Free Hope Road by John Barlow

teenage emotions, hitting him hard, like a kick to the guts.
    “Hi, I’m John,” he says, as if to introduce himself.
    “Sandy,” she says, looking at him with an air of sadness as he attempts to stifle his surprise.
    What are you doing here?
he wants to ask her. She’s a lot older now, late fifties, but it’s Sandy all right. She hasn’t changed much.
    With that she turns and leaves. For a second time her pungent floral aroma hits him, and sends him into a reverie of sticky teenage desire.
    Fuller’s hands are now resting on the back of Craig’s chair.
    “And that, unfortunately, is that,” he says, his tone clipped, efficient. “Obviously we didn’t want any fuss. We took her out the back way. But now, well, this is serious. You’re absolutely sure it’s her, the girl who was found dead?”
    But John doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the monitor.
    “Him,” he says, pointing at the screen. On the video there’s a man sitting in the lounge, the one with the heavy eyebrows. “What’s he doing there in the dark?”
    “Bilyk,” Craig says with distaste. “The other Ukrainian.”
    John leans over Craig’s shoulder, gently edging Fuller out of the way.
    “May I?” he says, his finger already on the
fast forward
button.
    The seconds and minutes run quickly by. Bilyk does not move from his seat. Half an hour, an hour he sits there, peering down at his laptop, making sure he’s in full view of a security camera.
    “What happened to Mr Bilyk?” John says.
    “Like I told you, about three in the morning I offered him a different room. His was too badly damaged.”
    “You said
both
of them.”
    Fuller sighs. “Well, I don’t know where the other one is.”
    “And Bilyk went out this morning?”
    “I believe so.”
    “Okay,” John says. “Thanks very much for your help.”
    As if by mutual agreement he and Fuller resume cordial relations, and the two of them make their way into the reception area.
    “Coffee?” Fuller says, slipping behind the bar.
    “No thanks, gotta go. Horrible business, this. And we still don’t know where Freddy is. But thanks for your time. Ah…” He pats his pockets. “Glasses. Must have left them in there…”
    He nips back through the double doors and walks as fast as he dare down the corridor, straight into Room Twelve.
    “Hi, Sandy!” he says with a grin as he slips into the room.
    She looks up, a hotel telephone in one hand, sponge cloth in the other.
    “Hello, love! I thought you were pretending you didn’t know me back there!”
    “I thought you hadn’t recognised
me
!”
    “You? Well, I wouldn’t have done from the picture in today’s
Post
. Could hardly make you out!”
    “You saw the article?”
    “I did that! Bet your dad’s proud. Anyway, how’s things, John?”
    “Can’t complain, y’know.”
    Sandy Greg ran a pub down in Armley when he was growing up there, the kind of pub where you could get some fancy perfume or a leather jacket at stupid prices, most of it procured by Tony Ray and his merry men. And it was also where he had known his first infatuation.
    Her smile disappears. “You’re here about the girl, aren’t you?”
    “Did you know her?”
    “Aye, she’d been up here a lot. Gave this place a pretty good going-over last night an’all. Look!” She holds up the telephone, which is cracked right along one side.
    “Seen a big bloke called Freddy, have you? It’s him I’m looking for.”
    “Blond lad? He’s been sniffing round her like a randy dog. Gone missing, has he?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Then you’ll not be the only one looking for him.”
    “How’s that? Anything to do with these gentlemen from the Ukraine?” he says, looking around the room, two neatly made single beds and the smell of pine cleaner heavy on the air. “Still here, are they?”
    “One of ’em’s cleared off, by the look of things.”
    Opposite the beds is a narrow wall desk, covered with ring binders, piles of pamphlets and business