Gone in the Night. Mary-Jane Riley

it, the more she thought it would be a good idea to have Alex on board. She really was worried about Rick, what he was trying to do was dangerous. Then there were those goons last night. She rolled her shoulders. Bloody hell, she ached. And her head ached.

      ‘Cora, have you told the police that Rick is missing?’

      Cora began to laugh, but knew she had to control herself before the laughter became hysterical. ‘Do you think they care if someone who lives on the street is missing? Of course not. They’ll only say he’s moved on or fallen in with some criminal gang or gone somewhere else to score.’ Her finger made patterns in crystals of sugar left on the table. Besides, she did have an idea where he might have gone. Before. But now, after this supposed accident?

      ‘Maybe. But he would probably be classed as a vulnerable person and more would be done to—’

      ‘Really?’ Cora was all sharp sarcasm.

      ‘Look,’ said Alex, ‘I’ll have a word with a friendly copper to make sure he hasn’t been picked up by them for some reason or other. I’ll phone him on our way to see this Martin who you know. We can try the hospitals again later. But let’s not sit here doing nothing. And maybe we should report him missing. Cover all bases, yes?’

      Cora drummed her fingers on the table. Last night had been a warning. Don’t poke your nose in, don’t stir things up. Well, fuck that. She was bloody well going to poke her nose in where they didn’t want it and Alex Devlin could help her do just that. Reporting Rick’s disappearance to the cops wouldn’t help find Rick – the dozy buggers wouldn’t lift a finger – but it would piss the Riders off.

      She stood. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

CHAPTER TEN

       DAY TWO: MORNING

      Alex had walked through the underpass many times before, lowering her gaze so as not to attract the attention of the winos and the druggies, always feeling slightly apprehensive. But with Cora they became individuals. The woman knew them by name, laughed with them, told them off for their filthy language. And Alex thought she was doing something for society by buying the Big Issue and occasionally giving to Crisis at Christmas. But it was Cora who was doing the right thing, seeing the homeless as people, with names and personalities and lives.

      ‘Still not found ’im then, Cora?’ A man with badly discoloured teeth and wearing a tatty flat cap waved a bottle of cheap cider at her.

      Cora shook her head. ‘’Fraid not Tiger.’

      ‘Perhaps he’s got himself a girlfriend. A bed for the week, you know?’ He leered at her.

      She took no notice of the leer. ‘Maybe. But I’m worried about him. When was the last time you saw him?’

      Tiger shrugged. Pursed his lips. ‘Well, it ain’t changed since the other day. Coulda been last month. Or three weeks ago.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘My memory’s not so good these days.’

      ‘Has anybody spoken to you recently?’ asked Alex.

      ‘Besides the cops?’ There was general laughter. He stared at her. ‘And who are you anyways? Are you a copper? Or a do-gooder?’

      Alex tried to smile as easily as Cora, though her heart was thudding in her chest. ‘Neither. I’m a journalist.’

      ‘You can write about me then,’ said another man, swaggering up to her. ‘Tell my life story. How I got here. You’d never believe I was an accountant in a past life, would you?’ His sour alcoholic breath wreathed around her.

      He was right, she wouldn’t have believed it, but she knew perfectly well that anyone could become homeless – most people were only a couple of missed rent or mortgage payments away from it.

      ‘Gambling,’ he said, before hawking and spitting to the left of her. She didn’t move a muscle. ‘Lost everything. Had a good life once, everything going for me. Now look at me. No house. No wife. No kids. No life.’

      Alex looked him straight in his rheumy eyes. ‘I would like to write your life story,’ she said firmly. She lifted her voice. ‘All of your stories.’ Her words echoed around the underpass. ‘I mean it. If you want me to. But first we want to find Rick.’

      ‘What about the coppers? Maybe they’ve picked him up.’ A challenge.

      Alex shook her head. ‘Not as far as we know.’ Alex had rung Detective Inspector Sam Slater on the way to the underpass and he’d checked for her. No one had been taken off the streets early that morning or late last night, with or without any injuries.

      A girl – who could have been aged anywhere between twenty and fifty – peeled herself off the wall. ‘Have you talked to Boney?’

      ‘We were going to go and see Martin. He was the last person to see Rick.’

      Alex couldn’t help but notice the glances that went around the group. ‘What?’ she said.

      ‘Haven’t seen Martin since yesterday,’ said the girl. ‘Din’t turn up for the soup round last night. He allus turns up for the Sally Army soup round. Greedy bugger. Wasn’t there today neither. Ethel was tied up to the lamppost. Guess she’s gone to the dog pound. He could’ve moved on, I suppose. Back to Yarmouth.’

      Cora shook her head. ‘No, he didn’t like the place.’

      The girl shrugged. ‘Boney’d know. He knows everything.’

      ‘Where do we find Boney?’

      Cora tugged at her sleeve. ‘I know where he is. Come on.’

      Half an hour later and Alex found herself in the corner of a car park on the outskirts of central Norwich helping Cora pull at a sheet of corrugated iron.

      ‘If we just push this along like so—’ panted Cora. ‘We can shimmy—’ She squeezed her small frame through a narrow gap in the fence she had made. ‘Voila! Easy-peasy.’

      Taking a deep breath, Alex followed.

      ‘Is this what I think it is?’ said Alex, looking around at the lichen-covered gravestones that sat, higgledy-piggledy in a small area of waterlogged grass. Some were leaning so precariously it would give a health and safety inspector nightmares. In between the overgrown graves and forgotten chipped weeping angels was long grass dotted with molehills.

      ‘It’s an old Jewish cemetery,’ said Cora as they made their way through the wet grass. ‘Years old I’m told. It’s forgotten by almost everyone except Boney and his crew. I think some historians want to make it some sort of protected area, restore it and all that. Put in a visitor’s centre I shouldn’t wonder. But there’s no money, apparently. So for now, it’s home to Boney. And his, er, mates.’ Her mouth was set in a line.

      ‘So who exactly is Boney?’ Alex was curious.

      Cora sighed. ‘He helps the homeless people in the city. Finds places in hostels for them, gets the soup run out to them. Takes a small cut, but, hey, he’s got to earn a living, I guess. Gets them good pitches, makes sure they’re not turfed off them by someone new to the area – he even has a couple of coppers in his pocket who turn a blind eye to some of the people on the streets. Some might say they’re not doing their job; I think they’re showing a bit of humanity.’ Her expression grew dark. ‘But Boney’s also responsible for the never-ending supply of drugs – heroin, crystal meth, Spice, you name it, he can get it. Says it helps.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it does. Oh, he can also supply a dog.’

      ‘Ethel?’ Alex asked, thinking of Martin.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Where are they then? Boney and his friends?’

      Cora