The Fourth Season by Dorothy Johnston Read Free Book Online Page B

fat made his face look ponderous and slow, but his expression was alert and his eyes took in everything there was to notice about me, from my hair that needed cutting to my denim skirt that could have benefited from close contact with an iron.
    Owen brought along a photograph of Laila cut out of the newspaper to make sure there was no mistake.
    â€˜That waistcoat—she was wearing it the night she came in. It had goldy brown embroidery. Like autumn leaves.’
    He told me he’d rung the police as soon as he’d recognised Laila’s picture in the paper. An officer had interviewed him. ‘Young chap. Polite.’
    Listening to Owen’s description, I saw the waistcoat as clearly as though I’d created the design myself, an abstract design of reds, dark golds and browns. I recalled Laila at the Lennox Gardens picnic, the flashes of colour under the trees, her hair darker than the shadows I’d been hiding in.
    â€˜Am I to understand this girl was a hacker?’ Owen said.
    I explained briefly, then asked if by any chance he recalled which machine Laila had been using.
    Owen wheeled himself away from the counter to where he had a clearer view of the three rows of monitors and the aisles between them. I hesitated, wanting to follow him, to see what he saw, yet not wanting to interrupt his concentration.
    He looked around and waved me over, and I checked the number. Owen could tell immediately by the look on my face that it was the right one. He wheeled himself slowly back to the counter, where I took him again through the details of that Thursday night, full of admiration for his capacious memory.
    Laila had arrived at the cafe on her own. When I asked Owen if he kept histories of sites accessed by his customers, his answer was an emphatic no. He muttered something to himself, and I caught the phrase ‘police state yet’.
    â€˜The boys all noticed her. I caught them staring, but that girl kept her head down. She didn’t give any of them so much as a glance.’
    There’d been three boys. Owen closed his eyes in order better to recall their features.
    â€˜The first, first to come in that is—it would have been well before nine—had very short hair, spiky, with some sort of grease to make it stick up—you know what I mean. He was tallish, thin. I can’t recall the others arriving, but I do know that a few minutes before nine all three of them were here.’ Owen opened his eyes and nodded. ‘I can see them as clearly as I can see you now. Pam brought me a hot chocolate. I checked my watch and it was three minutes to nine.’
    Pam, Owen explained, worked at the club next door. One of the boys had glasses and dark hair. The third looked younger. Not that the other two were old, but he looked more like a high school student. And plumpish,’ Owen added, in the voice of someone who has undertaken and failed many diets. ‘I can’t remember him coming in or leaving, though he’s what I would call a regular.’
    â€˜Did any of the boys tell you their names, or anything else that might help identify them? Did they seem to know each other?’
    Owen shook his head.
    â€˜The high school student,’ I asked, ‘next time he comes in, could you give me a call?’
    â€˜I didn’t say he was a high school student, just that he looked younger.’
    When I asked if Laila had used a mobile phone while she was at the cafe, Owen frowned. ‘Now you mention it, she did. I’d forgotten about that.’ His frown was that of a man who never forgot details, and hated admitting that he had. ‘She rang somebody. Of course I didn’t listen to what she said. I’m not an eavesdropper. What I’ll never forget is the way that girl walked through that door like she was a countess. There was something very proud about her. Who could do that to such a beautiful young creature?’
    I asked if Laila had left on her own,