“Go where?”
“Kings Heath.”
“Why there?” Bev frowned. “Anyway, Harry Maxwell’s in custody.”
A pause, two heartbeats. “Who’s Harry Maxwell?”
Then she saw it. The guv’s diary. The Kings Heath address. There was a roar in her ears; she clung to the wall for support.
“Jesus Christ. Paula, get on the radio. Warn Highgate.” Her voice broke. “Byford’s in there.”
Bev dropped to her haunches, stomach heaving. She had to get there, make sure the guv was OK. First had to wait out the shallow breaths, shaking limbs. As she reached the Midget, she glanced back at the house.
And knew she had to stay. A little boy was standing at the window. A little boy with a shorn head, green eyes and tears sliding down his cheeks.
The pain was blinding, breathtaking. Arms pinned back, body strapped to a hard chair, Byford couldn’t move. Eyes slowly opening, he gasped as he saw his distorted reflection in a lens. Two cameras on tripods were trained on him – and a gun. He tried not to flinch as Young stroked the barrel down his cheek.
Byford sensed they were alone. No sign of the two men he’d recognised before blacking out. The witness’s e-fits had been accurate. They were the goons who’d murdered Doug Edensor. Sent by Young. Not Maxwell.
Byford winced as his head was yanked savagely to the side. The cameras recorded every tic, every bead of sweat. Young jabbed the gun at a monitor. “Private screening. Watch.”
He squinted. The hand-held jerky shots were difficult to make out. But Byford knew, felt his blood run cold. Three crime scenes, three dead cops. The bastard had filmed the murders.
“No long lens for you, though, big man.” He recoiled as Young’s saliva slithered down his face. “Up close and personal.”
“You won’t get away with it.” It was a line from a crap film.
“I know.” Young’s eyes were already dead. “But I’ll take you with me.”
43
The armed response unit was at Young’s place; Bev had elicited that much from control. Officers on the ground were keeping comms to a minimum. She slipped the police radio in her bag anyway. Right now all she wanted was to grab Daniel, get this thing over, get to the guv. Fired up, distracted, she hammered on the door.
Not Laura Foster. Jenny Page. Jenny was the last person Bev expected to see. But a closer look showed that it wasn’t Daniel’s mother. A younger version – the blonde hair a shade darker, the green eyes more vibrant. Same gene bank, though. No time for twenty questions. No time for any.
“Police. I know Daniel’s here.” She flashed her warrant card. “I’m taking him home and I’m taking you in.”
“Don’t be ridic...”
She raised a finger. “The bedroom. I’ve seen him.”
“Shouldn’t have untied him, should I?” The woman gave a resigned shrug. “You’d better come in.”
Wrong-footed, Bev followed warily, darting uneasy glances. The sitting room was minimalist, neutral shades, nothing fancy; french doors leading out back, sliding door into the rest of the place. Bev stood with her back to the wall. “Fetch Daniel, please.”
The eyes held a warning. “Not yet.” In the silence, more sirens.
Bev took a step closer. Getting the boy out was priority. If it came to a fight, the woman was on a loser. “Have you hurt him?”
“All relative, isn’t it?” She sneered. “You may as well sit. He’s going nowhere till I’ve seen his mother.”
“You’ll be lucky,” Bev mocked. “She’s legged it.”
“Wrong again, detective. She’ll be here any minute.” An eyebrow arched in contempt as she took great delight in putting Bev right. Jenny Page was simply following instructions, lying low in a back-street hotel until the handover.
“Why the f...?”
Haughty. Defiant. “Because I wanted her to.”
Bev shook her head. It was a power thing, the act of a control freak. A zillion thoughts swirling, she watched as the blonde lowered herself on to a leather sofa, languidly crossed her legs, raised a wine glass to her lips. And then it dawned. The mannerisms, the voice, the pose: the picture in Bev’s head was turning into a family portrait.
“You’re the daughter,” she breathed.
The blonde put down the glass, started a slow handclap. “Give the dog a bone.” Malevolence in the green eyes. “Not very good at this detecting lark, are you, Bev?”
She blinked. The ID had only been flashed.
“You really don’t know, do you?” She laughed, too loud, throwing her head back.
Bev itched to knock it off her shoulders. Her own head was spinning. The young woman had to be Jenny’s supposedly stillborn daughter. That explained the lack of a death certificate. But not how she knew Bev’s name...
She froze. The woman was reaching into her bag. Knife? Gun?
Glasses. Fashionable dark frames. Bev recalled trying them on, posing for Mac. Fucking shame they hadn’t improved her eyesight.
“They’re clear glass. Amazed you didn’t pick up on that.” The woman laughed again. “I use contact lenses, myself. Blue ones.”
To go with the Laura Foster ebony bob. Bev closed her eyes. Poor vision? Blind, more like. But what had Jenny Page done to deserve revenge as savage as this? There was only one answer. And it suddenly slotted into place.
“She gave you away, didn’t she, Laura?” Bev’s phone beeped; she ignored it.
“Gave?” The laugh chilled Bev’s bones. “The bitch dumped me, the day I was born. Just before Christmas, in a public toilet. On the coldest night of the year. A miracle baby, they called me.” She raised her glass. “And my name is Holly.”
Bev shook her head. Why hadn’t she seen it? From day one the kidnap had been intensely personal, an attack aimed at the mother. She aimed for damage limitation. “Maybe she thought...”
“The bitch didn’t think.” Holly poured a refill from an almost empty bottle. “It was out of the frying pan into the furnace for me.” Impassive, she described a grotesque childhood that turned Bev’s stomach. Abducting Daniel was payback time.
Bev bit her lip. Though never excusable, taking Jenny’s son was maybe understandable. But what could she say? Sorry your life’s been shit. Now I’m taking you in.
“Your phone.” It was beeping again. “Turn it off.”
Reluctantly Bev reached into her bag; somewhere the balance of power had shifted. She cast a quick glance at the screen: missed calls and messages. Dear God, let the guv be OK.
“What’s she like?” Holly asked casually, elegant ankle swinging.
“Your mother? You’ve never...?”
“Not in the flesh. Twenty-two years old and I’ve never actually seen her. Liam met his birth mother days after doing the telly.”
She must’ve misheard. “Sorry?”
“Liam Fallon. He was on the programme with me – Lost and Found? I’ll miss Liam.”
Bev knew nada about any TV show. Far as she was aware, Liam was the Selly Oak misper who might or might not have perished in the Monks Court fire. She was getting a bad vibe. “Why will you miss him, Holly?”
“He’s dead, of course. He couldn’t get out.” She bit the skin round her thumbnail, winced when it drew blood. Bev wiped clammy hands on her skirt. What the hell had she got herself into? “We kept in touch after the programme.” Holly smiled. “We even had a bit of thing going for a while. I told him about the abuse, what I’d been through growing up. He was more than happy when I asked him to help me set the blaze.”
It took a superhuman effort not to react. “Monks Court? Why did you do that, Holly?”
The blonde stared at her hands. “My adoptive father used to bring his sick friends along sometimes for a little extra fun. Satan’s cronies, I called them. I may not know all the names but I never forget a face. I bumped into one of them in the street. He didn’t even recognise me, but I followed him back to that pervs’ hostel. It’s sad about Liam, but men like that...”
“His was a name I did remember,” she spat. “I tracked him down. Amazing how helpful he was, to protect his precious reputation. Until the spineless bastard got too scared, threatened to go to the police.”
Bev tried to keep a lid on her rising panic. The woman was barking. The abuse hadn’t just damaged her childhood. “Holly, don’t worry about...Satan. Give us his details. We’ll bring him in.”
“You’ll be lucky.” More brittle laughter.
“Dead, is he?”
“And his bitch of a wife. It was a shame Amy died too.”
No question, Bev thought; she was in striking distance of a psycho serial killer. She jumped when Holly leaped to her feet, walked to the window, gazed out. “Where the fuck is she?”
A knock on the door answered the question. Bev had one too. “What are you going to do?”
“What do you think?” The knife must’ve been on the sill. Smiling, Holly slashed it through the air. Bev blinked as light glinted on the blade.
“Life for a life, eh, old man?”
Byford screamed as a bone cracked in his face. A second later Young smashed the gun into the other cheek. Blood already gushed from the superintendent’s nose, dripped from his chin. Two teeth were on the carpet, others loose in the gums, lips split.
“Didn’t hear you, cop,” Young sneered, whipped back the gun. Byford braced himself, eyes tight. There was a rush of cool air as Young took a swing, stopped a hair’s breadth from impact. “Not time yet, old man. Don’t want you passing out on me again.”
Byford could barely speak; if he could, he wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction. Anyway, Young was revelling in the sound of his own voice. He’d told the detective every gory detail. Bragged about how he’d planned the deaths, how hit men had carried out the killings, how he’d bankrolled it all with his compensation money. And how he’d pointed Byford in Maxwell’s direction, every false step of the way. The big man groaned. Every confessional word was a nail in his coffin.
Young’s white suit was already splattered with Byford’s blood. “Remember what you got me sent down for, cop? Do you know what happens to child killers inside?” The ex-con wanted eye contact, smacked the detective’s face till he got it. “They get a hard time like you wouldn’t believe.” Cold steel bit into raw flesh. “You believed, though, didn’t you? Hard Time?” He sniggered. “There’s no programme, you arrogant twat.” Another spit in the face. “Fucking flatter yourself, cop.”
Fixated on Maxwell, the superintendent hadn’t even checked Young’s information. Even though it had always been his mantra to Bev: check, check, check again. Her picture flickered in his head: heart-shaped face, teasing smile, wide mouth. The image was still there when he closed his eyes.
“Wake up, cop.” Young slammed a boot into Byford’s shin. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your moment of glory.” A wild wave of the gun took in the cameras. “Time to shoot your famous final scene.”
A Bob Seger track. Byford heard the music in his head as Young breathed curry fumes in his face. The detective prayed silently to a god he’d spurned since childhood. The gun was hard against his temple; Young’s voice hissing in his ear.
“Twenty years, I’ve waited for this.” Slow pressure on the trigger. “Time to die, cop.”
44
Seconds to decide. Seconds to save – or lose – a life. Holly wouldn’t give a fuck about her own. It had been crap from the word go. She’d killed before; she’d murder her mother in a heartbeat. Bev’s pounded her ribs. Jenny would take a blade if she didn’t act.
“Don’t even think about it.” A man’s voice from behind. It couldn’t be...
Startled, confused, Bev whipped her head round.
Holly laughed. “Quite the family reunion, isn’t it?”
Richard Page, unsmiling, stood in the sliding door, Daniel limp in his arms. Holly strolled over, kissed Page full on the lips. “Couldn’t have done it on my own, could I, darling?”
Bev closed her eyes: the great fucking detective. Page had traded Jenny in for a younger model: fuck mother, fuck daughter. Grim-faced, Holly beckoned to Bev. With the knife. “Let the bitch in.”
Mind racing, she walked slowly to the door, playing for time that was fast running out. Her plan: grab Jenny, leg it, alert control. Page wouldn’t hurt his son.
A calming breath. Plan wasn’t perfect... The blade pressed into her spine. Plan wasn’t possible.
“One false move,” Holly hissed, “you’ll never walk again.”
Slumped shoulders, sunken cheeks – in the long black coatdress Jenny looked as if she was in mourning. The moonlight cast dark shadows on a complexion the colour of ash. Barely a glance at Bev; the wary green eyes were focused to the side. The face showed emotions Bev could never imagine. Jenny knew she was staring at the daughter she’d left to die.
“Seeing a ghost?” Mocking, contemptuous. The expression had been meaningless to Bev before. But Holly was right. Jenny looked haunted by a past she’d tried to bury.
“Bring her in,” Holly ordered.
Bev glanced over Jenny’s shoulder. The street was deserted. Where the fuck was Mac? He was supposed to be tailing Richard Page. In the seconds since the smarmy bastard had shown up, it had been her chink of light at the end of a long flooded tunnel.
The room was getting crowded. Jenny registered nothing but her son. She dashed to the settee where Daniel lay on his side. “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll...”
Bev glanced round, desperately seeking a weapon. If she could reach the lamp, the bottle...
“You’ll what?” Holly mocked. “Give me a smack? Send me to bed without any supper?” Her voice grew ragged. “There was a time I’d have given my right arm for you to do that. But you weren’t there.” She ran a finger along the blade. “Were you, Mummy?”
On her knees, Jenny stroked Daniel’s brow, didn’t even look round. “Take the money. Please. Just go.”
“We will. And Dan-Dan’s coming with us.”
Jenny’s hand stilled; her eyes followed her daughter’s gaze. God knows what was going through her mind; one word issued from her lips. “Richard?” He couldn’t look at her; watched his feet shuffling the carpet.
Bev flung him a contemptuous glance, then froze. Willed herself not to react. Trick of the light? Or had she caught a fleeting shadow outside?
Daniel mumbled in his sleep, threw an arm over his shorn head.
“I’d love to stay and chat, catch up on old times.” Holly laughed. “But places to go, planes to catch, you know how it is.”
“Fat chance.” Bev sniffed. She needed to draw metaphorical fire. Mac’s fat frame had just flashed across the french window again.
“Lippy cow, aren’t you?” If looks could kill. At least she had Holly’s attention.
“You’re kidding yourself, sunshine.” Bev’s stare was flat, unafraid. “Only one place you’re going. One-way ticket. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds.”
“We’re wasting time.” Richard’s voice trembled. “Let’s get it over with.”
Holly’s gaze was still fixed on Bev. Even set in a sneer, her face was stunning, breathtaking.
“Take after your mum, don’t you, love?”
The barb hit home, but recovery was quick. “And from.” She turned to Jenny. “Kiss the boys goodbye, Mummy.”
Tears welled; Jenny’s face was wet from those already shed. She rose, her expression unreadable as she looked into her daughter’s eyes. “Can I kiss you first?”
Holly’s mouth gaped in stunned silence. Jenny’s voice faltered, her stare stayed rock steady. “I never ever stopped loving you. I dreamt of holding you in my arms. I knew you’d been found. I keep the cutting in my purse.” An unwitting smile, faded. “Every single day of your life, I’ve lived with guilt.”
“Bull
shit.” Holly tapped a foot, knife held at her side. “You were a money-grabbing tramp. The only way you could have ditched me faster was with an abortion. Don’t look so shocked, Jen.” She gave a sly smile. “I heard it from your witch of a mother before her –” She made a shoving motion with her hands – “accident.”
“But I didn’t, did I?”
A flicker of uncertainty. “What?”
“Abort you. It never crossed my mind for a second.”
Holly mimed a violin playing.
“You have every right to hate me...”
“I do.” Holly’s eyes shone. “With a passion.”
“You’ll never know how much I ached to hold you.” Tears flowed down Jenny’s cheeks.
“Then why?” She took a step closer, eyes searching her mother’s face. “Why did you dump me?”
“I was little more than a child myself. I couldn’t give you the life you deserved.”
“You left me to die.”
“I never meant to hurt you, Holly. I know it’s too late.” Jenny held out her arms. “But one kiss, one hug, then I’ll go.”
Holly wavered further, then stepped forward.
Jenny wrapped her in a warm embrace.
And knifed her in the back.
45
Bursts of static, barked orders. A voice cut through the babble: officer down, officer down. Hammer blow. Bev hunched, retched, willed herself to keep driving, to get there. Kings Heath seemed a lifetime away. Live commentary played on the speaker as terrifying pictures ran unbidden in her head.
“Dear God. Dear God.” Don’t let me be too late. White knuckles showed through Holly’s dried blood on her hands. She dashed angrily at scalding tears, left warpaint smears on her face. “If the guv dies...” The warning was hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ll kill you!” God? Grant Young? Page? Holly? Jenny?
She fumbled for a baccy, lit it with trembling fingers. Bad for the health? Yeah. Like psychos. Deep drag, then another, then another, red glow in the dark. Whatever gets you through. “Don’t die on me, guv.” Sod the age gap, the rank divide; if the big man made it, first chance she got she’d hit on him like there was no tomorrow. What if there isn’t?
Hard Time Page 24
