A Spoonful of Luger (3 page)

“Friends?”
said
Randall,
out
in
the
hall.
He’d
retained
the
idea
to
explore.

I
looked
at
the
inside
of
my
hat.
“She’s
a
shy
girl,
quiet,
even
nervous.”

“That’s
why
I
can’t
understand
— “

“So
if
she
accepted
a
lift
in
a
car,
say,
it’d
be
somebody
she
knew.
A
friend.”

“Friend?”
he
said
again.
He
seemed
to
be
losing
confidence
in
me.

I
asked
him
about
the
buses
back
to
town.
He
didn’t
offer
to
drive
me
back,
but
that’s
hardly
surprising.

“Haven’t
you
got
a
car?”
he
asked.
It
was
part
accusation,
part
despair.

“I’ll
hire
one.”

“No.”
He
shook
his
head
so
violently
that
I
thought
he
was
considering
the
expense
involved.
“I’ll
lend
you
one.”

“I
don’t
want
your
car.”

“I
run
a
garage.
It’ll
be
easy.
You
can
take
your
pick
of
what’s
there.”

That
sounded
useful.
I
asked
him
when
and
where
I
could
do
this
picking.

It
was
a
bit
out
of
town,
he
said,
on
the
east
road.
It
wasn’t
much,
but
it
kept
them
alive.
If
I’d
like
to
go
along
there
in
the
morning
—
the
Grange
Garage
it
was
called
— he’d
see
me
there.
Say
about
ten?

“Sunday
morning?”
I
asked.

“Somebody’s
got
to
work
the
pumps.”
His
eyebrows
went
up
as
though
I’d
accused
him
of
something.

He
could
be
a
belligerent
little
sod
when
he
liked,
I
decided,
the
belligerence
of
a
man
who
is
basically
fearful,
even
of
people’s
opinions.
I
wondered
how
much
of
Dulcie’s
shyness
and
reserve
had
arisen
from
it,
a
realization
that
it’s
best
to
lie
low
and
say
nothing.
And
beneath
that,
perhaps,
an
adventurous
nature
waiting
for
exploitation.

“Of
course
they
have,”
I
assured
him,
and
his
eyes
fell.

Outside,
there
was
a
bit
of
mist
about,
and
the
temperature
was
dropping.
While
I
was
thinking
about
my
poor
feet
I
saw
one
of
their
circular
buses
coming,
so
I
crossed
the
road
quickly
and
got
on
it.

This
one
was
running
in
the
opposite
direction
to
the
bus
on
which
Dulcie
should
have
arrived.
I
thought
that
at
least
I
could
get
some
idea
of
the territory
involved,
and
settled
down,
lit
my
pipe,
kept
my
eyes
open,
and
saw
nothing
interesting
or
unusual.
Somebody
else
would
have
worked
all
this
out
before
deploying
the
police
search.

Then
abruptly
I
began
to
feel
uneasy.
I
realized
that
I
knew
where
I
was.
A
small
post
office
seemed
familiar;
a
corner
with
a
fish
and
chip
shop
jostled
my
memory.
And
they
were
not
pleasant
thoughts.
The
bus
had
been
a
mistake.
Then
we
drew
to
a
stop
at
a
shopping
complex,
apparently
a
minute
or
two
ahead
of
time
because
the
coloured
driver
and
conductor
got
out
and
began
chatting.
A
row
of
bright
new
shops
glowed
in
the
mist,
and
a
supermarket
spread
itself
beside
its
car
park.
I
leaned
forward
and
polished
the
mist
from
the
window,
and
relaxed.
Nothing
familiar
there.
The
feeling
passed.
I
turned
my
head,
and
on
the
other
side
of
the
road
was
a
pub.
The
Crown.
And
it
hadn’t
changed
by
one
fleck
of
paint.
Alongside
the Crown,
Trenchard
Street.
I
couldn’t
see
any
street
sign,
but
I
didn’t
have
to.
Ask
me
ten
minutes
before,
and
I’d
have
said
I’d
forgotten,
but
now
I
knew.
Trenchard
Street.
It
climbed
a
steady
hill,
elderly
semis
each
side,
all
but
one
or
two
about
half
way
up,
which
were
bungalows,
set
back
with
a
tree
in
each
garden.
Nice
and
quiet,
with
a
rear
view
over
open
country
for
miles.
I
had
sat
and
looked
at
that
view
when
the
air
was
clear
on
a
fine
April
afternoon,
and
relaxed
looking
at
it.
When
I
hadn’t
been
looking
at
Anne.

I
knew
then
that
I
couldn’t
go
on
with
this
case.
Coming
back
to
the
town
at
all
had
been
bad
enough,
but
this
was
drawing
too
close.
Anne.
She
might
—
just
might
—
walk
round
that
corner
any
second.
Why
didn’t
we
drive
on?
What
the
hell
were
they
chattering
about,
stupid
black ...