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

said. ‘Head off in the right direction and you’re as good as home. You just listen and watch, tug a few lines and see which tug back.’
    The trouble was that the tugging usually started with inside information. This time I was outside, looking at a family who had declared that there was no problem. Maybe there wasn’t. Just Sadie Bannister’s overactive imagination and the fears of a lonely pensioner. Leaving us to disprove a negative. Arabel asked the question that I’d been asking.
    â€˜How you gonna start?’
    â€˜I’ll figure something,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow.’
    Tomorrow would bring inspiration. Of that I was sure.

CHAPTER seven
    I was up before six and went out in the dark to run three laps of the park. As I pushed myself hard along the river the needles of rain that stabbed my face told me that this must be healthy. In the investigation business it pays to keep ahead of the ageing process – or ahead of the self-destruct process, in my case. If I ever relaxed, I knew that the gremlin that grinned at me from the other end of my lifestyle see-saw would come scampering across and devour me.
    Thirty-six minutes was my standard for three circuits. Slower was a sign that the gremlin was sliding my way. Today I managed forty, blamed the weather, and staggered back to my front door with health oozing from every pore. My legs didn’t give way until I was half way up the stairs.
    I showered and swallowed a pint of orange juice, crammed sliced ham into wholemeal rolls. I dug out my old briefcase and dropped the rolls inside, then went to the bedroom and stooped to kiss the duvet under which I’d last seen Arabel. The duvet didn’t move. I picked up my Burberry and headed out.
    When I turned the Frogeye onto Battersea Bridge at just before seven the tingle of blood sluicing through clear veins rewarded me for my fortitude. A mid-river burst of sunlight lifted the morning. The wind was still gusting but the rain had stopped.
    I cranked the radio up and beat the traffic through Chelsea and Kensington, headed north towards Hampstead. By seven twenty I was parked up in my substation fifty yards from the Slater house, ready for a second look.
    The house was quiet and dark. The Lexus hadn’t moved. I tuned in Capital and listened to a mixture of rap and news headlines while the clock crept towards eight.
    Just after seven thirty the two Mercs from up the lane headed out towards the City. There was a lull until the post van drove by at eight fifteen and dropped mail at the Slaters’ and the properties further up. Five minutes later it returned in convoy with a four-by-four driven by a woman with a child perched illegally in the front seat. Next action was eight twenty-three when an elderly woman walked up the lane to domestic duties further in. Then nothing for another half hour. The Slaters’ front door stayed shut like it was Sunday morning.
    It looked like Larry Slater didn’t follow the twelve-hour city routine. Maybe a perk of running your own business. Let someone else open up. Nine o’clock and still no action. No sign of the girl heading for college either. Rebecca Townsend was either indisposed or not there.
    At nine fifteen the door finally opened and Larry Slater came out. He wore a leather jacket and an open-collar shirt. He fired up the Lexus and rolled by me without a glance. His casual garb didn’t exactly say City stockbroker. I was intrigued but stayed put. The most important information was right here at the house: was Rebecca Townsend home in bed like her parents said?
    I tuned in Radio Four and ate my sandwich rolls, allowing Larry Slater forty minutes to fight through traffic. Then I pulled a number from directory enquiries and dialled his company, Slater–Kline. The call routed to a computerised pitch that some delusional had worked up to keep customers entertained while you stalled them. Between bursts of muzak the spiel