The Unquiet Grave by Steven Dunne

Cooper’s been monitoring Facebook, MSN, Bebo and the rest. Nothing but the usual tribute pages and nothing jumps out from the kid’s emails.’
    ‘Mobile?’ suggested Brook, getting to the end of his mental checklist.
    Noble sighed. ‘Nothing on his text or call records and he’s not on Twitter because he’s got an old model. His mum had bought him a new phone for Christmas, all the bells and whistles, including GPS, but she decided to wait until the twenty-fifth to give it to him. You can imagine how much she’s beating herself up for that decision.’
    Brook lowered his head in parental sympathy. That was the kind of ‘if only’ detail that would tear what was left of the Wheeler family to shreds when the body was found. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be grilling you like this.’
    Noble’s answering smile was bleak. ‘Keep your apology. It was you that taught me to challenge superiors who wouldn’t take advice just because they hadn’t thought of it themselves. And that counts double when lives are at stake. Remember?’
    ‘It rings a bell.’
    ‘“Don’t be afraid to step on toes,” you said. “Ego is the enemy of detection,” you said.’
    ‘Did I?’ laughed Brook. ‘How pompous of me.’
    ‘Maybe so but if you’ve got an angle we haven’t covered, then. . . forget Charlton and tell me now because there’s a thirteen-year-old kid out there who should be at home looking forward to Christmas.’
    Brook studied Noble for a second. ‘Soft living has made me forget how good you are at your job, John. Let me apologise for that, at least.’
    ‘Apology accepted,’ said Noble, glancing at the door then his watch.
    ‘The radio mentioned there might be a gang connection.’
    Noble spoke quickly, impatient to leave. ‘Not that we can see. A few rival crews talking some trash but that’s all it is. Scott’s not in a gang yet, which makes him a civilian. Besides, a gang wouldn’t abduct him, they wouldn’t know what to do with him. And if they’d killed him, they wouldn’t hide the body and they certainly wouldn’t be able to keep from bragging about it.’
    Brook wondered whether to broach the next subject. ‘How’s DI Ford? Good SIO?’
    ‘He’s OK,’ answered Noble, unable to meet Brook’s eyes.
    ‘Is he around?’ asked Brook innocently.
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘He was always a good delegator,’ observed Brook, with a rare diplomatic touch.
    Noble wasn’t fooled. ‘He’s got a year left. Do you blame him?’
    ‘Not with you watching his back, John, no.’
    ‘Now I really have to. . .’
    ‘Of course,’ said Brook, stepping aside. ‘Don’t let me keep you from the Stapletons.’
    Noble froze, hand on the doorknob. He turned back to Brook, a mixture of admiration and annoyance distorting his features. ‘How do you do that? You’re back five minutes and already. . .’
    ‘I can’t lie,’ said Brook. ‘I was in the car park when you brought them in.’
    ‘And you remembered them from last year?’
    ‘No, I was out of the country when their son was murdered, remember? I recognised them from the trial in the spring.’
    ‘I’m impressed.’
    ‘Don’t be. I’d forgotten their names until I went down to Interview Two to ask if they wanted coffee.’
    Noble pursed his lips. ‘And?’
    ‘Milk and two sugars,’ replied Brook.
    ‘Sir. . .’
    ‘Bad joke,’ conceded Brook. ‘But the Stapletons seem tense, John. Should they be?’
    Noble closed the half-opened door. ‘You remember Joshua’s murder.’
    ‘A little. He was killed last Halloween, thrown off the upper floor of a derelict house in Normanton somewhere – broke his neck.’
    ‘Whitaker Road,’ said Noble, staring at his mind’s eye. ‘It wasn’t pretty. Ford picked up the case. You were away so I was assigned to him. We found the boy’s body as well as a comatose vagrant, asleep in an upstairs bedroom.’
    ‘Noel Williams,’ said Brook, remembering the radio broadcast.
    ‘That’s right. He’d been living