The door from the kitchen into the back garden was the same sturdy design as at the front. Window likewise. He stepped outside into the gloom and a security light lit up immediately showing him a stone-flagged patio, a square of level lawn bordered by neatly raked flowerbeds enclosed by a six-foot pine-slat fence. Joe walked slowly round the lawn. No sign that any of the flowerbeds had been trodden on recently.
Shoot, he thought. Why is it whenever I do all the proper detective things, I get nowhere. Maybe the secret lay in the later chapters of Not So Private Eye.
He went back into the kitchen and said, 'Upstairs.' That came out real LA laconic, he thought, pleased.
There were four bedrooms. Zak's, like an archaeological dig, showed a record of her history through all its layers. Nothing had been discarded. Dolls, teddy bears, children's books, games, puzzles, ornaments, all were crowded in here. On the walls you could trace both the progress of her taste in pop-group posters and her own artistic development, through junior-school finger paintings to the sketches, watercolours and acrylics of her teens. Every inch of space was covered, not excluding the ceiling which looked like a patchwork quilt. But nowhere was there any sign of her link with top-class athletics.
'You sleep with your window open?' asked Joe.
'Couple of inches, but I always screw the handle down.'
Joe checked. Supple burglar might get his hand in and turn the screw. He opened the window wide and looked out. No handy drainpipe. They'd have needed a ladder up from the patio.
'Father got a ladder?' he asked.
'Sure. But it's in the garage, which is kept locked.'
Mary's room was at the other end of the scale, completely tidy with the bed made up with hospital corners, and hardly a thing there to tell you this wasn't a hotel.
He checked the window.
Zak said, 'Mary always closes it before she gets into bed. She reckons the night air is bad for her.'
The master bedroom looked out on the front. As Joe stood there a car pulled into the drive and a man got out and looked up at him.
'It's Dad,' said Zak, waving. 'Best go down and say hello.'
'Hang on. We're not done,' said Joe sternly. 'This one?'
That's Eddie's. My kid brother. Shouldn't bother about him, he's more or less retired from direct human contact. If it's not on the Internet, it's not worth messing with.'
Joe opened the door. A boy of about eleven or twelve was sitting in front of a computer which had a screen so packed with data that even at this distance it made Joe's head whirl.
'Hi, Eddie, this is Joe,' said Zak.
The boy didn't look round but ran his fingers over the keyboard. The screen blanked then filled with the word HELLO!
That's the most you'll get,' said Zak, pulling Joe away. 'Unless he decides you're electronically interesting. He hardly acknowledged me when I got back, then Christmas morning among my prezzies I found a print-out with details of my last drug test plus those of every other top-flight woman I was likely to come up against.'
'Is that useful?' said Joe.
'No, but it's amazing,' said Zak.
As they came down the stairs, Joe heard a man's voice saying, 'So what's he doing in my bedroom?'
Zak ran lightly into the lounge and said, 'Hi, Dad. My fault. I was showing Joe the house and we were just admiring the view.'
'Of the houses opposite, you mean? Strange tastes you've got, girl.'
Henry Oto was a tall athletically built man with a square determined face. Zak had got his height and her mother's looks. Her sister had got her mother's size and her father's looks. You never know how the genes are going to come at you, thought Joe.
He knew from the papers that Oto was a senior prison officer at the Stocks, Luton's main jail. Remember, no escape jokes.
He said, 'Hi, Mr. Oto. I'm helping Zak out, fetching and carrying, you know.'
Oto said, 'Fetching and carrying what?'
Joe shrugged and looked to Zak for help. Clearly her father lacked her mother's courteous acceptance of the vagaries of her daughter's new lifestyle. That's what came of associating with criminals.
Zak said, 'You don't want your finely tuned daughter straining her back picking up her holdall, do you?'
Oto said, 'Can't see how you're going to break records if you can't carry your own gear.' But he was smiling fondly as he said it and Joe guessed that Zak had always been able to twine him round her little finger.
To Joe he said, 'Haven't I seen you before, Mr. er ... ?'
'Sixsmith,' mumbled Joe. 'But just call me Joe, Mr. Oto.'
Joe had always tried to keep his face out of the papers, even on those few occasions when they wanted to put it in. Not much use in being a PI if everyone seeing you said, 'Hey, ain't you that PI?' But a photo had appeared recently in connection with one of his cases and presumably Oto took a special interest in anything to do with his prospective customers.
