Snatched From Home: What Would You Do To Save Your Children? (DI Harry Evans Book 1) by Graham Smith Page A
Authors: Graham Smith
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the high number of obvious students walking back and forth from the town centre. The shops lining Highgate were an eclectic mix of local services, tourist traps and student Meccas. A newsagent was wedged between a clairvoyant’s and a trophy shop.
A series of gate-style doors were located at various points along the terrace, one was open giving him a glimpse of an alleyway leading to a row of houses. Judging by the proximity of the doors, these houses would be tiny student dwellings.
Across the street a pub was boarded up, fine steel mesh protecting the windows. Scaffolding adorned a section of pavement where a building was being renovated.
The river Kent flowed past, its banks edged with retaining walls built from blue Lakeland stone.
The office of Peters, Waugh and Beckett was located above an antiques shop overlooking the river Kent. A brass plaque bearing the company name adorned the wall beside an open door leading to a narrow staircase.
Campbell went first and at the top of the stairs was met by a chest-high reception desk on the first floor. While the decor was fresh, the space was without any vestiges of a personal touch. A functional area clean and tidy in appearance, but cold and unwelcoming in atmosphere. A vase of golden daffodils adorned the counter, testimony to someone’s attempt to imbue blandness with a little character.
‘We are here to see Mr Peters.’ Evans leaned over the desk to get a better look at the ample cleavage on display as he flashed his warrant card to the young receptionist.
‘He was expecting you half an hour ago.’ There was no warmth in her voice as she spoke. Campbell wondered if she’d been trained as a doctor’s receptionist.
‘Police business, love. Now give him a bell to tell him we’re here and tell us which room he’s in.’
‘He said to send you straight through when you got here. His room is the one at the bottom of the corridor with Mr Peters on the door.’ She picked a well-thumbed magazine off the desk and used it block Evans’s gaze.
‘Thank you. You have been most kind and may I say that that blouse really suits you.’ Evans’s sudden charm lowered the girl’s defences making his parting shot easier to aim. ‘It draws the eye from the face.’
Campbell only just managed to keep his face straight as the girl looked to him for support, but he looked away, unwilling to challenge Evans in front of her.
Peters’s door was open and he was busy with a large account ledger under a framed picture of Ullswater. Campbell judged the painting to be an original, although the signature in the bottom corner was illegible, he guessed it would belong to a local artist.
‘Good morning, officers, can I get you anything to drink?’ Peters rose from his desk to greet them.
Peters had the bookish air of one who spends most of his time indoors poring over documents of one kind or another. His frizzy hair was only evident at the sides of his head and was overdue a trim by at least six months. He wore no jacket and his shirtsleeves were held in place by an expensive pair of cufflinks, his top button behind the red, spotted bow tie was fastened, despite the room’s high temperature.
Lined along the back wall with military precision was a series of certificates. Every other wall space held filing cabinets, bundles of invoices, statements and general office accounts. The aged desk was strewn with paperwork; a laptop was perched on one side, with the ubiquitous family photo balancing precariously on the other.
‘I’ll have a whisky, please, and DI Campbell here will have a coffee, thank you very much.’
Campbell said nothing, as a coffee was exactly what he needed. The two pints he’d laid onto an empty stomach were affecting him rather more than they should. He couldn’t begin to guess as to the effect Evans was feeling as he’d had two brandies as well.
Peters picked up his phone and asked someone called Michelle to fetch some coffee. He rose from his chair
A series of gate-style doors were located at various points along the terrace, one was open giving him a glimpse of an alleyway leading to a row of houses. Judging by the proximity of the doors, these houses would be tiny student dwellings.
Across the street a pub was boarded up, fine steel mesh protecting the windows. Scaffolding adorned a section of pavement where a building was being renovated.
The river Kent flowed past, its banks edged with retaining walls built from blue Lakeland stone.
The office of Peters, Waugh and Beckett was located above an antiques shop overlooking the river Kent. A brass plaque bearing the company name adorned the wall beside an open door leading to a narrow staircase.
Campbell went first and at the top of the stairs was met by a chest-high reception desk on the first floor. While the decor was fresh, the space was without any vestiges of a personal touch. A functional area clean and tidy in appearance, but cold and unwelcoming in atmosphere. A vase of golden daffodils adorned the counter, testimony to someone’s attempt to imbue blandness with a little character.
‘We are here to see Mr Peters.’ Evans leaned over the desk to get a better look at the ample cleavage on display as he flashed his warrant card to the young receptionist.
‘He was expecting you half an hour ago.’ There was no warmth in her voice as she spoke. Campbell wondered if she’d been trained as a doctor’s receptionist.
‘Police business, love. Now give him a bell to tell him we’re here and tell us which room he’s in.’
‘He said to send you straight through when you got here. His room is the one at the bottom of the corridor with Mr Peters on the door.’ She picked a well-thumbed magazine off the desk and used it block Evans’s gaze.
‘Thank you. You have been most kind and may I say that that blouse really suits you.’ Evans’s sudden charm lowered the girl’s defences making his parting shot easier to aim. ‘It draws the eye from the face.’
Campbell only just managed to keep his face straight as the girl looked to him for support, but he looked away, unwilling to challenge Evans in front of her.
Peters’s door was open and he was busy with a large account ledger under a framed picture of Ullswater. Campbell judged the painting to be an original, although the signature in the bottom corner was illegible, he guessed it would belong to a local artist.
‘Good morning, officers, can I get you anything to drink?’ Peters rose from his desk to greet them.
Peters had the bookish air of one who spends most of his time indoors poring over documents of one kind or another. His frizzy hair was only evident at the sides of his head and was overdue a trim by at least six months. He wore no jacket and his shirtsleeves were held in place by an expensive pair of cufflinks, his top button behind the red, spotted bow tie was fastened, despite the room’s high temperature.
Lined along the back wall with military precision was a series of certificates. Every other wall space held filing cabinets, bundles of invoices, statements and general office accounts. The aged desk was strewn with paperwork; a laptop was perched on one side, with the ubiquitous family photo balancing precariously on the other.
‘I’ll have a whisky, please, and DI Campbell here will have a coffee, thank you very much.’
Campbell said nothing, as a coffee was exactly what he needed. The two pints he’d laid onto an empty stomach were affecting him rather more than they should. He couldn’t begin to guess as to the effect Evans was feeling as he’d had two brandies as well.
Peters picked up his phone and asked someone called Michelle to fetch some coffee. He rose from his chair
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