Death Line (15 page)

“Look, copper, I’ve told you I can’t help. End of.”

“You still on the register, Long?” Course he was. One of the first things they’d checked.

He curled his lip. “What’s this all about? I made a mistake years ago... I paid my dues... so unless you’ve got...”

“Tell you what I’ve got. Our informant doesn’t just place you at the scene of a crime. He also describes seeing you bundle Josh Banks into a car.”

“Well, he’s fucking wrong.”

“Prove it. Where were you?”

“Where’s your wife, Mr Long?” Both men glanced at DC Pemberton who’d asked the question. “Maybe we could ask her.” Carol cocked her head.

“Leave her out of this, I don’t want her bothered.”

“If I were you, I’d be bothered.” Powell scratched his jaw. “See, if you were there, we’ll prove it. And if you weren’t, someone’s got it in for you big
time, haven’t they?”

“Tell you the truth, matey. Either way, I don’t give a flying fuck.” He reached for a pack of Embassy, slowly eased one out and held it between two tapering fingers that ended
in long dirty nails. “Got a light? Save me getting up?”

“You are getting up, sunshine. Right up my nose. Get dressed. You’re under arrest.”

“Twenty Silk Cut and a lighter, please, mate.” The newsagent was sampling his merchandise. Sat on a stool behind the counter, he had his nose in the
Sunday
Mercury.
It was the guy she’d seen earlier having a fag in the shop doorway. Tasty close-up, too. She flashed a smile. His eyes widened; he dropped his glance back to the paper then at
Bev again. Classic double-take.

“Don’t do you any favours, does it?” Turning the paper round, he laid it on the counter. The finger-pointing was superfluous; the picture was unmissable. A snapper had snatched
it at the news conference. Her mouth open, one eye shut, she looked like a Sumo wrestler with special needs.

“Bad angle.” She sniffed.

He pursed his lips, gave her the once-over. “Yeah.” Even turbaned up, he bore a passing resemblance to Oz Khan. High cheekbones, warm brown eyes, full lips, the denims were tight and
a white T-shirt hugged a taut neat frame. For a second or two, she fantasised how he’d look in the buff, lustrous locks flowing over sculpted shoulder blades, down flawless spine till they
skirted his... She swallowed, tore her gaze away, reached for a couple of KitKats, caught sight of the picture and grabbed a pack of Polos instead. Sugar free.

“You here on Josh’s case?” He handed her the ciggies and lighter.

“Yeah.” Josh? First name terms? It wasn’t just his physique that took her fancy now. “Knew him, did you?” She slipped the baccy in her bag.

“Nice lad.” Mouth tight, he shook his head. “He’d run in here sometimes to get away from the other kids. We’d have a little chat. Footie, Doctor Who, his favourite
comics.”

Interest more than piqued, she kept her voice level. “Get away? How’d you mean?”

“Some of the bigger kids bullied him... made his life hell...”

“What’d they do?”

“Beat him up, threw stones, nicked stuff. Not cash. Never had two pennies to rub together did Josh. They ran off with his school books, pencils, rubbers... Snatched his glasses twice to my
knowledge.”

“What?” Glasses like the ones they’d not been able to trace; like the ones he’d been wearing when he disappeared.

He nodded. “He’d come in crying. I’d give him a few sweets, try and cheer him up a bit.” Tasty and sensitive; the guy’s eyes were brimming. Bev’s heart bled
for Josh, and she balled her fists. But how come quality intelligence like this hadn’t been picked up before? Knight had flooded the area with officers tasked to talk to people like...?

“What’s your name, mate?”

“Amrik Singh.”

She held out a hand. “Detective Sergeant...”

“Beverley Morriss. Yeah, I read the story.” Nice smile.

“These youths – know who they are, where they live?”

“Look, I’m sure it was only kids’ stuff. Boys will be...” Then saw her face. “You don’t think...?”

“I’d like a word, that’s all.” It was a big leap from bullying to bumping somebody off. But the violence could’ve spiralled, got out of hand. More likely the kids
might’ve seen something the day Josh went missing. And at the very least the toerags needed a damn good talking at. Come to think of it... “Did you see Josh last Wednesday,
Amrik?”

“Haven’t set eyes on him for a couple of weeks. I’ve been in India.”

She glanced round. “So who was looking after the shop?” And may have witnessed something.

“Me dad’s brother.”

“He here?”

“I can give you his address.”

She jotted the details down; best get someone there in case he’d slipped the interview net. “These kids, then?” Pen still poised. “Any names?”

“I’d like to help...” He broke eye contact, fiddled round straightening papers. You didn’t have to be Einstein. Big kids often had big brothers and brick shithouse dads.
Amrik was scared of reprisals if he blabbed. “We have a lot of trouble in here... shoplifting, abuse, racial attacks.”

She could believe it, had a certain amount of sympathy, but a shed-load more for a little boy lying on a slab in the morgue. “Look, Amrik, they’re not gonna find out who told us.
You’ve got my word on that.”

“Easy for you to say.”

She waited till he looked up. “It’s not for my benefit, Amrik.”

He paused, weighing it up then: “Ringleader’s a yob called Brett.”

She stiffened. “Brett Sullivan?” The absentee mobile phone owner.

“Yeah, d’you know him?”

“Could say that.” But not as well as she was going to. She’d give Darren New a call, get him on the case, soon as. Amrik gave her a couple more names and she handed him her
card in case anything came to mind. Thanking him, she hoisted her bag, headed for the door. Her fingers were on the handle when he called. “Er... sergeant? One more thing...”

Tentative. Shy? She’d been spot on: he had given her the glad eye earlier. Hey? Maybe she’d scored?

“Six seventy-six.”

Blank look. “Come again?”

He held out a flat palm. “The smokes?”

Tetchy, jumpy, Eric Long was itching for a nicotine hit. Tough. Interview Room Three was non-smoking. He was sweating it out in there now with a burly uniform on the door for
company. Powell leant against the wall in the corridor outside jotting a few notes, waiting on Knight and Pemberton. The DCI would be in a viewing suite watching as the interview was taped; Pembers
would be in on the session, but was fetching the DI coffee first. God knew why she’d made a song and dance about it.

“How’s it looking, sir?” Mac, shucking into a denim jacket, ambled Powell’s way. “Reckon Long’s good for it?”

“Good for sod all.” He snarled. Long stank to high heaven, they’d have to fumigate the car. The prospect of sharing confined quarters once more was so not appealing.
Wasn’t what Mac wanted to hear, though. “Dunno really, Mac. Too soon to call.”

“Seen that stuff I left on your desk?” Newspaper reports leading up to and including Long’s trial back in 1999.

“Yeah, thanks, mate.” Powell still had a nasty taste in his mouth. “Where you off?”

“Balsall Heath. Hooking up with Bev. Got a couple of interviews lined up. Best get off or...”

“Say no more.” Guts. Garters. Short. Curlies.

“There you go...” Pembers handed him his drink. “Managed to find this as well.”

It looked like a match book, something like that. “What is it?” Puzzled frown.

“Sewing kit.”

The frown deepened. “For...?”

“I’d have mentioned it sooner, but...” She gave a careless shrug.

“What?”

“Not much you could do without needle and thread.” Smiling, she tapped her bum. “And at least we’re not going commando today, are we... sir?”

Light dawned, the DI’s face dropped. “Not the...?” Cursing, he gingerly fingered the seat of his pants. Fucking settee. Four hundred and seventy-nine quid suit down the sodding
drain. And the story’d be all over the station. Long was gonna die.

“When you’re ready, inspector.” Nonplussed, arms folded, Knight was staring. “Get the show on the road, shall we?”

Reluctantly wearing the jacket, DI Powell circled the scarred metal table in IR3. The movement was aimed at keeping Eric Long on his toes, too. It wasn’t working.
Sprawled in a chair, Long’s fingers were laced casually just above his crotch. The small windowless room was hot, stuffy and reeked of body odour. It was pretty cramped in there as well. Long
had opted for the services of a duty solicitor. The fact that lissom blonde Miranda Ellis was easy on the eye was no compensation for Powell’s increasing frustration. It was a recorded
interview. Though under arrest, Long hadn’t been charged, he was supposed to be helping with inquiries. And it was now half an hour since Pemberton had started running the tapes. Thirty
sodding minutes trying to drag from Long where he’d been on the afternoon Josh Banks disappeared. Lip curled, Powell reckoned it was a shame they’d got rid of the rack.

“Why don’t you advise your client to co-operate with us, Ms Ellis? Might save us all a bunch of time?”

She tapped a slim gold pen on a yellow legal pad. “He’s assured you he was nowhere near Marston Road...”

“Do me a favour, love.” Powell loosened the silk tie another three or four inches.

“...and has no idea where it is.”

“Not enough. And you know it.” Powell made to lean into Long’s air space, pulled back at the last moment. He was finding it difficult to mask ragged nerves frayed further by
Long’s constant leg jangling and leer. “So why don’t you say where you were?” Either it risked incriminating him or he was an arsey bastard.

“Can’t recall.” He picked his teeth, examined the nail. “All you need know...”

“Is why you find this so amusing?”

“It’s as funny as a triple hernia.” He stared, hard-faced. “This is police harassment. You got nothing on me.”

Powell tightened his mouth, balled his fists. Cops are trained to treat everyone with respect and restraint. Long was a challenge on both fronts. The newspaper reports Mac had printed off the
web described how Long’s former partner’s nine-month-old baby died in squalor, smeared in shit and covered in cigarette burns. Hannah Cox’s emaciated tiny body had been broken and
bruised. Long and his woman had come out with the usual crap of blaming each other. The mother had been given the heavier sentence, and died in prison from a heroin overdose.

“Got any kids, Mr Long?” Not according to neighbours. Powell wanted to rile the bastard.

“No.” Sullen.

“D’you drive, Mr Long?” The leg movement ceased momentarily. Powell cut Carol Pemberton a glance, she’d clocked it too.

“Yeah. So?”

“Got a motor?” Red Vauxhall according to the officer who’d made the original inquiries.

Two, three second pause. “Did have.”

“Meaning?”

“Got nicked, didn’t it?”

“When?”

“Week or so.” They’d need to go back to the neighbours, find out when it was last seen in the street.

“Report it to the local cops?”

“Like you lot are gonna find it.”

“Insurance company?” He’d need a crime number to claim.

“Not worth pursuing. It was only an old banger.”

Uninsured more like. “Handy that. Our informant says...”

“An anonymous letter, inspector?” The solicitor crossed her legs, the black silk skirt showcasing slender thighs. “It’s not rock solid, is it?”

“Yeah.” Long sat up straight. “So if there’s nothing else...”

“Relax, Mr Long. Those inquiries you’re not helping with? They’re not complete.”

Bev sat next to Mac on the grubby settee in Stacey Banks’s Mill Street council house. Stacey had tidied herself up a bit; the hair looked clean, there were wafts of
fabric conditioner coming off her jogging pants. “So, how long’s he been back?” Bobby Wells. Josh’s not so absent dad. Bev tapped her fingers waiting for an answer.

Head down, Stacey wasn’t making eye contact any time soon. “A while.”

Week? Month? Millennium? “Meaning?”

“Couple a years.”

“Why’d you lie, Stacey?”

“We don’t live together or nothing.”

Or Stacey’d lose her benefits, wouldn’t she? Bev shook her head. “Helps out with a few bob now and again, does he?”

Stacey nodded. “A bit.”

“How did he and Josh get on, love?” Mac asked. Glancing round, Bev noticed a few jars of baby food, a couple of teddies. Powell had mentioned the twins were back.

“They got on... OK.” Stacey picked at a loose thread on the armchair.

Talk about damning with faint praise. “OK?” Bev prompted.

“Josh could get a bit touchy. Jealous, like.” Glancing up, she gave a wry smile. “Liked to think he was the man of the house. Know what I mean?”

Bev hadn’t got a clue. Josh was ten years old for pity’s sake. “Where’s he living now?”

“Bobby?”

No, Barack Obama. Her brisk nod was sufficient prompt.

“He’s got a bedsit in Ada Street, number nine, just off the Moseley Road.” Mac was already jotting it down. “I’ll tell you this for nothing. He wouldn’t lay a
finger on Josh.” Maybe. But what might Bobby Wells lay on someone he erroneously believed killed his son?

“Did he know Roland Haines was in custody?” Bev asked.

Stacey shrugged. “Who didn’t?” Couldn’t argue with that, thanks to the press.

“Did you and Bobby talk about Haines?”

“No.” Too quick?

“Sure ’bout that?”

“Better things to do.”

So’d they. “Mind if I use the loo before we go?”

“Upstairs. Door facing at the top.”

Bev wasn’t going to do it, but couldn’t resist. The bedroom door was ajar. Just a peek, she told herself. The twins were in cots side by side, fast asleep, hands bunched in tiny
fists. She reached a trembling finger to stroke a perfect peachy cheek, marvelled at dark eye-lashes so long they looked false. Her own babies would’ve been getting on for two years old now,
if... She swallowed. Don’t go there, Beverley. One of the babies farted, the boy in blue. Her lip curved in a million mixed emotions. How life could change in the blink of an eye, or the
twist of a blade.

Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be a mother. Nice one, Beverley, there were better turns of phrase. Either way, looking down on these two now had done her a favour, helped crystallise her
thinking. The pain of loss was too much to bear to risk it again. From now on, she’d concentrate on the career.