Casually, the girl dropped her cigarette into a half-empty mug on the coffee table—her mother’s, judging by the lipstick smeared on the rim. It sizzled and went out.
“Charming,” said Wilson.
It was a small victory, Winsome knew, and as soon as they were out of the way the child would light up again, but of such small victories the war is sometimes won. “We’re off up to see your brother,” she said. “You behave yourself.”
“Lucky you,” said the young smoker, turning back to the TV.
Winsome and Wilson climbed the stairs. The noise was coming from the second door on the right, but before they could knock, the door across the landing opened and another girl peered out at them.
She was younger than her sister, perhaps about nine or ten, a gawky young thing with thick-lensed glasses. She was holding a book in her hand, and though she didn’t look scared, she did seem curious as to what was going on. Winsome walked over and stood at the threshold of the room.
“Who are you?” the girl asked.
Winsome squatted so she could be on eye level with her. “My name’s Winsome Jackman. I’m a policewoman. And this is Doug.
What’s your name?”
“Winsome’s a nice name. I’ve never heard it before. I’m Scarlett. I think I’ve seen your picture in the paper.”
“You might have done,” said Winsome. She had last made the headlines after bringing down a suspect with a f lying rugby tackle in the heart of the Swainsdale Centre’s Marks and Spencer food department. “We’ve come to see your brother.”
“Oh,” said Scarlett, as if it were an everyday occurrence.
“What are you reading?” Winsome asked.
The girl clutched the book to her chest as if she feared someone were going to steal it from her.
“I read that at school,” said Winsome. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s
Winsome could see the room behind her. It was reasonably tidy, though clothes lay scattered around on the f loor, and there was a 3 0 0
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
bookcase almost full of secondhand paperbacks. “You like to read?”
she said.
“Yes,” said Scarlett. “But sometimes it’s just too noisy. They’re always shouting and Andy plays his music so very loud.”
“So I hear,” said Winsome.
“Sometimes it’s hard to follow the words.”
“Well, that’s a very grown-up book for a little girl.”
“I’m ten,” said Scarlett proudly. “I’ve read
“We’ll see what we can do.” Winsome stood up. “See you later, Scarlett,” she said.
“Bye-bye.” Scarlett shut her bedroom door.
After a swift tap, Winsome opened Andy Pash’s door and she and Wilson walked in.
“Hey,” said Pash, getting up from his unmade bed. “What’s all this?
Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Police,” said Winsome, f lashing her card. “Your mother let us in.
Said we could ask you a few questions. Do you want to turn that down? Off would be even better. Your little sister’s trying to read over the hall.”
“That little bookworm. She’s always got her face buried in a book,”
Pash complained as he went over to the sound system.
The music was a sort of thumping, pulsating techno-beat rhythm that sounded to Winsome as if it had all been generated by computers and drum machines, though it did have a sort of Caribbean lilt. Most people assumed that Winsome was probably a reggae or calypso fan, but she actually hated reggae, which had been her father’s preferred music, and calypso, which her grandparents had adored. If she did listen to music at all, which wasn’t that often, she preferred the “best of ” approach to classical music you got on Classic FM. All the catchy bits in one handy package. Why listen to the boring second movement of a symphony, she thought, if all you wanted to hear was that nice theme in the third?
Glumly, Andy Pash turned off the music, which originated from a shiny black iPod seated in a matching dock, and sat on the edge of his bed.
It was a small room, and there were no chairs, so Winsome and Doug A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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