Brighton Belle

by Sara Sheridan

  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.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. Now, may I remind you, we’re closed.’

  Mirabelle laid a coin on the bar. ‘For the whisky.’

  ‘Money makes the world go around.’ Frank didn’t pick it up.

  He followed her to the door. The spring sunshine was dazzling after the gloomy interior of the club. The evening smelled fresh.

  ‘You sure you never met Lisabetta’s sister?’ she asked as a parting shot. ‘Her name is Laszlo – Romana Laszlo.’

  ‘Hop it, Emily,’ Frank said. ‘Come back here again and you might not be so lucky.’

  Mirabelle walked carefully across the cobbles. She was adept in her heels but the uneven surface was tricky and she felt wobbly. She had already decided Romana either hadn’t lived in Cadogan Gardens or knew she wasn’t ever going back when she left. And now it looked as if Bert Jennings knew a lot more than he’d let on. He hadn’t needed any help to find Romana, or Lisabetta for that matter. Even the bartender knew how to track them down, for goodness sake. No, Bert had turned up because he wanted a middleman to collect his money. He didn’t want to be too close to the action. Perhaps he’d even known Romana wasn’t coming back from Brighton. He was in this up to his neck. He’d meant the police to scare her at Cadogan Gardens. It might, Mirabelle concluded, be time to go home and call a policeman herself. This whole situation was becoming rather tricky.

  When she turned back down the lane Frank was still staring at her from the doorway as she lifted a hand to wave. Who, if anyone, would he ring as soon as he was sure she had gone? Probably not Bert, she guessed. Sometimes it was the little comments, the choice of words that could be the most revealing.

  ‘Money makes the world go round.’ She repeated the phrase to herself. Yes, there was that to figure out as well.

  9

  A really good detective never gets married.

  Detective Superintendent Alan McGregor teed up the shot. He’d been meaning to fit in a round of golf for months – ever since his move from Edinburgh. It was not only that he’d been too busy but also that he was picky about his course and it had taken him a while to get the measure of Brighton. He’d rather hack round a public fairway, for a start, than cosset himself in the luxury of some swanky clubhouse with all those secret handshakes and trial by who knows whom. McGregor loathed that kind of thing. Some of his fellow officers thought it had held him back, of course, but he was Detective Superintendent McGregor now. It had been a big step and McGregor knew he could prove himself down here – it was worth the boot camp he’d had to go through to convert his knowledge from Scots law to English, and it was worth letting out his family home in Davidson’s Mains to move down south. He was going to turn this force around corrupt officer by corrupt officer. That’s what he was here for. McGregor hit the ball smack down the middle of the fairway and an involuntary smile broke out on his face. Perfect. The ball landed right next to the green. He hadn’t played for months and he had missed the game. First time out and a shot like that! He was going to enjoy his eighteen holes and now he’d found a course he liked, he’d be back. At home he’d played twice a week. McGregor hauled his clubs onto his back and set off to find the ball. It was a lovely evening – the weather had cheered up. He’d bet ten to a penny it was baltic in Scotland. He was striding energetically down the fairway towards the green when he heard a shout from behind. It was a uniformed constable. McGregor couldn’t make out who the man was, but he was running.

  ‘Sorry sir,’ he said, out of breath, ‘but I thought you’d want us to catch you before you were too far out.’

  McGregor looked sceptical. ‘Gove
rnment fallen?’ he enquired.

  The policeman drew himself up straight. ‘No, sir. Dead body. In a suite at the Grand.’

  ‘Robinson not able to cover?’

  Inspector Robinson was the local boy who hadn’t got the Super’s job. There had been so many allegations of corruption that when the senior post came up, the choice had been made to recruit from outside the local force. The department was still uneasy, settling into the landmark decision and Robinson had dealt with the slight on his competence by referring everything to McGregor no matter how small.

  The uniformed officer shook his head. ‘Inspector Robinson said you’d want to see it yourself

  ‘Look like a murder, does it?’

  ‘No, sir. The duty doctor is on his way though. It was an older foreign gentleman. Heart attack, if you ask me. He had a brass in his room, though she’s legged it.’

  ‘Took his wallet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Suspicious circumstances?’

  ‘Inspector Robinson thought you’d want to ascertain that for yourself.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘They’re all het up at the Grand, sir. Discretion and all that.’

  McGregor hauled his clubs onto his shoulder and took one last look at the little white ball on the green in the distance. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’

  By the time they made it to the hotel the police doctor had completed his initial inspection of the body. McGregor had a quick word. There was nothing suspicious, according to the medic. Nonetheless the detective superintendent checked the room and told uniform to take statements from anyone on the hotel staff who had come into contact with the deceased. In his estimation the prostitute had probably left before the old man died – which would explain why the contents of the wallet remained intact. Still, he ordered a description of the girl to be circulated – they might as well pick her up if they could and get a statement. If nothing else it would narrow down the time of death. Perusing the deceased’s effects there was little of interest – the man was clearly well-to-do. His papers were in order: a Spanish passport, consistent with the labels inside his expensive clothes and shoes – all from Madrid. By six thirty McGregor was ready to call it a day and release the body for removal to the morgue as soon as the photographer was finished. He was just beginning to think about what to have for supper, when a terrible wailing sound came from the hallway. A pretty girl in a red cocktail dress with mascara running down her face appeared at the door. One of the hotel’s senior staff hovered uncomfortably behind her mumbling condolences and behind him there was a bored-looking chap in a tweed jacket.

  McGregor stepped forward and offered the girl a handkerchief. ‘Did you know this gentleman, Miss?’

  The girl sniffed, took the handkerchief and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered and a large tear dripped down her face. ‘Señor Velazquez. We came at once.’

  ‘We knew that Mr Velazquez had friends in Brighton,’ the hotel manager explained apologetically. ‘The desk clerk phoned Dr Crichton here. The doctor made the booking on Mr Velazquez’s behalf two days ago.’

  ‘What happened?’ the girl interrupted and McGregor noticed the whisper of an accent in her voice. It was difficult to identify with all the crying.

  ‘Well, Miss, he appears to have suffered an embolism.’

  The man in the tweed jacket perked up. His eyes caught the girl’s in a moment of what McGregor recognised as relief.

  ‘There,’ Crichton said. ‘Happens all the time. Very sad but he was quite elderly, Lisabetta. He didn’t suffer. It would have been very quick.’

  The girl sniffed. She sat down.

  ‘Did he have family? Do you know how to get in touch with them, Miss?’ McGregor asked.

  ‘I will do it,’ she waved a dismissive hand.

  ‘Did Mr Velazquez have business here?’

  Lisabetta shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘He was a family friend. My own father is dead, but I’ve known Señor Velazquez since I was a little girl. His wife and children are out of the country. I will send a telegram. I will arrange everything.’

  Her eyes fell to a pocket watch, which sat on the side table by the bed. It seemed to provoke a memory and more tears filled her eyes. She crossed the room and stroked it. McGregor thought it strange, but then, bereaved people behaved oddly sometimes.

  ‘I’ll get in touch with the undertaker,’ Dr Crichton said and he laid a hand on Lisabetta’s shoulder as if to pull her back. The look she shot him was steely. ‘When will the body be released?’

  ‘A day or two,’ McGregor replied. ‘It would be very helpful if you could make a formal identification.’

  Lisabetta waved her hand once more. ‘Of course. And we can take his effects? His wife will want them.’

  McGregor nodded. This was a local doctor and a respectable lady with a longstanding connection to the dead man. The regulations were hazy but it would be easier for them to manage the affair if they had a direct connection with the family and probably kinder that way, too.

  ‘We will need the details but I don’t see why not,’ he replied. ‘Though you will need to appoint a solicitor to execute his estate in this country – he’ll be subject to British law, you see.’

  Dr Crichton nodded. ‘That’s no problem. I have a solicitor who can do everything for him. Ralph Peters, here in Brighton. He’s the man.’

  Lisabetta sank back in her chair.

  ‘Please allow me to have a maid see to everything in the room,’ the manager offered. Velazquez had been an excellent tipper – and from what he’d heard when this young lady had met him earlier in the day the waiter who served them had pocketed a half sovereign. These people were the kind of exalted customers the Grand wanted to attract now the war was over. It was too bad this had happened – too bad. A death in the hotel was terribly disquieting for the other guests. ‘We can pack up all poor Mr Velazquez’s things for shipping. With the utmost discretion, of course. I’ll have it done straight away.’

  ‘You really should have let us send an officer to inform this poor lady rather than breaking that kind of news over the phone,’ McGregor said in annoyance.

  The girl buried her face in a handkerchief.

  McGregor took the opportunity to draw Dr Crichton aside into the hallway outside the suite. ‘Dr Crichton,’ he said, ‘I feel I ought to inform you that there was a woman in the room with the Spanish gentleman. A lady of the night.’

  The doctor’s face betrayed nothing at all. Not even surprise. He merely peered back into the room to check on Lisabetta. ‘I see. Where is this girl?’

  ‘She left. The hotel staff didn’t notice the time, but it was probably before he died. The ... erm ... activity might have brought on ... well, you know.’

  ‘Did she take anything?’

  ‘Not that we can tell – there is money in his wallet and in the room’s safe.’

  Crichton felt himself relax. ‘In that case, Detective Superintendent, can we perhaps count on your discretion? The young lady is upset enough as it is and we’ll have his wife to deal with, too. How Mr Velazquez decided to spend his time here, is neither here nor there now.’

  ‘Of course, but we will pull the woman in if we can find her. For a statement. It’s only procedure. I thought it best that you know. I don’t expect to have to bother the ladies.’

  Dr Crichton glanced past the detective superintendent into the room again. Lisabetta dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. Then she picked up the old man’s jacket and laid it over her arm. She stared pointedly at him.

  ‘I think I better look after her,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Another death.’

  Detective Superintendent McGregor’s eyes opened wider. ‘What do you mean another death?’

  The doctor coughed, cursing himself. ‘Oh, nothing. Her sister died in childbirth. She’s had a run of it.’

  If Lisabetta hadn’t looked so pretty McGregor might have asked another question. If there had been any evidence of foul play he w
ould have picked up on the comment and been up half the night looking into the matter. As it was, he was only looking forward to a half and a half in the pub on the way home and perhaps fish and chips. Robinson should have been dealing with this – it was a bloody public relations exercise. Very sad, but hardly a criminal matter.

  ‘I’ll see if we can speed up the autopsy,’ he said, ‘to make it quicker for the lady. Give your contact details to the constable and if you want to appoint the solicitor first thing, that would help, too.’

  McGregor shook Dr Crichton’s hand.

  ‘Of course,’ said the doctor. It was a hell of a relief – their first assumption had been that Velazquez had been murdered. It had been a hellish week. But so far they seemed to have got away with it all. He looked McGregor straight in the eye, shook him firmly by the hand and said, ‘Thanks for all your help.’

  Ten minutes later, alone in the lift, Lisabetta turned to the doctor. ‘Where the hell is Delia?’ she snapped. ‘We have to find her.’

  Crichton sighed. When she had been based in London, Lisabetta had been demanding but manageable. Now she was living in his house and so many things seemed to be going wrong. She was permanently in a foul temper and, in his opinion, not a little neurotic. He’d hardly had a moment to himself since she got here.

  ‘Delia will have gone back to London. It looks like he died after she left. Brought on by the exertion.’ He couldn’t help smirking. ‘She hasn’t stolen anything.’

  ‘Schrecklich,’ Lisabetta snarled.

  ‘You’ll still make your money,’ Crichton bumbled, trying to reason with her.

  Before she spoke Lisabetta shot him a poisonous glance that sent a cold blue chill down his spine. ‘Money! Pah! Of course! I’ll make more money this way. But I want to know exactly what happened. I can smell it. Something is wrong here, Eric, and I will get it out of her.’

  As the lift reached the hotel lobby Lisabetta raised her handkerchief and clutched the doctor’s arm, as if she needed him for strength. Crichton couldn’t help but admire her for that. Lisabetta was very good at putting on a show.