The Detective's Daughter by Lesley Thomson Read Free Book Online Page B

master glanced out of the staffroom window and spotted a kid cutting lessons.
    ‘Hey you, young man! Get inside or I’ll serve you detention.’
    ‘ What’s that, young sirs? Stole a pig? Where are your licences? ’
    Jonathan made a final wish and, wriggling, found that he was not tied up; he raised his leg and took a step. He could walk. He was free. He looked at the stake to which he had been tied and saw that there was no rope. A warmth was travelling down the inside of his thighs, like a flame licking, the material darker where the heat had spread. He ran along the path, his arms stiff like a tin soldier, his wool trousers chafing his inner thigh and the warmth turned to ice.
    He flung open a door marked ‘Toilets’, smashing it against the wall, and skidded to a stop by the urinals. He fumbled with his fly although there was no point. When he twisted on the tap over the sink a deluge of water spattered up over his face, down his jacket and the front of his trousers. He was wet everywhere. Jonathan had enough presence of mind to see that this was useful. He raced through the smelly dungeon, pushed on the green door in the hall, ducked his head as he passed the high desk and burst out into the freezing entrance, all the time alert for an ambush.
    He thought he had been away for a very long time but the crocodile was only outside the classroom door.
    ‘Justin! What did I say about two whistles? You’re soaking!’
    ‘I washed my hands after the playground.’ He was hoarse.
    He threaded his way between the desks to the chair that was not his chair. The boy called Simon gestured with his stumpy finger and Jonathan looked down at the sodden fabric; he had forgotten to do up his flies.
    ‘Mummy’s boy wet himself!’
    Jonathan sat up straight, waiting for Justin to come to claim his seat. He told himself that he could easily survive for a year without eating.

5
    Monday, 10 January 2011
    Isabel Ramsay was preparing for bed.
    She could feel a draught, standing by the sink in the kitchen. She decided that the cleaner had left a window open. The girls got hot vacuuming or polishing and ignoring her advice about wearing layers, opened windows and wasted precious heat. Except her present cleaner was careful, not like her daughters, who left clutter without a thought for others.
    She shuffled through to the dining room where there was enough light from the kitchen to see that the curtain on one of the long windows was not properly drawn. That explained it.
    The heavy gold brocade was topped with a plain pelmet. The catches on the window sashes had been screwed down years ago, because the balcony, adorned with railings matching the one above, was an ideal place for a burglar to hide. Eleanor had told her this was one of her hideouts; she had spied on dinner parties through the glass because in those days they never pulled the curtains and everything was open for all to see.
    A silhouette with wild hair glared at her through the pane. Isabel’s hand fluttered out and she managed to steady herself on a glazing bar. After a while, with slow deliberation she smeared her palm down the glass. She made a mental note of its position and then wiped the damp of the condensation on her skirt. Eleanor should have been in bed hours ago. She flapped the curtain across and blotted out her youngest daughter.
    Good, the radiator was off. The cleaners turned it on, flagrantly flouting her assurance that they would soon warm up if they put their backs into it. Her new cleaner was not like that, she reminded herself.
    Isabel preferred the dining room in the evening, lit by silver candelabras and flames leaping in the grate: her Queendom. In the chill dawn it was hard-edged and mundane. When she cleaned, Lizzie crashed and banged; sweeping ash on to newspaper and grumbling about her knees, her sciatica or her sister in New Zealand.
    Someone had placed a vase of lilies in the fireplace. Not Lizzie, she was dead. Isabel was certain that she had