Heatwave by Oliver Davies (read any book .txt) 📕

“I’m never annoying, George. Everyone loves me,” I couldn’t help but say, grinning on my end of the phone where he couldn’t see me.

There was a long pause before Sedgwick grunted noncommittally and hung up without another word.

I cracked up laughing, and Stephen shook his head at me, though he was smiling.

“You just can’t help but wind him up, huh?”

“What can I say? He brings it out in me.” I gave a broad shrug and sent Stephen an innocent look.

“C’mon, troublemaker.” He got to his feet, picking up his water bottle. “Places to go, work to do.”

“Isn’t there always?” I said, but I wasn’t really complaining.

It felt good to have a specific purpose. Moving between short, unconnected incidents certainly kept the job varied, but I really preferred going in for the long haul. There was something much more rewarding and satisfying about completing a serious case that lasted weeks or months, though the toll of those was much higher too.

We left the station, crossing the hot car park outside and making for the car. The day felt like it was at its hottest and, even though we’d parked the car in the minimal shade this morning, it was still oppressively hot inside.

I had the address of Alistair Pumphrey’s parents and took the wheel as we drove over to their modest terrace house on the other side of the city, near Acomb. The city was full of people out enjoying the sun, dressed up in their best summer gear and eating ice creams.

“We gotta find an ice-cream van later today,” Stephen said, apparently reading my thoughts.

I hummed, glancing out of the open window as we drove past a family with two kids, one of which looked about Alistair’s age, fourteen. My mood sobered.

“That missing kid won’t be getting any ice creams.” I reached up to adjust the sun visor near my head, tilting it so that I could see better, “or water fights, or out enjoying this with his family.”

“At least he won’t be cold at night,” Stephen said, looking over at me as his tone became serious, matching mine. “That’s the biggest worry for missing children in winter.”

“Aye, true,” I conceded.

We turned onto the road where Alistair’s parents lived, and I slowed to a crawl so we could find the right house number.

“That one.”

Stephen pointed out of the open window, and I pulled up next to the curb. The house was on a steep slope, and I double-checked to make sure that the handbrake was fully on before unclipping myself and climbing out.

The front gate, heated to scalding under my fingers, creaked as I opened it, and I could hear the distant sound of a dog barking. The flowers in the Pumphrey’s front garden were all wilted, the soil bone dry beneath them, even though the garden itself showed signs of landscaping and long-term care. I pressed my lips together and thought about how if I was a parent whose child was missing, I wouldn’t much care about watering the garden either.

The Pumphreys opened up only seconds after I’d knocked on the door, and I blinked, startled.

“Have you found him?” a blond woman asked, her eyes wide with hope.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” I said, my heart breaking a little for her. We should have called ahead, I realised, as I watched her expression fade back into resignation. The pain on her face was awful.

“Are you Grace Pumphrey?” Stephen asked gently. “We’d like to talk to you and your husband.”

“Do you have any news for us?” she asked, looking between us.

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “We’d like to ask you both some questions.”

She visibly deflated at the prospect of more questions rather than the answers she really wanted. But she gestured for us to come in and called her husband, Alex, down from upstairs. He fixed us both cups of iced orange squash while his wife showed us into the sitting room.

“Another police officer, two of them actually, asked us a lot of questions already,” Alex said as he put our drinks in front of us and sat down beside his wife. “What do you want to know?”

“DCI Sedgwick is leading your case, yes,” I agreed. “I’m DCI Mitchell, and this is DI Huxley. We’re assisting DCI Sedgwick, we want to help find your son as soon as possible.”

Alex and Grace glanced at each other before Grace gave a small nod.

“What can we do? We just want him home.”

“I know,” I said, giving them both a sympathetic look. “We’re not asking you to go over it all, but we’d like to ask about any… indications there might have been before Alistair went missing.” When they looked at me blankly, I waved my hand and elaborated. “Any signs that he was unhappy or angry.”

“No, I mean, there was nothing that I can think of,” Alex said, frowning.

“He’s a good boy,” Grace agreed. “He’s smart, you know. He has friends, and he does well at school. He’s happy.”

I hid a frown and nodded in acknowledgement. For a child to leave home voluntarily and for as long as a week, there was usually a very strong driving motive. Of course, it was more than possible that Alistair’s parents might not know what that reason was, but there were usually signs: a child becoming withdrawn, not eating, or getting uncharacteristically aggressive.

“He’s never been bullied?” Stephen put in, and I nodded. It was a good question.

“No, he’s popular at school.” Grace looked at me with a frown. “Why? Is there something we don’t know? Have you got a new lead?”

“No, Mrs Pumphrey, I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re being thorough, that’s all. If we could understand why Alistair might run away, it would help us a great deal with finding him.”

Alex crossed his arms over his chest and sat back, drawing my attention.

“Something bad’s happened to him,” he said darkly, his shoulders visibly stiff. His wife looked sharply away from him and wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I swear to god, our child wouldn’t choose