The Long Dark Road

by P. R. Black

  ‘Please, just take a look at the picture. She was a writer, she… She had a project. It had something to do with Bewley Street. She’s gone missing.’

  ‘You deaf or something? I’d keep away from here, if I was you, love.’

  Georgia moved the car on. They were all glaring at her. Suspicion, mistrust, and worse. This was a dangerous place. She marvelled that she’d gotten out of there without coming to harm. She’d been lucky.

  One of the girls turned and walked away down the street, smartly. Another car further up the street suddenly revved up and tore off.

  Two girls were stood beside each other under the second streetlight. They were still talking, but keeping an eye on Georgia’s car. The first one, who looked as if she’d just been woken up out of a deep sleep, with a leopard-skin skirt and black tights, frowned at her. ‘You looking for directions, dear? Wherever you’re going, go straight on, fast as you can, and don’t stop.’

  Her friend shrieked laughter at this – a small, hard-looking blonde with a front tooth missing.

  ‘I’m looking for my little girl.’

  ‘You know how many times I hear that every night?’

  Again, her friend laughed aloud at this.

  ‘This is her. Stephanie. You might have heard.’

  The woman in the leopard-print skirt came forward – her pumps were enormous, and possibly the wrong size for her – and stared at the pic. ‘I know about this. Or I heard about it. I saw it on the telly.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  The girl’s face became serious. ‘Bit before my time. I only arrived this year. Know about the case. She’s gone, you know that, don’t you? You’re not going to get her back. You’re wasting your time here. Someone’s got to tell you. I’m sorry, love.’

  ‘I only want to find out what happened. She spent time with people here – I know that for a fact now. I’ll pass you a card, if you hear anything…’

  The girl laughed again. ‘Card? What do you think this is, a company meeting? Card, she says.’

  Her companion sneered: ‘Bank card? I’d accept that.’

  ‘Your daughter’s gone,’ the girl in the leopard-print skirt said. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. She’s in the river, or in someone’s freezer. Someplace nice and quiet, anyway. I wish it wasn’t true. But it is. Mind how you go, now. Mind how you go.’ She waved, but it was an oddly robotic movement, her body and features stock-still barring the pendulous movement of her upper arm. Something in this gesture froze Georgia to the marrow, and she wanted to move off again up until the moment the girl two lights up approached, pointing at the car.

  Georgia drove off, the laughter of the little blonde girl jagged in her ear, and caught up with the new girl. She was short and dark-skinned, possibly of Indian extraction, and she had long dark hair fashioned into intricate bunches down the side of her head. She was dressed all in black, and while she was not as pretty as the other girls, she looked more expensive. The thought was repulsive. ‘Hey,’ the girl said.

  She was almost certainly in her twenties, though it would have been difficult to pin down what end of the decade. She had a crumpled look around the eyes, and one look at the neck and the jutting bones visible just beneath told Georgia she was thin, dangerously so – even more of a giveaway than the stork’s legs. This girl bent over and said: ‘You’re the lady who went crazy here the other night, weren’t you?’

  The way the girl framed the sentence, and the impudent jut of her chin, made Georgia fearful that a blow might follow these words. She said: ‘That’s right. I was here the other night.’

  ‘Then I’ve got something for you, if you’ve got something for me.’

  ‘What? Oh.’ Georgia pulled out a twenty-pound note from her purse, and held it just out of reach. ‘Get in, if you’re getting in.’

  The girl opened the door and got in, fast. Georgia resisted the urge to drive away at breakneck pace, and instead stayed put.

  She held out her hand, a frank, quizzical expression on her face.

  ‘Buckle up first,’ Georgia said. When the girl did so, she asked: ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘What do you want to know that for?’

  ‘So I know what to call you. You know. What names are usually for.’

  ‘Smart mouth,’ the girl said. ‘You can call me Judy.’ She raised her eyebrows again, and gestured towards her outstretched hand.

  Georgia fed her the twenty. ‘Thanks for coming. There’s more, if you tell me something I can use.’

  ‘Use for what?’

  ‘To find my daughter. The only thing I’m interested in. The only reason I exist.’ Something caught in the back of her throat. She stared into the road, waiting for her eyes to demist.

  A new element crept into Judy’s voice after this – something not quite so hard. ‘You could have come to grief out there. The other night, I mean. A few of the girls were wanting to wade in. And a few of their minders. They’re around, you know.’

  ‘I was out of my head. And I was desperate.’ She glanced at the girl as she started the car. They turned onto one of Ferngate’s main boulevards, a place of retail units and the bright lights of pizza parlours, multiplex cinemas and other large-chain delights, their lights oddly forbidding in the gloom of a quiet night. ‘So. Stephanie. Did you know her?’

  ‘I did. I got to know her through the scene.’

  ‘Scene?’

  ‘Yeah. The scene.’

  ‘You’ll have to explain that, sorry.’

  The girl rolled up her sleeve. ‘This scene.’

  In the crook of her elbow were some sores that, even at a glance in the faint light, had a raised, angry appearance. The sores had an alarmingly fecund look to them, as if something living might crawl out. Georgia immediately indicated to go into a retail park next to a fast-food restaurant, and put on the handbrake.

  ‘That’s infected. Staph infection, maybe. You got any other symptoms?’

  The girl shook her head. She became passive when Georgia examined her – the patient getting into her role as quickly as the doctor did. Georgia’s hands sought her neck, the corner of her jaw. She saw a pulse jumping there. ‘Your glands are swollen. Have you had any temperatures recently?’

  ‘You know your stuff. You told everyone you were a doctor. I thought you were lying. Or one of those pretend doctors. Sociology or something. Yeah, I wasn’t well the other night. Don’t feel so bad now. Not great either, truth be told.’

  ‘I’m going to write a note, and you’re going to go to your GP tomorrow. If you aren’t registered, go to A&E. Staph infections can be fatal.’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ the girl said.

  ‘It’s very simple – you don’t look after yourself, you die. I’m not making any judgements here about using. I’ve seen it plenty of times. Abscesses, staph infections, HIV, the lot. Pick a problem, I’ve tried to sort it. Have you been injecting into the muscle?’

  ‘Problems with my veins,’ the girl said, softly.

  Georgia nodded. Here was dread; God knew she’d seen just about every kind of infection and scenario involving drug users in her time, but this was away from the surgery and the panic button or any kind of help at all. ‘Tell me how you met Steph. Did you know her?’

  ‘Spoke to her a few times. She was… interested in us.’

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  ‘Would you believe, at church. She was in watching people light candles. I was in to say a prayer for my grandmother. She said hello to me. She seemed kind. Then I recognised her at a house party, thrown by Mr Riley Brightman. Local hero, take a bow. He dabbled in it. More into the gear at the time, than the women, but the two went together. That’s why we end up on the streets – the stuff. That’s why we do what we do.’

  ‘Is that where Steph tried it? At one of his parties?’

  ‘Yeah. I was there, the night she did it. Smoked it at first. She told me a funny story about fairies and dragons, while she was chasing one.’ This statement struc
k Georgia like a blow. There was truth. ‘But she wanted more. She got her own syringe. Said her mum was a doctor. I saw her go under, first time. She was on it from the start. It happens with some people.’

  ‘Jesus,’ was all Georgia could say. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘She was into writing. She had a project. Said she wanted to do a portrait. I thought she meant painting, at first, or photography. I told her about all the books I loved when I was a kid. Ponies. Horse riding.’ Judy’s voice trailed off a little. ‘She wanted to know all about me. Said I shouldn’t be doing what I do. She was a fucking fine one to talk.’

  ‘You’re saying Riley Brightman got her into heroin?’

  ‘Yeah. She had a weird name for it as well. You know what it was?’

  Georgia shook her head.

  ‘Cornfed. That’s what she called it. Like an actual name, Cornfed. Meaning the good stuff, I think. “Get me Cornfed”. “Best Cornfed you can get”.’

  ‘That sounds like her, all right,’ Georgia whispered.

  ‘Clever thing. Funny. Very droll. Pretty too, obviously. Had a way with words. Everybody raved about her. Well, boys mostly. She had the look, you know? Could have seen her on a catwalk. Think she’d done some photoshoots and stuff. Could see why. Weird, though – she doesn’t look much like you.’

  ‘How many times did you see her?’

  ‘Two or three. She came to Riley to get the stuff. We all did. Whoever his supplier was, it was easy pickings. He had loads of it. He didn’t take it himself. Thing is, I think he liked getting people onto it. The young girls especially.’

  Georgia remembered the fresh young faces at the house party, the make-up, the best clothes, the glittery eyes.

  ‘He even pretended he didn’t want your girl to get into it. “Once some people go over the line, they’re never coming back. After just one hit. And I think that’s you.” He told her that. And he was right. She went in anyway. She was all in.’

  ‘She wanted to write about you, and your life? She told you that?’

  ‘Yeah. Not me in particular. She was kind of fearless. Not a tough case or anything, but she spoke her mind. If people were rude, she told them they were rude. If she didn’t like anything, she said so. But she wasn’t, like, a fan of me, or anything. She was more into the big party, you know? The bigger scene.’

  ‘Another scene? I don’t follow you, sorry. You mean another drug?’

  ‘No, the party. The one I’m not supposed to tell you about.’

  ‘You’ve got to. What party is this?’

  She knew, of course. Judy’s face changed again, and she held out a hand. Georgia gave her a tenner.

  ‘The party up at Chessington Hall. The one they have every year. I went last year, and the year before. But not this year. Too skinny, they told me. Try again next year.’

  ‘What kind of party is it?’

  ‘Use your imagination.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘They round up a load of girls, and… You can imagine.’

  ‘This is at Chessington Hall?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s some festival or other. Springtime. Funny costumes. I forget what it was in aid of.’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘Yep. So was your daughter.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Nah. Was a few days before she went missing.’

  ‘You’ve told the police this?’

  ‘There’d be no point to that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They turn a blind eye to it. And besides… there’s nothing to tell. It’s a private party, after all. There’s a lot worse goes on in these kinds of places, I’ll tell you that much. Quite pleasant, as it turns out. Really good money, considering.’

  ‘There’s the party this weekend. Is it run by Sir Oliver?’

  ‘Private party, that’s all I was told. Didn’t see any lords or ladies, there.’

  ‘Is it all… is it working girls?’

  ‘Not all working girls, but there were a few of us there, yeah. That was the idea.’

  ‘Tell me more – how did Stephanie get there? What happened?’

  ‘That’s all I know. She took part in… she was in at the party, for sure. I think she was thrown out, or something. Or asked to leave. I don’t know. She said she was researching something, and there was a bit of a scene. Hey – what are you doing?’

  Georgia’s hands shook as she tapped something into her phone. ‘Making a note.’

  ‘You better not be phoning anybody.’ Judy’s hand clamped over her wrist. Georgia tore it away.

  ‘I’m not phoning anyone. I’m making a note. God’s sake, this is vital information. There was some kind of sex party up at Chessington Hall, and Stephanie was involved? Less than a week before she vanished down that road? Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Not a sex party. Not exactly. I’ve told you enough. Now, you mentioned something about more cash?’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  ‘She was a good bit closer to the other lass. They both got into the gear on the same night.’

  ‘What other girl?’

  ‘Jasmine. Real name was Janina, which I think is a lot nicer. Shame.’

  ‘Is she around tonight?’

  ‘She’s not around.’

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  ‘No, I mean, she’s not around. In terms of, you know, breathing.’

  ‘She’s dead? When?’

  ‘Not sure when exactly, but they found her up at that old farm the other day. OD’d, they reckon. She went over the line. We’ll all end up there some time.’

  ‘My God. Stephanie knew this girl? They were friends?’

  ‘Not exactly. I think Stephanie had her in mind for one of her portraits. Like, an article or something. Jasmine was pretty, you know? Popular around here, that’s for sure. Curly hair. Really wild. The johns loved it.’

  ‘Curly Sue,’ Georgia whispered. From the diary. And Curly Sue was surely killed. With all the attention. Maybe she knew too much? She said: ‘I need to know a bit more about this Jasmine…’

  Someone rapped at the window, startling the pair of them. Georgia turned. There was a young, handsome man behind the glass. He had a clean-shaven, gym-honed look, impeccably groomed, and was wearing a suit that caught the light, as velvet or fine felt might. He might have been a contestant on a reality TV show she’d never heard of. The face was familiar in a way that filled Georgia with dread.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, keeping the window down.

  The man grinned, and then pointed at Judy. ‘You’ve got my property in there, love.’

  ‘She’s no one’s property,’ Georgia said. But the young man ignored her, and went around to the passenger side.

  Judy looked terrified. Then to Georgia’s astonishment, she wound down the window.

  ‘We’re just chatting,’ Judy said, in a faux-bright voice on the verge of crumpling. ‘I know this lady. She’s taking me for a chicken feast.’

  ‘Is she now?’ said the young man, leaning his elbows on the inside of the open window. ‘She looks like that mad old bird who was shouting and bawling over on Bewley Street the other night. You are, aren’t you? The mother of that lass who went missing.’

  ‘I’m trying to find my daughter,’ Georgia said. She pulled out the photo. ‘This is her. Her name was Stephanie. She…’

  ‘I know who your daughter is. Seen it on the telly.’ The young man spat out the corner of his mouth. ‘Had that picture shoved in my face for two years. They not found her yet?’

  ‘No. I was talking to Judy here; she knows about Stephanie.’

  The young man nodded absently, then turned to Judy abruptly. He made a walking gesture with his forefingers on the door. ‘Out you come, princess.’

  Judy opened the door and got out. The young man in the sports coat smiled at Georgia. ‘Good luck, love. I’m afraid Judy’s too busy to have a chicken dinner. We’ll have one for you later, though.’ He laid a fraternal hand on Judy’s s
houlder; with the other he groped inside her jacket, brusque and crude, until he pulled out some notes. ‘We’ll have a chicken dinner, won’t we, Judes?’

  Judy said nothing. She allowed the young man in the sports coat to lead her away. Georgia triggered the button that brought the passenger-side window back up, took several deep breaths, and waited for the bells to stop ringing in her head.

  She was exhausted. But something in the nerves was still going. She finished the note on her phone’s memo pad.

  ‘Party. Chessington. Working girls.’ Then: ‘Jasmine’.

  25

  Everything’s set. I could include a map at this point; I’ll need to speak to someone who knows graphics.

  From Stephanie Healey’s untitled project notes, included in the diary

  DI Hurlford gulped down at his coffee as if he needed it. He’d shaved, but the blue of his fine-cropped stubble matched the circles under his eyes. Georgia’s first thought was that he had been out the night before. He scratched at his chin and said: ‘I can only spare you a few minutes.’

  ‘It’s all I need.’

  They were in the same coffee shop where Georgia had met Tony Sillars, the lecturer. It was quiet, apart from an elderly man, who had complained bitterly about the froth on top of his latte.

  Georgia opened her phone and spun it around, highlighting a scan. ‘I told you about Stephanie’s project – the writing scheme. And how I think it’s connected. I gave you copies of the diary she wrote, where she mentions it. Have you read it?’

  ‘It’s being looked at by several detectives.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked you. I said, “Have you read it?”’

  Hurlford drummed his fingers; his nostrils fluttered as he took a deep breath. ‘I’ve looked at bits and pieces of it.’

  ‘Well. You’ll be familiar with “Cornfed”. We spoke about it before.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know what Cornfed is. Cornfed is heroin.’

  Hurlford said nothing. He took the handle of his coffee cup between thumb and forefinger, but did not lift it towards his lips.

  ‘Stephanie wasn’t talking about a person at all. She was talking about drugs. Stephanie had gotten into drugs.’