Spotting a space a couple of doors down, I parked the car and checked the houses opposite the chippie. They were particularly rundown. Crumbling concrete driveways had long replaced the front gardens, and the rendering on the houses was cracked and grubby. Any of them could have been a squat. I tapped the steering wheel, wondering which one to try first.
As I sat in the car, paralysed with indecision, an elderly woman pulling a shopping trolley stopped outside one of the houses, produced a key from the pocket of her mac and let herself in the peeling, mustard-yellow front door.
I jumped out of the car, locked it, and crossed the road before I changed my mind. I knocked on the yellow door twice. Loud enough to be heard, not loud enough as to be threatening, and waited.
A dog yapped, and the door opened a fraction. The old woman, still wearing her coat, looked me up and down, her pale blue eyes appraising.
‘Yes?’ she said.
I smiled. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m looking for an old friend of mine who lives in the area.’
The woman arched an eyebrow and cackled with laughter. ‘I think you must be mistaken, love. Your type don’t live round here.’
‘Her name’s Niamh. Niamh O’Sullivan. She’s Irish. About five foot five with long, dark red hair. I was told she lived opposite the fish and chip shop.’
‘An old friend of yours, you say?’
‘Well, not friend exactly. She was my au pair. She looked after my son.’
The old woman tutted. ‘You let a girl like that look after your son? She can’t even look after herself.’
‘You know her?’
‘She works the streets, love. Although I haven’t seen her out for a while.’ She unlatched the safety chain and a scruffy terrier bolted out and cocked his leg on a downpipe outside the house next door.
‘I heard she was having a tough time. I wanted to see if I could help her,’ I said.
‘Try the squat two doors down. Tracey might be able to tell you where your friend is. But don’t tell Tracey I sent you or I’ll never hear the end of it.’ The woman put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. The terrier shot inside, and the door slammed in my face before I could thank her.
I checked the car was where I’d left it before I walked up to the front door of the squat. I should have realised this was the place. The downstairs window was boarded up and an old sheet covered the window above it. The door frame was splintered as if it had once been jemmied open, and a pungent whiff of blocked drains filled my nostrils.
I knocked, stepping back in surprise as the door opened almost immediately. A woman with heavily kohled eyes and bleached blonde hair pulled back in a savagely tight ponytail stared at me in surprise.
‘Who the ’eck are you?’ she exclaimed, plainly expecting someone else. A punter? Her pimp? Her dealer? Frankly, it could have been any of them.
‘I’m looking for Niamh.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Not you as well. I told the Old Bill she don’t live ’ere no more.’
‘I know. But I need to know where she’s gone.’
The woman - Tracey - leaned forwards. Her breath smelt of cigarette smoke. ‘You still haven’t told me who you are.’
‘Niamh used to look after my little boy.’
‘Nathan.’
My eyes widened. ‘She told you about him?’
‘She talked about him now and again, when she wasn’t wasted. She had a soft spot for him, anyone could see that.’
‘She did,’ I agreed. ‘And he was really fond of her. We all were. That’s why I want to check she’s OK.’
Tracey frowned. ‘Well, you’re too late. She moved out weeks ago.’
‘You must have some idea where she’s gone?’
Tracey leaned back against the splintered doorframe, crossed her arms and stared at me with narrowed eyes. ‘And why should I help you?’
I opened my handbag and reached for my purse. ‘I can give you money.’ I pulled out two twenties and a tenner and offered them to her. ‘Fifty pounds and you tell me what you know?’
After a beat she nodded, grabbed the notes and slipped them into her bra for safekeeping. She looked over my shoulder to check the street was empty and said, ‘You’d better come in.’
She led me along the hallway - bare floorboards, blown plaster - to a cramped kitchen at the back of the house. My gaze travelled over the dark brown melamine units, filthy free-standing oven, lurid green and yellow patterned tiles, circa 1970, and the nicotine-stained walls.
In the corner of the kitchen was a small round table and two white plastic patio chairs. Tracey pulled one out, sat, and motioned me to do the same. She plucked a cigarette from a packet on the table, lit it and took a drag. Blowing a thin stream of smoke out of the corner of her mouth, she said, ‘So, what d’you want to know?’
I dragged my gaze away from a splatter of red on the wall that could have been blood or tomato ketchup and cleared my throat.
‘My little girl is missing. I think Niamh might know where she is.’
‘Why the ’eck would Niamh know that?’
I couldn’t be sure how much Niamh had told Tracey, so I changed tack. ‘How long has she lived with you?’
Tracey pulled on her cigarette. ‘’Bout a year. I said she could doss for a few nights, but she ended up staying. Truth was, I felt sorry for her. She was a nice kid.’
‘Why did she leave?’
Tracey took another drag of her cigarette. ‘She wanted to get clean and go home.’
‘To Ireland?’ I said, surprised.
Tracey nodded. ‘She was always going on about the place like it was fucking paradise. Kent was a shithole, but County Cork was El bloody Dorado.’ She stubbed out the cigarette in a chipped saucer by her elbow. ‘But she said her mum and dad still thought she was a good Catholic girl, and good Catholic
