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And have a look at what the library stocks in the way of those frightful war memoirs – escapees who got out through France. You know the sort of thing.’
    Vesta grinned. It was exactly the kind of book her father liked. Mr Churchill had been stationed in Yorkshire for the duration of the war. ‘They didn’t think to send a black man into the African desert,’ he often joked, after which Mrs Churchill always nudged her husband furiously. She had been grateful he was somewhere safe. Not every family on their street had been so lucky. Unrepentant, Mr Churchill never took the hint. ‘The war was my chance to see it,’ he would say, smacking his lips with relish. ‘The motherland. And there I was, stationed on Monkton Moor like an idiot. I didn’t see no action at all.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Vesta said now. ‘My dad likes those stories.’
    ‘Flick through a few, would you? You never know what might turn up.’
    ‘What exactly am I looking for?’
    There was a pause. Mirabelle didn’t like to say the word.
    ‘Gossip,’ she spat out at last. ‘If Caine stayed in France perhaps another escapee came across him on their way down the line. Somebody has to remember. A fellow doesn’t just disappear. And as you’ll be out of the office, leave a note for Bill, would you?’
    ‘Sure thing.’ Vesta stretched one arm towards the coat rack, keeping the phone to her ear.
    ‘Thank you. I might be a while in town but I’ll call you back.’
    Mirabelle put down the telephone. Vesta was the ideal person to search through that kind of material. Before the women had met, Vesta’s place of employment was Halley Insurance, just down the hall from McGuigan & McGuigan. ‘Nothing will ever seem dull again,’ she had sworn after Mr Halley dismissed her and she came to work with Mirabelle. ‘Insurance!’ She cast her eyes to the ceiling.
    When the women had taken over the business after the unexpected death of Big Ben McGuigan in 1951, Vesta insisted on understanding what she was getting into and spent her first week in the office reading through crushingly boring ledgers and case files housed in the office’s filing cabinets. By the following Monday, she was addressing clients by name and was conversant with the details of their accounts. If there was anyone who would find Major Bradley’s lost friend in a sea of post-war information, it was Vesta.
    Mirabelle checked the slim gold watch on her wrist as she quit the telephone cubicle of the Sloane Square Hotel and approached the reception desk.
    ‘Might I have a piece of paper and an envelope?’ she asked.
    The receptionist rifled in a drawer before carefully handing over stationery with the hotel’s logo emblazoned across thetop. Mirabelle took a seat in a comfortable chair not far from the fire. It was too small a blaze for such a grand hallway but, she told herself, perhaps it was all the hotel could run to. Writing the letter was too important to put off any longer.

    Dear Mrs Bradley ,

    I am so very sorry for your loss. Major Bradley was a passing acquaintance of mine during the war. He was a brave man and much admired. I have to admit to being somewhat astonished by his generous bequest and I wanted to assure you that there was no personal connection between your husband and me, and also that the contents of his letter included a request that I should track down one of his wartime colleagues. I am as yet unsure why Major Bradley appears not to have looked for this person himself if the man’s welfare was on his mind. If you ever heard your husband talk of Philip Caine, it would be very helpful to know what he might have said. I am, so far, somewhat at a loss .
    I have only just arrived in London on this quest and will not be staying at this hotel. Should you be kind enough to reply, please write to me at my offices: McGuigan & McGuigan, Brills Lane, East Street, Brighton .
    My sympathy goes to you at this difficult time .
    Yours sincerely ,
    Mirabelle Bevan

    Mirabelle took