Page 74 of Savage Protector

“Where did you see Bilal?” I persist. “Was it recent?”

She shuts her eyes while she thinks about this. “A few months back, it were, in the car park at Asda. He gave me a lift with all my bags. Nice lad, that one.”

“Did he tell you anything? About his mum, maybe?”

“No, not much. It were only five minutes. He said he was at college now, doing engineering. He wanted to design them racing cars you see on the telly.”

“Is that what he’s studying, then? Auto-engineering?”

“How would I know? You want to be asking in Solihull, lad, that’s all I can tell you. Look for where they do acting and suchlike.”

The door closes in front of me. I find myself staring at the green painted wood. I guess Mrs—what even was her name?—has told me all she’s going to. But it’s a fair bit to be going on with.

I jog back to the SUV for the debriefing.

17

Zayn

“I don’t knowabout any of you, but I don’t see much in the way of opportunity for a budding actress round here. Hollywood it ain’t.”

Beck delivers his verdict on the mean streets of Solihull while we navigate the catchment area serving Tudor Gate school.

“I should have asked that woman back there what car Bilal was driving when he gave her a lift.” All the questions I never got round to asking whirl in my head. I’m kicking myself.

“A twenty thirteen Volvo, apparently,” Tony puts in. “Grey.

“Frankie again?”

“Yup. I wonder how he could afford to run a car at seventeen, even a banger like that.”

I dread to think.

“Keep your eyes peeled, it might be parked up somewhere.”

It’s dropping dark when we cruise past the school again, just as the front door opens and a middle-aged man emerges. He locks the door behind him and heads for the lone car in the small car park.

“Let’s have a word with him.” Rome swings the SUV in through the gates when our quarry wanders across the tarmac to unlock his red Fiesta.

The man turns and glares at us, then stomps in our direction. “Hey, you. What do you think you’re doing, blocking the gate? You’ll have to move it. This is private property.”

Tony exits the vehicle and waits for the grumpy individual to reach him. I must admit, Tony makes a formidable sight, but this guy isn’t fazed at all. I suppose years of facing down feral ten-year-olds leaves its mark.

“You can’t park in here,” the man repeats. “I’m locking up now. You’ll have to move.”

“You in charge, here?” Tony asks, amiably enough.

“Mr Peterson-Jacobs. Headteacher. So if you would just?—”

“Ah, just the man we were hoping to find.” Tony extends his hand and flashes an ID card. “I’m Sergeant Hayes, West Midlands Police. I’m looking for a…” He consults a notebook which I know for a fact contains nothing but the scribbled efforts of his foster son, wee Robbie. “Ah, yes, a Mr Bilal Alahi. He lives in this area. As a school headteacher, you’ll know everyone hereabouts, I daresay.”

“Who did you say you were? Can I see that warrant card again, please?”

Ah, he’s on the ball. They don’t make you a headmaster for no reason round here.

“Sergeant Hayes,” Tony repeats but makes no attempt to show the ‘card’ again. Just as well, I don’t suppose Mr Peterson-Jacobs will be much impressed by Tony’s membership of the BodySmart Health Club in Edinburgh. “This is something of an emergency, we believe the family to be in danger. There have been threats… I understand there’s a little girl in the family, and his mother, too. They might be vulnerable, so if you can help at all…?”

“Threats? Vulnerable? What sort of threats?”

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