‘Damn, the kids are all going home!’

Rachel and Leila Rajavi stood in the playground of Overdale Infants and Juniors and watched as children came out of the old Victorian schoolhouse; a trickle at first that swelled to a flood.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rajavi. ‘But I had the devil of a job rounding up a couple of available bodies who also happen to be trained in child protection.’ She indicated the uniformed officers: one male, one female. ‘Took me an hour to find these two.’

Rachel took in the curious stares of the parents as they led their offspring past. ‘It means going in mob-handed,’ she sighed, ‘but in the circumstances I suppose we have no choice.’ She had been sitting in her car for forty minutes, with a host of possible scenarios going round and round in her brain. She had even phoned Brickall in an attempt to anchor her whirling thoughts.

He had been sceptical. ‘Come on: you know kids and toilet talk. They’re obsessed with private parts at that age, and the differences between them. This kid without a winky is probably a bit under-endowed. I remember that being the cause of endless hilarity in the changing rooms when I was at school.’ He added hastily. ‘Never happened to me, of course.’

‘I know I only read the transcript – and possibly it would have seemed different if I’d watched the video—’

‘Maybe you should have done. Belt and braces, the old pet mantra. Or one of them.’

‘This child, Ben, seemed so certain what he’d seen: I didn’t want to waste any more time.’

‘Take a breath, Prince. Let it play out: it could be something and nothing.’

The school was in the throes of festive end-of-term celebrations. Glitter-encrusted Christmas pictures decorated the walls, along with those for Hanukah and Diwali, and rustling swags of home-made paper chains dangled from every spare inch. Rajavi asked the uniformed officers to wait outside the head teacher’s office and went in with Rachel.

Chris Sewell was one of the new wave of progressive primary heads, a fact that was signalled by his wearing jeans and sweater rather than a suit. ‘I was expecting another visit, to be honest,’ he said, indicating that they should sit on the chairs opposite him. ‘This business with Ben Wethers’ mum being found dead. Dreadful thing.’ He adopted a suitably sombre expression, which looked out of place on what was a naturally cheerful freckled face.

‘We’re here to talk to you about a pupil called Harry Brown.’

He looked blank for a second. ‘Brown… oh yes, Harry. One of Mrs Maudsley’s lot. I was struggling to picture him for a minute: he hasn’t been with us long. Let me just get his details.’ He stepped into an adjoining office and came back with a file. ‘Registered towards the end of the summer term, which is unorthodox, but the mother was quite insistent. Quiet child. Not a troublemaker, but doesn’t have much to say for himself.’

‘Did you meet the mother?’ asked Leila Rajavi.

‘Briefly. The school secretary takes care of most of the registration business.’

Rachel pulled up a photo of Michelle Harper on her phone. ‘Is this her?’

He squinted at it. ‘Oh gosh, no! I mean, I know we’re not supposed to pass comment on the parents’…’ he groped for a PC phrase, ‘personal style, but I would have remembered someone as glamorous as that lady.’ He peered a bit closer. ‘Also, isn’t she the mother of that missing girl?’

Rachel found Lisa Urquhart’s Facebook profile shot. ‘How about her?’

‘Definitely no. I’d have remembered something as distinctive as pink hair! No, this lady was quite the opposite. Very… indistinctive.’

‘Hair colour?’ demanded Rachel.

‘I don’t like to—’

‘Mr Sewell, this is vitally important. Please just tell us everything you can remember.’

He puffed out his freckled cheeks, making himself look about fourteen years old. ‘Like I said, there was nothing distinctive about her. In fact, she was distinguished by a lack of distinguishing features. And clothing.’

‘Dull, in other words?’

He flushed slightly. ‘Well. Yes.’

Rachel went into her Facebook app and pulled up another photo, this time of the drab Stacey Fisher.

‘Yes, that’s her. That’s Mrs Brown.’

Rachel and DS Rajavi looked at each other. ‘Do you have a photo of Harry?’

‘You know the rules have tightened up about us taking and using photos of pupils without parental consent…’ Sewell stood up and rummaged in a filing cabinet. ‘But we do have some class photos taken at the end of the last academic year, in July.’

He placed the photo, taken by a professional, on the desk. The teacher was sitting at the centre of the front row, with twenty-five or thirty children arranged around him. ‘That’s Harry there. In the back row.’

Two large boys either side were jostling for space, so not much of Harry was visible. His face wore a familiar glum expression. And the style of the brown hair, shaved at the sides and long and floppy on the top, looked familiar.

‘That’s him. It’s the penguin,’ breathed Rachel.

‘I’m sorry?’

Rachel and Rajavi were both on their feet. ‘Will he have been picked up?’

It was twenty to four.

‘Normally his class would have gone home by now, but Form Three have all been to the pantomime at the local theatre. Parents had the option to pick them up there or for them to be bussed back here. The coach should be arriving round about now. I can—’

Before he had finished speaking, Rajavi had opened the door and started running down the corridor, clutching her bump, followed by the two uniforms, Rachel and Mr Sewell. They reached the car park just as a minibus with the Overdale logo was pulling in. A dozen or so over-tired children were herded off by a harassed middle-aged teacher clutching a clipboard.

Harry Brown was not among them.

---

‘It’s been about, ooh, a week? He was fine on the Friday, but come Monday morning there was a note saying Harry was poorly and wouldn’t be coming to school for the remainder of term. A chest infection apparently.’ Mrs Maudsley seemed personally offended that Harry had not been at the pantomime with the rest of the class.

Rachel calculated. Harry mysteriously became ill the weekend after Carly Wethers died. The same weekend she and Leila – the ‘LOLA JADE COPS’ – had been on the front page, investigating Carly’s death. ‘Is this a common occurrence?’

‘No, I’d say Harry’s attendance has been good up until now. He’s a timid child; you don’t get very much out of him. Likes to stay in the background.’

DS Rajavi dispatched the WPC to Jubilee Terrace, with instructions to wait for backup, then to bring in Michelle if she was there. She and Rachel and the male officer set off for Stacey Fisher’s house. Before they had arrived, Rajavi’s airwave set bleeped.

‘Sarge – Michelle Harper’s not at the property, or at her workplace. The sister’s there with her children, claims she doesn’t know where Michelle is.’

Rajavi pressed the button to respond. ‘Sort someone to look after the children, then bring Lisa Urquhart to the station. And get someone to check at Willow Way.’

Stacey Fisher did not seem surprised to see them, but then she did not seem pleased either. She had deep bags under her eyes and, despite it being tea time, was swigging from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. ‘Like I told you, I just sold Michelle the washer-dryer. I don’t know nothing else,’ she whined. ‘I’ve never heard of no Harry Brown.’

‘Maybe a little trip to the police station will refresh your memory,’ Rachel told her briskly.

‘I ain’t going nowhere.’

Rachel pulled the PC’s handcuffs from his belt and dangled them in Stacey’s face. ‘With or without? Your choice.’

‘You can take me where you like, but I’m not going to tell you anything.

Quick as a whip, Rachel pulled Stacey’s arms behind her back and cuffed her, knocking the bottle of bourbon to the floor, where it splashed over their feet. Enough was enough: no more softly-softly.

‘Stacey Fisher, I am arresting you on suspicion of making a false statement, contrary to Section 89 of the Criminal Justice Act. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

At Eastwell police station, the charge was formally read to Stacey. That officially began the twenty-four hours they had to prise the truth out of her, or they would be required to let her go.

‘I’ll stick her in a cell and leave her there without contact for a couple of hours,’ Rajavi told Rachel. ‘That usually makes them more inclined to talk.’

They were interrupted by a scuffle at the front door as Lisa Urquhart was dragged in, screaming, swearing and generally resisting.

‘You can’t bring me in here, I haven’t fucking done anything! What about my human rights? I’m going to fucking sue you lot!’

‘Much as I’d like to leave her to cool off, we can’t afford to waste any time.’ Rachel pointed the officer manhandling Lisa in the direction of an interview room. The tint in her pink hair had been boosted from pale candyfloss to bright fuchsia, and it flew out like a Catherine wheel as she twisted her head and tried to bite his wrist.

‘What is it they teach us about establishing a rapport with suspects?’ Rajavi muttered. ‘Lovely job for whoever’s duty solicitor too.’

She watched as three uniformed PCs wrestled Lisa into a chair and cuffed her. This did not stop her from jumping to her feet and kicking the chair over. Her ankle was then cuffed to the chair leg, with difficulty.

‘So, Lisa.’ Rachel sat down calmly once the solicitor had arrived and taken his seat. ‘This is a lot of fuss when all we want is to ask you where your sister is.’

‘And I’ve said: I don’t fucking know.’

‘She’s living in your house and working locally. You must have some idea.’

Lisa tried to shrug, which didn’t really work when three of her four limbs were restrained, so she adopted a sneering tone instead. ‘She’s gone away for a bit. She is allowed to leave town, you know.’

‘Where has she gone?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Come on,’ said Rajavi calmly. ‘She must have said something about where she was headed.’

‘She was thinking of going to the seaside.’

‘The British seaside? In mid December?’ Rachel was incredulous.

‘Why not? It’s not against the law, you know.’

‘Has she gone on her own?’

‘Of course she has. Who else is she going to go with?’

Rachel adopted her crossed-arm pose. ‘Do you know who Harry Brown is?’

There was a microsecond of hesitation before Lisa answered. With her years of interview experience, Rachel sensed it. ‘No idea. Don’t know no one called Harry Brown.’

‘All right then,’ Rajavi said levelly. ‘Who’s the other child who goes to school with your two kids and the Wade children?’

‘Which other kid?’ Lisa’s eyes shifted slightly, to the door and back again.

‘There are always five of them walking to school together. You’ve got Chelsea and Connor, and Kirsty Wade’s got two—’

‘She’s got three kids actually.’

‘Two at school. So who’s the extra boy?’

Lisa shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘He goes to school with your children, how can you not know?’

‘Loads of the Albert Park kids walk to Overdale together, always have done. It’ll be a neighbour’s kid who calls next door.’

Rachel straightened up and stared straight at Lisa. ‘You really expect me to believe that you don’t know who your own children go to school with every day?’

‘It’ll be one of the Ellis boys. They live round the corner on Fairfield Road. Dean and Bradley, I think they’re called.’

The duty solicitor looked up from his notepad. ‘Unless you’re going to charge my client, I suggest we leave it there. She’s answered all your questions.’

Rajavi gave a heavy sigh. ‘Make sure you stay in the area: we may need to speak to you again.’ She nodded at one of the PCs to unleash Lisa, who whirled out of the room, swearing at the top of her voice.