Hard Time

by Maureen Carter

  Groaning, she plopped a couple of Alka-Seltzers into water. When the phone rang she nearly sent the glass flying. The call was sobering. Laura Foster had found a Jiffy bag at the ad agency marked urgent.

  “And, sergeant, it’s addressed to Jenny Page.” The unflappable Ms Foster sounded ruffled.

  Bev beckoned to Daz, who was en route to the brief. Muffling the phone, she mouthed, “Something’s come up, I’ll get there soon as.”

  “Later, sarge.” He tapped the side of his head but her full focus was now on Laura. Apparently she’d popped into the agency to collect a portfolio she needed to work on at home. The package was the first thing she noticed on opening up.

  “Obviously there’s no post today, so I was a little surprised but not unduly concerned. We do get items delivered by hand.”

  “But this one worries you?” It was beginning to bug Bev.

  “Well, yes. I can’t ever remember anything coming here for Mrs Page.” There was a slight pause. “I’m probably wasting your time, but you did say. And in view of...”

  Bev’s glance fell on Daniel’s picture. “Fifteen minutes, max. See you there.”

  The tingle in her palms could be premature. But at the very least the package was her calling card for Jenny Page.

  Byford’s desk phone rang just as he was leaving for the brief. Doctor Gillian Overdale was the relatively new police pathologist. She had a penchant for berets and brogues and an attitude that veered between businesslike and brusque. “There was a note attached to the Doug Edensor file? I was asked to keep you informed?”

  No greeting, polite or otherwise, and her habitual antipodean inflection got up Byford’s nose. To be fair, whatever her verbal idiosyncrasies, she was a skilled operator. She’d succeeded Harry Gough who’d grabbed early retirement and headed for sunnier climes with a laptop, fancying himself as the next Ian Rankin. Byford wished Overdale had inherited Harry’s skills with live bodies as well as stiffs. “Thanks, doctor. What...?”

  “Edensor had multiple injuries consistent with a fall. Broken bones, internal bleeding? He was a mess. But the fall probably didn’t kill him, and anyway he wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

  “Sorry?” What had she said?

  “Completely out of it. Enough medication in him to down a rhino.”

  A faint alarm bell sounded in Byford’s head. “What had he taken?”

  “Who said anything about taken?”

  The alarm was so loud Byford could barely hear himself think. According to Overdale, a lethal dose of insulin had been administered. Doug Edensor wasn’t diabetic. It appeared that Doug had been murdered and the death made to look like suicide. Which made it increasingly likely that Robbie Crawford’s hit-and-run had been no accident.

  “How did you move it?” Bev asked, fingers crossed. The package lay on a low table in reception at Full Page Ads. She and Laura were the only people in the building.

  “I used a tissue. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Nice one.” Thank you, CSI. Amazing how much savvy viewers picked up from cop shows; shame villains watched telly too.

  Laura sounded her old self now and as far as Bev knew also looked it. The ebony hair and alabaster complexion put her in mind of Snow White. Bev felt like one of the dwarves standing next to her. “Sit for a minute, shall we?”

  La Foster’s crisp white suit looked classic and cool. Bev was feeling the heat in navy cords. It wasn’t a brilliant colour for summer but her entire working wardrobe was blue: saved thinking first thing. Came in handy earlier that morning. “It definitely arrived after you left yesterday?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.” Straight-backed, knees together, she nudged her glasses up her nose, like she was taking an oral exam.

  “How often do you come in on a Sunday?”

  “Hardly ever.” Her mouth turned down. “Ah... so it’s probably nothing to do with Daniel’s disappearance, is it? The kidnappers wouldn’t want any delay. They’d contact the family direct, not leave something here.”

  Wasn’t the way Bev saw it. Kidnappers generally played a waiting game, convinced they had all the time in the world – because they drew up the timetable. Their main priority wasn’t the victim or the family’s trauma. It was not to get caught. Given how tight security was round The White House, the agency could’ve seemed a safer bet. They’d not give a rat’s arse when it was found. Assuming that’s who it was from.

  “Hold this for us, will you?” she asked.

  Laura held open an evidence bag; Bev carefully slipped in the package.

  There was only one way to find out.

  The MG was like a furnace and it wasn’t half ten yet. Thank God she’d eschewed yesterday’s skirt, her bum would be melting into the plastic. She lowered the windows, then put a call through to the guv, brought him up to speed before heading out for Moseley and the Page house.

  “Might be nothing, guv, but...” Her instinct said otherwise. A temperature nudging thirty wasn’t the only cause of damp palms. He didn’t respond; come to think of it, he’d not said much at all.

  “Anything back there I need to know, guv?” Silence. “Guv?”

  “Sorry. What’d you say?”

  The big man was distracted. “Something up, boss?” She couldn’t unscrew the top on her Highland Spring. Wedging it between her thighs, she tried again.

  “Doug Edensor didn’t kill himself.”

  Spring water was apt; she just managed to dodge a squirt. “Say again, guv?”

  “Doug Edensor. He didn’t commit suicide.” She took a swig, frowned. The name rang a bell. Had it been on a recent crime report? She skimmed them every day, didn’t retain every detail. “He took a dive...?

  “No,” Byford corrected. “He didn’t. Looks like he had a helping hand.” The crime-scene guys hadn’t picked up signs of a struggle because Edensor had been dead to the world before he’d gone over. “Insulin overdose.” A rasp filled a pause as Byford rubbed a hand across his chin. “Doug wasn’t diabetic.” Once Overdale had the tox results, she’d re-examined every inch of Edensor’s flesh. The puncture mark was in his chest.

  “Right.” She tapped fingers on the wheel. “Nasty.”

  Shitty way to go, but she couldn’t get worked up about it. Not with an ongoing kidnap. A five-year-old life on the line versus some middle-aged bloke who’d crossed it? No contest. ’Course they’d investigate, but Edensor was beyond help. Whereas Daniel...

  “By the way, guv,” she said. “Know those feelers I put out on Dunston?”

  “Yes.” Like he could care less.

  “A guy called, wouldn’t give his name, reckons Dunston does odd jobs for Harry Maxwell.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I know. Maxwell must be scraping the bottom of the barrel.” Crime lord and low-life.

  “Why wasn’t this in a report?” The voice was way too quiet.

  “Come on, guv. I only just heard.”

  “What else did you only just hear?” Sarcastic. Not like Byford.

  “That’s it. Odd jobs. Bit of driving.”

  “And delivery boy?” As in ransom demand?

  She frowned. “Maxwell involved in the kidnap? You can’t be serious.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t be.”

  “But guv, we know he doesn’t touch kid stuff. Porn, prostitution, protection, trafficking but never...”

  “You’re wrong,” he snapped. “The vice squad’s been hearing whispers for months.” Byford had checked with his counterpart in the squad that morning.

  “Whispers?”

  “Child pornography.” It made twisted sick sense. Maxwell already owned the equipment and a list of potential clients. It made Byford’s blood run cold, but was kidnapping a way of obtaining young victims?

  “I’ll get someone to check...”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll do it myself.”

  Why was he being so arsey? He’d been off since the start of the call. Then a thought occurred. “This guy, Doug Edensor,
guv?”

  “Ex-detective superintendent. He retired a few years back.” Retired was a euphemism for shown the door. The former cop had been offered treatment for alcoholism. Twice undergone re-hab but couldn’t give up the bottle.

  “Mate of yours, was he?”

  “He was in the photograph you saw yesterday.” She heard a phone ring. “I’ve got another call,” Byford said. “Let me know the minute anything moves.”

  She pressed the end button, deep in thought. Doug Edensor and Robbie Crawford. Both friends of the guv. Both dead. No wonder he was distracted. She started the car, circuited the square. What was that Oscar Wilde line? To lose one police mate’s a misfortune – to lose two... She snorted. The quote was close enough. Except she didn’t buy careless. She wasn’t sure what she’d put her money on. Yet.

  Byford wasn’t a betting man, but Harry Maxwell had been front-runner in the detective’s uneasy mind even before the link with Wayne Dunston emerged. Not in connection with the kidnap – like Bev, he had severe doubts on that score. But why had the crime boss sent one of his lieutenants to film Robbie Crawford’s funeral? That question had kept the big man awake for much of the night.

  Then he’d picked up the child-porn rumour. And now Doug...

  Byford walked to the window, stared across the car park. He’d hoped it was in the past – the road accident that killed Maxwell’s son. He could still recall every detail of that night twelve years ago. Not surprising, given he’d been driving the police pursuit vehicle. The stolen car – a BMW – had careered into the side of James Maxwell’s Mini on Fiveways roundabout. The teenage joy rider had been killed outright. Fire crews had to cut James’s mangled body from the wreckage.

  For several years on the anniversary of the crash, Byford had received thinly veiled death threats: sympathy cards, black armbands, funeral wreaths. It didn’t take intelligence to work out who sent them. The detective had two sons; sympathised to an extent with Maxwell’s grief. But when the tyres were slashed on his motor six years back, he’d pulled Maxwell in and issued a few threats of his own. The unsolicited mail had dried up since then.

  It was one of the reasons why Maxwell had been among the first suspects questioned after the hit-and-run that killed Crawford. Robbie had been Byford’s passenger that night. Doug Edensor, if Byford remembered rightly, had been one of the officers who’d broken the news to Maxwell.

  The detective returned to his desk, reread a transcript of the interview he’d copied first thing. According to this, Maxwell had been flying back from India when Crawford died. Travel documents and holiday videos corroborated the alibi. Byford sniffed. So what? The crime boss never got his hands dirty: he hired heavies for that. Mostly Asian.

  It didn’t mean he was clean.

  Byford picked up a pen, tried to marshal his thoughts. He’d been surprised Maxwell had agreed to see him. It wouldn’t be an easy meeting – assuming all hell didn’t break loose and he could get away from Highgate. He sighed, rubbed his chin. God, he could do without this. The priority had to be Daniel Page. He couldn’t afford to get sidetracked.

  Unless Harry Maxwell did know something about the kidnap.

  17

  Glare on the glass? Trick of the sunlight? For one glorious second, as she neared the Page house, Bev was convinced the little boy was back. The green eyes she’d glimpsed at a downstairs window were the spit of Daniel’s. But they were Jenny Page’s, now full of loathing before she turned and vanished from sight. Bev took a deep breath and girded mental loins. No one said it’d be easy. At least the hangover was history.

  Colin Henfield opened the door before she knocked. She’d never seen the FLO in anything but a neat suit and tie. He dealt with messy lives, people at the lowest ebb; maybe it was his way of showing respect. The job was about connecting, communicating; Bev reckoned he could wear a bin liner and people would open up. Which could explain his pained expression as he blocked her path.

  “Can’t let you in, Bev.” It was Jenny Page’s order and clearly difficult for him. Though Highgate’s finest liaison officer, Colin held the rank of constable.

  “I’m not leaving, Col.” She folded her arms.

  He smoothed a cap of short black hair. “She’s adamant. Doesn’t want you here.”

  “Tough.”

  She felt sorry for Col, a tad sorry for Jenny Page, but the real compassion lay with a little boy she’d never met who was being held by strangers God knew where. Unpalatable though it was, she’d live on humble pie for a month if it got her near the mother.

  No need. Jenny Page loomed into view behind Colin’s shoulder, eyes flashing distaste, lank hair in disarray. “What do you want?”

  She ignored the spittle on the woman’s chapped lips. “To help you.”

  “You’ve got a nerve.”

  “Damn right I have.” It was out before she knew it.

  “You as good as...”

  “Get over it.” She’d not got the hang of this humility lark. Jenny Page looked as if she’d been slapped in the face – and it crumpled.

  Bev raised hands in surrender mode. “I am truly sorry.” Then bit the humble bullet. “I was out of order. I’ve got a big mouth and no tact.” She paused, willing the woman to open her mind as well as her ears. “But I’m not a bad cop, Mrs Page. And I swear I’m trying to do everything on God’s earth to bring Daniel home to you.”

  She meant every word. Maybe it showed in her eyes and Jenny Page detected it. Without speaking, she gave a tight nod, retraced her steps. Bev nipped in before her mind changed. Everything else about Jenny Page already had. Scruffy and listless, she slopped about the place in a stained dressing gown, bare feet filthy. Her make-up consisted of stale mascara and a trace of eyeliner. There was no vestige of the immaculate ice maiden.

  Bev shot a quick glance round. The posh sitting room had an impersonal feel, as if people just passed through. Jenny now sat in the middle of a massive settee, hugging her knees, looking lost. There was plenty of space. Bev took some close by. “Is your husband here, Mrs Page?”

  She shook her head.

  “He’s looking for Daniel.” Colin kept his voice low. “Says it helps to be out there.”

  Bev sniffed. It wasn’t helping his wife a bunch. Jenny’s glassy eyes gazed into the distance, seeing nothing. Desultorily, she wiped a tear as it trickled down a hollow cheek. Physically she was there, but her thoughts were in the past, maybe the future, anywhere but the here and now. The woman needed support.

  “Is there anyone you’d like us to call, Mrs Page?” Bev asked.

  Maybe she hadn’t heard. Bev rose, gestured the FLO to one side, asked him to get Richard Page back to the house. She wanted him there when the package was opened. Waiting a while longer would make no difference. Far as the kidnappers knew – assuming it came from them – the package was still languishing at the agency. As for what it contained, that was anyone’s guess. Could be innocuous; could, God forbid, be a body part. Either way, Jenny Page was in no state to face it alone.

  “How do you get through it?” Still staring ahead, Jenny could’ve been talking to herself. “The endless waiting. Hoping for the best. Fearing the worst.”

  The voice was unrecognisable. Bev had heard the question before. Most people who’d been there said ‘take it a day at a time’. From what Bev’d seen of it, taking a breath at a time was problematic. She moved back to the settee, slid even nearer. The woman deserved more than platitudes.

  “I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like, Jenny.” Having kids had never been on Bev’s agenda; she’d too often seen what it meant to lose them. “But I’m pretty sure I’d want the people I love around me.” Her face softened as she pictured her mother, Emmy. “My mum...”

  “My mother died years ago.” Jenny turned her head, a catch in her voice.

  Bev closed her eyes. Emmy could drive her up the wall but Bev couldn’t imagine life without her. “I lost my dad a while back,” she offered. “Hurts like shit.”

  Sh
e sensed Jenny’s glance, sudden spark of interest. Bev bit her lip, milked the fledgling connection. “That’s why I joined the police,” she said.

  The notion lit another spark. “Your father was a police officer?”

  English lecturer, actually, but Jenny had opened her mouth, was engaged at some level. Bev busked it, made up stories on the hoof; she’d juggle bubbles if it kept the woman’s attention, diverted her from the nightmare. Jenny might not be hanging on every word but at least she was listening, appeared slightly less lethargic.

  Colin clocked the situation as he re-entered the room. From the doorway, he held up ten fingers, then left them to it. Ten minutes, then, till Page returned. Bev sneaked a glance at Jenny, brought her gently back to reality. She talked her through Operation Sapphire: the ongoing observation and surveillance strategies, the covert inquiries, the extensive interview programme, a possible Wayne Dunston link. “We’re doing everything we can to get Daniel back, Jenny.”

  She nodded acknowledgement, gave a long shuddering sigh, clasped arms round her stomach. “God, I feel so sick.”

  Bev rose, held out a hand. “Come on, let’s take a turn in the garden.” The air inside was stale and stifling. “Blow away the cobwebs.”

  The strategy, such as it was, had the desired effect. Jenny hesitated, then pulled herself up reluctantly. “I’ll put some clothes on.”

  Bev smiled encouragement and watched as she left the room. The high-speed rifle through Jenny’s Prada handbag revealed nothing incriminating. Not that she’d really expected it. On balance, she tended to think that the woman was innocent of involvement in her son’s kidnap. At least the trauma appeared genuine.

  Still, a sliver of doubt remained in Bev’s mind. What if the grief was down to remorse? Either way, she needed Jenny Page on side. And sweet.

  She checked the time. Where the hell was Richard Page? The door opened as Jenny returned in casual slacks and t-shirt. A spot of exercise had the desired effect. The simple act of stretching the legs, taking in oxygen, feeling the sun’s heat, added a hint of pink to her cheeks.

  They circled the lawn a few times, then sat on a bench in the shade of an apple tree. Bev asked Jenny to talk about Daniel: his favourite film, TV show, superhero, football team, chocolate bar, breakfast cereal. What made him laugh, was he ticklish, did he like school? It hit the right buttons. Jenny smiled as she painted a word picture. The animation and the way the light hit her face evoked a shadow of the natural beauty that had so struck Bev at their first meeting.