The Disappeared. Ali Harper

Wilkins didn’t stay for the cup of tea that Jo had made. She had to get going, she said. I fed Jo the details while our client nipped to the toilet and then we escorted her out of the offices and back onto the street, doling out promises like those lanky kids in town hand out club fliers.

      ‘This’ll be a piece of cake,’ I remember saying.

      ‘You’ll know as soon as we do.’

      That last one from Jo as we made our way to the back street where we keep the van parked.

      I turned to Mrs Wilkins. ‘Do you need a lift somewhere?’

      ‘I’m parked down there.’ She gestured towards the Royal Park pub, and I wondered what kind of car she drove. I hoped it hadn’t been nicked in the time she’d been in our office. She didn’t appear worried, but then she didn’t know these streets like I did. Royal Park is an area of Leeds that’s an uneasy mix of local scallies and the poorer students. It encourages a healthy, non-materialistic outlook among its residents. As Proudhon said, property is theft. Round here, anything worth nicking is nicked.

      Mrs Wilkins’s parting comment was that she’d ring us first thing the next day. Saturday, 9 a.m., she said. The clock ticked, and my pulse raced alongside it. I couldn’t wait to crack our first case, Jo was desperate for a smoke, and Mrs Wilkins had less than twenty-five hours to live.

      We jumped into the van. True, we could have walked. Burchett Grove is less than half a mile away; but getting Jo to do any kind of exercise is harder than getting a decent pint in the Hyde Park.

      Burchett Grove sits at the top of a triangle of narrow streets that form Woodhouse – a mix of students and locals – mainly long-haired, cloth-capped hippies accompanied by dogs on pieces of string. There’s also the local pub, The Chemic, and, best of all, Nazams – the best curry house in Leeds.

      We pulled up at the far end of the street, just before the scruffy rows of brick-built terraces meet The Ridge. The Ridge always scares the hell out of me – a long strip of woodland and ankle-deep mud that separates Woodhouse from Meanwood. Woodhouse is students and hippies, Meanwood is Leeds born and bred. The Ridge feels lawless, a no man’s land, a sea of used condoms, empty cans of Special Brew, and spent syringes – the Russian roulette of country walks. Most women I know have got at least one tale of being followed by some random pervert down there. I avoid it whenever I can, preferring to do four times the distance but stick to the roads and the streetlights.

      The curtains weren’t drawn at number 16 but the house was in darkness. The last time I’d been here we’d smoked so much I’d got tunnel vision and had had to walk all the way home with one eye closed.

      We marched up the small path, and Jo pounded on the door. A minute later a head appeared at one of the upper windows. I saw a flash of black hair.

      ‘What the fuck do you want?’ a voice called out.

      We both stepped backwards. ‘Just calling,’ said Jo, her leather jacket and Afro more effective than a warrant. I held up a hand. It was obvious we belonged.

      He opened the door a moment later. I had the idea we’d woken him up but I’m not sure why, because he was dressed, although his feet were bare, his toenails clean and square. I vaguely recognized him from around.

      ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘thought you were the cops or something. What you hammering on the door like that for?’

      ‘Looking for Jack,’ I said. I tried to keep my tone steady. ‘Jack Wilkins.’

      He shook his head. ‘Wrong house. Never heard of him.’ He moved to close the door, but Jo put the palm of her hand against it.

      ‘Don’t make this hard,’ she said, in a voice I didn’t recognize. ‘It really doesn’t need to be.’

      ‘Is he in?’ I asked.

      The guy rested his arm on the doorframe, so that his T-shirt rose up and I caught a glimpse of black hair just beneath his belly button.

      ‘He doesn’t live here anymore.’

      ‘When did he leave?’

      ‘What’s it to you?’

      I hesitated, uncertain whether answering his question would breach client confidentiality, but before I’d decided one way or the other, he sighed heavily and held the door open wider.

      ‘I get it.’

      Got what? It struck me as an odd choice of sentence, but before I had chance to ask what he meant, Jo had stepped on to the doorstep.

      ‘We need to speak to him,’ she said. ‘Urgently.’

      ‘The gear,’ he said. He took a step backwards. ‘Wait there.’ He turned and walked towards the rear of the house.

      ‘Play nice.’ I rested my hand on Jo’s arm. ‘We want him on our side.’

      ‘What gear?’ she said, as she shrugged my hand off and trailed after him inside the house.

      I waited on the doorstep for a minute or so, unsure what to do. A group of students were making their way up the hill. I felt weird just standing there, so I followed Jo, pausing in the hallway to close the front door. By the time I caught up, the two of them were in the kitchen, glaring at each other, Jo with her hands on her hips. I caught the end of her sentence.

      ‘A few details.’

      There was a table in the middle of the room and washing-up stacked to the left of the sink. The room smelled of fresh paint and bleach. The guy said nothing.

      ‘Nice place,’ I said. ‘You lived here long?’

      ‘Could murder a brew,’ Jo said. ‘Stick the kettle on.’

      ‘Murder.’ He nodded his head. His dark fringe got in his eyes and he kept pushing it away with his hands. ‘Nice.’

      ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ I said. I had the feeling I wasn’t keeping up with the conversation.

      ‘’Course it is.’ He turned to fill the kettle with water. ‘A brew.’

      There was something in his tone that made me doubt his hospitality, but Jo didn’t seem to notice. ‘Ace,’ she said, pulling out her tobacco pouch. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

      ‘Knock yourself out,’ he said, retrieving three mugs from the draining rack. He wiped each one thoroughly with a clean white tea towel.

      ‘You said you’ve got his stuff?’ I said. ‘Could we take a look?’

      ‘You used to be in Socialist Students, didn’t you?’ he said to Jo.

      I flinched inwardly. Jo hates being reminded of that time, especially since she’d been asked to stand down as branch secretary when they’d found out she was seeing a copper. Of course, Jo hadn’t exactly been thrilled about what Andy did for a living – but you can’t choose who you fall in love with. Anyway, since that time she’s been more of your freelance revolutionary.

      ‘Saw you at the Corbyn rally,’ he continued. ‘Pants.’

      I wasn’t sure whether he was saying the rally wasn’t good, or Pants was his name. Jo didn’t seem bothered either way, shrugging his comments off, like she was engrossed in rolling her cigarette. Her tongue stuck out between her plump pink lips.

      ‘Class War,’ he said.

      Still no comment from Jo.

      ‘So, Jack,’ I said, feeling a change of subject was called for. ‘When did he leave?’

      He ran a hand through his floppy dark hair. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

      ‘But he lives here?’

      ‘Used to. He skipped. A week or so back.’

      ‘Oh.’ My thoughts of a quick and easy solution to our first case sloped off into the middle distance. ‘Know where