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I’m looking at one of the warehouses brought back into use as offices. Six storeys high and badly in need of a lick of paint, it presents an uninviting picture.
The outer door is locked. I check the hand-painted list of tenants by the door, but nothing stands out. The list is varied.
HMC Enterprises
Royal Autos, Used Car Sales, Head Office
JAC Cartons,whatever that might be
Fuller Finance
A. J. Habib (Accountancy and Money Transfers)
Paul Carr, Printworks
I press the doorbell at the top of the list. No answer. I move down to the second.
“Who is it?” a disembodied voice wants to know.
I’ve no time for pleasantries. “Open the fucking door,” I snarl.
“Fuck off,” is the welcoming reply. There’s a crackle, and the intercom goes dead.
I plant my boot in the middle of the door. It shudders but holds.
“Move over.” Rome gets next to me, and we attack the portal together. It shatters on the fourth attempt.
I crouch to scramble through the splintered debris to be met by an individual in oily overalls brandishing a wrench.
“I told ye tae get lost,” he hisses. “Ye can pay for that door.”
“I’m looking for a woman. This height, dark hair.” Ignoring the wrench I fix him with a glare which is at least sufficiently intimidating to have him backing off.
“Not seen nae lass here,” he splutters, clearly rethinking the wisdom of confronting me.
“Who else is here?” I ask, striding towards the stairs.
“How would I ken? I keep mesel’ tae mesel’.” He’s already slithering back through the door marked Royal Autos.
I try phoning Jenna again, but there’s no answering trill from close by. I decide to ignore Mr Royal Autos and take the steps three at a time. Rome is right behind me.
“I could go back and slap him around a bit,” he offers. “Might jog his memory.”
“I want to concentrate on locating that phone,” I reply. I stop on the fourth floor landing to try again.
Silence.
“Come on.” I sprint up to the next floor and repeat the exercise.
It’s so faint I almost miss it. “Do you hear that?” I look to Rome.
He nods. “It’s a phone. Coming from somewhere along here…”
We head along the landing at a brisk trot, the sound of ringing becoming louder as we go. We reach a door marked ‘Refuse Disposal’.
“It’s coming from in there,” Rome breathes.
The door is locked, but we make short work of it between us and step inside. The store room is lined with large wheeled bins. Several black bags overflowing with rubbish are piled alongside them. I pace slowly down the row of bins until I find the one.
