Catch the Fallen Sparrow by Priscilla Masters

children’s home. After that he simply refused to go with anyone else and ran away every single time they suggested it. As he told Jason and Kirsty, ‘If I can’t stop with Mrs Swires they can stick it.’ And when they finally suggested the humiliation of putting his photograph in the newspaper together with an appeal for a ‘family’, he knew that something drastic would have to be done.
    â€˜But,’ Jason muttered to himself very softly, ‘Dean had been all right in the end.’
    The sports shop had a sale on of expensive trainers. Half-price, the vivid pink signs said, and PC Roger Farthing looked at the prices and wondered who the hell could afford these sorts of shoes – even at ‘half-price’. Outside in a basket, were some odd pairs, tied together by the laces. With a policeman’s awareness of crime he thought it was a bloody silly place to leave expensive shoes.
    He picked up a pair, white with purple and gold flashes on the sides, huge tongues lolling out, and marched straight into the shop. It was fluorescent bright and sparkling white everywhere with a lime green carpet on the floor. There were racks of T-shirts and baggy jogging pants, tennis rackets, golf balls.
    The thin man in a short-sleeved white T-shirt looked up.
    â€˜Are you the owner of this shop?’ the PG asked.
    The man nodded.
    PG Farthing took out his pencil. ‘Your name?’
    â€˜Keithy,’ he said. ‘Keithy Latos.’
    Farthing wrote it down. ‘We’re making some enquiries about a pair of shoes,’ he said, and dropped the trainers on the counter ‘Like these.’
    The man’s eyes flickered, dropped quickly to the shoes then looked up. ‘Where did you get them from?’
    â€˜The basket outside.’
    The man picked them up. ‘Like these, you say?’ PG Farthing nodded, watching the man carefully. He had a slight tremor and the laces tapped against the shoes. They were parallel-laced – unlike the child’s.
    â€˜Have you sold a pair of these, size sevens, in the last couple of days?’
    The man had small eyes, like a pig’s. He avoided Farthing’s gaze as though desperate to conceal something. ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked carelessly.
    â€˜In connection with a serious crime.’ Farthing had learned this phrase at police training college.
    Latos licked his lips. ‘Serious crime?’
    His eyes were darting all over the place. And Farthing knew instinctively he had both bought and read the morning’s newspaper.
    Keithy gulped for air. ‘Sold – no.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘In fact, nobody’s bought any like this for a couple of weeks.’ He eyed the policeman anxiously as though it was important he was believed. ‘Gone out of fashion,’ he said. ‘Why do you think I’ve stuck them out the front half-price? No one wants those sort any more – old hat. They all have to have Nikes now. Even half-price no one wants them.’
    Roger Farthing thought quickly. ‘You haven’t had a pair nicked, have you?’
    â€˜Don’t know,’ Keithy said carelessly. ‘How many’s in the basket?’
    They both went outside the shop and PC Farthing waited while Keithy picked out the shoes, heaping them up into his arms.
    â€˜Yeah,’ he said uncertainly. ‘There could be a pair missing.’ He looked at Roger Farthing. ‘What size did you say?’
    â€˜Sevens.’
    â€˜Could be,’ he said.
    â€˜Don’t you know for sure?’
    â€˜Not till I stocktake.’
    Roger Farthing could have cheerfully strangled the man. He drew out the photograph then of the dead boy and watched Keithy’s face blanch.
    â€˜My God,’ he said, looking shocked at the policeman. ‘This kid’s dead, isn’t he?’ He looked again at the picture.
    â€˜Isn’t this the kid they found up on the