Hard Time Read Free Page B

spare room. As for Bev,
she resented her best friend being there and dreaded the day she’d go.
    Daz was tapping the wheel in time with one of his tuneless whistles; it could’ve been Frank Sinatra or Frankie Goes To Hollywood. She sneaked a glance. Open, friendly face, dark, strong
features. He wasn’t pissed at her – he was just being Daz: one of the lads, bright enough, amiable, bit of a bird-fancier. The guv hadn’t assigned her a new partner yet but
Daz’d probably fit the bill. If she took him under her wing.
    “What’s tickled you, sarge?”
    The prospect of Daz nestling on her breast was not one to share. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
    Hampton Place was next right: a wide tree-lined road, all very blue-plaque-listed-building posh. Except for the brace of squad cars parked two-thirds along.
    “That’ll do a lot for property prices,” she muttered. Daz was on the radio to control. She stretched her legs, had a look round.
    Like its not-near neighbours, The Manor prep school boasted substantial grounds, screened by mature hedges. Closer inspection revealed the school’s grounds were mostly concrete, marked out
with hopscotch grids and a kids’ footie area. The herringbone façade sported all the green stuff: lush ivy all but concealed the brick. Barley-sugar chimneys and diamond-leaded windows
completed the look. All very National Trust – apart from the security gates and the odd CCTV lens twinkling in the foliage.
    “Wotcha.” Bev raised a hand as a uniform approached school-side. PC Simon Wells was a fit twenty-something, despite the twenty-a-day habit that occasionally subsidised
Bev’s.
    Simon’s forehead was uncharacteristically rumpled. “I don’t like it, sarge. Something’s not right.” A five-year-old gone walkabout? You could say that.
“We’re playing it by the book, but...”
    “Just a tick.” Daz was approaching: no sense going over it twice. They listened carefully as Simon related the conflicting accounts he’d gleaned from Daniel Page’s mother
and teacher. Shirley Wilson’s having been confirmed by a classroom assistant on the phone.
    “Check the dentist?” Stupid question but she had to ask.
    “Natch.”
    Daz nodded at the all-but-hidden lenses. “Anything on camera?”
    Simon shrugged. “System pre-dates the wheel. There’s a few grainy images on one of the tapes. It’s being biked to the lab.”
    “Mother’s seen it?” Again, Bev knew the answer.
    He nodded. “Reckons it could be anyone.”
    “OK.” She rubbed her hands, eager to get on. “What’s happening?”
    “Patrols are out, door-to-door underway, dog handlers en route. Obviously we’re taking it seriously but – mystery woman aside – the mother’s still desperately
hoping he’s on a jolly with his dad.”
    “And if he’s not?” Bev checked her watch: 4.15. It was nearly four hours since Daniel Page had been taken from the school.

4
    Five minutes later Bev was in the head teacher’s plush wood-panelled office with one of the most striking women she’d ever seen. If Bev had balls, she’d
probably be making a pass. Jenny Page, the missing boy’s mother, had that glacial Nordic look: long blonde hair, flawless skin; it was difficult to believe she was pushing forty. The eyes
were like tiny circles of new grass. Daz couldn’t keep his gaze off.
    In the same vein, no one would give Shirley Wilson a second glance. The boy’s teacher was all fuzzy perm and faded polyester. Bev’d had a few words, then asked Wilson and the fatso
in the loud shirt to wait next door.
    So far she’d listened to Mrs Page without interruption, allowing her to say what she wanted, in the way she wanted. And decide what to omit. The recital had been unemotional, robotic, as
if relating events that didn’t touch her. Could be shock or denial, but the story had holes. If Jenny Page was involved in any way in Daniel’s disappearance, her attitude could also be
indifference. Morriss golden