Free Hard Time by Maureen Carter

motor. Robbie Crawford had been one of the officers in the pursuit
vehicle.
    It was the norm for witnesses to be nervy round police officers. Even Bev felt stressed if a traffic cop was on her tail. But Stephen Cross was totally unfazed: cucumber on
ice. And not just cool, but aloof and condescending. He lived in a swanky show-off pad in Priory Rise, Edgbaston, the road parallel to Hampton Place where Daniel’s school was situated.
Popular location this morning; hacks were already in the area, knocking on doors.
    Cross led Bev and Daz through to the kitchen as if they were there to clean the place. Like it needed cleaning. It resembled a theatre, operating not playhouse. Every latest gadget and bit of
kit gleamed, probably all for show. Bev doubted if Cross had ever shelled an egg, let alone boiled one.
    “Can’t offer you anything, I’m afraid.” Most people would have concocted a polite excuse. “Can we get on with it?”
    Taking her time, Bev strolled to a bum-numbing chair round a glass-topped table. Daz took the other. Cross decided to pose against the stainless steel sink, maybe because it faced the mirrored
wall. Tall and graceful, he moved like a dancer: ballroom, not ballet. Receding bland blond hair accentuated a high shiny dome. Hazel eyes bulged slightly; the nose was a real stonker. If it was
Bev’s she’d have it taken in.
    She unbuttoned her blue linen jacket. “Tell us exactly what you saw, please, sir.”
    “I’ve alread...”
    “From the beginning.”
    He folded his arms, ankles already crossed. “I was on my run.” Four-mile circuit, three times a week. “I was waiting at the top of Hampton Place, checking for traffic, and saw
a woman bundling a small child into a car. She had her hand on his head, and was forcing him into the back seat. The kid was kicking and screaming.”
    So why didn’t you do something? “Did you consider taking a closer look, sir?” Her smile was forced. He was admiring his in the mirror.
    “Have-a-go hero? You’re joking. Wouldn’t stick my nose in if you paid me.”
    She tried to keep her voice non-judgmental. “But a woman... and a little boy?”
    He shrugged. “Why get involved? She could’ve been armed, stoned off her face. You never know these days.” He studied his nails. “Anyway, little Johnnie was probably just
throwing a tantrum and mummy lost it.”
    “So what did she look like, sir?” This mad axe-murdering mummy.
    “Didn’t see much. I wasn’t that close and she was leaning into the car. Blonde hair, though, and I’d guess above average height.”
    “And the boy?” Daz asked.
    “Again, the only thing I can recall was the hair, blond and lots of it.”
    Bev glanced at Daz, who was clearly sharing the same thought. Clock on the wall chimed the hour: nine am. Time to turn up the heat. But after closer questioning not much more emerged except the
timing fit: Cross had left his place at twelve-twenty. Apart from that, he wasn’t sure but thought the car could have been a Merc, maybe a BMW, definitely silver. Or grey. Or light blue. He
seemed to recall a P or D in the number but wouldn’t swear to it. He hadn’t registered other vehicles in the road but he’d not been looking. He couldn’t remember what the
boy or the woman was wearing but wouldn’t rule out green.
    Suppressing a sigh, she handed him a card. “You’ve been very helpful, sir. Anything else comes to mind, give me a bell. Any time.”
    None of it was conclusive. But it was a start.
    Daz checked the mirror, eased the Vauxhall into a stream of city-bound traffic. Richard Page’s firm, Full Page Ads, occupied pole position in Saint Paul’s Square,
Hockley. “Tosser or what?” Daz was muttering about Cross. “Talk about hooray bleedin’...”
    “Henrietta.” Bev’s saucy tone was accompanied by a leer and a wink.
    “Never!” Daz said. “How’s that work?”
    “Bloke couldn’t keep his beadies off you.”
    “You’re jok...” He caught the glint in