Free Hostage to Murder by Val McDermid Page A

position at either side of the gates, handing out the paper to teachers and parents as they arrived.
    Nobody gave them a second look.
    â€œWon’t she recognise you?” Kevin had asked as they’d walked back.
    In reply, Michael had taken a pair of glasses from his inside pocket. They had thick black frames and lenses tinted blue. He put them on and simultaneously let his shoulders slump. In that instant, the threat disappeared like the sun behind a cloud.
    â€œNo, right, I see what you mean,” Kevin muttered.
    Now, he watched how Michael scrutinised every face that approached. When the electric bell finally sounded on the dot of nine o’clock, he was satisfied that Bernadette Dooley was not among the parents who had delivered their offspring to Botanics Primary.
    â€œSo what do we do now?” Kevin asked forlornly, clutching the leftover newspapers to his chest.
    â€œWe go and see if that supermarket’s got a café,” Michael said. “And if it hasn’t, we find someplace to watch it from. And this afternoon, we find another primary school at chucking out time.” He was already striding down the street.
    Two hours and forty-three minutes later, Kevin shifted in his
plastic chair. “She’s giving us funny looks, that woman on the till,” he muttered.
    Michael scowled. “You’re too fucking obvious, that’s why.” He glanced at his watch. Three teas each and a couple of bacon butties. The worst part was not being able to smoke. No , Michael corrected himself. The worst part was having to work with a fucking eejit like Kevin who could no more blend into the background than a naked woman at High Mass.
    â€œI’m not doing anything,” Kevin whined.
    Michael bit back a vicious response. He sipped his lukewarm tea. “Away and get me a fresh cup of tea. And when you’ve done that, you can go into the supermarket and buy me some bananas.”
    â€œBananas?” Kevin frowned in puzzlement.
    â€œThey’re a good source of potassium. Just do it, Kevin.”
    Kevin pushed himself up from the table. He strolled over to the counter, his attempt at nonchalance setting all the till operator’s antennae jangling. She couldn’t figure out his game at all, but she was mentally rehearsing his description. When he returned with the tea, Michael said, “Fine. Now the bananas, there’s a good lad. And take your time about it. Have a browse. See if there’s any new flavours of Pot Noodle to get you excited.” The sarcasm was wasted on Kevin, who shrugged and walked off to join the milling shoppers.
    Left to himself, Michael pulled out his mobile and called Patrick. “It’s me,” he said as soon as they were connected. “So far, no joy.”
    â€œI didn’t expect anything so soon.” Patrick’s voice was flat, unreadable. “Stay on it. Call me tomorrow.”
    The line went dead. Whatever Bernadette had taken from Patrick, it had clearly pissed the man off more than Michael would have risked lightly. He put the phone back in his pocket and continued his scrutiny of the entrance to the store. Barely taking his eyes off the harassed mothers and the slow-moving pensioners who made up most of the clientele at that time of the morning, he sugared his tea and began to drink it. This was probably a total waste of time, but they had nothing else to chase. As long as Patrick was willing to spend his money, Michael was content to watch and wait.

    Time ticked inexorably past and still Kevin didn’t return. He was probably memorising the Pot Noodle flavours, Michael reckoned. Then suddenly, all thoughts of Kevin disappeared. He went immobile as a lizard that knows it’s been spotted and still hopes its camouflage will keep it safe.
    It was her. Pushing past an elderly couple, dark hair swinging round her head in a long bob, heavy coat wrapped round her, disguising a figure that Michael remembered