‘Hi,’ smiled the driver, a large man in a Hawaiian shirt. ‘You need a lift into town?’
‘That’d be great, but hey, I don’t have any cash.’
‘Don’t worry. The meter’s not running tonight,’ the driver said, as he pulled a lever and closed the door.
Anthony grinned as he staggered along the aisle – from his point of view, his luck was just getting better and better.
7
Leighton Jones was a relatively happy man. He had survived the final week of work with his dignity intact, and was finally getting acquainted with his dwelling. Having spent four days cleaning and de-cluttering, his small apartment was now more like a home than it had been in twenty years. His only stumbling block had been a drawer in the kitchen, where photographs and emotions lay undisturbed, but he promised himself, unconvincingly, he would get around to that whenever he finally felt ready.
However, in the process of tidying his wardrobe, he had dug out a pile of paperbacks he had previously started reading but never finished. They were now stacked neatly on a small table next to the patio door, and it was Leighton’s plan to spend each evening after dinner sitting in the setting sun, with a book in one hand, and a glass of iced rum or white wine in the other. There was something fundamentally relaxing about the warm evening air combined with a good book – though, the drink undoubtedly helped, too.
Tonight, he had eaten a small Caesar salad with home-made croutons for dinner, and, having washed up, had moved out on to the patio, where he sat in shorts and a faded denim shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. He took occasional sips from a tall glass of crisp Orvietto, dipping in and out of a Dan Brown novel. This, for Leighton, was as close to contentment as he ever got.
When the car pulled up in front of his small, neatly mown lawn, Leighton glanced absently up from the pages of the book. He took no specific interest in the vehicle; it was amazing how quickly he had slipped off the cop mentality when he had handed in his badge. Not recognising the license plate, he returned his attention to the book in his hand, and did not look up until the shadow of a figure passed over him. Glancing up, he found himself staring at the fresh-faced girl he had spoken to outside the station, three weeks earlier. Her shoulder length hair was tied into a neat ponytail, and she wore jeans with a grey t-shirt.
‘Hello again, Detective,’ she said. ‘I need your help.’
Leighton’s mind was momentarily knocked off balance, as he struggled to recall the nature of their previous interaction. He gestured her to sit, and smiled politely.
‘What can I do for you, Miss?’
‘My friend is still missing,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way.
‘Ah, now, I remember.’ Leighton nodded. ‘The bus girl, right?’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ she said flatly. ‘The bus girl.’
‘Okay.’ Leighton took a deep breath. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. I’m Leighton Jones, and you are Vicki?’
‘Yeah, Vicki Reiner.’
‘Okay, Miss Reiner. Would you perhaps like something to drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Well, please take seat. Can you remind me who your friend is, and where she was headed?’ Leighton arched his hands into a steeple, and leaned slightly forward.
The girl sat down, but remained rather rigid. ‘Her name is Laurie Taylor. She’s a college friend, who booked a bus ticket from her home in Barstow to Oceanside - she was coming to stay with me for a while - but she never showed up.’
‘OK, and it’s been how long since you last heard from her?’
‘Twenty-two days?’
‘Are you in contact with any members of her family?’
‘No, she only had a mother, who died a few years ago.’
Leighton raised his eyebrows, unsure of the best way to tell this sincere young lady she was most probably wasting both his, and her, time.
‘Well, to be honest, look…’ Leighton hesitated too long, and the girl’s expression hardened.
‘I damn well knew it,’ she said sourly, and began shaking her head. ‘You’re still going to tell me to wait.’
‘No, I was actually going to tell – ’
But, the girl had already reached into her bag, and thrust a number of A4 sheets of paper across the table to Leighton.
‘Have a look at this, Detective, then, tell me I’m wrong.’
Picking up the sheets, Leighton looked over the top of them at Vicki. ‘What are they?’
‘Laurie’s cell phone call logs.’
‘Call logs? How did you get these?’ he asked curiously.
‘Just look at them, please. They begin on August 4th, that’s when the last number, at 1:42 a.m., was a SMS message sent to my phone. After that, she was picked up by the tower at Barstow Station. Then, Oceanside West cell tower picked up her phone, three hours later.’
‘So?’
‘So, Detective, from the moment she boarded the bus, Laurie Taylor never used her phone again.’
‘And you’re certain of that?’ Leighton looked at her seriously. ‘There can be no other explanation other than she was abducted - no other more likely scenarios?’
‘Yes, I’m certain.’ Vicki held Leighton’s gaze.
‘Well, I suggest you take these documents along to the Missing Per-’
‘I thought we could drive up there,’ she said intentionally cutting him off, and brushing absently at nothing on her jeans.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Leighton put down his glass, and arched his fingers together in front of his chest.
‘Yeah.’ Vicki grinned. ‘The two of us could go take a look at Laurie’s place up in Barstow. Well, technically, it’s just beyond Barstow, but not much.’
‘Miss, may I remind you I am officially a retired police officer, and as such…’
‘Exactly, so I know I can trust you.’ She grinned at him. ‘Plus, since you’re retired, you’ll be available during the day.’
Leighton shook his head. ‘It’s completely out of the question.’
‘You said you would help me, that day at the station, and I took you at your word.’ She sighed. ‘Look, I’ll drive, and I’ll even buy your lunch. You’re retired - it’s nice up there - think of it as a day trip.’
‘Well, if your friend is missing, what good would it do snooping around?’
‘I just thought we could take a look around, see if there’s any sign of a break in. You’d know what to look for.’ She glanced at Leighton for confirmation of this, but his face gave nothing away. Somewhere nearby, a lawnmower spluttered to life, and the faint smell of cut grass and gasoline fumes drifted by.
‘I thought,’ Vicki continued, ‘if we found something, some kind of evidence, then the police would maybe take the case seriously.’
‘Okay.’ Leighton tried his best to sound reasonable. ‘And if there was no evidence - no fingerprints on the windows, no puddle of blood in the kitchen, or swag bag in the garden, would that be enough to set you free you to move on?’
‘I swear.’ Vicki held her right hand up, and looked purposely earnest. ‘That would be the end of it - you could enjoy your retirement in peace.’
Leighton didn't know if it was the wine, his own loneliness, or the girl’s simple tenacity, but eventually, he took a sip from his glass, looked at Vicki Reiner, and nodded.
‘Look, Miss Reiner-’
‘Vicki.’
‘Look, Vicki, I was about to say, before you pushed the paperwork at me, I was never a particularly good cop, anyway.’