Page 68 of The Attercop

“What’s the address?”

Charlie gave her the address of the house they’d just been exploring. “I’ll be back to the office within an hour.”

“Good. I’ll see you then,” she said and hung up.

Charlie knew he’d done all he could here, and he still had to find Jules. He decided to swing by her house again before going back to the office. Traffic was light and he got there in twenty minutes. In the daylight it was just as unprepossessing as it was the night before. Charlie took Duck with him, went to the front door and rang the bell. Duck was calm and wagged his tail as they waited for an answer, but nobody opened the door. Charlie leaned over the railing of the porch and tried to peer into the dirty front window but saw no sign of activity.

“Well. Looks like we struck out again, Duck.”

“You lookin’ for someone?” a voice asked.

Charlie turned toward the voice. An older-looking man stood in the middle of the front garden of the neighbouring house. His grey hair grew in every direction. He wore a tight-fitting chequered shirt, with buttons straining to hold what lay beneath. His beige cargo shorts appeared to have a number of gardening tools stuffed in the pockets. He stood there, staring at Charlie. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Do you know the owners of this house?”

The old man pushed the business-end of the spade he was carrying into the grass, and propped himself up against it.

“The owners, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I knew the Banbrooks,” the man offered. “They were here when I moved in.”

“Do they still live here?”

“Oh, no. They up and moved to California twenty-five, twenty-six years ago. Nice folks, although they smoked way too much of that mary-wanna weed. I guess they finally figured they’d save money by moving down south where it’s cheaper.” The old man chuckled.

Charlie persisted. “But do you know who lives here now?”

“Oh. Now?”

Charlie took a deep breath. Duck sat beside him, looking up. Charlie had a feeling that Duck was enjoying this. “Yes. Now. Do you know the Slates?”

“Who are they?” the fellow asked.

“The people who live here. George Slate and his daughter Jules?”

“Huh.” He picked dirt out from beneath his fingernails for a moment before answering. “Nooo. Never met a Slate. In fact, the only George Slate I ever heard of was the guy who was Fred Flintstone’s boss on that cartoon. I never seen any cartoon folk around here,” he said and laughed.

Charlie sighed.Count to ten.

“Have you met the people who own the house now?” Charlie asked slowly, enunciating every word. Duck pressed in close to him as if to give him strength.

“Nah. The house sold, oh, about three, maybe four years ago. That’s when Phil Sanderson died. Now-a-days the odd person comes and goes. I think it’s one of those short-term rental deals. Hasn’t been a soul in it for a month at least.”

“So, you’ve never met a pretty young woman by the name of Jules Slate?” Charlie asked.

“Now, a pretty young lady—I’d remember that, but I’ve never seen one in that house.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Charlie mumbled.

The man obviously heard him. “Hey, mind your language, young man!”

“Sorry, mister. Thanks for your help.”

Charlie returned to the car and called Mrs B again, asking her to add another item to her property search list. He gave her the address of Jules Slate’s supposed home, then disconnected the call and began to drive back to the office. Maybe his computer program had found something of use.

By the time Charlie reached his destination, Duck was asleep, tired out from the excitement of the day. Charlie roused him and took him up the stairs. Duck trotted over to Mrs B’s desk and promptly dozed off.