Brighton Belle (16 page)

Manni balanced the remains of his roll on the edge of the blackboard. ‘Morning, sir.’

‘Don’t let me stop you eating. Please.’

The bookies on the stalls to either side froze so they could listen. One of them held off a fellow trying to hand over some money by motioning him to back off. Manni eyed his roll dubiously and
instead rubbed out a set of odds and replaced them.

McGregor stared. ‘Late breakfast, is it? Had mine before I left the house. Got to be up early to catch the worms, Manni.’

‘You got nothing on me,’ Manni said.

‘No, I haven’t, Manni. Not a sausage. Not a bean. Not a bacon roll.’

Manni smirked.

‘All I’ve got is a funny feeling. So I thought I’d come down here today. I’m looking for a friend who appears to have taken up horse racing all of a sudden. No
one’s seen him for a few days. Ben McGuigan. Know him?’

Manni nodded. ‘Yeah, one of my punters. Big bloke, isn’t he? Can’t imagine much can have happened to him.’

McGregor pulled two tickets from his pocket. ‘I wondered if either of these were winners?’

Manni peered over to inspect the tickets. ‘Nah. Richy Rich placed but you only got on the nose there. Sorry, sir, I don’t remember taking your bet.’

‘These are McGuigan’s slips, Manni. As well you know.’

‘Oh, I think I might recall him putting down some money. He was hanging around earlier in the week – and last week, too. Thing is, I love my job, me. I got to concentrate on what
I’m doing so I don’t always remember names and faces, see? Just numbers. That’s all. Don’t worry, nothing wrong with cashing in your mate’s chit, if you get your hands
on it. Legally that’s a bearer bond, that is.’

‘Thank you very much, Manni,’ McGregor said sarcastically.

‘If you want to lay a bet I can give you a tip,’ Manni offered. He was getting carried away. ‘The Twelve Thirty!’ he called out. ‘Little Boy Blue! I’ll give
you three to one.’

‘I’m just a spectator today, Manni. I’m watching. I’m going to be watching all day.’

‘No fun in that, sir.’ Manni picked up his roll.

‘You tell him, Manni, my old son! Three to one on Little Boy Blue is good odds. Might take a shilling or three on that myself,’ the bookie on the next stall shouted.

McGregor turned. ‘I’m watching,’ he said.

Mirabelle moved back. She was only one layer of the thickening crowd away from Williams, right behind McGregor. She followed him further into the melee but his mackintosh disappeared in the
crush. Casting an eye over her shoulder she turned to see Manni taking bets again. His tone had reminded her of some of the war crimes cases – soldiers who had insisted they had only been
doing their duty when they had been on the take or cocky deserters engaged in black market activity. His attitude was too bluff – too defiant. He was definitely up to something – she
knew it as well as McGregor. In fact she knew more. But, it would seem, there was nothing stopping him taking bets – that part of what Ben had been looking at was above board and so far there
was no sign of the kind of high rollers that Ben had been noting down. So what was Manni doing with these bets that wasn’t legal? Suddenly Mirabelle felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.

‘Miss Bevan, isn’t it?’ said a deep voice. ‘I wonder if you’re heading for Mr Williams’ stall. I think it might be best if you come with me.’

The detective superintendent manhandled her through the crowd and up to the stands where he stopped to light a cigarette, keeping his eyes firmly on Mirabelle. ‘What are you doing
here?’

Mirabelle clutched her bag very tightly. ‘Is it illegal to go to the races now?’

McGregor stared at her and waited.

She knew that by acting this way she appeared guilty. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I wanted to come and have a look. This is where Ben made his bet before ...’

McGregor eyed her suspiciously. ‘Before what?’

‘Before his wallet went missing.’ She composed herself. ‘And I still can’t find him, Detective Superintendent. Not anywhere.’

‘Were you going to or coming from Manni Williams’ stall?’

‘I was going to ask Mr Williams if he remembered seeing Ben. He placed at least two bets with M. Williams the day he disappeared, didn’t he? I saw the slips in the wallet you showed
me. Then I found some more from a few days before that. In the wastepaper bin.’

McGregor eyed her once more. What was she so het up about? There was a flash of passion in Mirabelle’s eyes beyond what you’d expect from someone idly investigating the disappearance
of a work colleague. Was she romantically involved or did she know something?

‘This is where Mr McGuigan was last seen, isn’t it?’ Mirabelle explained. ‘Unless you have another lead I don’t know about. That’s what you were asking Mr
Williams, wasn’t it?’

The policeman stubbed out his smoke. Manni Williams was dangerous – he’d probably knocked off McGuigan for a start – and this woman, a complete amateur, was blundering around.
Either she was incredibly brave or she simply didn’t realise how murderous the criminal element could be when their backs were up against the wall. ‘You’re unusually
observant,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I’m looking for McGuigan. I’ll keep going till I find him. This is a matter for the professionals. You’ve been reading too
much detective fiction if you think this is something you can handle, Miss Bevan. Ben didn’t want you involved. That’s why he told you he was ill. To keep you out of it.’

Mirabelle didn’t lose a beat. ‘He was investigating something here, wasn’t he, Detective Superintendent? A betting scam?’

McGregor nodded slowly. ‘Yes, he was working for a member of the racing board. They hadn’t called us in because they didn’t have any evidence. Ben had been charged with using
the utmost discretion in his investigation. He had been doing so for two or three weeks before he disappeared. I am extremely concerned for Mr McGuigan’s welfare.’

‘I think he’s dead too,’ Mirabelle admitted sadly.

McGregor’s eyes lifted and he became distracted by something in the distance. He scrambled in his pockets for a small pair of binoculars and Mirabelle followed his line of sight. There was
Dr Crichton and another man with a military bearing, a jolly expression and a huge camel-coloured jacket. Manni bent down and shook the man’s hand with fervour as a grin spread over his face.
McGregor and Mirabelle both leaned forward on the rail to watch.

‘He’s got a lot of legitimate high rollers all of a sudden, that guy,’ McGregor said. ‘Turns out we’ve had him on our books for one thing or another for years but
Manni Williams has always been strictly small-time. Then, over the last eighteen months, the little toe rag has made a fortune and paid out a fortune, all at once.’

Dr Crichton’s companion handed over some money and Manni gave him a chit.

‘But I can’t see what he’s doing that’s wrong,’ Mirabelle said. ‘He’s licensed to take bets, isn’t he? You can’t fix every race. It’s
just not possible.’

‘Yes, I can’t work it out either. The books tally, too. Bets are scrutinised by the authorities but one of the board here at the racecourse had a funny feeling about what Williams
was up to. Seems odd to say in these surroundings but the man had been too lucky and this board member was sure there was something going on. Thing is, most of the people betting with Williams had
been coming to the races for years, knew their stuff and were all above board. Thing is, he’s paying out more or less as much as he’s taking in – he’s just hauling a fairly
small and strangely regular profit. It doesn’t make sense as a scam. But the profits – well, let’s say, it’s practically a steady wage and a good one. That’s unusual.
He’s on the fiddle somehow. I can’t yet see how many people are involved – he has a lot of legitimate clients – but his books don’t look like any other bookie’s
set of accounts. The detail is way too steady.’

‘So that man betting now could be legitimate?’

‘Oh, yes,’ McGregor replied. ‘Well, I hope so. In fact, they’re probably both legitimate. One of those men is Brigadier General Spence and the other, if I’m not
mistaken, is Dr Eric Crichton – I didn’t expect to see him here. And that’s part of the bloody trouble, pardon my French. The damned Chief of Police bets with Manni Williams these
days. He’s got every respectable punter going. That’s why the board called in Big Ben McGuigan. They needed someone who could be discreet.’

‘So Ben was gathering as much information as possible to see if the bets Williams was actually taking tallied up with what he presented for inspection in his books?’

‘But now both he and the information have disappeared. Whatever he was up to, he rattled Manni’s cage good and proper. But I don’t know why.’

For an instant Mirabelle considered telling McGregor about Ben’s coded notebook but decided against it. There was no doubt in her mind that whatever was inside the ledger would illuminate
the scam but the police making progress on what happened to Ben could be dangerous for Sandor – as fatal even as if she’d told McGregor that she knew Ben’s body was in Romana
Laszlo’s grave. This was all tied up somehow and until she could work it out or at least get Sandor to safety she had to keep it to herself.

Dr Crichton and the Brigadier disappeared into the crowd and McGregor put his binoculars back in his pocket. It was then that he noticed for the first time that Mirabelle Bevan had extraordinary
hazel eyes. The observation worried him. His mother always said he had terrible instincts about women. So far she had been proved right several times. McGregor had never married – never even
got close. He lived for his work. There was nothing like getting your teeth into a really good case. This was moving from a missing person’s investigation into something more complicated and
dangerous and there was no point in involving this beautiful woman – she was only a secretary, after all. To uncover what was going on with a nest of thieves like this one, you needed a lot
of tenacity and the will to upset people. She couldn’t be any help.

‘It’s back to the office for you, Miss Bevan, I’m afraid. You leave this to me.’

McGregor motioned to a uniformed constable and gave some instructions. Mirabelle was escorted off the premises, into the back seat of a police car and, after fighting through the traffic all the
way down the steep hill back into town, she was dropped, unceremoniously but safely, on the corner of East Street and Brill Lane. It was humiliating. The constable even sat there with the engine
running to make sure that she went inside.

19

When you are fighting for your life you cannot be governed by Queensberry Rules.

W
hen the office telephone rang Vesta jumped to answer it immediately, almost knocking over the thin wooden desk. ‘Sandor, is that
you?’ she said, tears already welling up.

‘Yes.’ His voice was calm but it still sent shivers right through her. She tried to sound even and clear, as if this wasn’t shaking her up. She pictured Mirabelle, with her
seemingly glacial nerves, and tried to imagine what that must feel like. Still, Vesta felt herself wavering. ‘Are you all right?’ she managed.

‘Yes.’

‘Have they fed you? Did you drink something?’

‘I’m fine, Vesta.’

‘I’m sticking to the plan. Don’t worry. They will let you go.’

A heavy sigh crackled down the wire and, just as it did, Vesta heard a metallic hammering noise in the background. It sounded, somehow, dangerous. Where was he? What were they doing to him?
Vesta panicked. ‘Are you all right? You’ll ring tomorrow, won’t you? I’ll worry myself to death otherwise.’

There was a hesitation while, she supposed, Sandor caught the eye of whoever had let him use the phone. In the interim there was more hammering. It was a curious sound – almost industrial.
Definitely a hammer hitting metal – something along the lines of a blacksmith shoeing a horse.

‘What’s that noise?’ she asked.

Sandor ignored her, replying in a measured tone, ‘It’s fine. I’m all right. They’ll let me call again at one o’clock tomorrow but now I have to go.’

When the receiver clicked, Vesta dissolved into tears. What was happening was huge and she couldn’t quite reconcile Sandor’s down-to-earth tone with the vastness of the events. They
were holding the priest against his will. She had been held for a few hours at most but he’d been captive for more than a day now. It already felt like forever and insurance payouts could be
a lengthy business. Vesta stared at the map, fiddled with her papers and didn’t stop crying until Mirabelle came through the office door. The older woman slipped off her racing hat and hung
it up. Vesta’s eyes were red and her cheeks were damp. There were soggy tissues scattered across the desk and all over the map upon which she had been trying to work.

‘He called then?’ Mirabelle said.

‘One o’clock. Exactly.’ Vesta sniffed. ‘It’s more difficult than I thought...’

Her mother’s words echoed through her mind. ‘Real life, young lady, is tough,’ she had said. ‘Consequences, mademoiselle. Con-se-quences.’ Well, Vesta understood
about consequences now. Sandor was trapped. He might die. And yet he’d sounded so calm. How did he manage that? The normality of it was the strangest thing. Vesta felt suddenly terribly glad
that Mirabelle was back. If nothing else it would distract her from dwelling on the conversation and the vision she had of Sandor tied up in that hut in the dark.

‘Did you find anything at the racecourse?’ she asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ Mirabelle sank into the chair opposite. ‘Lots of interesting things. M. Williams is Manni, Lisabetta’s sidekick at the hotel. The place is crawling with police
looking for Ben. He was investigating whatever betting scam it is that Manni is running – something that ties in with those figures in Ben’s notebook. The police haven’t worked it
out yet and, to be honest, it might take them a while – Ben was onto it for a fortnight and he hadn’t cracked the case. I can’t see how Detective Superintendent McGregor will be
able to work any faster. I saw Dr Crichton there, too. They’re thick as thieves. Actually, they are thieves somehow – all this money is coming from somewhere and it’s definitely
not legitimate. Perhaps they’re part of this betting scam. Though McGregor says it’s a small but regular profit which doesn’t sound like five-pound tips and gold sovereigns to me.
Anyway, after that I came back.’ She hesitated. She didn’t want to admit that McGregor had dismissed her like some stupid schoolgirl. ‘So,’ she changed the subject,
‘what did Sandor say?’