Death Line (24 page)

“Get on with it, lad.” He slung the pen on the desk.

Curran swallowed. “Detective Superintendent Byford.”

“What?” He stifled a snort. No wonder he’d fobbed off the big man. Curran was hardly going to take Byford into his confidence. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He raised both palms. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Mr Knight. I’m only repeating what I’ve heard. It’s all very matey, y’know? Bill this, Bill that, Bill the
other. Could be hacks bigging it up for all I know. It’s just that...” Talk about blood out of stone.

Knight leaned forward. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“I saw cuttings on Byford’s desk. Eric Long.”

“So?” Why the hell not?

“Before the guy was killed.”

Too much. “You’re telling me Byford had something to do with that man’s death?” Knight guffawed.

“No, no, course not. They weren’t all about Long. There was a piece about Roland Haines, several other men I didn’t recognise, that didn’t mean much to me.” He made
eye contact. “I think the stories were all about crimes involving kids.”

“What are you saying?”

“Hasn’t he got a thing about it?”

“Haven’t we all?” Byford wasn’t the only cop who hated adults who preyed on children. “Your point is?”

“I don’t know, Mr Knight. I’ve tried thinking it through, but...” He shrugged. “Maybe Mr Byford thinks the public needs protecting from people like Haines and Long.
However misguided it is – leaking who they are, where they live – maybe he thinks he’s going some way towards achieving that.”

Knight turned his mouth down. Had he dismissed the idea too soon? “Nah, I can’t see it, Paul. He’s a senior detective.”

“Not for much longer, Mr Knight.” He held the DCI’s gaze. “He’s on his way out. Maybe thinks he’s got nothing to lose?”

“Apart from his pension and professional integrity?” Knight shook his head. “This is little more than conjecture and malicious rumour. If it gets out and there’s nothing
behind it, it’ll be your neck on the block.” But what if it was true? Was it just possible Byford thought he was acting in the greater good? Or could the detective be on the make and
arrogant enough to think he was untouchable? Knight didn’t know the man well enough to judge. He needed, as Curran had said, to think this through.

“I know, I know.” The press officer raised both palms. “It’s why I came to you, Mr Knight. And I’m sure you’re right. Shame there’s no way of checking
calls.”

There was. Knight knew that if Byford was ringing from an internal phone, logs would show duration and frequency of calls. If they were suspect, an interceptional tap could be set up that would
enable them to listen in. Depending what came out, they could go further and request billing details from Byford’s private phone provider. If. Could. Maybe. It’d never get authorised on
such flimsy grounds.

Knight picked up his pen. “What exactly have you got, Paul?” He wanted commas and full stops, not just chapter and verse.

“What you doing here? Thought I’d seen the back of you lot.” The only part of Bobby Wells that was on show was his aesthetically challenged face. The rest of
the guy was hidden behind a front door woodworm wouldn’t rent. Cooking smells wafted up from the kebab place below, not the sort to make the mouth water. Wells gave Bev and Mac the onceover
then sneered. “You the fat blue line then?” The crack must’ve been hilarious.

“Sorry, Mr Wells. Didn’t quite catch you.” Smiling brightly, Bev stepped closer. “Was that a ‘Good afternoon, officers. Welcome to my humble abode. How may I
help?’”

“Sarky cow.” Making to close the door was his second mistake. Bev’s foot slipped. The rotting wood split and splintered. “Fuck was that for?” Whinge whinge. He was
lucky she wasn’t wearing the Docs, the door might’ve come off the hinge, the dent would certainly be bigger. Mind, her toe wouldn’t be throbbing so hard.

“Resisting arrest.”

“I’m not.”

“You are now. Cuff him, Mac.” It was a bluff. They’d nothing to hold him on. Lying wasn’t a criminal offence. Hopefully he’d not call it. They could maybe have a
sniff round too while they were here, without the need for time-wasting red tape. Mac reaching in a pocket was enough for Wells to change his tune.

“No need for that, love. Course I’ll let you in. Fancy a cuppa?” The obsequious smile was gut churning, too little dental work on display.

Disguising the limp, she brushed past him, straight into a stuffy squalid sitting room. Paper peeled off walls that in the current heatwave weren’t even damp. What rolls were in situ were
vomit-inducing swirls of lurid purples and greens. God knew what was ingrained into the grubby carpet but her feet were sticking to it. As an incentive to get on with the interview, it was up there
with a world cruise. Propped on the mantelpiece was a framed photograph of Josh. It was a sobering reminder why they were here, and the only decent thing in the place.

Wells was wringing Uriah Heep hands. The sudden fawning was probably down to the ganja fumes clinging to the upholstery and his granddad shirt. “Like some tea?”

“I’d like the truth.”

“Not with you, love.” He sank skinny haunches into the sort of settee normally found on a skip, a hand signal suggested they find their own place to squat.

“Drop the love, Mr Wells.” She’d already scoped out the least unsavoury seat, perched now on the fraying arm of a wing chair. Mac played sentry at the door. “If
you’re not with me... how about Roland Haines? When’s the last time you and Roly cosied up?”

Nonplus central. His Dopey was better than Walt Disney’s. “Dunno what you mean. Never set eyes on the man.” Again. It was like a line in a script.

“Sure about that?” Mac asked.

“Hundred and ten per cent.”

Not a mathematical genius. She gave a mental eye roll. “What you reckon, Mac?”

“Amazing.”

“Extraordinary.”

“Absolutely.”

“And fucking incredible.”

Following the rapid fire with head turns, Wells was in danger of whiplash. Or he could have been auditioning for a remake of
The Exorcist.
“What’s going on here?”

“Not here, Mr Wells. Joe Coral’s Tenby Street... what date was it, Mac?”

He pulled a notebook from a breast pocket. “Sixteenth June.” Turned a few pages. “Twenty-first June. Fourth July.” Bev kept a straight face; Mac was making it up on the
hoof.

“Told you before...” Wells reached for a baccy tin on the floor. She watched as he rolled a few strands in a liquorice paper. Was the slight tremor in his fingers down to nerves? Or
the track marks she’d just spotted on his arms? Glancing at Bev, he moistened the edge of the paper with his tongue. “I like a flutter.”

Still processing the fact Wells was a user, she said: “Roland Haines did too.”

Shrugging, he sparked up, released smoke trails through both nostrils. God. It was enough to make you swear off the weed for life. “As I say, I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Got a twin, Wells?”

“Not that I know of.” Back to cocky now, he sprawled in the chair, flicked ash on the floor.

She balled a fist. “Yesterday I was not born. You were there with him.” To an extent, it was a flyer. The tape showed only that they’d been in the same room.

“Prove it.”

Staring at Wells, she held out a hand to the side. “Got the pictures, Mac?”

“Damn, boss. They’re back at the nick.” Course they were.

“No worries.” She jumped to her feet. “Come on, sunshine.”

That put the wind up him. Straightening sharpish, he looked scared, panicky almost. “No, please. I don’t...”

“Have a choice.” She gave a thin smile. “Grab a toothbrush if I were you.”

“I met him a couple times. OK.” Elbows on knees, he dropped his head.

Better. Even better than she’d anticipated. “For?” Not that she didn’t have an idea.

“He could always get hold of... stuff.” Haines wasn’t his regular supplier, Wells said, just now and then: heroin, cocaine, cannabis. They’d met a few months back in a
pub.

“You knew he was being held for questioning in connection with your son’s death?” Bev asked.

Wells nodded. “Sorry, love, I need the loo.” He flicked the baccy into the empty grate.

Could hardly refuse, but she gave an inward groan. “DC Tyler can hold your hand.”

Sodding nuisance. It ruined the flow. She waited until they were outside before taking a quick snoop. Rifled the usual places: in and under cushions, top of shelves, chimney breast. Not even
sure what she was looking for. The stash was no surprise and wasn’t even hidden. Few baggies, couple of needles behind a plant pot. If nothing else they could take him in on...

“Sarge! In here.” Following the stink, she barged through the right door first, found Wells trying to squeeze through the bathroom window. Mac had a firm grip on both ankles,
obviously not before taking a kick in the face. Bev grabbed the guy’s legs and together they manoeuvred him back. Skinny as he was, he’d never have made it. As for the drop, he’d
likely have snapped his neck. How desperate did he have to be?

She shook her head as Wells pulled his clothes straight, ran a hand through his hair. Mac wiped blood from his nose with a wad of loo paper.

“Not looking good, Houdini.” She tapped a foot.

“Sod off.” Surly, scared.

“You lied through your teeth then tried to do a runner. Why?”

“Because you lot would’ve had me in. I’ve been banged up before. Never again. And, please, you’ve got to believe me, I didn’t kill the guy. I swear I’m
telling the truth.”

And change the habits of a life time? Yeah right.

“When did you last see him?”

“Friday. In the street. He’d just been released.”

“Speak to him?”

“No.”

“How come you knew we’d just let him go?”

“Must’ve read it in the paper.”

She handed him a skanky toothbrush from a chipped mug. “Best grab a coat too, Mr Wells.”

“Why?”

“Resisting arrest.” It would do for a start.

Mac chucked bloodstained tissue down the pan. “And assaulting a police officer.”

“Are you limping, sarge?” DC Danny Rees caught up with Bev in the corridor at Highgate. He’d not long arrived back from Bristol with Carol Pemberton. Bev had
spotted their motor pulling into the station car park ten minutes or so ago when she’d been leaning through the office window trying to cool down. It was hotter than the Med out there, sky
was bluer, too. Not that Danny or Carol had looked in particularly sunny mood.

“Had an argument with a door.” Bev sniffed. Sodding toe was still throbbing, she’d dabbed a bit of witch hazel on it. “Mind, you should see Mac’s nose.” She
gave Danny the gist of the interview, the fact that Wells was now in a police cell. “The guv’s gonna have a session with him later.” Smiling to herself, she replayed the exchange
she’d just had with Byford. After delivering Wells to the custody suite, she’d headed straight for the big man’s office and dumped a Gregg’s bag on his desk. For you,
she’d said. He’d asked if it was his leaving present. She wasn’t the only one who did sardonic. No, guv, she’d countered. It’s humble pie. I’m sorry. It
wasn’t often she grovelled to anyone but she’d been well out of order. Apology accepted, sergeant, he’d said, fancy a drink after...?

“Sorry, Danny, come again.”

“I said it’s a good job somebody’s being questioned.” Reverie broken, she picked up on his downbeat tone.

“Waste of petrol, was it?”

He held the door for her. “In a way.” He seemed reluctant to share what was obviously bugging him, but even so tailed her into the incident room.

“Was or it wasn’t, Danny.” She made for the central desk, acknowledging nods and raised hands from the half-dozen squad members bashing phones or tapping keyboards. Danny
perched on the edge as she leafed through a stack of printouts playing catch-up. “I’m pretty sure neither of the men killed Roland Haines, sarge.”

“Fair enough. Needed checking though.” After the case collapsed, Clive Sachs and Neil Proctor had slagged off Haines left, right and centre in the media; a series of threats
culminated in them turning up at his house one night with a noose. They were clearly spoiling for a fight but Haines wasn’t up for it. The Bristol cops reckoned the harassment campaign was
why he left town.

“They still hate him,” Danny said. “Piss on his grave if they could. But the list of recent movements they gave us seems to stand up. We left a couple more checks with a local
DC but I can’t see it amounting to much.”

“So it was a waste then. Way it goes sometimes, Danny.” Glancing up from the paperwork, she gave a half smile. “Most times come to that.”

“Not completely though.” She put the papers to one side, still couldn’t read his expression. “It was a real eye-opener, sarge.”

“Having Carol there?” No. There was more to it than that, and not in a good way.

Danny shook his head. “Pembers is great. But it’s not what I mean.” He cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder. All that studied indifference on display was a giveaway, their
tete à tete was attracting attention. Even without it she sensed Danny was having a hard time voicing his concerns.

“Come on.” She grabbed her bag. “Coffee. My shout.”

Five minutes later she headed towards Danny with a tray. He’d sussed her favourite spot by the window and sat there now shredding a sugar sachet. “Lucky to get a
table or what?” she quipped. The canteen was deserted.

“Expecting company, sarge?” He gawped at an array of pasties, pastries, cream slices.

“Comfort food, mate.” She winked. “Missed lunch, didn’t I?”

“A month’s worth?”

“Stock up when you can, Danny.” She could always pass some on to human doggie bag Mac. “Help yourself, mate.” She tilted her head at the tray, tucked into a Cornish pasty
while he picked at sausage roll, clearly building up to something. She gave him a couple of minutes then: “Come on, Danny. Spit it out.”

Laying down the fork, he held her gaze. “Not sure I can hack it, sarge.”

“The job?” That bad? She pushed the plates away, leaned in closer.

He nodded. “The men we were with today were eaten up with grief. Five years on and they’re still raw about what happened to little Robbie. There were pictures of the kid everywhere.
They couldn’t mention his name without choking up.”