Little Girl Lost Read Online Free Page A

with a tenderness that caused Brendan to swallow convulsively. ‘But as I said, girls die when they try tricks like that.’
    ‘Right, and now tell me when and where old Dugdale’s funeral is to take place,’ Brendan said quickly, not wanting to go into any moral issues now.
    ‘Oh, the funeral! It’s at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, at St Anthony’s, on the Scottie, and then at Anfield Cemetery. Can – can you really come? Only you’ve been so good, constable, that I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble on my account.’
    ‘I’m off duty tomorrow morning, having been on nights for a whole week, and you’d better start calling me Brendan because I’m going to call you Sylvie,’ Brendan said briefly. ‘And of course I’ll come to the funeral, though I’ll come in civvies, not in uniform. I won’t speak to you but I’ll hang back as we come out of church and you can tip me the wink, somehow or other, if there’s trouble brewing. And now I’ll pop upstairs and get my old coat and cap whilst you dress yourself.’ He smiled at her. ‘See you in ten minutes, if that’s long enough?’
    ‘That’ll be fine,’ Sylvie said. ‘See you presently, then.’

Chapter Two
    By the time Brendan and Sylvie had dressed themselves as warmly as they could, and Brendan had borrowed a large black umbrella from the coat stand in the hall, the rain had almost stopped. Brendan tried to slow his long stride to match Sylvie’s, but she tucked a small hand into the crook of his elbow and kept pace with him, chattering almost gaily, though in a quiet and subdued voice, as they traversed the dark and windy streets.
    Brendan knew the Ferryman well; it was a seamen’s pub, of course, but every such place had its regulars. Men – and occasionally women – who lived in the neighbourhood preferred to drink at a place not far from home; a place furthermore where they were known and could sometimes drink on tick if the landlord was aware of their circumstances and knew he would get his money on pay day. The Ferryman was a very large building: an elaborate Victorian mansion, with four short fat towers capped by curly slate-roofed turrets. The place attracted a crowd of hangers-on, of course, lads either too young or too penniless to buy a drink at the bar, so Brendan always kept a wary eye on it whilst on his beat. Mr Dugdale and his wife had two barmen and it occurred to Brendan to ask his companion which of these burly gentlemen was her brother. She shot him an amused look.
    ‘Neither of ’em,’ she assured him. ‘My brother Bertie’s the cellar man. He’s short with reddish hair and limps because he were a seaman once and got knifed in a brawl. That’s why he came ashore, because the knife had cut a tendon or something behind his knee and he couldn’t keep upright on the deck no more. But he’s really strong – you have to be to do his job. He’s older than me. He’s thirty.’
    ‘I’ve got a brother . . .’ Brendan began, but his companion was talking again.
    ‘My sisters are older than me as well – Annie, Ellen and Reet. None of ’em are married yet, though Ellen and Reet are both engaged to seamen and hope to get wed next summer. Annie is me favourite sister ’cos she brought me up, more or less. She’s different. She’s got a real good job as housekeeper at the big hotel on Church Street, opposite St Peter’s Cathedral. She says she won’t ever marry ’cos all men are brutes; she’ll have a career instead. She still comes home when she’s off duty, though she lives in the hotel most of the time. She’s got a dear little room where we can talk without the family overhearing; in fact, that’s where I went this evening. But she’s moving to a London hotel soon, so we shan’t see so much of her,’ Sylvie finished.
    Brendan blinked, taken aback by the volume of information, but he realised that she was simply chattering to ease the strangeness of walking the dark streets with someone she