Read Online Behind Closed Doors by Michael Donovan - Free Book Online Page B

Pulled out a four-by-three photo. It was the two of them on a beachfront, Sadie in a mini skirt, Rebecca in jeans, both wearing tops that economised on material. Rebecca was side-on, arms around Sadie’s shoulders pulling her in, but her face was turned to the camera and gave a good picture. I recognised Jean Slater’s looks, the same well-defined bone structure, the pretty eyes, a face rolled back twenty-five years and unclouded by Jean’s problems. Sadie was attractive if you looked beyond the eyeliner and the combative stare but you could see that Rebecca was the beauty in the act.
    I slipped the photo into my pocket hoping that no one was watching, maybe wondering why I was taking pictures from a teenaged girl. People might jump to conclusions. Think I was a tutor.
    â€˜What do you know about Rebecca’s aunt?’ I asked.
    Sadie took a drag. ‘That’s her Aunt Kath. I never met her.’
    â€˜Do you know where she lives? Any second name?’
    She shook her head. ‘She lives in Berkshire. Becky never told me where. I can’t remember her surname. Something clerical?’
    I already had Berkshire from Jean Slater but a clerical-sounding surname narrowed it down. A couple more gems like this and I’d be camped on her doorstep. I changed tack.
    â€˜The last time you talked to Rebecca,’ I said, ‘when exactly was it?’
    â€˜That day. At lunch. I was right here and she came and sat with me while we ate.’
    â€˜Did she say anything special?’
    Sadie thought for a moment. ‘Only that she wouldn’t be seeing me after class. She was going straight round to see Gina.’
    â€˜And did she go to class that afternoon?’
    Sadie shrugged. ‘I guess so.’
    â€˜Does she always turn up for class?’
    Again a shrug. ‘Same as any of us? No one goes all the time.’
    A refuse truck pulled up ten yards away and started tipping bins. The noise stopped us talking.
    Sadie stubbed her cigarette and picked up her uneaten lunch. She was looking over the road. Maybe she had a guy of her own. Wouldn’t want to be seen chatting up a tutor.
    I told her to let me know if she remembered anything else. Said I’d be in touch. The refuse truck moved on and she flipped her attention back to me.
    â€˜Something has definitely happened to Becky,’ she told me. ‘I’m scared, Eddie.’
    I smiled. ‘We’re on the case, Sadie.’
    Maybe my smile encouraged her. She stood and returned a half-hearted smile then disappeared into the college entrance.
    I sat watching the street, trying to figure which way to move.

CHAPTER eight
    I was only two minutes from the office so I headed back there.
    Eagle Eye have the top floor in an Edwardian house backing onto the Great Western lines a mile out from Paddington Station. The area is mostly residential with a scattering of shops and cafes, but a nest of accountants and solicitors had got into a couple of the buildings part way down Chase Street, a cul-de-sac that curves and dead-ends along the railway. The eventual arrival of a private investigator at Number Twenty Six probably went unnoticed by the wider world.
    The lower floors in our building were occupied by Rook and Lye, a law firm that mutated in the nineties from property conveyancing to the more lucrative world of personal-injury litigation. They’d cut loose their estate clients, expanded to full-page ads in Yellow Pages and bought slots on local radio. Then they redesignated their ground floor as a ‘clinic’ and never looked back.
    Six years ago, Eagle Eye took the top floor lease. If Bob Rook and Gerry Lye were still uncomfortable sharing a roost with another image-challenged profession they no longer mentioned it. In terms of image, ambulance-chasers and private investigators sat on the same pot. Where we differed was in client numbers.
    I was barely halfway up the stairs when Bob Rook ejected himself from the