Jack Slater - No Way Home

‘Oi!’ The shout came from behind him. A male voice full of authority. ‘Stop. Police.’

The kid ignored him, running on at full speed, feet slapping on the paving, breath rasping in his throat. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this pace, had never been great on stamina, but he had to get away. He couldn’t let them catch him.

Heavier feet than his own were slapping the pavement, coming fast behind him. He didn’t look back. He knew better than that: just kept going, chest heaving, throat raw, arms and legs pumping. He was almost past the big, pale block of the naval building. HMS whatever-it-was. Bloody stupid thing to call a building. How pretentious and up themselves did they have to be, to do that?

Uniforms. They were all the same. The forces. The fuzz. The lot of them.

Beyond the high stone wall darkness loomed, welcoming and safe. Only a few yards further and he could hide and rest until the coast was clear, get his stuff and be gone before they searched properly for him. He made the far end. Kept going. A dark bulk loomed at him out of the darkness.

‘Shit,’ he cursed, dodging right. But he was too close to the iron railing along the edge of the prom. He hit it with his shoulder, bouncing off into a pair of arms that snaked around him and clamped tight. ‘Whoah. Hold up there, sonny. Not so fast, eh?’

He writhed and wriggled. With his arms trapped, he kicked out instead. The figure barely seemed to register the first couple of blows, but then hissed in pain. ‘Damn you, boy. Stop fighting or I’ll hurt you.’

‘Try it.’ He brought his knee up and kicked backwards, his heel connecting with the man’s shin.

‘Ow! That’s it.’

He was lifted bodily off the ground, turned on his side and slammed down to the pavement, a knee coming down over his legs, the shin trapping them so that all he could do was thrash his feet back and forth, but that scraped his right ankle on the paving.

‘Shit. Get off me, bastard. Police brutality! I’ll get you sacked for this. I’ll tell ‘em you felt me up.’

Another figure appeared behind him. ‘Damn, that little bugger can run!’

‘He can bloody kick, too,’ the one holding him replied. ‘Where’s Karen?’

‘She’ll be along in a minute. Do you want my cuffs?’

‘I’ve got his hands. You could wrap his legs up, though. Little shit.’

‘You can’t do that,’ the kid shouted. ‘That’s against my human rights. Child cruelty. I’ll report you. Both of you. I want your names and badge numbers.’

‘We can do that, if we decide it’s best for your own safety,’ said the one holding him. ‘To prevent you from coming to harm while in our care. Health and safety: trump card every time, sonny. Isn’t that right, Qadir?’

‘Yep.’

He felt the cold of metal around his wrist, heard the ratchet as the cuff was squeezed into place.

‘What are the charges?’ he demanded. ‘What are you arresting me for?’

‘Resisting arrest.’ That was the second one. Qadir. Though he didn’t sound like a Qadir. He sounded completely local.

The kid’s arm was pulled around behind him. Then the other one.

‘And assaulting a police officer,’ the guy on top of him added. The second cuff was snapped into place and cinched up.

‘But, what were you chasing me for in the first place? You never told me that.’ He felt the big guy get up off him. ‘For all I knew, you were planning to attack me. Just ‘cause you’re in uniform doesn’t mean you’re not some kind of pervert.’

He was lifted bodily by the shoulders of his coat.

‘Ankles,’ the first one said as he planted him squarely on the ground.

‘Hey! You can’t do that.’

He felt big hands clamp like iron bands around his ankles. He tried to kick out, to free himself, but was held firm. ‘We’ve already had that conversation. And you lost.’ A Velcro strap was wrapped round and round his lower legs and he was stuck.

‘What are you doing?’ A female voice came from the darkness behind him and relief sang through the kid.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Qadir countered, killing the kid’s relief in an instant. Karen , he thought. The missing colleague.

‘He was kicking the shit out of my shins,’ the first one told her.

‘Yeah, but we’re not meant to be…’

‘He ran,’ Qadir interrupted. ‘He must have a reason. So, he’s under arrest until we find out what it is.’

‘You chased me,’ the kid said loudly. ‘What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know what you were up to. Could have been anything. Civil liberties, mate. You’re bloody taking one.’

‘You’ve got the right to remain silent,’ said Qadir. ‘How about you use it?’

The kid felt himself pushed from behind, couldn’t step forward, so bent at the waist. Then the other one’s arm went under his middle and he was lifted bodily off the ground.

‘Hey! Put me down, you fucker!’

‘If he does, you won’t like it. Now, shut up and hold still.’

*

‘The hunt for missing ten-year-old Molly Bowers ended today, when her body was found by police with a cadaver dog in woodland outside Stoke-on-Trent,’ the reporter said solemnly into the camera. ‘She’d been buried in a shallow grave, her clothes seemingly tossed in after her like so much rubbish. Detective Chief Inspector Daniel Taft was interviewed at the scene.’

Pete caught his wife’s expression and switched channels quickly.

Louise looked at him, her eyes wide and tearful at the tragedy of the case: a young life snuffed out, the body discarded with no more respect than you’d have for an empty milk carton.

It was eleven months, all but two days, since their son had gone missing. At least they knew he was still alive – or had been a few weeks before Christmas, when he’d broken into the home they sat in now with the evening news bringing back memories neither of them needed reminding of. It wasn’t as if they ever stopped thinking about him. Pete had taken five months off until a big drugs case had pulled him back to the station and circumstances had conspired to keep him there. Louise had gone back to work as a nurse in the Devon and Exeter Hospital only two and a half weeks ago, having been unable to face it until then.

Pete could guess what she was thinking. Their eleven-year-old daughter was asleep in the room above them as they sat there.

‘Annie’s as safe as any young girl can be,’ he said.

‘I expect Molly Bowers’ family thought the same, though, didn’t they?’

He tilted his head. She had a point. ‘You’ve checked Facebook and so on?’

They had taken on the task of searching for their son after Pete’s colleagues had no success. Posters had been put up all around Exeter, in spite of the bylaw against them. Newspaper articles had been published. The local TV stations had done interviews. Missing persons charities had got involved. Social media pages had been set up. They’d done, and were doing, everything they could think of to track down their son.

‘I did all that when I came in,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand. I mean, where the hell can a fourteen-year-old boy be, all this time? It’s not as if he’s big for his age, could be mistaken for an adult, is it? So, how’s he still out there?’

They had long accepted that he was missing of his own free will. The evidence was irrefutable. But Louise refused to even acknowledge the possibility that any harm had come to him.

Pete sighed and reached for her hand. ‘It does make you wonder, doesn’t it?’

The phone chirped on the coffee table in front of him and he reached for it quickly, not wanting to let it wake Annie. ‘Gayle.’

With no open cases that demanded overnight action and the dog-fighting case all wrapped up – Jim had walked back into the barn moments after Pete noticed he was gone, leading three other coppers and two handcuffed detainees – Pete was on call for the night. Any case that arose requiring CID involvement would come to him.