A Spoonful of Luger (15 page)

I
got
back
in
the
car
and
drifted
along,
thinking
about
it,
realizing
how
useless
my
contribution
would
be
to such
a
search.
I
needed
a
pointer,
an
indication.

And
of
course
I
eventually
came
to
Trenchard
St,
as
I’d
realized,
and
as,
I
suppose,
I’d
intended.
The
street
rose
up
from
the
ring
road
in
a
steady
hill,
curving,
and
you
never
approach
a
house
from
downhill.
I
took
the
next
turn,
the
hill
steeper
here,
breasted
the
rise,
and
turned
again
into
the
top
end
of
Trenchard
St.
Then
it
was
a
gentle
drift
down
the
slope,
to
draw
to
a
halt
a
hundred
yards
short
of
the
bungalow,
on
the
opposite
side
of
the
street.
It
was
an
ideal
point
of
observation,
as
I’d
discovered
ten
years
before.

Not
that
I
had
any
idea
of
watching
the
place;
it
was
more
a
matter
of
immunisation,
exposure
to
the
pain
until
the
effects
would
be
pressed
into
the
back
of
my
mind,
where
they
could
no
longer
intrude.

I
sat
and
lit
my
pipe.
Of
course,
she
wouldn’t
be
there
now.
Whoever
owned
the
place
had
changed
the
colour
scheme,
kept
the
lawn
neat,
and
trained the
climbing
roses.

Then
she
was
tapping
at
the
glass
on
the
passenger’s
side,
Anne,
standing
there
at
the
kerb
and
smiling.
I
flapped
the
smouldering
ash
from
my
lap.

“George!
It
is
you,
George?”

I
half
stood,
wedged
behind
the
wheel,
fumbling
and
confused.

“Aren’t
you
going
to
invite
me
in?”
she
asked.

It
had
become
a
joke
between
us,
my
standard
request
at
her
door.
I
reached
over
and
unlatched
the
passenger’s
side
and
she
slid
in,
bringing
a
light
perfume
with
her.

“It’s
warmer
in
here,”
she
said,
turning
to
me,
smiling
brightly.
“George,
why
are
you
watching
the
house
again?”

Ten
years
had
played
hell
with
me.
They
had
slid
past
her
gracefully,
maturing
a
little,
but
not
dulling
those
dancing
brown
eyes.
She
was
perhaps
a
little
heavier,
but
not
in
the
gross
way
that
flesh
had
invaded
me.

“You
haven’t
changed,
Anne.”

“Nor
you,
George.
Now
answer
my question.”
She
still
used
the
same
positive
manner
of
speaking.

I
tried
some
sort
of
feeble
grin.
I’d
been
caught
out
like
a
lovesick
teenager,
watching
the
house.
“I’d
rather
assumed
you
wouldn’t
be
there.”
And
I
realized
how
awkward
it
sounded
when
she
glanced
away,
for
one
moment
catching
her
lip
in
her
teeth.

“Were
you
really
so
certain?”

“I
don’t
know.”

“And
for
one
moment
I
thought
you’d
hoped
to
see
me.
Why
didn’t
you
come
to
the
house,
instead
of
parking
here?”

“Habit,
I
suppose.”

“Observation?
What
a
horrible
habit
to
get
into,”
she
said
lightly.

“I’m
not
particularly
proud
of
it.”

There
was
a
lot
I
wasn’t
proud
of,
and
for
a
moment
we
were
both
silent,
and
it
seemed
to
fill
the
car.
Then
she
said
awkwardly:

“Then
what
brings
you
here?”

“I’m
on
a
case,
Anne.”

“Another?”

“I’m
not
in
the
police
now.
Retired.”

“Yes,
of
course.
They
retire
you early,
don’t
they.”
So
very
polite.

“I’m
sort
of
working
on
my
own.
My pension ... ”

I
let
it
slide,
but
she
did
not
miss
the
inference.

“As
a
sergeant?”
she
asked
softly.

“I
didn’t
make
Inspector.”

“No.”
She
was
looking
straight
ahead
through
the
wind-screen.
“I’m
sure
you
deserved
it.”

“Oh ...
I
did.”

And
we
lapsed
into
another
silence.
There
was
too
much
we
had
to
avoid
mentioning,
and
it
restricted
the
conversation.

“What
case?”
she
said
abruptly.

“Don’t
imagine
I’m
happy
with
it,”
I
said
defensively.

“You
don’t
have
to
say — ”

“Dulcie
Randall.”

I
hadn’t
thought
it
would
affect
her
so
strongly.
Her
eyes
abruptly
clouded.
“That
poor
child.”

“It’s
hopeless,
and
I
know
there’s
nothing
I
can
do.”

“Nothing
sitting
here,
certainly.
George,
there
must
be
something
you
can
do.”

“Did
you
know
her?”
I
asked,
prompted
by
her
distress.

“She’s
in
my
class.”

Anne
had
been
a
part-time
teacher.
“You’re
still
teaching?”
I
said
quickly.
I
had
been
so
certain
she’d
have
had
to
give
it
up,
move
away.
I
might
just
as
well
have
slapped
her
face.