Candleland by Martyn Waites Read Free Book Online Page B

here, then?”
    â€œThis used to be my manor, the Cross. I used to work with runaway kids. All this here,” – she gestured round the office – “is just an extension of that.”
    Larkin looked again at the papers on his lap. “I’ll be having a go at looking for her myself.” She gave him an amused, ironic look. “Anything I should follow up first?”
    â€œJust read the report. It’s all in there.”
    â€œWould you have told me if you’d found her?”
    Jackie Fairley gave her grim smile again. “Just remember what I said. Sometimes mispers don’t want to be found, in which case we find out why and arrange for help. Sometimes they’re already in a safe house or refuge, in which case we tell the parents we’ve found them but don’t say where. We don’t break confidentiality. And lastly,” she paused, took a drag. “We don’t find them. And that could be for any number of reasons.”
    Larkin nodded, letting the unacknowledged word hang in the air between them. There was silence in the room, save for the traffic outside and the sound of Jackie Fairley sucking smoke down into her lungs, burning the paper wrapping on the cigarette as she did.
    Larkin thanked her and took out his chequebook to settle up. That done, he stood up and made for the door.
    â€œOh, if you don’t mind me asking,” Jackie Fairley said, after depositing the cheque in a locked safe, “what’s your job? How come you’re involved in this?”
    â€œI’m a friend of Henry’s,” he replied. “And a journalist.”
    â€œOoh,” she said, suddenly interested “D’you want to do a story about me, then?” She laughed.
    Larkin smiled. “I can think of worse ones. You do good work here.”
    â€œYeah,” she said, crossing to the window, looking down. “We do what we can.” She turned back to him. “Let me know how you get on. If you’re successful at it, I might have a job for you.”
    He smiled, shook her hand and left. As he walked down the stairs he heard the radio being switched back on; the comforting, soothing, escapist sounds of Andy Williams singing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” being totally at odds with their surroundings.
    Outside on the street, he headed towards King’s Cross. He walked, eyes front, ignoring the posters like the other pedestrians. He had to find a comfortable, stimulating environment in which to read the report. That meant a pub. But not one round here.
    Larkin turned right on to Pentonville Road, the urban cocktail stink of human piss, bad garbage and carbon monoxide stinging his nostrils as he headed for the station. He didn’t look back, didn’t speculate on the whereabouts of the missing poster boy, told himself he had enough to think about, told himself he couldn’t feel those wide, innocent, monochrome eyes bore into his back.

Spice of Life
    The man, Arabic, Lebanese or something, was poorly dressed, overweight and dead-eyed. But he fed the machine in the corner of the cafe, hands moving over the buttons, eyes interpreting the lights and bleeps, with the solemn, dextrous skill and laser-locked attention of a Jedi master. Larkin, sitting at a nearby table, was supposed to be keeping watch through the window, but his gaze was involuntarily drawn to the man. Eventually, money consumed and none regurgitated, the man rolled out of the cafe and Larkin continued his vigil.
    Nineteen years old, dark brown hair (now possibly dyed), last seen wearing black jeans, boots, an old grey sweatshirt and a blue denim jacket. A useless description. Also a photo, swiped by Moir from one of Karen’s druggie buddies in Edinburgh: a teenager, sullen, with short hair, pouting mouth and dark-ringed eyes. A look, simultaneously brooding and haunted .
    Larkin had gone to The Spice of Life, an old West End pub on the fringes of Soho, to read