“Christ,” Elea muttered softly. People never failed to surprise her in the worst kinds of ways. “And you didn’t think to report this at the time?”
“There was nothing to report.” Gary shrugged. “Whoever he was talking to had a right go at him. I could hear them effing and blinding down the phone. Phil turned as white as a sheet. Then he started stuttering and said he was at home. I had my back turned to him, but I heard enough to know that his dodgy friends weren’t too impressed.”
Weren’t too impressed with what?Elea wondered.That he was suggesting such a thing or doing it in public where anyone could hear?“What happened after that?”
“Nothing. He ended the call, had a shot of whisky, and left shortly after that.”
“Which was...”
“Half three. A week to the day before that girl disappeared.”
“Chelsea,” Elea uttered. “Her name is Chelsea. And she’d probably still be here if you’d had the balls to report that call.”
Gary delivered a haunted stare. “I told ya. I’ve seen the type of people Phil hangs out with. They’re dangerous.” He checked over his shoulder. “I’ve said too much as it is.”
“Too little too late.” Elea’s tone was cold. She would not ease his conscience just yet. After finishing their conversation, she let Gary go. She’d had her suspicions about Chelsea’s stepfather, whose history with the police was as long as her arm. Taking her phone from her bag, she found her Facebook app. It was time to make Phil Hobbs an offer he couldn’t refuse.
Chapter 8
Elea knocked on the door of the two-bedroomed ground-floor flat. She waited as soft shuffling footsteps approached on the other side. A chain was pulled across and a latch clicked open. Then she was face-to-face with Karen Hobbs, mother of three children: one missing, two taken into care. Her hair hung limply around her thin face, and a faint yellow bruise dappled her cheekbone. But the most striking thing was how small the woman was. She had the build of a twelve-year-old child. Elea had seen the map of injuries on her body from past domestic-incident reports. Her husband must have towered over her.
Phil Hobbs was a known domestic abuser with a history of offences under his belt. Such was his violence that the police were convinced his stepdaughter Chelsea died at his hands.
“Karen?” Elea flashed a perfect smile as she faked a British accent. “Phillipa Laine.Riomagazine. I spoke to your husband online.” She glanced over Karen’s shoulder into the narrow hall. Her message to Phil Hobbs had been delivered from a fake Facebook profile that had come in handy in the past.
Karen stared ahead, her eyes lifeless, her expression flat. After checking with her husband, she eventually allowed Elea inside. Elea found the offer of money nearly always opened doors. She was led into a poky sitting room and her predictions proved to be correct. Can of Stella in one hand and remote control in the other, Phil Hobbs sat on his throne, which in his case was a grubby leather recliner that had seen better days. His T-shirt was speckled with crisp crumbs, his tracksuit bottoms stained from wear. The ceiling was stained yellow from nicotine, and the stink of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. Elea cast her gaze over the litany of empty beer cans and crisp packets littering the floor.
She took a seat on the edge of the leather sofa as Phil muted the TV, finally acknowledging her presence. She wasn’t leaving this flat without answers. “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.” She forced herself to be pleasant to the man before her. “As I said, I’d like to write a piece forRiomagazine on your missing daughter. It’s part of a bigger story about the missing girls.”
“You’ve got ’alf an hour,” Phil replied, punctuating his sentence with a loud belch.
Elea wrinkled her nose as the stench of Stella came her way. “We’d better get started, then.” She switched on her mobile-phone recording app. “I think it’s best we start from the beginning. Tell me about your relationship with Chelsea.”
“Hang on a minute.” Phil adjusted his recliner to an upright position as he asserted himself. “We want cash up front. This is a big story. I’m saying nothing without money in my pocket first.”
Elea gazed at the man intensely, making no effort to hide her disgust. “It’s not a big story—that’s the problem. Your daughter disappeared in 2023...”
“Stepdaughter,” Phil corrected.
“Fine, stepdaughter,” Elea continued. “There’s nothing about her in the media. People have forgotten who she is.”
“She’s dead,” Phil blurted, swigging from his can. “Got to be.” A thin drool of beer streaked down his unshaven face. “And even if she’s found, she ain’t coming back here.”
“Let me clarify,” Elea responded. “You’re saying that you’re not bothered about Chelsea being found, as long as you profit from it?”
She turned to Karen. “Do you feel the same?”
Elea expected Karen to back him up. She’d given up her children to be with Phil, after all. But instead her face crumpled, and she sobbed into her hand. “Please. I don’t care about the money if you help me find my little girl.”
Phil snorted. “She ain’t so little now. That’s presuming she’s still alive.”
Elea ignored the man before her as her fake accent fell away. She was surprised that she’d managed to keep the act going this long. “I can help, Karen. But you need to help yourself too, yes? Because Chelsea won’t be allowed back here. It doesn’t need to be anything fancy, just not with him. The women’s refuge will help you start again.”
“What the fuck are you on about?” Phil slammed his can on the coffee table as Elea snatched up her phone. “You’re no reporter. You’re a cop. Get out!”
“Why?” Elea stood. “What are you hiding?” Her temper rose as Phil tried to intimidate them both.
“Fuck off out of my house. The cheek of it, coming into my gaff pretending to be a reporter.”
