Crusher Read Online Free PDF Page B

username; but I’d never asked him his password. I’d never needed it, never even been curious.
    Shit. I knew it wouldn’t be anything stupid like “password” or “1234.” Dad was too paranoid about other writers stealing his ideas. He never wrote hispassword down, either—he said the only asset he had left from his acting days was a good memory. I’d never guess it, not in a million years.
    I knelt on the floor and peered under the bed.
    My laptop was gone too. Mains unit and all. Of course—the cops said they’d found it. They must have taken it away to check the hard drive for evidence. Prendergast was probably going through it now, looking for my VAT receipts for coke and skunk, or maybe my blog entry on how to kill your dad and get away with it.
    The doorbell rang. Or rather it buzzed. It was so old and clapped-out it mostly functioned by rattling against the wall. I dug out another pair of jeans and stepped into them, grabbed a relatively clean T-shirt and stumped down the stairs to answer the door. I guessed it was either Prendergast, or a neighbour, or the postman with something to be signed for.
    But I was wrong. It was a redhead, in her late thirties, I would guess. Pretty enough, with fine even teeth, but with a slightly tense expression, as if she expected trouble. Her clothes were more smart than pretty—a sensible if shapeless raincoat, green jumper, grey slacks, minimal jewellery, and rather than a handbag a briefcase on a shoulder strap. As she turned to me I saw her don a practised smile. She held up an ID card with a prominent heading: “Social Services.” Her mugshotmade her look scared of the camera, but in the flesh she seemed cool and competent.
    “Mr. Maguire, I’m Elsa Kendrick, Social Services? We’ve been told about what happened yesterday, and wanted to make sure you were all right. Is this a good time for us to talk?”
    I shrugged and stepped back, opening the door for her. “Sure. Come in.”
    She stepped inside, glancing around the ground floor with a professional eye. She tinged her smile with a hint of sadness and sympathy. She was good at her job—it was pretty convincing.
    “Can I just say how very sorry I am? It’s such a terrible thing to happen. How are you feeling?”
    “OK, I suppose. Sorry, can I get you anything?”
    “Not unless you’re getting something for yourself.”
    “I was just going to make some coffee …” I supposed it was a formula she had to follow, consoling a grieving relative; let them be busy if they want to, let them lose themselves in distracting daily routines. I put the kettle on, got out two mugs. Everything was clean; Dad had liked a tidy kitchen, even if his desk was a disaster area.
    “You seem to be coping well, anyway,” she observed. I looked at her, wondering if she was making conversation or a professional judgement. She seemed to guesswhat I was thinking. “You’re seventeen, am I right? And I understand your father had no regular work?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I mean, no. He was an actor.” As if that said it all. But she seemed to accept it as an answer, and nodded, her eyes cast down.
    “How will you manage? Living alone, I mean?”
    “I don’t know. I’ll manage, I suppose.”
    “Do
you
have a job?”
    “I work at Max Snax, on Ealing Road.”
    “Management, or behind the counter?”
    I laughed. “Yeah, right, management. I work behind the counter. I should be there now.” I poured the hot water onto the coffee granules, stirred the drinks noisily.
    “I’m sure they’ll understand. What with you losing your father.”
    “I haven’t told them yet.”
    She nodded again. Somehow I expected her to offer to call them, but she didn’t. I felt vaguely irritated; was she actually going to do anything useful, or was she just here to look sad and make noises and drink my coffee? She wasn’t even writing any of this down.
    “What about your dad’s family? Have you told them?”
    “He didn’t have much of a