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

inside, and I rapped on the wood. The sign with Gaskell’s name had long been removed and a new one hung in its place, with Rashford’s name and title on it.

She called me inside, and I stepped in, patting my shirt down and wishing that the heat didn’t make my hair curl as much as it did.

“Mitchell,” she said warmly, sounding surprised to see me.

“Ma’am.” I gave her a polite nod.

“What can I do for you?” She looked at me expectantly.

“I was wondering whether we could be more use around the station, ma’am,” I said, not sure where exactly to start now that I was standing in front of her.

Despite the heat, she looked immaculately put together, with her hair in tidy cornrows and her colourful dress looking pressed and professional. I felt sticky and untidy in comparison.

“I’ve seen Sedgwick rushing around,” I expanded, gesturing with my hand, “and Stephen and I wanted to know if we could help, ma’am. Since we’ve not got anything big on right now.”

She quirked an eyebrow at me, leaning her elbows on her desk and considering me for a moment. I made sure not to fidget and considered her back.

“He’s working a missing child case,” she said after a moment. “I couldn’t say whether he’d appreciate a hand, you’d have to ask him. But if you were asking for permission or encouragement, go ahead.” She gave me a brief flash of a smile. “We wouldn’t want you resting on your laurels and getting bored, would we, DCI Mitchell?”

“No, definitely not,” I said, smiling back at her. “Great, I’ll ask him. Thanks, ma’am.”

She gave a stately nod and flicked her fingers at me, effectively dismissing me. It was even warmer in her office than it was out in the hall, and I was happy enough to leave. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my forehead and palms before I walked back to Stephen.

“She said to go ahead,” I said as I flopped down in my seat. “If he wants us to help.”

Stephen straightened up, looking past him, and I followed his gaze. Sedgwick had come up the stairs and strode inside, looking red-faced and sweaty, his brow deeply furrowed. I couldn’t tell if it was worry or anger, but he certainly didn’t look happy.

“Speak of the devil,” Stephen murmured, sounding amused.

“Go ask him if he wants help with his case.”

“What? Why me?” he protested.

“Because he likes you more,” I countered. “And I just walked over to Rashford’s office; I’m too warm.”

“I’d accuse you of being a lazy swine,” he said, reluctantly dragging himself to his feet, “but you’re usually rushing about like a hyperactive squirrel.”

“Aye, that’s right. I’m doing you good,” I huffed a laugh. “You’re getting your step count up.”

“Oh shut up,” he said goodnaturedly before heading off to talk to Sedgwick.

I hadn’t been entirely joking about Sedgwick preferring Stephen. The bloke had had a grudge against me since I’d arrived, feeling like some country bumpkin like me couldn’t be an effective city DCI. I hoped I’d proved him wrong over the last two years or so, but his bad attitude persisted when we were forced to interact on occasion, and I mostly ignored it these days. He was a professional in the end, and he put in the work and set aside his prejudice when it came to getting the job done. Still, it didn’t hurt to send Stephen as the messenger; any opportunity to avoid Sedgwick’s glaring and curt sentences was one I’d take.

“Well?” I asked Stephen when he returned.

He picked up his water bottle and swallowed a glug of water before replying.

“He’s trying to find a missing fourteen-year-old. A kid called Alistair Pumphrey.”

“And? Are we helping?”

“He agreed, reluctantly. He’s sent over the case notes.”

“A miracle,” I muttered, swivelling my chair around to log into my idle computer and load up my emails.

Stephen did the same, and we read over the work that Sedgwick and his partner Greene had carried out already. The case had been missing for a week now, and Sedgwick had had the case for five days. From what I could see, his investigative work looked solid and thorough, and I leaned back when I was finished, rubbing the stubble on my jaw.

“Thoughts?” Stephen asked.

“I feel like the parents could have said more,” I decided after a long pause. “It’s just a feeling, but their responses seem sparse, routine. They’ve answered all the key questions, but they say they have no idea why he’d run.” I shrugged. “Usually, there’s some warning sign with these things if the kid has run away from home and not been kidnapped.”

“That’s what they think.” Stephen scrolled up through the case notes and reread a section. “Yeah, here. The kid, Alistair, took a small suitcase and a rucksack with him. He claimed to be going to a sleepover.”

“Aye, sounds like a runaway,” I agreed. I chewed on the side of my thumb as I turned the new information over in my head and came up with a couple of worrying conclusions. “Either something bad’s happened to him,” I ventured gravely, “or he’s serious about staying away, and he’s found somewhere to hole up. Somewhere with food and warmth, too. A week is a long time for a fourteen-year-old to be out on the streets on their own.”

Even in a relatively safe city like York, Alistair’s parents must be deeply worried for their son, I thought.

“So, you want to go and talk to his folks then?”

“Did you have any other ideas?” I asked, genuinely interested in any theories he might have, but he shook his head.

“I’m good to go and see the parents.”

“Alright, I guess I better call Sedgwick, so he knows,” I sighed, picking up my desk phone.

Sedgwick wasn’t over the moon to hear that we wanted to be more involved than just doing paperwork, but he heard me out and gave us the go-ahead.

“Don’t annoy them,” he added sourly as I was about to end the call. “We’ll need their