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Authors: Maureen Carter
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was not. Unaware he’d been holding his breath, the man exhaled deeply. Sighing, he laid the magnifier on the table. He didn’t need it to see
the cutting; he’d read it so often, he knew the words almost by heart.
Leicester Mercury, 8 July 1980
A week to the day since Leicester schoolboy Scott Myers disappeared police staged a reconstruction of the 10-year-old’s last known movements. Despite a massive
police operation and extensive searches involving scores of volunteers, there’ve been no sightings of Scott since he left school last Wednesday. Detectives hope the reconstruction will
jog memories and prompt witnesses to contact the police.
The man leading the hunt, DI Ted Adams, said: “It’s unusual at this stage of the inquiry for no one to have come forward. I’d ask everyone around Highfields to think
about where they were on the afternoon in question. Did they see Scott? Did they notice anything odd, anyone acting suspiciously? For Scott’s sake and his family’s, it’s
vital we receive help from the public.”
Speculation among villagers near the Myers home in Highfields is growing. A source close to the family told this newspaper that Scott’s mother is under sedation in hospital. The
source, who wants to remain anonymous, said Mrs Myers was particularly close to her son and feared the worst.
When asked if he thought Scott was still alive, DI Adams refused to comment.
Still alive? The man swallowed. His gaze returned to the little boy in the reconstruction. The reporter had described the scene as dramatic. Idiot. He slumped back in the chair,
squeezed the bridge of his nose. The man was aware by now that even as Scott’s last known steps were being staged, they’d already been taken.
FRIDAY
12
Still a news junkie on the sly, Paul Curran had most of the dailies and all the regional mornings delivered to the house, a bog-standard Bartley Green semi that would do for
the three of them for the time being. Half seven now and the front pages were laid out on the kitchen table, all singing from the same hymn sheet. Curran scowled. Maybe that should read him sheet.
Hair still damp from the shower, he played a preoccupied fork through rapidly cooling scrambled eggs. The press coverage hadn’t come as a surprise. He’d heard the story on the bathroom
radio and there’d been a brief mention on Breakfast TV. But seeing the photo splashed all over the papers was a gut-wrencher. Somehow the eggs had lost their appeal.
Grimacing, he shoved the plate away, deliberately obscuring the nearest picture. He’d need a dinner service to do a proper job: eight identical images of Roland Haines’s face
remained, all giving the same glassy-eyed stare. Haines looked as hacked off as Curran felt. DCI Knight hadn’t even wanted the suspect’s identity released. And here he was getting more
column inches than Katie Price. OK, the leak could’ve come from just about anyone in the squad, but Curran reckoned it’d be his neck on the block. Or would it?
He felt the stirrings of a smile as he reached for his coffee. It wasn’t all bad news. Truth be told, the journo in him had a sneaky admiration for what the pack had done. They’d no
choice but to rush the story out, ’cause soon as Haines appeared in court reporting restrictions would come down like a ton of the proverbial. He’d have done the same in their
shoes.
Hearing muffled footsteps overhead, he rose to pop the kettle on. Rachel would be down any minute gasping for a cup of tea. He knew she’d been up in the night feeding a fractious Rory.
Curran glanced at the baby’s picture, one of a zillion stuck to the fridge. Smiling, he traced the baby’s cheek with a tender finger.
Yes. If there was any justice in this world, it wouldn’t be long before Haines was remanded in custody, up to his neck in charges. It’d be back slaps and high-fives all round. And
the leak would be water under the news bridge.
Bev tapped her fingers on the
the cutting; he’d read it so often, he knew the words almost by heart.
Leicester Mercury, 8 July 1980
A week to the day since Leicester schoolboy Scott Myers disappeared police staged a reconstruction of the 10-year-old’s last known movements. Despite a massive
police operation and extensive searches involving scores of volunteers, there’ve been no sightings of Scott since he left school last Wednesday. Detectives hope the reconstruction will
jog memories and prompt witnesses to contact the police.
The man leading the hunt, DI Ted Adams, said: “It’s unusual at this stage of the inquiry for no one to have come forward. I’d ask everyone around Highfields to think
about where they were on the afternoon in question. Did they see Scott? Did they notice anything odd, anyone acting suspiciously? For Scott’s sake and his family’s, it’s
vital we receive help from the public.”
Speculation among villagers near the Myers home in Highfields is growing. A source close to the family told this newspaper that Scott’s mother is under sedation in hospital. The
source, who wants to remain anonymous, said Mrs Myers was particularly close to her son and feared the worst.
When asked if he thought Scott was still alive, DI Adams refused to comment.
Still alive? The man swallowed. His gaze returned to the little boy in the reconstruction. The reporter had described the scene as dramatic. Idiot. He slumped back in the chair,
squeezed the bridge of his nose. The man was aware by now that even as Scott’s last known steps were being staged, they’d already been taken.
FRIDAY
12
Still a news junkie on the sly, Paul Curran had most of the dailies and all the regional mornings delivered to the house, a bog-standard Bartley Green semi that would do for
the three of them for the time being. Half seven now and the front pages were laid out on the kitchen table, all singing from the same hymn sheet. Curran scowled. Maybe that should read him sheet.
Hair still damp from the shower, he played a preoccupied fork through rapidly cooling scrambled eggs. The press coverage hadn’t come as a surprise. He’d heard the story on the bathroom
radio and there’d been a brief mention on Breakfast TV. But seeing the photo splashed all over the papers was a gut-wrencher. Somehow the eggs had lost their appeal.
Grimacing, he shoved the plate away, deliberately obscuring the nearest picture. He’d need a dinner service to do a proper job: eight identical images of Roland Haines’s face
remained, all giving the same glassy-eyed stare. Haines looked as hacked off as Curran felt. DCI Knight hadn’t even wanted the suspect’s identity released. And here he was getting more
column inches than Katie Price. OK, the leak could’ve come from just about anyone in the squad, but Curran reckoned it’d be his neck on the block. Or would it?
He felt the stirrings of a smile as he reached for his coffee. It wasn’t all bad news. Truth be told, the journo in him had a sneaky admiration for what the pack had done. They’d no
choice but to rush the story out, ’cause soon as Haines appeared in court reporting restrictions would come down like a ton of the proverbial. He’d have done the same in their
shoes.
Hearing muffled footsteps overhead, he rose to pop the kettle on. Rachel would be down any minute gasping for a cup of tea. He knew she’d been up in the night feeding a fractious Rory.
Curran glanced at the baby’s picture, one of a zillion stuck to the fridge. Smiling, he traced the baby’s cheek with a tender finger.
Yes. If there was any justice in this world, it wouldn’t be long before Haines was remanded in custody, up to his neck in charges. It’d be back slaps and high-fives all round. And
the leak would be water under the news bridge.
Bev tapped her fingers on the
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