Hard Time

by Maureen Carter

  According to the data, the cash buyer of the pay-as-you-go phone was a real person and alive, if not particularly well. She was upstairs now – at the billing address – and despite what Daniel had been told, his mother wasn’t dead. She just looked it.

  “Talk about taking the piss...” Bev took a swig of shandy, ran the back of her hand over her mouth. It was getting on for seven pm. The Prince was providing a late-lunch-early-dinner. After the events of the last few hours, it felt more like the last supper. But it was actually a quick pit stop; there was still a bunch of stuff to check back at the nick.

  “Pass the vinegar, Mac.”

  Tyler shoved the Sarson’s across the scarred tabletop. A vigorous shake on to a basket of pallid chips, then Bev said, “Can you believe they used her name? Bastards.” And that wasn’t the half of it.

  Mac, munching pasty, shook his head in rapid response. Bev bit on a chip, glanced across at Byford who was running his index finger round the rim of a pint glass. Distracted or what? She’d bet a pound to a penny she knew what was going on in his head. She’d heard most of it at the evening brief. The kidnappers had run rings round the covert operation in Kings Norton. Literally. It had taken four hours for the circular tracking pattern to emerge. It was spotted eventually by a sharp-eyed operator on the ground who put two and two together and came up with seventy-eight. The number of the double-decker that was taking the mobile – and the cops – for a long ride round the leafy suburbs.

  The phone had been shoved down a gap at the side of the bus’s back seat. It was with forensics now but if there were prints, Bev’d take a vow of silence. And celibacy.

  “They’re making us look like prats.” Byford could’ve been talking to himself.

  Bev took another chip. Couldn’t argue with that. “They’ll cock up sooner or later, guv.”

  “Great. Perhaps they’ll be kind enough to let us know when.” He raised his glass, sank a mouthful of bitter. A guy who didn’t drink on the job and didn’t do sarcasm.

  By now, he’d heard the recording of the phone call. The tape had been played to a squad already reeling at being given the run-around and with its collective adrenalin rush long gone. If the mood had been rock bottom before, Daniel’s cries had hit previously unheard emotional depths. The contrast between the little boy smiling down from the posters and the pitiful wailing emanating from the tape had made not just uncomfortable but painful listening. Officers had shifted uneasily in their seats, shock etched on stone faces. Bev had sensed more than compassion: there was white fury too. And an absolute determination to get a conviction.

  “I’ve been thinking about the timing.” Mac dabbed at the crumbs on his plate, licked his fingers.

  “And?” Bev asked.

  “We wait, what, three days for any contact. And the minute the mother sets foot in the house...”

  Bev nodded. “Almost as if they knew, as if they were waiting.”

  “And no mention of the ransom,” Byford said. “They were demanding half a million at one stage.”

  “Unless...” She pushed the bowl away. Sick? Or a stir of excitement?

  Mac picked desultorily at the leftovers. “What?”

  “What if...?” Christ, she could do with a baccy; it always helped the old brain cells. Should never have told the guv she’d quit. She frowned as she thought it through: Richard Page frequently left the house on his own, ostensibly searching for his son; Jenny had been isolated in a private room at the hospital...

  Byford was there already. “One or both of them’s dealing direct?”

  She leaned forward, elbows avoiding spillages on the table. “It’s possible, isn’t it?” The blue eyes sparkled as she expounded. “Richard Page is never around. He’s either looking after the missus or in his study. As for Jenny... how do we know what she was up to, tucked away in the Priory?”

  “Has she had any visitors?” Byford asked.

  “Leave it with me.” She grabbed a biro from Mac’s shirt pocket, made a note on a beer mat.

  “Come on, sarge. She was away with the fairies last time we were there.”

  “Was she, Mac?” Bev tucked the beer mat away. “Was she really? How do we know?”

  “The point is,” Byford said, “they’ve both been in a position where it’s a possibility.”

  “’Xactly.” Bev folded her arms. “The Pages could be keeping their distance in case...”

  “One of them gives the game away.” Mac was finishing sentences now.

  “Makes sense,” Byford said. “Everyone knows we never give in to ransom demands. If they think paying out’s the only way they’ll see...”

  “I’d do it.” She registered the men’s shocked looks. “I would.” A tad defensive? “Any parent would.”

  “Reckon they could both be in on it?” Mac asked.

  She shrugged. “Dunno.” Was it possible Jenny’s hysterics were part of an elaborate charade?

  “What about the hair and the tape?” he pushed.

  “Could’ve been a lot worse,” Byford murmured. “Think about it...”

  Of course it could. Body parts: bits that don’t grow back. “Could be window-dressing, then?” she asked. Cooked up with the kidnappers to convince the cops there was nothing going on behind the scenes?

  Byford sighed. “Anything’s possible.”

  She sank back; suddenly deflated. It was all sodding ifs and maybes. And the scariest bit of all: whether the Pages paid or not, covertly or not, there was absolutely no guarantee they’d get their son back.

  33

  The evening sky was a flawless blue, more Mykonos than Moseley. High-spirited drinkers had spilled out of the Prince, and were now propping up the walls watching the world, or the female half, go by. Bev sighed. Several hours’ graft still lay ahead for her.

  “Need a lift?” Byford cocked an eyebrow as he chucked his keys in the air.

  Yeah, but not in a motor. “No, ta, guv,” she said virtuously. “Fancy the exercise.”

  “Where you going?” Deadpan. “Worcester?”

  She gave him an insincere ear-to-ear smile. Highgate was a five-minute walk. If that. Mac was joining her soon as he’d powdered his nose.

  “I’d better be off,” Byford said. “I need to catch Mike before he goes.”

  “How is he? Haven’t seen him since first thing.”

  “He’s been better.”

  She nodded. Not surprised. There’d been zilch progress on Operation Hawk. The DI’s teams had been at Paradise Row all day. Daz and Pembers had been going round schools with the dead boy’s photograph.

  “Bit of movement on the Phoenix inquiry would help,” Byford added. “Mike’s not said anything about the arson attack, but...”

  “What about the CCTV stuff?” She already knew several cameras had captured youths hanging around the Friars Road area; knew the faces were hidden under hoodies. So why ask? Then it hit her. He looked so damn tasty. If she had the bottle, she’d ask him for a date.

  Byford was oblivious. “By the way,” he said as he put the key in the lock. “There’s a collection going round Highgate for Simon.”

  Passion killer if ever there was one. “Right, ta, guv.” The young constable had been in her thoughts off and on all day, like a stack of other things: Operation Sapphire, Operation Hawk, the fire, the SOAP protesters, Andy Quinn’s murder.

  Thank God they could probably cross that one off the list. Paula Ryland, the Brighton DI, had left her a message during the afternoon. They had a suspect in custody. She’d promised to keep Bev in the loop. Bev had passed it on to the guv soon as she heard. He’d not been surprised.

  She gave a mock salute as the big man pulled into a line of traffic, watched until his Rover disappeared. Most likely he was right, and Andy’s killing wasn’t linked with the other police deaths. She’d not really got a handle on all that; the kidnap took up so much headspace.

  Lost in thought, she leaned on the nearest lamppost, lit a Silk Cut, frowned uneasily. There was too muc
h going on, too many snatched conversations, hurried thoughts, half-baked ideas. Not enough time to think things through. A tap on her shoulder made her jump.

  “Looking for business, love?”

  She glared, then stamped off. Mac struggled to keep pace. He had no idea how lucky he was to be walking at all.

  Grant Young had called. More than once. Byford frowned. The media man wasn’t normally a time-waster, and it wouldn’t be to do with the programme. He’d already told Young he was up for it, assuming he was free when filming began. He slung his fedora on the cactus, checked the time on the messages, dialled back. They’d come in while he’d been out at Kings Norton, liaising with officers on the ground. He hated being stuck at a desk when there was action going on. Action? Bloody fiasco, more like.

  “Bill. Thanks for getting back.”

  “I take it you’ve got something?”

  “Not on Wayne Dunston.” Byford wasn’t heartbroken. Dunston wasn’t going anywhere anyway; he’d been remanded in custody.

  “It’s more for your porn people. I keep hearing the same whisper...”

  Byford froze. Three separate sources had volunteered the same information to the media man. Harry Maxwell was moving into kiddie porn. “People don’t like it, Bill. Even the bad guys.”

  “I owe you, Grant. Thanks a lot.”

  Was a case against the crime boss beginning to come together at last? He felt a stir of excitement. He’d give a lot to make Maxwell toast. And it was time to turn up the heat.

  The phone rang before Bev sat down. She juggled printouts, shoulder bag, bottled water, and a tub of M&Ms before picking up. “Detective Sergeant Morriss.”

  “I love it when you talk formal.”

  “Oz! How goes it?” She smoothed her hair, licked her lips, thanked God it wasn’t a videophone. He talked her through Fulham, his flat, thumbnail sketches of colleagues. She ignored a niggle that a female name got more than a fair share of mentions. She pictured his lips moving, those dark chocolate eyes. It was great to hear the dulcet tones, a welcome break from the grind.

  “When you up next?” She wasn’t begging but he knew it was her birthday soon.

  “One of the reasons I’m calling, Bev.” Not good. She could hear it. “I’ll be away last weekend of the month. Only just found out and I wanted you to know.”

  Fuckety-shit. “No prob, mate. What you up to?”

  “Diversity awareness course.”

  “That’ll come in handy.” She scowled, more gutted than she’d admit. “Someone on the other line, mate. Catch you later.”

  She broke the connection, slumped in the chair, leaped a mile when the phone actually rang. Maybe he’d had a change of mind. “Oz?”

  “Bev, it’s Jack.”

  As in Pope. Is there no end to the joy? Mind, she’d wanted a word anyway. “And?”

  “Might have something for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we meet?”

  “Not tonight, mate. Up to my neck in it. Before you go...” She stretched a hand to reach the bin. The local rag was in there somewhere. She’d jettisoned it in disgust after a fruitless search for information on the protest group, SOAP. The Evening News was the only paper that mentioned it. But even the News hadn’t named names. Which meant either it didn’t have them, or they didn’t exist.

  “You seen Snowie today?” The paper’s crime correspondent stared from the front page in a single-column smug shot: Matt Snow looked pretty pleased with himself. She’d tried calling him a couple of times but he’d gone to ground.

  “He was in the Jug earlier,” Jack said. “Liquid lunch.”

  Jug of Ale: Moseley pub. Snowie would need more than a stiff drink if he’d been pissing in the wind.

  “Why? What’s up?” Jack asked.

  “Just wondered.” The arson attack wasn’t her baby, of course. Maybe she saw it as a way of helping Powell. Either pointing him in the right direction or eliminating a line of inquiry. No point wasting precious time if the SOAP angle wasn’t going anywhere. OK, Kenny Flint was SIO, but the DI could do with a break. Anyway, when had she ever kept her nose out of other cases?

  “He had a few names for me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, the SOAP groupies.” She crossed her fingers, not for luck; she was telling whoppers. “Said you had them as well.”

  He snorted. “Maybe if I wrote scripts.”

  So it was fucking fiction? “How d’you mean?”

  “Nothing. Forget I said it.”

  “Jack?” One word, a million wheedles. She waited, breath bated. He was probably weighing up if he still owed her.

  “Sorry, Bev. Can’t do it.”

  “What?”

  “Drop a mate in the shit.”

  “What’d you chuck me in? A bed of sodding roses?” She came out in a cold sweat every time she remembered that news conference. She was still Deep Throat to a few Highgate wags. She pricked her ears: had he hung up?

  “Off the record?” he asked.

  “Aren’t I supposed to say that?”

  “If you’re gonna piss about...”

  “Sorry.”

  “Snow was flag-flying.”

  She scored out the reporter’s eyes with a biro. “That the same as making it up as you go along?”

  “If you like.”

  “I don’t fucking like.” She scrawled tosser across Snow’s forehead. OK, the reporter hadn’t started the Monks Court fire but he might have distributed the matches. The story had brimmed with emotive phrases, verbal incendiary devices. “How’s the scumbag live with himself?”

  “Come on. He wrote a story. End of.”

  “Yeah. Three lives.”

  “Fuck’s sake. You can’t blame Matt for that.”

  ’Course not. Not directly. But didn’t Snow’s sort of coverage add fuel to all sorts of metaphorical fires? A constant drip of anti-this-anti-that – surely it had to feed a culture of fear and suspicion. And people like her picked up the pieces. She was sick of it. And she couldn’t be arsed to argue with Pope. She slammed the phone down before she said something she wouldn’t regret.

  It was getting on for ten pm before she was ready to hit the road. The M&M tub was empty and the office stank of smoke. Standing on a chair near an open window for a crafty fag or two hadn’t really worked. Good job she kept a can of air freshener in the drawer. Tropical Glade. Yeah, right.

  She flicked the light, headed for Powell’s office. The note she’d scribbled made it clear SOAP was a non-starter. It didn’t further the investigation but was worth knowing for elimination purposes. She gave a crooked smile. Knowing the DI, he’d tell her not to stick her nose in anyway.

  The light was on, so she knocked. No answer. She slipped in. The paper fairies had been busy in here. Only one A4 sheet on the desk. How come hers was still covered in the stuff? She shouldn’t have read it; certainly shouldn’t have shoved it in her pocket. She wasn’t thinking straight. Like Powell. Must be the bump on his head. Obviously he needed time to mull it over. Something serious as resigning.

  November 2000

  For years it had rarely been out of Holly’s thoughts: getting away, fleeing from Satan and the bitch wife. Escape was so close now. Just another few weeks and she’d be sixteen, legally entitled to leave. Then nothing would keep her here.

  She moved to the mirror, gazed critically at her reflection, knew she would more than survive. Tall and slender, she’d grown in other ways too. These days Satan and his evil sidekicks weren’t the only men who wanted her. They all looked at her that way. Her beauty turned heads in the street; seemingly natural, though her every sensual move was controlled, every casual gesture calculated. Under Satan’s malign control, she’d developed a power of her own. And under his obscene tutelage knew how to use it.

  Holly was wise beyond her years, but then she’d had no childhood since the age of ten. Not since Satan snatched it. She gave a knowing smile. She’d been systematically robbing him as well, ever since.
Every penny she ever found she squirreled away for her new life in London. With her mother.

  She scowled. She hadn’t quite worked that part out yet.

  The money was concealed beneath a floorboard in Holly’s bedroom; every now and then she’d count it, fantasising. She lived in a dream world to keep out the nightmare.

  The temptation was to act too hastily. Burn Satan and the bitch on her birthday. Set fire to the house and sling her hook. The best present she could wish for. Almost. Except there’d be too many questions.

  No. Patience and planning. She’d steal back one night, after escaping to London, and serve her revenge. But it wouldn’t be cold.

  WEDNESDAY

  34

  Hey, my friend! Leave a photo – I forget what you look like!!!

  FP xxx

  The note in Frankie’s distinctive diva scrawl, all loops and curlicues, was propped against the toaster. It was the first thing Bev saw when she popped her head into the kitchen, hair damp from the shower. Would that there was time for breakfast. On the other hand... A smile played on her lips as she grabbed the scissors from a drawer and flicked through Frankie’s latest copy of heat. That’d do it: Keira Knightley in strapless backless little number. She clipped it to the note and was still grinning when she left the house.

  Frankie had a point, though. Bev had hardly been around of late. Baldwin Street felt like a hotel. Shame it didn’t have room service, breakfast in bed served by a tasty bloke. Perhaps she’d pick up a bite on the way in. It wasn’t that she was running late, she wanted to get cracking.

  As she eased into the MG, her cotton dress, the coolest blue in her wardrobe, was already sticking to her skin. Sauna in the city. And it wasn’t even seven am. She wondered vaguely how much weight a body lost through sweating. She looked down. Not enough.

  She reached for the CD, briefly closed her eyes. Every sodding day she did it, every sodding day forgot. There was no player. She’d had it stripped out, couldn’t listen to music in a car any more. Before the attack, it had always been her way of switching off, singing along at the top of her voice, driving a tad too fast. Not now. The rapist had taunted her with tapes played in her home and a police motor.