Lost Cause (A Daisy Dunlop Mystery ~ Book 1)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Daisy sat in the pub, waiting. She'd found Solomon's car parked between a BMW and a Lexus. There was no damage, and no sign of Solomon. Laughter filled the room as the door opened, and a group of youngsters tumbled into the bar. The Wishbone was close to the college. She'd heard via Sherman that the pub had no issue with serving underage people. He'd never revealed how he knew, but he swore he'd never been.

The door opened again, and she turned to see who was coming in. Showtime. A familiar young lad sauntered to the bar and ordered half a pint. She waited until he'd taken his first sip, and then she slid along the bar to stand next to him.

"Hi. Bolton, isn't it?"

The boy glanced at her. His eyes widened, and he swallowed loudly. "What do you want?"

"Remember me?"

He nodded. "I don't want any trouble. I heard you were mad."

She laughed. "I'm as sane as you are."

"I was just going." He put his half-empty glass on the bar and glanced at the door.

"Is your little friend coming to join us?

"Gilbertson?" He shook his head. "Been expelled."

"Really." Daisy smiled. "Well, Bolton. Where are you off to?"

"I've got homework to do."

"Good." She slipped her hand into her bag, leaned closer, and whispered. "I think I'll come with you, and before you say I can't, I should tell you I've got a loaded gun in my bag, and I'm not afraid to pull the trigger."

Bolton stared at her. She raised an eyebrow. "Time for study. Let's go."

She linked arms with him. He glanced at her bag. Without a word he crossed the bar and opened the door. They walked back toward the college in silence. Bolton slowed as they approached the front gate. "How am I supposed to get you inside?"

"You're a smart boy."

He blew out a breath and stepped up the pace. The porter at the gate frowned. "Mr. Bolton?"

"You've met my French tutor haven't you? Dad reckons I need to brush up if I'm going to work for the foreign office."

The porter dipped his head and let fly with a stream of gibberish. Probably French gibberish. Why couldn't Bolton have said she was his maths tutor? She didn't speak a word of bloody French. She stuck her elbow in Bolton's side.

"She's deaf. Can't hear a word."

The porter stared at her. "Really? How does that work?"

Bolton's laugh was high-pitched and sounded nervous. "Sign language. Latest thing, French sign language."

They walked through the gates and away from the porter as quickly as she could drag the boy.

"What did you tell him that for? You're an idiot."

"No, I'm not. And I don't think you've really got a gun. You're a nutter."

"Want me to shoot you and prove it?"

He shook his head. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Nothing, if you help me."

"What with?"

"If you wanted to hide someone in the school, where would you put them?"

"Underground cellars. Loads of rooms and tunnels. No one ever goes down there. The younger kids think they're haunted."