Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

– but I love the anonymity of London. I can’t imagine living in some small town where everyone knows what time you get up in the morning and where you do your weekly shop.

I navigate the alternative route. One of the benefits of being a copper in London is knowing all the backstreets better than I know myself. The road is empty. I look at the clock. We’ve got eight minutes. I break the speed limit. The thought of Joe’s face if we fail to arrive on time drives me to put my foot down.

‘Steady on.’ Jim puts a hand on the dashboard again. ‘I remember the days when it was you telling me to slow down.’

‘What do you think of Luke, Harry’s friend?’ I ask, tapping the brake.

‘You’re pulling that face.’

‘What face?’

‘The “I think he’s a wrong’un” face, like this.’ He tightens and raises the corner of his lip, glaring at me.

I laugh and slap his leg.

‘What’s your hunch?’

‘He gives me the creeps.’

‘Seems like a nice lad to me. I spoke to him for a while at the party on Saturday. I was interested in his camera. Can’t fault him – he was polite and took the time to show me how it works.’

‘There’s something about him I don’t like. Probably my imagination,’ I say, although I know it’s not.

Luckily there’s a vacant disabled parking spot in front of the school. Even so, we’re last into the crowded hall. I emailed reception this morning to say we were coming, so they’ve reserved us a couple of chairs and a wheelchair space. Gill and Isabella are already there, waiting for us.

‘Mummy, Daddy, you’re late,’ Isabella shouts. I cringe as eyes turn to stare and stifled giggles dishing out shame ripple around the hall.

‘That was close,’ Gill says removing her bag from my chair.

I fan myself with the programme. ‘Tell me about it.’

As soon as we seat ourselves, the show begins. I close my eyes as they draw back the curtain, and silently pray my little boy won’t forget his lines. I open them again to see the children file in one by one. Some are smiling coyly; others stride in with confidence way beyond their seven or eight years. A few, like Joe, aren’t looking where they are going. He is searching for us like I knew he would. I wave and give him our sign which tells him he’s got this – three sways backwards and forwards of the thumbs-up sign. There’s a crash of drums, and a flash of lights as the little actors and actresses burst into song.

The play lasts less than twenty minutes, but with eyes swimming with tears the whole duration, that’s a damn long time. Joe proves a little superstar on that stage. Jim leans over and whispers in my ear. ‘Don’t tell me seeing him up there doesn’t make you think about having another.’

Twenty-Six

DAY 9

I get up at five and pull on shorts and a T-shirt. An early shift today means I need to get a run in first. Everyone is still asleep, so I creep downstairs and find my shoes. I check my phone. Several missed calls from Sasha last night dominate the screen. As soon as Rob phoned me when I got home from Joe’s play last night, I called her. She didn’t answer, so I left a message to tell her the body found in Cambridge couldn’t possibly be Marc because Rob fed back that it belonged to an Asian man. Several stab wounds covered the victim’s remaining torso, and both feet and hands were discovered within the immediate vicinity – minus both index fingers. I didn’t mention where they were found.

I tie my laces and head out onto the streets. It’s my favourite part of the day to go running. When the temperature is not too hot, and London hasn’t quite got going. Time is not on my side, so I opt for my Tooting Common three-miler, choosing en route to head back via Balham to add an extra stretch.

After a quick shower, I kiss everyone goodbye and drag myself away from Isabella who is determined not to ease her grip from my thigh today. When I get into the car, I phone Sasha. She doesn’t answer, so I leave her a message to call me. The roads are rammed when I hit Balham High Road, and I sit in a hold-up for ten minutes before the traffic reports announce an incident near Clapham South Station. I slam my fist on the steering wheel. I’m going to be late again. Debating the next best route, I pull a U-turn and spend the next twenty minutes worming my way through the backstreets to join the road through the Common. I sprint into work, half an hour late, breathing a sigh of relief when I remember that Arthur is away on some training course. Sasha returns my call before I’ve even managed to grab a coffee.

‘It wasn’t him.’ The relief in her voice is immense.

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘I mean in Cambridge. I went there last night, remember? The man who booked into that lady’s B&B. It wasn’t Marc. She showed me the CCTV.’

‘Sorry, I thought you meant the body found yesterday. Are you sure?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

‘Perhaps Hannah did see him yesterday?’

‘She’s been distraught ever since. I’m keeping her off school today.’

‘Probably not a bad idea. You’ve all been through a lot.’

‘What now?’

‘I don’t know, Sasha.’

‘The police must be able to do something.’

My heart goes out to her. The emotional attachment makes this such a difficult situation. Arthur’s words ring in my head once more. “Don’t get involved in their story.” I tell her again that the police won’t do anything at this point.

‘Even if I call them myself?’

‘I can’t stop you, but I don’t want to give you false hope. I’m off on annual leave from tomorrow. It’ll give me time to think about things.’

When Rob arrives, I tell him not to sit down, we’re going out for coffee. We