Three hours later someone else took a swing at me. This time it was a short, stocky man with greying hair and a fading tattoo on his left shoulder. While some people would perhaps have been offended at this I welcomed the man’s punches, effective as they were at reducing my life to the simple and immediate business of getting out of the way of them. And throwing some back at him. After three minutes a bell sounded and I waited as a woman called Sally Sullivan ducked into the ring and had a friendly word with my opponent. Then she walked over to me.
‘What’s the matter?’
Sally’s voice hit me harder than any of the punches I’d just been dodging. I shrugged.
‘Nothing.’
‘Then what are you doing?’ Sal folded her arms that way she had, which told you she wasn’t going to take anything from you. ‘Calista fucking Flockhart could put more weight behind her punches than that.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Well? It’s Jeff, isn’t it?’
I turned my back on my opponent. ‘Sally, it’s difficult. He must be forty-five if he’s a day.’
‘He’s fifty-one. And he’s been boxing about six times as long as you have. Most of that in the Marines.’
‘I know, and he’s good, but…’
‘You want to take it easy on him. I see. Don’t be so bloody patronizing. Jeff’s tougher than Darcey Bussell’s big toe.’ I couldn’t help smiling. ‘How would you feel if one of those teenagers over there thought the same about you?’
‘I’d kick his spotty arse.’
‘Which is exactly what Jeff wants to do to you. So stop farting around. Anyway, you know what he just said? “I’m taking it easy on the kid, Sal. He’s fit and he’s quick but he looks a bit raw."’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘The kid.’
‘So stop wasting ring time and do some work.’
Jeff and I went another couple of rounds. In spite of what Sal said I could feel the age difference as I dug uppercuts into his softening midriff and made him walk a lot of ring. Added to that was the fact that I was fitter than I’ve ever been, having increased my two nights a week to three. I wasn’t sure why but it might have been in response to a change I’d seen in Mike recently: a slowing down, a slight rounding out that wasn’t just physical. I also had a desperate, psychic war to win against my inner twitcher.
Afterwards I stretched. The workout had been great but images from the day soon began to drift back into my mind. Jemma. Then the hooker, the tracks I’d seen running up her arm like death-watch beetles. I wondered if the girl I’d failed to find would end up like that. I didn’t know if she would or wouldn’t but I wasn’t going to get involved. I thought about the promise I’d made to the other girls: that I wouldn’t hurt Denise, wouldn’t reveal her whereabouts to anyone. I meant it. I wouldn’t tell Jared where she was. I’d done that once: eight years ago. One damp night not long after I’d set up on my own I’d taken a guy down to a squat in Streatham, where his fourteen-year-old daughter was staying. The guy had seemed genuinely devastated that his baby girl had run away, had wept at my office table as he told me about the death of the girl’s mother and bullying at school. I promised him I’d find her and I did. I thought I was giving both sides a second chance. The father of being a better parent and the girl, Carolyn Oliver, of backing away from a life on the street. Backing away from alleyways and blow jobs, needles passed round in a circle.
It was only when we walked into the miserable hole she’d taken refuge in that I realized what I’d done. The thin, pale girl cowered in a corner at the sight of her father. His face set like concrete. His only word was ‘Outside,’ spoken in a voice that made my blood run cold. His daughter was terrified, something I could tell even though her face was almost completely hidden behind a curtain of lank, mousy hair. As she rose up from the floor I saw the damp stain spreading between her legs, sticking her skirt to her thighs. The dignity with which she walked past me, and past her father, out to his car, stays in my mind to this day.
So if any of those girls called me I would simply take Denise’s picture and maybe tell her that her husband wanted her back. Then I’d tell Jared how she was and what she’d said, showing him the pictorial evidence. For this I’d charge a flat fee inclusive of update reports if I ran into Denise in the near future. It’s not ideal. Not for my clients, not for me, and certainly not for the kids I look for. But name me one thing in this world that is.
The bag was free and I thought about a quick session but I felt a pull in my shoulder from a hook I’d tried to extend. I was walking over to the showers when Sal flipped a switch on the beat box, and clapped her hands. There was a girl at her side. By the look of the girl – muscular, tracksuit and trainers, hair in a tight ponytail – she was a kick boxer and had come on the wrong night. But she wasn’t. Sal introduced her as Cherie, a masseur. Or rather she was doing a massage course and needed some guinea pigs. Someone asked if the lotion wouldn’t get stuck in their fur and everyone laughed. I laughed too. I couldn’t believe my luck. When Sal had turned the music back on I approached the girl. I introduced myself, told her about my shoulder, and asked if she could fit me in on Sunday.
‘That was easy,’ Cherie said, a smile appearing on a pleasant if rather flat face. ‘But what’s wrong with now?’ She opened her hands.
‘Now?’
‘Why not? After exercise is best and my place is only five minutes’ walk.’
‘Your place?’
‘Where I’ve got my bench. And my oils and stuff.’
‘Oh, right.’ I thought about it, glancing up at the clock on the wall. It was certainly tempting and I couldn’t, actually, see why not. I hadn’t got anything planned for that night although I had left a message with a former colleague of mine, asking him to call me.
I’d go and meet Andy Gold if he was free, to talk about Jo, but I could easily fit the massage in first.
‘Great.’ I shrugged.
‘Right,’ Cherie said, suddenly looking a little nervous. I guessed it was the first time she’d done this and, actually, the concept of inviting strange men back to her place was not, when I thought about it, very wise. I’d tell her that – right after the massage.
‘Give me ten minutes to shower,’ I said.
When I was all clean I towelled off and then dressed, shutting up my locker after me. I was walking back out to Cherie when I heard my phone, ringing from my coat pocket. I reached for it, wondering if it was Andy. I looked at the caller display but the number wasn’t familiar. It was probably one of the girls I’d spoken to earlier. I didn’t really want to schlep down to Loughborough Junction again that day but I would do, if Denise was there. I hit the green button.
‘Billy? Billy, where are you?’
The voice wasn’t Andy’s, or an informant’s, but Mike’s. I was surprised. Mike didn’t often call me at home, let alone on this thing. I saw him four or five days a week as it was. I asked him how he was and when all I got in reply was silence I thought I’d hit cancel the way I sometimes did, by pressing the phone too hard against my cheekbone.
‘Mike?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, this is an honour. What can I do for you? If you’re going to ask me about my church attendance record, I’ll tell you now it’s pretty poor. I’ll buy good toys, though.’
‘Listen, Billy.’ Mike moved straight through the joke.
His voice sounded raw, desperate almost, and I frowned. ‘Are you busy? Right now?’
‘Not this second,’ I said, looking towards the door. ‘I’ve got five minutes.’
‘Billy, can you meet me?’
‘Yes.’ I shrugged. ‘Sure. I’d like to. I’m going for some massage and then I’m heading home. I could see you in, say, a couple of hours?’
‘Shit.’
‘Mike? What is it?’ I was alarmed.
‘It’s me, Billy, that’s what.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I, believe me. Can you meet me now?’
‘Of course. If you want. But hey, give me a clue. What is it?’
‘It’s this.’ Mike paused, letting a long sigh hiss out through his teeth. ‘I’m at home. Ally’s out, she’s at one of those classes. I begged off, saying I wasn’t feeling well. But I’m not ill.’
‘Then what is the matter?’
‘The matter is I’ve got a bag packed. And I’m about to leave.’
‘Leave to go where?’
‘I mean, leave Ally.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going to leave her. I was about to, at least. Billy, I’ve even got a fucking cab waiting. I was just going out the door but I thought I’d call you first. I don’t know why, I just thought you might… I mean you know us both. Shit, I can’t do this on the phone. Please, can you meet me?’
‘Of course. Just don’t do anything stupid. Give me twenty minutes. And Mike?’
‘What?’
‘Cancel the cab. You hear me?’
‘I will. I’ll pay him off. Thanks, Billy.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
Mike tried again to tell me what the hell was going on but I told him he was right, not over the phone. We agreed on a place to meet and I hung up. I’d tried my best to sound calm and understanding, but I was far from being either. I was flat on my back. I looked at my phone, hardly able to believe what Mike had said to me. Leave Ally? Now? I could hear the complaining whine of boots on canvas pushing beneath the door, backed by the echoing whump of the boom box. I walked out towards them and told Cherie I couldn’t make it after all. She was disappointed, now that she’d got used to the idea, and I guessed Sal must have OK’d me. I heard her say Sunday then, after all, and I agreed without really listening. Jeff walked over and asked me if everything was OK.
‘No,’ I told him. ‘No, it isn’t.’