by Vic Robbie
‘Come on, man, remember. It’s important.’
Barney grabbed a beer and marshalled his thoughts.
‘You must recall the woman I was with—’
‘The blonde?’
‘No,’ he almost screamed. ‘Not her, this one looked like a geisha with a white face.’ He was pleased he’d remembered that but still couldn’t picture her features.
‘I’d have remembered someone like that.’ Barney gave him a strange look.
‘She’s been here before. You must know her.’
Irked his memory was being doubted, the bar owner shrugged. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Solo Blue.’
‘Solo?’
‘Blue.’
Barney looked blank. ‘Memory’s not so good these days, but I’d have remembered that.’ He shook his head. ‘Never heard of a Solo Blue or seen someone like that here. All I saw was you being chased out by the blonde.’
His body slumped as his mind raced, but he had to rein in his anger. It wasn’t Barney’s fault. We all see things differently, our brains interpreting specific actions and developing our own timelines. A brain processes so much it has to select the relevant information and images and arrange them accordingly. The events of one night in a busy bar might be confused with others. Maybe Barney’s memory was better than he believed.
His anger reverted to the police’s handling of the case. They’d made mistakes, and that was no less than a dereliction of duty. But if Solo existed only in his imagination, he had nowhere to go. He’d reached a dead end and would have to await the result of the police investigations.
He needed some air and went out to the quay. Perhaps now would be the time to go to the hospital and get his head sorted out, but the plop of a fish breaking the surface to swallow an insect and the lapping of water interrupted his concentration.
Solo said her mother brought her up on a trailer park outside the city by the river, the Riverview trailer park. She’d described the location, and he knew where it might be. Her mother was dead, but maybe someone would remember Solo. They must have informed her of the mother’s passing and could have contact details. It was a long shot, but all he had.
It would take about an hour’s drive in his old cream Beetle with the green-painted driver’s door. Barney allowed him to park the old Volkswagen on one of the reserved parking spots as it was quicker to access if he had to make a quick getaway although the car lowered the tone set by smarter vehicles.
The smog cloud thinned as the car chugged through the suburbs, and as he left the city behind, he could glimpse sunshine. Before long he was in farmland with just an occasional building, and the landscape appeared alien as though he’d entered an uninhabited world.
She’d said the trailer park was on the road to nowhere, which is what they’d called the alley. If he were right, it would be around here.
Cresting a hill, by the riverbank lay a large square of land that had been cleared for a purpose. There was nothing on it apart from some long-neglected concrete foundations, now taken over by weeds. He turned off the road and drove through an old rusting gate swinging on creaking hinges in the breeze.
He wasn’t confident about what he’d find, but he got out and walked a short distance to the riverbank.
‘What you doin’?’ An old guy was sitting by his fishing tackle with a small kettle boiling on a Primus stove. ‘You need help, mister?’
‘Past that,’ he replied. ‘Think I’m at a dead end.’
‘Yep, you’re right there,’ the fisherman snorted. ‘Only the dead and dying around these parts.’ He took off his hat and wiped his brow. ‘Don’t want to stay around too long; otherwise, you might join them.’ A consumptive cough terminated his laugh. ‘You lookin’ for someone or somethin’?’
‘Someone.’
‘Most likes long gone if you’re lookin’ here.’ The man stared into the trees as if he could summon up ghosts. ‘Who might they be?’
‘Once lived on a trailer park around here.’ Then he realised he didn’t know Solo’s mother’s name.
‘Nothin’ here now.’ The fisherman cast his line and wandered off as the current dragged the line downstream and then stopped. ‘Rememberin’ somethin’. Was a trailer park. Right here.’ His forefinger jabbed at the ground. ‘But they cleared the area because they reckoned some big-city company was goin’ to build a factory and provide jobs for the locals.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothin’. Never got built.’ He sighed with a look of disgust. ‘What was left just rotted away.’ He wrestled with the line. ‘Damn it! Got away,’ he added as a fish escaped the hook.
The fisherman seemed disappointed, but it was because of the fish. ‘No one’s ever done anythin’ with it.’
‘I meant what happened to the people.’
‘No idea. Why do you want to know anyhow? That was at least twenty, thirty years ago now.’
‘Called Riverview Park?’
‘Naw, naw.’ The man grunted as he trawled his memory. ‘Began with an S.’
Headlock thanked him and turned to go.
‘Got it, got it,’ he called him back. ‘Shangri La. Damn stupid name for a dead end like this.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Solo pulled the tarpaulin off the top of her red Chevrolet Bel Air convertible resplendent with a white flash on its tail fins and whitewall tyres. It was a chore she hated.
One of these days I’ll buy a proper fitted hood.
Still, for now, the tarpaulin did the job, keeping out the rain, stopping tramps and cats and other animals using it as a bed and preventing it from becoming a garbage dump.
But that wasn’t at the forefront of her thoughts. It was the man she saw arriving at Ottomon’s mansion. There was a similarity to their attacker in the alley, but she couldn’t swear to it. When he left the house, his face was turned away from her before they drove off in the same black Packard at high speed. Was he the killer of the girl?
Her first reaction was to tell Headlock, but she couldn’t go anywhere near him without signing his death warrant. Trenton would have his people monitoring her every step and, if Headlock appeared, they’d take him.
There was only one sentence for not having a chip. And, despite what Trenton promised, they’d come after her, too. Whichever way she turned, she struggled to see a way out. If she was selfish, she’d find him, and Trenton would get what he wanted. But even if Trenton let her go free, she’d be a suspect for the rest of her days. She had few options. If she did nothing, Trenton would punish her. And if she betrayed Headlock, she’d also be killing Becky and letting the murderer go free to do it again.
More than anything, she wanted to save the child. Trenton hadn’t given her a deadline, so perhaps that allowed her breathing space to work something out.
With no photo shoots for a couple of days, she’d stake out Ottomon’s house, and if the man returned, she might be able to identify him. She’d park the Chevy nearby and watch. It could take hours or might not happen again, but it was her only chance.
She brought drinks and some snacks and considered a small canvas folding chair but soon discounted it. This would be no picnic. She parked, pointing down the hill, and headed for the spot from where she’d watched before.
Underfoot was dry and dusty and littered with stones, and her heels were too high for rough terrain. As she neared the spot, a stone moved under the heel of her left foot, and her ankle turned over, and she yelped in pain. She stopped and put a hand to her mouth, listening to her heavy breathing. The heel had snapped.
‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath, hoping she wouldn’t have to run to the car. Out of her bag, she took a pair of opera glasses, which afforded a much better view of those coming and going, and settled in.
After three hours, she reckoned she was wasting time. Nothing of note had occurred and, as the sun grew hotter, the warmth and the buzzing of insects and distant swish of tyres on asphalt whispered at her concentration. Sever
al times her head nodded and jerked back awake. She poured water from a bottle into her palm and rubbed it into her eyes, smudging her red eye shadow.
It’s hopeless.
One more hour, then head home and soak in the hot tub. But she didn’t have to wait that long. A Ford Customline rumbled to a halt at the bottom of the drive. The driver peered up at the house then turned into the drive, and it amazed her that despite its battered appearance, they allowed it to drive up to the front entrance.
Carrying a brown leather satchel over a shoulder, the man got out and studied the house as if unsure whether to go in. As he had his back to her, she couldn’t see his features and adjusted the opera glasses to bring him into focus. The door of the house opened to a knock, and a man emerged wearing a white jacket. He spoke to the arrival who looked back at the car, and she recognised him. ‘Oh, my God,’ she gasped, putting a hand over her mouth. It was him, the killer in the alley and probably Becky’s abductor.
Once he was inside the house, she limped away to her car and slipped behind the wheel, ready to move when he left.
It was another forty minutes before he emerged minus the satchel and climbed into the Ford. With several careful manoeuvres, he moved away from the house and continued down the drive but once on the road, he stood on the pedal and sped away. She started up and lurched out onto the road, but another vehicle got between them, and she struggled to keep up. Wherever he was going, he was in a hurry and was unworried about the competence of his driving.
After about twenty minutes, he slowed outside a large building resembling a factory and turned into a gate manned by armed guards. She crawled past, keeping watch in her rear-view mirror. He waved a hand over a portable scanner as a guard spoke to him before saluting and waving him through. The sign said Evolution Industries.
During an hour’s wait, no other cars entered or left, and she worried there might be another exit, and he’d gone. She was deliberating her next move when the old Ford rattled into sight, making its way to the gate. Again, he offered the left hand for scanning, and the guard saluted, and he came back out onto the road.
Once he’d driven a couple of hundred yards, he accelerated, and she had to hang on to his tail to keep him in sight, and she wondered where he was headed. Eventually, they entered a residential area, and he turned into a large stone-built, double-fronted house with its blinds pulled down on the upper floor. Glancing around, he climbed out of the car and took a large steel box out of the trunk before disappearing into the house.
It was a dilemma. If she confronted him on his own territory that might be dangerous. She could alert StatPol, but what would she tell them? She had no proof and, as he was an important man, it would be unlikely they’d believe her story against his. But he might have Becky in the house, and she’d be risking the child’s life if she did nothing. She forced her thought processes to slow down and think. If he were the killer, he probably wouldn’t kill the victims in his own home.
She missed Headlock. He’d know what to do. When she was with him, she let him take charge. She felt safe with him, and that was a feeling she’d never experienced. But for the time being, she must keep away from him. At least until they found Becky.
The waiting was getting to her, and she needed to go to the toilet, but if she left her post, he might disappear and with him any hope of finding Becky alive.
Chapter Thirty
Another dead end and Headlock felt dejected and impotent as he drove back to Fisherman’s Quay. His brother was heading the hunt for Becky, and all he was contributing was sitting on his hands doing nothing. If Solo existed, there must be other ways to track her down and then he remembered the gigantic billboard images of her atop skyscrapers. If she was that famous and in the public eye, she couldn’t hide, especially from the newspapers. But had he seen those billboards or imagined them? He looked around for one but saw none, and he began to question his sanity.
He parked the Beetle in its usual spot and sprinted up the steps to his sanctuary, the bar. Or was that what most drunks believed? Before he uttered a word, Barney had an iced beer waiting for him.
‘I need a phone.’
‘Use my office.’ Barney nodded behind him and went off to serve another customer.
In his wallet on a dog-eared scrap of yellowing paper, he kept a list of telephone numbers of those he still counted friends although the number of cross-outs was increasing. It wasn’t a long list, and Jack Blake’s name came near the top. As a columnist for the city’s most influential newspaper, there wasn’t much he didn’t know.
It was a long shot, but he had few options. Jack had supported him, coming to many fights though not as a wrestling fan. His interest was more the bizarre circus atmosphere of the sport, calling it a microcosm of a capitalist world. He’d often say, ‘They should nominate you lot for Oscars.’ And he’d been there on the last night of his career and written several supportive articles. Unlike many in the media, he hadn’t called for his head.
He was relieved when Blake picked up and, after some small talk, it was apparent the journalist expected the inevitable request for a favour.
‘I need your help, Jack.’
‘Sure, I thought so.’
‘To find a girl.’
‘Hey, man, I’m not that kind of guy although many might say I am.’
He chuckled. ‘You’ve probably heard of her. Solo Blue?’ There was a longer pause than he hoped for.
‘Give me a clue. I forget more things than I remember the older I get. What line of work is she in?’
‘She’s a model.’
‘Uh-oh.’
‘Not that kind of model. She’s on billboards. That sort of thing,’ and smiled as he added, ‘She’s a celebrity.’
‘Let me think about that.’ Blake took a mouthful of something that might have been coffee, but more likely brandy, and put a hand over the phone to shout to a colleague.
He checked his watch. Every minute was vital if he was to find Solo and perhaps save Becky’s life.
Minutes later, Blake came back. ‘Drawn a blank. Her name rings no bells. Searched on the computer. Nothing’s come up, which is odd. In her profession, you’d expect a mention, but there are always those who slip through the net.’
‘Oh.’
Blake heard the disappointment in his voice. ‘Give me a few minutes. I’ve got a few good contacts in the advertising business. Let me check it out, and I’ll get back to you.’
He returned to the bar and ordered another beer from Barney who asked, ‘Take it there’s no news about Becky,’ but needed no answer.
‘Waiting for a call, a guy’s trying to find a woman for me.’
‘Ask him to get one for me.’ Barney choked the laughter, realising that it was the wrong time for a joke.
He swivelled on the barstool, running his eyes over the clientele. In a corner in a booth, a man and woman, their drinks between them, were touching knees and heads, deep in conversation, and there was much laughter and smiling. He reckoned if a bomb went off in the bar, they wouldn’t notice.
Blake was soon back. ‘Isn’t your lucky day, Headlock. Not getting anything. Where did she say she modelled?’
‘She didn’t tell me; I saw the billboards for myself on the tops of buildings across town.’
‘Really?’
A long pause. And he checked back to ensure Blake was still on the line. ‘You there?’
‘Sure, sure.’ Blake sounded perplexed. ‘There’s one thing you could follow up. Apparently, the biggest advertising agency in the billboard business is a company called Ready Advertising. They sell all the billboards in the city. I’ve got the name of a person to contact. The number is—’
‘Just give me the address. If I phone, they’ll fob me off as a stalker or a weirdo.’
‘Okay, whatever you say. Good luck.’
‘One thing more.’ He caught him before the journalist rang off and heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.
‘
Ye–s.’
‘Have you got any info on Brick Lane?’
‘At Fisherman’s Quay?’
‘Yep.’
‘What kind of info?’
‘Murders. Bodies found.’
‘You’d get that on the internet, but our digitised copies of the paper only go back to the Second World War.’
‘And before?’
‘You need to go through our old copies of the paper.’
‘Can you help me?’
There was another sharp intake of breath. ‘Don’t have the time, sorry.’ Then after a pause, ‘Tell you what, I’ve had an intern foisted on me,’ he almost whispered, ‘don’t want her following me about and learning my secrets, I’ll get her to check it out for you.’
He ran out to the Beetle then hesitated, drawn back to the alley as if it was his link to Becky and Solo. His hopes hung on a slender thread. If he found Solo, she might have nothing more to tell him. As though his head was bursting with his thoughts and fears, he put out a hand to steady himself and leant against the alley’s brick wall.
The advertising agency was in an upmarket part of the city he didn’t recognise, housed in a smart ten-storey office block that appeared built of glass. He shivered as an outdoor air-conditioning plant blasted him with cool air. Before entering, he hesitated and, arching his back, looked up at the top of the building. Sure enough, Solo, modelling a bra, smiled down on him from a massive billboard. He was on the right track.
Shouting and scuffling distracted him. About twenty bystanders surrounded three others. As he elbowed his way through the crowd, a tramp lay on the ground, and two men stood over him, hitting and kicking him. The tramp was taking such a beating it was in danger of becoming terminal. An attacker swung a boot at the tramp’s head with such force he almost fell over. The kick connected, and the tramp skidded across the sidewalk, screaming for help as the bystanders filmed the action on their phones.
‘Hey,’ one shouted. ‘I’m streaming this live.’
