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  Frankie had never been so relieved. Daniel wasn’t Stone’s kid. Even so, she suspected that he knew Alex Parker. Why else react to her in the way he had? She refocused on the boy’s mother.

  ‘Can I ask what Mr Scott does for a living?’

  ‘You presume too much, DS Oliver.’ Alex added: ‘My ex is a pig, a drunk who finds and feeds off women of means, bleeds them dry, then mistreats them horribly. They eventually get wise to him and, in my case, buy him off. Divorce hands him the opportunity to move on to the next meal ticket.’

  An email pinged into Frankie’s inbox, the sound catching them all by surprise. Alex looked at her expectantly. The email was from Parker’s business partner in response to one Frankie had sent him before they left the station. He’d just come from a charity dinner and was apologising for the delayed reply. The content was illuminating, to say the least.

  Alex stared at Frankie, a question in her eyes.

  ‘Nothing,’ Frankie lied and faked contrition. ‘I apologise. It was personal.’

  Alex dropped her head, searching through her son’s paraphernalia for pen and paper on which to write a note. With her back turned, it gave Frankie the opportunity to convey a message to her boss that she was bluffing about the email. It was case-related.

  Stone gave a nod in return: message received and understood.

  Having found what she was after, Alex scribbled down Rob Scott’s name, date of birth and last-known address, handing it to Frankie. ‘My son’s training ended at seven o’clock,’ she said. ‘I’d like to know how long my husband waited to raise the alarm.’

  Frankie stalled. ‘Wouldn’t you rather ask him?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  Sidestepping questions never worked with the upper class. The exact time was etched on the inside of Frankie’s brain. Such details were pivotal to any enquiry. Facts and good detective work solved cases, not approximations and guesswork. Rough calculations simply wouldn’t do. Following evidence was always key but therein lay the rub; police and witnesses were fallible; when human error crept in – as it invariably did – lives were lost, offenders went free.

  Stone had noticed Frankie’s hesitation.

  She dropped her head, avoiding his eyes.

  So, they were both hiding stuff, running from a dark past. In her case, an event that had shaped her future, an incident that happened long before she threw on a uniform. She’d tried hard to keep her secret locked away, representing as it did an ever-present threat that returned to haunt her time and again. If she was reading him right, it was the same for Stone. When he blew in from the south he’d led her to believe that they would work well together, suggesting that a tight and loyal unit was on the cards. It was quite a speech.

  Some partnership they turned out to be.

  Alex was staring at Frankie. ‘How long, DS Oliver?’

  ‘Two hours.’ It was probably wise not to be too specific until there was more information on the table. Now Stone had spoken to the family, he’d want a full debrief at the station. If pushed, Frankie would give an exact time. Daniel’s mother had a right to know.

  ‘That’s a bloody long time,’ she said.

  ‘I expect he waited a while. That’s what most parents do, faced with a missing child.’

  Frankie had her doubts about Tim Parker. Maybe he was a different kind of predatory male to Alex’s first husband. It was a well-documented fact: paedophiles often sought out unattached mothers for the sole purpose of getting close to children. With no proof of that, Frankie found herself defending him. Innocent until proven guilty had always been her watchword. ‘It was light until about twenty past nine,’ she said.

  ‘DS Oliver. No offence, but I’m not “most parents” and my son isn’t “most children”.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I know.’ Alex cut her off. ‘But he’s a little boy! I beg you to view him as an individual. Trust me, I know him better than anyone. Look, I admit, I’m over-protective when it comes to Daniel but I assure you it’s for all the right reasons and, paradoxically, that makes him more, not less, exposed to harm. On his own, he’ll be utterly lost. More than anyone, my husband knows this. He should’ve reported him missing immediately, not waited until it was almost dark. I was stupid enough to believe that he’d look after him. I will never forgive him if anything has happened to my child.’

  ‘I know how difficult this is for you—’

  ‘How could you possibly?’

  ‘I’m only saying that in his position you might have done the same—’

  ‘If I’d been here, you mean?’ Alex snapped.

  Frankie felt wounded by the comment. She’d never upset anyone in Alex’s position or apportion blame. On the contrary, she’d do anything, anything, to make them feel that it wasn’t their fault, giving assurances that she’d try her utmost to find the son or daughter and bring them home. Before she had the chance to convey that sentiment, Stone jumped to her defence.

  About time . . .

  ‘That’s not what DS Oliver meant. No one blames you, Alex. Please don’t think that. Of course you look out for your son – you’re his mother. My colleague is merely suggesting that, faced with the same situation, there’s probably nothing you’d have done differently. You’d have waited a while, called his friends – all of which Tim did before he arrived at the station.’

  Alex looked unconvinced.

  Lifting a Lego figure from among the odds and ends on the bed, she turned it over and over in her fingers before wrapping it in the palm of her hand. She glanced at Frankie, tormented by her son’s absence. ‘Wolverine is Daniel’s favourite superhero. He takes this to bed with him every night.’ Unable to hold on to her emotions any longer, she finally let go.

  Her sobs were hard to take.

  When Stone glanced up, Frankie looked away, wearing the woman’s grief as if it were her own. Tim Parker was standing outside the door, an eyewitness to the distressing scene, in no rush to comfort his wife.

  Realising he was being watched, he turned away.

  Frankie laid a hand gently on Alex’s shoulder. ‘We’ll do everything in our power to find him,’ she said.

  Alex wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I know you will. I’m just so worried.’ Her focus was Daniel’s bed.

  Frankie followed her gaze. ‘Have you mislaid something?’

  ‘I don’t understand why his iPad’s not here.’

  ‘The search team have it,’ Stone said. ‘Sorry, I should’ve mentioned it. Technical Support will examine the device. They’ll check your son’s browser history and other data to get a handle on his interests and to locate who, if anyone, he’s been talking to, in and outside of your immediate family. He may have friends you’re not aware of. Kids meet all sorts online.’

  ‘You mean offenders, don’t you?’

  ‘We’re not going to lie to you,’ the DI said. ‘Much as we like to think we have safeguards in place, the criminal fraternity find their way around them. These devices are never one hundred per cent secure. Please, try not to worry. Our technicians are the very best there is. I assure you, if there’s a clue to Daniel’s whereabouts on the iPad, they’ll find it.’

  The woman fell silent.

  Frankie received the message Stone wasn’t sharing with the boy’s mother. Statistically, when a child – boy or girl – was abducted or abused, the perpetrator was someone close to home: father, grandfather, uncle, brother – stepfather. Occasionally, that person turned out to be female, though it was far less likely. Outside of that family dynamic and the police were in trouble. A random abduction was enough to scare the most hard-nosed cop.

  Frankie had studied cyber-crime. She’d made it her life’s work warning friends not to upload photographs of their children on to the Internet. Technology was a wonderful tool but it was also dangerous, providing sex offenders a
nd murderers with the means to access the bedrooms of children, an opportunity to groom them without even leaving home.

  The thought made her flesh crawl.

  ‘Daniel may not have a phone but he doesn’t need one . . . ’ Frankie thought it best to be upfront from the outset, but sensitively, so as not to spook the child’s mother. She explained: ‘An Apple ID and/or email address will allow him to use iMessage, Facetime or join a social media platform.’

  ‘At his age?’

  ‘As hard as it is to swallow, children lie,’ Frankie said. ‘Even the good ones. Do you happen to know if Daniel has an account anywhere?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Were parental controls set on the device?’

  Alex gave a shrug. ‘I have no idea. You’ll have to talk to Tim. He bought the damned thing. I’m sure he has that covered. As ridiculous as it sounds, given Daniel’s absence, his stepfather is very protective—’ She didn’t finish. Her head went down, then she looked up, a horrified expression on her face. Slowly she opened her left hand to reveal a scrunched up note she’d been hanging on to for almost half an hour. ‘I found this in his drawer.’

  Frankie took the slip of paper from her. It was damp from sweat and tears. The ink had bled but she could make out the words, a name: Charlie Dawson. A shiver ran down her spine, anxiety levels rising. ‘Who is Charlie Dawson?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. That’s what’s so worrying.’

  ‘This is Daniel’s handwriting?’

  ‘Yes, I’d know it anywhere.’

  ‘You’re one hundred per cent certain?’

  A nod. ‘For years, I’ve watched the way he forms his letters, carefully and neatly. Words matter to him almost as much as they do to me.’ She pointed at a framed certificate on his wall attesting to the neatness of the boy’s handwriting as a six-year-old, the first of many he’d picked up.

  Frankie wanted to believe that Charlie was a school chum – even though Daniel had never mentioned the name to his mother, but it was odd. She took a deep breath, telling herself that there was nothing sinister in the note.

  ‘Try not to panic,’ Frankie said. ‘Maybe Charlie is a boy at Daniel’s school.’

  ‘He isn’t – at least, not one I’ve heard of.’

  ‘Unless Charlie isn’t a boy . . . your son is growing up.’

  Alex almost smiled, but Frankie could see that the alternative scenario was in her head and hated herself for planting it there. She ran both hands through her hair. Maybe Alex didn’t know her son as well as she thought she did. Or was Frankie so paranoid, so hard-bitten by years of investigating crime, she couldn’t see an innocent explanation for the scribbled note? Alex, Tim and Justine all said that Daniel was a trustworthy kid who was bright enough to know that online identities were unsafe and not something to be relied upon.

  Then again, all mothers liked to think they knew their sons. That they were innocent and good. That they took notice of their parents. Frankie knew different. Like any kid of his age, Daniel would have secrets. She’d been led to believe that he was also patient, endowed with good sense beyond his years. She prayed he had the nous to get himself home.

  Alex was welling up, as if the worst-case scenario had suddenly occurred to her. Paralysed by fear, her eyes locked on to Stone and then Oliver. What passed between the two women was a moment of menacing clarity Frankie would never forget.

  9

  It was a clear night, the stars bright against an inky black sky. Frankie was awed by the lack of light pollution as they left the Parkers’ house. No matter how many times she saw the Milky Way in all its glory, she never tired of it. It was an amazing sight, four hundred billion stars, a show like no other. At home in the fishing village of Amble, she would stare at it through her grandfather’s telescope for hours.

  She followed Stone to the car.

  He didn’t say a word as he blipped the doors open and got in. Pulling his seat belt across his chest, he started the engine and took off at speed. The search team had left the gate open for ease of exit. Just as well. It looked like he wanted a clean getaway. Frankie was itching to ask him what was wrong but it was late; the small hours wasn’t the most appropriate time for a deep and meaningful.

  Whatever it was would have to wait.

  As they hurtled south towards Newcastle, he kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. Frankie followed suit, wishing he’d lighten up. He’d been in the south way too long and had lost a lot of the humour Geordies were famous for. Not that there was much to laugh about at present. Her previous professional partner was a joker, an open book. Her new DI was different. He was deep, a charismatic loner, a detective whose name didn’t fit his character. Stone was no hard man. He was thoughtful, intelligent, doing his best in a job that chipped away at his spirit every day.

  ‘I can hear you thinking,’ he said.

  Frankie wondered if it was an invitation to start a conversation she’d already decided to put off till morning. Discounting that thought, she kept her mind on the job rather than pry into his personal life, believing that she’d be on a hiding to nothing if she brought the subject up.

  ‘That’s some house,’ she said. ‘Might have to revise my description of Parker as minted. It’s probably an understatement. The art alone must be worth a fortune. Alex is no fool, is she?’

  ‘She had a point to make and she made it.’ It was a curt reply.

  ‘Any ideas on why it took Parker so long to report Daniel missing?’

  ‘None. Didn’t you ask him?’

  ‘Not yet – I will.’

  ‘While you’re at it, raise an action on the DM he claims he didn’t send. He’s got some explaining to do.’

  ‘At home or at the station?’

  Stone took a moment.

  ‘Home,’ he said. ‘We might get a complaint if we drag him in. As soon as the media realise who the boy’s parents are, they’ll be camping outside the gates taking pictures, trying to get the low-down on the investigation. The first thing they’ll want to know is why neither stepfather nor au pair thought to dial 999 within the hour.’

  ‘Too right. If he’d been my kid . . .’ Frankie let the sentence trail off.

  ‘Two hours isn’t that long.’

  ‘It’s long enough for a scumbag to bundle a child into a car and do off with him. You’d have thought a man of Parker’s intellect would have the sense to know that.’

  ‘He’s not a copper, Frankie. We know stuff he’s not aware of. Stuff we’d rather not know, if we’re being honest—’

  ‘C’mon! He must read the papers, switch on the news. There are photos of missing kids posted online every day by the public and the police. In the last fortnight, there have been three attempted child abductions in the south, prompting warnings to be vigilant. You think they haven’t made Twitter?’

  ‘You’re very clued up—’

  ‘That’s what I’m paid for,’ Frankie said. ‘If Parker is a fan of social media, and he clearly is, it beggars belief that he missed these warnings, or that they didn’t make him stop and think when Daniel went missing. Any sensible person over the age of eighteen would have called the law.’

  ‘He doesn’t strike me as the type to panic,’ Stone said.

  ‘He doesn’t strike me as the type to tell the truth either,’ Frankie bit back. ‘And tomorrow we’ll find him out. I’ve not warmed to him, have you? The guy’s a creep. No wonder Alex shrugged off his attempts to help her. Did you hear him? “I won’t allow it!” What century does he think this is?’

  ‘Your opinion of him doesn’t make him guilty.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. What was it he said right before we left?’ She quoted Parker: ‘“My wife is subject to panic attacks. I know what’s best for her.” I nearly stuck my fingers down my throat. I don’t like him, David.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ He smiled
.

  ‘Just telling it like it is.’

  ‘I’m not saying he’s not a suspect.’

  ‘Good.’ Frankie huffed. ‘Have you seen my detection rate?’

  He glanced sideways, a half-smile this time. ‘Like father like daughter, eh?’

  ‘Aye, and don’t you forget it.’ She was pulling his leg. There had been a Detective Frank Oliver in Northumbria force for over half a century, starting with her granddad who signed up in 1966. He and her father were formidable detectives, the latter regarded as the most successful of his generation. No one could touch him when it came to investigating murder.

  Frankie tipped her head at Stone. ‘You’d really get on with my old man.’

  ‘If I’m lucky, I might even get a word in edgeways.’

  She laughed. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go inviting him to the station. Any excuse and he’ll be there in a shot, taking over, poking his nose in where it doesn’t belong, quizzing you about our caseload, about me. I love him dearly but we’ll never get rid of him. Gateshead CID practically had to prise him out the door on his last day. I’m sure I heard him scream.’

  Stone chuckled. ‘Must be hard, living in his shadow.’

  ‘Think again. Frank Oliver the third intends to outrank him one day, him and my granddad. They like to think they taught me all I know about policing. To be fair, they did . . . including Rule 1.’

  ‘Rule 1?’

  Frankie narrowed her eyes. ‘Learn how to handle your supervision. I did, so you’d better be on your guard.’

  Stone changed down as they rounded a bend, then floored the accelerator, throwing her back in her seat. Having spent years in a Met firearms team he was supremely confident behind the wheel, better than anyone she’d come across in fifteen years of service. They might not be in an armed response vehicle but she could get used to such an exhilarating ride.

  He dipped his headlights. The oncoming car did likewise.

  As it shot past, she said: ‘You actually remind me of him.’

  ‘Thanks a lot! What is he, sixty?’