Death Line (23 page)

“Maybe the killer didn’t want to cause Josh pain.” Dumb answer. She tried to stifle a snort. Bastard killed the boy, didn’t he? “Sorry, sergeant, I didn’t
really think that through. Maybe I’d better stick to the facts in future, not muscle in on your territory.” The voice held the faintest hint of amusement.

No, doc – muscle in, do. Bev fanned her face with a sheaf of papers. God, it was hot in here. Or was it just her? Either way, the downdraught displaced some of the stuff on the desk,
revealed a pic of Roland Haines’s ugly mug; his creepy eyes stared up at her. She curled a lip. Then froze. What was it Mac said that night at the railway cutting? Haines wouldn’t have
known what hit him. No, because he was dead already. But surely he had to be sedated first? Like Eric Long had to be out of it before someone took a butcher’s knife to his wrists. If
methadone was bad enough for Josh...

She strolled to the window, gazed out over the car park. “Doc? Roland Haines? You don’t...”

“The thought had occurred. And Eric Long. I’m pushing the lab hard, sergeant.”

A looker and on the initiative ball. “Hard as you like, doc.” She winced. That so could have been better phrased.

“Trust me...” He fed her the line.

“You’re a doctor.” And she made him laugh.

“Tell you what, why don’t you call me Joe? Anything but Doc. Reminds me of all those westerns: Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday et al shooting up Dodge City.” She had a sudden vision
of the guy in cowboy gear with a gun in his pocket.
What is it with you, Beverley?
Mind, the mental picture was a lot more inspiring than the current view of police cars and traffic
cones.

“Joe it is then. It’ll be my pleasure, d...” Why oh why did the giggle have to sound so girly? Still, he was clearly in no hurry to wind things up and there was no harm in a
little wheel-oiling small talk. “And... please... call me...”

“Beverley... I heard. Comes from Old English. Know what it means?”

Intelligent, interesting, informative. Him, she meant. “Got me there, doc.”

“No reason you should. Names are a bit of a hobby with me... boring, I know...”

“No.” Never: whatever floats your boat. “Go on. Share it with me.”

“Beaver stream.”

The smile vanished. “Beaver stream.” She so wished she hadn’t asked.

“Or meadow. Beaver meadow.” Was he taking the piss? Enough already.

“Just call me Bev, eh? Must dash.” Pulling a face, she ended the call.

“Beaver stream?” Mac was propping up a wall, arms resting on paunch, legs crossed at the ankle. “What’s that all about then?”

She spun round, eyes flashing. “How long you been nebbing it, mate?”

“Just slipped in, boss.” He tilted his head. “Door was open.”

“So?” She flounced back to her chair. “I was busy.”

“That what you call it?” Sotto voce.

“Watch your lip.”

“More mileage watching this.” He fumbled in a pocket, held aloft a security camera tape. “May I, boss?” Must’ve known he was pushing his luck. She nodded briskly,
not a happy beaver. She watched as he wandered to the player, inserted the tape, hit play.

It showed the inside of a betting shop, lots of punters, a bank of TV monitors. Picture wasn’t brilliant, a bit grainy. She rose, moved nearer the screen. “Is it Ladbrokes?”
Where Roland Haines had lost a few shirts.

“Try again.” Mac had. He was another guy who’d shown a bit of initiative. He told her he’d had no joy at Ladbrokes so he’d been visiting other bookies within a five
mile radius, struck gold at Joe Coral’s. For gold read Haines and Bobby Wells in shot on the same frame. Wells was on the move and only in profile. Blink and you’d miss it. But it was
there. Mac paused the tape. “Bobby lied, boss. Said he’d never set eyes on Roland Haines.”

“Bingo. Well done, mate.” Sure it wasn’t a full house, but it was a line. A line that needed pursuing. Armed with the new knowledge they’d re-interview Bobby Wells, apply
a bit more pressure this time. She glanced at her watch: one-fifteen.

“Let’s hope it’s a photo-finish, eh, boss?” He tapped the side of his nose.

“God, you slay me.” She dismissed him with a flap of her hand. “Car park. Ten minutes. You’re driving. Don’t be late.”

He waited until he was at the door. “The doc, then, boss? Into beavers, is he?”

It took Bev four of those minutes to nip to the loo, dab on lippie, finger-comb her hair and make sure there were no cookie crumbs stuck in her teeth. The guv had said he
wanted developments delivered personally. Five minutes would do just fine for a brisk, businesslike, professional presentation. Hovering now on the threshold of Byford’s office, she pinched a
bit of colour into her cheeks. The door opened while she was pulling a bra strap straight. Classy start.

“Bev?” Pause. “Did you want a word?” The big man’s lip curved the merest tad.

“Quick one, guv. Unless you’re on the way out?” Didn’t look to be – no jacket, keys, files on him.

“No worries.” Waving an arm at a chair he walked to his desk. It felt right somehow sitting opposite the big man talking about a case again; talking about anything, come to that.
Good job she’d made the effort, his warm grey eyes rarely left her face. She mentioned Mac’s tape, making sure he got the credit then relayed the tox results, wrapped it up by saying
the labs would hopefully now fast-track the Haines and Long blood samples.

Byford played a red pen through his fingers. “Methadone? Wasn’t Haines a user?”

Shit. He was. Should’ve struck her before. A search team had found heroin at his pad and he’d used a line of Charlie as a sweetener to get a bed for the night out of his
stepsister.

“I think he only dabbled, guv.”

“Think?” He raised an eyebrow.

“’Kay.” Slapped wrist. “Needs checking.” Couldn’t immediately see where it would get them though.

Laying down the pen, he sat back, fingers laced behind his head. “It’s possible he was trying to come off it and was on a methadone treatment programme.”

“What?” She frowned. “You saying the perp – who’d already used methadone to kill Josh – bumped Haines off with his own supply that just happened to be lying
round?” Killed by a cure. That was novel. It was also a hell of a stretch.

He shrugged. “I never...”

“...rule anything out. I know.” She smiled, knew a zillion other things, too. None of them to do with work. She banished the thoughts, needed a clear head. “Don’t see how
it fits though, guv.”

“Truth be told, neither do I.” He gave a crooked smile, walked to the window, perched on the sill. She had a sense of déjà vu, but then she’d watched him do it a
thousand times. “Neither am I convinced whoever killed Josh also murdered Haines,” he said.

“And Eric Long?”

“And Long. We could really do with the tox results.”

He ran both hands over his face. The harsh sunlight streaming through the window wasn’t doing him any favours. His lines looked a lot deeper than she remembered. The George Clooney
resemblance was less striking. Mind, Clooney was looking less himself these days, what with the eye lift. She couldn’t see the big man going in for cosmetic surgery somehow. Maybe it was a
temporary thing and he was just up against it, like Powell said. If they were still an item, she could ease the...
Stop it, get a grip, woman.

“At least the test results would help us know what we’re dealing with. Until then it’s not much more than informed guesswork.”

That was guv-speak for pissing in the wind. “Doctor King says he’ll push the lab, guv.”

He nodded, loosened his tie. “I need a drink.” He meant water, headed for the cooler.

While the cat’s... Shuffling forward she gave his desk a quick scan. He’d not been marking essays with that red pen. So what had he been up to? No way. Property pages, and he’d
circled three, no, four houses. Squinting she read the name of the paper: Westmorland Gazette. Sodding hell.

“Seen enough, Bev?” He was holding the cup to his lips. Seemed to find it amusing.

“You bet.” Or not. Standing now, tight-lipped, she glimpsed a file half hidden under a load of other stuff. The Baby Fay case notes. It was a hell of a time since they’d been
around, she certainly didn’t recall the file being so bulky. If Byford was taking on board all the emotional baggage again, no wonder his eyes had a set of luggage.

Tough. It was his choice. And he’d need suitcases when he headed off into the sunset.

She couldn’t believe it. The fucking Lake District.

And to think she’d been working up to say how brilliant it was to work with him again, just like old times. Yeah right. She hoisted her bag, headed for the door.

“You heading out to see Bobby Wells now?”

“Yep.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Yep.”

“And tell Mac – good work.”

“Yep.”

In the doorway, she finally turned. “Hey guv? I’d like to say how good it is to have you back... I’d like to.”

“Hey sergeant?” Granite-faced, he caught up with her in the corridor. “How’d you like to tell Stacey Banks her son’s body can be released for burial?”

In the gents five minutes later, Byford plunged his face in a sink of cold water. The Stacey Banks dig had been below the belt but Bev had asked for it. OK, not asked for it.
But nosing round his desk, putting two and two together, coming out with a crack like that – what did she expect?

Certainly not the dart he’d shot back. The case was getting to him as much as her. He snatched a handful of paper towels, dried off in front of the mirror. On reflection he regretted the
remark. He pictured her blue eyes tearing up, her mouth a tight line. There’d been more than pain and hurt there. For the first time he’d seen contempt directed his way. Maybe
dislike.

For a few minutes back in his office he’d sensed a real thaw. He’d watched her talk, her face mirroring every expression. He’d always loved that. Sighing, he ran a comb through
his hair. Bev could no more hide her feelings than he could wear his heart on a sleeve. It partly explained the dithering. Christ, they could make the final of the pussyfooting Olympics, on crossed
wires.

Just for once he’d come close if not to making a move, at least to dropping a hint, and now where were they? Back to square one would be good. After the last exchange, he’d be lucky
to get on the board. For all her famed empathy, Bev hadn’t a clue how he felt. With the pressure of the case building, time to tell her was running out.

And she was crap at maths.

Mac held the car door for her. “So what kept you, boss?”

“Just drive, eh, Mac.”

He clocked her face and for once did exactly as he’d been told.

Paul Curran stood in DCI Knight’s office running a fraught hand through sandy hair slick with sweat. A cheap tie was askew and a trainer lace undone. Since returning to
Highgate from the Stirchley crime scene, the press officer had apparently done nothing but field calls from a frenzied media clamouring for news on Eric Long’s death. “My mother told me
there’d be days like this, Mr Knight, but...” Empty palms said it all.

Mine too, thought Knight. He’d been toying with putting in for a transfer. Unlike Curran, the DCI’s cool pose and casual demeanour gave nothing away. Leaning back in his swivel
chair, he crossed a languid leg. “What are they after this time, Paul?”

“Preferably an interview with the SIO. Statement at the very least. They want confirmation of things I know sod all... sorry, sir... nothing about.”

“Like what? Sit down.” Curran’s nerves were getting on Knight’s.

“Like Eric Long didn’t kill himself. That it was staged to look that way. That there’s a maniac on the loose.”

Knight steepled his fingers. It wasn’t guesswork. So who the hell was feeding the pack intelligence? The leaks weren’t just jeopardising the inquiry, they were partly to blame for
what Knight saw as his demotion. And who was supposed to have been tracing the source? Yeah right. Byford. He’d like to know just how far the man now in charge had put himself out.

“We have to keep information back, Paul. Only officers on the inquiry are in the loop. You know we can’t release everything.”

“For sure, but when I’m not privy to what’s going on it makes the job impossible. Hacks are telling me stuff I don’t know. I end up looking stupid.” The clipped
tone and slight flush suggested professional pique. The DCI knew how he felt, but in the nose-out-of-joint stakes it was no contest. Curran needed to get over it.

He picked up a pen. “I’ll have a word with the chief, get back to you soon as, OK?”

Curran sighed, clearly resented the casual dismissal. “Cheers.” He stood, opened his mouth to speak, appeared to think better of it.

“Was there something else?”

He hesitated briefly then: “No, it’s nothing.” Head down, he started walking away. Seemed to Knight he was dragging his feet.

“Sure about that, Paul?”

Fingers resting on the door handle, he turned back. The blush deepened, he was reluctant to make eye contact. “Look... it may be nothing... tales out of school and all that... it’s
just... the leak... I’m hearing a name being bandied about.” Clearly uneasy, the guy shuffled from foot to foot.

“Never mind school, let’s have a little chat.” He beckoned the press officer back to his seat. Knight’s indifference was feigned, the DCI was on full alert. He recalled
Byford mentioning in passing yesterday that Paul Curran might be on to something but felt it was too early to name names.

Curran perched on the edge of the upright, smoothed then fidgeted with his tie. “I’ve heard a few of the news guys shooting off. You know what they’re like when they’ve
had a drink.”

“
I
don’t.” The remark was pointed.

Curran read the DCI’s tacit disapproval. “I don’t make a habit of it, Mr Knight. I thought if I was around I might pick something up.” Still fiddling with the tie.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly one of the lads. Handy, sometimes, though... blending into the background.” The laugh was brittle, the tone bitter.

Knight couldn’t give a toss about Curran’s public profile. “How handy?”

More displacement activity. This time he rubbed the back of his neck, dislodged a few skin cells. Knight felt like wringing it. “The name keeps coming up, Mr Knight. Not just in the pub,
I’ve heard it at crime scenes, reporters hanging round killing time gossiping, banging on...”