Where was Helen? He was about to try to call her again when it struck him. Sean had said Helen sat on Facebook all day, that it was the last thing he’d seen her do last night. Helen had told Winkler last week that a woman had been in touch with her saying she knew where Frankie was, but Patrick had dismissed it out of hand, assumed it was a troll.

What if it hadn’t been a troll?

A fresh wave of nausea hit him. He knew who he needed to talk to.

Chapter 42

Chapter 42
Patrick – Day 7

‘Where’s Winkler?’

Carmella looked up from her computer. ‘Patrick! I’ve just heard about Sean Philips . . .’

‘Later. I need to talk to Winkler right now.’

She cupped her mouth with her hand and yelled out. ‘Hey – anyone seen Fonzie?’

Patrick suppressed a smile. He’d forgotten that was Winkler’s nickname, one which wasn’t meant affectionately. One of the PCs at the other end of the room called back, ‘I think he went to the gym.’

‘Of course he bloody has,’ Patrick hissed. He stamped across to Winkler’s desk and sat down. It was the most clutter-free desk he’d ever seen, not a scrap of loose paper, no science experiments in mugs like on Patrick’s own desk. Anyone would think Winkler never did any work. The computer was locked and Patrick started typing in random password guesses:

ilovemyself

happydays

winkler

None of them worked. He started to type in another when a familiar voice said, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

It was Winkler, his thick hair still damp from the shower, his skin gleaming with sweat, biceps bulging.

‘You’ve got access to Helen Philips’ Facebook account. I need to take a look at it, now.’

Winkler’s eyes twinkled. ‘Uh-uh. I don’t think I should do that.’

‘Why the hell not?’ Patrick felt hot and prickly; he could actually picture his temper fraying.

‘It’s private, isn’t it? Besides, there’s nothing else useful on there. I’ve been through it all.’

Patrick took a deep breath. ‘When was the last time you checked it?’

Winkler shrugged. ‘Dunno. A couple of days ago. All she’s done is like dozens of posts on the “Find Frankie Philips” pages.’

‘She was on it last night. Sean told me. I need to take a look – now.’

Winkler waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’ll check it out later.’

That was it. Patrick saw a flash of red and, barely knowing what he was doing, grabbed the front of Winkler’s shirt with both fists, two buttons popping as he yanked him forward so their noses were almost touching.

‘Give me the log-in,’ Patrick said in a low voice.

Winkler brought his hands up and apart, breaking Patrick’s grip. ‘You arsehole. This is a fucking Ralph Lauren shirt . . .’