Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📗

roads without success then spotted a minimarket on the corner of another street. Perfect.

‘That looks like Trina.’ A woman with short curly hair and a red polo shirt stretched tight across her ample chest poked the photograph with a plump forefinger.

Paton held his breath. Was this it? The breakthrough he’d been longing for? He had visions of being praised by the chief inspector in front of a room full of people and of Tommy proudly telling his friends his dad had caught the baddie.

‘Haven’t seen her for weeks,’ the woman continued and Paton’s dreams disintegrated like meringue in a fruit salad.

‘Do you know where she lives?’ he asked, hardly daring to hope.

‘A bedsit on Peterson Road, number six I think. She has the attic room. I went there once to drop off her purse when she left it in the staff room – a proper shithole.’

‘How well do you know Trina? Are you friends?’

‘She worked here, that’s all. Buggered off and I had to cover double shifts.’

Paton left the woman moaning about working long hours and checked Google Maps on his phone. It was a ten-minute walk and he was puffing by the time he climbed the steps to a large Victorian house with a bay window and peeling paint. A plant pot on the doorstep contained shrivelled brown leaves and the unmistakeable aroma of cat poo. Nice. He examined the panel of buttons with hand-written labels tucked inside cheap plastic pouches. He pressed three bells before he got a response.

‘Who is it?’ A gruff voice spoke through the intercom.

‘I’ve come to see Trina in the attic room but she’s not answering.’

There was a long pause then the voice drifted out of the box again. ‘Wait there.’

Paton moved away from the fetid plant pot and glanced at his watch. It was getting late and he hadn’t checked into his hotel yet. He hoped they hadn’t given his room to someone else.

The front door was yanked open by a podgy man with tattoos on his forearms and black hair scraped over his balding head. The inside of his open shirt collar had lines of black dirt mixed with sweat and his trousers were shiny with age. The unpleasant man straightened to his full height which wasn’t much and glared at Paton. ‘You tell Trina she owes me two weeks’ rent and her stuff is in the skip around the cor—.’

The man stepped backwards as Paton flashed his ID card. ‘What was Trina’s full name and when did you last see her?’

‘I dunno. Richards or Reynolds or something? I don’t ask too much so I don’t get lied to. She hasn’t been here for at least two weeks.’ He stood behind the door and closed it slowly as he spoke.

Paton toyed with the idea of putting his foot into the gap but changed his mind. He’d got his best shoes on and he didn’t want to spoil them. Instead, he placed the flat of his hand against the flaky paint and pushed the door.

‘Don’t you have a letting contract?’

The man leaned his weight onto the door and it shut firmly, hurting Paton’s wrist.

‘I don’t know where she is,’ the voice shouted through the wood. ‘The room’s taken by someone else now. I can’t help you no more.’

Paton sighed. He could pursue the landlord for not conducting his business properly but he hadn’t got time. He’d tell the Inland Revenue to check him out instead. He had a skip to find.

Chapter 38

March | Sarah

It doesn’t take me long to find the XpressoNet café in the Xscape building in Milton Keynes. I want to search for Jenna Winterbourne in relative privacy and I might not get that at the library because Mark knows I work there on Tuesdays and Thursdays and there’s a good chance he’ll turn up, hoping to see me. He can’t phone me on my mobile for the simple reason I don’t have one. Mark considers that to be odd but who would I contact apart from him?

I also need to think about how much to tell him of my situation. He’s keen to know whether I’m related to John Butcher and I don’t mind telling him the DNA test showed no connection but I’m not sure I want him knowing the rest – that Rosemary Butcher is probably not my mother and I suspect I was swapped as a baby with Jenna Winterbourne. Mark may be useful to me and I don’t want to put him off by making him wonder if I’m some sort of flaky fantasist. Neither do I want him telling anyone else about my suspicions. No, I need to know what I’m dealing with before I decide what information I want to share. If any.

I order a frothy hot chocolate from the chatty café owner and sip it as I log in to a computer. I get ten minutes free for buying a drink which is handy, although I think my searches will take longer than that. I think of a random name then quickly set up a new e-mail account. As soon as I have the e-mail address I join Facebook under the fictitious name of Sandra Baker because, from what I remember, I’ll be able to see more of people’s profiles if I sign in.

There are two Jenna Winterbournes. One is from Portsmouth and the other is from… My God. Near Milton Keynes. I hadn’t expected her to be so close, but why not? She was born here. I click on the local profile with mounting excitement. Am I about to see photos of the girl who has taken the life which is rightfully mine?

The disappointment is crushing. Who has a profile picture of a sodding horse? I quickly scroll through the rest of the photos and see they are mostly of animals or petitions for rainforest rescue and the RSPCA, pushing government to recognise animals as sentient beings. I’m not sure what that means but it seems Jenna is a passionate animal