British Bulldog (27 page)

More Mirabelle anyone?

THE MIRABELLE BEVAN MYSTERIES

Brighton Belle

1951, Brighton. With the war over and the Nazis brought to justice at Nuremberg, Mirabelle Bevan (Secret Service, retired) thinks her skills are no longer required. After her lover’s death she retires to the seaside to put the past behind her and takes a job at a debt collection agency run by the charismatic Big Ben McGuigan. But when the case of Romana Laszlo – a pregnant Hungarian refugee – comes in, Mirabelle soon discovers that her specialist knowledge is vital. With enthusiastic assistance from insurance clerk Vesta Churchill, they follow a mysterious trail of gold sovereigns and corpses that only they can unravel.

London Calling

1952, Brighton and London. When seventeen-year-old debutante Rose Bellamy Gore goes missing in a seedy Soho jazz club the prime suspect is black saxophone player, Lindon Claremont, the last person seen talking to her. Under suspicion, Lindon heads straight for Brighton and his childhood friend, Vesta Churchill, who works with ex-Secret Service backroom girl Mirabelle Bevan, now in charge of McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery. When Lindon is taken into custody the two women dive into London’s underworld of smoky night clubs, smart cars and lethal cocktails to establish the truth.

England Expects

1953, Brighton, London and Cambridge. When sports hack Joey Gillingham is murdered in a barber’s chair the reason he is in Brighton for the day is unclear. His body is whisked away mysteriously and ex-Secret Service backroom girl Mirabelle Bevan finds her curiosity piqued. Is Joey mixed up in a betting scam as everyone seems to assume or is there a link between his death and the poisoning of an elderly cleaning lady that takes place the next day? Mirabelle and her sidekick Vesta Churchill soon find themselves breaking into Brighton’s Royal Pavilion and following a trail that leads them to a Cambridge college where Masonic ritual and academic tradition mask an audacious blackmail attempt. But this time has Mirabelle bitten off more than she can chew?

British Bulldog,
which you’ve just read.

And coming soon, the fifth:
Piccadilly Circus
. Here is a taster.

There may be a fire in our soul yet passers-by see only a wisp of smoke
.

VINCENT VAN GOGH

Brighton, 5.25 a.m. Monday, 19 September 1955

Mirabelle awoke coughing and in confusion. The room was full of thick smoke. Panicked, she scrambled out of bed and opened the window to let in some fresh air. The smoke streamed out, funnelled through the gap at the bottom of the frame. Her eyes stinging, she wasn’t convinced that opening the window had helped. She couldn’t even see as far as the pavement, never mind the sea beyond. She hesitated, woozy, before her training kicked in. Fires in the night had been
common during the Blitz. She pulled a blanket off the mattress, flung half a glass of water over one corner of the material and then with her shoulders covered and the damp part of the blanket over her mouth, she dropped onto all fours and crawled into the living room. She toppled a pile of newspapers stacked by the sofa before blindly clambering over the detritus and heading for the hallway. Her eyes were streaming now, but she was afraid to close them and she knew rubbing them would only make things worse. There was no sign of any flames here, not in the bedroom – not anywhere. Where had the blaze started and what had caused it? Then, there was a loud bang as the front door crashed open and the silhouette of a fireman appeared on the threshold.

‘Here!’ she shouted. ‘I’m here!’

The man grabbed her firmly by the arms and slung her efficiently over his shoulder, before carrying her out to the entrance hall and down the main stairs. Mirabelle strained to keep her eyes open. Through painful, screwed-up lids, she could just make out tiny tongues of flame licking the banister on the second floor.

Outside, she fought for breath in the cold night air as the fireman laid her gently on the pavement and a medic rushed forwards with a blanket. Her cough was rapid as machine-gun fire. Behind her a team of firemen unrolled a hose along the Lawns and she could just make out residents from further along the terrace congregated on the other side of the street in a dim huddle of pyjamas and velvet slippers. Someone was handing around mugs of tea.

‘Thank you,’ Mirabelle gasped.

‘We didn’t realise you were inside,’ the fireman said. ‘Thank God you opened that window. Do you know if there’s anyone else in the building?’

Mirabelle spluttered. ‘Mr Evans downstairs mostly stays in London – he works there. I don’t know if he’s in, though. And
above, the flat was sold last year. I’ve never seen anyone go in or out.’

The medic and the fireman’s eyes met as Mirabelle began to breathe more easily. Her eyes were stinging, and the blanket felt scratchy. Turning on her side, she could discern the shape of a body on a stretcher further along the pavement. Another medic was bent over it.

‘Who’s that?’ she asked, propping herself up. Perhaps Evans had been in after all.

‘That’s the fellow from upstairs, Miss. You sure you don’t know his name?’

Mirabelle shook her head.

‘I didn’t even know there was anyone up there. How awful.’

Mirabelle’s rescuer joined the firemen who were now aiming a stream of water across the Lawns and moving into position to enter the building and douse the flames. To the side, the other medic stood back from the man’s body, holding a length of rope, and shook his head. Mirabelle squinted to make out the corpse on the stretcher in the amber streetlight. His head was turned towards her. His eyes were glazed over and she could see a dark red welt around his neck.

‘The police will want this, I expect,’ he said, holding up the rope.

‘Did he hang himself?’ Mirabelle asked.

‘Now, now, Miss,’ said the man. ‘There’s no point in getting worked up.’

He nodded at his friend to lay a sheet over the body. Mirabelle took in the scene as she sat up. Her bare feet were getting cold now and she tucked them under the thick fabric, drawing the blanket around her, then she gave an involuntary shudder.

‘Really, Miss. Don’t trouble yourself,’ the medic continued. ‘There’s nothing anyone could’ve done.’

‘But it’s strange. I didn’t even know he was there.’

‘People these days don’t always know their neighbours, Miss. It’s not like before the war.’

Two black Marias pulled up behind the fire engine and three uniformed policemen emerged to control the crowd that was forming along the pavement. Superintendent Alan McGregor appeared beside Mirabelle. He crouched down and took her hand. She felt curiously detached from what was going on but she was glad to see a familiar face.

‘Are you all right, Belle? I came as soon as I heard. Can I take you to hospital?’ McGregor’s concern was evident. The medic smiled indulgently.

‘She’s fine, sir. Though we’ll keep an eye on her for a little while. You were lucky, Miss.’

‘The fire was upstairs,’ Mirabelle found herself explaining with some urgency, ‘and the poor fellow who apparently lived up there is dead. It looks like he hanged himself, Alan.’

‘You leave that to me.’ McGregor squeezed her fingers gently. ‘Right now, it seems you’re out of digs. I tell you what, why don’t you come and stay at my place till we get all this sorted out?’