Page 75 of Savage Protector

“Do you know the family, sir?” Tony prompts him. “It’s vital we find them quickly, before…”

“We have a girl in year yen, Sarah Alahi,” Mr Peterson-Jacobs offers at last. “She lives in Carting Street, just round the corner. I do believe she has an older brother, though he never attended here.”

“Excellent. We’re much obliged, Mr Peterson-Jacobs. Do you happen to recall the door number?”

“Not off the top of my head. I could go and?—”

“No, please don’t trouble yourself, we’ll find it, I’m sure. Once again, we appreciate your help.” Tony is already halfway back into the vehicle, and Rome has started the engine.

“But, shouldn’t you?—?”

“Have a nice evening, sir.” Tony waves to him as we reverse back out into the street. “You take care, now.”

“Nicely done, boss.”I always admire creativity at work.

He smirks. “Watch and learn, gentlemen. Watch and learn. Any sign of the grey Volvo?”

We’re driving slowly down Carting Street, scanning the closely parked cars of both sides of the road, but no sign of the Volvo.

“Let’s try there.” I point to the minimarket at the end of the road. “I can do my Amazon impersonation again.”

The harassed shopkeeper recognises the name on my ‘parcel’. “Ah, yes. Alahi. Number twenty-three. Do you need a cigarette lighter? They’re free today, with washing-up liquid.”

I make my excuses and dart back outside. “Number twenty-three,” I call, passing the SUV at a brisk jog.

Tony is beside me when I approach the front door, and Rome and Beck are headed round the back. We give them a couple of minutes to get in position, then I hammer on the door.

Nothing.

I lift my fist again ready for another go, when there’s a sound from the other side of the peeling paintwork.

Tony’s brow furrows. “What’s that? Rats?”

The scuffling repeats. “Probably,” I agree and apply my fist to the door again.

More scuffling and scratching, then the unmistakeable sound of running feet.

Small running feet, accompanied by a frightened squeal.

“Is that a kid in there?” Tony hisses.

“Certainly sounds like it.” I crouch to peer through the letterbox but can only see the grimy hallway and a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

“Anything?”

“No, but there’s certainly someone in there. Do we break in?”

I try shouting first. “Shahida? Bilal? It’s Zayn, Zayn Abbassi. I’m here to help. Let us in.”

Tony has hopped up onto the low wall beside the steps and is balancing there to get a view through the front window. “It’s a kid, all right,” he tells me. “I’d say about six or seven. Hiding behind the couch. Is that a couch…?”

“Girl or boy?”

“Can’t tell from here, but they’re not coming to the door.”

“So, we’ve got aHome Alonesituation by the looks of it. Do we call the police or deal with it ourselves?”

“Does that door appear to be locked to you?”

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