Hard Time

by Maureen Carter

  She straightened, let out a deep sigh that lifted a short fringe the shade of Guinness. A final check in the mirror confirmed her mascara wasn’t waterproof. She wiped licked fingers under panda eyes then, using an old Evening News as a rain-hat, reluctantly left the haven of the car. Three o’clock. Time to strengthen a few sinews. Assuming she could find any.

  The church, silhouetted against a pewter sky in the distance, was like something out of a Hammer horror: Vampire Towers, hot and cold running bats. It glowered and towered over rows of tired terraces. The Victorian two-up-two-downs were relatively new kids on the block. Bev reckoned St Luke’s was faux late Gothic – the sort of place you’d only want to be seen dead in.

  Button it. It was a funeral, not the Comedy Store.

  She paused halfway up the steep incline, slightly out of breath and not impressed with her fitness level. This close, the church looked more workhouse than God’s house. Not that it mattered. Minarets outnumbered missals in Balsall Heath.

  Soggy now, the newspaper was doing a crap job. She dumped it in a bin, glimpsed a local dial-a-quote, the ubiquitous Grant Young, on the front page. She wondered idly what he was banging on about this time. For Christ’s sake, woman, get a move on. She hiked the collar of a black trench coat (borrowed) and broke into a trot.

  Her tardy arrival was due to a panic attack. Usually she recognised the signs, but this one had caught her off guard crossing the car park back at Highgate. They’d been happening off and on for six months or so. An unwanted legacy from the bastard who’d raped her. One of several unwanted legacies. Mind, she hid them well.

  “You look shit.” Sergeant Oz Khan. His outstretched hand didn’t quite touch her. Bev still thought of him as detective constable. Still thought of him as her lover. Copulating cops – they’d made a fucking good team. Bitter? Moi?

  “Nice one, Khanie.”

  Oz’s sculpted jaw tightened a fraction, though she doubted anyone else would’ve noticed. She’d forgotten how beautiful he was, how she used to lie awake just watching him sleep: the tip of his tongue peeking between soft lips, the curve of his cheek, the... Fuck’s sake, woman.

  He shrugged, did his best to match her casual delivery. “Coming tonight?”

  His leaving do? Genuinely wouldn’t miss it for the world. She gave an indifferent sniff. “Dunno yet.”

  Oz had walked the sergeant’s exams a few months back, piss-easy given his Oxford law degree. The new posting with the Met had only just come through. He started Monday. Not that his departure featured in their split. There was a chasm between them anyway: her reluctance to let anyone close, Oz’s problem with her increasing aggression. Oh, and a dead serial rapist called Will Browne.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “You generally do.” She watched as he rejoined Darren New and Mike Powell, huddled under the only tree in the street. If they didn’t stop staring, she’d give them a bow. Did she really look shit?

  Carol Pemberton didn’t. The DC was waiting for Bev on the steps of the church. Tall and willowy in classy black velvet, Carol’s curtains of dark glossy hair were drawn back for once, showcasing a seriously attractive woman. At thirty-four, she was five years older than Bev, looked ten younger. How did that work?

  “Cutting it fine, aren’t you, sarge? Thought you were catching a ride.” The Highgate contingent had hired a minibus.

  “So did I.” Only she hadn’t fancied an audience: hyperventilating into a brown paper bag was not cool.

  Carol tilted her head at the church. “They’re running late anyway.”

  Late? “You’re joking.”

  “Hardly. There’s another funeral going on.”

  Christ Almighty. It’d be the last place Bev’d choose to make a final exit. She glanced round. How bad would it look to light a ciggie? She fingered a crumpled pack of Silk Cut in her pocket. Yeah, right. The cardboard was almost as damp as her best mate Frankie’s trench coat. And Carol’s brolly was a waste of space. Other mourners were sheltering under a choppy sea of the things but piercing rain still homed in on the gaps.

  “Good turn-out,” Carol said. “More police than family.”

  No more than you’d expect. For a popular cop who should be on early retirement, not permanent leave.

  “And vultures.” Bev nodded at a sheepish-looking bunch keeping a discreet distance across the road. The press was out in force. A police officer’s death in suspicious circumstances was still rare enough to make the news.

  The car that killed Crawford hadn’t been traced, nor the scumbag driver. It was most likely an accident, but like any cop Robbie Crawford had made enemies. A possible revenge attack was among the lines of inquiry. Which explained the media interest. It wasn’t Bev’s case, but she knew a number of suspects had been questioned and eliminated. No one was in the frame. Yet.

  Crawford’s widow looked shell-shocked. Bev’s heart went out to her. At least with illness there was a chance to say goodbye to the people you love. But when it comes out of the blue... She swallowed hard, closed her eyes, until a sudden tap on her elbow brought her spinning round in fury.

  “What the f...” Whoops.

  “Sergeant?” Detective Superintendent Bill Byford lifted a curious eyebrow. “You were saying?”

  “Guv. How you doing?” She aimed for an engaging smile. “Better late than never, eh?”

  3

  Why was Daniel always the last to emerge? Jenny Page smiled indulgently as she kept an eager eye on the infants’ exit. It was already 3.20. Apart from a select band of yummy-mummies exchanging juicy gossip outside the school gates, she was the only parent there. At least it wasn’t raining now, bar the odd spot. Under her breath she muttered, “Come on, Dan-Dan.”

  Not that she really minded. Daniel was a sunny, sociable little creature. He’d be bending Mrs Wilson’s ear, describing the Pages’ plans for the weekend, giving away all the family secrets. She shook her head, picturing the little boy who’d stolen her heart the second he was born. Any minute now he’d come hurtling through the double doors, huge grin lighting his lovely face. On the way home she’d be lucky to get a word in as he chatterboxed her through his day in excruciating detail. Jenny’s smile turned wistful as she thought about the teenage years ahead when she’d be lucky if he threw a surly grunt in her direction.

  “Mrs Page? How may I help you?”

  The voice was distinctive; Jenny concealed a wince. Gruesome Gallagher, the head with halitosis and a yen for Hawaiian shirts. The old lech talked through a mouth full of rotting plums. Taking a step back, Jenny swiftly masked her distaste. “Mr Gallagher. How nice to see you. You couldn’t chivvy Daniel along, could you?” And while you’re at it, get out of my face.

  “Doctor Gallagher.” His pointed index finger, a touch too close, reinforced the reprimand. His rubbery lips were spread in a smarmy smile that displayed tiny pointed teeth not quite taking root in anaemic gums. “Come with me, my dear.”

  For the umpteenth time since Daniel started at The Manor, Jenny Page neatly sidestepped a wandering hand as the head tried to shepherd her along. Short of a burqa or a bin liner, she couldn’t avoid his roving eye. The left one was currently traversing the contours of her body, even though they were all but swamped in a green leather swing coat.

  Gallagher’s small talk during the short walk majored on the weather; Jenny was more interested in the children’s gaudy daubings that brightened the dark panelled walls on which they were displayed. The sights and smells evoked memories of her school days. Though God knows why: The Manor was more beeswax and potpourri than sweaty trainers and over-boiled brassica. She concentrated on the present: Corporation Street wasn’t a place to revisit, even in her thoughts.

  “Ah, Mrs Wilson. Where are you hiding Daniel?”

  The teacher was rummaging in the bottom of a cupboard, inadvertently offering a rear view. Jenny looked expectantly at the teacher, pointedly ignored the head’s laboured wink. His jocularity was forced, too, unlike the genuine confusion that flashed acro
ss Shirley Wilson’s moon face. Her troubled glance flitted between Gallagher and Jenny; she opened her mouth a couple of times but didn’t get as far as actually speaking.

  “Well?” Gallagher boomed, hoisting a straining waistband over a flabby gut.

  The teacher’s uncertainty increased. “But Daniel’s not here.” She gave a tentative smile as if the head and Mrs Page were sharing a private joke. “He had a dental appointment. He left at playtime.” Her no less troubled glance settled on Jenny. “With you.”

  The blonde woman shook her head, more cross than concerned. “We changed the arrangement. I couldn’t get away. Daniel’s father...” Jenny’s jade eyes narrowed as she worked it out. Richard was always moaning about not seeing enough of Daniel. He’d have taken him to the dentist, then rather than dash back to the office they’d have indulged in some father-and-son bonding. Naughty but nice – Rich really should have phoned to let her know. Knowing her boys, they’d be catching a movie, then demolishing a pizza.

  “But, Mrs Page, I saw you at the gates.”

  Lost in thought, Jenny only half heard. “Sorry...?”

  “I saw you.” She tilted her head towards the window. “At the gates.”

  The teacher’s absolute conviction was slightly unsettling, but Jenny was equally adamant. “I was nowhere near the school.” Unless it had an annexe at Chez Jules where she’d lunched avec Justin. “You’re mistaken, Mrs Wilson.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come now, ladies.” Gallagher simpered. “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. Why not call your husband, Mrs Page?”

  “This is ridiculous.” Jenny snatched her mobile from her bag. Rich’s was switched off. Great.

  Mrs Wilson was having more joy. After a short hushed conversation, she handed her own phone to Jenny. “Tanya Woodall, my classroom assistant.”

  Tanya described how she’d watched Daniel walk away from the school hand in hand with a woman she’d swear was his mother. As Jenny listened, she felt the first faint chill in her veins. She passed the phone back without a word. Maybe Richard had been unable to make it. He must’ve arranged for Daniel to be collected by someone from the office.

  But she knew everyone who worked for Richard; none looked remotely like her. And why the hell hadn’t he called?

  Angry now, she speed-dialled his number at the agency, Full Page Ads. No answer. The machine kicked in at home.

  “Would you like to sit down, Mrs Page?” Gallagher offered a seat. “While we gather our thoughts.”

  Her thoughts were beyond gathering and of the countless questions crowding in her head two were uppermost. Who had taken her son? And where the hell was he?

  Byford was in the pulpit. Bev reckoned he was a natural, could just imagine him in a dog collar taking confessions. Great voice too; touch of Anthony Hopkins. Space control to Beverley: come in, please. She tried concentrating but he was reading that Auden piece about stopped clocks and dogs not barking. Four Weddings and a Funeral had a lot to answer for.

  Tapping fingers on knee, she glanced round, shuddered. The church was crammed: cops and chrysanthemums. And a coffin.

  As Byford reached the line about traffic police and black cotton gloves, her mobile vibrated against her hipbone. The message was short but sent another tremor – this time down her spine.

  Dear God. Not again. The most traumatic case of her career had involved an abducted baby. Now it looked as if another child was missing.

  When the guv resumed his pew, she tapped him on the shoulder, showed him the text.

  Five minutes later, Bev and DC Darren New were dodging and weaving through rush-hour traffic on the Bristol Road, heading for Edgbaston.

  She double-checked the school’s address, then stuffed the phone back in her pocket. These days, female cops didn’t always get the kiddie cases: she’d just been the only dummy not to switch off her mobile.

  “Could’ve been worse,” she said.

  “What?” Daz eyed the Mars bar she was unwrapping. “Getting a call in church?”

  She nodded. “My mate Frankie?” Like any man with a heartbeat, Daz had hit on Frankie Perlagio once or twice. “Coupla weeks back, she’s at some big wheeley-dealey do at the Buddhist temple in Moseley. They’re all sitting round cross-legged, dead intense, doing that om thing.” She gave him a bite of the Mars. “Her mobile goes off. Full blast. Doctor Who theme tune.”

  “Exterminate her. Exterminate her.”

  Dazza’s Dalek didn’t raise a smile but Frankie’s brass neck did. “It’s across the room in her bag,” Bev wrapped up the story. “No one knows it’s hers, so she just throws dirty looks like everyone else and bangs on about people showing a bit of respect.” Bev shook her head: typical.

  Daz skirted a skinny pigeon making a meal of the tarmac. “Frankie still at your place?”

  She stiffened. He wasn’t savvy like Oz. There was a touch of the Andrex puppy about Daz: eager, enthusiastic, boundless bounce but not much sense of direction. Otherwise he’d know he’d crossed a line. “Next left.”

  Quick learner, though. He didn’t go any further. Lucky, given the taut messages her body was sending. She suppressed a sigh: her life had more no-go areas than Baghdad. If she’d kept personal cards close to her chest before the rape, they were buried there now. Even Frankie couldn’t prise them all out. “Right at the crossroads.”

  Frankie had taken up temporary residence in Baldwin Street after the attack, theoretically until Bev was back on track. Seven months down the line, she was still in the spare room. As for Bev, she resented her best friend being there and dreaded the day she’d go.

  Daz was tapping the wheel in time with one of his tuneless whistles; it could’ve been Frank Sinatra or Frankie Goes To Hollywood. She sneaked a glance. Open, friendly face, dark, strong features. He wasn’t pissed at her – he was just being Daz: one of the lads, bright enough, amiable, bit of a bird-fancier. The guv hadn’t assigned her a new partner yet but Daz’d probably fit the bill. If she took him under her wing.

  “What’s tickled you, sarge?”

  The prospect of Daz nestling on her breast was not one to share. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  Hampton Place was next right: a wide tree-lined road, all very blue-plaque-listed-building posh. Except for the brace of squad cars parked two-thirds along.

  “That’ll do a lot for property prices,” she muttered. Daz was on the radio to control. She stretched her legs, had a look round.

  Like its not-near neighbours, The Manor prep school boasted substantial grounds, screened by mature hedges. Closer inspection revealed the school’s grounds were mostly concrete, marked out with hopscotch grids and a kids’ footie area. The herringbone façade sported all the green stuff: lush ivy all but concealed the brick. Barley-sugar chimneys and diamond-leaded windows completed the look. All very National Trust – apart from the security gates and the odd CCTV lens twinkling in the foliage.

  “Wotcha.” Bev raised a hand as a uniform approached school-side. PC Simon Wells was a fit twenty-something, despite the twenty-a-day habit that occasionally subsidised Bev’s.

  Simon’s forehead was uncharacteristically rumpled. “I don’t like it, sarge. Something’s not right.” A five-year-old gone walkabout? You could say that. “We’re playing it by the book, but...”

  “Just a tick.” Daz was approaching: no sense going over it twice. They listened carefully as Simon related the conflicting accounts he’d gleaned from Daniel Page’s mother and teacher. Shirley Wilson’s having been confirmed by a classroom assistant on the phone.

  “Check the dentist?” Stupid question but she had to ask.

  “Natch.”

  Daz nodded at the all-but-hidden lenses. “Anything on camera?”

  Simon shrugged. “System pre-dates the wheel. There’s a few grainy images on one of the tapes. It’s being biked to the lab.”

  “Mother’s seen it?” Again, Bev knew the answer.

  He nodded. “Reckons it could
be anyone.”

  “OK.” She rubbed her hands, eager to get on. “What’s happening?”

  “Patrols are out, door-to-door underway, dog handlers en route. Obviously we’re taking it seriously but – mystery woman aside – the mother’s still desperately hoping he’s on a jolly with his dad.”

  “And if he’s not?” Bev checked her watch: 4.15. It was nearly four hours since Daniel Page had been taken from the school.

  4

  Five minutes later Bev was in the head teacher’s plush wood-panelled office with one of the most striking women she’d ever seen. If Bev had balls, she’d probably be making a pass. Jenny Page, the missing boy’s mother, had that glacial Nordic look: long blonde hair, flawless skin; it was difficult to believe she was pushing forty. The eyes were like tiny circles of new grass. Daz couldn’t keep his gaze off.

  In the same vein, no one would give Shirley Wilson a second glance. The boy’s teacher was all fuzzy perm and faded polyester. Bev’d had a few words, then asked Wilson and the fatso in the loud shirt to wait next door.

  So far she’d listened to Mrs Page without interruption, allowing her to say what she wanted, in the way she wanted. And decide what to omit. The recital had been unemotional, robotic, as if relating events that didn’t touch her. Could be shock or denial, but the story had holes. If Jenny Page was involved in any way in Daniel’s disappearance, her attitude could also be indifference. Morriss golden rule number two: don’t believe a word anyone tells you, even if you’re talking to your gran.

  “So let me get this straight.” She mimed note-taking at Daz, then leaned forward to narrow the gap with the mother. This close, Bev discerned holes of a different nature: defunct piercings at the side of the nose and below the bottom lip. Youthful rebellion now regretted? Also apparent, despite the perfectly applied make-up, was a lattice of fine lines round the eyes. Not crow’s feet, perhaps, but getting there. “You couldn’t collect Daniel yourself...”