The Runaway

  The Runaway

  ALI HARPER

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  KillerReads

  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  Copyright © Ali Harper 2019

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

  Ali Harper asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008354305

  Version: 2019-06-21

  This one is for my netball team.

  We’ve never lost a game – we just occasionally run out of time.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Keep Reading …

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Ali Harper

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  I was bent double when she pushed open the office door, my sides aching so much I thought I was going to wet myself. A moment before, Aunt Edie had been up the set of stepladders, brushing away the cobwebs in the cornices with a bright blue and purple plastic feather duster. Jo had made some joke about how it was fortunate we didn’t have any men in the office as the sight of Aunt Edie’s pop socks would drive them wild, and Aunt Edie had swiped at her with the feather duster. The steps had toppled, Aunt Edie grabbed hold of the filing cabinet and the pot plant on top of it got knocked over, landing on Jo’s Afro. Jo was spitting out polystyrene balls and dry compost when the bell chimed and this young woman, with dreads and a silver cannabis leaf nose stud, marched into our office.

  Aunt Edie was the first to recover. ‘Welcome to No Stone Unturned,’ she said, clambering down from the filing cabinet. ‘The,’ – she rhymed the word with bee – ‘the most successful private investigation bureau in the north of England.’ She pushed past me, stuffing the feather duster behind Jo’s chair as she bustled across the room. ‘Edith Caudwell, Office Manager.’

  Aunt Edie had been installed as receptionist only the week before, having swapped her terraced house in Accrington for a housing association flat down the road from our offices in Royal Park. ‘Are you missing someone, pet?’

  ‘My boyfriend,’ the woman said, her eyes settling on Aunt Edie. ‘I don’t know where he is and I need to find him. Like now.’

  She held the left sleeve of her rainbow-coloured top in her right hand, twisting the material. I glanced across at Jo and noticed a polystyrene ball clinging to her eyebrow. I was about to point it out when our visitor’s face crumpled and her shoulders sagged, like someone had let the wind out of her.

  ‘Oh, now. Don’t you go getting yourself worked up,’ said Aunt Edie, putting her arm around the woman’s shoulders. They were almost the same height, which is no height at all. ‘Come on, take a seat and tell us all about it. Did you read about these two,’ – she turned and pushed Jo’s DMs off the desk – ‘in the papers? If anyone can find your missing fella, they can.’

  I pulled a face at Aunt Edie. Our first case had gone well, but if this woman hired us to find her missing boyfriend, it would make her only our second client. My lungs buzzed at the thought, although it was early days and she didn’t look like she could afford shoes, let alone private investigators. However, if I’ve learned one thing from living in this part of Leeds, it’s not to judge a book by its cover. Trustafarians, Jo calls them. Kids that get off on looking poverty-stricken while their parents run Barclays.

  ‘We’ll go through to the back room,’ I said, having finally got control of my vocal cords. ‘Tea would be great, Aun— er, Edie. Would you mind?’

  Aunt Edie pouted. I knew she itched to get the details, but she was the receptionist, something Jo and I had gone to great lengths to explain when we agreed to let her work here. Tea-making went with the territory.

  ‘I’m Lee and this is Jo,’ I said to the woman. ‘What’s your name?’

  She held her hand over her eyes, like we might not notice her crying. ‘Nikki.’

  She didn’t volunteer a surname and I didn’t push it. Jo grabbed a new client file and I led the way to our interview room. It’s tiny, the proportions not helped by the dark laminate panelling that lines the walls. We’ve got a card table with a green felt top, three wooden chairs and a punch bag strapped to the ceiling in the far corner. ‘Take a seat, Nikki,’ I said. ‘And take a minute. We’ve plenty of time.’

  She sank into a chair and held her head in her hands.

  ‘Fag?’ asked Jo, tugging a pack of Marlboro Lights from the front pocket of her dungarees and taking her own seat at the table.

  ‘Please.’ A hand snaked out, with silver rings on every finger, even her thumbs. ‘Oh, shit, no. I can’t. I’ve given up.’ Her head bowed. ‘Why the fuck anyone …?’

  Her voice trailed off, or maybe I just didn’t hear the end of her sentence. I swallowed and took the last seat, the one across from Nikki. I dragged it a little to one side, set it at an angle. Jo opened the file, glanced at me and cleared her throat.

  ‘So, probably best to start by taking some details. Nikki what?’

  ‘Cooper-Clarke,’ she said. She put her hands on the table and sat up a little. ‘With an e.’

  ‘With an e.’ Jo raised an eyebrow as she wrote on the form. ‘And your boyfriend’s missing?’

  Nikki nodded, and I heard the sound of tinkling bells. It took me a moment to trace the source – Nikki wore silver rings in her dreads. I scooped my hair back off my face and tied it up with a spare band I had round my wrist.
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  ‘Let’s start with the easy ones,’ said Jo. ‘What’s his name?’

  Nikki wiped her eyes on the hem of her top. Questions are good. We’re trained from childhood to want to provide answers. ‘Matt,’ she said. ‘Matt Williams.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I said, in what I hoped was an encouraging voice. Jo frowned at me. I interlaced my fingers, let my hands rest on the table. It felt weird, like I was praying. I unlaced them and folded my arms across my chest.

  Jo kept a stream of easy to answer questions coming – occupation, phone number, height, weight, next of kin, date of birth, star sign – until Nikki’s shoulders had fallen an inch or so and she’d lifted her gaze to meet Jo’s. ‘Pisces,’ she said and tried to smile. ‘Creative genius.’

  ‘Frustrated alcoholics,’ said Jo as she glanced at me and shifted in her chair.

  ‘I’m Virgo,’ I said.

  ‘When,’ said Jo, ignoring me and speaking to Nikki, ‘did you last see him?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  Jo checked the calendar we had tacked to the wall. ‘The eighth?’

  Nikki shrugged.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘When you last saw him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Nikki, turning to me. Her eyes were almost violet and I wondered whether she wore coloured contact lenses. ‘Nothing,’ she said again, as if that was the most frustrating thing. ‘It was just ordinary. Friday night, we went to The Hyde, played some pool. He stayed at mine. I got up Saturday, went to the Union. That’s the last time I saw him.’

  ‘You’re a student.’ Jo raised an eyebrow at me.

  ‘English Lit.,’ she said. ‘Saw the article about you in The Gryphon.’

  ‘And Matt’s a student too?’

  ‘MSc.’ The bells tinkled again. ‘Actually, can I have that fag?’ she asked Jo.

  ‘How was he when you left?’ I asked.

  ‘Asleep.’

  ‘And no one’s seen him since?’ asked Jo, as she pushed the pack of Marlboros across the table.

  Nikki rested her hand on it but didn’t pick it up. ‘His mates have,’ she said.

  ‘Go on,’ said Jo, and I didn’t know whether she meant to tell Nikki to take a fag or to carry on speaking.

  ‘We were supposed to be going to a party on Saturday night – but I didn’t go coz I felt like shit. Ha.’ She forced out what I think was supposed to be a laugh but sounded more like a shriek. I watched her fingers tremble over the cigarettes. ‘I spoke to him on the phone that afternoon, asked if he fancied coming to mine instead, but he wanted to go. So he went. No one’s seen him since.’

  ‘He disappeared at the party?’

  ‘Tuff said he left him there.’

  ‘Tuff?’

  ‘His best mate.’

  ‘Where was this party?’

  ‘Lincolnshire.’

  ‘Lincolnshire?’ Geography’s never been my strong point but that struck me as a long way to go for a night out.

  Nikki’s hand left the cigarette packet and picked at the tassels on the edge of her sleeves. ‘Sunday afternoon, I went round to Matt’s. Tuff was there. I asked where Matty was and Tuff was like really cagey.’

  ‘Matty went to the party with Tuff?’ Jo asked as she continued to scribble the information down.

  ‘Whose party was it?’ I asked.

  ‘A free party,’ she said.

  ‘You mean, like a rave?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Wasn’t that the nineties?’ I said.

  Jo pulled a face at me. ‘Whereabouts in Lincolnshire?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ She picked up the cigarettes and extracted one from the packet. ‘A field somewhere.’

  I glanced at Jo and she stuck out her bottom lip. I’ve known her long enough to know what that look means. Jo’s one of the most open-minded people I’ve ever met, except when it comes to men. Truth is, since she caught Andy, her ex, in bed with another woman, she’s got about as much faith in men as she has in the Tory government. Not that I can talk. But I know my failure with the opposite sex is down to me, not them.

  Jo put her pen down and pulled her fingers through her hair. A drop more compost fell out. ‘How long you been seeing him?’ she asked.

  ‘A year. Nearly.’

  ‘Have you thought,’ – Jo paused and passed Nikki a lighter – ‘have you thought maybe he’s dumped you?’

  Nikki lit her cigarette, her eyes half-closed against the smoke. She didn’t speak.

  Jo tried again. ‘How would you describe your relationship?’

  The questions were getting too complex for Nikki. I saw a fresh batch of tears threaten. ‘He hasn’t dumped me,’ she said.

  ‘Wonder where Edie is with that tea?’ I made a half-hearted attempt to get up from the table, but Jo glared at me.

  ‘Why hasn’t he rung anyone?’ Nikki screwed up her nose and exhaled the smoke from her lungs. ‘His phone goes straight to voicemail.’

  ‘Does he have a job?’ asked Jo.

  ‘No, but he’s missed his final tutorial. He’s so close to finishing, why disappear the week his dissertation is due to be handed in?’

  ‘Maybe that’s why he’s disappeared.’ Jo glanced at me again and this time the look was serious. ‘Maybe the pressure was getting to him. Does he suffer from depression, low mood, anxiety?’

  Nikki’s violet eyes flashed. ‘He hasn’t killed himself, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  Jo pressed her fingertips down on the edge of the table, making her knuckles crack. ‘Exclusive?’ asked Jo. ‘Or open?’

  ‘Exclusive,’ said Nikki, without a moment’s hesitation. She pushed the lighter back across the table to Jo. ‘He’s lovely. Ask anyone. He’s—’

  ‘You can’t think of a single reason why he might have needed to get away?’

  ‘No. I mean, at least, no, I don’t think so.’

  I felt sorry for her, as I watched her trawl her memory banks, because I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to try and find a clue, something you may have missed, a sentence that with hindsight had a different meaning, an action that foreshadowed subsequent events.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said again. ‘I wanted him to stay in with me. He needed a night out.’

  ‘Have you been to the police?’

  ‘No.’ She turned to me and I sensed she was glad of the distraction. ‘I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. That’s why I came to you.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Drugs,’ Jo said, folding her arms across her chest.

  Of course. It was only Wednesday. If this guy had gone to a rave on Saturday night it was possible he hadn’t come down yet. We’d probably find him in a field, telling a tree how much he loved everyone.

  Nikki rubbed her face with her left hand before speaking. ‘He’s not really a drugs person.’

  I leaned closer to her, inhaled some of her second-hand smoke. Its warmth crept down my throat. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, he does. Sometimes. But, I don’t know …’ She leant back in the chair. ‘I’m worried about him.’

  ‘Maybe the party isn’t over,’ said Jo.

  ‘It’s been four days,’ said Nikki, her voice rising.

  ‘You tried his family?’

  ‘I don’t know where they live.’

  ‘You’ve been together a year and you don’t know where his family live?’

  ‘I know it’s Somerset.’

  ‘He never took you to meet them?’ I was surprised at that. Not that I’d ever been to visit a boyfriend’s parents, but I’d never had a year-long relationship either. As I’ve probably already said, I’m not the relationship type. And one of the reasons I’ve never had a year-long relationship is because I don’t ever want to meet someone’s parents. Or, more to the point, have someone want to meet mine.

  ‘They don’t get on,’ Nikki said but I got the feeling she wasn’t happy with the situation.

  Jo stretched out her fingers. ‘Best thing you can do is relax,’ she said. ‘Men a
re like dogs—’

  Nikki wrinkled her nose. ‘I need to find him now.’

  ‘Dogs,’ said Jo, crossing her arms behind her head. ‘Simple needs. The trick is not to—’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Nikki, grinding out her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. ‘I’ve not got time to—’

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  As the question came out of my mouth I realized I already knew the answer. ‘You’re pregnant,’ I said.

  She nodded and another wave of tears welled, smudging her eyeliner before spilling down her cheeks.

  ‘And Matt knows,’ said Jo. I knew from the tone of her voice what she was thinking.

  ‘No.’ Nikki shook her head and a tear flew from her cheek and landed on Jo’s new client interview form. I watched it absorb into the paper. ‘He doesn’t know. I didn’t even know. I only did the test the day before yesterday. It sounds stupid, but I never thought. I didn’t feel right Friday, thought I’d eaten something bad. Felt sick all weekend. Then Monday, I was watching Jeremy Kyle, and this girl with the most awful mother … well, anyway, it just hit me. I went to the chemist, got a test and two minutes later there’s these two blue fucking lines.’

  ‘How pregnant?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Who can remember the first day of their last period? I mean, Jesus.’ She paused and I felt the rage radiating from her.

  I was lost, but fascinated. Like when you pass a car wreck on the motorway. I didn’t want to look but I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘How pregnant?’ said Jo again.

  ‘His birthday.’ She let the words hang in the air.

  ‘So,’ said Jo, re-reading the form, as I tried to remember whether Pisces was February or March. ‘What’s that, two months?’

  I glanced at Jo. I know very little about pregnancy but I know there’s a cut-off point, when it all becomes a definite rather than a possibility. From the look of Nikki’s wide eyes, that point wasn’t too far away.

  As if to reiterate my thoughts she said in a quiet voice, ‘I’ve not got long.’

  The unspoken words hung between us all. I didn’t envy her. I dodge decisions whenever possible. This one was inescapable. Not deciding was a decision all in itself.

  She seemed to sense my sympathy because she grabbed my arm and her eyes bored into mine. ‘I can’t do this, not without him. My mum’s going to flip her wig. And my dad …’ She didn’t finish the sentence, crumpled like a wet cardboard box. I wanted to say something comforting but I couldn’t think of the words.