Free I Came to Find a Girl by Jaq Hazell Page B

back.”
    “I should have been there,” I said. “Maybe she’d be okay if I’d left work the same time as we usually do.”
    “It’s not your fault.” We both fell silent as we finished our coffee.
    Over 210,000 people go missing every year . I had checked the statistics online.
    “The police call them mispers,” I said.
    “You what?”
    “Missing persons – they call them mispers, sounds like whispers, doesn’t it? Like they’re already ghosts the rest of us can no longer hear.”
    “Don’t say that, you’re creeping me out.”
    They only search for the vulnerable or where there’s been a crime.
    The police had already come out and said they thought Jenny had been abducted and yet no CCTV footage of her had been traced from any of the cameras in the city centre. She must have got in a car whether willingly or otherwise. And no significant sightings had been made though the police remained convinced someone must have seen something. But if there was a witness, he or she was not keen to come forward whether due to fear of reprisals or the simple fact he or she was not meant to be on that street at that time.
    From my bedroom window I looked out at the lamp-lit crossroads. Can anyone tell me where to find my friend?
    The street was empty. The girls must have been taking heed or were they in danger in a stranger’s car at that very moment?
    Windows glowed in the period conversions opposite: other students, the unemployed, the old, low-paid, and immigrants. A car crawled past. Bang! One of its wheels burst a crisp packet. The driver sped away – Loser .
    I withdrew from the window, closing the heavy curtains; I had work to do. How can I concentrate? What if it’s Flood? I had introduced Jenny to Flood the night I went for a drink at his hotel. Did he go back for her? I couldn’t get the idea out of my head . I should go to the police. I felt sick. Reporting what may or may not have happened would make it real.
    Hold on, no, it can’t be Flood. He’s back in London . I’d seen him pictured in a newspaper at the opening of the latest Royal Academy show in London.
    I’d know if he was here. I would sense it.
    I looked back at my self-portrait from a few nights before. The painted figure looked bemused and wary and that was before I’d even heard about Jenny. I had to have something to show. I had a crit the next day. What else could I do but take the watercolour sketch and develop it – thicker paint, texture – put it on canvas? So what if it showed vulnerability, bemusement and even fear – that’s life isn’t it?
    A police siren whirred. Have they found Jenny or is it someone else?  
    Please, let Jenny be safe.

Eleven
    Flood’s DVD. Interior, loft apartment: large multi-paned windows, exposed brickwork and in the middle of the room a calico-covered chair. The date in the bottom right-hand corner states: Thursday 2 June 2005, the Wire Works, Spitalfields, London.
    “Who lives in a house like this?” It’s Flood’s voice. “Let’s take a look at the clues.” The camera points upwards. “Lovely high beams, perfect to hang yourself from as and when your genius goes unrecognised.” He moves into the kitchen area. It’s small with the usual fitted appliances and units.
    “Cooking may not be a priority for this person,” he says. “Although, there is a large fridge freezer...” The camera shifts to a stainless steel American-style side-by-side fridge freezer, and sweeps back towards the living area. “Note a distinct absence of any statement pieces – no mid-century design-classic furniture, no oversized flat-screen TV. We can only surmise this is no flash city slicker’s crash pad. But what to make of the generous expanse of empty space?” He points to the corner. “And the large canvases lined up against one wall and the pile of sketches?”
    The camera switches to a fixed position and Flood comes into view. He walks over and begins to leaf through the drawings, holding a couple to