Golden Hour (Part 2)
In part one we met Brad and Joe. Here continues their story.
Blue light flashed against the window pane, moving from along the building from left to right. I could even feel the vibration from the engine as the vehicle powered down the side street. The light strobed through each of the side windows and a moment later I could hear a car door open, then slam closed. When the door swung open, through the brief rectangle of outside beyond, I could see the fluorescent yellow and white markings of a police patrol car. I’d turned to see what was going on, seeing the uniformed officer stride to into the bar. She saw me instantly, looked past and her face softened. “Joe!” she called, three strides away from the able. Stale air clung to her clothes, dispersing into the room. Her harness creaked, as she clicked off the radio at her shoulder. Strands of hair pinged from her forehead, moments before slicked to her forehead. Feverish heat radiated from her, and I could imagine her hands leaving greasy marks on the steering wheel as she drove, peering through the windscreen. She glanced at me, then I was forgotten. “What’s wrong?” Joe asked. “It’s my niece, Charlie. She’s been taken. About an hour ago.” My head tingled, the start of a chill that crawled from under my scalp down the nape of my neck. I could feel my heart beat echoing back from stool beneath me. “Go on.” Joe said. The dog stood, glanced in the direction of the toilets and started to pad backwards and forwards, his leash pulling against the chair where the it had been looped between the wooden legs. I stroked Donny trying to settle him. “She was last seen bundled into a van about an hour ago. No registration, no CCTV, no witnesses. We don’t know who’s got her.” “What about ANPR?” The acronym took a second to filter through, Automatic Number Plate Recognition. “We don’t know which one to look for, by the time the results come back it will be too late,” she shot back. “Amanda, I’m sorry.” So they knew each other. That much was obvious, but how well? Her voice grew sharp, “She’s my niece, nine years old. Come on Joe!” “I don’t know what you expect of me.” Joe said, his voice still low even. She held out her hand and I could see a silver thread hanging between her fingers. He took it, rolled it in the palm of his hand. Not a thread, a hair. “It doesn’t work like that. I can’t help you.” “Fuck!” She shook, hand going up to reach for her radio, then dropped back down again. “You’ve got to be able to do something, I’m begging you Joe, I don’t know what else to do!” He stood slowly, palms out, “I can’t, it’s not that I don’t want to-” “So you’re not going to do anything!?” “By the time-” “You have to!” she pleaded. “Look, she’ll be dead by the time I find her.” Her head lowered, crestfallen. Only then did she seem to see me. I wondered how much of that conversation she’d wanted me to be witness to. “Who are you?” She snapped, “friend of his?” “I don’t have any friends - you know that.” Joe answered. She swallowed, cheeks hollowing. Her eyes glistened. Under her intense gaze, Joe carefully sat down again and picked up my drink. He raised it to his lips, not looking at her - looking at the door. Her jaw clenched, again. “So that’s it, you’re just going to sit here and do nothing?” He put the glass back down on the table. “You ought to leave,” he said. When she made no move to, Joe addressed her again.“You’re looking for a miracle, a shortcut to cut through hours of investigation. How can I be any better than all the contacts you have at the Met? How can I reach further than radio, or television? Go back to your systems, your colleagues. If I’m your last resort, you’re fucked.” Her eyes flashed with hate, “have some fucking sympathy.” “It’s not over yet. Talk to people.” “We don’t have the time!” “Stop wasting it here with me!” “You’re a fucking bastard, Joe. You really are!” “I’m not doing anything.” Her first slammed down on the table, making the drinks jump.“Exactly! I’ll remember this. I’ll see you fucking rot.” She jabbed one gloved hand at Joe’s unflinching face. He blinked, her silhouette caught on his eyes, a ghostlike corona against the blackness. “As I said, you’re wasting your time.” His tone lower, softer, “If I could I would. If you needed me for a street walk, I’d be there. Likewise a fingertip search, I’d be on my knees down whatever alley you pointed. But what you’re asking is to win the lottery without buying a ticket.” They stated at each other, until Joe at last broke eye contact and picked my drink, this time taking a large draught. “Thanks for fucking nothing!” She left, head down, with the same purposeful strides, head cocked to one side talking into her radio. Joe watched her go, frozen until the door slammed closed.
“Do you have a car?” “Yes. Why?” “That camera, are you a reporter?” “Yes.” Joe exhaled, shaking his head, “fuck.” “You’re driving.” He snapped. “And this,” he said, wrapping the leash around his fist, “is why I don’t have any friends.” I followed him up, scrabbling to get my coat and camera.
