Catch the Fallen Sparrow by Priscilla Masters

have climbed a glass roof to get in through a bedroom window when the conservatory door was open all the time.’
    â€˜So where was the cleaner?’
    â€˜According to this ...’ she glanced down at the file, ‘she was, quite by chance, in the back doing some ironing. They took such funny things too – a photograph album which had been in a cupboard in the sitting room, forced a lock to get it. But they left the television and the video, a pretty little clock – even money lying around.’
    He sat up. ‘Strange burglars,’ he said.
    â€˜Also they took the ring from a bedroom where it was hidden in a box in a drawerful of lingerie, but left other more valuable and less distinctive pieces.’ She glanced at Mike. ‘So what do you make of that?’ She slammed the file shut.
    â€˜Well ...’ he thought for a minute, ‘they’re either very clever burglars or extremely stupid burglars.’
    â€˜Or else,’ she prompted.
    â€˜Or else the Leeches were lying.’
    â€˜Exactly. But why would a respected MP lie and claim his house was broken into? Why call the police at all? And just where does the dead boy fit into all this?’
    She picked up the telephone directory, thumbed down the list of L’s until she came to A. Leech, Rock House ... But she was greeted only with a curt telephone message in a female voice to say that Gilly Leech was not in, at present, but would return the call as soon as was convenient.
    Joanna made a face at Mike. ‘Answerphone,’ she said, then glanced at her watch. ‘Now for the bit I hate. Press conference.’
    But it went better than she had hoped. The questions were predictable and easy. She found herself relieved that Caroline Penn was safely in London, working for a national newspaper. When she had worked locally she had always had an uncomfortable knack of asking the most awkward questions – the type of penetrating missiles that were the most difficult to evade. Without her the assembled Press were well behaved and contained their questions to the more acceptable. Who was the boy? How had he died? Did they have a description – of the boy, of the assailant? What did they know so far?
    And it was very little. But, as Joanna said to Mike later, twenty-four hours ago that boy was still alive.
    She asked the two detective constables to question the owners of the eight fish and chip shops in Leek. If he had eaten here last night it implied he had been in Leek, probably came from Leek. She would find him soon. The lunch-time edition of the Evening Sentinel reached Leek just after two. She had arranged for a photo-fit picture of the dead boy to fill the front page.
    Why had no one reported him missing yet?
    The Evening Sentinel was delivered to her office just before three and Joanna looked at it eagerly. This had to bring someone forward who had known the boy. She scoured the front page. The artist’s impression was excellent. This was how the boy must have looked when he was alive. There was a detailed description of his clothes. She ran her finger down the list. Yes, it was all there. She blessed the local reporters. This would find an identity. She grinned at Mike. ‘Are we betting?’ she asked. ‘Twenty-four hours and we have a name.’
    He shook his head. ‘You’ll find no takers. We’ll have his name.’ His face clouded. ‘Trouble is,’ he said, ‘we’ll have people who knew him – relatives.’
    She glanced back at the artist’s impression. ‘If he was loved,’ she said slowly, ‘why hasn’t anyone come forward? It’s struck me this case is all the wrong way round. Usually with children we are informed they are missing. We hunt and find a body – or not. It’s rare to find a child’s body without hunting for it.’
    Mike agreed.
    â€˜So where are his parents?’
    â€˜I suppose you think it’s