The Operative by Duncan Falconer

know is if he’s okay,’ Stratton said. ‘Why is that breaking any rules?’
    It was clear that this guy was not going to give up easily: he was obviously concerned and was not actually asking for very much. ‘There was a young English boy brought in this morning,’ Vicky said, relenting slightly. ‘I don’t know anything about him yet. We’ve had a busy day moving a dozen kids out to new homes and admitting over a dozen more. If he had been physi cally hurt then I would have known about it. Any child brought to us is here for a reason and it’s never good, but I promise you that he’s being well taken care of … Come back tomorrow and I’ll be able to tell you more.’
    ‘What time?’ Stratton asked, his hand remaining on the gate latch.
    ‘Not before nine a.m. Does he have any relatives in this country?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Will any be coming over to get him?’
    ‘He has grandparents, but they’re old – I’m all he’s got right now.’
    Vicky nodded, understanding the situation far better than Stratton did. ‘It’s not going to be easy, mister …’
    ‘For him or for me?’
    Stratton saw the irritation return to her face, signalling that he had gone as far as he was going to get. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said as he pushed open the gate for her. ‘Name’s John Stratton.’
    Vicky walked through the gate and down the sidewalk, feeling his gaze on her. She concentrated on putting Stratton and the boy out of her thoughts. It had the hallmarks of another difficult case but there were so many. This was just another in an endless line that she had to deal with every day. After ten years as a social worker in the child-protection agency she had almost managed to do what she knew she had to in order to preserve her sanity: disconnect herself from the job as soon as she left work –
almost
managed, that was. Had she known that it was going to be such a depressing, distressing vocation she might have chosen a far less ‘noble’ line of work after leaving college. Quitting was always an obvious option but even though she had often thought about it, desertion – for that was what it would really have been as far as she was concerned – was not something that she was prepared to contemplate. Only one other way of life was likely ever to get her away from the centre and that was having a child of her own. But that was so far off her life’s radar that it was almost as depressing to think about.
    Stratton watched Vicky walk around the corner at the end of the block as he let the gate close behind him, shouldered his pack and headed in the opposite direction. There was clearly scant chance of a taxi coming by in this area so he crossed the road and headed for the corner where another street led to Wilshire Boulevard, a main traffic artery that ran east from the coast and into the heart of Los Angeles.
    A few minutes later Stratton was in a taxi, heading for the beach area.
    ‘Any suggestions for a hotel?’ he asked the taxi driver, an old, mellow man wearing a battered straw hat.
    ‘How much you wanna pay?’ the man asked in a relaxed Midwestern drawl.
    ‘What are my options?’
    ‘You new in town?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, you got motels. They’re around fifty bucks a night. Then there’s places along the front. There’re some fancy hotels. Don’t know exactly what they cost but it’s a few hundred dollars, easy. There’s others not so fancy that you can get for something like seventy or so. How long you stayin’ in town for?’
    ‘Don’t know.’
    ‘If you’re stayin’ more ’n a week, there’s an apartment building that sometimes does short lets. It’s an old building they did up a few years back. You don’t get room service but they have a launderette and Santa Monica ain’t short o’ good eatin’ places, that’s for sure.’
    Stratton was attracted to the idea. The one thing he didn’t like about hotels was the fact that someone came into the room every day. ‘Where are