulb flashed on in Mirabelle’s mind she realised that Bert must have intended it. Her brain began to whir. Was it possible that Bert had already known about
Romana’s death? He hadn’t seemed shocked when she told him. More suspiciously he had only answered what she’d asked, rather than posing any questions of his own. That didn’t
seem like normal behaviour for someone who made their living by lending money. Mirabelle had met plenty of moneylenders. A healthy interest in other people’s affairs was a tool of the trade
– look how many questions Bert had asked when he first arrived in the Brighton office. In London, this time, he had only volunteered the Cadogan Gardens address when she’d told him that
Big Ben sent her – and by implication, if he didn’t help, perhaps Big Ben might arrive. And besides that he’d hardly asked a single question.

Also, he’d been keen to accompany her to the apartment – in fact, he’d insisted – and breaking in had been his idea. Why had he been smoking anyway? Mirabelle had never
seen him light up before – not in the office or in the pub. He didn’t carry cigarettes – he’d taken one from the box on the table. He didn’t even carry a lighter. If
Bert was involved in some way he might have brought her to the flat hoping it would keep Big Ben away. He knew full well there was nothing much there. Then he’d as good as trumpeted the
break-in so that one of the neighbours would call the police. With a sinking feeling she realised how foolish she’d been. Bert Jennings was involved in this up to his neck.

Damn it, she cursed. She’d been duped. It had just felt so nice to have a man around again. Her heart pulsed with sadness as she realised just how much she had missed that feeling. And
here she was now, alone in the middle of something that was turning out to be rather complicated. For a start, if Bert was involved, why had he needed Ben to pursue the money in the first place?
Surely he could have gone straight to Lisabetta or found Romana Laszlo himself?

It was clearly a lot more difficult in the field than in the office, where you could keep your distance and maintain a calculated composure. Being faced with real people was a far tougher call
on one’s judgement. The details were a tight knot of information, impossible to draw into easily recognisable strands.

Feeling as if she’d been a fool, Mirabelle tried to think what Jack would do. On the principle that your left hand should never know what your right hand is doing – she could hear
his voice now – she stopped at the first callbox and rang the Red Lion. After over a minute the barmaid answered in her familiar nasal twang: ‘Yeah?’

‘When Bert gets back,’ Mirabelle instructed, ‘tell him Miss B says thank you and hopes he’s all right.’

The barmaid sniffed in a way that seemed to imply Bert needed no thanks whatsoever and would be just fine. ‘Sure, Miss B,’ she said.

‘Tell him I’m a bit rattled and planning to go straight home. We had a close call there.’

‘Right.’

The phone clicked and Mirabelle hung up, heartened that she had at least managed a little disinformation. Then she continued in the direction of Chelsea.

It was warm for April. King’s Road was bustling with residents returning at the end of their working day. There was the smell of cooking and an air of domesticity with more than one man
carrying flowers and a bottle of wine.

Mirabelle told herself she just had to persevere, and her first problem would be finding that damn nightclub.

‘Excuse me,’ Mirabelle asked a man in a suit carrying a bunch of yellow roses, ‘do you know where the Kitten is?’

‘Sorry no,’ he said emphatically.

After asking half a dozen gentlemen, Mirabelle began to wonder how the place survived until at last the aghast expression on one man’s face as he denied all knowledge of the club told its
own story.

Where angels fear to tread, she thought as she hailed a cab.

‘The Kitten? Not worth the fare,’ the driver told her. ‘It’s only a block away. But you’re early.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not even dark yet. I’m
not sure a lady like you ought to be going to a place like that, Miss, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘I have to drop off a letter,’ Mirabelle reassured him. ‘A solicitor’s letter.’

‘Well, he said doubtfully, ‘you can see the turn-off from here.’

The lane was downmarket. Despite pretty flowerboxes and well-maintained cobblestones in front of the converted mews houses, it was clear that the dead end contained at least one little casino
and two bars as well as the club – none of them currently open for business. The neon signs were switched off – and looked, Mirabelle thought, like strange skeletal winter trees. The
Kitten was at the end on the righthand side. Mirabelle quickly ascertained that the door was locked. She rang the bell. No answer. She rapped on the door for good measure. Nothing.

Finally, she picked her way around the side of the building past the bins beside the back door. There was no bell so, once more, she tried knocking. Still no reply. Then with a shrug she made
the decision and crossed the line. Carefully, still wearing heels, she climbed on top of the bins to reach a small window halfway up the wall. Then, with the faintest glimmer of a smile, she
withdrew the flick-knife she had found in the bedside table at the flat and following Bert Jennings’ example slid the blade along and manipulated it to release the catch. The window opened
immediately.

‘Not that much of an idiot,’ she whispered to Jack, and then slipped carefully through the opening.

It was a dressing room. Dancers’ costumes hung on a steel rail and feathered headpieces were stacked on two faceless dummies, eerie in the half-light. On the back of the door a riding whip
and a feather boa hung on a hook. The place felt grubby, as if it had never been cleaned. Spots of stray make-up dotted the dressing table, which was covered with a light dusting of talc. The
contents of an ashtray spilled over onto the floor. Mirabelle looked back at the open window a moment before she decided to continue. Then she tried the door, which opened onto a passageway to one
side. It was ship-shape out there. There were three locked storerooms, two with iron bars instead of doors. A quick glance confirmed they were full of bottles and kegs. Mirabelle turned in the
other direction. She needed to find the office. She might be able to trace Lisabetta and Romana if there was a list of members or guests – even an address book and an accounts log would be
wonderful. She pushed a black door and entered the main room of the club. It was cleaner in there though it reeked of stale smoke. The chairs were piled on the tabletops and the floor gleamed
– one of many shiny surfaces that glinted in the blackness as the light entered in her wake. The only non-reflective form she could make out was a tiny square stage against the back wall.
Mirabelle wedged the door open with a chair to let in the light and crossed the dance floor towards the bar. Perhaps there was something behind there. But as she leaned over, a shape sprang towards
her out of the pitch-black. A tray of glasses was knocked from the bar and shattered. Mirabelle screamed as she was wrestled to the floor and a yellow beam of torchlight shone in her face, blinding
her.

‘Bloody hell,’ a male voice said in a broad Australian drawl. ‘Who are you?’

Mirabelle tried to strike out. ‘Get off me!’ she screamed.

The man laughed. ‘Right,’ he said, holding her down even more tightly. ‘I said: who the hell are you?’

Mirabelle stopped squirming. ‘I’m looking for Lisabetta. I’m a friend of Lisabetta.’

The man cast the torch down Mirabelle’s body. ‘Well, you don’t look like a burglar or one of Ricky Goodwin’s boys. Didn’t know Lisabetta had any friends.’ He
loosened his grip. ‘You gave me a right turn.’

He stood up and flicked on a neon light behind the bar. Mirabelle sat up slowly as the light flickered.

‘What’s a bird like you doing breaking in?’ He peered at her.

‘You didn’t answer the door.’

The man laughed. Mirabelle noted he was of middling height and balding but his torso was at least twice the size of any other part of his body. The muscles bulged through his black sweater.

‘We don’t open till ten,’ he remarked. His dark eyes were absolutely round. Mirabelle sat, waiting for him to blink. He didn’t.

‘You hurt me.’ She got unsteadily to her feet.

‘You bloody broke in. What the hell do you expect?’

Mirabelle limped over to a bar stool. ‘I was hoping for a Glenlivet, actually. It’s been a bit of a day. Straight up would be fine.’

The man paused for a moment. ‘You’ll pay for it,’ he said but he put a shot glass on the bar and poured from the bottle. Then he laid a small plate of salted peanuts beside her
glass.

‘You’re lucky it’s my night. The other guy would have thumped you first and asked questions later. If you’re a friend of Lisabetta’s, are you a ... erm ...
specialist?’ He was looking at her now with naked interest.

Mirabelle let out an involuntary giggle. She was, she realised, perhaps a little on the old side for women in Lisabetta’s line of business. No doubt upmarket whores of her age stayed in
the game through a combination of experience and offering the kind of services that were unavailable elsewhere. She picked up the glass, sniffed the golden liquid and downed the whisky in one
without answering. It tasted good.

‘Lisabetta isn’t around then?’ Mirabelle asked.

‘Nah.’

‘I need to find her. I heard she was out of town. I wondered about her sister, Romana. Have you seen her lately?’

The man leaned forward. ‘Don’t know anything about a sister. What was your name?’

Mirabelle put out her hand. ‘Emily,’ she said. She wasn’t going to tell anyone else in London the truth for the time being.

‘I’m Frank,’ the heavyweight replied and shook her hand firmly.

‘I heard Lisabetta had taken a couple of the girls down the coast. I wondered if you knew where they’d gone. I’ve got something for her. It’s important.’

Frank probably would have shrugged his shoulders but his biceps were so well developed that moving them upwards was well nigh impossible. Instead he rolled his dark eyes in a movement that was
quite hypnotic. ‘Brighton. But I ain’t got a clue where. It’s a small town though. Just try the best hotel, if I know Lisabetta and those bastards. They’ll be swilling
cocktails there on a regular basis.’

Mirabelle toyed with a peanut. ‘What kind of show you put on here?’ she asked, glancing at the stage. ‘Burlesque?’

‘Singer. Girl called Honey,’ Frank nodded. ‘That your line?’

Mirabelle nodded.

‘We don’t need a singer, if that’s what you’re after.’

‘No, it’s all right. Nothing like that. You heard of a bloke called Bert Jennings?’

Frank’s eyes sparkled. ‘That nonce! You ask a lot of questions, lady. You looking for him, as well? Best bet is the Red Lion in Notting Hill, not in this neck of the
woods.’

‘I heard he was friendly with Lisabetta. Do you think he would know where she might be staying?’

‘Those two are thick as thieves, Emily,’ Frank nodded. ‘Yeah, I’d try him, the old chancer.’

‘And he might be able to pass on a message for me?’

‘Is this really what you broke in for?’

Mirabelle nodded. ‘I need to find her, and her sister. It’s important.’

Frank sighed. ‘I can’t see Lisabetta being out of contact with Bert. She’s like a spider that one. Black widow.’ He looked vaguely surprised at his poetic turn of
phrase.

‘I’m worried about her. What she’s got caught up in.’

Frank laughed. The sound was like a bolt banging into a lock. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he said.