Free Brighton Belle by Sara Sheridan

coming back.
Perhaps she knew she was going to die. Mirabelle shuddered. It felt as if she was looking for a ghost.

8
    All knowledge begins with experience.
    A fter some consideration Mirabelle decided to have a look at the Kitten. Bert was long gone and if he had any sense he’d stay away from
Cadogan Gardens for a while. He’d said the club was in Chelsea and now it was her only outstanding lead.
    Rather than join the main street she followed a warren of backstreets until she came to King’s Road, far enough from where Bert must have entered that she was sure no one would connect her
with a Notting Hill wide boy on the run. It occurred to her suddenly that he’d been a fool to stand about smoking in that suit in full view of every flat in the vicinity and, come to think of
it, whistling loudly, too. No wonder the police had arrived. Bert seemed savvy but there was no denying that he’d as good as advertised the fact he’d broken into the flat. Perhaps
he’d meant to. As the lightbulb flashed on in Mirabelle’s mind she realised that Bert must have intended it. Her brain began to whir. Was it possible that Bert had already known about
Romana’s death? He hadn’t seemed shocked when she told him. More suspiciously he had only answered what she’d asked, rather than posing any questions of his own. That didn’t
seem like normal behaviour for someone who made their living by lending money. Mirabelle had met plenty of moneylenders. A healthy interest in other people’s affairs was a tool of the trade
– look how many questions Bert had asked when he first arrived in the Brighton office. In London, this time, he had only volunteered the Cadogan Gardens address when she’d told him that
Big Ben sent her – and by implication, if he didn’t help, perhaps Big Ben might arrive. And besides that he’d hardly asked a single question.
    Also, he’d been keen to accompany her to the apartment – in fact, he’d insisted – and breaking in had been his idea. Why had he been smoking anyway? Mirabelle had never
seen him light up before – not in the office or in the pub. He didn’t carry cigarettes – he’d taken one from the box on the table. He didn’t even carry a lighter. If
Bert was involved in some way he might have brought her to the flat hoping it would keep Big Ben away. He knew full well there was nothing much there. Then he’d as good as trumpeted the
break-in so that one of the neighbours would call the police. With a sinking feeling she realised how foolish she’d been. Bert Jennings was involved in this up to his neck.
    Damn it, she cursed. She’d been duped. It had just felt so nice to have a man around again. Her heart pulsed with sadness as she realised just how much she had missed that feeling. And
here she was now, alone in the middle of something that was turning out to be rather complicated. For a start, if Bert was involved, why had he needed Ben to pursue the money in the first place?
Surely he could have gone straight to Lisabetta or found Romana Laszlo himself?
    It was clearly a lot more difficult in the field than in the office, where you could keep your distance and maintain a calculated composure. Being faced with real people was a far tougher call
on one’s judgement. The details were a tight knot of information, impossible to draw into easily recognisable strands.
    Feeling as if she’d been a fool, Mirabelle tried to think what Jack would do. On the principle that your left hand should never know what your right hand is doing – she could hear
his voice now – she stopped at the first callbox and rang the Red Lion. After over a minute the barmaid answered in her familiar nasal twang: ‘Yeah?’
    ‘When Bert gets back,’ Mirabelle instructed, ‘tell him Miss B says thank you and hopes he’s all right.’
    The barmaid sniffed in a way that seemed to imply Bert needed no thanks whatsoever and would be just fine. ‘Sure, Miss B,’ she said.
    ‘Tell him I’m a