He studied the card and glared at me. “Private Investigator,” he sneered. “Well, baby, you’re not gonna find Moira here. She checked out a long time ago.”

My heart did that funny kind of flip it does when I get bad news. Two days ago, I couldn’t have cared less if Moira were alive or dead. Now I was surprised to find that I cared a lot. “You don’t mean …?”

His lip curled in a sneer again. I suspected he’d perfected it in front of a mirror at the age of twelve and hadn’t progressed to anything more adult. “She was still alive when she left here. But the way she was pumping heroin into her veins, you’ll be lucky to find her like that now. I kicked her out a year ago. She was no use

“Any idea where she went?” I asked with sinking heart.

He shrugged. “That depends on how much it’s worth.”

“And that depends on how good the information is.”

He smiled crookedly. “Well, you’re not going to know that till you check it out, are you? And I don’t give credit. A hundred to tell you where she went.”

“Do you seriously think I’d carry that kind of cash in a shit pit like this? Fifty.”

He shook his head. “No way. Fancy bit of skirt like you, you’ll have a hole-in-the-wall card. Come back here in half an hour with a oner and I’ll tell you where she went. And don’t think you’ll get the word off somebody else. Nobody round here’s going to cross George.”

I knew when I was beaten. Whoever George was, he clearly had his patch sewn up tight. Wearily, I nodded and headed back towards the car.

Chapter   8

The short drive from Leeds to its neighboring city of Bradford is like traversing a continent. Crossing the city boundary, I found myself driving through a traditional Muslim community. Little girls were covered from head to foot, the only flesh on display their pale brown faces and hands. All the women who walked down the pavements with a leisurely rolling gait had their heads covered, and several were veiled. In contrast, most of the men dressed in western clothes, though many of the older ones wore the traditional white cotton baggy trousers and loose tops with incongruously heavy winter coats over them, graying beards spilling down their fronts. I passed a newly erected mosque, its bright red brick and toytown minarets a sharp contrast to the grubby terraces that surrounded it. Most of the grocery shops had signs in Arabic, and the butchers announced Hal-al meat for sale. It almost came as a culture shock to see signs in English directing me to the city center.