Brighton Belle (6 page)

Delia drew a deep breath. She was ready now. It was time. She picked up her suede handbag and carefully drew a needle and syringe from the magenta velvet interior. She knew he would wake up when
she punctured his skin so she’d have to be quick once she started. At first she had considered drugging the old man but had quickly discounted it because drugs would leave traces in his
blood. Alcohol was the best thing she could think of to slow him down and cause confusion. He’d had a bucketful and then she’d sat in a hot bath with him – a move designed to
enhance his drunkenness. Now, if she injected him, it would look like an embolism. Well, it would be an embolism. But it wouldn’t be a natural one. Of course the doctors would assume it was,
especially in a man of this age – there was really very little way to tell the difference if you weren’t looking out for the signs, and the evidence literally disappeared during the
post-mortem examination if the coroner wasn’t alerted to take steps to preserve it in advance. In a provincial town like this, with the corpse of an old man, Delia knew the coroner would be
unlikely to take those steps.

Delia considered her options and decided for the last time to administer the injection between the toes. It was easier to hold him down by the legs. The old man sighed in his sleep and turned.
She waited for a moment, standing over him and relishing that she was here at long last. And then Delia plunged like a bird of prey, the hypodermic shooting its deadly load into the old man’s
bloodstream. He woke immediately, trying to pull back, shouting and confused. Straight away Delia refilled the syringe with air, holding down his calf with her elbow and his foot with the other
hand. It would take two syringes to do the job. Just air. Necessary for life but deadly in the bloodstream. God’s little joke, or one of them. She plunged the needle in a second time.

‘What are you doing?’ he shouted. ‘That hurts.’

He pulled back as she let go but it was too late. And then Delia said the words that any old man in his position dreaded hearing most. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

But before he could reply or even think which one she might be, before he could reason with her or try to explain, or run out into the hall and get help, the old man found quite suddenly that he
couldn’t breath any more.

‘Jews,’ he gasped, his eyes bright with terror.

It took two minutes. Delia watched him struggling, gasping, pissing himself. A lady she met once at a society party in London had remarked that lilies smelled of death: ‘Makes me quite
morbid, my dear, the smell of lilies.’

The scent now wafted over from the bright crystal vase on the side table and Delia thought to herself that the lady was wrong – lilies didn’t smell like death at all.

At the end she stood for a long while over the old man’s still body. A quick end was a luxury he hadn’t deserved but it was the best she could do. Death by natural causes was unheard
of – something that Delia had never witnessed, in fact, during the brutal course of her life. But this came close.
Bastard.
She wanted to spit on him now, punch him, tear out his
balding hair, but she held herself back. If they found marks on the body they would suspect foul play. Instead she let the emotions course through her. She imagined a blue balloon floating off over
the ocean outside the window.

Two days before she died Delia’s mother had told her that however many bad people there were, she should never lose faith that there were good people, too. In the filth. In the middle of
the nightmare. When everyone around had lost hope.

‘The good people are everywhere,’ she promised in a whisper. ‘And you will find them, I promise. Just survive, my darling. Survive.’

Neither her father nor her mother would ever have expected Delia to kill the Commandant but from the moment they died Delia knew that was what she would do. She had been ready to dedicate her
entire life to his murder. They called him the Candlemaker. Delia shuddered. Men like that should be hunted like animals and executed. Men like that didn’t deserve to live.

‘I did it, Mama,’ she whispered. ‘I did it and I am here.’

7

Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.

M
irabelle Bevan had only just hung up her coat when the secretary from the office down the hall came through the door without knocking. She
was a plump black girl in a tight charcoal pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse gathered at the waist with a purple patent belt which matched her shoes. The girl was scarcely twenty but
nonetheless had an air of experience and efficiency that made her seem older. She had started work a couple of months before and Mirabelle had seen her on the stairs but they’d never spoken,
only smiled and nodded.

‘Is your name Mirabelle Bevan?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Vesta Churchill. No relation.’ She grinned with good humour as she shook Mirabelle’s hand firmly. ‘This letter came for you so I took it in. Had to be signed
for, you see. Your boss gone AWOL?’

Mirabelle nodded.

‘Mine, too,’ Vesta plonked herself unbidden on the wooden chair opposite Mirabelle’s desk and drew her manicured fingers through her hair. ‘He’s an all right
bloke,’ she confided good-naturedly. ‘Fond of a drop, but the job is so dull I don’t blame him. Now, debt recovery, Miss Mirabelle, I bet you got a lot of secrets in here!
I’ve been dying to drop by.’

Mirabelle smiled. Vesta seemed simultaneously both nice and somehow appalling, but then the day had already been so odd.

‘It’s insurance down the hall, isn’t it?’ Mirabelle said.

‘Sure is. Car insurance. And I don’t even have a licence. It’s all engine sizes and tyre pressure – I can’t tell you the sheer boredom of it. Cars!’

Mirabelle slit open the envelope and peeked at the letter. It was from Ralph Peters, the lawyer. It thanked her for the loan documentation, acknowledged receipt by return and said that Romana
Laszlo’s estate was expected to settle within a month. In his own hand as a postscript, Peters had added that he had checked with Romana’s sister, Lisabetta, and the name was Hungarian.
He did not comment on how the Dutch passport might have come into being.

‘Anything exciting?’ asked Vesta.

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Paperwork. Thanks for signing for it. Very kind of you. Where are my manners? Could I tempt you to a cup of tea?’

Vesta’s expression assumed a serious air. ‘Got any biscuits?’

‘We have some cream crackers, I think.’

The girl stared for a second, as if Mirabelle had suggested they have mud pies or grass sandwiches. Then she spoke. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go back to the office and get ours.
We’ve got a whole box of Cadbury’s.’ She darted out of the door without waiting for a response.

Mirabelle put the kettle on to boil. It had been an exciting morning. For months now her life had been lived between her flat and the office, going through the motions, walking at the weekend,
sitting in the bath and eating food she scarcely tasted. Today she had somehow put some colour back into her drab existence. At the same time she was worried. Whatever had happened to Romana
didn’t feel right. And now there were rich men and prostitutes in the picture – had Romana been involved? Was it part of the reason she died? Mirabelle reached for the teapot as Vesta
burst back through the door and proudly placed a small tin of chocolate biscuits on the desk.

‘Present,’ she said, ‘from Mr P. I think he has contacts on the black market, bless him.’

‘Lucky you!’

‘Now, if Mr P. was chocolate he’d gobble himself right up. He’s a cocky guy. But he knows how to get on the right side of me,’ Vesta volunteered. ‘I got him bargain
coverage on his Morris Oxford 1947 with black paintwork.’

Vesta peeked into the box as if she didn’t know what was in there and smiled with delight as the biscuits came into view. Her white teeth were dazzling and her dark eyes enormous. She
pulled out a chocolate-coated fancy just as Mirabelle popped a cup of tea in front of her.

‘Perfect,’ she breathed, wrinkling her nose.

Mirabelle looked over the rim of the box. As a rule she wasn’t fond of sweets, but today was for bending the rules and trying new things. She retrieved a golden brown circle with a
smattering of chocolate at the edge. This girl was a strange creature, she thought – at once very young and also motherly. Mirabelle snapped off a piece of biscuit and popped it into her
mouth. Then she had an idea.

‘Vesta’ she said, ‘do you think you could look after the office for me this afternoon? It’s only that I might go up to London.’

As anticipated Vesta didn’t turn a hair. ‘Sure thing. You got yourself a fancy man?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Mirabelle, ‘nothing like that.’

‘Bit of shopping? Because if you can find me some dark chocolate and marzipan, I’d love you forever. I heard there is this place in Piccadilly and it’s pricey but what
they’ve got you wouldn’t believe! You going anywhere near Piccadilly?’

Mirabelle nibbled some more biscuit, lifted her cup to her lips and shook her head. She considered how much to tell Vesta – almost like an automaton, running through the security clearance
codes in her mind. This girl had a low clearance level, of course. But on balance, odd or not, she was likeable enough and if she wanted Vesta’s help she had to tell her something.

‘Thing is, there’s a bit of a mystery with one of our clients.’

Vesta’s eyes lit up. ‘I knew it. You lucky duck! Of course I’ll look after things here. Don’t worry one bit. But you got to let me read all about it. That’s the
deal. Quid pro quo, like my mama always says. Please. I’m going scatty in that office with the boredom. The clients and the boss – all them men – are going crazy about the new
Ford Zephyr and I’m going to die from brain atrophy. Really I am.’

‘Your mother always says quid pro quo?’ Mirabelle repeated.

Vesta shrugged. ‘Yep. My mama studied to be a legal secretary back home before she had kids. Latin and everything. Course when she met my daddy she gave it all up and decided to come to
England. Now she just works in a shop in London. But she’s got an education.’

Vesta leaned over and surveyed Mirabelle’s in-tray.

‘It’s this one, isn’t it?’ she said, picking up Romana Laszlo’s file.

‘How did you know?’

‘It says
DECEASED
right here,’ Vesta grinned, her childhood Jamaican lilt overtaking her newly acquired Brighton accent through sheer excitement as she flicked
open the front cover.

Safe in the knowledge that there was very little detail in Romana’s file, the filing cabinets were locked and the keys were in the inside pocket of her handbag – all facts which
would heartily dismay Vesta over the course of the afternoon – Mirabelle boarded the London train half an hour later. As the grubby suburbs of Brighton gave way to open fields and then back
to the bomb-damaged remnants of the shabby outskirts of London, she stared out of the window and decided on a course of action.

At Victoria she took a long and satisfying breath of thick, city air. It felt good to be in the beating heart, the hustle and bustle again. Mirabelle crossed the station and got onto the tube
for Notting Hill, emerging twenty minutes later into the semi-suburban high street near the market. These days Mirabelle only had one lead in London so she made her way straight to the Red Lion
pub, asking directions in the street from a succession of drab-looking women wearing patterned scarves, thick coats and comfortable shoes.

The pub was off the main road about five minutes from the tube station. It was a traditional old-fashioned boozer frequented by market traders, hookers, the odd serviceman passing through and,
most importantly, Bert Jennings. Mirabelle was always well turned-out and her entry through the heavy oak door caused some attention. A thin blonde girl wearing bright orange lipstick and earrings
to match leaned over the bar. ‘Yeah?’

‘I am looking for Bert Jennings,’ Mirabelle said as her eyes adjusted to the dingy interior. ‘I thought I might find him here.’

‘You his missus or sumfink?’ the girl asked suspiciously with a pronounced nasal twang.

‘No, I am a business associate. Do you know where he is?’

The girl shrugged. ‘I can leave him a message if you like.’

Mirabelle looked vexed for a moment. This was her only point of contact with Bert Jennings. Still, she knew the streets of Notting Hill were busy and that news travelled fast.

‘I’ll wait,’ she said.

‘Can I get you sumfink to drink?’

The whisky here was unlikely to be good enough without a mixer. Post-wartime supplies were still on the scarce side with downmarket pubs watering down what they had and buying in spirits that
were little more than hooch.

‘I’ll have a gin and tonic,’ Mirabelle said decisively as she picked up a newspaper that was lying on the bar and settled into a seat.

The jungle drums beat as loudly as expected and it took less than half an hour for Bert to appear, wide-shouldered, through the double doors of the Red Lion. He evidently hadn’t been sure
whom to expect but he seemed delighted.

‘Well, I never. Miss Mirabelle Bevan,’ he beamed.

‘Hello, Mr Jennings. Could I have a word?’

Bert nodded at the barmaid. ‘Another, Miss B?’

Mirabelle paddled the remains of her drink around the bottom of the glass. It had been a ropey concoction at best. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m fine.’

The barmaid laid a very yellow-looking dram on the top of the bar and didn’t ask for payment. She moved to the other end of the servery her jewellery jingling with every step, and hitched
one hip onto a bar stool to watch what was going on.

‘Is there somewhere we could talk in private?’ Mirabelle asked.

‘This way.’ Bert jerked his head to the dingy interior. ‘Come into my office.’

There was a dark wooden table and three mismatched chairs in an alcove at the back of the pub. While a lattice of tiny panes over the double doors let in a modicum of light at the bar, as
Mirabelle proceeded towards the rear of the room there were only a couple of dim lamps and it became progressively darker. Bert flung himself into a chair and motioned towards Mirabelle.