Free The Sea Detective by Mark Douglas-Home

saying it was ‘a cracker’ and ‘the scoop of the year’ and Rosie said, ‘Sam, go away I’m busy. You’re scrambling my head.’
    She’d played this game with him before. If she let him think she was curious he would say ‘Ah, so you are interested. Well I’m not sure I’m going to tell you.’
    Sam wrapped his arms round her and she hummed louder. When he began to tell her she hummed louder still until she was certain he was committed.
    Ewan’s boss had had an intruder in his garden, Sam said.
    ‘So? Big deal.’
    ‘His boss is the Environment Minister.’
    Rosie shrugged.
    The intruder was apparently ‘some sort of eco terrorist’ who left behind a plant which had something to do with climate change. ‘Now,’ Sam reported in anticipation of Rosie’s wowed reaction, ‘the police have discovered he’s done the same thing in dozens of politicians’ gardens.’
    Rosie’s police contact provided the rest, reluctantly. ‘It’s the talk of the steamie at the Parliament,’ Rosie exaggerated. ‘It’s going to get out. You’d just be giving me a head start.’
    He growled, grudgingly. ‘You owe me a pint, Rosie.’
    Rosie made a mental note to send him a bottle of malt whisky; something tasty. It was a good story. Sam was right, for once. His reward was a kiss and the promise of more when she returned from work.
    Now the doubts were setting in.
    Had her police contact given her the wrong address? Why would an eco-warrior live on the top floor of a made-over warehouse converted too late for more-money-than-sense-metro-executives? It didn’t figure and it wasn’t the only thing that didn’t. The rummaging noise had become louder, like furniture being moved. There’d been a crashing sound and after it silence. Rosie took another step forward, head still tilted. Her new shoes – grey and white Converse with a yellow trim and matching yellow laces – let off mouse-squeaks on the shiny laminate flooring. The door was three metres away. Holding her breath, she approached it on the sides of her feet to muffle the noise of her soles. She glanced twice at ‘Flotsam and Jetsam Investigations’ on the notice by the door, disbelieving it the first time. In one way it was reassuring: at least she seemed to be at the right address. Still, it was weird, seriously weird.
    Her hand hovered, about to knock at the open door. Instead, she put her head through the gap. The room in front of her was large, bright and in chaos. Papers and books were strewn across a plank floor; not that much of it was visible. A map hung by one corner on the wall opposite. Untidy didn’t normally faze Rosie, but this was, well, something else. There was a large table in front of her, filling the middle of the room, and the rummaging noise came from underneath it.
    ‘Hello.’ Rosie knocked. ‘Hello, anyone at home?’
    A head appeared from below the table: male, dark brown hair, cut short. He was as surprised to see Rosie as she was to see him.
    ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
    He looked friendly enough, Rosie thought. A least he wasn’t sleazy or a creep. In fact, on second glance, he was rather cute in a modern eco-chic kind of way: jeans, tee shirt, day-old stubble and a wide face made more interesting by the slight crookedness of his nose. Her heart beat slower.
    ‘God, what happened here?’ She stepped inside the door.
    ‘You’d better ask the police.’ His voice was educated, like a school teacher’s.
    ‘You’ve called them, have you?’ He snorted as though that was the last thing he intended to do.
    She seemed to be getting off on the wrong foot with him so she tried, ‘Are you Cal McGill?’
    ‘I am.’ He looked at her fleetingly before resuming his search of the mess around him.’
    Rosie found it oddly disconcerting. Men usually paid her more attention.
    ‘Has anything been stolen?’
    ‘God knows.’ He sounded irritated.
    Rosie walked to the table and peered over the edge. ‘Can I help?’
    He spun round