Death Line Read Online Free Page B

of the Quarry Bank estate had netted nothing.
Back home, tossing and turning in bed, she was hard pushed to explain the nocturnal wanderings. Except a deep need to do something for a kid she fervently hoped to see in the flesh.
    Knight stepped to one side revealing an enlarged street map, used a pointer to indicate key locations. “This is his school. This is where he lives.” A thick red line had been added
in shaky felt tip; Knight’s pointer traced it. “This is the route he’d most likely take. It’s not the Kalahari Desert.”
    Got that right. It was a half-mile strip surrounded by a maze of back streets that in New York would be called mean. It ran from Josh’s squat redbrick school in Jubilee Row to the only
concrete and steel high-rise still standing on the council estate. Dotted around were two-up-two-down terraces, a seedy block of shops, grafitto-ed lock-ups and a patch of waste ground. As for
residents, it was ethnic all-sorts land, pavements clogged with burquas and crop tops, saris and shell suits, hoodies and hijabs. Cultures clashed, sure, street crime was rife, but people mostly
rubbed along. Bottom line was this: it was riddled with places to hole up or be forcibly held.
    “Anything on CCTV, sir?” Brown eyes earnestly creased, DC Rees leaned forward slightly. Out of uniform, tall, dark, smooth-cheeked Danny looked even more like a member of a boy band.
And clearly keen to make his voice heard. It was a fair question – if you hadn’t done your homework. This was Balsall Heath, not Belgravia. Low-rent dirt-poor areas aren’t flooded
with security cameras. Four, if Bev recalled correctly.
    “Do you not read the reports, lad?” Two cameras had no tape, one wasn’t working, the fourth was in that favourite haunt of small boys, a cut-price nail salon. Knight chewed a
piece of loose skin from his thumb. “Try and keep up, eh?”
    Not unreasonable. Masses of paperwork would accrue over the course of the inquiry. Keeping on top of it was essential and expected. There was too much at stake for left hands not to know what
right hands were doing. Rees would learn.
    “OK.” Knight faced the troops. “We hit the streets, knock doors. Question shop keepers, householders, landlords, dossers, dustmen, dog owners. Anything with a pulse.”
Interpreters were already on standby. “We talk to taxi drivers, bus drivers, delivery drivers. Closer to home, we interview relatives, family friends, teachers, anyone who’s had contact
with the boy. Who’s looking at sex offenders?” Abrupt change of tack. Meant to keep them on their toes? Bev wondered if he made a habit of it. He nodded as a couple of hands went up:
Darren’s and Sumi’s. They’d have made a start yesterday. The register was always high on the checklist when a child was missing. “OK. Carry on, and if you need help –
ask. That goes for anyone who can’t cope with the workload.”
    The second whiteboard displayed the search grid. Knight talked as he walked. “As you know, it’s a difficult terrain. Fortunately we have the top team. Joe Gregson leads it. Anyone
with ideas, input, talk to him.” All six-six of him, Bev gauged as a gym-trim guy with a grey buzz-cut rose to put face to name.
    “OK, listen up.” Heads turned back to Knight. “The POLSA guys will turn every stone, go through every outhouse, garden shed, lock-up. Check every drain, manhole, gutter and
roof top. We walk the area, drive it, cover every centimetre. We find the boy. Failure is not an option.”
    That’s OK then. Bev wasn’t big on bluff. She sat back, arms folded, legs crossed. “Assuming he’s still in the area,” she said. “He could be anywhere by
now.”
    Three, four second pause, then: “Detective Morriss, isn’t it?” Fingers slowly traced his jaw-line. As poses go it was classic. It cut no ice with Bev.
    “Sergeant.” She sniffed.
    “Until we know otherwise, sergeant, it’s where we concentrate resources.”
    She raised a