Free Amphetamines and Pearls by John Harvey

hopeless. It appears they haven’t got the chaps to look. Well, stands to reason, I suppose.’
    â€˜Who did you talk to?’
    â€˜The Inspector at the local station, I know him personally of course, and some fellow in town. Gilmour, I think it was. He was the chappie who referred me to yourself, actually.’
    Good old Tom. I wonder if he would do the same thing right now?
    Thurley looked across at me in what I assumed was meant to be his most earnest manner.
    â€˜I want Buffy found, Mr Mitchell. As you know I am prepared to pay well. I think she is merely being silly and rebellious and that she will see the error of her ways and return. But there are some pretty unpleasant people about nowadays, so I believe, and I would hate for her to come into contact with any of them.’
    There were more questions I wanted to ask, but he was standing up and offering me a large brown envelope.
    â€˜In there you will find names and addresses of her closest friends, though they all appear to be as mystified by it all as I am myself. We have never quarrelled in our lives, my daughter and I, never since the day her mother left us.’ He flicked at a non-existent speck on his immaculate cuff. ‘There is also a cheque for three hundred pounds made out to yourself: that is your retainer and a week’s payment in advance. You will let me know about your expenses in due course. Thank you, Mr Mitchell, for being so prompt. I wish you every success in your enquiries, for both our sakes.’
    I wondered if that was meant to sound as threatening as it did.
    â€˜I believe you came by taxi. If you wish, John will drive you to the station or else he will ring for a cab for you.’
    I thanked him and accepted the offer of a taxi. Chauffeurs who toted .38s I could do without.

7
    The sound of the disc jockey sniggering through his early morning chores gradually brought me to the surface. I lay there for what seemed a long time, trying to think about something concrete but ideas crumbled away from my mind like falling masonry. A girl in white with a neat bullet hole in her back; a girl with falling red hair and an open laugh; a girl in a photograph who looked as if she had lost part of her mind. Too many girls: too many questions.
    Then came the voice—strong and clear and not quite as I had heard it last. Someone had cushioned it and fashioned it with strings and choir; the melody was followed by the piercing tone of an oboe which remained steady when her voice veered off the line.
    I wanted to turn it off but could not. I could no more move than I could fly. Nothing could have shifted a muscle of my body. Nothing. I was like a rabbit being stared down by a stoat and there was not one thing I could do about it.
    But the voice finished and faded as voices do and the d.j. was talking inanities again and I could reach out and press the square grey button which freed me.
    I pushed off the cover and swung my legs on to the floor. Something warned me that if I stood up straight away I would fall back down. So for five minutes I sat on the edge of the bed while the song wound and rewound itself round inside my brain. Then I thought I could get up. I got up and went through to the kitchen.
    After two glasses of orange juice and several cups of black coffee I thought I could stand to speak to people. Real people, not the shadows of my dreams.
    I phoned Sandy: it rang a dozen times without response.
    I phoned West End Central: Inspector Gilmour was off duty till eleven.
    I phoned Dragon Records: a cleaner told me that no one would be in until ten o’clock. Civilised hours!
    I phoned Sandy once more: after the seventh ring a sleepy voice said, ‘Hello.’ When I said it was me the phone went back down on the hook. But fast. I went and poured out another cup of coffee. By the time I was back sitting by my phone it had started to ring. I waited for the second ring: it didn’t do to appear too anxious when