Catch the Fallen Sparrow by Priscilla Masters Page A

Roaches?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Roger Farthing replied, ‘wearing a pair of trainers exactly like these.’ He indicated the shoes on the counter.
    Keithy stared at them, his Adam’s apple suddenly bobbing up and down.
    â€˜I’d be grateful if you’d do a stocktake immediately. It’s important we know where the boy got the shoes from.’
    Keithy swallowed noisily. ‘Course,’ he said.
    Roger stuck the picture of the dead boy in front of his face. ‘Know him, do you?’
    Keithy looked at the picture, quickly at the policeman, then back to the picture again. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
    â€˜You’re sure?’
    â€˜I might do ...’ He was flustered now. ‘They all look the same ... same jeans and anoraks, hairdos ...’
    â€˜Sports shoes.’ Roger put in gently.
    Keithy’s eyes flickered. ‘Those too,’ he muttered.
    Roger Farthing handed him one of the posters they had had printed. The usual thing – ‘Do You Know This Boy?’ And the artist’s impression below. ‘Would you mind putting one of these up in your shop?’
    He looked irritated. ‘Yes I would,’ he said shortly. ‘I don’t want a picture of a dead kid up in here. This is a sports shop – not Crimewatch .’
    â€˜Even if it helped find his killer?’
    Keithy bit his lip. ‘All right then,’ he said reluctantly, cornered into acquiescence. He grabbed the poster, tearing the corner.
    â€˜And by the way,’ Farthing said, ‘if I was you I wouldn’t leave them outside. It’s inviting theft.’
    Keithy too readily agreed with him, and PC Farthing found himself disliking him with his slicked hair, tight T-shirt over a bony chest, the affected bounce in his step as though he was wearing some of his own ‘Air step’ shoes.
    â€˜You know, you ought to keep a record of what’s gone missing.’ Farthing suggested. ‘If people don’t report crime it cocks up our figures. We think Leek’s more law-abiding than it really is.’
    â€˜Quite,’ said Keithy, and Farthing got the distinct impression he was dying to get rid of him. ‘So you’ll stocktake?’
    â€˜Right away, officer.’
    â€˜And you’ll let us know at the nick?’
    â€˜Yeah ... yeah.’
    â€˜You’ll ring us up – ask for me?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Well, thank you.’ Roger Farthing turned to go. By the way, Mr Latos, where were you on Sunday night?’
    Keithy looked confident. ‘I went to the Buxton opera house,’ he said. ‘To see the D’Oyly Carte singers.’
    â€˜And what were they singing?’
    â€˜ The Mikado. ’ He grinned.
    â€˜And did anyone see you?’
    â€˜Lots of people. I’ve got lots of friends in Buxton. People who like the opera.’
    Farthing found himself shrinking from the man’s tone. ‘Who did you go with?’
    â€˜With a – friend.’
    â€˜I see,’ Roger Farthing said. ‘Of course we’ll need his name.’
    Keithy giggled. ‘It might have been a lady.’
    â€˜His – or her name then.’
    â€˜Martin,’ Keithy said coyly, ‘Martin Shane. He lives in Cheddleton, in a little cottage in the High Street. He’ll vouch for me. We were together all evening.’
    â€˜What time did you part?’
    Keithy fiddled with the neck of his T-shirt. ‘Well, we didn’t – exactly,’ he said. ‘He’d had a lot to drink. He stayed the night here. There’s no law about it.’
    â€˜No.’ Farthing shook his head. He wrote the name down in his black notebook. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘look at the picture again. Are you sure you have never seen this boy before?’
    Keithy put his head to one side, like a thin, scraggy-necked bird. ‘I don’t think so.’
    â€˜So you aren’t one hundred per