afternoon?’
Evans was nodding: ‘They’ll be here for two.’
‘Good,’ I sighed. ‘What about the school? You spoke with the Head, they know what they’re doing?’
Evans still nodding: ‘I said we’d be there from three.’
‘
‘Yep, but
‘Not going to be National then?’
Evans shook his head: ‘Not at this stage, no.’
I turned to Gaskins: ‘How many uniforms we got?’
‘Hundred and fifty with roadblocks set up at both ends of Victoria Road and one at the top of Rooms Lane, another on Church Street.’
I looked up at the map of Morley pinned to the board beside her photograph: ‘Where are the ones on Victoria Road?’
Gaskins stood and pointed at the map: ‘One here at the junction with Springfield Road, other up here before King George Avenue.’
‘They know what to do?’
‘Drivers’ licences and registrations,’ he nodded. ‘Show them the picture, spot of where were you last Thursday, and let them on their way.’
I turned to Prentice: ‘Jim, you got me the unmarked cars?’
‘Where you want them, Boss?’
My turn to stand and point and say: ‘Junction with Asquith Avenue, here. Another up by this farm, here. Get one for centre as well, here by Chapel Hill.’
‘Right,’ he said.
‘I want numbers,’ I told him. ‘Any vehicle stopping or reversing or changing direction when they see the roadblocks, take down their plate and call it through.’
Dick: ‘You think he’ll show.’
I nodded.
‘Who?’ asked Evans.
I picked up a piece of chalk. I turned to the board. I wrote up two names:
Jim pointed at the first name: ‘I thought he were dead?’
‘Either of these names show,’ I said. ‘You detain them and call me. Immediately.’
‘Fuck is this?’ I said to Dick Alderman as we parked outside Morley Grange Junior and Infants, the playground full of children and parents, TV camera crews and journalists, their vans and their cars -
‘Evans,’ I was shouting as I crossed the road, adjusting my glasses and looking at my watch. ‘Evans!’
He was coming towards me, arms full of papers and files: ‘Sir?’
‘Get these fucking vans and cars out of here!’ I yelled. ‘Fucking circus.’
He was apologising but I wasn’t listening -
‘And get everyone in the fucking hall.’
‘Mr Jobson?’ asked the plump grey-haired woman coming towards us with the disgusted expression.
‘Who are you?’ I said.
‘Marjorie Roberts,’ she replied. ‘The HT.’
‘The HT?’
‘The Head Teacher,’ mumbled Evans.
I stuck out my hand: ‘Maurice Jobson. Detective Chief Superintendent.’
‘What would you like us to do, Mr Jobson?’ she sighed.
‘If you could ask all the children and their parents to step into the hall, that would be a big, big help.’
‘Fine,’ she said and walked off.
‘Miserable bitch,’ hissed Dick at my shoulder. ‘Been up here practically every bloody day and not even a cup of tea. Just when can she expect things to get back to normal, upsetting the kids and their routine etc etc. Stupid fucking cow.’
I nodded: ‘Where’s Hazel?’
‘In the old cow’s office,’ said Evans.
‘And where is the old cow’s office?’
‘This way,’ said Dick and we followed him across the playground, through the children and their parents, to the black stone building. He opened a double set of green doors and we stepped into the school and that familiar smell, that familiar smell of children and detergent.
We walked down a corridor, plastic supermarket bags hanging from the low pegs, the walls still decorated with pictures of Easter eggs. At the end of the corridor, Dick tapped on a door and opened it.
Inside a middle-aged woman was sitting with a ten-year-old girl; a ten-year-old girl with medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes, wearing light blue corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter
‘I’m Maurice Jobson,’ I said. ‘I’m the detective in charge.’
The woman stood up: ‘I’m Nichola’s mother. Karen Barstow.’
‘Thank you very much for helping us,’ I said.
‘Anything to help find the poor little-’
‘Hello,’ I said to the ten-year-old girl with medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes, wearing light blue corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter
‘Hello,’ she said back.
‘You must be Nichola,’ I said.
‘No,’ said the ten-year-old girl with medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes, wearing light blue corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter
‘Today I’m Hazel.’
I walked out on to the stage, the children sat crosslegged at the front, the teachers and journalists standing at the sides, parents mouthing messages to their kids from the back.
Mrs Roberts introduced me: ‘Everybody, this is Mr Jobson. He’s the policeman who’s going to find Hazel. Now I know a lot of you have talked to the other nice policemen about Hazel, but today we’re going to pretend it’s last Thursday again. We’re going to all try very hard to remember exactly what we did last Thursday and then we’re all going to do the same thing again. Maybe some clever person will remember something very important and that will help Mr Jobson find Hazel.’
I stood there, nodding -
The children staring at me, silently.
Mrs Roberts had stopped speaking and was looking at me.
In a low voice she whispered: ‘What about Hazel? Shall we introduce her.’
I nodded. I turned to the side. I gestured for Nichola’s mother to lead her daughter out on to the stage -
There was a wave of noise across the hall, all the teachers with their fingers to their lips as all the parents strained to see their own kids who were standing up and sitting down, confused and excited.
‘Children, sit down please,’ barked Mrs Roberts.
I looked out at the rows and rows of children in front of me. I said: ‘This is Nichola, but today she is going to be Hazel.’
‘Will everybody please sit down!’ shouted Mrs Roberts again. ‘That means you too Stephen Tams.’
‘Now,’ I said, wishing WPC Martin was here and I wasn’t. ‘Who was with Clare last Thursday?’
