Free Rush of Blood by Mark Billingham Page A

the mother?’ He turned to see the old woman from the manager’s office. She had followed him and was already
     halfway up the stairs. ‘The mother of that girl who disappeared?’ The woman was leaning on the handrail, panting, a hand pressed
     to her narrow chest. ‘Well, she’s not here, so …’
    Gardner said, ‘Thanks,’ and walked away from the door, swearing under his breath. Why had he wasted his time driving all the
     way out here, when he’d known all along where she would be?

TEN
    ‘I’m happy to drive back, you know,’ Marina said.
    ‘It’s fine.’
    ‘I just thought you might want a drink.’
    ‘
A
drink, singular, maybe,’ Dave said. ‘When have you ever seen me drunk, though? When have you ever known me to
want
to get drunk?’
    ‘I was just saying, because you always drive, that’s all.’
    ‘I want to drive.’
    ‘Fine then.’
    ‘Why aren’t we
moving
…?’
    Having studied the map earlier that day, Dave had decided that they would probably be better off heading south towards the
     M23 via Crystal Palace and Croydon as opposed to the series of back roads that were an alternative during busier periods.
     He didn’t think there would be too much traffic through south London early on a Saturday evening. Within ten minutes of leaving
     the house, they were held up, Dave tapping his fingers impatiently on the wheel. ‘Should have gone with my first instinct,’
     he said. ‘A23’s
always
a nightmare …’
    ‘It’s fine,’ Marina said. She looked at him, a half-smile. ‘We’ve left plenty of time.’
    They had left the house in Forest Hill at six-thirty, for a journey that should have taken no more than an hour. Dave had
     been waiting at the door in his jacket, the car keys in his hand, shaking his head as Marina hurried down the stairs, her
     make-up only half done. ‘I just think it’s rude to be late,’ he said.
    ‘We won’t be late.’ She flipped down the sun visor and checked her make-up in the small vanity mirror. ‘We’re not supposed
     to be there until eight. If we hadn’t hit a bit of traffic, we’d have been early.’
    ‘We don’t want to be the last ones there, do we?’
    ‘Don’t we?’
    ‘Well, you miss out on … conversation, whatever.’
    ‘You think they’ll talk about us if we’re not there?’
    Dave glanced over at her.
    ‘Good,’ she said, flipping the visor back into place.
    The tapping of fingers on the wheel had now become the smacking of palms. ‘See, where we are, as far as getting to the motorway
     is concerned, we’re just that bit too far away.’
    ‘One more reason to move,’ Marina said.
    Dave barked out a laugh. ‘Doesn’t matter how many reasons we’ve got if we can’t afford it.’
    She turned in her seat, adjusted the seatbelt. ‘Is this about me going to the hairdresser’s?’
    ‘What?’ He shot her a look, panicky. ‘No …’
    ‘I
said
it was just a thought.’
    ‘I know—’
    ‘I
told
you it would be ridiculously expensive, that I wasn’t bothered one way or the other and you were the one who told me to go
     ahead and get it done.’
    ‘Yes, and I was right, because it looks great,’ he said. ‘
You
look great.’
    ‘You sure?’ She opened the visor again.
    ‘Possibly a bit
too
great.’ The traffic had begun to move and for the first time in ten minutes Dave managed to get the Fiat 500 into top gear.
     He grinned. ‘Ed starts paying too much attention, I might have to smack him one.’
    Marina laughed, closed the visor. ‘Yeah, right.’
    ‘Did you bring your stories, by the way?’
    ‘No …’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I didn’t think it was such a good idea.’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake … I
told
you.’
    ‘It just feels a bit pushy,’ she said. ‘Like I’m desperate, or something.’
    ‘That’s stupid.’ Dave’s eyes flicked to his wing-mirror. ‘They’re great stories and now we’ve met somebody who might be able
     to help.’
    ‘Look, I’m sure we’ll have to invite them round to