Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss glared at the pewter sky over a tatty council house on the Quarry Bank estate and told God to get her act together. The clock was ticking: the kid who lived here was missing, all hell was let loose. It was a category A incident, every available officer on the case. Bev had been landed with mother-watch – not a pretty sight. She’d just slipped out to make a call. Or that’s what she’d told the family liaison officer who’d more than earn her whack with this one.
Leaning on the wall, a Doc Marten against the brickwork, Bev lit a Silk Cut, inhaled deeply, blamed the smoke when her eyes stung. Yeah right. Except it was more the image of a little boy with red hair, Bill Gates glasses and a cheeky grin – William Brown meets the Milky Bar kid. Her weak unwitting smile lasted only seconds. Ten-year-old Josh Banks had vanished into emaciated air and even out here, even over the intermittent drone of the police helicopter, the low-level buzz of traffic, Bev could hear the mother wailing.
And the cop in her was questioning if the grief was genuine. Josh had been missing for three hours before Stacey Banks raised the alarm, since when she’d shown wall-to-wall hostility. Bev hadn’t even taken the brunt of it. The woman’s foul-mouthed abuse had been targeted at the initial search team, even though she’d been told the family home’s the first place cops look for a missing child. Home Sweet Home? Not always.
Cynical? Damn right. Bev had seen it all and then some. Either way, Josh had not been hiding and his body had not been hidden. Though filthy and rank, in the legal sense the house was clean. Ish.
Light spilled on the narrow path as the front door opened and her partner DC Mac Tyler emerged. She budged along a gnat’s so he could join her, watched him wipe an already moist hankie round his clammy neck. Mac was mid-fifties and not so much running as ambling to fat; she doubted either was responsible for the heat under his open collar.
“OK, mate?” Her enquiry was casual, the glance concerned.
“Sure.” The response was knee-jerk. His tense features reflected his real thoughts. With two lads of his own, he had more idea than Bev what the impact would be if one went AWOL. In what little spare time the job left, Mac did stand-up comedy; right now he wasn’t cracking a smile, let alone a joke.
“Give us a drag, sarge.” He held out two podgy fingers, a gesture that would normally have sparked an irreverent one-liner; she passed the baccy on autopilot. Mac took a quick draw then, grimacing, ground the stub under a scuffed desert boot. She wasn’t surprised: he usually equated smoking with a one-way ticket to Switzerland. Their deep sighs were synchronised, both lost in speculation, both vaguely aware of the urban ambience – such as it was.
A snatch of Lily Allen’s Smile drifted from a passing soft top; a scrawny Alsatian-cross piddled down a black bin liner; eau de curry and Ambre Solaire wafted in the still warm air. And an irritating TV ad from within signalled the end of News at Ten. Because you’re worth it. Bev sniffed. Says who?
“That’s another thing,” she muttered. “I wish she’d turn that sodding telly off.” The widescreen plasma had been blaring since their arrival: The Bill and Big Brother were bad enough, but the coverage of Josh’s disappearance was neither use nor ornament.
“Helps, maybe,” Mac offered. “Seeing what we’re doing.”
“Helps?” The voice was inadvertently high; volume lower, she continued, “Banging on about the ‘golden hour of a police investigation’. That’s all we need.” The sneer was over the top, but her fear was still there. Cops know if an abducted child’s not found sharpish, odds are a body will turn up. The hanging around not knowing either way was, for Bev, the worst time. Except when... She closed her eyes, banished never completely buried flashbacks of small broken bodies. Dear God, please let us find him.
She swallowed hard, told herself it was still just possible Josh hadn’t been snatched; though for seven hours he’d certainly not been seen. He’d walked out of Hyde Lea junior school in Jubilee Row that afternoon – and that was it. Nada. Thank God it was July and they’d still had a few hours’ daylight to play with.
Highgate’s new boy Detective Chief Inspector Lance Knight was co-ordinating the inquiry; Bev hoped it didn’t turn into a baptism of fire. DCI Knight – dubbed Lancelot, natch – had called the right shots so far. Not difficult: police procedures were well established. After searching the immediate area, a mix of uniforms and detectives had visited Josh’s school friends, called on relatives, canvassed passers-by and questioned drivers. No leads had been uncovered, so specialist search trained officers had been called in.
The hastily-assembled Police Search Advisors – known as POLSA – had made a start on tracing Josh’s footsteps; the half-mile route covered a row of seedy shops, rundown terraces and a scrubby patch of wasteland. Despite the police activity and as yet limited media coverage, not so much as a dodgy sighting had been reported. Light was fading now and the hunt would be winding down, but at dawn the search grid would be extended, tooth combs made finer.
“Think we’ll find him, boss?” Mac hitched baggy denims over a button-straining paunch. She glanced along the street: drizzle danced like fake diamonds in the muted glow of the few street lamps that weren’t faulty or fused.
“Not out here we won’t.” She peeled herself off the wall, nodded at the door. “Let’s have another crack at Madonna.”