Free Lost Souls by Neil White Page A

started to smile. ‘So they had it in London too?’
    Laura looked forward again. ‘I’ve heard of it.’ And she had seen it in action, the rule that if the back doors of the van had to open, the cops didn’t leave the sceneuntil someone was in the van with them, for the handcuffed ride back to the station with plenty of hard braking. The spread of CCTV had stopped much of the fun for the Support Unit, but until they put cameras in the vans, most people would still arrive at the station on the van floor, the victim of one too many emergency stops.
    ‘What did Egan do that upset you so much?’
    ‘He didn’t like our methods, so he reported them, and then backed a prisoner up on a complaint.’ Pete glanced at Laura. ‘Maybe he was right, I don’t know, but why didn’t he tell us first?’
    ‘What happened to you?’
    ‘I got shoved into Custody for a couple of years. It was only the arrival of civilian jailers that got me out, and by the time I did he had arse-kissed all the way to his pips.’
    ‘So he’s not the most popular person in the station?’
    Pete shook his head. ‘Not below him. Those above him like him, admire him for his courage, all that shit. And let’s face it, he’s only looking up.’
    Laura shook her head and looked out of the window. She felt her phone vibrate again. ‘
Meet for lunch? J xx
’
    Laura sighed. It sounded like a great idea, but she knew it was a no.
    She texted back.
‘No can do. Off for drive in country. Make sure Bobby ok from school’
    She put her phone back in her pocket and thought about the long nights in she’d shared with Jack in London just a few weeks earlier. As she looked at the countryside flashing by, they seemed like part of a different life.
    *  *  *
    I smiled when I got the message. I had expected the police to head out to the house. It was a common formula: have an interview to set up the lies, and then search the house to disprove them.
    I had parked half a mile from the house. I’d asked at a local garage for the exact location of Jimmy King’s house, showed them my press badge and said I was late for an interview. I was still driving my 1973 Triumph Stag, in Calypso Red. It had been my father’s old car, washed and treasured by him every Sunday until his death. I loved the car myself now, it reminded me of sunny weekends watching Dad polish it, but I knew that Laura would recognise it in a flash if I parked it too close to the house.
    I was sitting in a tree, fifty yards from the house and across a secluded lane. I was looking down into the garden, a long green lawn, striped, with colourful borders all around. Pink, blues, violets. They looked well-maintained, and at the end of the garden were trees, willow and pine, although they were still small, some years to go before they created the country-garden look they were trying to achieve. The house itself stood out against the old stone cottages dotted around the valley. The bricks were fresh and new, with white pillars against the church-style front door and two large gables at the front, so that the house was H-shaped, grand and imposing. I guessed that the grilles on the gate were so people could see in, rather than the Kings see out.
    All I had to do now was wait.

Chapter Thirteen
    The boy was still asleep, the television off now, just the flicker of the oil-lamp for company.
    He leaned forward, watched the rise and fall of his chest, the slight movement of his lips as he breathed. He looked angelic, young and untroubled, a long way from the problems at home. In that light, unaware of his surroundings, he was just another young boy.
    He scuffed his feet on the floor, the noise of his soles in the dust loud, as if the surroundings weren’t used to sound. The walls were thick with cobwebs, the ones above the oil-lamp dancing in the heat of the flame, grey flicks as they waved in the half-light.
    He stood up and stretched. He knew he couldn’t stay there all day. He knew the boy would be