The Girl with the Fragile Mind. Claire Seeber
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.’
‘OK.’
‘How did she get into the clubs?’
‘Not sure. Quite a few of the girls do it, you know. Easy way to make money.’
If you like taking your clothes off in front of lascivious men for a living, Silver thought dryly. ‘Who introduced her to it though?’ he pressed. ‘You must have an idea.’
‘There was some guy who came to the end of term shows when we finished, I think. Gave her and a few others his card. Promised her fame and fortune, that type of thing. She’s a bit gullible, our Sadie.’ Lucie shrugged lightly; looked at him curiously. ‘Why are you so bothered?’
‘I’m not, kiddo,’ he smiled pleasantly. ‘I’m just doing my job.’
Lucie Duffy stood up and moved nearer him, one hand extended slightly; she was so near he could smell the sweat mixed in with the scent of her deodorant. For a strange moment he thought she was going to place that small hand on his crotch – but she didn’t. She gazed up at him.
‘Something’s troubling you, Mr Policeman,’ she murmured so he almost had to bend to hear. ‘Can’t I help?’
‘I’ll be in touch.’ Silver took a swift step backward. ‘Let me know immediately if you hear from Misty.’
Lucie smiled. ‘Oh I will.’ She seemed to be enjoying this. ‘Let’s just pray Misty is sitting there safe and sound with her chicken chow mein when I get home tonight.’
But her concern was unpersuasive. As he lolloped down the stairs two at a time, Silver thought he’d never met anyone who seemed more excited by the apparent disappearance of a friend.
WEDNESDAY 19TH JULY CLAUDIE
The phone woke me with a nasty start at 8 a.m. I held my breath, but it was only Rafe, still seeking forgiveness apparently.
‘Claudia, if you do not ring back by lunchtime, I’m coming round between sittings.’ His voice softened. ‘I saw the thing about Tessa in today’s paper. Such a tragedy.’
I couldn’t help feeling his persistence was more to do with being thwarted than anything more sincere. Rafe did like his own way. Pulling my jeans on, I went down to Ahmed’s on the corner; I bought The Times, a copy of Vogue for the sheer normality of it, a can of Fanta and a Flake, craving sweetness and comfort. I left the shop quickly before Ahmed’s wizened mother could appear through the beaded curtain and ask about my face, which she’d then refer to every day for six months. I hadn’t been out of the flat for two days, I realised, as my feet trod the filthy pavement, and the colours of the day were bright and unreal, piercing my tired brain; as if the rain had washed London clean for once.
I sat beside the open window and drank my drink through a twirly elephant straw I’d found at the back of the cutlery drawer. I breathed in the fresh air, the smell of blossom, the scent of hope; I tried to avoid the tower block that sliced the sky in two before me. I felt a little more normal today; my head wasn’t aching and I felt clearer, but my craving for a cigarette was building again. I had to start denying my fears. I wouldn’t let it happen again, if it was. I’d fight it every step of the way this time.
I read my stars in Vogue, clinging to some vestige of my old life. I looked at the pedigree girls striking odd angular poses, all legs and big hair and surprised eyes. I pulled my own blonde scarecrow-do back and tied it with an elastic band that had held yesterday’s post. Then I scanned the newspaper headlines briefly; they mentioned the ‘Daughters of Light’ claim, but I turned the pages until I found the picture of Tessa, taken from a series the Sunday Telegraph had commissioned of the Academy last year, including Lucie Duffy. The picture showed intense concentration on Tessa’s bony face as she oversaw a class of seniors, black practice skirt flowing from her tall, lean form. I read the tribute. Darcey Bussell had given some flowery comments about the Academy and its brilliant teachers. Prima ballerina Natalia Vodovana had praised Lethbridge’s style, which made me smile wryly as I remembered Tessa’s disparaging views on Vodovana’s ‘showy style and forced line’.
And Lucie Duffy, who had graduated last year and was rocketing up the Royal Ballet’s ranks, was quoted: ‘Tessa Lethbridge was the best.’ I remembered Duffy and her friend Sadie; pretty, spiteful dancers, all about themselves. Sadie, blonde, Northern, tough and horribly bulimic, living in Duffy’s shadow, never reaching the potential of her friend and room mate.
I shut the