Free Last Detective by Leslie Thomas Page A

neither.’
    â€˜Any idea where he is these days?’
    â€˜He’s at Finchley or Mill Hill or somewhere like that. I saw in the paper he used to run a sort of disco place. And now, I saw an advert the other week, he’s got one of these sex shops. Suit him, it should.’
    â€˜Still in youth work, eh?’ sniffed Davies. He paused. The tea in his cup was beginning to congeal. He drank it quickly and made a face. ‘Did they er…give you her clothes back… eventually?’
    â€˜The police? Yes, I got them back. I’ve still got them. It wasn’t much because it was hot weather, like I said. It was a green gingham dress, a bra and her white socks and shoes: Like everybody knows, her lipstick, just a little Woolworth’s lipstick, and her drawers were missing. Everybody.’ Her voice was dead.
    â€˜You’ve still got the clothes, Mrs Norris?’
    â€˜Yes, but they’re hidden away. I’m not showing them to you or nobody else.’
    â€˜I see. I understand. Er…the youth that found the clothes in the toilet and took them home. Did you know him?’
    â€˜Poor little devil,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘That boy Parsons. The police gave him a hard time. They had to get their hooks into somebody, I s’pose. But he didn’t do it, Mr Davies. I didn’t know him before that time but I’ve seen him around since. He plays in the Salvation Army band now. I’ve seen him in the market. He always nods to me.’
    â€˜What did Mr Norris think about it all?’ he asked.
    â€˜What d’you mean—what did he think about it?’
    â€˜How did he react?’
    She considered the question again. ‘He was like he always is where there’s aggravation, shouting his mouth off, charging around, screaming for the police to do something.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Come to think of it that’s the only time I can ever remember him wanting the police to do something. He was upset, ’course he was, but he shows it different. I woke up in the night and heard him crying downstairs. He felt it all right, same as I did.’
    â€˜What’s he like , your husband?’
    â€˜Bert Norris is all right, at times,’ she said. He could see her selecting the words with care. ‘He’s a layabout, that’s all. Work-bloody-shy. He’s done time, like I expect you know. Silly things. He likes to think he’s big. He was like it when I married him but I thought he’d grow out of it. He used to nick ration books then. Now it’s car log books.’
    â€˜A man who moves with the times,’ observed Davies. ‘Do you love him?’
    She seemed incredulous at the question. ‘Love…him? Love him? Christ, that’s a funny thing for a copper to ask. I don’t know…I live in the same house with him if that’s what it means. He’s not somebody you can love. You don’t sort of connect the word with Bert…not with my husband.’
    â€˜He’s a friend of Cecil Ramscar, isn’t he?’
    The remnants of her stare from her surprise at the last question were still on her face. They solidified.
    â€˜Ramscar? He went off years ago. Never heard of him since.’
    â€˜He’s back,’ said Davies, deciding to take the chance.
    â€˜Back is he?’ she muttered. ‘I thought there was something going on.’
    â€˜With your husband?’
    She backed away from the question by returning to the original. ‘Ramscar—he used to come around and muck about when Celia was here. He always had his hands around her bottom and that sort of thing, but there, he would have a try with any female between eight and eighty. He reckoned he was big. He tried it on me once or twice…’ She glanced at Davies uncomfortably. ‘I…I was younger then, of course, I didn’t look quite such an old ratbag…’
    Davies protested with his hands,