The Runaway. Ali Harper
the deposit.’ She gestured towards Jo, who, I noticed for the first time, held a wad of £20 notes in her left hand.
*
‘Poor lamb,’ Aunt Edie declared from the kitchenette, once Nikki had gone. ‘Still, least it’s not like it was in my day. She’d be shipped off faster than you could say, “Up the duff without a paddle.” Never knew who was going to disappear next. It was like those murder-mystery parties where they pick you off, one at a time.’
‘Let’s start with his mate,’ I said to Jo. ‘Clearly Nikki thinks he knows something.’
I googled the address Nikki had given us for Matt, The Turnways – up near the cricket ground. ‘No time like the present.’ I grabbed my jacket from the peg by the door. ‘Come on.’
Jo drove the company van as I gave directions. We found a nice little residential street in the heart of Headingley. At least, it was probably a nice little residential street once upon a time, before students had overrun the area and landlords disregarded their obligation to keep properties in a good state of repair. The houses were identical, substantial semi-detacheds, arranged in a gently curving semi-circle. Jo parked up and we knocked on the door, waited a few minutes, knocked some more. No answer. I patted my jacket pockets for a pen.
‘A note?’
Jo wrinkled her nose. ‘Let’s keep the element of surprise. Least till we know what we’re dealing with.’
‘What then?’ I glanced up, spotted an open window on the first floor. An open sash window. No window easier to get through, even without my ironing-board physique.
Jo caught me scoping it out and shook her head. ‘Give him a chance. We’ll come back.’ She left the garden and strode towards the van. ‘Let’s try the uni.’
*
We detoured via the office to drop off the van – getting into the University of Leeds’ car park is harder than getting into Glastonbury. ‘Nikki gave us the name of his tutor, didn’t she? I’ll get the form.’
‘I’ve had a Martin Blink on the blower,’ said Aunt Edie as soon as I stepped through the door. I keep telling her she watches too many cop shows.
Martin Blink. I grinned. If it wasn’t for Martin Blink, Jo might be on remand in Armley nick, waiting for some pen-pusher to decide whether self-defence is now an offence. ‘What’s he want?’
‘Says he’s got a case for you,’ Aunt Edie said in a tone that suggested she had trouble believing him. ‘A suicide.’
‘We’re a missing persons’ bureau.’ I hung my jacket back on its peg. The day was warmer than I’d realized. ‘What we going to do with a suicide?’
‘Wouldn’t give any details,’ Aunt Edie continued. ‘Like I might not have the wherewithal to take a proper message.’ She tutted and balled up the piece of paper in the palm of her hand. ‘Insisted on coming to see you.’ She took aim at the wastepaper bin next to my desk. ‘I told him we can’t have people dropping in willy-nilly. I told him, you’re both busy women.’
The ball of paper flew through the air and landed dead centre in the bin.
‘Not that busy, Aunt Edie.’
‘He said you’d make time for him.’ She raised eyebrows at his temerity. ‘I said, “Oh, will they now? And who might you be?” Bloody cheek.’
‘He’s the journalist I told you—’
‘Retired journalist. Talks like he’s part of the team. Well, I told him, I don’t care who you are, you have to have an appointment.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘And did you make him one?’
Jo pushed open the door. ‘Come on,’ she said, tapping at an imaginary watch on her wrist.
‘Martin Blink wants to see us,’ I said.
‘Ace. Let’s go.’
‘He needs reminding that this is a female detective agency, isn’t it?’ Aunt Edie looked to Jo for support.
I’ve given up trying to explain the difference between a detective agency and a missing persons’ bureau to Aunt Edie. At times I think she’s deliberately trying to misunderstand.
‘That’s right, Edie,’ said Jo. ‘No persons with dangly bits will ever work in this office.’ She made a diagonal cross over her left breast as she spoke. ‘You know what it’s like. Let one in and they’ll all want to start waving them around.’
I frowned at Jo. I put my hands on my hips and tried to adopt a managerial tone. ‘Did you make him an appointment?’
‘In the diary.’ Aunt Edie sniffed.
‘When?’
‘Half past four.’
‘Today?’ I glanced at the clock.
‘I squeezed him in.’ She switched on her computer screen and took a seat at the desk. ‘Not that he was grateful.’
*
It’s only a ten-minute walk from our offices to the uni, through Hyde Park, the decompression chamber between city centre and student-ghetto. Jo found the Earth and Environment building on a map of the campus while I checked the form. Nikki had given us the name of Matt’s tutor – Professor Kenrick, or Kennick.
We found the name – Kendrick – on a tutorial list; office was on the eleventh floor. It was already two o’clock in the afternoon and it appeared that the university had done its main business of the day and was winding down to home time. We passed several empty seminar rooms as we marched along the corridors, reading the names on the doors. We climbed another flight of stairs and encountered an identical set of corridors before we found the room we were looking for. I glanced through the window. A woman with short hair, hunched over a desk.
Jo knocked and pushed open the door. ‘Professor Kendrick?’
The professor glanced up from her desk, and the familiar feeling of being a schoolgirl in the firing line washed through me. I braced myself for her displeasure at being disturbed. She looked us both up and down.
‘You’ve found me.’ She placed her pen down on the pile of paper in front of her and pushed her glasses up into her short, spiky hair. ‘And provided a welcome distraction. What can I do you for?’
‘We’re looking for Matt Williams.’
The professor inclined her head. She was younger than I first thought. Perhaps not even forty. ‘Popular chap.’
‘We’re private investigators,’ said Jo. ‘We need to talk to him.’
The academic stood up and I realized how tall she was. Impossible to miss, she must have been over six foot. In the small room she took on almost comedy proportions.
‘I do beg your pardon. I thought you were students.’ She brushed down her rumpled suit trousers with one hand as she held the other out to shake Jo’s. ‘Private investigators. Fascinating.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jo.
‘How long have you been in this line of business?’
‘Long enough,’ said Jo.
‘Do come in, and close the door. If I move this pile of papers,’ she grabbed a stack from a chair in the corner of her shoebox-sized room, ‘you’ll even be able to have a seat.’
Jo didn’t move and as I was stood behind her, I didn’t either. The professor didn’t appear to notice as she continued to rearrange the boxes and piles of paper. ‘So, Matthew. Matty, I believe the girls call him. Obviously, I’m too old to be swayed by his charms, but not so old I can’t appreciate why he causes such a stir.’ She turned to smile at us both.
‘Do you know where we might find him?’ asked Jo.