‘I’ll tell that horrible little maid of yours that you had to go up to London unexpectedly,’ Lisabetta explained. ‘I packed everything you would have taken for a couple of days. They won’t suspect a thing until it’s far too late. There are a couple of dangerous corners along the coast. Not on the direct route to London but not so far away. I’ll be back before they even get up. I’ll say I’m going up to town myself. “Dr Crichton went up to London in the middle of the night,” I’ll say. “An emergency. He took the car.”’ Lisabetta laughed. ‘London is such a dreary city. It smells. I swear! It’s time for somewhere completely new, Eric. And I have so many grateful clients in Buenos Aires and Santiago – and sunshine. I’d like some sunshine!’
The Jag purred as she speeded up. The car glided past the Grand Hotel and then the pier. Mirabelle was terrified that she wouldn’t be able to get out before Lisabetta wrecked it. There was nothing she could do but hope. Once the town was passed it was impossible to tell in which direction they were moving until at last Lisabetta stopped. She pulled on the handbrake, switched off the engine and slipped outside. Mirabelle waited a moment and then decided to raise her head. It was a risk but she couldn’t simply stay hidden. The car might go over a cliff any moment. Hardly able to breathe she rose slowly and peered out of the back window. It wasn’t a cliff top at all. Lisabetta’s figure was receding over a waste ground, past a row of derelict houses. Mirabelle sighed with relief and nudged the doctor sharply. ‘Come on!’ she said, giving his shoulder a shake. ‘She’s going to kill you! You have to wake up!’
The doctor didn’t move. Mirabelle looked around frantically. There was nothing here. No one to help. She opened the car door and slipped outside. Across the wasteland Lisabetta let out a stifled scream of what sounded like frustration. Mirabelle took in the details. It was open scrub. About fifteen minutes from town, she calculated. This was the place they had been looking for! This must be where Sandor was being held!
‘I’ll come back,’ she whispered to the doctor’s comatose figure as she crept away, low across the landscape.
Sure enough there was an outhouse – in fact, there were three or four dotted across the scrubland, two stone-built and another couple, more like small wooden sheds. And, she thought, it’s warm here. Vesta had mentioned that. Then she heard Lisabetta’s gun fire. Mirabelle panicked and rolled the last few yards in a scramble towards the main outhouse. The walls were warm to the touch. She sneaked towards the open door and peered inside. It was a foundry. A proper smelting fire was built in the middle of the makeshift space. Some of the embers had lit up where Lisabetta had disturbed them by firing her bullet, presumably in temper. Lisabetta was on her knees in front of some makeshift cupboards. She was searching for something, swearing under her breath. ‘Always like this at the end,’ Mirabelle heard her grumble. ‘Pah!’
She clearly didn’t find what she was looking for and Mirabelle only just managed to pull out of the way as Lisabetta burst out of the building and picked her way over to a hut nearby. The door was open. ‘Pah!’ Lisabetta said again as she gave the interior a cursory check. Then she moved on, clattering through the door of another of the little storage units. ‘Ah,’ she said delightedly, finding something she was looking for at last, ‘at least you are still here. Perhaps you might like to take a drive in the moonlight, yes?’
The woman was clearing her path, wiping her slate clean – this would be the time to destroy all and any evidence. If Lisabetta took Sandor with her it would be difficult to rescue him, especially if she used the chloroform. Desperately Mirabelle looked around. Back towards the car she could just make out a tabby cat picking its way across the scrub. She picked up a stone and threw it hard, hitting soft fur. The cat yowled and scrambled out of the way. Mirabelle raised another stone and fired again, this time felling a tottering pile of earth and small rocks that rolled down a small incline. It sounded as if there was someone moving near the car.
Lisabetta turned, abandoned the hut and strode back towards the road to see what had made the noise. It wouldn’t take her long to ascertain that the doctor was still unconscious and there was nobody around. Mirabelle didn’t hesitate. She sprinted towards the hut and grabbed the crouching figure inside.
‘Come on, Sandor,’ she said, adrenaline pumping through her system. ‘We have to get you out of here.’ She slit the thin bonds with her flick-knife and pulled him outside. ‘This way,’ she whispered.
They headed to the rear of the foundry, crouched down and then Mirabelle peered towards the car.
Lisabetta, having found nothing awry and the doctor still out cold, was making her way back. In temper she jerked the hut door aside and then howled as she found it empty. She darted outside. The scrubland looked deserted and there was no way to distinguish footprints on the rough muddy ground. She made a quick calculation and then ran back towards the road to search for the escapee.
‘People would normally make for the road,’ Mirabelle explained, keeping her voice low. ‘The other way there are only houses. She’ll assume we’ve headed for the street and made a run for it – you’ll see.’
And then Mirabelle gasped. In the moonlight it was clear that the figure she’d rescued wasn’t Sandor at all. The figure was female – a slender girl. A series of possibilities rushed through her mind.
‘Are you Romana Laszlo?’ she asked, but, before the girl could reply, Mirabelle realised that she’d seen her before.
‘Who’s Romana Laszlo?’
‘Of course,’ Mirabelle whispered as it fell into place.
She checked around the edge of the wall. Lisabetta was cursing from the direction of the street. The car engine fired and the women saw the reflection of the headlights in the night sky as Lisabetta turned the vehicle and cast the beams over the scrubland. The two women fell back and froze in the darkness of their hiding place. A rabbit sat up on its hind legs, unable to move in the glare of the beam. It was difficult to breathe and impossible to move but Mirabelle realised that by creating light Lisabetta had blinded herself to the things she might otherwise have been able to pick out in the darkness. After a minute or so she seemed to have concluded that the girl had made her escape in the other direction. The beams turned back to the road and she drove away. As the noise of the engine receded Mirabelle surprised herself by thinking fleetingly of Detective Superintendent McGregor. He’d tried to stop her going anywhere near these people. Well, he couldn’t get his way now. She smiled with quiet satisfaction before she spoke.
‘You’re one of Lisabetta’s girls, aren’t you?’ Mirabelle kept her voice low. ‘The one who went upstairs with Señor Velazquez.’
Delia had stayed alive because her instincts had always been good and she had always trusted them. She’d fought when she had to fight; she’d hidden when she had to hide. She’d traced the Candlemaker all across Europe and done what she had to do to get close enough to kill him. She just hadn’t got away fast enough. Nonetheless she still trusted her instincts.
‘Yes, it was me,’ she admitted, ‘though I’m not one of Lisabetta’s girls any more.’
Mirabelle checked the road – the sound of the car was fading. ‘We should wait here for a while to make sure the coast is clear.’
They sat, listening in silence and checking in all directions, until Mirabelle nodded and the women slipped inside the foundry. The girl was filthy and bedraggled. She ran to a bucket of water in the corner and cupped the liquid in her hands speaking as she drank. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and once her thirst was slaked she carefully washed her face and her hands.
Mirabelle looked around. There were some cans of soup on a shelf behind the door. ‘Are you hungry?’ The girl nodded. Mirabelle opened a can and carefully laid it on the hottest embers. Then she sat beside the fire.
‘Who did you think I was?’ the girl asked as she sat down by the fire.
‘I was looking for a friend – a man. But when I saw you I thought you might be a girl called Romana Laszlo. It was foolish of me. She
was supposed to be Lisabetta’s sister. I’ve been searching for her but, well, if she existed at all, she’s practically a ghost.’
‘I’ve never heard of her.’
‘I don’t think anyone has. It’s just, when I found you, well, I wondered.’
‘Ghosts can be tricky,’ Delia smiled. ‘Very demanding. Are you army? Police?’
‘No. My name’s Mirabelle Bevan.’ She held out her hand. ‘I work in a debt collection office.’
The girl didn’t falter. She took Mirabelle’s hand and shook it firmly. ‘I’m Delia Beck.’
‘Your name is German, Miss Beck.’
‘I am German,’ Delia said evenly. ‘Well, I was.’
It occurred to Mirabelle that this was the first time anyone involved with Lisabetta had admitted to their nationality. She said nothing and stirred the soup.
‘Do you know where we are?’ Delia looked out the door across the scrubland.
‘Brighton, or just outside it,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Why did they bring you here?’
Delia lifted a tin spoon and tasted the heating soup with some relish. ‘They found me at the train station – I wasn’t quick enough to get away. I hadn’t realised she’d come for me. Stupid, of course. I’d spent the day shopping and was getting the train back to London. Then they turned up. Lisabetta was furious. At first she thought it was an accident and was just angry that I’d left. But, well, I still had the syringe in my purse. It was very quick – they put me in a car and brought me here. They were going to kill me, I expect, but I’d still have done it no matter what. I’d do it again tomorrow. He deserved to die.’
Mirabelle knelt beside the fire. ‘You mean that you killed Señor Velazquez?’ she said slowly, piecing it together. ‘Not Lisabetta.’
‘Oh, yes. That man had done ...’ Delia hesitated, her voice very low, ‘... extremely bad things. He was a monster. Not that Lisabetta cared.’ Delia’s eyes were clear and her voice was steady. ‘Will you arrest me? I’m not afraid of a British jail. Or the death sentence. It was justice and I’d be proud to die for that. Did you take part in your country’s war effort, Miss Bevan?’
Mirabelle’s blood ran cold. This girl was quite extraordinary. ‘Are you saying that man was ...’
‘Yes. He was SS. He was a Commandant. Are you going to arrest me? Civilians can do that here, can’t they?’
Mirabelle thought she might sink into the ground. She’d left all this behind or, at least, she thought she had. Now it felt like standing on a precipice with Auschwitz on one side and Nuremberg on the other. She shook her head. ‘I only want to talk to you,’ she said under her breath. ‘I have to find out what they’re doing. I’m looking for my friend, Sandor. He’s a priest. Hungarian. Have you seen him?’
‘No,’ Delia shook her head, ‘I’ve never heard that name or seen Lisabetta with a priest.’
‘May I say that you don’t seem like a murderer, Miss Beck.’
Delia shook her head sadly. ‘I had to,’ she said. ‘It was just him. The courts can have the rest but I lost my people ... my family.’ She faltered. ‘If you’d ever lost someone, you’d understand.’
Mirabelle shuddered. It wasn’t a decision she’d ever had to take. Jack’s death had been bad enough. ‘So, no more on your list?’
Delia smiled wryly and shook her head.
Mirabelle thought for a moment. She had the sudden realisation that Delia was what Jack used to call ‘a door’. You use the door, get the information you want and then you lock it behind you. Mirabelle wasn’t going to turn in anyone for killing an SS Commandant when only a few years before she had been training and equipping people to undertake that kind of mission. Any Nazi officers left evading the courts at this stage of the game deserved whatever came their way. Jack had taught her well and she kept her eye on the ball. She’d go through the door all right. ‘You know what they’re up to, don’t you? You know what’s going on. What Lisabetta is doing.’
Delia nodded. ‘It’s about washing them clean, Miss Bevan. Money. Papers. That’s what Lisabetta does. She’ll do it for anyone. Even someone like him. Plenty of people want to cross the new borders. Plenty of people want to get out: SS, collaborators, turncoats. I waited for him. I let her pick me up in Amsterdam and then came to London to work. I knew he’d turn up eventually. She’s the best and he’d want the best. They’d never have caught him. It was up to me.’
‘And so you know all about Lisabetta’s operation?’
‘Lisabetta is very good at moving people around, if they’ve the money to pay her. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? It isn’t. But she gets them out and she’ll make the trip a pleasant one – the attention of men, women or children if they prefer. Champagne and caviar. A nice painting or trips to the theatre. The money makes me sick. But she washes them clean again – them and whatever they stole!’
‘So she’s laundering money. All the coins?’
Delia took a mouthful of soup then reached inside her shoe to draw a guinea from the lining. ‘Yes. Made from Nazi gold. Like this one. I took it from him. A coin for the hangman. They all have gold and loot. She legitimises it for them. And then there are the paintings, the statues, illegal currency and God knows what else. People are nothing if not inventive when stealing the treasures of the dead.’
Mirabelle’s mind was buzzing. Of course that’s what Lisabetta was up to. Of course. It was time to close the door. ‘Miss Beck, if the police catch you they will charge you. The best thing would be for you to leave the country immediately. It makes no difference whether the old man died of natural causes or not. You need to get out as soon as you can. And if you still have your weapon you need to dispose of it.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I haven’t lied,’ Mirabelle said calmly. ‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan and I work in a debt collection agency. I used to be something else. Someone else. Like you, I suppose – people are so different in wartime. No one gets to be ordinary. Not really. This is the end of your war, isn’t it, though? I do hope so.’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Delia. ‘I’ve been running a bit later than everyone else.’
‘Well,’ said Mirabelle, ‘I suggest we clean you up and get you to a train station – a small one, this time. You shouldn’t use the main stations, you know. Never. It might even be sensible to catch a bus up to town. If we get you to London, can you take it from there?’
‘Yes, thank you. I have an Irish friend there who can help. I want to go to America. That was my plan.’
Mirabelle picked up a poker and jabbed disconsolately at the embers as she considered. Then she noticed at one edge there was a tiny corner left of something that had been burned. It was distinctive – a buttonhole in the shape of a little cross on starched white cotton. It was Sandor’s dog collar. He’d been here.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we have to leave.’
24
Advice to agents: Your life depends on your ability to tell your cover story unhesitatingly.
Whether it was the morning light streaming through the bars high on the wall or the sound of the locks scraping back, Vesta couldn’t be sure what actually woke her in her police cell. As she opened her eyes blearily there was a tall man in a mackintosh standing in the doorway.
‘Miss Churchill, I understand you wanted to see me?’
‘Are you McGregor?’
‘Yes, Detective Superintendent McGregor. And I don’t normally deal with housebreaking.’ He was in a filthy mood. ‘Quite a stir you caused last night. Having them transfer you between stations. This better be worth it, young lady.’
‘Yes, sir. Well, I work in Halley Insurance – in the same building as Mirabelle Bevan,’ Vesta started.
‘Mirabelle Bevan!’ McGregor burst out. ‘My proverbial bad penny! What, are there two of you poking your noses in now? Bloody women! Is that all it is?’
‘It’s very important!’ Vesta insisted.
McGregor interrupted. ‘As important as these?’ He produced Vesta’s coins from his poc
ket. ‘Or were these just some pocket money in case you needed a little something while you were out? A pint of milk? Or you’re rather partial to biscuits, as I understand it from the night shift. Perhaps you thought you might come across some Peek Frean’s while you were taking the air?’
‘It’s a five-pound gold coin. And a sovereign. A two-pound coin. And a guinea.’
‘I know. Are they yours, Miss Churchill?’
Vesta shook her head. ‘It’s evidence.’
‘Ah, well, at least we agree on something. There was a lot of dodgy currency around town just before Christmas last year, I recall. These, you will be relieved to hear, are real, however. We checked. Solid gold. I understand you told the arresting officer you had taken them from a house on Second Avenue.’
‘Not me,’ Vesta said, ‘Mirabelle.’
‘I see. She did the housebreaking – you’re only the fence.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said a cold voice from behind the detective superintendent.
‘He won’t let me speak!’ Vesta cried, delighted to see Mirabelle in the passageway outside the cell.
She looked exhausted. Still, a tendril of hair had worked its way out of her chignon and hung down her cheek, highlighting her huge eyes and the translucence of her skin.
‘Ah, Miss Bevan,’ McGregor said. ‘Good morning. Of course you’re here as well! Obstructing police business again?’
Mirabelle ignored the jibe. ‘We need to speak to you. Are you so pig-headed that you can’t just listen? I walked for miles to get here and I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. When someone said Vesta’s name upstairs, I insisted on being brought down ...’
McGregor cast a look at the constable who had accompanied Mirabelle to the lock-up. ‘Well, that’s most irregular for a start.’
‘Sorry sir,’ the man mumbled.
It was too late now. ‘You better get back to the desk. I’ll deal with this,’ McGregor snapped.
The constable disappeared gratefully back upstairs.
Brighton Belle Page 17