Brighton Belle (12 page)

‘Help me out,’ he directed.

Vesta leaned over and heaved Sandor back to the surface. His robes were streaked with yellow mud. She was very glad she hadn’t had to get hands-on with the coffin – the idea of
jumping into a grave gave her the creeps. Inspecting the corpse would be bad enough. These older people who had gone through the war seemed to be made of sterner stuff and Vesta wondered what
Mirabelle had actually done to bring her into contact with this stolid Hungarian pastor. It was interesting. Sandor picked up the spade the diggers had left and leaned back into the hole to lever
the coffin lid open.

‘You’ve done this kind of thing before, haven’t you?’

Sandor blushed. He felt proud of himself for the first time in years. The adrenaline was surging through his bloodstream and he liked the feeling, pride or not. Reaching down as far as he could
he got the spade in place and swung the lid of the box upwards as Vesta peered down beside him.

‘Shit,’ she said, as the interior became visible. Looking at a corpse wasn’t as terrifying as Vesta imagined. But this was, without question, the wrong corpse.

‘Who in heaven’s name is that?’ Sandor said as he flipped the lid closed again.

Vesta remained silent. She was trying to remember. She’d seen him before somewhere.

‘We need to ring Mirabelle from the phone in the vestry. Really, I ought to call the police. It’s illegal to bury ...’ Sandor stopped. He could feel cold metal on his neck,
right at his jugular.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Vesta.

There was a shock of searing pain for no more than a second and they both blacked out.

13

The facts of a person’s life will, like murder, come out.

M
irabelle checked the clock. It was quarter past eleven. The funeral must be over by now, she reckoned. Vesta would be back soon. The mail was
done and the plates and cups washed up. Back at her own desk Mirabelle stared out of the window as a line of sunshine worked its way slowly up the street in the approach to midday. It was the
perfect weather to have lunch on the beach, but somehow she didn’t feel like it today.

Mirabelle sat up in her chair. There was the sound of the door to the street opening in the hallway below, though the footfall that Mirabelle heard coming up the stairs was definitely not Vesta.
Only a man with nothing to hide could make that much racket, she smiled. Behind the frosted glass a tall shape approached and the door opened.

‘Is this Ben McGuigan’s office?’

Mirabelle looked up. ‘Mr McGuigan is out. Can I take a message?’

Detective Superintendent Alan McGregor scowled, his blue eyes intense. ‘Where would I find him?’

Mirabelle sighed. ‘I don’t know. He’s out. Working. What was it regarding?’

‘I’d like a word, that’s all. Is he out most of the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s the mark of a good man in his line of work.’

Mirabelle nodded.

‘When do you expect to see him?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘When did you see him last?’

Mirabelle hesitated and McGregor felt in his pocket for his warrant card. She carefully read the details, which, McGregor noted, was unusual. Most people only gave a cursory glance to police
identification.

‘Yesterday morning, Detective Superintendent,’ Mirabelle said. ‘He had a bad cold and went home to nurse it.’

‘I thought I might catch him at home before work, but he wasn’t there,’ McGregor admitted.

‘That’s odd. What time?’

‘Half past eight. On my way to Bartholomew Square.’

‘I can take a message, if you like.’

McGregor paced a little, his policeman’s mackintosh open except for one straining button at the waist. ‘This was found,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and laying a black
leather wallet on Mirabelle’s desk. She reached to open it but before she did she already knew it belonged to Ben McGuigan and her fingers were tingling with anxious anticipation.

‘Where did you find it?’ she said.

‘The racecourse. Near the men’s toilets.’

The wallet contained very little. Some money and a couple of betting slips for races that took place, she noticed, yesterday afternoon after Ben became ill. Mirabelle took a mental note of the
bookmaker. M. Williams. How peculiar. She had never known Ben to gamble.

‘I see,’ she said.

‘I wondered if he might have someone who owed him money? Someone dangerous?’

Mirabelle turned the ledger towards the policeman. ‘Everyone and his wife owes Ben money,’ she said. ‘Or rather they owe his clients money, though generally people consider it
the same thing. If something has happened to Mr McGuigan I’m very glad that there is a detective superintendent on the case, but that isn’t normal, is it, sir? For lost
property.’

McGregor didn’t explain Robinson’s habit of referring everything to his superior, but in this case he was rather glad that Ben McGuigan’s wallet had come his way. He’d
only met McGuigan twice, both times at the bar in the Sussex, but he’d liked him.

‘I know Ben,’ McGregor said. ‘I’ve met him a few times. And this isn’t like him, is it? He’s an army man – everything ship-shape and accounted
for.’

The policeman flipped through the pages of the ledger. His eyes lit on Romana Laszlo’s entry but he didn’t say anything.

‘That job came in after he’d left,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘He didn’t know anything about it.’

‘And you haven’t seen him for two days. What time was he last in the office?’

‘Lunchtime. About one.’

‘And would he have owed anyone money, himself, do you think?’

‘I doubt it.’

McGregor paused. He doubted it, too, but he had to ask. ‘Do you have a recent photograph of Ben?’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I can give you a detailed description,’ she offered.

‘No, that’s all right. I have his army records – height, weight and so on. I can use that and I can submit a description myself. Nothing works as well as a photograph though.
If he turns up, have him ring me at the station. May I ask your name?’

‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan. But, isn’t it unusual for the money still to be there? In the wallet, I mean?’

McGregor turned in the doorway. She was a smart cookie, this one. ‘Yes, it is, Miss Bevan.’

As the sound of McGregor’s feet on the stairs receded Mirabelle had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was very wrong. She was tempted to run up East Street after the
detective superintendent and beg him to keep her informed but instead she reached for her coat and hat, scribbled Vesta a hurried note and left the building.

Big Ben McGuigan had a small house on Kensington Place. He’d lived there, in a two-up, two-down on the terrace, since he left the army. The house was painted white – the only neutral
colour on the row, which was a faded pastel selection reminiscent of a child’s drawing. Perhaps Ben had some pretensions to family life, because the house was really too large for a man on
his own, but whatever his reasons any plans he’d made had never come to fruition. Mirabelle had never been there before. Her arrangements with her employer were strictly business, but she had
all his details in the office file. She passed the Pedestrian Arms, noting that this was the closest pub to her employer’s home, and made straight for Big Ben’s front door where she
knocked twice and waited. No answer.

‘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.