The Girl with the Fragile Mind

‘Where are you, Miss Duffy?’

‘Covent Garden. Royal Opera House.’ She had a small, rather husky voice. ‘Tech run for Swan Lake at 4 p.m.’

Silver had no idea what she was on about. He unwrapped another stick of gum. ‘I’ll meet you there. One o’clock.’

‘Fine. Ask for Rehearsal Room 3.’ She hung up.

Silver should have sent one of his team; Misty Jones was nothing to do with Operation Nightingale, and he had more important matters at hand. The beauty was, though, no one would stop him. Before he got on with the bigger questions in hand, he had to satisfy himself that Misty Jones had no connection with Jaime Malvern.

Silver sent half of his team out on various dead and missing enquiries, including tracing the family of Australian ballet teacher Lethbridge, one of the first to be identified, who were proving elusive. Kenton and Craven were given the CCTV footage and the task of beginning to identify those featured. Silver wasn’t sure they’d work together well, but Kenton was a good foil for the bull-headed older policeman – if she could bear his outdated chauvinism. Now Silver headed out himself. Parking up near Holborn he walked the last half mile. Rehearsal Room 3 was on the top floor of the Royal Opera House; he was in good enough shape to jog up most of the stairs without being out of breath. Or much out of breath anyway, he thought ruefully, on the top step.

Through the glass-paned door he watched a slight mixed-race girl with dark plaits being whisked up into the air by a strapping youth in shorts so tight they made Silver wince. The ballerina’s back arched until she was curved almost fully into a circle, her short practice skirt rippling as one strong shapely leg extended gracefully before her. Silver had not the first clue about ballet and even less interest, but even he could recognise this as impressive. Lana would have enjoyed it. He remembered Molly trundling round the church hall aged five in her little pink leotard with a tummy swelling gently over her frilly skirt, constantly wobbling the opposite way to everyone else as the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy was crashed out on the ancient piano, and he grinned. Happy days. Lana had high hopes for her only daughter – bright lights, big cities; chances she’d never had – chances a relentless diet of reality talent shows had rendered seemingly attainable. Hopes that most definitely weren’t ever going to be fulfilled by flat-footed Molly in the performance arts.

Satin-clad feet firmly back on the ground, Lucie Duffy had a quick discussion with her partner, who was annoyed about something. He was wiping his face on his muscled forearm, gesticulating and swearing in heavily accented English. Lucie placated him, stroking and patting him gently on the chest, before she caught Silver’s eye through the glass door.

She padded over with a towel round her neck, smooth caramel cheeks faintly pink, still panting slightly. Sweat had collected in the cleavage of her silver leotard and there were damp patches beneath her pert bosom as if someone with wet hands had placed them around her breasts. Silver looked away.

‘Sorry. Bit out of breath.’ She blinked up at him, her huge grey eyes framed by doll-like lashes. ‘We’ve really got to nail this today or we’re in trouble. Kiko is fed up with me.’ She blinked again, bottom lip almost quivering; like a true innocent. ‘He’s such a flipping perfectionist. He hates the way I lean in for the lifts.’

You’re as innocent as Reggie Kray, Silver thought. And a good actress to boot.

‘Looked all right to me,’ was what he actually said.

‘Thanks. God, I’m going to be bruised all over.’ She held her diaphanous skirt aside and pulled down her leggings a little to study her thigh. She was a sexy little thing, sinewy and hard-bodied, and she absolutely knew it. Silver looked away again.

‘Kiko doesn’t half like to hurl me around,’ Lucie bit her lip with neat white teeth, as if Kiko was a very bad man whom Silver should immediately chastise.

‘Look, I don’t want to keep you,’ he said. ‘But is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’

She indicated a small room along the corridor. There was a drinks machine against the wall and a series of old posters of Norma Shearer and Nijinsky on the wall. Silver followed her in.

‘Do you want something?’ she indicated the machine.

‘No, thanks. Can you tell me about Misty?’

‘Have you found her?’ Lucie looked up at him, her voice breaking slightly.

‘No.’ Silver sat at the table. ‘But it would help to know why you think she’s missing.’

‘She hasn’t been home since the start of last week. Even before the bomb went off—’

‘Explosion.’

‘Whatever,’ she shrugged. ‘Terrible, isn’t it? We trained at the Academy, you know.’

‘We’d already put a missing alert out on her by last Friday morning.’ He thought of the girl in the beanie hat on the CCTV footage. But she had been tiny, and from her description, he didn’t think Misty Jones was that small. ‘Is there any reason, incidentally, she might have gone near the Academy that day?’

‘Not really.’ Lucie leant against the table, and unwound the ribbons of her ballet shoe. ‘I don’t see why; we graduated over a year ago. But she’d been hanging out with some strange types recently. We’d—’ She stopped.

‘What?’ He was impatient now.

She peeled the pink satin back from her foot, wincing. Her big toe was bleeding, the blood thickly congealed between nail and skin. Silver felt faintly sickened.

‘No pain, no gain,’ she widened great grey eyes at him, and bit that bottom lip again.

‘You were saying – about Misty.’

‘We had a bad row. Last Tuesday, I think. Then I went away for a few days. But I don’t think it’s relevant.’

‘Why the row?’

‘She was acting like a prat.’ Her face hardened as she spoke the harsh word. ‘I got fed up with her.’

‘In what sense?’ He imagined arguments about make-up and clothes.

‘Let’s just say, she’d got in with the wrong crowd. She was lying to everyone. She even refused to answer to her proper name.’

Silver felt unease settle over him like a fine layer of dust. ‘Misty Jones?’

‘Misty Jones was just a stage name that she used.’ She leant forward slightly, affording him a glimpse of that buoyant cleavage. ‘Since she, you know, got into the clubs.’

‘Clubs?’ Silver needed to cut to the chase.

‘You know. Tits and arse.’ Lucie flashed a lascivious smile at him and he saw the girl behind the mask. ‘What little girls are made of, apparently. There was no telling her though. Just cos she didn’t get the breaks I did.’

But Lucie Duffy didn’t really think she’d got a break, Silver was quite sure. She thought she’d earned her place in the sun. He’d rarely met someone her age so assured of herself.

‘And if Misty isn’t Misty,’ he cleared his throat, ‘what’s her real name?’

‘Sadie. Sadie Malvern. Misty was her stage name.’

Silver felt his stomach roll. Of course. Jaime’s big sister. He cursed his stupidity. How could he have forgotten her? Lana had been half right after all. And yet he was not surprised. Even since he’d seen the face in that photo, he’d known something bad was coming.

‘Why didn’t you give her real name when you reported her missing?’ He remained deadpan.

‘She’d changed it officially. Poor Sadie.’ Her cloying concern was unconvincing.

‘What about her family? Did you contact them?’

‘I never met them. I don’t even know where they live. Just,’ Lucie pulled a funny face, ‘you know. Somewhere up North. She never mentioned them except to say they think she’s on ballet tour; she’s never told them about the club, I don’t think.’

Something about her manner smacked of disingenuousness.

‘If you can think of any other reason she might have not come home, I need to know,’ Silver tried hard to focus. ‘What about boyfriends?’

‘No one in particular, I don’t think,’ she sniffed, pulling a disgusted face. ‘A few no-marks she was dating. Oiks.’

‘I’ll need their details.’