(15/30) The Deadly Dance Read Online Free Page B

sign lighting a cigarette. He had lank brown hair and an unhealthy white face stained with smears of oil.
    “Mr. Swithe?”
    “Yes.” He looked at her with contempt. But then, Emma, reminded herself sternly, he probably looked with contempt at anyone over twenty-five.
    “I am a detective,” said Emma.
    “What? You? Is this a joke?”
    Emma coloured. “I have been employed by Mr. Johnson to find his son, Wayne.”
    “Don’t have nothing to do with him.”
    “Why?”
    “He’s gone funny.”
    “You mean he’s become a comedian?”
    “Naw. He found religion.”
    “Which religion?”
    “Youth for Jesus Christ.”
    “And where might I find them?”
    “Out the Stow Road on the industrial estate. One o’ them old Nissen huts. Can’t miss it. They’ve put a cross on the roof. Wankers!”
    Emma thanked him and retreated, already beginning to feel a warm glow of achievement. The first little seed of dislike for Agatha was sown. Previously, Emma had not thought herself worthy of disliking anyone.
    She got back in her car and drovè off in the direction of the industrial estate. At first she thought she had been misdirected as she circled round and round, but then she suddenly saw a golden cross glittering through a stand of trees on a side road she had not noticed before.
    Emma drove up to the Nissen hut, one of those corrugated roofed buildings left over from World War II. She could hear the sound of singing. She got out of the car, went up to the hut and opened the door. It was full of mostly young people singing “All Thing Bright and Beautiful.” They were waving their arms in the air and swaying, emulating American Southern Baptist choirs, which was unfortunate, thought Emma, because they lacked the joyful fluidity of movement of the Baptists, their sticklike white arms moving jerkily.
    Fortunately, it turned out to be the final hymn. A reedy man with thick glasses who seemed to be the preacher blessed them all.
    Emma waited at the door as the congregation shuffled out, slipping the photograph of Wayne out of her handbag.
    She nearly missed him because the nose stud and earrings had gone and his hair was newly washed and flopping over his brow, but she took a chance and asked, “Wayne?”
    “Who wants to know?”
    “Your father. I am a private detective. He has engaged me to find you.”
    “He doesn’t want to find me. The silly old bugger only wanted his car back. He’s got it, so that’s it.”
    “Are you going home?”
    “No, we got a camp here out the back. It’s fun. Tell him I’m okay but J ain’t going home. These people look after me like he never did.”
    Emma fished a camera out of her bag. “May I just take a photograph of you to show him you are well?”
    “Sure, go ahead.”
    Religion had not obviously removed vanity. Wayne lounged against a tree with his hands on his hips and his face turned slightly to one side. “My best side,” he said. “If it’s any good, let me have a copy.”
    “This is not one of these strange cults?” said Emma. “I mean, you are free to leave if you want?”
    “Any time. No one tells me what to do except God.”
    Emma decided to call on Mr. Johnson herself. She did not want Agatha to take the credit. Agatha might expect her to hold on to the information a little longer so as to charge for expenses, but then Agatha had not found Wayne—she had.
    Mr. Johnson, when told the good news, seemed remarkably underwhelmed. “As long as Eve got the car back,” he said. “Stupid berk, that boy is. I could have saved myself the money.”
    Emma felt diminished. Like all bullied people, she often retreated into a fantasy world, and she had built up a picture where Mr. Johnson would fall on her neck, crying with relief, and somehow the local paper would be there to photograph the happy moment.
    Agatha was regretting having sent Emma out detecting. She had briefed Sammy Allen and Douglas Ballantine, but fche wanted to be out there herself. Emma had taken