A Spoonful of Luger (16 page)

“Unfit
for
dealing
with
children?”
she
whispered.
“Is
that
what
you
mean?”

“Oh
no.
No,
of
course
not.”

“But
you
did.
It
was
there,
in
your
mind.”

I
mumbled
something.

“But
they’re
sensible
people.
Reasonable.
I
still
teach.
Full
time,
that’s
the
only
difference.”

“Yes,
full
time.”

She
would
need
to,
on
her
own
now.

“Because
I
have
to,”
she
said
firmly. Then
she
realized
it
was
a
useful
lead-in.
“George,
there
are
things
a
person
has
to
do,
just
got
to
go
ahead
with
— ”

“Yes,
yes,”
I
cut
in
quickly.
Not
now,
I
thought,
Lord
not
now.

“He’s
dead,”
she
said
quietly.
“You
wouldn’t
know
that.”

“I
knew
he’d
gone
abroad,”
I
said
diplomatically.
Interpol
had
scoured
the
world
for
him.

“He
died
in
Argentina.
Five
years
ago.”

Did
you
say
you
were
sorry?
Her
husband
had
been
a
crook,
a
rotten,
low-down,
filthy ...
“I’m
sorry.”

She
smiled
weakly.
“I’m
sure
you
are,
George.”
She
seemed
about
to
enlarge
on
it.

“But
you
know
Dulcie?”
I
asked
desperately.

Yes,
she
knew
Dulcie,
a
quiet
child,
a
trusting,
beautifully-natured
child.
There
was
a
lot
of
that,
all
confirming
what
I
already
knew.
She
talked
too
much,
trying
to
concentrate
her
mind on
Dulcie,
overdoing
the
sentiment.
“A
girl
who’d
accept
a
lift
from
a
strange
man?”
I
asked.

“Oh
no,
never.”

Then
it
had
to
be
from
somebody
she
knew.

“Did
you
also
know
Anabelle
Lester?”

She
was
startled.
“She
was
at
my
school.
I
didn’t
teach
her.”

“Fifteen
they
said.
Also
someone
who’d
refuse
an
offered
lift?”

“George,
oh
George,
you
poor
idiot.
They’re
grown-up
at
fifteen,
now.
Younger
than
that.”

I
sighed.
“Anne,
I
don’t
know
anything
about
young
girls,
least
of
all
Annabelle.
I
don’t
even
know
that
it
matters
to
me.
I’m
groping,
and
I
just
have
to
try
every
possibility.”

“She
was
waiting
at
the
corner
of
the
Markham
estate.
It’s
quiet
there.
Maybe
she
was
waiting
for
a
boyfriend.
They
thought
she
could
have
been.”

“Fifteen?”

“Yes,
George.
But
somebody
else came
along.
Nobody
knows.
Her
body
was
found
several
days
later
in
Ringlewood.”

“That’s
the
pine
stretch
I
saw?”

“Yes.”
She
paused,
considering
me.
“I’ll
show
you,
if
it’ll
help.”

I
didn’t
know
what
would
help.
I
couldn’t
understand
why
she
wasn’t
more
affected
by
the
swarming
personal
memories
that
were
haunting
me.
How
could
she
suggest
such
a
thing?
I
was
aching
to
get
away,
to
think
about
it
alone.
But
some
people
can
forget.
A
good
memory
can
be
a
lousy
asset.

“It
doesn’t
matter.”

“
Anything I
can
do,
anything
at
all.
That
poor
child ... ”

“I
ought
to
be
moving
on,
getting
something
done.”

“Is
that
all
I
can
do
to
help,
get
out
of
your
car?”

“I’m
sorry,
Anne.
Things
are ... You
caught
me
by
surprise.”

She
considered
me
a
moment,
then
she
snapped
open
her
bag,
scribbled
something
on
a
scrap
of
paper,
and stuffed
it
inside
my
breast
pocket.

“What’s
that?”

“My
phone
number.
If
you
think
I
can
help,
call
me.
Promise.”

“I’ll
do
that.”

And
I
sat
while
she
walked
away,
waited
until
she
reached
her
door,
so’s
not
to
drive
impolitely
past
her
with
my
attention
all
for
the
road,
then
I
headed
rapidly
for
town.

It
had
done
nothing.
The
idea
had
been
to
dredge
my
mind
of
Anne,
and
then
forget
Cleave,
and
get
on
with
the
real
job.
But
there
I
was,
the
pain
hammering
in
my
head,
and
driving
straight
back
into
the
Cleave
case
because
a
tiny
idea
had
inserted
itself.

Call
her?
And
disturb
all
those
memories,
like
a
brick
thrown
into
a
muddy
pool?
Like
hell
I
would.

When
I
braked
for
the
station
yard,
Bycroft’s
Cortina
pulled
out
ahead
of
me.
It
looked
rather
official
because
Sprague
was
beside
him,
so
I
tagged
on
behind.
Not
that
I
could
hold
him, because
Frank
was
driving
with
his
usual
disregard
for
human
life,
but
it
was
soon
apparent
where
they
were
going
so
I
nursed
the
unhappy
noise
my
engine
was
making.