Free Bricks and Mortality: Campbell & Carter 3 by Granger Ann Page A

a business contact number, but she was pointing at the card and making an irritable circular motion with a finger at the same time. Abby, interpreting the gesture, turned the card over. On the other side an address had been written by hand. ‘Chestnut Lodge,’ Abby read aloud. ‘What sort of building is that?’
    ‘It’s an rambling old Edwardian house and you’ll see I’ve written “basement flat”,’ Sarah said impatiently. ‘Look, don’t you want to know about the missing person?’
    ‘How long has the person been missing?’ asked the unruffled Abby. If it turned out to be a mere twenty-four hours it would be far too early to panic, and this girl was definitely panicking under that demanding exterior.
    ‘Three days. That is, two nights and this is the third day.’
    ‘I see.’ That sounded much more serious. ‘What is the name of the missing person and can I also ask, what is the relationship?’
    ‘His name is Matthew Pietrangelo …’ The speaker paused and then carefully spelled the name, watching as Abby wrote it down. ‘He’s my boyfriend – my partner.’
    Oh dear, thought Abby. Has he done a bunk, I wonder? Left her in the lurch? Didn’t have the courage to break it off? Time to be tactful. On the other hand, they’d only just been told to pass all reports of missing male adults straight up to CID.
    ‘Does Mr Pietrangelo live at the same address? Can you tell me his age?’
    ‘He’s thirty. Yes, he lives there. We’ve been together two years. He’s never done anything like this before. I’ve phoned his sister and she hasn’t heard from him. I didn’t want to worry his mother, not yet, anyway, and his sister – her name is Georgia Evans – agrees. But she did ring her mother and ask in a roundabout way if she’d heard from Matt lately and she – Mrs Pietrangelo – hasn’t. Matt’s mother is beginning to wonder why; because Matt rings her regularly, once a week, and he’s missed his usual day.’
    ‘Where do these ladies live?’ asked Abby practically. ‘Both in the UK?’
    ‘For crying out loud, of course they do! They both live in London, or the London area. Georgia lives in Camden and Mrs Pietrangelo lives in Harrow. I know it’s an Italian name, but that’s because Matt’s grandfather came to Britain in 1950 and opened a café near King’s Cross, of all places.’
    Abby realised that the speaker was very near to tears. ‘Just a moment,’ she said.
    She picked up the internal phone. ‘Sergeant Morton, please. Oh, it’s Abby Lang down at the front desk, Sarge. Someone has come in to report a missing male, aged thirty. I saw the internal memo and I thought you’d— Yes, right away.’
    ‘Come into one of the interview rooms,’ she said more kindly to Sarah Gresham. ‘I’ll organise a cup of tea and someone will come down and talk to you in a few minutes.’

    It wasn’t Morton, but Jess Campbell who came downstairs to interview the visitor. Now that Sarah Gresham had a sympathetic ear to pour her troubles into, her manner relaxed slightly. But she remained a frightened woman.
    ‘It not like Matt just to drop out of sight like this. Where’s he living? He hasn’t even got a change of clothes. I checked all that out. Everything is at home where it should be, right down to his toothbrush and electric razor. His collection of DVDs, his sports gear, all of it … I know you’re going to suggest Matt has left me. I don’t believe he has. But even if he had, he wouldn’t have vanished off into the blue and left everything behind, not even a change of socks with him.’ Sarah began to sound combative again.
    ‘What does he do for a living?’ Jess asked. ‘If he’s not turned up for work …’
    ‘He’s a freelance website designer and works from home, our home. But his car’s gone. It’s the one thing he has taken.’
    ‘Had he had been behaving normally recently? Feeling OK? Depressed about anything? Money worries?’
    Sarah’s face was white. ‘He