Read Online The Zig Zag Girl by Elly Griffiths - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elly Griffiths
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on the race hill, descending the stairs to the CID offices felt like entering a tomb. Bob was sitting at Edgar’s desk, doing a crossword.
‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ asked Edgar.
‘It’s my lunch hour.’
Edgar itched to have a go at the crossword. It was only the quick version, but it seemed to be giving Bob some trouble. He was stuck on one down, ‘devil of a cut’, four letters.
‘I’m going to the Isle of Wight tomorrow,’ said Edgar. ‘Can you get someone to look up the ferry times for me?’
‘All right,’ said Bob.
‘Yes, sir,’ Edgar corrected him, but silently. Somehow people never seemed to call him sir.
He could see Bob wanted to ask him why he was going to the Isle of Wight. Was it just a day trip, or something to do with the case? The silent scrutiny was starting to get to him.
‘I’m going out,’ he said. ‘Get some fresh air.’
You’ve been out all morning, said Bob’s body language.
At the door, Edgar paused. ‘Nick,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’
‘One down. Nick.’ And he made for the stairs.
Edgar walked briskly through the Lanes. Then he remembered that it was his lunch hour too and stopped at a Lyons Corner House for a roll and a cup of tea. The place was packed and he had to share his table with a holidaying family, complete with buckets, spades and quarrelsome mongrel. The children were arguing about whether they could go on the Volks Railway. ‘But you
said
…’ Edgar couldn’t remember arguing with his parents, though he supposed it must have happened. Lucy went in for occasional explosions and stompings upstairs, but he and Jonathan had been quieter, more secretive about their emotions. Anyway, theirs had not been a family that talked much about its feelings. He could barely remember any holidays, come to think of it. There had been a trip to a bed and breakfast in Weston-super-Mare, but his mother had been so worried about them ‘being in the way’ (they had to leave their rooms after breakfast and not return until supper-time), that this too had been an oddly furtive affair. Trips with Uncle Charlie had been more fun. He would have allowed them to go on the railway and eat candyfloss too. Edgar smiled apologetically at the family, removed his trouser leg from the dog and made his way out of the cafe.
He walked back along the seafront. He still couldn’t getused to the daily miracle that was the sea, its rushings and rustlings, the white-topped breakers in the winter, the days when water and horizon merged into one. Today, the beach looked almost inviting, the tide out to reveal a thin band of sand. Children were paddling in the shallows and adults sat in deckchairs, trying not to notice the wind that sent the occasional newspaper flying into the air like a demented seagull. Edgar had been swimming once since coming to Brighton, an icy plunge from the breakwater. He had emerged almost paralysed with shock, wondering if he was going to have a heart attack. Was that what it had been like for Jonathan in Dunkirk? he wondered. Had the cold numbed the pain? He hoped so.
As he stood looking out over the scene, he was aware of a young woman standing near to him. Something in her pose, straight back, head tilted slightly, seemed familiar. He had actually started to walk away before he realised who she was. He backtracked.
‘Ruby?’
She turned. She obviously didn’t recognise him, but she was smiling all the same. For some reason this struck him as incredibly endearing.
‘Ruby? We met on Monday after the show. I’m Edgar Stephens. Max’s friend.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ruby, smiling more widely. ‘The policeman.’
That wasn’t quite how Edgar wanted to be remembered. PC Plod, eternal figure of fun. But he smiled and said yes, he was a policeman.
‘Max said that you’d served in the war together.’
Was it his imagination or did she blush when she said Max’s name?
‘That’s right. It seems a long time ago now.’
‘I can’t
‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ asked Edgar.
‘It’s my lunch hour.’
Edgar itched to have a go at the crossword. It was only the quick version, but it seemed to be giving Bob some trouble. He was stuck on one down, ‘devil of a cut’, four letters.
‘I’m going to the Isle of Wight tomorrow,’ said Edgar. ‘Can you get someone to look up the ferry times for me?’
‘All right,’ said Bob.
‘Yes, sir,’ Edgar corrected him, but silently. Somehow people never seemed to call him sir.
He could see Bob wanted to ask him why he was going to the Isle of Wight. Was it just a day trip, or something to do with the case? The silent scrutiny was starting to get to him.
‘I’m going out,’ he said. ‘Get some fresh air.’
You’ve been out all morning, said Bob’s body language.
At the door, Edgar paused. ‘Nick,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’
‘One down. Nick.’ And he made for the stairs.
Edgar walked briskly through the Lanes. Then he remembered that it was his lunch hour too and stopped at a Lyons Corner House for a roll and a cup of tea. The place was packed and he had to share his table with a holidaying family, complete with buckets, spades and quarrelsome mongrel. The children were arguing about whether they could go on the Volks Railway. ‘But you
said
…’ Edgar couldn’t remember arguing with his parents, though he supposed it must have happened. Lucy went in for occasional explosions and stompings upstairs, but he and Jonathan had been quieter, more secretive about their emotions. Anyway, theirs had not been a family that talked much about its feelings. He could barely remember any holidays, come to think of it. There had been a trip to a bed and breakfast in Weston-super-Mare, but his mother had been so worried about them ‘being in the way’ (they had to leave their rooms after breakfast and not return until supper-time), that this too had been an oddly furtive affair. Trips with Uncle Charlie had been more fun. He would have allowed them to go on the railway and eat candyfloss too. Edgar smiled apologetically at the family, removed his trouser leg from the dog and made his way out of the cafe.
He walked back along the seafront. He still couldn’t getused to the daily miracle that was the sea, its rushings and rustlings, the white-topped breakers in the winter, the days when water and horizon merged into one. Today, the beach looked almost inviting, the tide out to reveal a thin band of sand. Children were paddling in the shallows and adults sat in deckchairs, trying not to notice the wind that sent the occasional newspaper flying into the air like a demented seagull. Edgar had been swimming once since coming to Brighton, an icy plunge from the breakwater. He had emerged almost paralysed with shock, wondering if he was going to have a heart attack. Was that what it had been like for Jonathan in Dunkirk? he wondered. Had the cold numbed the pain? He hoped so.
As he stood looking out over the scene, he was aware of a young woman standing near to him. Something in her pose, straight back, head tilted slightly, seemed familiar. He had actually started to walk away before he realised who she was. He backtracked.
‘Ruby?’
She turned. She obviously didn’t recognise him, but she was smiling all the same. For some reason this struck him as incredibly endearing.
‘Ruby? We met on Monday after the show. I’m Edgar Stephens. Max’s friend.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ruby, smiling more widely. ‘The policeman.’
That wasn’t quite how Edgar wanted to be remembered. PC Plod, eternal figure of fun. But he smiled and said yes, he was a policeman.
‘Max said that you’d served in the war together.’
Was it his imagination or did she blush when she said Max’s name?
‘That’s right. It seems a long time ago now.’
‘I can’t
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