‘Yes.’ I remembered Audrey Johnson. She’d been less than civil when I’d told her what Mr Johnson was up to.
‘Could I come and see you…if you’re able…you see…oh…’ She was floundering.
‘Yes, of course.’ I tried to put her at her ease, sounding confident and reassuring. ‘When would be convenient?’
‘Well…now. You see, I’m in town, I thought…’
‘Fine.’ I was getting horribly hot under the dustsheet and why not seize the moment? ‘The office is in a bit of a mess,’ I apologised, ‘but I’m sure we can manage.’ I gave her my address and directions from the city centre.
I ran round like a blue-arsed fly, clearing up and replacing furniture. I left the door ajar to let some of the overpowering ammonia fumes escape. I hadn’t time to go and change my clothes. I managed to get most of the lilac spots off my face but my hair bore witness. Hopefully, Mrs Forgot-to-ask-her-name would be more concerned with the business in hand than my appearance.
The bell rang. I clattered upstairs. I might have been lucky with Vernon Wainwright but all that was about to change. It was a Friday in June. Given what I know now, it should have been Friday 13th. It wasn’t but it should have been.
She was a plump woman, middle-aged, average height. Short dark hair streaked with grey. Sallow complexion, broad face, brown eyes. Large eyes. Eyes full of fear. She was dressed conservatively, neat and tidy. Tan skirt and jacket, cream blouse, court shoes. Tiny studs in her ears. No other jewellery, no make-up. We shook hands; hers were clammy. From nerves I guessed.
‘Come on in.’ I closed the door behind her. ‘My office is downstairs. I’m in the middle of re-decorating – that’s the awful smell.’ She followed me down and sat across from my desk.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.’
‘Hobbs, Mrs Hobbs.’
‘And how can I help?’
‘It’s my son, Martin. He’s missing. I want you to find him.’ I nodded and began to make notes as we talked.
‘How old is Martin?’
‘Sixteen. It was his birthday at the beginning of June.’
‘How long’s he been gone?’
‘A month now.’
‘And he’s not been in touch at all?’ She shook her head.
‘Has he ever done this before?’
‘No.’
‘Any idea why he’s left?’
‘No, that’s why I’m so worried.’ She twisted the straps of her handbag round her fingers. ‘He’d just gone one morning.’
‘Did he take anything with him? Clothes, money?’
‘He’d no money. I think some of his clothes had gone.’ She didn’t seem very certain. Maybe when kids are that age you lose track of their wardrobe.
