Free This Little Piggy by Bea Davenport Page B

who were having a sort of picnic with their toddlers, on blankets spread out on a balding patch of grass. The heat was making the little ones grizzly and the women slow and disinterested. Joe smiled when he saw Clare and wandered towards her, wiping a hand across his brow.
    “I swear there’s more than orange juice in those beakers,” he said, out of earshot of the group. “And I don’t just mean the mums’ drinks either.”
    “Don’t,” said Clare.
    “What’s up?” Joe was rather too good at spotting Clare’s moods before they’d even passed a word between them. It was because they went back a few years: they’d gone to the same journalism school, suffered the same hangovers, passed their proficiency tests at the same time and followed each other through the same group of newspapers.
    “Two words.” Clare screwed up her eyes and put a hand up to shield them from the sun.
    “Ah. Chris and Barber, by any chance?” Joe elbowed Clare lightly. “I heard he got his nice car messed up this morning. What sort of a prat takes a red sports car out to a miners’ picket line? He deserves everything he gets. What’s the latest?”
    Clare told Joe about Barber’s plan to muscle in on the murder story. Joe made a whistling noise through his teeth. “Does he have some sort of death wish?”
    “What’s even worse is that Dave Bell is so utterly spineless. He lets Barber flounce around the office like he owns the place. And he won’t stand up for anyone else. So I’m expected to escort that idiot round my patch tomorrow and hand him my contacts book for good measure.”
    Joe looked over Clare’s shoulder. “Uh-oh. Here comes your Amy-shaped shadow.”
    Clare turned to see Amy skipping towards them, wearing her stained blue school dress. “You’ve finished school early,” Clare commented.
    “Got sent home again,” Amy said, cheerfully. “Felt sick.”
    “You look the picture of health to me,” said Joe. “Underneath the muck.”
    “Yeah.” Amy wasn’t concerned. “It was probably the school dinner. It was a pile of puke.” She pulled out the little notebook from her pocket. “What’s the story today then?”
    Clare’s lips twitched. “The police are looking for some of baby Jamie’s clothes.”
    “Right.” Amy nodded. “Would it have, like, fingerprints on and stuff?”
    “I expect so.”
    “So if they find it, would they know who killed Jamie?”
    “They might. It would definitely help them.”
    “How would it?” Amy put a finger in her mouth and chewed at the skin. “Like, what would they know from it?”
    “There might be forensic evidence on it,” Joe began. “That’s when…”
    “I know what it is, I’ve seen it on the telly,” said Amy.
    “Pardon me,” said Joe.
    Clare smirked. “Yes, don’t be so patronising. I think they’d look for traces that would link the killer to Jamie. But it gets harder, the more time has passed. The police should’ve started asking about the hat ages ago.”
    “Stupid police.” Amy wiped at her eyes.
    “Hey, you okay?” Clare put a hand on Amy’s skinny shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know thinking about Jamie upsets you.”
    Amy shrugged. “Hey, look.” She pushed the notebook up at Clare. “I’ve been practising my Teeline.”
    “Wow, look at that. Well done.” Clare avoided meeting Joe’s eyes, but she could sense him giving her a look. “Amy’s going to be a reporter, Joe.”
    “Good for you, kid. But it’s not as glamorous as it’s made out to be. You might find yourself reporting on horrible stories like this one.”
    “I wouldn’t mind.” Amy was gazing at Clare, waiting for her verdict. “It’s still not very fast though,” she added, pointing to the pages of shorthand.
    “No. That takes practice,” said Clare. “It took me three goes to pass my shorthand exam. But I got there in the end.” She flicked through the little book. “You’ve done really well, Amy.”
    Amy gave a big grin as she stuffed the book