Ali Harper - The Runaway

‘Did they check the CCTV?’

Martin nodded. ‘Nothing.’

‘Not a lot to go on,’ I said.

‘I looked into the residents. Posh flats, owned by the well-to-do. Rob Hamilton was one of the residents.’

Even I’ve heard of Rob Hamilton and I don’t watch TV.

‘If in doubt, deal,’ said Jo.

I frowned at her.

‘That’s his catchphrase,’ she said.

‘And Jimmy McFly lived there too – the celebrity chef. Before he got done for drunk driving.’

‘Didn’t he go out with Gabby Fairweather?’ asked Jo. She pointed a finger at me. ‘She left him when he went to prison. Before she met that singer from that boy band.’

I was totally lost.

‘The Wranglers. God, what was his name? Chris somebody.’

For a radical feminist socialist, Jo is surprisingly well-informed on celebrity culture.

I turned to Martin. ‘Anyone with any links to the body?’ I said, my voice a little pointed.

‘I’ve got the full list here.’ Martin bent to pick his briefcase from the floor, opened it and took out a reporter’s spiral bound notebook.

I read the neatly written label on the front. Jane Doe; 29 August and the year. I did the maths. Almost seven years ago.

‘There were a couple of people of interest. One resident who’d been prosecuted for tax evasion.’ He flicked through the pages of the notebook. ‘There.’ He pointed to a name that had been highlighted. ‘And Blake Jeffries – the whisper was he’d made his money on the club scene … and not just through door entry charges, if you know what I mean.’

Jo grabbed for the notebook before I could get there and settled herself to read its contents.

‘You mean drugs?’ I said.

‘According to a source. I looked into it but nothing provable.’

‘We’re a missing persons’ bureau,’ I said. I folded my arms. ‘She’s like the opposite of missing. She’s found. I mean, all right, she’s dead, but she’s not—’

Martin opened his mouth to say something but Jo got there before him. ‘Somewhere she’s missing,’ she said. ‘That’s the thing. These women, they’ve been isolated—’

‘What women?’ I asked.

‘Cut off from society, precisely so no one cares when they’re abused, raped, killed … whatever.’

‘What women?’ I said again.

‘Sex workers,’ said Jo.

I knew her patience was stretching and truth was I was trying to stretch it on purpose. Don’t ask me why. I get like this sometimes. You’d think I’d learn, but no.

‘Somewhere,’ Jo said, ‘they’re missing.’

‘Somewhere there has to be a family or a past lover,’ Martin explained, and I noticed the similarity in the two pairs of steely blue eyes staring at me. ‘Or a friend. Someone who’s missing her. She had a child. That child must be somewhere, wondering where their mother is. She died anonymous. Seven years later, no one even knows her name.’

Jo continued to flick through the pages of Martin’s notebook. There didn’t seem to be many, perhaps half a dozen, the rest of the pages virgin white. I knew from the way she closed the front cover I wasn’t going to get much say in this one. Resistance was futile. ‘And that’s all you got?’ I asked. ‘A list of people who lived in the flats and a train ticket?’

‘They’re a subclass of people,’ said Jo. ‘Cynics might think these women are bred for abuse and murder. Most sex workers grew up in care.’

‘We don’t actually know she was a sex worker.’

‘Abusers, murderers know they stand a good chance of getting away with the shit they get away with—’

‘She wasn’t murdered. And we don’t know she was abused.’ Jo obviously wasn’t going to let any of the facts stand in her way.

‘Because no one cares,’ she said, her eyes boring into mine. Her voice was so loud the people at the other table had stopped speaking.

‘I do care,’ I said. ‘I just think we need to be clear—’

‘They’re the world’s missing, the world’s lost.’

‘OK.’ I held my hands up.

‘They’re so missing, so off radar, no one even knows they’re missing. They’re more than missing, they’re fucking invisible.’

‘That’s the thing,’ said Martin, nodding with approval at Jo. ‘There was no one stamping feet, demanding answers. The case got pushed aside. She had no one. That’s why it won’t let me go.’

‘If the kind of men who prey on these women knew there were people like us out there, people who care and want to find out what happened, maybe, just maybe, it might make them think twice before they do the fucked-up shit that they do.’

‘OK,’ I said. The expression on Jo’s face made me feel like crying. ‘I guess it wouldn’t hurt, having a look at it.’

I turned to Martin because I couldn’t bear to look at Jo anymore. ‘You don’t have to pay us though, we owe you one.’

‘We owe you more than that,’ said Jo.

He drained his pint and waved at the barman, indicating another round, the same again. I wanted to point out it wasn’t waitress service, but the barman smiled and reached up for a pint glass from the rack above his head. Martin turned back to us.

‘I do have to pay you. And I’ll tell you why. If I don’t, I have to be nice to you because you’re doing me a favour. There’s no pressure on you to succeed.’ He grinned at me and the twinkle returned to his eye.

‘You want to be able to boss us around, is that what you’re saying?’ said Jo.

‘Precisely.’ Martin patted Jo on the hand. ‘And besides, that battleaxe you’ve hired as your receptionist, sorry, office manager … she’d kick all our backsides if you said you’d taken on a freebie. I need to be able to stand my ground with her.’

Jo shook her head. ‘You’ll learn. Complete surrender is the only way with Aunt Edie.’

‘Yes, well, I’m too old. And you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. I don’t surrender to anyone. Never have, never will.’

Jo laughed and it struck me that I hadn’t seen her laugh for ages. Not like that, head back, square white teeth on show.

We stayed in The Brudenell till closing time. Martin had booked himself a couple of nights in a B&B on Cardigan Road in order to watch the cricket. As Jo tried to wheedle another round out of the barman I noticed the skin on my forearms was scratched red and tugged my sleeves down. Once the barman had convinced Jo there wasn’t going to be any after hours, we poured Martin into a taxi from the rank opposite and I linked arms with Jo as we waved him off, Jo swaying as I held onto her. When the taxi turned the corner, I half-pulled, half-pushed her up the hill towards our flat on Hyde Park Road.

She stumbled over the kerb on Royal Park Mount and fell on her arse. I tried to pull her up, but Jo found it too hilarious for words and I gave up and sat next to her at the roadside. We shared a fag, which got so damp from the tears streaming down her face I had to light another. I put my arm around her shoulders and her body warmth seeped into me. Must have looked like a right pair. Just as I thought she’d fallen asleep and I’d have to roll her up the hill, she clambered to her feet.

‘Chris Goodall.’

‘Who?’

‘The bloke from The Wranglers.’

‘Right.’ I had no idea what she was talking about, and I’m not sure she did either.

‘The one who went out with Gabby Fairweather. After she finished with Jimmy McFly.’

I nodded.

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s not important.’ She took a moment to steady herself and then set off at such a pace that I had to jog to keep up with her.

When we got to the flat, I let us in as quietly as possible so as not to disturb our downstairs neighbour, who happens to be the only full-time worker within about a two-mile radius. She hates us and our unsociable hours. I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on while Jo crashed into the front room. When I joined her with a freshly brewed pot of tea – milk in a jug, just how she likes it – she was out cold on the settee with her Doc Martens still on. I put the tray down, untied her laces, tugged the boots off her feet and fetched the duvet from her bed. I floated it over her body. She looks different asleep, less fierce, her face softer, unlined.