Читать книгу Homemaking for the Down-At-Heart - Finuala Dowling - Страница 14

Curtis said he was going inside to write an e-mail. Pia said she was going to investigate a murder.

“How will you do that?” asked Curtis.

“I’m going to look for clues. I’ll probably find some on Ponder Steps or on Duignam Road.”

She contemplated the jackets hanging on pegs near the door and settled on Mr Morland’s pea coat, with the collar turned up. The shopping list was an ideal size for a notebook, so she tucked that into the jacket pocket, along with a plastic bag for evidence.

“What else do you need to solve the murder?” asked Curtis solemnly.

“A magnifying glass.”

He smiled and brought it to her. “Will you be safe?”

She scowled at him from inside her middle-aged male character.

“Sorry,” said Curtis.

The street looked quite different to her now that she was a detective. She hadn’t realised what a suspect place it was, awash with evidence. She picked a discarded train ticket out of the gutter and examined it through the magnifying glass. A pedestrian walked by, and Pia adopted a casual demeanour, almost the lounging teenager. When she felt safely unobserved once more, she climbed through the railings of Ponder Steps to explore the long grass. She felt aware of her new size. Once she would have slid through easily, but now the railings resisted her. The land on the other side of the railing was unkempt, rocky and littered. No one gardened here – plants seeded themselves at will, taking what rain they could collect. Curtis said that burglars sometimes stashed their stuff in dense vegetation and came back for it later. She parted the sun-baked grass. There it was: incontrovertible evidence. A T-shirt belonging to the deceased. She stuffed it into her plastic bag.

Some girls she knew were passing along Duignam Road above. They wore tight vest-tops that showed their new breasts.

“What are you doing down there, Pia? Are you playing? Pia’s playing, everyone.”

“Why are you wearing that funny jacket, Pia? Who are you pretending to be?”

Pia hid the magnifying glass in one of the capacious pockets of Mr Morland’s coat. They saw through her, the bitches. All the joy of the morning drained away. She was not a detective but a clumsily sized thirteen-year-old girl wearing a ridiculous, hot coat.

“I’m not playing, stupid,” she lied. “I’m collecting rubbish.”

“But why are you wearing that coat? You look like a homeless person.”

Pia went home in shame and lay face down on her still-rumpled sheets, watched by the sympathetic trolls. The bitches were right. She had failed to turn into a teenager. She hated herself.

Bella sighed as she brought her aching bones down onto the mat beside the child of the house.