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.Skinny and pallid, she looked badly in need of good food and fresh air.“I’ll be happy to hear what you have to say,” Megan affirmed, and gestured towards the police station.“Let’s go in.”“Oh no, not in there.All those old men.I’m not talking to them.”“All right.I just passed a café, let’s go in there.”“I haven’t got any money.”“I’ll treat you, okay?” She turned back, and the girl trailed after her.“I’m Megan.What’s your name?”“Cam.Camilla, really.Isn’t it awful? I like Megan.”“It’s not bad, but I hate being called Meggie.”That surprised a laugh out of her.“I wouldn’t think anyone’d dare.I mean, what with you being in the police and all.You’re a detective, aren’t you? Not wearing the uniform.Do you like it? Being a detective?”“Mostly.Except when another officer calls me Meggie! It’s like any job—there are things I have to do that aren’t much fun, but most of the time I like it, or I wouldn’t do it.”“You’re a grown-up.You can do whatever you want.”Megan waited to respond until they were seated in the café.It was a pleasant, old-fashioned place with rubber plants in the windows, real tablecloths, and waitresses in frilly aprons.The service was correspondingly slow.While they waited for menus, Megan asked, “What would you like to do?” Pop star, film star, model? she wondered.“Work on a farm.My dad’s a farm-worker and I help.I used to help him in the holidays.I love working with animals.But he says it’s a dead-end job, like my mum’s, charring.He never had a chance for a proper education so he wants me to get my A levels, even go to university.I tried, honestly.I got ten O levels.I stuck it through the autumn term in the sixth form, but I spent all my time swotting.I just can’t face another two years, let alone five, reading boring books.I’ll puke if I ever have to read another book by Dickens or Balzac, I swear it.”“How about science?”“My best marks were in science, ‘specially biology.It’s interesting.”“Have you considered working towards being a vet?”“A vet! Girls can’t be vets.”“Girls can be anything they want to be, if they want it badly enough and are prepared to work for it.I’m not saying it’s not harder than for boys.But plenty of people told me girls can’t be detectives.”“Really?”The waitress arrived at that moment and handed them menus.“Are you still serving breakfast?” Megan asked.The waitress glanced at the clock.“No, madam.”“All right, we’ll call it an early lunch.Do you like omelettes, Cam?”Cam nodded, eyes gleaming through specs and hair.“It’s only morning coffee at this time, madam.”“I’ll have coffee.This young lady will have an omelette and toast and a glass of milk.”“The luncheon chef hasn’t come in yet,” the waitress told her haughtily.“In that case, make it scrambled eggs.We don’t want to be difficult.”“Luncheon isn’t served till—”“You don’t know how to scramble eggs?”“Of course—”“That’s all right then.” Megan beamed at her.“Thank you, you’re most accommodating.”The waitress’s mouth opened and closed, and she flounced off.Cam giggled.“Do you think she’ll bring it?”“I expect so.She’ll decide it’s easier than arguing.Not that I was arguing.”“You weren’t?”“Not at all, I was presenting alternatives, in a polite and reasonable manner.There are ways and ways of getting your way, and some ways are better than others.Now, while she’s trying to work out how to make toast, why don’t you tell me what you wanted to talk to me about?”“It’s that boy.” Cam said hesitantly.“The one who was found dead in Cornwall? I think.But it’s awfully hard to be sure from a newspaper photo.It was wrapped round the fish and chips and got a bit greasy, too.”Megan took out a print of the photo and placed it on the table.Cam drew in a sharp breath.“It is! That’s him.He.Was it taken after.?”“Yes.Whatever they do, it’s always obvious.” She picked up the picture as Cam, with a shudder, shoved it back across the table at her.“Who was he?”“His name was Norm.Norman Wilmot.Mostly we just go by christian names but he—It was weird.He never called his dad Father, or Dad, or Pa, or anything, always ‘Doctor Wilmot,’ in a horrible sarcastic voice.Not a medical doctor, a PhD.His parents are entomologists, bug-people he calls—called them.They went away for years and years, to Borneo or New Guinea or somewhere like that, and left him in boarding schools he hated.You know, fagging and caning and stuff, and what-ho for the jolly old cricket team.He hated all the team games.Boxing was the only thing he liked.He failed his A levels.”“He must be at least eighteen, then?”“Eighteen or nineteen, I s’pose.”“Did he mention the name of the last school he attended?”“Not that I remember.He called it ‘that place.’ ”“Was it a public school, do you know?”“Like Eton, you mean? He never said, but he did talk kind of la-di-da.We don’t talk about stuff like that much, though.I mean, where we come from and that.We’re sort of squatters, that is, we are squatters.I know it’s illegal.You aren’t going to.?”“Arrest you? No.You’re being extremely helpful.What’s more, your friends won’t have such a hard time of it now that you’ve given me this—Ah, here’s your scrambled eggs, if I’m not mistaken [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]