Rolling out of the bar with a case of wine-induced sea-legs, enough common sense asserts itself to tell me I’m in no condition to go chasing down the next of Finchby’s invoice addresses. Horizontal on my cheap hotel bed is where I’m best suited for the next few hours.
Arriving at my room, I’m sufficiently compos mentis to check my ‘guard hair’ - still nicely in place. As I open the door, it breaks free, floating down to the corridor carpet.
Nonetheless, as I flop down on the bed, staring up at a spinning ceiling, my thoughts spiral with it...
A family restaurant...
And yet, with an address from Finchby’s invoice. Several invoices in fact. All for trafficked women and girls.
Why?
Tomorrow I’ll go investigate some of the other addresses.
NB - stick to coffee.
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