Catch the Fallen Sparrow by Priscilla Masters Read Free Book Online Page A

really care about us?’
    Matthew struggled to gain control, to explain, but he was now so furious he had lost his powers of reasoned argument. The other couples sitting on the beach heard only him shouting, saw him furiously arguing with his wife and daughter. They nudged one another.
    Matthew was breathing hard now. Temper and reason tussled.
    Jane squeezed his arm. ‘Look at me,’ she said. ‘Look at me.’
    He could barely prevent his lip from curling with dislike.
    Her eyes were hard as ice as she spoke. ‘Don’t think I’ll ever let you go to her.’
    Police Constable Phil Scott was allocated to the search of the moors, combing the area in a straight line between the lay-by on the main road and the spot where the child’s body had been found. A preliminary search had been made of a narrow ‘corridor’ which was clear of forensic evidence and taped off. But the person who had dropped the boy’s body into the small hollow might not have taken the direct route. So the police were combing the area directly to the right and left of the forensic corridor. However, by lunch-time nothing had been found – at least nothing of importance -just an eclectic assortment of chewing-gum wrappers and crisp packets, some old, used toilet paper, a couple of deflated Durexes. All were put in a black plastic bin liner. But none of the police officers religiously picking up everything that was not the strong, coarse, moorlands grass believed this garbage of the human race would lead to a murderer.
    Farthing looked at Scottie gloomily. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘this whole thing’s a bleedin’ waste of time. There’s bugger all up here.’ He scanned the wide sweep of moorland, topped with fierce-looking storm clouds. ‘And it’s going to soddin’ well rain.’
    Someone had had the consideration to fetch fish and chips from the local shop and they sat on the ridge, near the police van. After a hearty meal, washed down with flasks of tea, they were ready to begin the afternoon. But Scottie held back. He found Mike Korpanski sitting in the front of the van and rapped on the window.
    â€˜Excuse me, sir. Can I have a word?’
    Mike wound the window down, still chewing chips.
    â€˜I think I’ve seen that ring before. The one that was on the boy. I’ve been thinking about it, sir.’
    â€˜Where?’ Mike was excited – this was how investigations began, one tiny droplet of knowledge, then a succession, dripping quickly. And then a trickle which eventually gushed with information that led to a conviction. But it all started like this – one person saying they ‘thought’ ... they ‘might’ ...
    â€˜I’m not absolutely certain,’ Scottie said, ‘but I think it was one of the pieces reported stolen from a house break-in a year or two ago.’
    â€˜In Leek?’
    PC Phil Scott nodded.
    Mike grinned. ‘Jump in, Scottie,’ he said. ‘And if you’re right there’s a pint for you later at the local.’
    Joanna was spending the morning on the telephone and writing reports. At lunch-time she rang the lab and asked to speak to Cathy Parker.
    After a pause, Cathy came on the line. She read out the results of the other forensic tests carried out on the body. ‘The boy had eaten about two hours before he died. Some chips and a meat pie.’
    Joanna nodded. ‘The chip shops are open till midnight. He could have got them from there. I suppose it’s another avenue to explore. What about the results of the semen tests?’
    â€˜Negative. As I thought,’ Cathy said. ‘The motive was not sexual – or if it was, the boy’s sudden death killed the urge. Of course the lack of semen proves no penetration but it might be present on the clothes.’ She paused for a minute. ‘How long before you get the tests on the clothing?’
    â€˜A day or two.