Free False Tongues by Kate Charles Page B

far.’ Cowley eased the car out into traffic. ‘St Michael’s Street. Do you know it?’
    â€˜Doesn’t sound familiar.’
    â€˜The other side of Praed Street. Round the corner from the Tesco Metro. There’s a decent pub in St Michael’s Street,’ Cowley added.
    â€˜That would explain your familiarity with it.’ Neville waited for the come-back, involving the words ‘pot’ and ‘kettle,’ but Sid seemed to have settled down to concentrate on his driving and was no longer engaged in point-scoring.
    He needed to settle down as well, Neville realised. For some reason this case really had him on edge. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was about to be face-to-face with the parents of a missing boy, and that he was almost certainly going to have to tell them something that no parent ever wants to hear. There were a lot of things he hated about his job—the unpredictable and unsocial hours, the soul-destroying paperwork, getting chewed up by the press, being answerable to Evans, having to work with idiots like Dewi Jones—but this was the very worst part of it, the thing he hated the most.
    Cowley turned the car off busy Praed Street, then turned again into a quiet residential road. ‘You’d never believe there was a street like this so close to everything, would you?’ he remarked.
    It was a very attractive short street of immaculate terraced houses, brown brick with red brick accents and painted white trim, set back from the pavement and protected by original spiky black iron railings. As Cowley said, it seemed a world away from the multicultural food joints of Praed Street, from the hospital and the railway station. St Michael’s Street was genteel, old-fashioned, beautifully maintained. And quiet.
    The north side of the street was marked out for parking, and contained a solid line of cars. ‘Residents’ parking,’ Cowley pointed out, crawling along slowly, looking for an empty space. ‘Bank Holiday today. No one’s gone to work.’
    Another police car had been parked illegally, outside of the designated spaces. Dewi Jones, Neville thought sourly. ‘Pull up behind him,’ he directed.
    It had to be done; no point putting it off by cruising round looking for a legal parking space. God only knew what sort of damage was being inflicted by Dewi Jones in the meantime.
    Cowley parked the car, consulted his bit of paper, and checked the house numbers. ‘This one,’ he said, pointing to the middle house in a three-house terrace. It had a shiny black door, flanked by bay trees in pots.
    â€˜Right.’ Neville squared his shoulders. ‘Let’s get this over with. What are they called, then?’
    â€˜Frost. Doctor and Mrs Frost.’
    â€˜A doctor. That makes sense, this close to the hospital. And a posh house like this.’ Neville opened the gate, marched the two steps to the door, and rang the bell.
    The woman who opened the door was probably in her early forties, Neville judged. Short black hair, with large eyes magnified even bigger behind round spectacles. Thin—scrawny, even. Very pale, though whether habitually or as a result of the current circumstances was impossible to determine. Her eyes widened at the sight of them.
    â€˜Mrs Frost?’
    She nodded, swallowing visibly.
    â€˜I’m Detective Inspector Stewart, ma’am, and this is Detective Sergeant Cowley. We’d like to have a word with you and your husband. May we come in?’
    â€˜There’s a policeman here already,’ she said, opening the door wider. ‘PC Jones.’
    Dewi Jones appeared behind her in the entrance hall, notebook in hand. Neville glared at him with contempt. ‘You can bugger off now.’
    â€˜But—’ PC Jones waved his notebook. ‘I need to talk to you.’
    â€˜Later.’
    Dewi Jones went, sputtering. Mrs Frost showed them into the front room,