Little Face Read Online Free PDF

be foolish enough to do so, `but I could have sworn I headed the team that
worked on that case myself, and I could further have sworn that we got
someone for it.'
    `I know all that,' said Simon distractedly. He'd still been in uniform
in those days. Charlie was the expert. Still, he couldn't silence the voice
in his head, the one that was shouting Alice's name in the dark. And
underneath that, the same question, over and over: would she have run
away without telling him? Would she know that her disappearance
would worry him personally as well as professionally? He hadn't
really said anything. He hadn't said or done nearly enough.
    Simon's parents were the only two people in the world whose
behaviour he could predict with absolute accuracy: their tea at six
o'clock, church on Sunday morning, straight to bed after the ten o'clock news. He came from a stable background, all right. Most
people seemed to think stable equalled happy.

    Behind Simon's back, a spotty bobby was playing Pokey. Every so
often he hissed `Yesss!' and banged into the back of Simon's chair.
The one-armed bandit machine, the canteen's only asset. Simon
hated it, regarded it as the mark of an uncivilised society. He disapproved of everything that he perceived as being in that category:
noisy, beeping machine entertainment. If he ever had childrenunlikely, yes, but not impossible-he would ban all computer games
from the house. He'd make his kids read the classics, just as he had
as a child. The lyrics of another eighties song, The Smiths this time,
sprang to mind: `There's more to life than books, you know, but not
much more'.
    Morrissey had it right. Sport was pointless, socialising too stressful.
Simon loved the careful, deliberate nature of books. They gave shape
to things, trained you to look for a pattern. Like a man's second wife
going missing after his first wife's been murdered. When an author
took the time and trouble to choose exactly the right words and
arrange them in the right order, there was a possibility of genuine communication taking place, the thoughtful writer reaching the thoughtful reader. The opposite of what happened when two people opened
their mouths and simply let their half-formed, incoherent thoughts spill
out. Speak for yourself, Charlie would have said.
    `I assume it was the lovely Alice who put these suspicions about Fancourt into your mind. What's been going on between you and her,
Simon? As soon as this becomes a misper, you'll have to tell me, so why
not get it over with?'
    Simon shook his head. When he had to, he'd tell her, not a moment
before. As yet, no case file had been opened. He didn't want to hurt
Charlie, less still to admit how badly he'd fucked up. I hope I don't
need to remind you how much trouble you'll be in if you've been seeing Alice Fancourt in your own time. You'll be a suspect, you bloody
idiot. How was he supposed to know that Alice and the baby would go missing? `Tell me about Laura Cryer,' he said. Listening would be
a distraction; speaking at any length would be an ordeal.

    `What, over a cream tea? We've got a shitload of work to get on
with. And you haven't answered my question.'
    `Work?' He stared at her, outraged. `You mean the paperwork I
thoughtlessly created by coming up with the evidence we needed to
secure convictions in two major cases?'
    He felt the fierceness of his own stare, wielded it like a drill. Eventually Charlie looked away. Sometimes, when Simon least expected it,
she backed down. `This'll have to be quick,' she said gruffly. `Darryl
Beer, one of the many bloody scourges of our green and pleasant
land, killed Laura Cryer. He pleaded guilty, he's banged up. End of
story.'
    `That was quick,' Simon agreed. `I know Beer. I arrested him a couple of times.' Just another piece of Winstanley estate scum, streets
cleaner without him. Once you'd met enough characters like Beer, you
fell into using cliches, the ones you were sick of hearing other cops