Read Online Gift of the Gab by Morris Gleitzman - Free Book Online Page B

to the car, I noticed a really strange thing.
    They were both grinning and waving at me and Dad.
    They both looked really excited to see us.
    All I could think of was that it had been ages since they’d had anyone to interrogate and they’d been getting really bored.
    Then Dad got out of the police car and the policeman with the tummy threw his arms round Dad.
    The woman detective did the same.
    Dad looked a bit taken aback and I got out of the car in case this was a form of police brutality I hadn’t come across in Australia.
    It wasn’t – they were hugging him.
    The woman hugged me too, and even though I didn’t have a clue what was going on, it felt pretty nice.
    â€˜Rowena,’ she murmured. ‘Little Rowena.’
    She let go of me and I stared at her.
    Her voice didn’t sound like a detective at all. It was so beautiful it made my neck prickle. It was the warmest, softest, gentlest voice I’d ever heard. I wondered if all French people sound like that when they speak English.
    â€˜Rowena,’ said Dad, ‘this is Mr and Mrs Bernard. They’re mates of mine.’
    Normally I can cope with just about anything Dad comes out with, but today I just stood there staring at Mr and Mrs Bernard like a stunned aphid.
    Mates of his?
    Mrs Bernard was gazing back at me.
    She had tears in her eyes.
    â€˜Poor girl,’ she murmured. ‘Poor, lovely girl.’
    I wondered if she meant me.
    Mr Bernard was talking excitedly at Dad in French, waving his feather duster. I tried to work out from his feather-duster movements what he was saying. Something about a telephone.
    â€˜My husband does not speak English,’ Mrs Bernard said to me.
    I nodded. My brain was still too scrambled to say anything intelligent.
    The policeman who’d driven us was carrying our bags into the house. Mrs Bernard put her arm round my shoulders and gently steered me along the gravel path to the front door.
    Mr Bernard was still talking excitedly.
    â€˜Alan is saying we are sorry we didn’t meet you,’ Mrs Bernard said to Dad, ‘but when the hotel rang us we were unprepared. Why did you not let us know you are coming? Why the secret hotel?’
    I could see Dad didn’t know what to say, even in English.
    Perhaps Mrs Bernard’s voice had got to him too.
    â€˜Er . . .’ he said, ‘um . . . we were gunna surprise you.’
    I had a feeling he was making that up, but I didn’t dwell on it because suddenly I had something else on my mind.
    Something so big and so confusing that I tripped over Mrs Bernard’s feet and almost fell into a bush shaped like a car.
    I would have done if Mrs Bernard hadn’t caught me.
    The thing is this.
    If Dad is such big mates with the local police, why didn’t he get them to track down Mum’s killer?
    I’m sitting on the bed in the little attic bedroom Mrs Bernard has brought me to and I’m trying to figure it out.
    I can’t.
    When Dad came in to check my bed was comfy and to see if his toothbrush was in my rucksack, I asked him.
    He looked away with a pained expression.
    At first I thought he hadn’t heard me because he’d just remembered he’d used his toothbrush on the plane to polish his boots.
    But he had heard me.
    All he did, though, was give me a big hug and say, ‘Sometimes, Tonto, it’s best to let things rest.’
    Well, he might think so, but I don’t.

I thought about the mystery for ages, which wasn’t easy with jet-lag.
    If Dad had wanted to, he could have got Mr Bernard and the other local police to check every car in the district for hit-and-run dents.
    They could have done it standing on their heads.
    Why didn’t they?
    I didn’t know, so I went downstairs to look for clues.
    Dad and Mr and Mrs Bernard were in the kitchen. As I came along the passage I heard Dad saying, ‘I want to tell her myself.’ Then Mrs Bernard said