Strong turned his attention to his other DS. Jim Ryan was standing by his desk, sheaf of papers in hand, alongside DC Malcolm Atkinson.
“What’s keeping you two off the streets then?”
“Misper, guv,” Ryan answered. ‘Misper’ meaning missing persons enquiry.
“You look puzzled, Jim.”
“Well, I just don’t know how seriously to take this.” Ryan handed Strong the file he was holding.
Strong studied the contents for a moment. Helena Cryanovic, he read, asylum seeker from Albania. Twenty-three years old and reported missing by her sister, Magda, on Friday.
“Avoiding the system?” he asked.
“Maybe, but I think there might be something more to it. She had a boyfriend - big sod by the name of
Szymanski – Polish, I think.”
“Anything on record?”
“No, but he’s rumoured to be involved with an Eastern European mob with connections to clubs and the vice trade in Leeds.”
“Have you spoken to him yet?”
“We’ve only just got an address for him this morning, so we’re off there now.”
“Let me know how you go on.”
Strong looked around then focussed on Ormerod. “Where are Sam and Trevor?”
DC’s Sam Kirkland and Trevor Newell completed Strong’s team.
“Looking in to the case of the dud fivers, guv.”
Strong expressed surprise. “Wouldn’t have thought it worth anybody’s while to forge five pound notes.”
At the desk behind them a phone rang; Stainmore took the call.
“That’s why they’ve been so successful. People don’t pay too much attention to a fiver. Tens or twenties, yes, fifties definitely, but not fivers.”
“I take your point. So where are they now?”
“Interviewing shop staff who’ve had them passed on over the past week.”
“All right. Ask them to give me an update when they get back.”
Stainmore put the phone down and looked across at her boss. “Guv,” she said, “Chief Super wants to see you.”
Strong rolled his eyes and left the room.
3
Angular, and straight from the 1960’s school of architecture, the Yorkshire Post building to the west of Leeds city centre was bathed in early September sunshine. That looked to be under threat from the dark clouds rolling in from the south over Elland Road, home of Leeds United football club.
“There’s a young … lady in reception for you, Mr Souter.”
Patricia on the front desk had developed the ability to convey much more in a message than the actual words she spoke.
“Who is it?”
“She won’t give her name.”
“Well, did she say what she wants?”
“Only that it’s important.”
Souter sighed. “All right, Patricia, tell her I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Bob Souter had just turned forty-three. He’d come down to Leeds from Glasgow to join the staff of the Yorkshire Post a few months before. Although born and brought up in Scotland until he was six when his family had moved south to Doncaster, he felt more at home in the north of England than anywhere else.
Patricia nodded towards the girl sitting on a chair at the far side of the reception area, nervously chewing her nails. Although Patricia’s gesture repeated her earlier disapproval, there was the hint of a smile mixed in, betraying her curiosity.
The ‘young lady’ Patricia referred to wore a cheap-looking, short imitation leather coat over tight fitting jeans and a low cut top. Her white shoes had seen better days, the heels of which were flared out like a rag-man’s trumpet. Her bleached blonde hair, parted roughly in the middle, fell over her eyes and straggled down to her shoulders. As he introduced himself, he took in her face, heavily made up to give the appearance of being older than he suspected she actually was. She would only give her name as Sammy. Souter presumed it was short for Samantha but wouldn’t trust that it was her real name anyway. He sat down facing her across a low table strewn with that morning’s newspapers.
“What can I do for you, Sammy?”
“It’s about my friend, Maria.” She flicked hair away from her eyes. “She’s disappeared.”
“So why me? Why not go to the police?”
“Huh,” she snorted. “Look at me. They don’t take us seriously.” She glanced over Souter’s shoulder towards the reception desk. “I’m not deaf or blind either. I heard how she asked you to come down and I saw her look at you when you did. She thinks I’m a piece of shit you wouldn’t want on your shoe. The police tolerate us, sometimes; nothing more.”
“But what makes you think I can help you?”
“I remember how you wrote about that murder a few months ago; Rosie Hudson.”
Souter’s expression hardened as he remembered the events following Rosie’s death. It was one of the first stories he’d written about when he’d started on the paper.
“Most of them loved the chance to slag her off – ex-vice girl, former prostitute – that sort of crap. But you … you wrote about her as a victim.”
He felt flattered. “Well … I was only doing my job,” he smiled.
“Maybe … but it was how you did it. I liked that.”
“All right, Sammy, what about this friend of yours. How long has she been missing?”
“Last night, we worked Wakefield’s market square as usual …”
“Hold on, are you saying she’s only been missing since last night?”
Sammy was indignant. “Look, I know what you’re thinking but me and Maria, we work together, we look out for each other, we know each other so well. Christ we were in the same kids’ home together!”
“All right, Sammy, calm down.” Souter glanced round towards Patricia, wondering whether she’d overheard the last part of their conversation, but she was taking a call. “So, you were in the market square, then what happened?”
“She went off with a punter and never came back.”
“Did you see who with?”
“Not really. I’d just got into a car with one of my regulars. The last time I saw her was when I turned to put the seatbelt on. She was talking to someone in a small van, white, it was.”
“But you don’t know if she got in it?”
“Tracey said she had, when I got back.”
“Tracey? Who’s Tracey?”
“Just one of the other girls.”
“So how long had you been gone?”
“Only about fifteen minutes. Like I said, he was a regular.”
“And you’ve checked where she lives?”
“We share a room in a house up on the Woodside estate. She hasn’t been back. I’m worried, Mr Souter.”
“She wouldn’t have done an all-nighter, would she?”
“No, not without telling me.”
Souter took a breath and thought for a moment. “Now don’t get upset with this, but I’ve got to ask …”
Sammy looked straight at him. “Drugs, you mean?”
He nodded. “Was Maria involved with anything?”
“Well, we smoke a bit, maybe some ganja sometimes. Christ, you’ve got to have something to get you through the day … or night, if you get my drift … but nothing heavy.”
“I’m not judging you, Sammy, it’s just an angle we need to cover. I mean, she’s not likely to have taken anything with someone else …?”
“No, she wouldn’t, not with anyone we didn’t know.”
“You didn’t recognise this white van? Could it have been one you’d seen before, previous client maybe?”
“I don’t think so. They are fairly common, though.”
“What about this other girl, Tracey, was it? Has she got any idea about this?”
“She said she didn’t recognise the van.”
Souter leaned forward in his chair. “So what exactly do you think I can do to help?”
“Well, there’ve been rumours … this might not be the first time something like this has happened.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard about a couple of girls go missing recently.”
Souter looked sceptical.
“Look, I know what you’re thinking, street girls just come and go, move on to different territory, whatever. But they were regular girls, worked with mates, kept an eye out for one another, and they just wouldn’t have gone off without letting one of the others know.”
“Do you know where these others went missing from?”
She looked away for a second. “Not sure. It’s just some talk I heard.”
“All right, Sammy, let me look into this. I might want to speak to your friend, Tracey.”
“She’s not really my friend, just one of the girls.”
“Well, anyway, could you arrange that?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“So, how can I contact you?”
“Can I borrow a pen?”
Souter pulled one from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She began writing on a blank margin of one of the newspapers on the table. “Here,” she said, tearing off the strip. “This is my address and the number of the payphone in the hallway. You can try that.”
“Okay, Sammy, I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve found anything out.” Souter got to his feet and, as he put his pen back, drew out a business card. “In the meantime, if Maria does turn up, give me a call.”
“Thanks, Mr Souter.” Sammy stood up. “I’m sorry if I caused you any embarrassment.” She nodded towards Patricia who was now watching events unfold.
“That’s all right. Don’t worry about it. You certainly haven’t caused me any.”
As she disappeared out into the street, the brief smile he gave her dissolved into an expression of concern.
4
Gillian Ramsey replaced the telephone handset on the cradle and stared blankly into the space in front of her desk. She was baffled. No, more than that, she was worried. In all the time since her mother died nearly ten years ago, she’d always spoken to her younger sister at least twice a week. Last Wednesday everything sounded normal. Susan had been so excited at the prospect of starting her university course in a few weeks. Gillian was pleased for her. If anyone deserved some luck it was Susan.
Now, not only could Gillian not get a response from Susan’s land line or mobile, despite leaving a couple of messages on each, but their father’s nursing home confirmed that she hadn’t been to see him all weekend. And that was something she had done religiously since they’d moved him in. Something was wrong, Gillian could sense it. There was nothing for it, she would have to go round to Susan’s flat and check for herself. Gillian’s mind darted around as if in a pinball machine. Susan could be ill … but surely not ill enough not to be able to let her know. That means she must be seriously ill. She could be lying in that lonely flat unable to get help. She might have been there for days. She might even have been …
“Gill, have you finished those returns yet?” a voice on the edge of her awareness was saying. Before she could reply, the voice went on, “I said, have you finished those returns yet? Mr Adams needs them for this afternoon’s management meeting.” It was Sally Dobson, the director’s PA.
Gillian looked up into Sally’s face then down onto her desk and began rummaging through some paperwork in several files. “Yes,” she finally responded. “I’ve just got to finalise the projections and I’m done. I’ll …” At that point, her phone rang. “I’ll bring them along in half-an-hour.” She picked up the receiver.
“Make it twenty minutes,” Sally said before flouncing off.
Gillian grimaced behind her disappearing back, drawing a chuckle from a colleague at a work station opposite.
“Gill? Are you there?”
came a disembodied female voice from the handset.
“Sorry about that,” Gillian said, “Can I help you?”
“Gill, it’s me, Alison.”
“Oh, Alison, hi.” Gillian lowered her voice significantly. “Sorry, I was just in the middle of something with Miss Frosty-Knickers here.”
“You sound busy.”
“Just got to get something finished before lunch.”
“So, not too busy for a bit of lunch and a gossip, then?”
“Well … no,” Gillian hesitated. “Actually, there’s something I could do with your opinion on.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It may be something and nothing but I’m a bit worried about …” Gillian broke off as Sally came back through the office door. “Look, I’ll see you in Garcia’s at half twelve. Got to go, see you then.” Gillian hurriedly put down the phone and busied herself with paperwork as Sally passed by, a scowl on her face.
Garcia’s was one of a new breed of trendy wine bars that seemed to have sprung up on every High Street in the land. Situated just off the Bullring, its interior boasted plenty of polished wood, stainless steel and etched glass which gave an almost clinical feel to the place. This was in sharp contrast to the cosy, smoky, town-centre pub it had once been in a previous incarnation.
The bar was buzzing with the incessant chatter of a score of conversations as a broad spectrum of clientele exchanged all the news, gossip and scandal of the day. Alison Hewitt took her dry white wine spritzer from the bar and found a circular table that had been fixed around one of the retained cast iron columns when the place was refitted the previous year. She placed her drink carefully on a mat on the surface which was just the right height for an elbow and awaited her friend’s arrival.
Alison was in her mid-thirties with shoulder length dark hair and dressed in a smart two-piece suit over a sheer white blouse. It was warm in the bar so she unbuttoned her jacket, drawing admiring glances from a group of business men standing nearby. As an attractive woman, she was used to that. However, taking account of their initial reaction, she decided against making any attempt to sit on one of the high bar stools, realising her tight skirt would ride up to reveal what many considered her best feature, a shapely pair of legs.
Just then, Gillian appeared in the doorway, looking flustered, caught Alison’s eye and mouthed an offer of some drinks. Alison gestured that she was fine, so Gillian made her way to the bar.
“God, I need this,” Gillian said, after weaving her way through the throng to join her friend and taking a sip of her lager. “What a morning.”
“You sounded up against it when I called. Are you sure you can afford the time?”