Read Online Laura Marlin Mysteries 1: Dead Man's Cove eBook by Lauren St. John - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren St. John
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a bit vague and to start off by asking questions the person would be comfortable answering, such as: ‘What colour is your cat?’ Only when they’d dropped their guard could you move on to the real interrogation.
Unfortunately, Matt Walker had never had to interview an eleven-year-old boy who couldn’t speak English and, if he had, would have used a translator. Laura was going to have to manage on her own.
That afternoon, shortly after she’d watched Mr Mukhtar set off down Fish Street, this time without his parcel, Laura walked into the North Star. To her surprise, there was no one behind the counter. She stood for a moment allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light and breathing in the now familiar smell of spices, citrus, vegetables and bread. Mr Mukhtar’s aftershave lingered in the air.
‘Tariq?’ When there was no response, Laura raised her voice: ‘Tariq, are you there?’
There was a creaking of bones and Mr Mukhtar rose from behind the counter like some sea monster from the deep. Laura realised with a shock that he’d been waiting for her. That he must have gone down Fish Street, circled the block and come in through the back entrance of the North Star with the sole intention of trapping her.
‘Regrettably, my son is not here,’ he informed her pleasantly. ‘What is it you want with him?’
‘I, umm . . . I wanted to talk to him,’ stammered Laura.
Mr Mukhtar put his plump hands side by side on the counter and affected a mournful expression. ‘I’m afraid, Laura, I have a message for you from my son. He doesn’t want to talk to you. Not today. Not at any time in the future.’
Laura was stunned. ‘I don’t believe you. Where is Tariq? What have you done with him? I want to speak to him.’
Mr Mukhtar gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I wish I were lying, my dear. It pains me to have to tell you that Tariq has been most insistent in this matter. He simply doesn’t wish to see you any more.’
‘Why?’ demanded Laura.
‘Why?’ Mr Mukhtar clapped his forehead. ‘Because he finds you boring. Very boring. He tells me that day after day he has had to listen to you going on and on and on about your background and your school and he can’t stand it any more. He has tried to be polite - he’s such a courteous boy, my son - but enough is enough.’
Laura felt as if it the blood was being drained from her limbs by a giant suction pump. She had no idea how she was still standing. Still listening. Every word was like a thousand paper cuts.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said again, trying her hardest to keep her voice steady. ‘You can’t stand the thought of him having a friend, of having fun. You want him to spend every afternoon slaving away in your stupid store. Free labour is what he is,’ she added, remembering Mrs Crabtree’s phrase.
Mr Mukhtar’s hands clenched on the counter. The veins on his neck writhed like earthworms. If a man hadn’t come in to buy a lottery ticket right at that second, Laura was sure the storekeeper would have strangled her without a qualm.
By the time the customer left the shop, throwing them a puzzled glance as he went, the shopkeeper had recovered his composure. ‘You’re a very persistent girl, Laura Marlin, with a very interesting name,’ he said smoothly. ‘Do you know that in my younger days, I used to hunt blue marlin off the coast of Madagascar in deep-sea fishing boats? Quite a fight those great fish put up, but we always killed them in the end.’
He barked an order in the direction of the stairs and there were footsteps on the wooden floorboards overhead. There was a short delay and then Tariq came into the store. Laura swallowed. Her friend had been transformed. Gone were the faded cast-offs. In their place was a fine, steel-grey Nehru suit, with a crisp white shirt underneath. His hair had been beautifully cut and he wore an exotic silver ring on one finger. He gave Laura a cool, confident stare.
‘Tariq, my son, I
Unfortunately, Matt Walker had never had to interview an eleven-year-old boy who couldn’t speak English and, if he had, would have used a translator. Laura was going to have to manage on her own.
That afternoon, shortly after she’d watched Mr Mukhtar set off down Fish Street, this time without his parcel, Laura walked into the North Star. To her surprise, there was no one behind the counter. She stood for a moment allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light and breathing in the now familiar smell of spices, citrus, vegetables and bread. Mr Mukhtar’s aftershave lingered in the air.
‘Tariq?’ When there was no response, Laura raised her voice: ‘Tariq, are you there?’
There was a creaking of bones and Mr Mukhtar rose from behind the counter like some sea monster from the deep. Laura realised with a shock that he’d been waiting for her. That he must have gone down Fish Street, circled the block and come in through the back entrance of the North Star with the sole intention of trapping her.
‘Regrettably, my son is not here,’ he informed her pleasantly. ‘What is it you want with him?’
‘I, umm . . . I wanted to talk to him,’ stammered Laura.
Mr Mukhtar put his plump hands side by side on the counter and affected a mournful expression. ‘I’m afraid, Laura, I have a message for you from my son. He doesn’t want to talk to you. Not today. Not at any time in the future.’
Laura was stunned. ‘I don’t believe you. Where is Tariq? What have you done with him? I want to speak to him.’
Mr Mukhtar gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I wish I were lying, my dear. It pains me to have to tell you that Tariq has been most insistent in this matter. He simply doesn’t wish to see you any more.’
‘Why?’ demanded Laura.
‘Why?’ Mr Mukhtar clapped his forehead. ‘Because he finds you boring. Very boring. He tells me that day after day he has had to listen to you going on and on and on about your background and your school and he can’t stand it any more. He has tried to be polite - he’s such a courteous boy, my son - but enough is enough.’
Laura felt as if it the blood was being drained from her limbs by a giant suction pump. She had no idea how she was still standing. Still listening. Every word was like a thousand paper cuts.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said again, trying her hardest to keep her voice steady. ‘You can’t stand the thought of him having a friend, of having fun. You want him to spend every afternoon slaving away in your stupid store. Free labour is what he is,’ she added, remembering Mrs Crabtree’s phrase.
Mr Mukhtar’s hands clenched on the counter. The veins on his neck writhed like earthworms. If a man hadn’t come in to buy a lottery ticket right at that second, Laura was sure the storekeeper would have strangled her without a qualm.
By the time the customer left the shop, throwing them a puzzled glance as he went, the shopkeeper had recovered his composure. ‘You’re a very persistent girl, Laura Marlin, with a very interesting name,’ he said smoothly. ‘Do you know that in my younger days, I used to hunt blue marlin off the coast of Madagascar in deep-sea fishing boats? Quite a fight those great fish put up, but we always killed them in the end.’
He barked an order in the direction of the stairs and there were footsteps on the wooden floorboards overhead. There was a short delay and then Tariq came into the store. Laura swallowed. Her friend had been transformed. Gone were the faded cast-offs. In their place was a fine, steel-grey Nehru suit, with a crisp white shirt underneath. His hair had been beautifully cut and he wore an exotic silver ring on one finger. He gave Laura a cool, confident stare.
‘Tariq, my son, I
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