As she got out the car she gave me a piece of paper with a mobile number scrawled on it, and said that if I was wanting to see her again just ring, ra...her than visiting the red light area.I got home about 11pm, I hoped Debbie would be in bed as I couldn't face her, I was going to sleep in the spare room, but when I got in she was sat on the settee crying. I asked her "What the fucks up with you", she replied between snivels that Ian (my elder brother) had rung her and called her all the names. She just had to be alive somewhere. Maybe she took a holiday and forgot to tell people. I did a silent prayer to myself and silently hoped that she would not be found dead on some pig farm like all those victims of Pickton the pig farmer serial killer out west who killed mostly native women prostitutes and other vulnerable women. Missing women in the area seemed like a good start and I could easily use police statistics to write a quick general story for the Peterborough Examiner about missing. More

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