Foxglove Summer by Ben Aaronovitch Read Free Book Online Page A

seen her house? Can you imagine this lot . . .’ She made a gesture that encompassed her children and the state of her kitchen. ‘No, if she wants company . . . It’s not like she’s short of friends.’ She gave me an odd look. ‘Are you lot trained to keep your mouth shut? Because I seem to be doing most of the entertaining here.’
    ’We’re supposed to unobtrusive,’ I said.
    ‘Oh, yeah? All the better to let us incriminate ourselves?’
    As it happened, exactly that – amongst all the other roles an FLO is supposed to perform.
    ‘Trained that way,’ I said. ‘The idea is not to make your life any more difficult than it has to be.’
    She laughed at that, a short mirthless bark. Then she made eye contact and held it.
    ‘Do you think I’m going to get my daughter back?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes,’ I said.
    ‘Why?’
    Because you’ve got to have hope and no news is good news. And because the best you can do is sound like you’re being forthright and sincere. If they get their kids back they won’t even remember what you said and if they don’t – then nothing else will be important.
    I was trying to come up with a convincing lie when I was saved by a voice from the hallway.
    ‘Jo? Are you in?’ Male, adult, public school.
    ‘In the kitchen,’ called Joanne.
    We heard him pause at the living room door and ask the boys if they were bearing up.
    ‘Chin up,’ he told them, and then he came into the kitchen.
    He was taller than me, mid-forties, dressed in cargo pants and green wellies, and a blue and gold rugby shirt that wasn’t loose enough to disguise a little pot belly. He had broad shoulders that were going to fat, brown eyes, a narrow nose and a big forehead. He was about to say something to Joanne when he copped sight of me.
    ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
    Joanne introduced us. He was Derek Lacey – father of the other missing child. He’d been out with the searchers, but they were losing the light.
    ‘I just wanted to be sure you were okay,’ he said.
    ‘I’m about what you’d expect,’ she said.
    Derek pulled a seat out and placed it at the end of the table before sitting down. About as close as he could to interposing himself between me and Joanne without actually sitting cross-legged on the table. I wondered if he was even aware he’d done it. Joanne asked if he wanted a coffee – he asked for something stronger.
    ‘Vicky doesn’t approve,’ he told me as Joanne snagged a half-bottle of Bell’s off a suitably child-inaccessible shelf at the top of the cupboard. ‘But by god I need a drink right now.’
    He got it in an orange drinking glass with a picture of a happy octopus on it. The Bell’s went firmly and decisively back on the shelf. Derek finished his in two gulps. Inspired, Ethan screwed up his face and started to cry until he was pacified with orange squash.
    ‘Where’s Andy?’ asked Joanne.
    ‘He was with a different party,’ said Derek. ‘I think they were down towards Bircher.’ His eyes flicked up to the cupboard where the Bell’s was tucked safely away, towards Joanne, and then back to me.
    ‘I don’t wish to sound rude,’ he said. ‘But I’d like a word in private with Joanne.’
    I glanced at Joanne for confirmation – she gave a slight nod.
    ‘Of course,’ I said and offered him Ethan just to see what the reaction would be. Derek scooped up the toddler with practised ease and Ethan didn’t seem to have any objections – although he could have been distracted by the orange squash.
    I could feel them waiting for me to be gone all the way down the hall and out the front door. I considered doubling back and seeing if I could listen in, but I figured that would have been a little bit too Enid Blyton – even for me.
    Rushpool was situated in a side valley that ran roughly north-west to south-east following, I learnt later from an impeccable source, the line of the Rushy Brook – one of the many streams that converged further down the