To Snatch a Thief by Hazel Cotton Page B

the river, drinking, having a meal, relaxing with friends. I just happened to look over and saw her. Only got a glimpse but I’m sure it was her. She had really long blonde hair and a way of standing, you know…Anyway.’ He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘She was chatting up a tram driver over at the Palace docks, and I remember thinking she’d earn more money as a professional tom than a cleaner; there’s always girls hanging around the docks. Then she walked back towards the building and I forgot about it till Corporal Blake…’ His head gave a small shake. Out of the blue he flashed Skye a grin. ‘Hey, beautiful, you look too pretty to be a snatcher. You ever want a career change, honey, you come talk to me. I could use a girl with your looks at the club.’
    She grinned back. ‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind. If you think of anything else, ring me on this number.’ After they disconnected, she breathed out a long satisfied sigh.
    “Bowing under public outrage as three new fatalities rock the tight-knit and previously uncontaminated community of the southwest suburbs, President Keating will again address to the nation tonight. Sources close to the president admit extra-terrestrial involvement cannot be discounted as the cause of this horrific and rapidly spreading epidemic.
    The question on everyone’s lips today is: has man’s exploration and exploitation of the universe finally brought retribution crashing down on our heads? The public demand answers. Remember, you heard it first on this channel.
    This is Simon Newell for Daybreak News, outside Parliament Tower.”
    ‘Moron. Screen off.’ With more force than was necessary, Skye threw her pathetic belongings onto the bed, glad that Lexie had slept-over with Beatrice and Maxine and had hopefully been spared the Abbott’s pictures on the screen. She scowled at the empty cupboard that had held her clothes and sighed. ‘She’d only two outfits to choose from: one, which might have worked, had a rip in the sleeve and ketchup stains down the front, and the spangly purple with a pelmet for a skirt wouldn’t be suitable for a memorial service anyway.’ She gave up and pulled on a black sweater with jeans, dragged her hair into a barrette and considered herself done. The dead wouldn’t care what she looked like.
    But she had somewhere else to go first.
    Icy needles stung her face as a wind, howling straight from the arctic, buffeted the little ferry’s prow. She stood with a dozen other passengers, willing to bear the brunt of the weather, riding the choppy white-topped waves which were already souping to ice, gloved hands gripping the handrail, as the palace docks drew near.
    ‘Imagine living there?’ The middle-aged man next to her balanced himself with the rail, his eyes red and streaming in the wind. He pointed to the huge palace. Skye couldn’t begin to, but she nodded. The lines on his pale face deepened as he frowned. ‘Sacrilege in my opinion,’ he added. ‘To sell our national heritage to a conglomerate. If I’d been around then, I’d have voted against it but, at the time public sentiment was running in a different direction.’ He shot her a smile which crinkled his eyes. The hair showing under his Russian-style hat was still thick and brown, which could have been due to anti-greying tablets, Skye decided, although he didn’t seem the vain type. Still, she thought, these days you never knew what enhancements people used. ‘Bit of cheek, if you ask me,’ he said. ‘Them calling themselves Royalty Trading. Still,’ he added with a shrug. ‘I guess if you’re a food industry giant as big as they are, you can call yourselves whatever you jolly well like.’
    They both looked up as a refuse train lumbered over their heads, the distinctive stink thankfully whipped away by the breeze.
    ‘I worked at the Watford waste management centre for almost twenty years,’ the man said. ‘You get used to the smell.’ He looked wistful all of a