Brighton Belle Page 0,3

she suggested tentatively.

Big Ben emerged from under the towel and took a sip of tea. ‘Seventy-two-hour job,’ he said.

‘I can keep things ticking along,’ Mirabelle assured him.

‘Right,’ Big Ben said without moving. ‘Sleep’s the best cure.’

And perhaps some Beecham’s powders might help,’ Mirabelle suggested.

Big Ben shrugged his shoulders and the blue towel dropped to the faded linoleum floor. He ignored it and got up from the chair, reaching automatically for his hat. ‘Seventy-two hours,’ he repeated, and walked through the door without a backward glance.

Mirabelle cleared Big Ben’s desk and took his notebook over to the ledger to transcribe the payments he had picked up that morning at the Albion Hill estate. Whole streets there were still rubble. The locals used the bombed-out floorboards as firewood, she’d heard – it had been a mild winter, but the houses were damp. There were plans now for rebuilding, of course. About time, too, she thought – it was almost six years since VE Day.

With the ledger up to date, Mirabelle checked her watch and went to stand by the window. It suddenly seemed like it might be a long afternoon. She absentmindedly poked her finger into the dry compost of the half-dead geranium on her desk and wondered if it was better for the soil to be wet. Despite her efficiency there were some areas of life that remained incomprehensible to Mirabelle and care of household plants was one of them. Perhaps I should water it, she thought. Or maybe it needs more light – cut flowers were so much easier, she deliberated, because you knew they were going to die. She moved the plant onto the windowsill. Then, just as she was considering boiling the kettle again and making more tea there was the hammering sound of someone coming up the stairs and Mirabelle hurriedly returned to her chair and appeared busy by reading a file.

The man who burst through the door was dapper. He was short, about forty years of age and sported a brown suit with very wide shoulders. ‘Well, aren’t you a glamour puss?’ he said with a London accent.

Mirabelle did not smile. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, crossing her long legs away from him, beneath the table.

‘I'm looking for Big Ben McGuigan.’

‘Your name?’

‘Bert.’ The man smiled and winked.

Mirabelle hesitated. ‘I’m afraid Mr McGuigan is out, Mr Bert.’

Bert grinned. ‘Well, I could see that for myself, sweetheart,’ he said and sank into the chair on the other side of Mirabelle’s desk. He showed no sign of volunteering any information so, after a short silence, Mirabelle tried to prompt him.

‘Did you have a job for Mr McGuigan?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Bit of a tricky situation. But I bet you’ve seen them all in ’ere, love.’

Mirabelle primly pushed her sleek chestnut-brown hair off her face. Many of the people Big Ben pursued for money were in dire straits. In general she didn’t tend to feel sorry for them, but, still, she didn’t want to laugh at their expense or take their difficulties lightly.

‘I can take the enquiry,’ she said as she turned over a fresh page on her notepad. ‘What is your full name?’

‘Awful formal, aren’t you?’ Bert smiled.

‘He won’t be back today. He’s out on business.’

Bert looked out of the window past the wilting geranium. ‘Know where he’s gone, do you?’ he tried.

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Mr McGuigan is working.’

‘Right,’ Bert sighed.

Mirabelle kept her pen poised.

‘Well, I was hoping to get back on the four thirty anyway,’ he conceded. ‘My name’s Albert Jennings. Best place to get me is the Red Lion in Notting Hill – though Big Ben knows that already.’

And your case, Mr Jennings?’

‘It’s a tricky one, like I said. Slightly delicate. Woman borrowed four hundred quid. And now she’s in the family way, if you see what I mean. Come down to Brighton all of a sudden to have the little blighter and there’s no sign of my money. Six weeks overdue – that’s the payment, not the baby – and plenty of interest. She said she had money coming from her uncle’s will. I want Ben to find her and see what he can do – it’s a tidy sum now. Piles up when it’s overdue, dunnit? Got no address for the lady down here.’

‘Her name?’ Mirabelle asked.

‘Foreign bird. Widow. Name of Laszlo,’ Bert smiled. ‘Romana Laszlo. Think she’s Polish or something.’ He sniffed. ‘She’s got a sister, but she’s done a bunk and all.’

‘Romana Laszlo. Well, from the name, she is Hungarian, I imagine,’ Mirabelle