Free I Came to Find a Girl by Jaq Hazell

ovenproof dish and top with buttered bread and grated cheese. Oh yes, though I’d never eat this at home, I can’t wait . It needed to bake for twenty minutes so I sat in my room with my sketchbook open and thought again of the Frenchman tenderly pushing the hair back and away from my face.
    The warm fishy smells drifting up to my room grew stronger so I knew it was time. Downstairs, the kitchen window was fogged as the bubbly, boiling tuna and soup belched like volcanic mud. I spooned a large dollop of the steaming gunk onto one of our mismatched plates and made my way downstairs to join the others.
    “Shove up, will ya?”
    Reluctantly, Slug and Spencer made some space on the collapsed green sofa.
    “Antiques Roadshow – will that programme ever end?” I said.
    “This bird’s painting’s gonna be worth a packet.” Slug nodded towards the old woman who was telling the valuer how she was downsizing due to bereavement.
    “Yeah, all right love, we’re all very sorry, but stop going on.”
    “It is a most ravishing painting,” the TV expert said.
    “What you eating?” Spencer asked.
    “Tuna Special.”
    “Looks like elephant dung,” Tamzin said.
    “Don’t diss my cooking.”
    “You could stick it on one of your paintings like Chris Ofili,” Kelly said.
    “You what?” Slug said.
    “He sticks elephant dung on his paintings.”
    “Did you hear that – one hundred fucking grand for that picture,” Slug said. “I’m on the wrong course.”
    Kelly curled her lip. “Colours looked muddy to me.”
    “I don’t like it,” I said.
    “That was the door. I’ll go.” Tamzin went to answer, and quickly returned looking concerned. “It’s for you, Mia. It’s the police.”
    Oh my God. “What?” I got up, taking my plate with me.
    Two dark uniformed figures filled the doorway.
    “Mia Jackson?” The younger one asked. He was cute with chocolate button eyes. Is this who they send when it’s bad news? I nodded and thought of Flood. Do they know something?
    The police officers introduced themselves. The cute one was called DC Stanmore or Standard or something? I couldn’t take it in.
    “Is there somewhere we can talk, Miss Jackson?” The older one had a thick Scottish accent and a miserable, craggy face. “Can we come in? You have somewhere we can talk?” He had to repeat himself. I wasn’t reacting but where could I take them? Everyone was in the living room. It would have to be upstairs. I led them up to the first-floor kitchen.
    Just say it. Tell me what it is. Get it over with. Don’t let it be Mum and Dad.
    My plate wobbled as I placed it on the side. And I gathered up two further dirty plates and there were mugs with browning dregs and fag ash. I started tipping slops into the sink.
    “Please, don’t fuss,” the older officer said. “We need you to sit down.”
    Our chairs were rickety and the police officers looked too big for them.
    I gripped the sides of my old wooden seat.
    “You’re a friend of Jenny Fordham?” the young officer asked.
    Jenny? I racked my brain . I only know one Jenny. What’s her surname?
    “She’s a chef. You work with her at Saviour’s Bar and Restaurant.”
    “Oh Jenny, yes, of course. She’s okay, yeah?”
    Their hesitation was my answer.
    “She’s missing,” the older, craggy-faced officer said.
    And I laughed. It seemed absurd. “No, she can’t be.” They looked at me as if I might know something. All I knew was that people I know don’t go missing.
    The older officer leant forward. “This is strictly routine, but we have to ask: where were you on Friday night, 11.40pm?”
    I gripped the edge of the old wooden chair and glanced at the dirty plates and empty cereal packets. What to say? I should have been there . “I phoned in sick. I’ve never done that before, it’s just I couldn’t face it. I told Vivienne, that’s my boss, that I had a migraine but really I went out with my housemates.” I gripped the chair tighter. “Are you going