The Call Girl Killer by Ian Patterson

The Call Girl Killer by Ian Patterson

Author:Ian Patterson [Patterson, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-02-18T05:00:00+00:00


S andra Humphrey explodes from the settee like a geyser.

“Who told you this filth?” she exclaims. “Is it her said this to you? The madwoman next door? She hasn’t been right in the head since her little girl went missing. Understandable, I’ll grant you, but whose fault is it, anyway? Too busy smoking and talking about music and boys with young mothers in the park. Fancied herself a friend. Hah! She was old enough to be a mother to some. Had she been watching out for little Jess, Jess might still be here. So, might Lindy. She and Jess were two peas in a pod. Lindy was three years older, but Jess could have been there for Lindy through the mess with her father. She was a sweetheart, beautiful little girl. Sensitive beyond her years.”

Gabby and I sit staring, stunned—though both secretly pleased—at the unexpected outburst.

“And don’t even get me started on the men. In and out of there like she was running a bordello. I insisted the girls play here. Didn’t trust them to be over there. And her throwing accusations. It’s criminal. She should have been locked-up, herself, charged with neglect, child endangerment, what have you.

“It’s what I said to you people at the time. As a school teacher, I know these things. Children neglected, children mistreated and abused. And her daring to throw accusations at Benjamin, dead seventeen years. And you…” Sandra Humphrey trembles with indignation “…fool enough to believe her. It’s no wonder Jessie is still missing, Benjamin’s killer not yet behind bars. What kind of policemen do you call yourself?”

Spent, Sandra Humphrey plops back to the cushions, reclines as if in a faint, hand over forehead like a femme fatale in a classic Film Noir. She burrows her body into the sofa, wraps herself in her own arms to seek solace.

Objective achieved, Gabby says, “I’ll get you water.”

Though unwilling to discount the sincerity of Sandra Humphrey’s emotional outpouring, to me it smacks of heavy-handedness and all too much melodrama. Like a live mortar round tossed into a foxhole, she’s injected a potentially explosive variable into our investigation—if any of what she says is true.

Gabby returns with a glass of water for Sandra. “Drink,” she says, as if it’s an order, setting the glass down on the tabletop. “It will help.”

Collecting herself to comply, Sandra says, “She stands staring out that damn window from behind those filthy drapes all day long as if she expects the poor girl to walk up the drive. After twenty-five years!”

“We’re at a disadvantage, Mrs. Humphrey,” I say. “My colleague and I know nothing of a missing girl, let alone a child who might have lived next door to you. I assure you, we do not know, nor have we spoken to, this so-called madwoman living next door. Care to enlighten us?”

“Childress, Cherlynne Childress. Still uses her married name even though the deadbeat left her almost thirty years ago, the year little Jess turned four.”

“Cherlynne Childress is the mother of the missing child you refer to as Jess?” Gabby says, retrieving her tablet, furiously taking notes.



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