London Calling by Sara Sheridan Read Free Book Online Page A

Despite his promises, Eddie had taken off with a naval lieutenant for a ‘baccarat game’. Mirabelle decided it was time to eat something and then get going. It was well after nine o’clock and surely a respectable enough time to get to a jazz club – dive or not. Carefully checking her hat was in place she exited Duke’s and made her way to Piccadilly Circus to pick up some chips. In the doorway of Fortnum & Mason a young couple were kissing, oblivious to the world. The neon signs mounted on the buildings cast a glossy veneer over the streetscape, glowing through the smog. Around the statue of Eros there were crowds of youngsters. The girls were a mass of bobby pins and ribbons, hardly dressed for the cold weather. The boys wore suits with thin ties. They were bantering on their way from the cinemas and theatres to the bars, dance halls and music clubs further along.
    ‘I fancy you, Kitty Dawson,’ a lone boy shouted.
    This provoked a cascade of giggles from a group of girls who then, as one, turned and walked away smartly along Regent Street. To one side a busker strummed a guitar and sang a Bing Crosby number with clouding icy breath. No wonder he sounded forlorn. Mirabelle followed her nose to a street stall and ordered chips with salt and vinegar. The newspaper poke was satisfyingly warm. She removed one glove and ate the contents with her fingers. It tasted good. Feeling fortified and a good deal less wobbly she went back down to Jermyn Street to take a look at the jazz club Eddie had recommended. She wanted to find out as much as she could about Lindon Claremont and see if anyone knew Rose.
    ‘Information gathering,’ she murmured.
    From the pavement there wasn’t much to see or hear. The lights in most of the windows on Jermyn Street were out for the night and not many of the buildings had basement premises. Only the presence of a bouncer loitering by the railings and a single orange streetlight over the entrance below announced the club to the world. As the door opened a girl burst out pulling a pink mohair wrap around her shoulders. A snatch of music escaped into the night air. It was a saxophone solo.
    ‘Is that Lindon Claremont playing?’ Mirabelle asked the bouncer.
    The man shrugged. His face divulged nothing and if he knew Lindon was in custody he did not show it.
    ‘Tone deaf, me,’ he admitted. ‘Can’t tell one from the other.’ He stepped back and gestured downstairs. Mirabelle paid at the desk where she was given a grimy ticket and waved into the club. Inside it was warm, dark and the music hit her in a wave. The saxophonist alone was loud, never mind what it might be like when the rest of the band started playing. Near the stage there were a few tables, mostly taken by couples drinking bottles of cheap plonk from shiny bucket stands. The ice had melted and the bottles bobbed in little black pools. By the bar a crowd of men stood with all eyes on the platform, which was lit by a bare lightbulb with such low wattage it looked yellow. Apart from that and a single bulb over the bar there was no light in the room. If anything the club was even darker than the street outside.
    Mirabelle waited until her eyes became accustomed to it. The atmosphere felt unexpectedly intense and the music was frantic. The beat made it both difficult to think straight and pleasant to move – like swimming almost. No one was dancing but one or two of the women were swinging in time. Mirabelle felt her fingers twitch as the saxophone player continued his solo. Everyone had such serious expressions. To one side four other musicians were listening, sitting intently by their instruments – a set of drums, a guitar, a bass and a piano. Then the drummer picked up the syncopated rhythm and they joined in one by one. The feeling in the room changed instantly. The audience burst into chattering life, waves of laughter cut through the music and people lit cigarettes in a flurry of tiny flames, briefly illuminating their