Part 4 (2/2)

'So it was your house that exploded, then.'

'No. I live in the same street, that's all.'

'But your daughter was in the house.'

'She's not my daughter.'

Three-quarters of an hour of this, and she'd been transferred to a detective, or at any rate somebody without a uniform. Maybe one of the cleaning staff. But he had at least seemed aware of the existence of the Singletons, the fact that an explosion had occurred, and that the police were nominally looking into it. What he didn't seem too keen on was complicating this knowledge with further details. He listened to Sarah's story with barely suppressed boredom before the brush-off proper commenced.

'If the child is no longer in the hospital, we have to a.s.sume that she was discharged.'

Brilliant. 'Into whose care?'

'You'd have to speak to Social Services about that.'

'I've tried. n.o.body seems to know.'

He sighed. 'Ms Tucker, they're hardly likely to have let her wander off on her own. If she's not there any more, it's because she's been taken somewhere else. And if they won't tell you where, it's because they don't regard it as any of your business.'

Which was as close as he came to saying he didn't either, but near enough for there to be no mistake. Sarah could just see him opening a mental file on her, labelling it Nosy Neighbour, and shutting it again. So she kept pestering him long enough to be an actual nuisance, rather than merely irritating, then left abruptly when his phone started ringing.

And now she was in North Oxford, in the lobby of a private detective agency picked from the phone book, and the impulse that had carried her this far was waning now she'd arrived. What, she asked herself again, was Dinah Singleton to her? The ghost of a child, a walking shadow; not even an actual absence in Sarah's life, just the possibility of one. An invisible girl with whom she shared a knack for survival. What mattered was that she hadn't slept last night for wondering about the girl; not all of her sleeplessness arising from a disinterested concern for the child's welfare. A good part of it was consuming curiosity.

' last time, Joe, I mean it.'

'Yeah. I've heard it all before.'

The door opened and Sarah jumped. The woman that came through was taller than her, and older, with the kind of naturally curly hair that must have been a wow at eighteen but could get to be a nuisance in later life, when people thought you wore it like that to look younger. It was dark, very nearly black, and cropped so it fitted the woman's head like a cap one size too small. Her face was laughter-lined around the eyes and mouth, but she wasn't laughing now. Nor was she expecting company. She started when she registered Sarah, though recovered quickly. Her eyes, like her hair, were almost black, and looked properly sardonic when she spoke. 'Well well well. A customer.'

'The door was open.'

'You looking for Joe?'

'Is there any of him left?'

The woman laughed, without a trace of humour. 'It bites. Let me guess. You've got a husband, he's got a secretary. Am I getting warm?'

'Actually, I want him to kill someone for me.'

'Joe doesn't do that. What he does is, he pines away in front of you. Bleeding hearts haemorrhage to death at the sight.'

'You're a big fan of his, then,' Sarah said.

'I've known him twenty years, man and boy. In that order. And the fact is, dear, Joe's a bit of a case.' She plucked a handbag from behind the desk and pulled a packet of cigarettes from it. 'Zoe Boehm,' she said. 'By the way.'

'Sarah Tucker.'

'Delighted. Joe's what you might call a hopeless romantic. He's hopeless at everything, in fact. But I don't mean to put you off. He's a sucker for the right client, and you look his type.'

'Which is?'

'G.o.d, you know. Sort of doe-eyed and a bit helpless.' She lit her cigarette with a disposable lighter. 'You want one of these?'

'No. And I'm not helpless.'

'Good for you. Won't help telling Joe, though. He tends to believe what he wants to believe.'

'Some detective.'

'He has his moments. Same as a puppy does. You keep throwing sticks long enough, he's bound to bring one back eventually. Probably have hold of the wrong end, though.' She opened the connecting door. 'Incoming, Joe!' Then she turned back to Sarah. 'He's all yours. But don't be too hard on the silly sod. When he acts hurt, he's usually not acting.'

'Are you his secretary or his nanny?'

But Zoe Boehm had left.

For a moment, maybe two, Sarah was on the point of following. The signs indicated that Joe Silvermann was more in need of help than in any position to dispense it, and a new lame duck in her life she could do without. But backing out now would mean learning to live with unanswered questions, so of the available doors, she took the one leading into the office.

Most fictional private eyes Sarah had encountered were politically correct women who specialized in investigating crimes their friends and family members were wrongly accused of. The pages Joseph Silvermann had sprung from were the Yellow ones, and she a.s.sumed he'd be a little less witty, a little less fit, a lot less ethical and wholly unarmed. That said, she hadn't known what to expect, so Joe in the flesh was neither a disappointment nor a relief. He was sitting behind a desk, and had greying, curly hair doing its best to surround a bald spot covering about half his head, and large features arranged in the usual way, but producing a face maybe kinder than you usually get. All told, that first sight of him awoke a nagging memory she couldn't pin down for weeks: Joe Silvermann looked like the actor Judd Hirsch, who'd been in that old American show Taxi; not a dead ringer, but near enough. Part of it was the kindness.

After about maybe four seconds he looked up. He hadn't been reading; just studying his desktop. 'Has she gone?'

'She's, um, left. Yes.'

'Think she'll be back?'

'It was hard to tell.'

'She'll be back.' He looked down at his desk again, or at his hand, rather, which lay palm down on top of it. Maybe it was his fingernails he was studying. 'Once every eight months she's got it down to. It is July, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'Right. Eight months, give or take. That's how often she flips her wig. Reads me the riot act then b.u.g.g.e.rs off to London for a fortnight. She thinks I don't know that's where she goes. She wants me to think she's got a lover stashed somewhere.'

'Maybe there's a lover stashed in London,' Sarah said. 'It's a big place.'

'She goes to shows,' he said mournfully. 'Les Miz. Buddy. She's seen those five times each.'

'You'd rather she had a lover?'

'I'd rather she had taste. Pinter. Early Stoppard. Though I suppose she'd not have to pretend in that case.' He stood suddenly and extended the hand he'd been perusing, as if deciding it had pa.s.sed some kind of test. 'Joseph Silvermann,' he said. 'You'd probably guessed that.'

She shook his hand. 'Sarah Tucker.'

He was tall, it turned out, and bordering on heavy; possibly he still got away with people thinking it was muscle, but it was only a matter of time before they knew it was flab. 'There's a seat,' he said, waving his hand at it. She took this as an invitation, and they both sat.

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