The Doorkeepers by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online Page A

was a mistake,” said Josh, as he poked at his shepherd’s pie.
    â€œYou think
that’s
a mistake, you ought to taste this lasagne.”
    â€œNo, I mean coming here. The police don’t seem to know squat.”
    â€œOh, come on, Josh. You have to give them time. It was a miracle they even found out who she was.”
    â€œI guess you’re right. But where the hell has Julia
been
for the last ten months? You’d have thought that she’d have left some kind of forwarding address.”
    â€œThink about it: if she told her employment agency that she was staying at the Paragon Hotel in the Earl’s Court district then she must at least have
known
it, even if she didn’t actually check in there. So maybe we should look around Earl’s Court, and see if we can find anybody who remembers her.”
    â€œYou don’t think the police are going to do that?”
    â€œI’m sure they will. But where’s the harm in us doing it, too?”
    Josh took a cautious mouthful of pie. “This is weird,” hesaid, after a while. “I hate it, but I want some more.” He paused, and then he said, “What do you think a ‘jacket’ is?”
    Nancy said, “We could print up some enlargements of a picture of Julia, and stick them on lamp-posts and stuff. You know, ‘Have You Seen This Girl?’”
    Josh nodded. “That’s a good idea.” He pushed aside his plate and opened up his newly bought A-Z Guide to London. “I guess we’re here, right? Earl’s Court is here, only three subway stops away. If we can find ourselves a hotel around there …”
    They took the tube to Earl’s Court, where the sidewalk was crowded with young people waiting for nothing in particular and old people shuffling along with shopping baskets on wheels. There was a pungent smell of hamburgers-and-onions in the air.
    They found the Paragon Hotel two streets down, in Barkston Gardens – a red-brick Edwardian building with battered cream paintwork and drooping net curtains as gray as cobwebs. Inside it was gloomy and overheated and the crimson patterned carpet was worn down to the string. Behind the reception desk sat an overweight woman with dyed-blonde hair and a black suit that was far too tight for her.
    â€œIf you’re looking for a room, dear, sorry – we’re full to busting.”
    â€œNo, no, we don’t need a room. We were wondering if you might remember seeing this girl.” Josh handed over a picture of Julia standing outside a bookstore. “We’re talking about a year ago, last spring sometime.”
    The woman found a pair of thumbprinted reading glasses and peered at the photograph closely. “No,” she said, after a while. “Can’t say I do. But, you know, they come and they go, thousands of them, these young people, and they all look the same to me. All looking for something, or running away from something.”
    â€œYou’re absolutely sure you don’t remember her?”
    â€œI honestly wish I did. But, no. I’m sorry. Missing, is she?”
    â€œYou could say that. She’s dead.”
    â€œOh, I’m really sorry. She’s not that girl the police were here asking about? The American one?”
    â€œThat’s right, Julia Winward. She’s my sister. She
was
my sister.”
    â€œIt’s a bloody tragedy,” said the woman, shaking her head. “So young, too. They come and they go, you know, thousands of them, and sometimes I feel like taking hold of them and shaking them and saying, ‘Where are you going? What on earth do you think you’re going to find?’ But still they come, year after year. So hopeful, you know. Backpacking round God knows where, looking for God knows what.”
    â€œWe’re going to have some copies of this picture printed,” said Nancy. “Is it OK if we pin one up in here?”
    â€œOh, of course