Brighton Belle

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘We’re short a black swan,’ Mirabelle mumbled as they went up the stairs and Vesta scrabbled in her pocket for the key.

  ‘God, I hope they get him out alive,’ Vesta whispered as the police car pulled away.

  It was a grey overcast morning. Mirabelle squeezed her hand. The desk sergeant had promised he’d keep them informed: ‘All you have to do is wait by the phone, Miss Bevan.’

  ‘There’s nothing for it but to sit it out now,’ she said, sounding downhearted, as Vesta put the key in the lock. ‘He seems competent enough.’ She checked her watch.

  ‘I need a bath,’ Vesta said.

  ‘Now that is a good idea. I think I have some bath salts. Orange stuff. It would be good to relax.’

  They were only just moving over the threshold when out of nowhere the man appeared. At first what was happening didn’t register properly. Mirabelle felt herself being pushed forcefully through the doorway and bundled into the hall. Vesta cried out and was shoved in behind. Mirabelle fumbled for the flick-knife in her pocket. And then, in a second, they both saw with a flood of relief who the unshaven figure in worn work clothes was.

  ‘Sandor! Sandor!’

  He was safe. They flung their arms around him, buoyed up with joy. It seemed too good to be true.

  Mirabelle’s face flushed as she breathed in the smell of burning embers and sweat from his skin. If Sandor was alive everything would be all right. ‘Thank God,’ she whispered and she felt the tension in her shoulders release.

  It was only when Mirabelle and Vesta drew back that they noticed there was another man – rough-looking and carrying a heavy bag.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Sandor grinned, proud at the reaction he’d provoked, ‘Waclaw helped me escape. We have been waiting here for you for hours – almost all night! We watched until you came home. We did not want to show ourselves to the uniformed officers. Just in case.’

  Vesta burst into tears. ‘I was so worried,’ she sobbed, ‘so very worried. It’s wonderful to see you, Sandor.’

  ‘I’m fine, my child.’ Sandor comforted her, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘All safe now. And I come with news for your operation.’

  Mirabelle shook Waclaw’s hand enthusiastically. ‘Polish?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re very welcome here. Come upstairs,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Follow me.’

  Inside, the men inspected Mirabelle’s drawing room without saying a word, Vesta mopped her tears and went to put on the kettle, and Mirabelle rang the station from the telephone in the hallway. McGregor was in a radio car, the desk sergeant said. He’d make sure the message was passed on.

  ‘Tell him that I have found Sandor. Sandor is with me. He can move straight to his other business.’

  ‘Other business? Sandy? Right.’

  ‘No. No. S.A.N.D.O.R. You must tell him straight away. It’s very important.’

  ‘Right, Miss,’ and the policeman hung up.

  Mirabelle glided back into the drawing room feeling energetic despite her sleepless night. She smiled broadly. Sandor had taken a seat and Waclaw hovered by the window.

  ‘They were going to mount a search to pick you up this morning. I’m so glad you’re safe. It took us a while to track down where you were last night and then when I found it, you were gone. We’ve had no sleep,’ she said apologetically. ‘I should have known that you were more than capable of making your own way.’

  ‘Ah, the British! You can always rely on the British. Just like the old days!’ Sandor said delightedly.

  ‘Not quite the same,’ Mirabelle replied as Vesta arrived with a tray of hot tea. ‘The police are not of the same calibre as Jack, you know.’

  Waclaw gratefully accepted a cup of tea. He looked over at Sandor, silently requesting permission to speak.

  Sandor nodded. ‘You can trust Mirabelle. And we should get down to business now.’

  Waclaw hesitated for only a moment and then took a deep breath. ‘I need you to help me,’ he said gruffly. ‘My wife is in Berlin with our children. Two children. Boys. I will tell you everything but you have to get them out. Bring them here.’

  Mirabelle stared. ‘Berlin?’ she said vaguely.

  ‘Yes!’ The man was understandably passionate. ‘They are in a flat near Unter den Linden. I have to bring them to the West. We are Polish and we cannot go home. We need passports.’

  Sandor sat back in his armchair with a contented expression. He was at peace. ‘Waclaw helped me escape. He is a goldsmith. He has been working for this Lisabetta woman that you are after. He will make a wonderful informant.’

  ‘My wife is Marianne Gorski,’ Waclaw started. He drew a crumpled envelope from his pocket. ‘She wrote only a few days ago. I received this. My boys are Udi and Mikhail. Please, I will tell you everything. I have proof.’ He tapped the bag he had been carrying. ‘I just want my family back.’

  Vesta’s mouth, Mirabelle noticed, was gaping.

  ‘Mr Gorski,’ Mirabelle said gently, ‘I’m so sorry. I have no means to get people out of Berlin. This is a police matter now. Perhaps they will be able to help. I’m sure there must be channels of some kind but it’s a criminal matter. If you give them information they may be able to put some kind of a case for your wife.’

  The man looked bewildered, then his eyes blazed.

  Sandor stood up. ‘But, Mirabelle, you have so many contacts. This man helped me. He has information. Without him I’d still be tied up in that outhouse. You are obliged . . .’

  ‘I’m not Secret Service any more, Sandor. That was a long time ago. I told you. It’s a different world now.’

  Sandor spluttered. ‘What do you mean: you are not Secret Service? What nonsense is this? After all we’ve been through. Come now!’

  Mirabelle lost her composure. ‘I told you, Sandor. I told you! I work for a debt collection agency. That’s all. And this matter is in the hands of the police. I can refer you to them.’

  ‘And this brave young lady?’ Sandor gestured towards Vesta. ‘I suppose she simply keeps the ledgers?’

  Vesta gulped. ‘I work in an insurance office, Sandor,’ she admitted, ‘along the hallway from Mirabelle. I’m a clerk.’

  Waclaw roared. It was a furious terrifying sound, like a bull about to charge. He flung the cup of tea against the wall, shattering the porcelain. ‘Marianne!’ he shouted.

  ‘Please, calm down,’ Sandor said. ‘I think that ...’

  But Waclaw had launched himself onto the priest. ‘You promised. You promised. You said she would help me. This is not some stupid game. My wife is stuck there. She is stuck there! She is relying on me to get her out! Police? They are useless!’

  ‘But ...’ Sandor stuttered.

  ‘You liar! You liar! You old fool!’ Waclaw screamed. In fury he hoisted up the bag of gold and hit Sandor hard with it. The old man keeled over, one side of his face pink and bloody.

  Vesta and Mirabelle rushed forward but it was too late. There was a sharp crack as Sandor hit the floor. Waclaw backed off.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Vesta.

  Little bubbles of spit mingled with blood dribbled down Sandor’s chin.

  ‘Is he breathing?’ said Vesta.

  It was impossible to tell.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Quickly! Go!’

  As Vesta disappeared into the hallway Mirabelle moved Sandor’s prone body into the recovery position. Waclaw moaned like an animal in pain and she positioned herself in front of the priest to protect him from further attack. But that wasn’t what was on Waclaw’s mind. He put his head on one side as if he was remembering what had happened for a second then he muttered something in Polish that sounded like a curse. ‘My Marianne,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve really hurt him,’ Mirabelle accused him. ‘He’s a priest, you know.’

  Waclaw didn’t reply. He looked coldly at Sandor’s prostrate frame, then with one smooth movement hoisted the bag onto his shoulder.

  ‘Hey!’ Mirabelle shouted.


  But the goldsmith had already crossed the room and made for the door. She would have followed him but she couldn’t leave her friend. Desperately she tried to revive the priest. ‘Sandor,’ she whispered, rubbing his hand as Waclaw slammed the front door behind him. ‘Wake up, Sandor. Please.’

  But Sandor didn’t stir. He couldn’t. His neck was broken, and Sandor was dead.

  26

  Evil counsel travels fast.

  The night before, Lisabetta had moved quickly after she had seen Dr Crichton and his Jaguar, rather satisfyingly disappear over the clifftop by the light of a crescent moon, which was only a sliver. She picked up the bag she had packed with his stolen coins and started to walk down the country road. England, she thought to herself, really was very beautiful sometimes. She liked the calm dark glossy silence of its nights – that feeling of being the only person awake. The only person alive.

  The forge had still been fiery hot. They hadn’t been gone for long. Still, she knew the thing to do was simply leave it. It was always like this at the end. You got out with what you could, which for Lisabetta in this case was a lot of experience, three very healthy bank accounts in different names and different countries, this bag of coins and her clothes and jewellery from London. There was no need to go back to Crichton’s house. She would simply ring. There was no need to contact Manni – he would continue if he could, launder the money and pay it into the Velazquez bank account, which, of course, she controlled. There was no need to even go back to London – Bert would see to everything there. He knew the drill. Put it on the first train meant the second train. Send everything to the usual destination meant the last stop before wherever she was located – in this case Preston Park station, just north of the town. Lisabetta trusted Bert. He was completely self-interested and she had catered for that. When the insurance money came through he’d get five hundred pounds whether she was alive or not. It was a registered debt that would be paid without any need for her presence. If he didn’t do everything he was told she would simply tell the insurance company the truth anonymously – that Romana was a fabrication. She’d lose her five hundred pounds, as well, of course – or rather less than that, in fact. As Romana she had developed some expensive shopping habits on account that the solicitor would need to cover out of the estate. It mattered not a jot. Bert would be paid and as a result he’d do whatever she wanted. His payment wasn’t contingent on her survival or her being in the country. It was perfect.

  Lisabetta checked her watch. The first train would arrive in about an hour and a half and then they came every thirty minutes. She needed to pick up her things and disappear. She’d find a city centre hotel, somewhere near the main station. She couldn’t stay at the Grand this time. And she’d need a disguise. Lisabetta enjoyed disguises. It was like playing a game. By tonight she’d be in Southampton on her way to the continent and then South America. Her mind wandered and she wondered if they still made those delicious vanilla custard tarts in Lisbon. She must stay for a few days and enjoy the city – the nightlife in the Bairro Alto, those crumbling regal townhouses like dowagers falling apart from neglect. Lisabetta would have loved to be an aristocrat. A title! How glamorous. But she knew these things were too easily traceable and in her line of business that would never do. Lisbon, she recalled, made her feel like an aristocrat – a charming beautiful princess. She had visited the city twice and now it was set to be her last port of call in Europe – perhaps forever. She almost felt nostalgic. South America, of course, was Spanish or Portuguese depending where you chose – there was no advantage to one or the other as the men were broadly similar and she spoke both languages only haltingly. She would learn. She always did.

  They want me to risk so much, Lisabetta mused. It is enough now. I cannot do more for them.

  In the distance she heard the roar of a car. She positioned herself at the roadside, drew a white hanky from her sleeve and stuck out her thumb. The Ford stopped just ahead and she stalked towards it.

  ‘All right, love? You’re out late!’

  ‘Yes,’ she grinned. It was perfect – as if she had made a prior arrangement. ‘I need to get to my aunt’s. At Preston Park. But a lift into Brighton would be marvellous.’

  ‘Hop in,’ the man smiled. ‘I’ll take you wherever you like. Want a smoke?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Lisabetta quickly checked her little pistol, just in case the man tried any funny business, then she fluttered her eyelashes and got into the car.

  27

  All right then, I’ll go to hell.

  Mirabelle stood by the window. It was one o’clock. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking since Sandor died and she kept breaking quietly into tears. It was such a shock that it hadn’t properly sunk in. Sandor’s body had been removed quickly, thank goodness. Though that was when she had started crying – as she’d watched them cover his body and lift him away, the tears had simply flowed down her cheeks. It felt as if her heart was breaking. Poor, brave Sandor. It made her sick – all the losses. Good men like Jack and Ben and Sandor didn’t deserve to die before their time. Though she knew it wasn’t true, it felt to Mirabelle like each death was an abandonment. I can’t save anyone, she taunted herself. I’m useless!

  After the body was gone McGregor arrived briefly and looked over their statements. He told them that the doctor and Lisabetta were missing – the staff at Second Avenue said the couple had gone to London but, unsurprisingly, so far the Met hadn’t found them either at Cadogan Gardens or at Crichton’s private club near St James’s. Now the force was searching the house on Second Avenue but they hadn’t found anything helpful. And there wasn’t any obvious crime scene on the London Road or anywhere just off it.

  ‘We’re keeping an eye on the stations, of course – here and Victoria – and I’ve had descriptions circulated in both locations to see if we can find either of them or the luggage. We’re working on it.’

  Mirabelle wasn’t really listening. She was finding it difficult to concentrate.

  ‘I pinched Manni at Fairfield Road. They’re holding him in the cells until I get back. He’s threatening hell in a handbasket.’ The detective superintendent couldn’t help but grin. He was enjoying this operation immensely and was particularly pleased he’d sent Robinson to supervise snagging pickpockets at work among the racing day crowd. ‘The ICPC officers will arrive later this afternoon. Not that we’ve much to offer them as things stand. They’ll want to speak to you and Vesta, though, I’m sure. When you’re ready.’

  ‘Here,’ said Mirabelle, handing over Ben’s racecourse notebook, ‘there’s a transcription of the coded figures on a sheet inside. It might help you with Manni.’

  McGregor smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘and, Mirabelle, I’m sorry about your friend. First Ben and now this.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, I’d better go.’

  Once he’d slammed the door behind him, the flat felt curiously empty. Mirabelle couldn’t bring herself to sit in the drawing room. The thought of Sandor’s body lying there was too much. She hovered in the kitchen, leaning against the worktop, while Vesta stared out of the window.

  ‘It’s so creepy. Perhaps,’ Vesta offered, ‘we should go into town. We could go to the office.’

  Mirabelle inclined her head and Vesta couldn’t tell whether she was agreeing or simply about to cry again.

  In fact, Mirabelle was giving up. She didn’t suggest doing anything. She didn’t correct Vesta or make any comment. Nor did she run over the story to see if there was anything they’d missed. Sandor was dead. Ben was dead. Just like Jack was dead. There was nothing left. She stood silently and stared at her feet.

  To pass the time Vesta rolled the map out on the tabletop. ‘I’ll try to work out the bad bends between here and London. Might as well give them a hand with it, if I can,’ she mumbled.

  What’s the point? Mirabelle thought. She hadn’t seen Sandor in years and it felt as if she was going to miss him every day f
rom now on. Catching sight of herself in the glass door of the kitchen, she saw a middle-aged spinster with no connection to anyone around her. I’ve failed, she thought miserably. I can’t save anyone, least of all myself. There are corpses everywhere. I’m the kiss of death.

  Around this time, most days, Mirabelle would make her way down to the front, to dodge the deckchair fees and eat her sandwiches. That little routine with Ron, the attendant, seemed like a lifetime ago. In any case, today she couldn’t face food. The thought turned her stomach. Then she realised that she really fancied a stiff drink. A dram of Glenlivet. Vesta was engaged with the map.

  Taking a deep breath Mirabelle clocked her coat, which was hanging by the door, and cleared her throat. ‘Vesta, I think I’m going to take a walk.’ She headed towards the coat stand.

  ‘You’re going out?’

  ‘Not for long.’

  ‘You’re leaving me here?’

  ‘There will be a constable arriving soon, I imagine. About the ICPC people. I need some air.’

  Vesta looked bereft.

  Mirabelle buttoned her coat efficiently. ‘I can’t just hang around like this. There’s no point any more.’

  Vesta shrugged her shoulders. ‘So where are you off to?’

  Mirabelle felt unaccountably furious. She clenched her fist. ‘For God’s sake! Can’t you do anything on your own, Vesta!’ she snapped and burst through the kitchen door, slamming it behind her. She’d drink the whole flask and maybe that would help.

  Outside there was rain in the air – a dampness to match the cold, which had returned all of a sudden with the grey skies. Mirabelle shoved a pin in her hat and headed towards the sea before turning along Kingsway. The front was quiet out of town – at this time of day the racing crowds were busy at the track and the weather meant that neither tourists nor locals were keen to brave the chilly breeze that was coming off the ocean or the scattered showers that started and stopped so erratically. Only a small way along the promenade Mirabelle paused and leaned against a bollard, taking the flask out of her handbag and enjoying the sharp taste of the spirits. She didn’t indulge much – just enough to let the taste pervade her mouth – and then she returned the flask to the inside pocket of her handbag. It was spitting already and getting colder. Soon the rain would start in earnest. In the meantime Mirabelle decided to stretch her legs and take her time. She struck out along the front towards the pier, punishing herself with the cold breeze and regretting that she’d lost her temper.