Free Hard Time by Maureen Carter Page B

God she didn’t press anything irrevocable.
    “Do sit down, sergeant.” Laura waved Bev into a huge black-leather swivel chair. The castors were well oiled; she tested. A few times. Glancing round, it was obvious whose space
they’d invaded. Most men kept a family photograph on their desk at work; Richard Page had covered almost an entire wall. Pictures of the little boy dominated: Daniel from birthday-suit days
to fancy-dress parties; Daniel building sandcastles and snowmen; Daniel scoffing Easter eggs and Christmas cake.
    “As you can see,” Laura said, “Richard’s wife and son mean the world to him. I so hope nothing awful’s happened.” It was a platitude but didn’t sound
it.
    Bev focused on Laura, who now sat poker-straight on the other side of the desk, hands neatly folded in her lap. “Have you met the little boy?”
    “Once or twice when Richard brought him in. He’s such a happy child, always smiling.”
    “Friendly? Outgoing?”
    “Oh, absolutely.” Laura hesitated, catching the implication. “You mean would he go with someone?”
    “Would he?”
    The response wasn’t pat; she gave it some thought. “I don’t know is the honest answer. Who knows how perverts entice children?”
    Puppies, promises, pretence. But not this time. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, Ms Foster...”
    “Laura. Please.”
    “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but it appears Daniel went quite happily with a woman a couple of people at the school mistook for his mother.”
    Laura frowned. Bev explained the initial confusion, some of which still lingered. Because originally Mrs Page was under the impression someone from the agency had collected Daniel.
    Laura’s frown deepened. “That doesn’t make sense. Richard would never dream of asking anyone here to do that sort of thing. And how could anyone mistake Imogen or Maggie for
Daniel’s mother?” Imogen and Maggie were black. As for Laura, her hair colour was the polar opposite to Jenny Page’s.
    Bev said nothing; waited for the other woman to come up with an idea.
    “So Jenny must have got the wrong impression somehow,” Laura went on, then paused. “Or she’s lying...” She shook her head. “No. That’s
ridiculous.”
    She made it sound so simple. “Do you know Mrs Page well?”
    Laura took off her glasses, polished them with a tissue. “Not terribly,” she finally conceded. “But enough to be certain she loves her child.” She glanced at the picture
gallery, warm smile on her face. “You can see that in her eyes, can’t you?”
    “How long have you known Mr Page?”
    The abrupt change didn’t throw Laura. “I’ve worked for Richard for about eighteen months.”
    Worked , not known; for , not with. “How do you get on?”
    “I can’t see the relevance...” Curious, not hostile.
    Bev reckoned if Page chased skirts, he’d definitely be on Laura’s tail. No sense stirring, though. “Just trying to build pictures, Ms Foster.”
    “Of course.” She smoothed the silk dress over a shapely knee. “We have an excellent working relationship. Everyone here does. We’re a strong team.”
    “What is it you do exactly?” Not an easy one to put her at ease; Laura was well cool.
    “I build the client list, chase the big campaigns, organise the corporate stuff. I used to do a little modelling, still have contacts, know how to network.”
    Bev nodded. That would explain the walk and the way Laura held herself. Bev had noted the habitual hair-flicking as well: very Kate Moss.
    “And the others?” she prompted.
    “Richard and Imogen are the creative brains. Maggie looks after finance and marketing.”
    “I’ll need a copy of your client list.” The door opened and Chelsea entered with a tray holding cafetière and white china. The interruption dragged on as Laura poured,
then handed Bev a cup. The request hadn’t been forgotten or dodged.
    “I’ll get a list together before you leave.” She met Bev’s eyes. “I can see