Brighton Belle (22 page)

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.

W
hether 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 pocket. ‘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.

McGregor sighed. ‘Ladies, you have my full attention. What is it?’

Mirabelle strode into the cell and motioned towards the door, which McGregor closed. ‘What we’ve come across is dangerous information, Detective Superintendent. It was only last
night I found out precisely how dangerous. So, first of all, before I tell you what I know, I need reassurance. We have to contain this information. A man’s life is at stake. Can we trust
you?’

McGregor sat up straight. ‘Is it Ben? Do you know where he is?’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Ben’s the reason I’m here, though. Inside this police station, well, it’s a rat trap, isn’t it? There are leaks all over the place. But
you knew Ben and you were kind enough to try to find him. So, I’m giving you a chance. Can we trust you?’

McGregor took off his hat. The woman was being logical, at least. ‘Look, I know people don’t always trust the police in these parts and that working for McGuigan you might well have
been exposed to some of the more unreliable elements of the Sussex Constabulary. But you two are no housebreakers, I know that. And Ben is still missing. I’m hoping this information of yours
isn’t just some histrionic female story. Because so far none of what you’re intimating makes any bloody sense. So, yes, you can trust me but it’s up to you whether you choose to
do so.’

Mirabelle’s eyes betrayed only the merest flicker of annoyance. Then, from the bed, Vesta’s voice rang out. She had snapped. ‘It does make sense! Really it does! Everything
we’re on to! Mr McGuigan isn’t missing, Detective Superintendent. He’s dead in a false grave. They buried him,’ she said, standing up straight as a rod. Like a kid
explaining a dream to her parents, the words came burbling out all at once, spilling over each other. ‘These people are monsters. And Mirabelle wanted to handle it on her own, but we
can’t. We’re just two women. And this is a whole lot of trouble. Insurance fraud and all sorts. And there are all those coins. These people, they just make up other people – a
complete fake identity that they can kill off if they want to – you’ve no idea! All for money! And now they’ve kidnapped Father Sandor from the Church of the Sacred Heart and they
said if we went to you they’d kill him. But they are going to kill him anyway, aren’t they? That’s the truth. And we tried to find him last night and Mirabelle almost got caught,
but we’re out of leads and we can’t do it on our own – I mean, that’s what we were trying when your constable pulled me in, but God knows where they’ve got him.
Lisabetta has a gun! And I’m supposed to be back at my desk in the office at one so they can phone me and let me speak to Sandor. And I’m worried, petrified, actually. I don’t
think you’re bent. I think you’re a decent bloke. Promise me you’ll help because I don’t want them to kill Sandor. Not after everything else!’

Mirabelle’s eyes burned. ‘Vesta!’ she spluttered. McGregor would never take them seriously now.

But, to her surprise, the detective superintendent moved across the cell and checked outside the door before closing it again firmly. ‘Lock this, will you?’ he said to the guard
through the grille. ‘I’ll bang when I want out.’

McGregor waited until the guard had moved back to his post at the end of the corridor. Then he sat down at the end of the bed. ‘Right, Miss Churchill, that’s a lot of information all
at once and I’m not really following it. Did you say Father Sandor? Because that’s the priest who was reported missing yesterday by one of his colleagues at the church. How is he caught
up in all this? Why don’t you just tell me everything you know, from the very beginning? Slowly.’

‘You think you might be able to stop them killing him?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Because they killed Ben McGuigan. They strangled him, and it’s difficult to kill a big man like that, even if you get behind him,’ she burbled.

‘You’re sure Ben’s dead?’

McGregor turned to Mirabelle, in search of some sense. She nodded agreement, her head bowed. ‘Yes, I think they murdered Big Ben because he was onto what they were doing at the
racecourse,’ she confirmed sadly. ‘It’s a very long story, I’m afraid, Detective Superintendent.’

‘Well, let’s give it a try. You couldn’t do a worse job than Miss Churchill here.’

Vesta sighed, frustrated, and slumped onto the mattress as Mirabelle took a deep breath.

‘It’s a criminal operation – clever and very complex. First of all they’re involved in prostitution but that isn’t where the real money is. That’s only a
sideline. Really they are accommodating ex-SS men, political refugees, collaborators – anyone with money who has to get out of Europe. Señor Velazquez – he was SS. He was the
Commandant of a concentration camp. I don’t know which one.’

Vesta squealed. ‘You mean they were Nazis! And I walked right into it. Shit, look at the colour of me!’

‘Well, so far,’ Mirabelle pointed out, ‘we’ve only found one Nazi and he’s dead, but I think there have been others. Lisabetta is at the head of it. She provides
papers and more importantly a clearing house for dirty money and stolen goods. Very high end. They’re laundering the money at Fairfield Road through Manni Williams. Ben was onto them.
That’s why they killed him. So the scam at the races isn’t really about making money at all – it’s about cleaning dirty currency and giving it back as a payout minus
Manni’s fee. And there’s something going on with gold coins, too – there are gold coins everywhere. Anyway, these people come to London then Lisabetta and her team clean them and
send them on their way, for a hefty percentage, of course. And now she’s pulling out and we got entangled. It’s the end of her operation, here at any rate. She’s leaving.

‘When we first got onto it Ben had an enquiry on a defaulted loan. It was fake. The whole point of it was to legitimise a payment that Lisabetta wanted to be made to a guy in London. Bert
Jennings. Bert is a legitimate creditor on the estate of one Romana Laszlo. Romana didn’t exist – she’s just an insurance scam on a life policy. Fake lying in, fake death –
everything. And Ben ended up in Romana’s grave – easy for them to dispose of him that way. His body is in the graveyard at the Church of the Sacred Heart and the priest – Sandor,
the guy that’s missing – they kidnapped him to stop Vesta blowing the whistle. I found the place last night where they’d been holding him. It’s on Hangleton Road, on the
A2036. There’s a foundry there where they’ve been smelting gold, I expect, and minting those gold coins. Sandor was gone and the place was deserted. I thought he might have got away but
if he had turned up back at the church you’d know by now, wouldn’t you?’