Little Boy Blue

70

Charlie drained the dregs of her coffee and tossed the paper cup in the bin. Would it be bad to have another one straight away? She was tired, but more than that she was cold, despite the autumnal sunshine. She had been pacing Newton Street for over an hour now and had little to show for it, except a mild headache and blocks of ice for feet.

Her cabbie was certain that he’d dropped his ride off near the top of the road. There were several blocks of flats there, but a little basic detective work in the shops and cafés had established that Samantha had been seen coming out of Ellesmere Heights on occasion. It was a fairly sorry-looking set-up and no one was answering the buzzers, despite Charlie having pressed them all several times. There had been nothing to do but watch and wait, so she’d parked herself on a bench outside the launderette with a coffee and a free sheet, arming herself with a puffed-out but empty laundry bag by way of cover. She seemed to spend most of her life on surveillance these days and she hungered for something a bit more challenging. The numerous lattes she was consuming were doing nothing for her waistline.

As the minutes, then hours, ticked by, Charlie’s decision to keep this lead to herself began to trouble her. It was quite probable she was wasting her time and, besides, Helen had reiterated the importance of everyone sharing information from now on. But still… every lead Charlie had pursued so far had proved fruitless. Paul Jackson was a disaster and they were still trying to locate David Simons, though in truth no one genuinely thought he was a suspect. Which just left Michael Parker, aka Samantha. Charlie knew why she was keeping this lead to herself, and she knew it didn’t reflect well on her, but still she sat here, ignoring the occasional buzz of her phone, intent on seeing it through.

How much longer could she stay? She would have to account for her time eventually and the longer she left it, the harder it would be to explain away. She was already in Helen’s bad books, so why risk their friendship further by escalating her war with Sanderson? When all she might end up with for her pains was a stinking cold?

She rose to head back to the coffee shop and almost walked straight into Samantha. It took a moment for her to compute who it was – Charlie was busy apologizing for getting in her way when her gaze was drawn to the bloodshot eyes and the faint scarring on her right cheek. Samantha hurried on, and Charlie, realizing her mistake, flung her newspaper into her laundry bag and walked swiftly in the same direction.

Normally she would have waited longer, but Samantha seemed so determined to make it home that she was fearful of losing her. Samantha hurried up to Ellesmere Heights and pushed roughly inside, her gait unsteady and stumbling. The heavy door swung back on its hinges, then began its inexorable progress back to a closed position. Charlie jettisoned her fake laundry bag and ran. If she didn’t apprehend Samantha now she would have to hand over her lead and take the consequences – and she was damned if she was going to do that. The gap was only inches wide, but Charlie shoved her foot into it, wincing slightly as the door pinched hard. But her intervention had been subtle and silent – she could hear Samantha stumbling up the stairs above, seemingly oblivious to her intrusion, so easing the door open again, Charlie slipped inside.