Read Online Last Detective by Leslie Thomas - Free Book Online Page A

Norris?’
    â€˜That’s right. What d’you want?’
    â€˜I’ve…I’ve come to have a talk with you, if I can. About your daughter.’
    â€˜Josie. What’s Josie done?’
    â€˜No. Not Josie. Celia.’
    The eyes seemed to sprout quickly from the face.
    â€˜Celia?’ she whispered. ‘Who are you then?’
    â€˜I’m a policeman.’
    â€˜You’ve…have you…found our Celia?’
    â€˜No. No we haven’t.’
    â€˜Well go and have another look,’ she said suddenly and bitterly. ‘Bugger off.’
    The door slammed resoundingly in his face and several more pieces of paint fell off. He backed away because he was unsure what to do next. If a door were shut during an official investigation there were methods of opening it again, even if it meant asking politely. But when it was just a hobby it was more difficult.
    He went out of the gate and began to walk thoughtfully along the street. Approaching him from the power station end appeared a wobbling motor scooter. It skidded noisily, slid by him and then was backed up. It was ridden by a girl, small and dark. She pulled her head out of her yellow crash helmet which had ‘Stop Development in Buenos Aires’ written on it, and shook her hair. She only needed the ice-cream blob on her chin.
    â€˜Josie,’ said Davies. ‘You’re Josie Norris.’
    â€˜You scored,’ she said. ‘Who are you? I saw you coming from our gate.’
    â€˜I’m a policeman,’ he said apologetically. ‘Detective Constable Davies. Your mum just threw me out.’
    â€˜She would do,’ nodded the girl confidently. ‘Are you going to nick the old man? He said he was considering going straight.’
    â€˜No. It’s nothing to do with your father. It’s Celia.’
    â€˜Christ,’ she breathed. ‘You haven’t found something?’
    â€˜No. But I’m hoping to.’
    â€˜Hoping? Hoping?’ she sounded incredulous. ‘And I’m hoping to do a straight swop with this scooter for a new Rolls Royce. When I’m eighteen.’
    â€˜How long is that?’
    â€˜Eight months and three days. I’m free then. You’re free when you’re eighteen now.’
    â€˜So I’m told. I seemed to have missed it.’
    â€˜You want to chat to my mum, do you?’
    â€˜Yes. Will you fix it?’
    â€˜You’re serious about it,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I mean you’re not going to bugger her about and then just drop it again. She’s had enough already.’
    â€˜I’m serious,’ nodded Davies. He hesitated and then said: ‘I don’t think it was ever properly investigated.’
    â€˜Why is it being investigated now?’
    He decided to lie. ‘New information. A man in prison has talked.’
    â€˜What did he say?’
    â€˜I can’t tell you that.’
    She looked at him on the angle. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll get her to meet you. There’s a Lyons Caff in the High Street, just by the florists.’
    â€˜I know it.’
    â€˜Make it three o’clock in there. She shut the door on you because my dad’s at home, I expect. But she’ll be there.’ She regarded him squarely, a small, confident face protruding from a yellow oilskin jacket. ‘But, mister…promise you won’t screw her up.’
    â€˜Promise,’ said Davies.

    The afternoon closed early as though it were anxious to be quit for the day. Drizzle, the real thing from the sky, not from the cooling towers, licked the shop windows in the High Street and buses shushed by on their way to Cricklewood; Davies loitered across the road from the café, imagining that he merged with the background shadow, his face almost buried by the bowsprit of his overcoat. He felt quaintly confident in his obscurity and was shaken when the three apparent strangers wished