Dead Men Don't Order Flake Read Online Free PDF Page A

the flickery torchlight, the car tyres squealing. Somehow, something finally clicked for Dean.
    ‘Jesus, why didn’t you say so? I’m on my way.’
    I hung up, holding back the snappy Say so? What do you think I’m doing?
    In the bathroom, I took a look in the mirror. Blood on my forehead. Swelling around my right eye. I hoped I wasn’t up for a black eye. I wiped off the blood, downed some Panadol. Grabbed an icepack from my freezer and pressed it against my head.
    I performed a fruitless search through the house looking for Natalie’s bag. I should have locked the damn thing away somewhere. If I had a lockable kind of somewhere. I slumped onto my couch, feeling nauseous.
    There was something shining on the floor, next to the couch. I bent down and picked it up.
    A phone.

5
    The phone was similar to Brad’s, with a PIN involving a security pattern that you swipe across with your fingers. Nine dots. You have to join the correct dots in the correct order. I tried a few different swipes. No success.
    If I had the internet, I’d have googled how to get into a book basher’s dropped phone or similar. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only person on the planet without a smart whatsit of any kind. It’s like I’m drifting along on my own current, a lost and lonely speck of prehistory. Even Ernie’s got an iPad.
    Ninety-five minutes and a lot of finger-swiping later, a car pulled up outside. I peered out through my curtain. Six foot one of reassurance dressed in navy blue. Dean’s uniform, even at this hour, was impeccable, his shirt pressed, his black tie hanging in a perfect vertical.
    I shoved the phone in my pocket. Met Dean at the door and auto-offered him a cuppa. He must have beenwell over the speed limit to get here so quickly, but this wasn’t the moment to remind him of his commentary on how speed kills.
    ‘Are you all right?’ A worried expression in his brown-black eyes.
    ‘I’m alive. Last time I agree to read one of Claire’s books on slow food though.’
    ‘Did you get a look at this bloke?’
    Dean whipped out his notebook, all ready to take down my detailed description.
    You can’t rely on a word I say—I am his mother after all—but Dean can be quite efficient, when he’s motivated. The key is finding a way to get him into that state. I hoped I didn’t have to make a habit of being whacked over the head.
    ‘Err. I was a bit busy getting away to look at him. I heard his voice though. Deep. And growly.’
    ‘Oh.’ Dean looked a bit disappointed at my lack of detail. Put his notebook away. He patted my arm. ‘Well, don’t you worry, Mum. I’m pleased you called me, actually. It’s good to see you open up a bit.’
    Open up?
    ‘You’re always so secretive. Ever since…’
    We both knew exactly what that referred to. I don’t suppose there are too many people who can say they’ve been imprisoned in a police cell by their own son, even if only briefly. I wouldn’t call it an achievement.
    ‘Dean, the bloke stole Natalie’s bag. There’s obviously something fishy going on. Still, you’d have a record of its contents?’
    ‘I’m not at liberty…’
    ‘Cut the crap, son. Did you manage to get her laptopworking? Anything revealing on it? Explaining why she had those bullets, maybe?’
    ‘Mum. She died in a simple car accident, as I keep telling you. Not all of us have time to chase down every little irrelevancy in people’s lives.’ He tugged on his sleeve, pulling it down a millimetre to line it up with the other one.
    ‘Well, given that someone’s stolen her bag, I’d say a couple of those little irrelevancies might actually be relevant. And they didn’t even take the…’ Oh shit, I couldn’t mention Gary’s money: no licence. ‘…TV. Anyway, you recorded the contents of the bag?’
    He drilled me with those brown-black eyes. ‘I am NOT in the mood for a critique from someone unqualified, not to mention unlicensed, on how I should do my job.’
    Clearly I wasn’t