by Ali Harper
‘What?’
‘I’m offering my services.’
‘“Services”?’
‘Answering the phone. Cook, cleaner, general bottle washer.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about—’
‘You two need looking after. I’ve been going out of my mind with boredom since my Arthur, God rest his soul, passed on. This business has reminded me what I need.’
‘“What you need”?’
‘Something to do other than the blinking crossword. I can help you get this place straight for starters.’
I rollered the white paint over the last letters in ‘Be Scarred’ and watched them fade before my eyes. I turned to Aunt Edie. ‘Where would you live?’
‘I’ll apply for one of those housing association flats.’
I looked across at Jo.
She shrugged her one good shoulder and, for the first time since she’d come out of the police station, she grinned. ‘Business is booming.’
True. We’d had four requests for our services so far since the press coverage. Martin had done a great article that all the local press bought. The Yorkshire Evening Post had sent photographers, and they’d done some mean and moody shots down the Dark Arches, Jo’s bright blue eyes, heavily mascaraed, staring into the distance, her shoulder in its black sling.
The piece ran to two pages and told how we’d busted a drugs ring, solved a seventeenyearold case about the disappearance of a young mother, and disposed of a bent copper responsible for the murder of his colleague. Made us sound like superheroes.
Aunt Edie’s here now, on the telephone, chatting to a potential client, and I can’t fault her. Five minutes on the phone and she’s got people telling her intimate details of their lives, even the ones that were just ringing to sell us water coolers.
And she’s managed to work out how to use the oven in the kitchenette without burning the place down.
I haven’t told her about me falling off the wagon, about how good that whisky tasted, that I still smell it whenever I close my eyes. Better than food, better than sex, better than anything I’ve ever tasted. A need to know basis, I decided. I’ve joined one of those fucking AA groups. I figure a bit of help to get through the next few weeks can’t hurt.
I didn’t tell Aunt Edie about David showing up either. Jo reckons he’s got the message and that’s the last I’ll see of him. I’m not convinced but I’m trying not to think about it. No one can know what’s round the next corner.
So, that’s it. A full report. Writing it down means letting it go. Time to finish the chapter, close the book. There is only ever the here and the now, and the smell of freshly baked parkin is making me hungry.
Lee Winters
Director
No Stone Unturned Ltd
Acknowledgements
Thanks to everyone who has read early drafts of this novel, particularly Martyn Bedford and Oz Hardwick, Rachel Connor and Anna Chilvers. Thanks to Nathan Ramsden for helping me when my own knowledge ran out.
Thanks to Jamie Cowen, the best literary agent ever, for his insight and for his belief. And also for his penchant for profanities. (All swearwords are his responsibility.)
Thanks to Bekki Wray Rogers for running through it, running with it, and for running with me in general.
And thanks to Kathryn Cheshire, Janette Currie and everyone at HarperCollins and Killer Reads who has worked to make this better than it was.
And last but not least, thanks to Mark, for understanding.
About the Author
Ali Harper writes feminist crime fiction. The Disappeared is her first novel. An option for TV and film rights has also just been signed with Yorkshire-based Duck Soup Films. Ali lives in Leeds, where she teaches creative writing, has just completed a PhD, and plays netball badly.
@AliHarperWrites
aliharperwrites.wordpress.com
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