The Sister(131)
The avatar was The Grim Reaper. He looked at the menu buttons and then selected 'Mypage' from the top bar. He saw the last music tracks she’d listened to: All about Eve, Sisters of Mercy, Concrete Blonde and Draconian, among others. According to the site files, she’d last visited thirty-six days before. That meant wherever she was – she’d had access to a computer up until then. Further down the screen was a public messaging service, she had over seventy of them. The most frequent was Strawberry1971. Next to every message was a photo of Paddy Casey, the former Irish busker. Miller had one of his records. What is a fan of Paddy Casey doing hooked up with a girl whose musical interests seemed to be Goth Rock?
He looked for her private messages. There weren’t any.
‘One thing I can tell you is she was last on the site thirty-six days ago. That’s after she ran away. I’m guessing she no longer has access to a computer.’
‘Will you leave it on there? I'd like to have a look around at it all once you’ve gone.’
‘Of course I will, Eileen.’
After Miller had left, Eileen sat down at the computer and joined Lastfm. She sent a friend request to concreteblonde92 and left a ‘shout' message for her. After that, she took to watching her 'Shoutbox' religiously, waiting for a reply or acceptance of her friend request.
Neither came.
Chapter 112
Miller didn’t relish the thought of the long drive back to London straight away, so he stopped for a pint at the oldest pub in England, Ye Olde Trippe to Jerusalem. The last time he’d visited the place; he was a young salesman working his way up through the centre of England selling luxury Italian goods. In those days, the women of Nottingham outnumbered the men by three or four to one. The landlady of the guesthouse he’d stayed in near-by had played an active role in pairing him off with her eighteen-year-old daughter and she’d been a willing participant in the arrangement. Afterwards, he left the girl to use the toilet at the other end of the passageway. As he returned to his room, the landlady came out on the landing and dragged him into her bed too. The whole incident was bizarre from start to finish, but he thought of them quite often. Aside from the sex, there had been something endearing about both of them. The memory made him smile. It all began in Ye Olde Trippe…
He was half-tempted to check in at the guesthouse again, but he knew the chances were he’d never find it after so many years. Settling down at a table, he switched on his laptop and connected to the internet.
He googled: 'Strawberry1971'. A fraction of a second later, '1971' came up as a hit, listed on several sites. Lastfm, Tripadvisor and eBay all had listings under the same user name. Further down the list were a number of items for sale. This could be useful. He logged in to the auction site and did an advanced search.
Got you!
Within minutes, he was looking at the items 1971 had for sale. On over three hundred transactions, his feedback was flawless. Miller was impressed. It reassured him and gave him the feeling he could almost trust him. He scrolled through his seller’s history. There she is… She’d praised him highly with a five star rating. Is this how they met? Did they know each other before? It was possible. She’d purchased a CD by 'The Mission’ from him.
His current listings were due to end the following day. One of the items was a hardback copy of the book 'Supernature' by Lyall Watson, which he’d spent years looking out for; and another a bass guitar for a 'Buy It Now' price of fifty pounds. The guitar was available for collection only. The address was in London.
He couldn’t believe how easily all this fitted together. Miller completed the transaction for the guitar and then sent an email offering ten pounds cash for the book, if he could collect it at the same time. Later that night, he received a reply.
After a flurry of emails that led right up to midnight, they agreed a time for collection the next day.
It would be late afternoon.
Chapter 113
Miller arrived at one of the bleaker parts of South London soon after lunchtime, pulling up as close to his destination as he could. Getting out, he secured the car. A sign on a lamp post read: Permit Holders Only. The car behind his had a clamp on its wheel. He scanned the area for traffic wardens, and seeing none, decided to take a chance.
The flats were arranged in a rectangular horseshoe and had rendered panels on the outside, freshly painted in neutral pastel colours. From a distance, it looked like the sliced end of a Harlequin cake. The attempt to mask the drabness externally did nothing to fix the problems with the people who lived inside. As he strolled, he crossed into the paved area between the enclosing brick walls.
Two youths emerged from somewhere behind and made a beeline for him. They boxed him in with a crude pincer movement. He kept moving.
‘What you got for me, man?’ The taller one scooted ahead of him and turned walking backwards, nimble, fast and confident. He possessed the look of someone who was beyond caring, like the crack addict who used to hang around near Miller’s office with his Staffordshire bull terrier. He disappeared sometime back, and they'd found him stabbed. A single wound to the heart. Rumour had it he owed his dealer eighty pounds. The message carried a clear warning to anyone else who might be thinking about holding out on him. If you do, you die.