White smiled. “And how do you know that, eh? God speaks to who he chooses.” He had to consider his words carefully. While not a religious man, he had to be outwardly Christian as part of his job. He attended enough funerals during hs career and appearing to be God-fearing to the general public was about as devoted as he got, while still being respectful of other people's beliefs. He saw too much destruction of life and property to be a true believer.
“He'd tell me. Daddy says I'm an angel.”
Ah! What a treasure she was. Don't all fathers think their little girl is an angel? He'd seen men believe that even when confronted with evidence of their teenager's smoking, drinking, drug-taking and shoplifting habits. 'No,' they'd say. 'You've got the wrong girl. My Mary-Louise is a little angel.' Sometimes it was hard to reconcile such a belief with the black-lipsticked, death's head wearing, multiply pieced nightmare waiting for them in the interview room. “Of course you are, Lucy. A perfect angel. Now which one is your bedroom?”
He shot a scowl at Peters, who was obviously stifling his laughter.
“That one.” Lucy pointed to a bedroom overlooking the stableyard, probably chosen because it was directly over the kitchen and so her parents (where was the girl's mother? At work?) could hear her moving about.
To be fair, he could have guessed which was hers. Even Waterman had better taste in art than the cartoon princesses decorating the wall. He stepped carefully through an ankle-deep layer of plastic toys and dolls. He looked at the books on the white-painted shelves. Enid Blyton, AA Milne, Aldous Huxley. “How old are you again, Lucy?”
“Two-and-a-bit, but only for the first time.” She kicked a toy rabbit from her path. “Not again.”