what? It struck me as an odd choice of sentence, but before I had chance to ask what he meant, Jo had stepped on to the doorstep.
‘We need to speak to him,’ she said. ‘Urgently.’
‘The gear,’ he said. He took a step backwards. ‘Wait there.’ He turned and walked towards the rear of the house.
‘Play nice.’ I rested my hand on Jo’s arm. ‘We want him on our side.’
‘What gear?’ she said, as she shrugged my hand off and trailed after him inside the house.
I waited on the doorstep for a minute or so, unsure what to do. A group of students were making their way up the hill. I felt weird just standing there, so I followed Jo, pausing in the hallway to close the front door. By the time I caught up, the two of them were in the kitchen, glaring at each other, Jo with her hands on her hips. I caught the end of her sentence.
‘A few details.’
There was a table in the middle of the room and washing-up stacked to the left of the sink. The room smelled of fresh paint and bleach. The guy said nothing.
‘Nice place,’ I said. ‘You lived here long?’
‘Could murder a brew,’ Jo said. ‘Stick the kettle on.’
‘Murder.’ He nodded his head. His dark fringe got in his eyes and he kept pushing it away with his hands. ‘Nice.’
‘It’s a figure of speech,’ I said. I had the feeling I wasn’t keeping up with the conversation.
‘’Course it is.’ He turned to fill the kettle with water. ‘A brew.’
There was something in his tone that made me doubt his hospitality, but Jo didn’t seem to notice. ‘Ace,’ she said, pulling out her tobacco pouch. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘Knock yourself out,’ he said, retrieving three mugs from the draining rack. He wiped each one thoroughly with a clean white tea towel.
‘You said you’ve got his stuff?’ I said. ‘Could we take a look?’
‘You used to be in Socialist Students, didn’t you?’ he said to Jo.
I flinched inwardly. Jo hates being reminded of that time, especially since she’d been asked to stand down as branch secretary when they’d found out she was seeing a copper. Of course, Jo hadn’t exactly been thrilled about what Andy did for a living – but you can’t choose who you fall in love with. Anyway, since that time she’s been more of your freelance revolutionary.
‘Saw you at the Corbyn rally,’ he continued. ‘Pants.’
I wasn’t sure whether he was saying the rally wasn’t good, or Pants was his name. Jo didn’t seem bothered either way, shrugging his comments off, like she was engrossed in rolling her cigarette. Her tongue stuck out between her plump pink lips.
‘Class War,’ he said.
Still no comment from Jo.
‘So, Jack,’ I said, feeling a change of subject was called for. ‘When did he leave?’
He ran a hand through his floppy dark hair. ‘I have no idea where he is.’
‘But he lives here?’
‘Used to. He skipped. A week or so back.’
‘Oh.’ My thoughts of a quick and easy solution to our first case sloped off into the middle distance. ‘Know where he went?’
He shook his head. ‘I have no idea, I swear. Did a runner, proper moonlight flit. Took Brownie’s PS4 with him.’
I took a seat next to Jo as the kettle boiled. ‘Any clue where he might have gone?’
‘Uh uh.’
‘Did he leave a forwarding address?’ I knew as the words came out of my mouth that they were overly naive.
‘Ever heard of someone doing a moonlight flit and leaving a forwarding address?’
‘Pants, what’s your problem?’ said Jo, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back in the chair. ‘It’s not like we’re not asking nicely.’
Pants stared at her, like he wanted to say something, but he checked himself.
‘You said you had his stuff,’ I said. ‘Does that not mean he’s coming back?’
‘No idea. He didn’t tell me his plans.’
‘Can we see it? His stuff?’
‘You mean the stuff from his room?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ I still had the feeling we were speaking in riddles.
Pants thought about this for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘What do I care?’ He moved across to a door in the corner of the room and flicked back the bolt. ‘It’s in the cellar.’
I glanced at Jo. Was it wise to follow a man we’d only just met into a cellar? Possibly not, but six weeks of punching a leather bag had made my biceps swell and there’s a confidence that comes with that. Besides there were two of us, and he was barefoot.
‘After you,’ Jo said to him.
Pants went first, I followed, and Jo brought up the rear as we made our way down the narrow stone steps. When Pants got to the bottom he flicked a light switch. He nodded towards half a dozen bin liners in the corner of a small room that might have been where they once delivered coal. My first reaction was to grin.
‘That’s everything.’ Pants said. ‘I mean, apart—’
‘Can we look?’ asked Jo, already inspecting the bags.
Pants looked at me like he was daring me to say something. I shrugged as he squared back his shoulders. OK, we hadn’t got Jack, but we’d got his stuff: surely the next best thing. There had to be something in there that would tell us where he’d gone, who he was with. An old phone would be great. And we had something we could tell his mother. I practised the words in my head. Yes, that’s right, Mrs Wilkins, we’ve a few leads we’re working on.
‘Can we?’ I asked.
‘Bring them up. It’s freezing down here.’
I hadn’t noticed the temperature, but Pants’s bare toes were crunched up against the cold concrete.
Jo and I grabbed the necks of the nearest bin liners.
‘Pen’s supposed to be taking them to the charity shop.’
‘What’s in them?’ asked Jo, as we followed him back up the stairs, lugging the bags behind us.
‘Crap,’ said Pants. He returned to the kettle, poured the just boiled water into the mugs, while Jo and I went back for the last bags.
When we’d brought them back upstairs,
