The One a Month Man by Michael Litchfield Page B

respect, he’d long ago given up on Sarah. And, in other respects, he’d long ago given up on me, until he needed something akin to a miracle. That’s when I was known variously as ‘The Sorcerer’ or ‘The Magus’, but only when it suited Pomfrey. At other times, his names for me weren’t so flattering.
    Sarah, as my partner, mostly worked undercover. She came dressed for the street because she’d had no briefing from Pomfrey. All he’d said, apparently, was, ‘You’ll be teaming up again with that reprobate partner of yours, DI Lorenzo. He’s in Oxford, not his usual kind of low-life scene. The only degree he’s heard of is the third. He’ll give you the story, no doubt doctored, on your arrival.’
     
    ‘Good to see you,’ I said.
    She smiled, almost coyly. ‘Looks like I could be underdressed ,’ she said, noting my suit, even a necktie, though it wasloosened, knot resting on my chest instead of throttling me.
    ‘No, you’re fine,’ I said, ‘at least for today. And probably for most of this assignment.’
    ‘Pomfrey said you’d give me the story.’
    ‘Book at bedtime insinuation, huh?’
    ‘No, for once he didn’t even hint at that; just said your account would be doctored, no doubt. Snide as ever.’
    ‘You hungry?’ I asked.
    ‘Sort of.’
    ‘Let’s get a bite,’ I suggested, wanting out of my closet.
    We walked together, shoulders rubbing like a couple of tourists, away from the police station, up the hill of St Aldate’s. A right turn into the High for a couple of hundred yards, before cutting left through narrow Turl Street, passing Lincoln, Jesus and Exeter colleges, and finally ducking into the compact and intimate News Café in Ship Street.
    We ordered tea and cakes, and occupied a corner table- for-two , under a muted TV that was showing silent pictures of a contemporary newscaster, not Charlie Chaplin.
    ‘So, what’s the pitch?’ she said, finally, putting on her neutral, business voice.
    For half an hour she listened and asked intelligent, probing questions, exactly what I anticipated from her.
    When I’d finished, she said, as if there had to be more, ‘And that’s
it
?’
    ‘Sum total,’ I said, adding sardonically, ‘Nice one, huh?’
    ‘Certainly a new angle – find the victim.’
    ‘I thought it might appeal to you.’
    ‘Do I have a choice?’
    ‘Of course not.’
    ‘Then it does indeed appeal to me!’
    The rapport between us was often oxygenated by serrated sparring, not because we were at odds but because it kept our wits sharpened and oiled.
    She poured the tea, knowing just how much milk I liked and the fact that I had sugar only in coffee. Any PI commissioned to do a job on us would have known the score even before the kick-off .
    ‘You believe the mother?’ she said, as soon as all the serving was complete.
    ‘Absolutely.’
    ‘No chance that she
does
know her daughter’s whereabouts and they’re in touch, reciprocating birthday and Christmas cards?’
    ‘Why should she lie – and so elaborately?’
    ‘For Tina’s sake. Even for her own sake.’
    ‘Go on,’ I encouraged.
    ‘Maybe Tina wants it all behind her. She could be married. Got a family. Her husband and his family may know absolutely nothing about the events here, in Oxford, all those years ago.’
    ‘But she has nothing to be ashamed of – over the attack on her, anyhow. She wasn’t raped or sexually assaulted. There’s no shame or embarrassment of any kind attached to it.’
    ‘Not in your eyes, Mike, but we’re not talking about you. We’re not even talking logic or objectivity. You’re seeing it purely from a cop’s perspective.’
    ‘But of course. That’s what we are, Sarah.’
    ‘We can skew things, though. We haven’t a clue how muggles see it. For all we know, Mike, it could be the mother who wants the whole thing buried. She’ll be coming at it subjectively.’
    ‘Everything you say is possible, even plausible, but I think you’re wrong, Sarah. All the