Post Mortem by Kate London Page B

the kitchen. He was watching with the air of a sceptical observer and Lizzie felt a flash of irritation. She did not feel in control and she didn’t feel as though she had any understanding with Hadley. What was the plan? Why were they still there when Mehenni was clearly not present?
    Behind Hadley was the half-seen figure of the girl.
    Lizzie tried to retrieve the memory of that first encounter. It was an image through a darkened, fragmented lens – a shifting shadow in the hallway and yet, somehow, a haunting integer. A thing complete in itself. Perhaps Lizzie was the fragmented one in the de-silvered glass. The voice was still rattling away angrily down the phone.
    â€˜What are you doing in my mother’s house? I’ve told you to leave. Why are you still there?’
    Hadley had been fully in the kitchen by now, and the figure behind him had stepped forward into the light. Lizzie had realized then that this was the girl from Carrie Stewart’s photos, suddenly there, standing in the doorway to the kitchen in her school uniform – baggy sweatshirt, green tartan skirt and soft green headscarf. She was slight of frame, with dark eyes in which a watchful intelligence flickered. Her name had come back to Lizzie: Farah.
    Hadley’s bulk, the vulnerability of the mother, the unnerving hostility of the teenager: the place had felt crowded. But Hadley as usual seemed at ease, unaware of peril perhaps, or accustomed to facing it down. An air of benign perplexity hung about him. It was the cloak that disguised him, or the shield that protected him.
    The voice on the end of the phone had now been so loud that Lizzie had held the phone away from her ear. It was audible in the room: ‘Do you have a warrant?’
    Hadley spoke loudly and cheerfully. ‘We don’t need a warrant. Your mother has invited us in.’ He gestured to Lizzie to give him the phone. He took it from her briskly and spoke over the rattling voice. ‘Yes, I’ve got all that. Could you tell Younes when you see him that he’d better come down to the station? We’ll have to keep coming here until we’ve spoken with him.’
    The volume of the shouting at the other end of the phone increased. There was the sound of a click in the hallway.
    Hadley said, ‘I’ve got to go now. Cheerio.’ He pressed the disconnect button and handed the phone back to the mother, then turned towards the hallway, but Farah was ahead of him, already running towards the door. She shouted something in that other language. Lizzie followed, realizing suddenly what was happening.
    In the kitchen the phone was ringing incessantly but no one was answering it. Mrs Mehenni was pulling on Lizzie’s arm, trying to hold her back. Lizzie shrugged her off. She followed Farah and Hadley down the hallway and out of the now open door. The street was dripping from the recent rainfall but the sky was suddenly a brilliant blue. Looking to her right, she saw a man running away: Younes Mehenni. Hadley was chasing – a fat man struggling to run. Lizzie transmitted. ‘Suspect making off east down Kenley Villas, IC2 male, blue jeans, dark top, approximate age forty.’ She began to run. Ahead of her Hadley turned off down the side street where they had left the car. Lizzie was fast. She was gaining on Farah and her father. She glanced ahead and then to her right; saw Hadley getting into the car. But Farah had retraced her footsteps and was also turning into the side street.
    Lizzie slowed and looked down the road. The car’s engine had started and she could see the front wheels turning, but Farah was in the road, beside the vehicle, obstructing its exit. Lizzie ran down the street. Farah was clambering on to the bonnet now and Hadley was opening the car door.
    â€˜Get off the bloody car.’
    Lizzie shouted. ‘It’s all right, Hadley, I’ve got her.’
    But Hadley was already there, outside the car. Farah was