“You’ve tried his mobile?”
“Of course.”
Darren rose as Sumi returned. “We’ll look into it further, Mrs Fallon. Try not to worry. Let us know when Liam gets in touch.”
“Anything?” Daz’s question was out before the door closed.
“Kitchen was clean.” Sumi was dead serious, but when Daz burst out laughing she pulled a face as it dawned. “You know what I mean. Not so much as a mug with his name on.” Let alone a signed confession.
A brace of teenaged mums barging buggies two abreast down the middle of the pavement forced the detectives to give way. Both girls had a fag on the go and were yacking into mobiles. Daz shook his head. “And they say conversation’s dead.”
Sumi waited until they were in the Peugeot, then slipped an evidence bag from her pocket. The hairs were blond and plentiful.
Daz’s eyes lit up. “Nice one, Sumi. Not just a pretty...”
Her glare cut Daz off at the pass. “And this.” She held another evidence bag aloft. Daz could see her smile through the plastic – and a toothbrush.
“Don’t do things by halves, do you, Sumi?” With saliva and hair, they could probably fast-track DNA results.
“What now?” she asked.
“Get the samples to the lab. See if Flint wants it taken further.”
They had a few names to go on, teenagers who were on record as Liam’s partners in crime. They could maybe shed light on his whereabouts. Daz reckoned any decision would depend on the DNA results. If there was a match between Liam and the unidentified body from the fire, the inquiry would shift a gear or five.
Cannock Advertiser, 12 June 2001
Fire kills family
Three members of the same family perished when flames swept through a detached house at Cannock in Staffordshire last night. Thirty fire-fighters tackled the blaze that took the lives of Hannah and James Piper and their six-year-old daughter Amy.
One fire-fighter broke down in tears as he described hearing terrified screams from upstairs. But intense heat and thick black smoke prevented rescuers from entering the property.
ALARMS
The cause of the blaze is not yet known but arson has not been ruled out. Smoke alarms were fitted but unconfirmed reports suggest they failed to operate. The tragedy has led Staffordshire police to issue this warning. “It’s vital smoke alarms are checked regularly. Had the alarm been raised earlier, this appalling loss of life might have been averted.”
Mr and Mrs Piper were teachers at the town’s high school. Amy was a pupil at Lea Bank Primary where prayers were said for the family at assembly this morning.
Neighbours told the Advertiser that Mr and Mrs Piper’s elder daughter, Holly, had left home several weeks ago. One woman who didn’t want to be named said: “Thank God she was away – or the entire family would have been wiped out.”
37
Eight pm, Highgate. Bev stood in her office, forehead cooling against the windowpane. She watched a couple of police cars take off in a flurry of squealing tyres and hot rubber, shook her head and sighed. Traffic cops were so Top Gear.
Her emotions were less heated since the earlier stand-off with Richard Page. Several hours’ phone-bashing and paper-pushing usually had that effect. Shame there wasn’t more to show for it. The absentee home-owners from Edgbaston had been in touch and were now eliminated as potential witnesses. But the Stephen Cross box had yet to be ticked; their only witness still couldn’t be arsed to put in a call.
On the personal front, her mum had phoned, wondering if she’d emigrated, and Frankie was threatening to swamp Moseley with missing posters as in Have you seen this woman? A big case took precedence over family, friends, food and the other f-word. She sniffed. Chance’d be a fine thing.
Turning back to the office, she pulled a face. The waste bin said it all, circled as it was by screwed-up balls of paper and crushed Red Bull cans. Too much caffeine quaffed, too many theories bitten the dust.
One idea hadn’t been discarded. She’d already bounced it off Mac. Time to share it with the guv. ’Course, she could have floated it at the late brief but then she’d have no excuse to drop in on the big man. She combed her hair with her fingers and pinched a bit of colour into her cheeks.
For a second, she thought he had someone in with him. Then it registered: the guv was using the cactus as a hat stand. The fedora hung at a jaunty angle. The man himself had his feet on the desk, hands clasped behind head.
“Hard at it, then?” She smiled; wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been catching a few zeds. His eyes were bloodshot and the skin underneath matched the smoky grey irises.
“Are you just here to have a go?” He swung his legs down, stifled a yawn. “Good thinking, by the way.”
“Oh?” She perched opposite.
“The Liam Fallon angle?” The Selly Oak misper she’d pointed in DCS Flint’s direction. “There could be something in it. Kenny’s pursuing it, he’s put Darren New on the case tracking down Fallon’s associates.”
“Tickety.” A few credit points could come in handy. Not that she was crowing. “Makes you wonder how much slips through the net, though.” Actions not taken, statements not followed up, calls not returned.
“You heard about Mike Powell, then?” Byford asked.
Hadn’t everyone? Talk about kicking a guy when he was on the carpet. It was so easy to point the finger. OK, he’d been a bit slow off the mark but given the same circs, it would be ‘there but for the grace of God’ for most cops. Herself included.
She bristled on his behalf. “He’s well made up the lost time.” She’d read his report. The dead couple’s relatives had been traced through the letters, and arrangements were underway to fly the bodies back to Albania for burial. He’d established who, where, when, what. The biggie was still elusive: why.
“You’re very supportive all of a sudden,” Byford said. Powell had never been Bev’s flavour of the month; nasty taste in the mouth, more like. But he was like an old pair of slippers; she hated the thought of having to wear in another pair.
“Better the devil you...” She left the implication hanging.
“Do you know something I don’t?”
Should she tell him? Break a confidence? That was a laugh. Like the DI had shown her his resignation. “No way. Just... he’s up against it. If I were you, I’d have a word.”
“I have.” Byford picked up a pen, initialled a sheet of paper. “He’s not about to disappear, if that’s what you think.” He glanced up before she had time to close her mouth. “Mike had a bad day. We all do. He offered to resign, then changed his mind.”
Been there, done that. “So the letter...” Game. Away. Given. Shit.
“The letter on his desk? He’s furious. Thinks some idiot stole it for a laugh.” Byford paused, locked glances with her. “I told him no one would be that stupid. What do you think, Bev?”
She giggled like a schoolgirl on helium. “Honestly. As if. What is he like?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You tell me.” She had the grace to drop a sheepish glance; he wasn’t asking for a thumbnail sketch of the DI.
“Anyway, guv.” Moving on. “We need a tail on Richard Page.” Moved too fast, she could see the guv wasn’t with her. She’d had more time than him to consider. And the more she did, the less she liked the fact that Daniel’s father disappeared whenever the fancy took him. Even if he wasn’t colluding with the kidnappers, the guy could be up to all sorts of dirty tricks. In this business it was either follow the money or cherchez la femme. If Page was playing away from home it raised a zillion questions.
“Have you any idea of the cost?” The big man stroked an eyebrow. “We’re already over budget, running three major inquiries plus the bread and butter stuff. And you want surveillance on a man who happens to rub you up the wrong way.”
“Below the belt, guv.” She hadn’t needed to pinch her cheeks, the remark was like a slap in the face. “Give me a bit of credit.”
“You’
re asking for a blank cheque.” He pointed at the door.
“Nice to see you’re thinking about it.” She sat back, crossed her legs.
“Good night, sergeant.”
She folded her arms. “That’s what I like about you, guv – open mind.”
He tightened his lips. “We’re keeping an eye on Page.” The voice was menacingly soft. “You know that.” Just not 24/7.
Like Simon Wells had kept an eye on Monks Court? She swung a leg. “I don’t think that’s enough.” His expression was difficult to read. In one way, she conceded, he was on the money: Page had got right up her nostrils. But it was more than that. Six days the kidnappers had held Daniel, six days without hand-over instructions, six days without any sign of closure. It stank. Like rotting fish.
Byford shook his head. “No can do.”
She shrugged. “OK.” She could tell by his eyebrows he’d expected a harder time. She also sensed he’d not budge, weighed down by pressure from top brass and bean counters. Balance sheets? Boy’s life? Close call. Over-harsh, ludicrously simplistic, she knew that. It didn’t stop a cynical snort.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
She held out empty palms. No mileage arguing. It wasn’t a battle she’d win. She needed more ammunition. Maybe get hold of a few rounds by keeping unofficial tabs on Page’s movement? She wondered if Mac would be up for it as well.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” he said, “don’t.”
“You don’t fancy a pint, then?”
Byford didn’t fancy a pint. He was dog-tired and there was little to celebrate. It had been another frustrating day: pushing paperwork, monitoring reports, liaising with Powell and Kenny Flint. Developments in the Hawk and Phoenix inquiries highlighted the lack of success in Sapphire. As for the Maxwell hotline, it might as well be ex-directory.
He opened the bottle of malt he kept in a filing cabinet and poured an inch into a paper cup. He hadn’t eaten since lunch; the scotch burned a path to his gut. Reluctant to return to an empty house just yet, the detective adopted his habitual thinking pose: head back, feet on desk. Bev’s gibe about an open mind had hit a raw nerve. He’d been unwilling to authorise a round-the-clock tail on Richard Page, but had ordered search teams and surveillance on Maxwell. Not that she was aware of that.
Like the rest of the squad, she was wrapped up in the Page inquiry. If she regarded Maxwell at all, it was as a side issue. And maybe she was right. Byford feared he was in danger of becoming obsessed with the man. He’d barely discussed the case with Bev or anyone else. He felt he was ploughing a solitary furrow.
Except for the media. Maxwell’s ugly mug was still getting a fair share of exposure. A last resort, maybe. Byford hoped it’d pay off. He raised the cup, sank the contents, half-smiled at the thought that popped into his head: here’s looking at you, Harry.
The water sloshed over the sides of the glass as Jenny Page’s hand jerked. Desperate for sleep, she swallowed the pills one by one. Staring in the mirror, she barely recognised her reflection. And didn’t care. Didn’t care either about the fine house, the gleaming cars, the designer clothes – none of it meant a thing. All she wanted was her son. And he was beyond her reach. Jenny Page, so accustomed to being in control, was at the mercy of faceless monsters. Since Daniel’s disappearance, she’d existed in a state of absolute constant terror, had never imagined such mind-numbing fear existed.
With pale slender arms stretched out to maintain a precarious balance, she drifted to the side of the bed. She was dizzy; her face felt on fire, her hair plastered to her scalp. She’d burned the other notes – taunting, torturing threats – flushed the charred flakes down the toilet. She retrieved the latest message from where she’d hidden it inside a satin pillowcase, read the instructions again. Where she should go, what to do with the money. And what would happen if she failed, or involved the police.
He’d be killed in forty-eight hours if she didn’t do what they said. But could she trust them? How could she be sure they’d return Dan-Dan?
Jenny pictured the woman detective she’d so nearly confided in: DS Morriss, was it? Bev? The wooziness was getting worse, her forehead felt clammy, she had to lie down. Maybe Richard was right. Bringing the police in could be a fatal mistake. How had he put it? Ruthless professionals against a bunch of amateurs. Poor Richard was a pawn too, making the pick-ups, sneaking the vile notes back to the house. If only she could sleep for more than a couple of hours at a stretch. It could clear her thoughts. Maybe make a decision a little easier.
Daniel’s t-shirt lay on top of the duvet next to her. Jenny buried her face in it, though all trace of the little boy’s scent had gone. She broke down, sobbed herself into troubled sleep, oblivious of the tears that soaked into the soft cloth.
38
Emmy Morriss wiped the tears from her eyes. She’d not laughed so much since last dropping by Baldwin Street. Not that Bev was back yet. “Eeh, you should be on stage, girl.”
“Darlink, I am.” Frankie tossed a glossy curtain of ebony curls, slapped theatrical hand to forehead. She had singing gigs lined up for months but it was her miming talent that was creasing Emmy. “Your turn, Mrs M.”
“Y’know what I mean, lovie.” Emmy plucked a card from the box. “You should be a star. Get yourself on one of them shows.”
“Sky at Night?” Frankie delved into a family pack of liquorice allsorts. They were playing Charades. Bev’s mum was a games freak: she’d play Battleships on the Titanic.
“I’m serious,” Emmy sniffed. “The X Factor, something like that. You’d run rings round that lot.”
“Don’t give her ideas, Mum. Head the size of a planet as it is.” The twinkle in Bev’s eye softened the barb. A twinkle the spit of Emmy’s.
“Bev!” Mrs Morriss rushed over, drew her daughter into loving arms. Frankie fixed her best friend with a stare and pointedly bit into one of Bev’s favourite sweets. “Do I know you?” she asked, deadpan.
“Funny girl.” Bev ambled over, snatched the pack. “That was the last one!”
“Get over it, muppet.”
“Moose.”
“Ming...”
“Girls, girls.” Emmy called them to order just as she had for twenty-odd years.
The banter continued, good-natured, familiar; it gave Bev a rosy glow, like the warmth of the welcome from two people who mattered in her life. They were as far removed from the arse-wipes she came across on the job as chalk from mature cheddar.
Even without the gales of laughter, Bev had known the second she stepped in the house her mum was there. Wherever she went, Emmy trailed a signature scent of orange shampoo and peppermint. The chocolate cake and cheese scones on the kitchen table gave the game away as well. Bev’s quick peek in the freezer had confirmed the mercy-dash nature of her mum’s mission. There was enough comfort food to keep her and Frankie going for a month. Chili, shepherd’s pie, lasagne, stews, soups. Eat your heart out, McDonalds. There was an opened bottle of frascati too. Silly not to, wasn’t it? She’d grabbed it and headed for the sitting room, but rather than wade straight in had stood and eavesdropped on the two women for a moment.
The girlish giggling was infectious; an unwitting grin had spread across her face. It gladdened her cynical cop’s heart to hear them joshing round. Christ, sometimes Frankie got on better with Em than Bev did. Not that Bev minded. Frankie had lost her mum when she was a kid. If Em wanted to play surrogate, that was fine by Bev.
She’d been taken aback for an instant, though, when she’d peeped through the half-open door. People always said she and Emmy were two peas in a pod but this was the first time Bev saw where they were coming from. She sniffed. Em must’ve had a facelift. Bev couldn’t possibly be showing her age.
Now she sat round with them drinking wine, chewing the cud, snaffling a bowl of nuts. Frankie’s latest demo CD played in the background as they talked birthdays, books and blokes. When Frankie slid over with the frascati, Bev held out a glass but Emmy covere
d hers with a hand. “No thanks, sweetheart. I’d better get home.”
Bev hauled herself to her feet. “Gran OK?”
Emmy screwed up her face, searched for her keys. “Not brill.” It was two years since the vicious attack on Sadie. The old woman rarely ventured out now and was nervy staying in alone. “Vi from next door’s with her.”
Bev nodded, unsmiling. Her spiky feisty gran reduced to needing a sodding babysitter. Bev had reduced the scumbag attacker to a bloody pulp. His wounds would be healed now; Sadie would take her scars to the grave.
“She’d love to see a bit more of you, Bev.” It was gentle but an admonition nonetheless. Fact was, it pained Bev to see the old lady. Sadie’s way of coping was to talk about it, relive the trauma over and over. It revived memories Bev desperately wanted to let go. “I’ll do my best, honest.”
Emmy paused in the hall, studied her daughter’s face. “Looking a bit peaky, sweetheart. You OK?”
“’Course I am.” Felt like shit, had for a couple of days. Went with the bad-diet-lack-of-sleep territory. She let Emmy get to her Punto at the kerb, then called, “Thanks for the grub, mum.”
Emmy blew a kiss. “You’re welcome.”
“Did I tell you I’d gone veggie?”
“Yes, dear. And I’m Linda McCartney.”
Maybe it was the nuts or the slab of chocolate cake, but there was a storm brewing in Bev’s gut four hours later. Staggering to the bathroom, she vowed never to let food pass her lips again. After sluicing her face and brushing her teeth, she stole to the kitchen, helped herself to a bowl of Frankie’s cornflakes.
Sneaking cereal upstairs and scoffing it under the bedclothes reminded her of illicit midnight feasts when they were kids. Mind, the orthodontically aware Emmy would’ve had a fit had she known. Bev sat cross-legged on the duvet, feeding her slightly guilty face. She smiled fondly as she pictured her mum. She loved the old bird to bits, couldn’t imagine life without her. It was inconceivable, going through life without a mother’s love. Look at Frankie. OK, Gio Perlagio would die for his daughter. But Bev knew Frankie would give her right arm to have her ma back.
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