Free London Calling by Sara Sheridan Page B

the last year in London’s jazz clubs and then culminated with the story of Rose going missing and Lindon being taken into custody. It did not mention that he had volunteered his witness statement, and referred to him as a ‘dark jazz fiend’. ‘When will this evil music stop?’ the Mirror asked, as if the syncopated rhythm of the music itself had been responsible for Rose’s disappearance. In another paper there was a photograph of Rose, this time in school uniform. She had studied at Cheltenham Ladies’ College and the school had refused to comment on the girl’s disappearance.
    Mirabelle folded the papers and got up from the table. Today, she thought, she’d pop along to Belgravia. It was the best lead she had, though she would need to be a good deal more careful with her enquiries there. No one in Jermyn Street or Feldman’s had loved Rose or was related to her.
    Mirabelle settled her bill and then set out briskly through the quiet streets. She stared at the upper floors of the buildings, many of which were familiar. Working for Jack had taken her into inner sanctum after inner sanctum, not least to 10 Downing Street on more than one occasion and the War Rooms – both of which were nearby.
    It was strange that Rose had been with one of Paul Blyth’s daughters. Blyth, Mirabelle recalled, had two daughters, the younger of whom, Lavinia, must be more or less the same age as Rose. She knew Paul Blyth well – an authoritarian who ran his department with terrifying efficiency. He was infamous for his temper, which he scarcely controlled, and for his icy sarcasm. Mirabelle had once met a secretary who claimed that after three weeks in Commander Blyth’s office her hands were shaking so much she could no longer take shorthand. The man was a bully, albeit a highly competent one. He had stayed in office, despite his unpleasant manner, because he had the uncanny knack of picking up just the right information at just the right time. Someone had told her once that Blyth had an incredible sense of the Zeitgeist. The German word had stuck in her mind.
    ‘We don’t have quite the word for it in English, but you know what I mean. The man’s a marvel. Knows what people want and when they want it well before they do. That’s a skill in itself, isn’t it?’
    She remembered the conversation clearly. Mirabelle wondered if Mr Blyth ran his household in the same style as his office, because in that context the idea of an eighteenyear-old girl being given permission to visit jazz clubs was highly unlikely. If Blyth’s personality was the same in peacetime as it had been during the war he’d be outraged at his daughter going against orders and, of course, with Rose’s disappearance and the police involved, now he’d know what they’d been up to.
    As Mirabelle crossed the Mall several horse riders were returning from a canter in the park, and she caught a whiff of horsehide as they passed. Mirabelle picked up her pace and headed towards the white stucco streets ahead. To the left was Pimlico where the facades were much more down-at-heel and to the right the upmarket addresses of Belgravia. Mirabelle took a deep breath and turned towards Eaton Square, its dark trees skeletal against the pale buildings. She struggled to remember the number of Commander Blyth’s house and walked the full length of the street trying to recall its location. Upper Belgrave Street looked slightly shabby these days. Grubbier than she remembered, it was an array of pale grey and cream rather than the crisp white of its heyday.
    The Blyth house was one of the buildings closer to Belgrave Square, she decided, and from memory an even number. Stopping on the corner she stared back down the road. Few lights were on, though from one house a maid emerged with a wicker shopping-basket over her arm.
    Mirabelle took her chance. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, approaching the girl, ‘I’m looking for a family who lives on this street. The Blyths? I haven’t been