A Sister's War Molly Green (e book reader pdf .txt) 📖

comment about the petrol. It was against the law to have any petrol unless you were one of the emergency services, but she hadn’t dared say anything at the time. She wasn’t about to let Constable Scott know she held any special interest for Will Drake.

Chapter Twenty

Constable Michael Scott propped his bicycle against the wall of The White Hart pub, sure he would never warm up again. The air was so icy he hardly dared breathe in. When he did it was like sucking sharp nails into his nostrils. Brrrr! Underneath his cape he banged his hands on his upper arms. He’d never known it so cold. It was turning into a real blizzard. The waterproof cape kept the damp out but it was no match for this freezing weather. He should have worn his greatcoat. The realisation made him think of Ronnie Linfoot – how she’d given Margaret her raincoat on such a cold night. What a kind and generous girl – and with a wonderful sense of humour. He grinned and wished he hadn’t as his face felt so numb, but he couldn’t help remembering Ronnie’s choked laughter when he’d pulled out Dora’s undergarments. He’d enjoyed that shared moment. Even when she’d caught sight of the soot on his nose and had nearly collapsed with laughter. The way she’d gently wiped it away. Mmm. He could still smell the scent of her. She was pretty, too. And those eyes. They were the colour of purple pansies. He wondered what she’d look like underneath the layers of jumpers, then shook himself. He was on duty, and that meant not daydreaming about a pretty girl.

Before entering the pub he took off his cape and shook out the worst of the wet snowflakes, then pushed open the heavy oak door to a world in complete contrast with the outside. The heat, for one thing. And the familiar smoke. He wished he could light up but it was frowned upon when they were on duty. A couple of lads were playing darts, and the smell of beer from men grouped at tables as close to the fire as they could get made him long to join them in a pint. He sighed inwardly. That little luxury would have to be shelved until the evening, though he doubted he’d venture out again in this snowstorm.

He hung his cape on the coat stand and walked purposefully over to the bar. The barmaid was serving two middle-aged men, both wearing battered trilbies. He looked round. Most of the men here were more than likely boaters, probably not able to go far when this part of the canal was more fit for ice skates than boats. His casual glance fell on the profile of a youth with long dark curly hair at the end of the bar. He was tipping back a pint with two other men. Michael’s instinct told him that although the youth looked old enough to drink, from his build and his being half a head taller than his companions, he was probably underage. He looked up at that precise moment with a shifty expression, then quickly lowered his eyes.

When it was Michael’s turn, he showed the barmaid his identity card and said in a low voice, ‘Excuse me, miss, but I wonder if you might happen to know the whereabouts of Miss Dora Dummitt. I understand she was here a few days ago—’

Before he could stop her, the barmaid took up her hammer for calling ‘Last orders’, then belted out, ‘Anyone here know where Dora Dummitt’s boats’re moored?’

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw the same curly-haired youth tip his head back to finish his beer and saunter towards him.

‘Wot’s it worth, officer?’ He spoke in a loud voice, laying a cheeky emphasis on the word ‘officer’.

Michael looked him up and down, taking in the expensive jacket and boots, the dark eyes, almost black, challenging him.

‘I’m not quite sure what you mean by that,’ he said.

‘Oo-er, we got a posh plod here.’ The youth looked round and laughed. Two or three men let out a chuckle. The youth looked back at Michael. ‘Wot I mean, officer, is wot’s it worth to yer if I tells yer where she is?’

There was a palpable silence. The customers set their mugs down, waiting to see what would happen next.

‘And you know for sure, do you?’ Michael said crisply.

‘Course I do.’ A secretive smile hovered around the youth’s lips. ‘I make it my business ter know where our Dora is.’

‘Is that because you have your eye on the trainees?’ Michael said, guessing, but sure he was close to the truth.

‘Maybe … maybe not.’ The youth fixed his stare. ‘I’ll tell yer for a pint. That’s a bargain, that is.’

‘What’s your name, son?’

‘First off, you ain’t my dad. I got one of them already and I don’t need no other.’

‘Okay. We’ll start again. What’s your name?’

‘William Drake.’

‘How old are you, William?’

‘Goin’ on twenty-two.’

‘That’s a laugh,’ the barmaid said. She slammed a tankard down in front of one of the customers so hard that the froth spilled over the side. ‘Our Will’s barely out of nappies. I’m not allowed to sell him alcohol but his mates bought it for him. What could I say?’ She shrugged.

‘Hmm. Interesting,’ Michael said. ‘So how old are you?’ he repeated. ‘The truth.’

Will lowered his eyelids. ‘I don’t have ter answer that,’ he muttered.

‘Right, let’s go off to the station and you can say that to the sarge,’ Michael said, taking his arm in a grip.

‘Leave off.’ Will rounded on Michael. ‘She’s a lyin’ bitch.’

‘Don’t you dare call me a bitch.’ The barmaid’s blue eyes sparked with anger. Her expression relaxed as she looked at Michael. ‘He’s always rude to me these days, officer, ever since I found out his real age and stopped goin’ out with him. I didn’t want ter be no cradle-snatcher.’

Will leaned menacingly over the counter. ‘Yer lyin’ again, Mavis—’

Mavis rewarded him with a stinging