Gary Alexander: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 6, May 27, 1981

This confession seemed to satisfy the young man; proper anonymity was being preserved. “She probably got hung up at a party. She’ll be home when the driver sobers up.”

“She took a lot of her stuff. We think she’s gone.”

This disclosure changed the game. The black forest turned to Darius; there was a face inside it and two pale, sensitive eyes. “She’s a restless girl. We all noticed it lately. Felix wants to get going.”

His daughter’s nickname amused Darius but Sonia hated it. “What I need to know is where she’s gone. There won’t be any trouble. All I want to do is talk to her.” He was making it sound as if she could have her freedom, but fifteen years old was too young to be released on her own. Legally, she was still Fenn’s responsibility.

“We’ve been telling her to wait. It was as if the youth had read Darius’s mind. “She wanted to move in with a bunch who are squatting in a building by the river. They told her fifteen is too young.” Jeremy drank off his beer. “Piccadilly Circus is where a lot of the runaways go. You might try there.” He stood up with the empty glass. “Want one of these?”

“Another time. I’m going to Piccadilly.”

“Good luck, mate.”

Darius telephoned Sonia and told her what he was doing. She was keeping busy, washing the girl’s clothes, straightening up her room. The submerged panic in her voice made Darius angry. If he caught his insensitive daughter now he would tear a strip off her. But what good would that do? It would only drive her further away. Somehow he had to reach her, make her an ally, show her how cruel it is to disappear leaving no word with the people who love you.

Wandering through Piccadilly Circus underground station, Darius saw enough to add to his depression. It would be a mistake to come here with Sonia. The scene would confirm her worst fears. There seemed to be scores of young drifters sitting on the marble floor or propped against barriers. Some of the girls suggested what Felicity might look like given a few weeks without parental care.

The worst sight was a squad of police coming out of a washroom with a youth on a stretcher, obviously one who had overdosed. Darius caught a glimpse of yet another hairy face, this one with its eyes closed — permanently, by the look of it.

And yet the main body of children were in a happy mood. Darius had to be honest; from what he could see, they were enjoying life. Of course, that’s what it is to be young. No, wait a minute. He forced himself to remember his own childhood in a shabby house where the father had no work and a depressed mother tried to cope with too many children and too little money in a time when social security was unheard of.

In those years and the ones following, Darius Fenn went about in a mood which, if not grim, was deadly serious. His aim was to get up every day to struggle and succeed. He never stopped being frightened of failure. But these kids didn’t seem to know what fear is. They were all beautifully relaxed and appeared to be anticipating some great fun that was just around the corner.

Darius left Piccadilly and wandered down the road to Leicester Square. The layabouts here were his own generation or older. They competed with the pigeons for possession of the grassy enclosure and its complement of fouled benches. They swung their walnut faces between their knees and passed back and forth bottles of cheap wine or cider, sucking like infants. At times, they rallied what life force they had left and staged a feeble argument. Darius found reassurance in the sight of men too weak to hurt each other.

His old office was not far from here. Pamela’s current one was half a mile away in Covent Garden. He was thinking of going there to see her when she walked by, spotting him as he saw her, freezing and matching his vaudeville comedian’s pose of astonishment.

“I was coming up to see you.”

“You wouldn’t have found me. I’m off to a studio to have my picture taken for the house magazine. It was going to be a surprise. They’ve made me a Group Head.”

Darius was delighted but not surprised. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink to celebrate.”

“I’ll accept a coffee. I want to look sober in the photograph.”

Over coffee and danish, he admired her neat, pretty appearance. She radiated confidence and capability. “Any word from Felicity? Mum sounded scared over the phone.”

“I’m down here trying to run into her. One of her mates at the Billet said she might have gone to Piccadilly Circus.”

“Dad, you’ve got some hope. That place is an anthill.”

“I know.”

Pamela kept her smile in place but he could tell this digression from the safe routine was upsetting her. “You never worried this much about me,” she complained. It was hard to separate the joke from her true feelings.

“It’s the old parable about the prodigal son. The shepherd always cares more about the lost sheep than about the ones who cause no trouble.”

Maybe I should move back home and get some of this fatherly affection by staying out late.”

“Feel free, kid. Your room is the way you left it.”

When Darius arrived home, wondering how to present his failure in encouraging words, he found Sonia in a mood of low-key excitement. “I’ve found something,” she said.

She led him into Felicity’s room. He would not have recognized the place; it now looked as tidy as the rest of the house. “This was in the pocket of a pair of her jeans.” She handed Darius a scrap of paper. It was blank newsprint, probably torn from the border of a tabloid page. He saw his daughter’s printing but the fragment had partially disintegrated in her pocket. All that remained was the name MARTI ROCH. “I can’t read the rest of it,” he said.

“It’s a name. At least it’s something to go on.”

He could feel the silence building. Sonia would turn on him soon, blame him for being negative. He forced himself to say, “You’ve done a terrific job. Not just finding this, but fixing up her room. She’ll love it when she comes back.”

Sonia responded to the praise. She was looking more responsible now, less panicky. “Should we tell the police about this?”

“I think the same rule applies. They don’t want to know about Felicity until she’s been gone ten days or so.”

“Then will you call Joey Singleton?” Her problem-solving mind had been busy digging and had dredged up Joey. If the working police won’t help, find yourself a former policeman.

“That’s a good idea. Joey might know what to do.”

Darius telephoned to make sure Joey was on duty at the billiard academy. Then he took a bus to Wimbledon that evening and climbed the long stairway to the big, dim room with its convoy of green tables, each one illuminated by a shaded light. The place smelled of pool chalk and cheese sandwiches. The sharp click of balls penetrated the rumble of male conversation.

Joey was behind the counter presiding over incipient anarchy, keeping the lid on by using his sense of humor and the threat of his six-foot-four-inch presence. The scar over his left eyebrow was a constant reminder that he was no stranger to physical conflict. When he left the counter and went to empty ashtrays, his limp seemed to emphasize a determination to keep going despite injury. Years ago, he overtook and subdued a terrified felon with a bullet in that leg.

There was no time for conversation during business hours. All twenty tables were going and Joey had to make sandwiches, answer the phone, keep track of table times, draw beers from the lager tap — it was not an easy job. Darius helped but it was not till the doors were closed and Joey had finished adding up his cash that they were able to sit down in the back kitchen over coffee.