Page 111 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
I glance down at my damp T-shirt. “Tough. This is a vintage Ghost Rider shirt. Get your own.”
He pops his earbuds out. “Not your shirt, what you got outta that call with your girl. Go look at yourself in the mirror, you arse. You’re grinning so wide it looks like the top of your head’s about to hinge off and all you did was talk with her. About nothing. You didn’t even dirty talk?—”
“Because I figured you were listening,” I grumble.
“Whatever. I want that?—”
“Joy,” I concede, remembering a similar conversation I had with Logan, not so many weeks ago. “You want the joy a little gives her daddy. That’s ... the right thing to want.”
“Cost you a lot to admit that, didn’t it?”
I grimace at him as I push off the floor and head to the bathroom to take my third shower of the day.
Fortunately, before I break a world-record for push-ups, or soften enough towards De Leon to actuallylikethe fucker, he opens the prison door. I go for a run first—and am only slightly nettled when De Leon keeps pace with me—then hop an Uber to the village where Miranda’s ex-boyfriend, Fred Evans, lives.
As we’re driving, we pass a familiar address. Although I’ve been circling through the villages around Miranda’s old family home, I haven’t been to see it yet. The Uber driver, while not as friendly as the Sikh, is happy to make a stop and let me wander around for five minutes.
The house is big, even by the standards of some of the country-houses in these parts. Much bigger than a family of four would need, with two big wings off the central Georgian block. It’s separated from its neighbours by a long drive and gardens so big on either side that I can’t see the neighbour to the right at all, the house hidden behind a tall stand of cypress trees.
The house is also empty. The doors and windows are boarded up. The white paint on the porch is peeling and a broken, slate roof tile cracks underfoot as I walk up the path from the circular drive to the house.
I don’t believe in ghosts—except the ones in the machine—but even I would think twice about buying a house where a little boy drowned. That is the recipe for a haunting.
I circle around the house. More boarded windows and doors, more peeling paint. Where someone’s still mowing the front, the back’s been left to run riot. The thistle’s waist-high, rustling evilly in the morning breeze, daring me to try to push through its weaponry. Instead, I follow a crushed shell path, half-buried in rotted leaves, that wanders around between spreading oaks and through a random archway draped with dead vines, to a sunken pool.
It's empty now, half-filled with leaves and small branches. Even when it was full, it wouldn’t have been more than four feet deep. Just deep enough to draw ducks.
And a small boy.
I look back at the house. It’s partially obscured by two of the trees and the silly, ornamental archway. Not easy for people in the house to see the pond.
Her parents should have netted the pool. With a curious little boy in the house, they were negligent not to.
Not that I feel any sympathy for Miranda. At all. But they should have.
After taking several pictures and a short video, I walk back up to where the Uber’s waiting.
“Find what you were looking for, mate?” The driver asks me.
“Yeah. Thanks.” I put my head back against the headrest and tap a hefty tip for the driver into the app.
Then I flip my phone over to a different app and tap out
I love you.
Before I think about it too hard, I hit send.
The reply comes as we’re pulling up in front of a small, concrete pillbox of a house.
Logan: I love you, too, Max. You’re my brother. Whatever you’re seeing, whatever you’re doing there, I’m with you, mate.
I clear my throat, thank the driver, and climb out to find my brother and best friend an eyewitness who will help him get custody of his daughter.
I haven’t met too many truly broken people in my life. I’ve probably been lucky that way. The last one was Uncle Max, in those final, terrible days, before he asked me to give him release from the disease that was killing him far too slowly.
Fred Evans reminds me very much of Uncle Max.
His blue eyes are rheumy and without any spark when he opens the plastic, front door. I’ve learned a little about British architecture while I’ve been in England and I know what I’m looking at now is what’s called “Council housing,”state-sponsored housing given to people who can’t support themselves. I immediately see why Fred Evans needs Council housing as he listens to my introduction, shakes my proffered hand, and shuffles aside to let me into the house. There’s very little still tethering this man’s spirit to this world.
