Free Brighton Belle by Sara Sheridan Page B

out was a tiny square stage against the back wall.
Mirabelle wedged the door open with a chair to let in the light and crossed the dance floor towards the bar. Perhaps there was something behind there. But as she leaned over, a shape sprang towards
her out of the pitch-black. A tray of glasses was knocked from the bar and shattered. Mirabelle screamed as she was wrestled to the floor and a yellow beam of torchlight shone in her face, blinding
her.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ a male voice said in a broad Australian drawl. ‘Who are you?’
    Mirabelle tried to strike out. ‘Get off me!’ she screamed.
    The man laughed. ‘Right,’ he said, holding her down even more tightly. ‘I said: who the hell are you?’
    Mirabelle stopped squirming. ‘I’m looking for Lisabetta. I’m a friend of Lisabetta.’
    The man cast the torch down Mirabelle’s body. ‘Well, you don’t look like a burglar or one of Ricky Goodwin’s boys. Didn’t know Lisabetta had any friends.’ He
loosened his grip. ‘You gave me a right turn.’
    He stood up and flicked on a neon light behind the bar. Mirabelle sat up slowly as the light flickered.
    ‘What’s a bird like you doing breaking in?’ He peered at her.
    ‘You didn’t answer the door.’
    The man laughed. Mirabelle noted he was of middling height and balding but his torso was at least twice the size of any other part of his body. The muscles bulged through his black sweater.
    ‘We don’t open till ten,’ he remarked. His dark eyes were absolutely round. Mirabelle sat, waiting for him to blink. He didn’t.
    ‘You hurt me.’ She got unsteadily to her feet.
    ‘You bloody broke in. What the hell do you expect?’
    Mirabelle limped over to a bar stool. ‘I was hoping for a Glenlivet, actually. It’s been a bit of a day. Straight up would be fine.’
    The man paused for a moment. ‘You’ll pay for it,’ he said but he put a shot glass on the bar and poured from the bottle. Then he laid a small plate of salted peanuts beside her
glass.
    ‘You’re lucky it’s my night. The other guy would have thumped you first and asked questions later. If you’re a friend of Lisabetta’s, are you a ... erm ...
specialist?’ He was looking at her now with naked interest.
    Mirabelle let out an involuntary giggle. She was, she realised, perhaps a little on the old side for women in Lisabetta’s line of business. No doubt upmarket whores of her age stayed in
the game through a combination of experience and offering the kind of services that were unavailable elsewhere. She picked up the glass, sniffed the golden liquid and downed the whisky in one
without answering. It tasted good.
    ‘Lisabetta isn’t around then?’ Mirabelle asked.
    ‘Nah.’
    ‘I need to find her. I heard she was out of town. I wondered about her sister, Romana. Have you seen her lately?’
    The man leaned forward. ‘Don’t know anything about a sister. What was your name?’
    Mirabelle put out her hand. ‘Emily,’ she said. She wasn’t going to tell anyone else in London the truth for the time being.
    ‘I’m Frank,’ the heavyweight replied and shook her hand firmly.
    ‘I heard Lisabetta had taken a couple of the girls down the coast. I wondered if you knew where they’d gone. I’ve got something for her. It’s important.’
    Frank probably would have shrugged his shoulders but his biceps were so well developed that moving them upwards was well nigh impossible. Instead he rolled his dark eyes in a movement that was
quite hypnotic. ‘Brighton. But I ain’t got a clue where. It’s a small town though. Just try the best hotel, if I know Lisabetta and those bastards. They’ll be swilling
cocktails there on a regular basis.’
    Mirabelle toyed with a peanut. ‘What kind of show you put on here?’ she asked, glancing at the stage. ‘Burlesque?’
    ‘Singer. Girl called Honey,’ Frank nodded. ‘That your line?’
    Mirabelle nodded.
    ‘We don’t need a singer, if that’s what you’re