Part 13 (1/2)

'I live there.'

They were jammed up already: lots of cars going G.o.d knew where on a midweek morning. Reps, Sarah supposed. Spare s.h.i.+rts on hangers hooked above back-seat windows. A sense of purpose to journeys like that: hers didn't bear too much thought. If she pondered it too long, she began to see just how much weight she was hanging from a thin thin thread.

'He said he was an orphan.'

'Said it or suggested it?'

'Well, suggested it. But there were pictures of him with this couple, they had to be his parents.'

'Doesn't mean he didn't get to be an orphan. Everyone's an orphan eventually.'

Which was not entirely accurate, but Sarah let it pa.s.s.

'What's his business anyway?'

'Inchon Enterprises.'

'Sounds suitably vague,' Joe allowed.

'I'm not sure what they do, exactly. Something financial.'

'There was an Inchon at Oriel,' he began.

'Is that a kestrel? Over there?'

Joe's mouth set in a hard straight line, but Sarah suspected there was a smile in it somewhere.

They listened to the news: Oxford made the headlines. A local girl, thirteen, had died at what was still, apparently, called a rave; had died of dehydration, after taking Ecstasy. There followed one of those short interviews with an angry, grief-stricken parent which, as much as anything, were a hallmark of the decade.

'Tragic,' was Joe's only comment. He turned the radio off.

They stopped for coffee and a strategy session at a service station: the coffee was okay but the strategy didn't pan out. They could pretend to be prospective foster parents, but weren't sure how the system worked; they could pretend to have money to donate, but didn't think they could do a convincing rich. Or they could tell the truth, but this had all sorts of drawbacks.

'Not least being,' Joe said sourly, 'that it's a fools' errand.'

But once they were back on the road he cheered up again, as if simply working towards a destination were enough for him, and the problems of what to do once he arrived could wait. Probably a good att.i.tude for a detective, Sarah thought: concentrate on the mystery, not the solution. Though Joe, as he said himself, had never solved a mystery; just ironed out the odd problem.

'So why this line of work?'

'Lots of holiday. I only work one day in ten.'

'No wonder you charge so much.'

'Also, I'm a romantic.'

'How nice for you.'

'It's a cross I bear. Women, they don't want romantic men. Have you noticed this?'

'No. But thanks for the tip.'

'They want practical, they want plumbers and chefs. Not dreamers.'

'Are you a dreamer. Joe?'

'When I was at Oriel '

'What was your tutor's name again?'

'Morris. Abel Morris.'

'And what years were you there?'

'Ah, '70 to '73.'

'Which staircase did you live on?'

'What?'

'What was your scout's name?'

'Sarah '

'That's what they're called, isn't it? Scouts.'

'Yes,' he said glumly. 'That's what they're called. Scouts.'

But when she started laughing he joined in, and after a while seemed to enjoy the joke more than she did.

And now they'd arrived, still with little idea of what they were doing. 'It's your party,' he said, locking the car.

'I want to explore. They'll have records, files.'

'They'll say, Sure, go ahead. Look all you like.'

'I wasn't planning on asking.'

'You're a dangerous woman, Sarah Trafford.'

'Can you distract their attention?'

'Only because it can't hurt. It's an orphanage, Sarah. Stolen children, you're not going to find. Likewise explosives and plans for world domination.'

'You're no fun.'

'But you'd best take this,' he said, handing her what, for one absurd moment, she thought was his asthma inhaler.

'A rape alarm?'

'Not that I imagine the fathers, they're Catholic priests here, will be overcome with l.u.s.t at the sight of you.'