LITMIR.BIZ

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they said it were your case. I wish somebody’d make up there bloody mind.”

      “PMS,” he mouthed across the desk to his partner. “O.K. put him on,” he said, tiredly, no idea what missing person she was talking about, and switched to the handset. “D.C. Jackson, can I help you.”

      A polished Oxbridge accent jumped down the phone at him. “What the devil’s going on Officer?”

      Two can play at that game, he thought, replying snottily, “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Sir.”

      “Have you got the Daily Express?”

      What is this—twenty questions with attitude?

      “That’s my photograph on page three but my name is definitely not Roger and I am certainly not involved with the disappearance of any schoolgirl,” continued the voice, not giving Jackson an opportunity to respond.

      Grabbing the paper from his partner, Jackson came close to knocking over his drink. “Watch out!” shouted the other man, as Jackson stared at the picture.

      “What do you mean, it’s your photo?” he said into the phone as he scrutinized the face.

      “Officer,” the voice continued, “I do know my own face and so do a lot of other people. This is very embarrassing. My wife is very upset; so am I. I’ve called the Express. They say someone at your police station gave them the photograph and claimed it was this Roger fellow.”

      “Let me get this straight, Sir,” he said, stalling as he jotted a few notes. “The picture in today’s paper of the man we are looking for in the Trudy McKenzie case is you.”

      “That’s right, and I’m not Roger. I haven’t kidnapped any girl and I’m not very happy. In fact I shall be talking to my lawyers about suing someone for defamation of character.”

      “Lawyers,” mused Jackson with his hand over the mouthpiece, feeling the weight of the plural, deciding it was time to take cover. “It wasn’t us who gave Express the photo, it came from Leyton. I suggest you give them a call.”

      “Oh,” he floundered for a second, “I thought it was you.”

      “Sorry, that case is nothing to do with us.”

      “But the paper says this Roger lives in Watford.”

      “That’s correct, Sir, but the girl’s missing from Leyton—it’s their case.”

      A few moments silence left Jackson wondering if the caller had slammed the phone down. “Sir ?” he enquired.

      “Yes,” replied the voice, thoughtful, less angry.

      “Have you any idea how someone got your photograph?”

      “Oh yes. Someone stole it a few weeks ago from the showcase at our head office. We knew it was missing—assumed it was a staff member’s prank.”

      “Sorry I can’t help you, Sir,” Jackson said as he put the phone down. Then he looked at his partner. “There’s something funny here. Let’s take another look at that place of LeClarc’s. I’m beginning to wonder if the two Rogers are connected.”

      He laid out his theory driving to Junction Road. “If the photo ain’t Roger’s, then the description’s prob’ly wrong as well. What if LeClarc has run off with this girl.” He thought for a second, going over the evidence in his mind, then reconstructed the case out loud. “This McKenzie girl deliberately gave her friend a photo of the wrong guy; gave a false description, and didn’t tell her mum where she was going.” He paused long enough to negotiate an absurdly parked truck, then triumphantly solved the case, “I bet Roger and this McKenzie girl have eloped. I bet her mum wouldn’t have him in the house, so she came up with a dodgy excuse and sloped off to Holland with him. Now they’re sunning themselves on the Costa Bravo or a beach in Florida and laughing their pants off at us silly sods.”

      “Maybe,” replied his partner, unconvinced.

      George Mitchell was just leaving home for High Street, scouting for something interesting for his dinner, when the two detectives returned.

      “Mr. Mitchell,” Jackson called, as the sprightly eighty-three year old marched along Junction Road like he was still in command.

      He halted and peered down into the car. “Good morning officer,” he responded crisply, proving the strength of his eyesight matched his legs; then he bent and enquired seriously, “Did you manage to get the stain out?”

      Jackson blushed as his partner jumped out and greeted the old soldier with a wide grin. “Morning Mr. Mitchell, lovely day.”

      “G’morning. Any news of your young man?” he nodded toward Roger’s house.

      “We were hoping you might know something.”

      “Only what I told you yesterday. He’s not come back s’far as I know. I ain’t seen ’is car for best part of a week.”

      Jackson, spotting a parking space, headed off as his partner and Mitchell wandered across the road into the warmth of the sun.

      “Did he ever bring a girl here?” asked the detective, getting to the point as he scrutinized Roger’s doorstep.

      George Mitchell shook his head. “I never saw no one, but he kept funny hours like I told you. He’d come and go at all times.”

      “How did you know when he was here?”

      “Sometimes he’d put the front room light on. Other times I’d see him go in.”

      “Mr. Mitchell never saw a woman here,” called the detective as Jackson returned, then he ran up the two steps to the old yellow door and banged hard. “Just in case,” he explained to George who was eyeing him as if he were deranged.

      “I told you …There’s no one there,” said George, visibly offended.

      Trudy woke with a start. Her ears, sensitized by two days of total silence, had picked up the faint sound of the thump. For a moment she lay disorientated on the damp stone floor in the darkness wondering what had woken her. Then she slowly pulled herself up, carefully testing each joint and limb for pain, and stuck her ear to the keyhole—nothing. A few seconds later she fastened her mouth over the hole—like a baby sucking its mother’s life-giving breast, and drank in the refreshingly oxygenated air.

      Leaving George on the front doorstep, the two detectives fought their way to the rear of the house over the unofficial waste dump. Clambering through the garbage and debris they forged a path through the stringy vegetation, Jackson scything wildly at a patch of nettles with a length of rusty guttering, disturbing a frenzy of flies.

      “Ugh. Want something for lunch,” he called to his partner, finding the fly-blown carcase of a rat and poking it with his lance.

      “Disgusting sod,” replied the other as he climbed over the rubble of the dividing wall into the wilderness of Roger’s backyard.

      George Mitchell greeted him as he rounded the back of the house. “Bloody eyesore that mess is—council should get it cleared up.”

      “How the hell did you get here?” he enquired, astounded at the appearance of the old soldier.

      “I came through old Daft Jack’s next door,” he replied, using his thumb to point at the gap in the decayed wall between Roger’s house and his next door neighbour and, following the thumb, the detective found himself looking at the scarecrow figure of an old man, with wispy grey beard and antiqued leather skin. Jack grinned, and all three of his teeth shone green in the morning sunlight.

      “He’s not really daft,” said George as if Jack were not there. “It’s just that he’s deaf, so the kids make fun of him.”

      Jack remained on his side of the dilapidated wall, fascinated by the unusual activity.

      “Can he hear anything?” whispered Jackson.

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