Behind Closed Doors by Michael Donovan Read Free Book Online Page A

When Arabel realised that the saliva she was drowning in had nothing to do with her she broke the clinch, told me to go freshen up.
    â€˜You nearly missed the feast, Flynn,’ she said. ‘Stir-fry doesn’t reheat.’
    Flynn.
    It’s what she calls me. Nothing impersonal - Arabel just comes from a generation that likes their names backwards. I wondered about age again. I’d never considered thirties old until my encounter with Miss Prissy-Pants this morning. But when I thought about it I realised that Arabel was halfway back to Miss P-P’s age. Made me wonder why a twenty-seven-year-old was cooking my dinner. Then I looked at Arabel and I knew why she had my front door key. A man has no way of defending himself against a girl like that. I swear I’d tried.
    I showered and scurried back to the aroma of paprika and cayenne mixing with hot chilli. Arabel served the chicken on a green salad with a homemade dressing that was heavy on honey. We sat at the table overlooking the street and a basket of wholemeal rolls emptied fast between us.
    We talked about things and swigged Grolsch to cool the chilli. I told Arabel about my missing girl. She was all ears – still found private investigation romantic even though her instinct must have been screaming that this was not a good profession in a guy. While she listened she attacked her chicken like she was on the run between shifts. With Arabel meals were a metaphor for life. Take what’s offered before the plate gets snatched. She finished ahead of me and sat back with her Grolsch. Came back to the missing girl.
    â€˜You think there really is something funny going on?’ she asked.
    â€˜There’s always something funny going on,’ I said. ‘The longer you do this job the more you realise that there’s no one leads a simple life.’
    â€˜Some people must.’
    â€˜No one I ever met.’
    â€˜What about us?’
    I gave her incredulous.
    â€˜Relatively,’ she said.
    â€˜Relatively,’ I agreed. ‘But we’re probably the only people we know who aren’t trailing skeletons around in their closet.’
    Arabel’s eyebrows raised. ‘How do you know I’ve got no skelingtons, babe?’
    â€˜Your skeletons would have left years ago,’ I said, ‘to save wear and tear on their bones.’
    She threw me a look.
    â€˜So how about you, Flynn? How do I know you’ve no boneyards? Since you never tell me anything.’
    I stopped with my fork in mid-air. Looked at her.
    Good point.
    â€˜You don’t know,’ I said softly.
    She watched me with those eyes, letting the point smoulder.
    â€˜I just wonder sometimes,’ she said.
    I broke the stare first. ‘My skeletons are buried,’ I told her. ‘Six feet under. Better leave them in peace.’
    I concentrated on clearing my plate but she was still watching.
    â€˜Sometimes it’s better to know, Flynn. Even the bad stuff.’
    â€˜That’s what my clients say. Till they hear the bad stuff.’
    I downed the Grolsch to souse the spices. The chillies gave the beer an edge. Brought out the sweetness of the fermentation and sent the liquid down my throat like a spring stream.
    â€˜Sometimes,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t recognise my own skeletons if they came knocking on the door.’
    I reached under the table and gave the wood a good loud rap. Arabel jumped a mile and spilled her beer, cursed me. Ended up laughing but her eyes were darting. She cursed me some more and swigged the rest of her Grolsch to steady her nerves.
    â€˜What’s your guess?’ she said. ‘Has the girl run away? Is she in danger? Is the family hiding something?’
    â€˜Any of those,’ I said. ‘Or all. Or nothing. Who knows?’
    Her eyes opened wide. ‘Sounds like you’ve almost closed the case.’
    â€˜The biggest part of closing a case is knowing how to open it,’ I