The Doll's House

111

Emilia Garanita stabbed the off button on her computer and picked up her bag. She was already late – the household would have descended into merry chaos by now no doubt – and she had spent an unsatisfactory day trying to re-hash the ‘Bodies on the Beach’ story to make it look like there were fresh developments.

She was halfway to the door, when her desk phone rang. She was very tempted to ignore it – today had been a dead loss – but old instincts die hard. For a journalist a phone call is just a story waiting to happen. So she crossed the room and snatched up the phone.

‘Garanita.’

‘Got a phone call for you. From a woman. About the bluebird tattoo.’

Emilia’s mood descended still further. Since putting this story in the Southampton Evening News they had had no end of loonies, chancers and wannabe detectives jamming their line with dead-end ‘leads’. Each was as deluded as the last – Emilia had ended up regretting agreeing to help Helen Grace with this one.

‘Put her through,’ Emilia barked, keen to get this charade over with.

‘Hello?’

The voice on the other end of the phone was cracked and tremulous.

‘Emilia Garanita. How can I help you?’

‘Are you the journalist?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Asking about the bluebird tattoo?’

‘Yes.’

A pause, then:

‘Is there a reward?’

Emilia sighed inwardly. This conversation was developing in a depressingly familiar way.

‘Only if the information provided leads to a conviction.’

‘Yes or no?’ The voice had a sharpness to it now that made Emilia pay attention.

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘£20,000’

‘When would I get it?’

‘We can discuss that when you come to my office. But I’d need to know the nature of your information before we meet.’

‘My daughter had that tattoo. She’s dead now. But she definitely had one of those.’

Emilia sat back down at her desk, silently pulling her phone from her pocket and opening the Notes app.

‘What did she look like?’

‘Thin, bit tarty I guess, but she had something. Like her mother.’ The cracked voice chuckled now, but it sounded bitter not joyful.

‘Hair colour? Eyes?’

‘She was a striking girl. Black hair and big blue eyes.’

Emilia paused, her finger hovering over the screen of her phone.

‘What did you say her name was?’

‘Her name was Summer, God rest her.’

‘And she’s dead you say?’

‘OD’d. Her brother found her.’

‘She had a brother?’ Emilia replied, failing to keep the excitement out of her voice.’ What was his name? And where is he now?’

There was a long pause, then she replied:

‘I’ll tell you when we meet. You don’t get anything for free in this life, my dear.’

And with that, she rang off.