Death Line (19 page)

Yeah right. Look at how Bev and the guv got on. House on fire. Or what?

Byford swirled a teabag round in his mug. Mint tea. The irritable bowel was playing up again. Irritable something. He’d spent the afternoon working through printouts,
police reports, witness statements. As for making inroads? The in-pile on his left was still higher than the out-pile on his right. Both stacks represented a massive amount of people-hours,
officers, support staff, a shed-load of resources, and what was the current state of play? Grimacing, he sipped the bitter liquid, feared Operation Swift was grounded. It certainly wasn’t
taking off. More than that, he was aware some members of the team were disillusioned, disappointed with Knight, that a few felt the supposed high-flyer wasn’t living up to his billing.
He’d heard the name Lancer-less was being bandied about. Not in the guv’s earshot, or he’d have reprimanded the clowns responsible. But it illustrated the point.

The detective flexed his arms high over his head, hoped to iron out a kink in his spine. He winced. It hadn’t. Blood flow would be better. He stood, strolled to the window, breathed in the
less than fresh air. Sticky, stifling, steamy seemingly for weeks, the weather could do with a break as well as the inquiry – and Knight.

Pensive, he swirled the tea round the mug. Delicate was the word. Definitely tricky. Internal politics, personality clashes, they got in the way of the work. Was there a grain of truth in how
the DCI was coping? The case was complex, large scale. Was it getting out of hand? More specifically, Knight’s hands.

Already the top floor was badgering Byford to take over the DCI’s reins. With no sign of an arrest and cognisant of the bad press, the brass wanted to deflect further criticism by being
seen to take decisive action. Phil Masters, Assistant Chief Constable Operations, had called Byford in that morning. What was it he’d said? Come on, Bill. This could be your last big case.
Good to go out with a bang, eh?

There was a hesitant tap on the door. “Come in.” Byford smiled wryly at the timing.

“Could you run your eye over this, Mr Byford?” Paul Curran approached with presumably a news release in hand. “It needs issuing and the DCI’s not around, sir.”

Byford skimmed the piece, a Crimestoppers appeal, nothing to do with the current major inquiries. The press office, he guessed, had to juggle all sort of balls. “Keeping you busy upstairs,
Paul?”

“Feet don’t touch some days, Mr Byford. I like it that way though.”

“When’s Bernie back with us?”

“November, December, I think.”

The chit-chat petered out. Curran glanced round the office while the big man finished reading the release. “This is fine.”

“Cheers, Mr Byford. I’ll get out of your hair.”

He waited until Curran was at the door. “Any thoughts on the leak, Paul?”

Slight hesitation. He turned, flush-faced. “Maybe.”

The big man cocked his head. “Like to share?”

The flush deepened; Curran couldn’t seem to look the guv in the eye. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather keep it to myself... for a while. Until I’m certain...
it’s not fair to blacken anyone’s name.”

If Byford didn’t know better, he’d say he was in the press officer’s sights. Except Curran was still incapable of making eye contact. Why was he so nervous? And had that press
release really needed the green light from a senior officer? Curious. Comical more like. The guy couldn’t get out of the office fast enough. As Curran opened the door, Byford glimpsed Bev
walking past talking into a mobile. The big man tightened his lips. Hoped she’d enjoy her cosy drink with Mike Powell tonight. Bothered?

He picked up the kettle, wandered out to fetch water. Definitely needed more mint tea.

Brett Sullivan was parched. And very nearly skint. The cash he’d thieved from his mum’s purse hadn’t lasted long. Hands in the pockets of his combats he
wandered along the sea front, taking in the sights, specially the birds, the ones falling out of bikinis. Beach was full of bouncing boobs and wobbly bums. Might take a dip later, he’d need
to rob a few quid first. He’d already earmarked a couple of open bags lying round, ripe for the picking. Worst came to the worst, he’d have to go shopping again. Well, when he said
shopping...

Yeah, coming here had been a smart move. Brighton was dead cool. Right now it was baking, too. Sun was beating down on the back of his neck. Not that he was complaining. If he didn’t get a
better offer, he’d be sleeping in the open tonight. Leaning his elbows on the metal railing, he scoped out the beach. Spot down there would suit him just fine. As he said, smart move...

Unlike the cock-up with the cops. Glowering, he kicked sand through the bars. How dumb could you get? By not withholding his mobile number, he’d as good as given it to them on a plate. And
they’d been sniffing round home: he’d phoned his mum from a call box. Mind, it wasn’t just the Bill he wanted to avoid. If Brett had seen the driver of the red motor that Josh
Banks was stupid enough to get in, it was likely he had been eyeballed by the guy behind the wheel. Way Brett saw it, the cops wanted him to sing, the driver wanted him to shut it. Either way
sticking round Balsall Heath had been a no-brainer.

Pushing himself up from the railing, he sauntered further along the front. His mouth watered at the smells: candy floss and fish and chips, hot dogs and frying onions. His mate Matt’s mum
had cooked a mean roast. Brett had stayed with them a couple of nights, nice place ten-minute walk from the sea. Miserable cow had chucked him out this morning, caught him with his fingers in her
handbag. He sighed. Who cared? Sleeping under the stars’d be cool. Anywhere was better than Birmingham. What with the filth and some nutter on the lookout, the heat was on there an’
all.

Why’d they have to keep hospitals so flaming hot? Bev had only been inside the place five minutes and was in meltdown. She was about to drown in a slimy pool of her own
body fluids, if the dehydration didn’t do for her first, or the heatstroke or the spontaneous combustion... or... or. Get a grip woman. She’d only dropped by on the way home, wanting to
snatch a word with a medico, knew damn well the flights of fantasy were meant to take her mind off the reality.

That in effect, what the attractive young woman in front of her had said was Darren might not make it through the night. Bev and Doctor Cathy Sugar stood facing each other in a narrow corridor
just off the intensive care unit: dove grey décor, stark overhead lights, wishy-washy murals on the walls. Doctor Sugar’s earlier initial-speak had been aimed perhaps at blunting the
message, but the harsh truth was still buried in the bunch of letters. CSF had been added to the list since Bev dropped Mrs New first thing. Sounded less serious, somehow, than cerebrospinal fluid.
Either way it had been detected by the MRI: magnetic resonance imaging. That was the big boy’s version of a CT: it could detect subtle changes in the brain. Cathy Sugar’s big talk had
scared Bev more: the intracerebral haematoma, the hypoxia, the ventriculostomy.

What it boiled down to was: Darren had suffered a depressed skull fracture, there was bleeding into the brain and nowhere for it to go which meant a decrease in oxygen to the surrounding
tissues. The surgery they’d performed was aimed at relieving the pressure. There were no guarantees.

“And when he comes round, doc?” Not
if
– that was tempting fate.

Cathy Sugar ran a hand through her chin-length jet black bob, paused for a few seconds, holding Bev’s anxious gaze. Their eyes were almost the same striking shade of blue, but the
doctor’s ivory skin and full red lips put Bev in mind of Sleeping Beauty. Ms Sugar was clearly working out what to say and how to say it. Come on, doc, spit it out...

“You have to under...” And was dodging the issue.

“When he comes round, doc...” Bev knew her eyes were brimming.

“If he regains consciousness.” Another brief pause then: “The next few hours are critical.”

“Please... give me an idea.” Sounded like she was begging.

The doctor gave a resigned OK-you-asked-for-it sigh. “The brain damage could be permanent. He could suffer memory loss, impaired senses, inability to communicate, depression, personality
changes...”

Bev raised a palm. The words confirmed those she’d boned up on a couple of medical websites. They didn’t cover possible post-operative complications: seizures, CSF leaks, infections
– and multiple organ failure. “Thanks doc, I appreciate it.”

“You were very close, yes?”

“Are.” She felt a tear roll down her cheek. “Are very close.” For a brief period Darren had been her DC; they were good mates, had a laugh. She teased him about coming
from the Andrex puppy school of policing, all that boundless enthusiasm, but a bit wet behind the ears.

“Trust me. We’re doing everything we can.” The warm smile appeared sincere. “As I say... it all hinges on the next few hours. Now if you’ll excuse me...”

Reaching out more than a hand, Bev asked if she could see him. “Just a quick look, doc.” There was no need to say more. Cathy Sugar knew why Bev didn’t want to wait a
while.

Sympathetic shake of the head. “I’m sorry, sergeant, I don’t think...” Maybe it was the look in Bev’s eyes, the raw emotion in her voice. The doctor wavered another
few seconds then: “Stay where you are. I’ll just check.”

Arms folded, Bev paced the corridor a couple of times, the heat no longer bothering her. Her mind was fixed on a set of initials neither she nor the doctor had voiced: PVS.

Was a persistent vegetative state worse than dying? Bev closed her eyes: Dear God, please let him...

“OK, sergeant.” Doctor Sugar beckoned from the end of the corridor. “Come with me.”

She was allowed only a glimpse from the door, saw what could have been an alabaster statue lying in state. A statue with tubes and drains, hooked up to drips, everything bathed in a sickly glow
from a bank of monitoring equipment. There was nothing of Darren there – they’d even shaved his Tom Cruise hair. He’d kill them when he found out. Stifling a sob, Bev bit down
hard on her fist. She felt the doctor’s hand on her arm, for once didn’t flinch.

“We should have a better idea tomorrow, sergeant, if...”

He makes it that long. “It’s Bev.” She scrabbled in her bag, pulled out a card. “Anything changes. Please. Get someone to call me.”

“For sure.” She took the card, glanced up. “You’re shivering, Bev. Are you cold?”

An hour later Bev was chilling out with a medicinal Pinot. She was ensconced in a corner of a Moseley wine bar waiting for Powell’s return with a refill. Novel experience
on both counts: the company and the fact he was getting a round in.

When he’d dropped by Baldwin Street she’d been in the middle of swapping the flat on the MG for a tyre that’d get her and Danny to Bristol first thing. Slaving over a hot jack,
she’d swivelled round at the sound of his voice, found him looming, hands in pockets, sage smirk on face. “Needs a bit more welly, that.” Pontificating wasn’t in it. Thank
you, Kwikfit man.

She’d toyed between doing the feminist bit or telling him to bugger off. Immediately handed over the spanner, with a: “Hey. Why not pat my pretty little head ’fore I go swoon
on the chaise longue?” She’d needed a minute anyway to dab on lippie and slip into clean jeans.

Still smiling at his retort about patting her bum if she didn’t watch the lip, she sipped the last of the wine and scoped out the place. It wasn’t likely there’d be anyone here
she knew. It was all a bit grunge-meets-Goth, loads of kohl and cleavage. And that was just the lady men. Not. The cool clientele of The Cross was getting younger, though. Or maybe it was her
getting... Perish the thought. Grimacing, she recalled the grey hair she’d pulled out that morning.

“Got wind?” Powell winked as he handed her a glass. Maybe she’d overdone the grimace.

“Gonna buy it then?” He’d stumped up for peanuts too; she helped herself to a pack.

“Buy?” Puzzled frown.

Tearing the cellophane with her teeth, she said: “The house you were viewing? Tudor Road wasn’t it?”

“Nah. It was right out of the ark. And it stank of cat pee. Needs too much work.”

Fair enough. The job didn’t leave much time for DIY makeovers. Last thing she’d fancy after spending a shift wading through body parts would be slapping paint on a wall. Especially
red.

Wasn’t all bad news though. Powell had mentioned bumping into Pete Talbot on the way out of the nick that evening. The DI leading the inquiry into Darren’s attack had seemed fairly
happy with the way it was going. In return she’d given Powell an edited version of her hospital visit.

“Pete reckons he’s got a witness then?” Upending the pack, she peered in.

“Maybe. Maybe two.” He wiped a finger round his top lip. “Man and a woman. They live in the flats, something to do with the tenants’ association.”

Heathfield House. She recalled the silhouettes this morning. Like something out of that James Stewart movie,
Rear Window?
“Why the maybes?”

He slumped back, legs spread. “Last few weeks they’ve put in thirty, forty complaints to the nick. Pete got someone to check the logs. They’re gunning for a gang of yobs
who’re running wild, think it’s their turf.”

“Kind with letters after their name?” ASBO, ABC. She tore open the other pack, poured a generous portion into her palm. Wine was going to her head. No bad thing, maybe it’d
drown out some of the crap up there.

“Anti-social, aggressive, abusive. If they’re not tanked-up, they’re off their face on crack or whatever. A lot of the locals are scared to say anything in case they get a
mouthful of fist.” Or shit through the letterbox, brick through the window, knife through the neck. Not surprising people didn’t want to make a stand. Have-a-go heroes were a dying
breed, literally. They risked either ending up dead or putting up a defence in court. “Uniform’ve been out there shed-loads but you know what the place is like...”

Rat runs, back alleys, side streets. And the yobs would have an early warning system. Like urban sodding meerkats without the ah factor. God, she’d like to punch their lights out.