Dead Man's Grip

– I can’t think of anyone else.’
    ‘Our High-Tech Unit’s done some searches. Tyler’s on a number of social networking sites, which I presume you know,’ Branson said.
    ‘Well – some.’
    ‘Did he Tweet it? He had put that he was going to the dentist up on Facebook, making a joke of it. Did he talk to you about any of the responses he had?’
    ‘No,’ she said. ‘These past two weeks since my accident he’s been in a really strange mood. I – I—’ She was fighting off tears. ‘Tyler’s a – he’s a very special child. He’s incredibly resourceful. He wouldn’t get into a car with a stranger. You may wonder how I know that for sure, but I do, I can promise you. He’s streetwise. Have you checked he didn’t go home?’
    ‘We’re keeping a round-the-clock watch on your home. There doesn’t appear to be anyone in. But he definitely went off from his school in a taxi.’
    ‘Please find him,’ she said. ‘Please find him.’
    ‘We are going to find him, I promise you. The whole nation’s looking for him.’
    Tears were stinging her eyes and everything was a blur. The detective’s kind voice was making her weepy.
    ‘The Revere family,’ she sobbed. ‘They can do anything they want to me. I don’t care. Tell them that. Tell them they can kill me. Tell them to give me my son back and then kill me.’
    He promised to call her back the moment he had any news. As she hung up, she crossed back over to the window and stared out at the drab landscape. Christ, the world was a big place. How could you find someone? Where did you start looking? Way down below her on the ground she watched a man walking along, phone to his ear. And suddenly she had a thought.
    Wiping away tears, she stared down at the screen of her iPhone, fingered through the apps, sliding them across, until she reached the one she was looking for. Then she tapped it hard.
    Moments later she felt a sudden flicker of hope. She stared at it harder, brought it closer to her face.
    ‘Oh yes! Oh, you good boy, Tyler! Oh, you clever boy!’

89
    Grace came out of the press conference at 12.50 p.m., pleased with the solid performance ACC Rigg had delivered, and very relieved. He found all press conferences to be minefields. One wrong answer and you could be made to look a total idiot. Rigg had been sensible, keeping it tight and focused, and brief.
    He was tailed by Kevin Spinella, as ever wanting one more question answered. But the Detective Superintendent was in no mood to talk to him. As he reached the security door at the start of the corridor, he turned to face the reporter.
    ‘I don’t have anything to add. If you want more information you need to speak to ACC Rigg, who is now responsible for press liaison on Operation Violin .’
    ‘I know you’re still angry with me over writing about the reward,’ Spinella said. ‘But you seem to forget sometimes, Detective Superintendent, that you and I both have a job to do and it’s not the same job. You solve crimes, I have to help sell newspapers. You need to understand that.’
    Grace stared at him incredulously. A child’s life was at stake, he was right in the middle of the fast-time stage of one of the most serious critical incidents of his career, and this young reporter had decided now was the moment to start lecturing him about the newspaper business.
    ‘What part of that do you think I don’t understand, Kevin?’ Grace said, turning back to the door and holding up his security card to the pad.
    ‘You have to realize that I’m not your puppet. I want to help you, but my first loyalty will always be to my editor.’
    ‘Why don’t you save your breath right now, hurry back to your office and file a story that might help save Tyler Chase’s life?’
    ‘Coz I don’t need to. I can use this,’ Spinella said. Then he fished out his BlackBerry and held it up, with a smug grin.
    Grace slammed the door behind him. He was about to call the Gold Commander for an update, when his phone rang. It was Glenn Branson.
    ‘You out of the conference, boss?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘We’re cooking with gas! We have a development with Tyler.’
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘MIR-1.’
    ‘I’ll be right there.’
    Grace threw himself down a few steps, sprinted along the corridor and entered the packed Incident Room. In contrast to the corridor, which had a permanent smell of fresh paint, MIR-1 at lunchtime always smelled like a canteen. Today an aroma of hot soup and microwaved Veg Pots