
“Here she is,” said Leslie’s dad and turned sideways to allow a slim figure to squeeze past him. She wore a blue-and-white-striped hoodie with the hood up, drawstring pulled tight so that it hid her forehead and chin. The lower face was covered by a matching blue-and-white-patterned scarf and her eyes by a pair of unfashionably large sunglasses I suspected had been looted from her mum’s forgotten-clothes drawer. I stared but there was nothing to see.
“You should have said we were going out robbing,” I said. “I’d have brought a balaclava.”
She gave me a disgusted look — I recognized it from the tilt of her head and the way she held her shoulders. I felt a stutter in my chest and took a deep breath.
“Fancy a walk then?” I asked.
She nodded to her dad, took me firmly by the arm, and led me away from the house.
I felt her dad’s eyes on my back as we walked off.
If you don’t count the boatbuilding and the light engineering, Brightlingsea is not a noisy town even in the summer. Now, two weeks after the end of the school holidays, it was almost silent, just the occasional car and the sound of the gulls. I stayed quiet until we’d crossed the high street where Leslie pulled her police-issue notebook out of her bag, flipped it open to the last page, and showed it to me.
