The Night Hunter by Caro Ramsay Page B

2010. It was a Thursday night, her usual running night, but she went out later due to the rain. Stop me when this sounds familiar …’
    The reality of it hits me; the simplicity of his words exaggerate the similarities.
    ‘We failed to find any trace of Gillian. Your lot failed to find any trace of Sophie.’ He pauses a little, he is making sure that his words are sinking in.
    ‘She was a teacher?’ I ask. ‘A PE teacher? Something like that?’ Rod used to be a PE teacher, that’s the thing that has stuck in my mind.
    He nods. ‘Well remembered.’ He sits back a little as the coffee is put on the table along with a can of Coke and an old-fashioned thick glass. My cup is small and chipped, with a little band of gold that doesn’t quite go all the way round the top. I turn it until the chip is furthest away from my mouth, placing the handle directly towards me. It might look clumsy but at least it is infection-free.
    A plate of chips arrives in front of him, like oily dead worms. A lake of vinegar swirls round, adding to the aroma. A yellow paste of cheese sauce sits to one side in a ramekin, a nod to sophistication. He picks up the ramekin and slaps it heavily on the bottom, making the sauce splurge on top of the chips. He picks up a long chip, scoops up some sauce and stuffs it in his mouth, chewing noisily. He eats like a starving pig.
    ‘Chips are great.’ He pulls the can of Coke towards him, opens it and the noise goes round the room like sniper fire. ‘It was not my biggest case, but it was my last one. I’ve spent a long time looking round for any others.’
    ‘Others?’ I hold my cup to my lips, moving it back and forth under my nose, smelling the coffee, breathing in caffeine.
    ‘Others. I don’t think whoever took Gillian stopped. People who are good at doing things like that don’t come out of nowhere; they’ve been around and they’ve practised.’ He waves a chip in the air before it disappears between those fleshy blue lips. ‘Problem is, if these women were loonies or lezzies or druggies or whores, the cops would be all over the place, searching.’
    ‘I presume you were kicked off the force before you could sign up for political correctness class?’
    ‘You bet your bottom dollar, sweet cheeks.’ He waves another chip at me. ‘It’s more likely that young, clever women from decent homes decide to leave for their own good reason. They’re also more difficult to take and that makes me suspicious. Why would Sophie go away with a stranger?’
    I can’t tell him that. Ex-DCI Hopkirk is staring at me, waiting for an answer. ‘Do you think the same man took Soph?’
    ‘Do you?’ He stuffs another chip in his face, sideways. ‘I’m a private detective and I’m working this case. Unhampered by the force, I can take a more free range approach.’
    ‘The case you started and didn’t finish because of the drink?’
    His glass of Coke pauses slightly between his mouth and the table; he regards me again with eyes of warm, faded cornflower blue. ‘It was the drink that finished my career.’ He smiles a little. ‘It was that case that drove me to the drink.’
    He calls the waitress over with a nod and a wink. She is putty in his hands as he asks for two lattes. She smiles back at him, the bright red lipstick cracking open to reveal nicotine brown teeth with a gap where she balances her fag. They would make a good couple, these two. They share the same rank body odour.
    As she ambles away her buttocks roll like a strolling elephant. Billy stares after her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he struggles with a thought. He looks like a fox scenting the night air, a sleekit, sly, canny old fox. ‘So tell me about Sophie. What about the clothes missing from her room?’
    ‘How did you know about them?’
    ‘I didn’t but I do now.’ He nods to himself; he does not seem to gain any pleasure from outwitting me. ‘I knew Costello had good reason not to investigate it too seriously.’
    ‘I