Free Behind Closed Doors by Michael Donovan Page B

swallowed the last of the coffee and looked pop-eyed at my partner.
    Shaughnessy grinned.
    â€˜Just kidding,’ he said.
    We decided to let the HP Logistics thing ride itself out. If they sued we’d fight our corner. I gave Shaughnessy and Lucy what I had on the missing girl, which wasn’t much. There were six hours remaining of Gina Redding’s commission. After that she’d have to decide whether to throw more money the same way or to call it quits. Six hours was tight to find out where Jean Slater’s sister lived and confirm or disprove the story about her looking after the girl. But I wanted at least that much before I went back to Gina.
    Plan A had been to report that Rebecca was safe at home and to refund the unused hours. The story about the aunt in an unknown Berkshire location expanded things awkwardly.
    I needed a brainstorm to figure out how to track this aunt down. Berkshire was a big place. Until the brainstorm hit I had other jobs.
    I headed back to my office for some research involving checking numbers on a long telephone list, looking for a name that shouldn’t be there. Another commercial contract. Another suspect employee. This time it was a high ranking executive on the board of a mid-size pharmaceutical company, suspected of selling inside knowledge to a party that would gain from trading short.
    Lucy went out and Shaughnessy soon after. I settled in behind my roll-top and stared at a computer screen for a couple of hours until the telephone numbers were dancing circles on my retinas. Time to quit. If I left I could still beat the traffic home.
    Arabel had left a note on my table. She had a late. I had the evening to myself.
    The frustration of not knowing whether the Rebecca Townsend thing was real or not was chasing around in my head and threatening to drive me crazy. The solution was to quit thinking. I showered and changed and went through to the rear attic. My therapy is painting. It’s a hobby that actually brings in some small change. The random fads of city culture had worked to turn my stuff into cash in a half-dozen outlets around the markets and tourist spots. I sell occasional cityscapes and a few portraits in half-impressionist style – something like Augustus John but less unkind. Acrylics on canvas, or on hardboard in my cheapskate moments.
    My rear attic had the original skylights. These leaked when it rained but gave the room a light that inspired on a summer’s evening. The present weather was running more to leak but the light was good enough to give me an hour or so. My current work was a portrait of Arabel. Arabel had the perfect face with just the right blemishes to make what I saw sublime. But my fixation on capturing perfection was cramping my style. Fixate on perfection and you’re as likely to bring out the blemishes. It’s too easy to make an ogre of an angel. Ask John. I worked for an hour and a half and forgot about lost girls. When the hues began to go flat I called it quits and went out.
    I crossed town, ate in Camden, then drove back to Paddington and parked the car behind Eagle Eye and walked the quarter mile to The Podium. The Podium was a spit and sawdust bar that played live jazz every night until two a.m. Weekdays were open house for new talent gigging to supplement day jobs and student loans. There was often more noise than talent but the jazz never lacked energy.
    It was early for the live sets. I grabbed a beer and found a quiet corner. My phone rang. Probably Arabel, calling before going on shift. When I punched the button I was disabused. The background music and yelling didn’t come from a hospital.
    â€˜Hey! Mr Gumshoe!’
    â€˜Sadie,’ I said. ‘Nice to hear from you.’
    â€˜I’ve got something.’ Her voice was raised against the hubbub. A little too animated.
    â€˜Are you drinking, Sadie?’ I said. ‘Is seventeen legal now?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ she said, ‘tonight