Don't Stand So Close Read Online Free PDF Page B

in polished steel. She had bought it years ago from her favourite antique shop in Camden Town. Peter’s voice made her feel sad for her old life.
    ‘How about you?’ she asked. She pictured him as she had seen him last: cropped grey hair and stocky build, in his jeans and his black raincoat, standing outside the door of the Hampstead flat.
    ‘Not married. Still living in London. Still a DI with the Met. So – there’s a problem with a girl?’
    ‘I think she’s about fourteen or fifteen,’ Stella said. ‘She rang the doorbell saying she wanted to come inside, that she used to live in our house. Now she’s admitted that was a lie. And I’m not convinced she’s told me her real name, either. I’m not sure what to do.’
    ‘Have you talked to Max?’
    ‘He’s away,’ she said. ‘For the night. I can’t get hold of him.’ She began to ramble. ‘We’re snowed in. There’s almosthalf a metre of snow piled up all over the driveway. That’s how she got past the sensor.’
    Stella moved the mobile phone over to her other ear; her face was hot and the handset was sweaty.
    ‘How long has she been at your place?’
    ‘About two hours. I left her waiting outside for almost an hour before I let her in. I had to let her in. I was worried she might die of cold.’
    ‘Did she say where she’s come from?’
    ‘London. And – something else,’ Stella said. ‘She knew Max’s name. And she claims that Max is her father. Her long-lost father. She says she just found out.’
    ‘I see.’ And the coldness was back between them. ‘Is that why you called me? Because you’re pissed off with Max?’
    ‘No. I called you because he’s not picking up his phone and my gut is telling me something is wrong.’ Although her gut wasn’t too reliable, it was always telling her something was wrong. ‘There’s something about her – I don’t trust her.’
    She waited. He did not offer to rush over and help her. She could hardly blame him. ‘Are you still there?’ she said.
    ‘Yes. Do you think her mother knows where she is?’
    ‘I don’t know. She said something about a fight.’
    ‘What advice are you looking for?’ he asked.
    ‘What do you think I should do?’
    The silence was ripe. When he spoke, his words were tight and cold.
    ‘My advice would be to call your local police station. Get them to check her name and description and see if she’s been reported missing. Or,’ he said, ‘you could wait for your husband to answer his phone and ask him what he thinks you should do.’
    ‘Right,’ she said.
    ‘Or – you could make up your own mind.’
    ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s clear. Thanks.’ Her own voice was small and useless. She didn’t hang up.
    ‘Are you frightened?’ he said. The sudden kindness in his voice was painful.
    ‘I feel pathetic.’ It must be obvious to him now: how weak she was, how helpless. He would know that she had not moved on at all. He would remember how different she used to be.
    ‘You’re not pathetic,’ he said. ‘You said something about sensors – so there’s security in the house?’
    ‘There’s an alarm system. Sensors on all the windows and doors.’
    ‘And –’ he paused – ‘do you think she’s alone?’
    She swallowed, feeling a sick twisting in her gut. ‘I have no idea. I suppose if she was with someone – they would have forced their way in when I opened the door.’
    Then he relented, just a little. ‘If you give me some details, I can check for any reports of girls her age missing across London. But that’s it.’
    ‘Thank you. She says her name is Blue Cunningham.’
    ‘Blue?’
    ‘Apparently. And it’s not a nickname.’
    ‘What does she look like?’
    ‘Caucasian. Blue eyes, long blonde hair – halfway down her back. She’s petite – maybe five foot one – and thin. She’s wearing black leggings and a leather kind of shortish coat. White T-shirt, beanie hat. White Nike trainers, no socks. I would guess she’s in