Brighton Belle

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Mr McGuigan!’ she called out. ‘Ben!’

  Two doors up, a woman in a floral housecoat looked out onto the street but when Mirabelle noticed her she moved back behind the curtain. Mirabelle walked round to the rear of the terrace, along the lane at Trafalgar Place. Each house on the right-hand side of the street had a small yard that opened onto the rough cobbled lane. There were no lights on in Ben McGuigan’s property and no sign of life. The high back gate was locked from the inside. Mirabelle jumped up to reach over the top, pulling the catch out of its holster. The gate swung open easily and she walked into the paved back yard. As she turned she noticed two little boys in short trousers staring at her through the gateway. One was holding a football covered in mud.

  ‘Do you know the man who lives in this house?’ Mirabelle asked.

  The boys nodded simultaneously.

  ‘Have you seen him in the last day or two?’

  The boys shook their heads.

  ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ She waved them off and they disappeared up the laneway like little birds.

  First, Mirabelle tried the back door but, like the front door, it was locked and bolted. There was no chance of jemmying that. She peered through the kitchen window. Ben McGuigan liked everything in order and the place was immaculate. The bread on the wooden board on the table had a light dusting of mould, though, and that was enough for Mirabelle. Ben would never have put up with that – he was very particular about cleanliness. Something was wrong. The window was fixed, so she smashed the glass with her elbow, knocking it through, and climbed inside carefully, avoiding the sharp shards scattered in the way.

  ‘Ben!’ she called. ‘Are you here?’

  There was no point in shouting out. She already knew the sound of the glass shattering would have brought Ben McGuigan to the kitchen no matter how ill he was. If he was in here, he was unable to move. Like a cat burglar Mirabelle took in the surroundings. There was a comfortable chair by the fire in the front room, a few letters at the front door, postmarked in the last couple of days. There were no Beecham’s powders and no eucalyptus oil anywhere and she immediately decided that it was unlikely Big Ben McGuigan had come home after he left the office, which meant he had been missing for almost exactly forty-eight hours.

  Carefully Mirabelle climbed the stairs to the first floor. The bedroom to the front contained only an empty brown leather suitcase and a rolled-up length of carpet. In the larger rear bedroom there was a bed made up with military precision. It was strange, she thought, for someone who spent his whole life chasing other people’s money to live in such austere surroundings. She knew that if he wanted to he could afford a more sumptuous home. Here the only items she could really call a luxury were a few Ballantine’s beer bottles lined up in a row beside the hearth. Imported beer was expensive. It crept into her mind that there was a sharp contrast between this little house and Lisabetta’s flat on Cadogan Gardens where the furnishings were luxurious and the cupboards bulged with black market items.

  Mirabelle realised that this was her third break-in in two days. She took a deep breath and reconciled herself to the fact that she had gone well off the rails.

  Forging ahead she opened the cupboard in the bedroom and perused the two suits suspended on wooden hangers. She checked in the pockets. Nothing. Next she tried the little bedside table, which yielded a pristine copy of the Bible, a box of tissues and two pairs of socks. Mirabelle closed the drawer. She hadn’t known Ben was religious. In fact, come to think of it, she was positive Ben wasn’t religious. She opened the drawer again and flicked through the pages of the Bible. Cut into the Old Testament there was a small notebook. She retrieved it. Mirabelle knew the shorthand Ben used in his notes – it was the same notation in his ledgers. This looked like a double entry system for loans though these weren’t the loans she worked with in the office. There wasn’t a single sum of money less than fifty pounds and they seemed to go up into four figures – an absolute fortune by any standards. She slipped the notebook into her purse. Next she turned her attention to the wastepaper bin by the bed. Contained inside there were some tickets and a pink Racing Post. She read the ticket stubs – one entry for Brighton racecourse on Fairfield Road and two more betting slips – one horse called Blue Diamond and the other called Casey’s Girl – dating from the previous weekend. Mirabelle scooped the papers out of the receptacle and examined them. The bookmaker was M. Williams again. Neither of the slips could have been winners, she reasoned, or they would never have ended up in the bin. But it didn’t make sense. The whole thing was completely out of character. Ben McGuigan didn’t take chances. He wasn’t a betting man and in no regard could he be called speculative or a risk taker. The best investment he said was bricks and mortar, and the main thing was never to take chances with your security. What was he up to at the track on Fairfield Road?

  Mirabelle was startled by a rapid knock on the front door. She got up and smoothed her skirt as she checked the room. Then she came down the stairs smartly, her steps echoing on the bare wooden staircase. At the bottom she lifted the latch and pulled aside the chain. The lady in the floral housecoat was standing outside with one of the little boys from the lane behind her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘We heard glass breaking and I can see that window at the back has gone for a Burton. What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘Do you know Mr McGuigan?’

  The woman nodded. ‘He’s a neighbour. Of course I know him. I almost called the police with you crashing around like that. If you was a fella I would have.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Thank you. I work for Mr McGuigan,’ she explained. ‘Have you seen him the last couple of days?’

  The woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘He hasn’t been into the office and I got worried. I thought he was ill – he had a cold, you see – but he isn’t here.’

  ‘Man on his own,’ the woman observed. ‘You want me to send the boys to fetch the constable?’

  ‘No, I’m sure I’ll find him,’ said Mirabelle. ‘I spoke to the police myself this morning and they know he’s missing. Don’t worry. I just wanted to have a look around. I was worried about him.’

  ‘What about that window? You can’t leave that out the back. It’s not safe.’

  Mirabelle reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of change. ‘Would you mind awfully getting it fixed for Mr McGuigan? I’d be very grateful. Someone round here will have a spare piece of glass, I’m sure.’

  The house had no more to offer and Mirabelle didn’t want to risk further confrontation with Ben’s neighbour. She stepped into the street and slammed the door as the woman counted the coins.

  ‘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 th
e 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.

  When 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 r
eally 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 ...’