Black London 05 - Soul Trade

Smythe a warm smile. He curled his lip, as if a small dog had pissed on his shoe. “I know it’s a terrible imposition, but I and the investigation would certainly benefit from it.”
    She kept smiling and put her foot over the threshold, closing in on Smythe’s personal space. Like any scrawny rat who’d been locked up, he shrankback instinctively, out of blade distance.
    Pete stepped inside. The Smythe house smelled the same as their old one—stale cigarettes, overpowering floral cleaner, and the faint tang of rancid takeaway grease. Mr. Smythe gave her a dull glare. “Come in then, I guess,” he muttered.
    “Thank you so much,” Pete said, borrowing the false cheer her mother often employed when she was trying to cajolePete and her sister into doing something they didn’t want. She turned and gestured to Jack, who hopped up the steps and grinned at Philip Smythe.
    “Really appreciate it, sir.”
    Smythe regarded Jack with a slack jaw, eyes working over every inch of him. “You a copper too?”
    “On Her Majesty’s secret service,” Jack said with a perfectly straight face, and Smythe blinked at him.
    “I don’t know aboutthis…” he started, but a door banged open and Pete watched Norma Smythe came stumbling down the hall, scrubbing at her face. Margaret’s mother was wearing a lavender nightgown that stopped far north of what Pete wanted to see, and yesterday’s makeup still lingered on her eyelids like bruises.
    “The fuck is all this racket?” she muttered, before focusing on Pete. “I know you.”
    “We’ve found ourselvesin Overton without a place to stay,” Pete said, “and your husband was kind enough to offer the spare room.”
    “Haven’t got a fucking spare room,” Norma grumbled. “Kid’s in it.” She fixed her gaze on Pete, and it was less bleary than Pete had hoped. The Norma she knew was an afternoon drinker and considered sobriety an untenable state. “Thought you’d left the Met. Tried to call you at the one-yearof you finding my baby, and they said you’d left.”
    “I’m investigating a private matter,” Pete said without missing a beat. “A man named Jeremy Crotherton who’s gone missing.”
    “Crotherton one of them hippie hikers?” Philip said. “Good luck finding him, then. Probably got stoned and pitched down a ravine.”
    “Mr. Crotherton’s … family is very concerned,” Pete said. She looked back at Norma, tryingto come up with a way to make this more palatable, but she caught sight of movement at the top of the stairs and her heart nearly stopped. “Hello, Margaret,” she said softly. “How are you, sweetheart?”
    “I’m very well, thank you,” Margaret said. Her tone was heavy, like she’d downed a fistful of painkillers. “Have you come to see me?”
    “I’m sorry, luv, but I’m here for something else,” Pete said.“A man named Jeremy Crotherton. You haven’t heard anything, have you?”
    “Oi,” Philip said. “You ain’t a copper, so don’t talk to my kid. You can sleep on the foldaway, but in the morning I want you gone.”
    “That’s fine,” Pete murmured, her eyes still on Margaret. The girl’s gaze was wide and unblinking, and Pete could see her vibrating with panic from three meters away.
    “Meg, get your arse backin bed,” Norma snapped at her daughter. “You’ve a huge appearance tomorrow.”
    “What’s tomorrow?” Pete kept her tone conversational. The Smythes weren’t going to catch on she knew they were full of shit. Not from any betrayal of her eyes or face, anyway. She might not be as good a liar as Jack, but she could fool two greedy, chavvy council rats for a few minutes.
    “A meeting,” said Norma, lightinga cigarette from a pack on her end table and sucking on it like it dispensed champagne and Vicodin. “Tent meeting, what like they have over in America. You haven’t been following the news story?”
    “She’s been busy putting her nose in other people’s lives,” said Philip. “You think London cares about the back of beyond?”
    “Stop being a twat,” Norma shot back. “You were locked up, you didn’t seeit—whatever else she is, this lady brought my little one back to me.” She lunged for Pete and enfolded her in a vodka-scented hug before Pete could dart away. She wondered how quickly you could suffocate against another woman’s tits while Norma Smythe mumbled into her ear, “I can never thank you. Never ever thank you enough.”
    “It’s … it’s all right,”