the phone only rang once before Blackstock snatched up his handset. ‘Goddamnit! I’m sick of you parasites pimping for business. Why don’t you leave me alone and go chase after adulterers like you usually do?’
‘I’m not soliciting work,’ I said. ‘I’m engaged by another client whose daughter has gone missing along with a friend. I thought you’d talk to me about Helena’s disappearance.’
‘Other people’s business is no concern of mine. I’ve enough to contend with. Now, if you don’t mind, fuck off and leave me alone!’
Throwing caution to the wind, I said, ‘Helena is a dead ringer for one of the girls I’m looking for. I think there might be a connection.’
‘What do you mean a dead ringer?’ His words were challenging, as if I’d suggested that his wife was no longer unique and by that I was besmirching her memory.
‘I mean that Helena and Nicole look similar.’
‘What? Someone out there is taking women with a particular look?’
‘I could be totally off-track, Scott, but there could be a connection.’ I waited for him to absorb that. He was breathing harshly through his nose, short sharp blasts into the mouthpiece, still angry at my intrusion. ‘Then again, maybe not, but it’s an angle I want to investigate. It could be beneficial to the two of us to speak.’
‘How’s it going to benefit me? My wife’s probably dead.’
‘Your wife’s only missing,’ I corrected. ‘And you believe she’s still alive, otherwise you wouldn’t keep replacing the posters.’
‘You’ve been checking up on me? Stick to your own case, asshole.’
‘I’m only asking for half an hour of your time. What harm could it do? I can come up to your place.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not interested, that’s why. Don’t come near my house and don’t call again.’
Scott Blackstock slammed down the phone.
‘Arsehole,’ I growled.
The axiom that someone who protests too loudly usually has something to hide rang true. I looked again at the address of the trailer park that I’d scribbled on the back of the poster, and then left the room, thinking I could pick up a map of the local area at the 7-Eleven. I wanted a refill on my coffee, anyway. The caffeine hit would make it difficult to sleep, but I doubted my mind would settle enough for that. I was buzzing, wanting to get going. Scott Blackstock was as good a starting point as any, and, whether he liked it or not, he was going to be paid a visit.
I walked through Holbrook, my boot heels making soft ‘chucking’ sounds on the pavement. It was cooler now, but some of the stored-up sunlight made the sidewalk reluctant to release the rubber of my soles. Traffic was light, and there weren’t that many pedestrians either. Nevertheless, the 7-Eleven beckoned me forward with welcoming lights. I took it that the sign above the door didn’t mean too much, and as long as there were customers the doors would stay open. Outside the store were newspaper boxes where you could feed coins in a slot and take a newspaper without having to go inside to pay. I wouldn’t normally bother to grab a paper, but something caught my eye. Though it was the best part of three days since the terrible incident at the gas station, it was still making news.
I paid for a paper and lifted it under the shop’s neon signs. The front page showed an image of a young girl called Ellie Mansfield and at first glance you would expect the girl to be one of the victims found dead at the scene. But though she was expected to have been amongst those found slaughtered in the station wagon, she wasn’t there. There should have been five corpses, but I recalled the original news releases only mentioned four. Ellie was a friend of the Corbin family, who had gone along as company for thirteen-year-old Tracey Corbin. It had taken this long for the police to identify the family, and for the horrifying news to leak back to Ellie’s parents who’d only this afternoon
‘I’m not soliciting work,’ I said. ‘I’m engaged by another client whose daughter has gone missing along with a friend. I thought you’d talk to me about Helena’s disappearance.’
‘Other people’s business is no concern of mine. I’ve enough to contend with. Now, if you don’t mind, fuck off and leave me alone!’
Throwing caution to the wind, I said, ‘Helena is a dead ringer for one of the girls I’m looking for. I think there might be a connection.’
‘What do you mean a dead ringer?’ His words were challenging, as if I’d suggested that his wife was no longer unique and by that I was besmirching her memory.
‘I mean that Helena and Nicole look similar.’
‘What? Someone out there is taking women with a particular look?’
‘I could be totally off-track, Scott, but there could be a connection.’ I waited for him to absorb that. He was breathing harshly through his nose, short sharp blasts into the mouthpiece, still angry at my intrusion. ‘Then again, maybe not, but it’s an angle I want to investigate. It could be beneficial to the two of us to speak.’
‘How’s it going to benefit me? My wife’s probably dead.’
‘Your wife’s only missing,’ I corrected. ‘And you believe she’s still alive, otherwise you wouldn’t keep replacing the posters.’
‘You’ve been checking up on me? Stick to your own case, asshole.’
‘I’m only asking for half an hour of your time. What harm could it do? I can come up to your place.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not interested, that’s why. Don’t come near my house and don’t call again.’
Scott Blackstock slammed down the phone.
‘Arsehole,’ I growled.
The axiom that someone who protests too loudly usually has something to hide rang true. I looked again at the address of the trailer park that I’d scribbled on the back of the poster, and then left the room, thinking I could pick up a map of the local area at the 7-Eleven. I wanted a refill on my coffee, anyway. The caffeine hit would make it difficult to sleep, but I doubted my mind would settle enough for that. I was buzzing, wanting to get going. Scott Blackstock was as good a starting point as any, and, whether he liked it or not, he was going to be paid a visit.
I walked through Holbrook, my boot heels making soft ‘chucking’ sounds on the pavement. It was cooler now, but some of the stored-up sunlight made the sidewalk reluctant to release the rubber of my soles. Traffic was light, and there weren’t that many pedestrians either. Nevertheless, the 7-Eleven beckoned me forward with welcoming lights. I took it that the sign above the door didn’t mean too much, and as long as there were customers the doors would stay open. Outside the store were newspaper boxes where you could feed coins in a slot and take a newspaper without having to go inside to pay. I wouldn’t normally bother to grab a paper, but something caught my eye. Though it was the best part of three days since the terrible incident at the gas station, it was still making news.
I paid for a paper and lifted it under the shop’s neon signs. The front page showed an image of a young girl called Ellie Mansfield and at first glance you would expect the girl to be one of the victims found dead at the scene. But though she was expected to have been amongst those found slaughtered in the station wagon, she wasn’t there. There should have been five corpses, but I recalled the original news releases only mentioned four. Ellie was a friend of the Corbin family, who had gone along as company for thirteen-year-old Tracey Corbin. It had taken this long for the police to identify the family, and for the horrifying news to leak back to Ellie’s parents who’d only this afternoon
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