was something to see.
After a minute the boy said, ‘I've seen you before.’ ‘Yes?’
‘At school. Before Christmas. You took a maths lesson.’
Daniel smiled. ‘That's right. Were you there?’ The boy nodded. ‘What did you think of it?’
‘It was interesting.’
‘Do you like maths?’
‘No,’ said the boy.
‘OK,’ Daniel said again.
‘I might have got to like it. We all thought you were going to be teaching us.’
Daniel gave a sad sigh. ‘That was the idea. It didn't work out.’
‘So you work here instead.’
‘That's right. My friend runs it. I'm her assistant.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I make coffee,’ Daniel answered honestly. ‘I've just made some. Do you want a cup?’
The boy thought for a moment. ‘All right.’
Thank God for that, thought Daniel, who'd been about to freeze to the step. ‘I'm Daniel Hood, by the way.’
I know. I'm…’ He stopped.
Daniel didn't press him. Handing the boy a steaming mug he seemed to change the subject. ‘It's a funny business, this. No two days are the same. Mrs Farrell – my friend – always said that, but I didn't understand until I started working here. You never know what you're going to be asked next. You can be looking for a house on Monday, a vintage car on Tuesday, a piece of china to make up a damaged tea-set on Wednesday, researching the history of a valuable painting on Thursday, and on Friday…’
He let the sentence hang for a moment, hoping the boy might finish it. But he didn't. Daniel carried on. ‘Whatever.People come here with all sorts of requests. Most of them we can meet. Even the ones we can't, usually we can tell them where to go instead.’ There was perhaps no one else in the English-speaking world who could have said that without a trace of irony.
‘Can I tell you a secret?’ he asked. The boy nodded. ‘My friend thinks we're here to make money. I haven't told her yet, I'm not sure how she'll take it, but I think we're here to help people.’
‘People who're looking for something,’ offered the boy.
Daniel smiled. ‘That's right. People who're looking for something. Even if, sometimes, they're not quite sure what it is they're looking for.’
The boy frowned, considering. Wispy brown hair was trimmed midway between a high forehead and intelligent brown eyes. ‘You mean, things that aren't real?’
Daniel demurred. ‘Things that aren't concrete – solid -perhaps. Anything that's important enough for someone to want help finding is real. Even peace of mind. Especially peace of mind.’
‘I didn't knock,’ the boy said again. ‘But I wanted to.’
‘Then tell me how I can help.’
Charlie Voss wasn't quite sure what to make of Alix Hyde. When Deacon told him his services had been requisitioned, he was neither pleased nor dismayed but intrigued to meet a female inspector from the Serious Organised Crime Agency. He was expecting something like Deacon but with lipstick.
And at first glance, that was roughly what he got. She was big-framed without being heavy, and she wore a checkedjacket, tailored trousers and brogues. In point of fact, she didn't wear lipstick. On a girl of twenty it might have been hailed as the next big thing: on a woman of maybe forty the effect should have been inescapably butch. Instead it was just a different sort of femininity – strong, unconventional, idiosyncratic even. But Voss doubted anyone ever took her for a man.
Anyone who's worked in a police station will know what conclusion the pundits in the canteen came to. ‘Of course, she's a lesbian.’
‘Oh yes, she's a lesbian. Not even hiding it.’
‘Definitely a lesbian.’
‘My mum had one once.’
‘Hardly seems fair, does it? When they're at it with one another, that's two less for the rest of us.’
‘What?’
Detective Constable Huxley, who'd made the last contribution but one, realised he was the object of everyone's attention. He looked mildly surprised. ‘It was only little but boy, was it
After a minute the boy said, ‘I've seen you before.’ ‘Yes?’
‘At school. Before Christmas. You took a maths lesson.’
Daniel smiled. ‘That's right. Were you there?’ The boy nodded. ‘What did you think of it?’
‘It was interesting.’
‘Do you like maths?’
‘No,’ said the boy.
‘OK,’ Daniel said again.
‘I might have got to like it. We all thought you were going to be teaching us.’
Daniel gave a sad sigh. ‘That was the idea. It didn't work out.’
‘So you work here instead.’
‘That's right. My friend runs it. I'm her assistant.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I make coffee,’ Daniel answered honestly. ‘I've just made some. Do you want a cup?’
The boy thought for a moment. ‘All right.’
Thank God for that, thought Daniel, who'd been about to freeze to the step. ‘I'm Daniel Hood, by the way.’
I know. I'm…’ He stopped.
Daniel didn't press him. Handing the boy a steaming mug he seemed to change the subject. ‘It's a funny business, this. No two days are the same. Mrs Farrell – my friend – always said that, but I didn't understand until I started working here. You never know what you're going to be asked next. You can be looking for a house on Monday, a vintage car on Tuesday, a piece of china to make up a damaged tea-set on Wednesday, researching the history of a valuable painting on Thursday, and on Friday…’
He let the sentence hang for a moment, hoping the boy might finish it. But he didn't. Daniel carried on. ‘Whatever.People come here with all sorts of requests. Most of them we can meet. Even the ones we can't, usually we can tell them where to go instead.’ There was perhaps no one else in the English-speaking world who could have said that without a trace of irony.
‘Can I tell you a secret?’ he asked. The boy nodded. ‘My friend thinks we're here to make money. I haven't told her yet, I'm not sure how she'll take it, but I think we're here to help people.’
‘People who're looking for something,’ offered the boy.
Daniel smiled. ‘That's right. People who're looking for something. Even if, sometimes, they're not quite sure what it is they're looking for.’
The boy frowned, considering. Wispy brown hair was trimmed midway between a high forehead and intelligent brown eyes. ‘You mean, things that aren't real?’
Daniel demurred. ‘Things that aren't concrete – solid -perhaps. Anything that's important enough for someone to want help finding is real. Even peace of mind. Especially peace of mind.’
‘I didn't knock,’ the boy said again. ‘But I wanted to.’
‘Then tell me how I can help.’
Charlie Voss wasn't quite sure what to make of Alix Hyde. When Deacon told him his services had been requisitioned, he was neither pleased nor dismayed but intrigued to meet a female inspector from the Serious Organised Crime Agency. He was expecting something like Deacon but with lipstick.
And at first glance, that was roughly what he got. She was big-framed without being heavy, and she wore a checkedjacket, tailored trousers and brogues. In point of fact, she didn't wear lipstick. On a girl of twenty it might have been hailed as the next big thing: on a woman of maybe forty the effect should have been inescapably butch. Instead it was just a different sort of femininity – strong, unconventional, idiosyncratic even. But Voss doubted anyone ever took her for a man.
Anyone who's worked in a police station will know what conclusion the pundits in the canteen came to. ‘Of course, she's a lesbian.’
‘Oh yes, she's a lesbian. Not even hiding it.’
‘Definitely a lesbian.’
‘My mum had one once.’
‘Hardly seems fair, does it? When they're at it with one another, that's two less for the rest of us.’
‘What?’
Detective Constable Huxley, who'd made the last contribution but one, realised he was the object of everyone's attention. He looked mildly surprised. ‘It was only little but boy, was it
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