A Good Year for the Roses (1988) by Mark Timlin

it?’
    ‘She always carried it in her handbag.’
    ‘No old letters?’
    ‘She wasn't a great one for keeping things. If she got a postcard or something like that, she'd read it, then throw it away.’
    ‘How about her friends? Hasn't anyone called her up or come around to see her?’
    ‘She kept her friends separate from here. She knew I didn't approve of them.’
    Now we were getting somewhere.
    ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What was wrong with them?’
    ‘Scum, most of them.’ He spat, his eyes narrowing. ‘I didn't want her to associate with that kind.’
    ‘Do you know any names or addresses?’ I asked.
    ‘No.’
    ‘George,’ I said slowly. ‘You don't know much, do you? You've given me very little to go on. How about her modelling contacts? You approved of them surely? You seem happy for her to do that kind of work. Surely you checked their credentials?
    He didn't seem too sure.
    ‘Well, did you?’ I asked again.
    ‘I'm a busy man,’ he replied lamely.
    ‘What you're saying,’ I interrupted before he could continue, ‘is that exactly two months ago on the ninth of June, your eighteen year old daughter took a hike. You know she dabbled with drugs. That is all you do know. You don't know where she went, or with whom. You don't know if she had a boyfriend. You don't know any of her other friends. You don't know what she did when she wasn't with you. You don't seem to know anything about her. It's an impossible task for one man to find her. Especially if the police have failed.’
    George made no reply to my outburst. He just sat and fiddled with his glass.
    ‘I'll go if you like,’ I said eventually.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘You're probably right. I've not been the perfect father.’
    Which of us can say we have, I thought.
    I hesitated before asking my next question.
    ‘Your daughter has an exotic taste in underwear, hasn't she?’
    George looked as though he could kill me. I didn't blame him.
    ‘You get everywhere,’ he said.
    ‘You didn't tell me not to. I was only looking for hints to Patsy's whereabouts.’
    ‘In her knickers?’ he asked sarcastically.
    It was my turn to be silent. After a moment, I said, ‘In fact her whole wardrobe is on the expensive side.’
    ‘I'm not a poor man,’ George retorted. ‘Patsy needed clothes. It's vital when you start out in a modelling career. If she wanted anything she had the plastic for the shops I'd opened accounts in. She didn't want for anything.’
    ‘Did she have a lot of cash on her when she left?’ I asked.
    ‘I'm not sure, not a great deal. About fifty pounds I expect.’
    ‘That's not bad for a girl of her age.’
    ‘I give her an allowance,’ George said stiffly. ‘It's hers to do with as she pleases.’
    ‘Does she have a bank account?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Has she used it since she left?’
    ‘I don't know.’
    The man was hopeless.
    ‘Did she have a job?’
    ‘She was fortunate enough not to have to. Sometimes she helped me in the office. I can never get a decent secretary. At the moment I'm relying on the answering machine. It's a damned nuisance. Patsy was good at the job.’
    ‘So tell me,’ I said. ‘What was she really like? As a person, as a daughter?’
    For the first time I saw some light in George's eyes.
    ‘She's beautiful,’ he said. ‘Full of life and looking forward to the future. Here, look.’
    He went over to the cabinet upon which the colour TV sat and opened the double doors at the base.
    He pulled out a pile of photograph albums and brought them over to the bar. He dropped them in front of me onto the mahogany top. I opened the first book, and realised that George had collected Patsy's life together like an exhibit under glass.
    There were baby pictures, then pictures of her as a young child, in what I took to be the garden of the house where I was now sitting. She was pictured with a younger, longer haired version of George, and sometimes with a pretty woman who must have been his late wife.
    There were