The Detective's Secret by Lesley Thomson Read Free Book Online

she mapped out a short cut, but all the streets led back to the Great West Road.
    ‘Jackie has got the wrong end—’ A horn blared as a car cut up a van.
    Mr Right was speaking, his words lost in the sound. On Chiswick High Road, she braked at red traffic lights. She could smell his aftershave; she traced the woody scent to Burberry.
    The lights went green, thirty seconds to go. Bolstered by this, Stella asked, ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ She made herself concentrate.
    ‘I wanted to see you because Jackie told me that, apart from cleaning, you solve murders.’
    Involuntarily Stella lifted her foot off the clutch and, with a judder, the van stalled.

7
    May 1985
    Justin was taking ages to lace up his shoes. Twice he got it wrong and undid them. Simon suppressed anxiety; they would be late.
    ‘Shall I do it for you?’ he asked politely.
    ‘I can do it on my own.’ Justin pulled at the lace and snapped it.
    This was the first time they had been alone since Simon had found Justin’s secret place in the kitchen garden. He had been told off for leaving the library by the librarian, whom some boys called ‘the Oyster’; his jumper over the chair hadn’t fooled her. But the Oyster hadn’t noticed Justin was missing.
    ‘Would you like my lace?’ Simon offered, already loosening it.
    Justin made a knot with the short length. Without looking at Simon, he stood up and jogged out of the room.
    Simon folded Justin’s clothes into a proper pile, as neat as his own. Everyone had to be kind to Justin because his mother had died. Simon sometimes wished his dad was dead. That would mean two good things: he could share being half an orphan with Justin and wouldn’t have to see his father in the holidays. If his own mother died, he’d want to die too. Justin’s mother couldn’t have been as nice as Simon’s mummy or Justin might have tried to die when she did. Baffled by the complexity of this, Simon raced after Justin on to the field.
    ‘You’re late. Next time it’s detention!’ Mr Lambert the games master roared at him. He shoved him to the other end of the line of boys to Justin. The last time they had done cross-country, Justin had got lost and come in late. Mr Lambert had been nice to him, but in case it happened again, Simon resolved to stick close to him. Running was the one sport that Simon was good at. He anticipated obstacles: protruding roots, puddles, dips and jutting stones; he conserved energy, paced himself. He kept a steady speed regardless of gradient.
    Today it was like in his dreams: Justin was shadowing him. Simon felt a burst of joy; they would represent the school, get in the Olympics, go for gold. He ran blindly on, tactics abandoned; he had boundless energy. Bramble branches ripped his shirt; drops of water from overhanging trees wet his cheeks. Justin was his friend; he would ask him to be his blood brother. On they ran, heel for heel.
    Ahead of them was the line of trees; they were coming to the woods with minutes on anyone else. Simon must warn him to increase speed before the woods because the level ground allowed even weaker boys to gain. With a tip of the hand he signalled for Justin to pick up pace.
    Justin wasn’t there. Simon faltered and, stopping, he turned right around. There was no one there. Fifty metres back came a straggling line of boys. They were gaining on him. The bright red of their shirts stood out against the browns and greens, the sweep of the Downs. Justin couldn’t have overtaken him. Ahead, the woods were a fringe of dark green and, skirting them, Simon saw Justin. He had cut up around the base of the hill. He had left the designated track. He was entering the woods by the pheasant run.
    Plunging after him, Simon smashed through bracken, crushing saplings, slipping and sliding, all tactics abandoned. He ran between the tree trunks, fast and nimble; he couldn’t call out, he would give them both away. At last he stumbled out of the canopy of trees on to a track