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chapter 64
quinn
No one else makes the connection, but Quinn does.
A logo on a sweatshirt.
A child missing in Devon.
I’ve found her. I know where she is. I’m looking at her house right now.
‘What the fuck have you done, Alex?’ Quinn mutters, as the woman’s phone goes straight to voicemail yet again.
She leaves another message and shoves her phone into her jeans pocket. She’d love nothing more than to climb back into a bottle of Jack, but that’s not going to help her find Alexa and Lottie Martini. That’s not going to give her resolution on this motherfucking, screwed-up, bastard of a story. She’s got to see it through to the end and fuck the consequences.
Quinn might as well admit it: it’s not just about the story. She’s got a raging crush on Alexa Martini. The woman is difficult and damaged and fucking fixated on getting to the truth, and that’s enough to hook Quinn right there. Alexa’s been subjected to the kind of character assassination no man in her place would ever have had to endure and she just keeps right on going, unbroken and undaunted, sticking up two fingers to the world:You are the trailer park. I am the tornado.
Quinn throws the empty whiskey bottles into the recyclingbin and cleans up the puddles of vomit on the sofa and beside her bed. She grimaces as she scrubs at the stains. Jesus, she really knocked it out of the park this time.
When she’s done, she makes herself a bowl of porridge – the only food in her flat – and grinds the last of her Panamanian beans. She sits back down at her computer, awkwardly cupping her good hand around her coffee as she thinks it through.
She has no idea if Alexa Martini has actually found her long-lost daughter or if she’s out-of-her-head crazy and has grabbed an innocent kid off the street. The photo of the missing child is similar enough to Lottie that itcouldbe her, but it’s hard to be sure: the most recent pictures of Lottie are two years out of date now, and kids this young change so quickly. But right now, it doesn’t really matter. ClearlyAlexabelieves she’s found Lottie. She’s a smart woman. She must have a plan. She knows she can’t hide out forever, so what’s her endgame?
Quinn kicks herself for the umpteenth time for not answering the phone six days ago when Alexa called. She might have been able to talk her out of this. Or at least been part of the story, instead of playing catch-up. Alexa could be anywhere by now, though Quinn bets she’s probably still in the country.
Where would you go if you were on the run with a young child?
Quinn puts her coffee down. She’s looking at this from the wrong angle. Trying to find the particular hotel or B&B where Alexa has holed up is akin to looking for a needle in a haystack of needles. She’s learned from experience that tracking someone down is like playing tennis: you aim not for where the ballis, but where itwill be.
If Quinn were in Alexa’s shoes, she’d want incontrovertible, DNA proof from a trusted testing centre if she was going to pull a stunt like this.
Find the lab and she’ll find Alexa.
There are only a dozen reputable, government-accredited DNA test centres in the UK. It’s a slow, tedious trawl, but this is the kind of tradecraft Quinn specialises in. It takes her three days and costs her £500 in backhanders to underpaid record clerks, but eventually she hits the jackpot.
Like everything else about this story, it comes with a twist that’s even more fucked-up than she could’ve imagined.
