‘It all sounds hopeless,’ said Moss. ‘We haven’t even started and we seem to have reached a dead end.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Patterson began writing on a pad and tore off the page. ‘Here,’ he said, giving it to Moss. ‘This is the address of the Prostitutes’ Collective. I’ve written a note to Georgia Lalor asking her to help you. You’ll find her there most days. She’s the only one I can think of who might be able to help.’ He stood up and shook hands with them both. ‘I always thought Brenda was the key. Funny-these things stick with you, even after all this time. I hope you find her.’
‘We’ll do our best,’ said Hamish.
Waiting until they were back out on the street, he turned to Moss. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this was for your father? You used to tell me you didn’t know who your father was.’ His tone was aggrieved.
Moss took his arm. ‘I’m really sorry, Hamish. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that my father told me about Amber-Lee in confidence. In the end I had to tell Judy when she rang me for the details. They needed to know why I was interested in the case.’ She searched his face. ‘Okay now? We’re still mates?’
‘Alright. Still mates. But tell me, how did you find your father?’
Moss related the story of her search as they made their way to the Prostitutes’ Collective, which was only a twenty-minute walk from the police station. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they almost walked past its unremarkable entrance. The Collective was housed in an old red-brick building, and they entered through a single glass door which led to a large room furnished with several armchairs and a cluster of desks. Some young women were looking at a noticeboard, and another was feeding the photocopier.
Moss and Hamish looked at each other. It wasn’t quite what they’d expected. An older woman, dressed stylishly in black, came over to where they were standing.
‘Are you the reporters?’ she said.
‘What? No, we’re here to see Georgia,’ said Hamish.
‘We have a letter of introduction,’ Moss added.
‘Georgia’s in a meeting at the moment. Did you have an 211 appointment?’
Moss was chastened by the woman’s tone. ‘Sorry. We didn’t know we had to have one.’
The woman sighed. ‘Who’s the letter from? I might be able to fit you in later today.’ Moss handed her the letter and she nodded. ‘Graham Patterson. Yes.’ She returned to her desk and referred to a diary. ‘She can see you at three this afternoon.’
With nearly four hours to fill, Moss and Hamish decided to walk along the foreshore and have lunch at one of the bay-side restaurants. It was a clear spring day, with a hint of summer in the sun’s rays. There were a few yachts bobbing on the water, sporting sails of red, yellow and sparkling white.
‘When I was a kid,’ Hamish told her, ‘I always wanted to go to sea. I used to read books about explorers and pirates- anything about the sea-but my parents didn’t even like the beach. We always went up to the mountains for our holidays. Anyway, one day my mate Ben’s parents invited me out for a day’s fishing on their boat. I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep the night before. We’d been on the boat for less than twenty minutes when I started to throw up. It wasn’t even rough. The sea was like a millpond. They were very nice about it, but I was so sick that they had to bring me back and ring my parents to collect me. I was mortified, and Ben couldn’t wait to tell the story when we got back to school.’
Moss grinned. ‘And that was the end of your seafaring ambitions?’
‘No, I’d still like nothing more than to be able to sail the world. But I have to accept that it’s never going to happen.’ He looked at her earnestly. He didn’t want to see her hurt. ‘Some things that we want are just not possible. We can try to find Amber-Lee’s identity, but there may be a point where we can’t go any further. We have to be able to recognise that point when we reach it.’
‘If we reach it.’
‘Yes. If we reach it.’
At three o’clock they were back at the Collective for their meeting with Georgia. Patterson had told them a little about the organisation, which had been set up as a kind of union for prostitutes. It promoted safe sex and provided information to newcomers. There was a register of violent clients, and staff cooperated with the police to protect the safety of their members and, in some cases, the general public.
Georgia was a full-figured woman in her mid-forties, with rich chestnut hair caught in a clasp at the nape of her neck. She welcomed them in a pleasantly modulated voice and stood aside as they entered her office. They were surprised to find that it was like any other office-an untidy desk with a framed photo and a vase of daffodils, a phone, a computer and some shelves lined with dark blue folders. Quality Procedures, Moss was astonished to read on the spine of one folder. What was I expecting? she asked herself. Crimson velvet curtains? Erotic artworks? Silk kimonos?
‘So Graham Patterson sent you to me. How is he?’
‘He’s well,’ replied Moss, relinquishing her thought with a guilty start. ‘Says to tell you hi.’
Georgia smiled. ‘Now, how can I help you?’
Moss told her story as succinctly as she could, and Georgia listened without comment.
‘… so if we could find Brenda,’ Moss concluded, ‘we might find the key to Amber-Lee.’
Georgia sat back in her chair. ‘I remember the accident. I was working at the Kasbah at the time, but I knew some of the streetgirls. Didn’t know this Amber-Lee, though. I knew Brenda a little. Just enough to pass the time of day. She was one of Vince’s girls. He was a nasty piece of work.’
‘Can you tell us anything about the accident?’
‘Only that it happened and the police were trying to find out who the victim was. Brenda disappeared soon after.’ She looked at them sharply. ‘Look, I might know someone who can help, but I need to know I can trust you. What’s in it for you?’
‘It’s just as I told you. I want to help my father to give Amber-Lee back her name, her identity. Honestly, I don’t have any other motive.’
Georgia measured Moss with her eyes. She was usually a good judge of character, and this girl seemed sincere. So many street people died without a name and were buried without mourners. She’d been a streetworker herself in her younger days and was painfully aware of the fragility of identity in such a world. It was her sense of responsibility that had drawn her to work for the Collective, and in helping Moss discover Amber-Lee’s real name, she was helping all the girls, in a way. There but for the grace of God … she thought grimly as she opened her desk drawer and took out a notepad.
‘I’ll have a word with Damara. I think she kept in touch with Brenda. Give me your number and I’ll let you know if she’ll speak to you. It might take a week or two.’
Thanking Georgia, they left, feeling elated. They hadn’t reached that dead end yet. Moss returned to Opportunity to await developments, and Hamish went back to his studies. The interruption had been welcome. He needed to come up with an idea for a major project to support his thesis, but time was running out and ideas were elusive.
Finn was worried about Moss. She seemed so dejected, and her interest in her music had waned again. She was too young to drift into the lassitude that infected so many in Opportunity. She needed cheering up, but he was at a loss. What did young women enjoy nowadays? She didn’t have a boyfriend; Mrs Pargetter had mentioned this a couple of times. The problem was that he didn’t know any suitable young men. He’d have to come up with something else. Women always like a nice dinner, he thought. Some hopeful calculations indicated that it must be close to her birthday. A present too, then. Dinner and a present.