Where Everything Seems Double by Penny Freedman (good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT) 📗

about to say that I will talk to Dumitru, but now I think I understand the look he was giving Freda earlier. Of course, my first instinct might be right – perhaps, in spite of his denial, he does like little girls. But he could have been assessing, wondering who she might tell about what she had seen. Was he worried about her talking to Milo? If I challenge him about what he was doing last night, he will know that Freda is suspicious. Could I be putting her in danger?

‘There’s probably a perfectly innocent explanation,’ I say. ‘Don’t talk to anyone else about it – we don’t want to start rumours if there’s nothing wrong. Leave it with me and don’t worry.’ I give her a kiss. ‘Enjoy your holiday. You’re having a good time apart from this, aren’t you?’

‘It’s fun,’ she says. ‘The gang are really nice.’ She gives me a smile and I think I can actually see the burden of worry rise from her shoulders before landing with a thump on mine.

When Freda has been to the bathroom and retired to her room, I pick up my phone, considering a trip to the car park, but it is dark now and this isn’t a call to make under adverse conditions, so I listen at Freda’s door to check that she has music playing and then I lie down on the bed, pick up the room phone and dial for an outside line. My call is answered exactly as I expect.

‘Scott,’ the voice says, with that mixture of briskness and slight irritation which is so familiar.

‘Not too late for you, I hope,’ I say.

‘Gina?’

‘Still remembered after all this time,’ I say.

For those who are not familiar with the twelve-year epic that is my relationship with Detective Superintendent David Scott of the Metropolitan Police, I should perhaps give a brief précis, avoiding, as far as possible, the more unsavoury elements and episodes of embarrassing stupidity that have marred it along the way. Actually, strictly speaking, our relationship started more than twelve years ago. It dates back more than thirty years, to when I was an idealistic young teacher and David Scott was an unremarkable seventeen-year-old starting on an A level English course. Nothing inappropriate there, just Macbeth, The Mayor of Casterbridge and Sylvia Plath’s Ariel, I think. He got a B and went off to study archaeology, and I pursued my chequered teaching career until I ended up teaching English language at Marlbury University and twelve years ago one of my students was murdered. Enter a newly minted DI, David Scott, to lead the investigation. Our relationship, as the word is currently understood, with its aura of sex, took a while to develop and there have been many stumbles along the way, not to mention several dead bodies by way of David’s work, but we had settled down to something quite comfortable for the past two and a half years. We have separate homes – my charming little house in Bloomsbury, his characterless pigeonhole in Pimlico. We both have demanding work but we were managing fairly regular theatre visits, meals out, trips to exhibitions, and occasional nights in one another’s beds when we were both in the mood. Until four months ago, when David suggested an Easter holiday on the Amalfi coast, where he wanted to look at some new finds in Pompeii (he goes on taking an amateur interest in archaeology) and I declined on the grounds that I was busy helping to organise a conference (I now teach English language and linguistics at the School of Oriental and African Studies). We didn’t exactly have a row, but we agreed vaguely that we would get in touch when we were both less busy and neither of us has picked up the phone since. So you can see that asking for David’s help at this point is a delicate business.

‘All this time,’ he says. ‘Do you know how long it is exactly?’

‘Well, it’s a few months, I know, but you—’

‘One hundred and thirty-nine days.’

‘You’ve been counting?’

‘I thought I would keep a record.’

‘Why didn’t you just ring me?’

‘You were going to ring me, remember? As soon as you were less busy.’

‘You could have rung me.’

‘But I know how you don’t like to be distracted when you’re busy.’

This is ridiculous. We sound like a couple of teenagers.

‘Well, I’m ringing now,’ I say, ‘so can we just—’

‘Let me make a wild guess here,’ he interrupts. ‘You’re ringing because you want my help?’

‘What makes you think… how do you know?’

‘Because I work for the police service and a lot of information comes my way. Colin Fletcher, aka Colin Flynn, is in the frame for the abduction/murder of Ruby Buxton in Carnmere and you are desperate to make amends for what you see as an old betrayal by getting him off the hook.’

I want to shout at him that there was no betrayal but instead I find myself asking, ‘How did you guess?’

‘Because I know you. As you frequently point out, there is no appropriate label for our rather odd relationship, but it has been a long one, and you’re not actually that hard to read.’

I ought to resent this but instead I feel oddly reassured.

‘So will you help?’ I ask.

‘You want us to go up to Carnmere?’

‘I’m here already.’

‘Oh God. Charging around, making all sorts of evidence inadmissible.’

‘Not at all. I’m being very discreet.’

‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

‘Will you come?’

‘Possibly I could. The local police might think I can be useful, I suppose, because I made the arrest in the Marlbury case.’

‘Right away?’ I press.

‘Well, I’m not driving through the night. I’ll start early tomorrow. I’ll let you know what I’m doing. I can stay for the weekend, but no longer.’

‘Just one other thing,’ I say. ‘I’ve got Freda with me and she’s got sort of involved.’

‘Jesus, Gina!’ He hears me draw breath to say more but he stops me. ‘Don’t say anything else or my resolve will weaken.