Death Line (29 page)

This was the guv’s first sight of his officer since the attack. He’d had it in mind to visit before. Not because it was expected of him but because he had time and affection for the
young detective. He’d given Darren his CID break, even teamed him with Bev for a while. He’d been told the injuries were bad but seeing the extent was still a shock: the lad was barely
recognisable. Still, he was making steady progress according to the nurse Byford had waylaid. The brain swelling had subsided, motor responses were markedly improved. Great news. The big man was
glad he’d come. But if he was being completely honest, Darren wasn’t the only reason he was here.

Bev was laughing now, reading out messages from the huge get well card everyone at the nick had signed. Byford had brought along a couple of CDs. He’d read somewhere that coma patients may
still be able to hear. He gave a wry smile: if it was true, Darren was certainly getting an ear bashing.

“Pete’s got the lot banged up, Daz. How brill is that? They’ll soon be spending a bunch of time with the queen... if you get my drift? Course you do,
don’t you, Daz? Hey! And guess what the station clowns call the toerag spilling the beans? You got it: Heinz. No flies on you, Daz. Snivel Boy, I call him.

“Anyway... enough work stuff. Kasabian are playing the NIA in November. My treat, yeah? Grab an Indian after? Got your birthday present sorted, mate. Yeah, I know it’s a bit early.
But HMV were doing this deal on a
Mission Impossible
box set. Have a Tom Cruise-fest when you come out, eh? Y’know I always take the piss about you looking like Cruise, Daz? Yeah,
well, I see it now. You and him could be brothers. Course, you’d be the young good-looking one. Creep creep.

“What’s it like in there, Daz? No need to feel lonely, y’know. Everyone’s rooting for you, mate. And you should see some of the nurses and doctors, running round after
you. Tasty or what? Well, you’ll have a butcher’s soon enough. Ask me you’ve had enough time lazing round. We need you back at the nick. I mean, take a look at this...”

Reaching for the card, she glimpsed Byford through the glass. Good of him to show, typical of the guy. “You’ve got a visitor waiting. I’ll get out your hair in a minute,
mate.” Not that he had hair to get out of, but that was news she wouldn’t be breaking.

What the fuck was he supposed to say? Yeah. Kid’s murdered. Wife’s topped herself. Business is buggered. Now I’m losing the house. Happy days, eh? The man
raised an ironic toast, swallowed half the contents of a tumbler of Scotch, clenched his teeth as the spirit warmed its way into his gut. How many bottles a day was Noel on by then? In the picture
he looked pissed off, not necessarily pissed. It had clearly been snatched, his hand failed to hide an ugly snarl, his hair was mussed, clothes dishevelled.

The man took a sip this time. The cutting was the last in the scrapbook. Shame the house wasn’t the last thing Noel lost. With the first drink-drive offence he lost his licence. With the
third or fourth he lost his liberty: six months in prison. He’d only avoided a custodial before because he’d pleaded with the court about having two kids and no one to look after them.
Court must have decided no one was anyway.

The foster care was only supposed to be temporary. But it didn’t work out that way. Noel left prison in a coffin: cardiac arrest. Well... family was jinxed, wasn’t it?

The man laughed out loud, his face wet with tears. He closed the scrapbook, pushed it to one side. The remaining pages contained photographs of people he didn’t know. A family he’d
never met. Only one face meant anything to him. He gave a rueful smile, finished his drink. He was getting to know her a little now, making up for lost time.

Two birds with one stone and all that. After leaving Darren with the guv, Bev had nipped to the cardiology unit to see how Gillian Overdale was doing. The two weren’t
bosom pals but the pathologist was single and short on family. If Bev were holed up in hospital surrounded by syringe-wielding strangers, she knew she’d welcome a familiar face and a chinwag.
So had Overs. They’d had a ball. Well, maybe not a ball...

Still smiling, Bev made her way across the car park. The feel-good factor wasn’t entirely down to earning a Brownie badge. The visit to Doctor Death hadn’t been wholly altruistic. A
casual bit of digging unearthed the juicy worm that early retirement was on the cards for the pathologist. Which meant a potential fulltime opening for he who will enlarge. The meaning of Joe
King’s name still had her in stitches. Chuckling to herself, she unlocked the Midget.

“What’s the joke?”

“What the...” Eyes flashing, she spun round. God knew where the guv had sprung from.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.” He gave that lopsided smile. “I’d still love to know what tickled you?”

An image of the big man enlarged flashed before her eyes. “It’s a girl thing, guv.” The lip curve was involuntary. Why was he hanging around anyway? Did he want a word about
Darren? “Good of you to pay the lad a visit. Reckon he...?”

“I came because I knew you’d be here.” His face was unreadable, voice soft spoken.

Maybe she’d misheard. “Sorry?”

“We need to talk, Bev.” Serious bordering on sombre. She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of it. Had she cocked up again? “About the case, guv?”

“That as well.”

Paul Curran and Lance Knight were in deep conversation in The Prince; heads bent together over pints of bitter in the back snug. Apart from two old dears in the far corner
playing cards the men had the place to themselves. Commentary on some soccer game drifted in from the widescreen TV in the bar. The subject under discussion on the table was the leak, not that it
was going anywhere. Much as Knight would have liked to blow the whistle on Byford, it wasn’t going to happen. Not on what he had so far.

“A few calls to Toby Priest is neither here nor there, Paul.” It certainly wasn’t enough to turn the DCI’s unofficial snooping through the logs into an authorised tap on
Byford’s conversations. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground but...” He held out empty palms.

“Fair enough, Mr Knight. I just thought it worth passing on.” He slurped a mouthful of beer. “Reckon I should try and have a word on the QT with Priest?”

“You’d have to tread carefully.” Knight didn’t want dragging into some slanging match.

Curran nodded. “I’ll see how it goes. Anything from the brief I need to know about?”

“Yeah. News releases. Any statement to the press. Everything’s got to go through Byford.”

“You’re joking?”

“Every word, he said. Last thing we need is the media running with the serial killer angle.”

“Great help that is.” Curran shook his head, gave a deep sigh. “What if he’s not around?”

“Your problem, matey.” Knight drained his glass. “And your round.”

The Chinese take-out was cold, congealed, virtually intact; the bottle of Pinot more than half full. Byford hadn’t touched a drop; Bev had eaten less than him. They sat
round the pine table in his kitchen, the first time for months she’d set foot in the house. He’d half expected a flat refusal when he suggested they come here to talk. Also knew she was
sharp enough to realise he’d have good reason. He’d told her one of them: finding the Patrick Woolly cutting in the baby Fay file in his drawer. After that they’d lost their
appetite for food, needed a clear head.

She ran her fingers through her hair. “You really think the killer left it, guv?”

Either that or he was going mad. He’d rarely felt so isolated during an inquiry, desperately needed someone to talk to he could trust. Not just someone. Not just talk.

“I think he’s playing us, Bev. Sending messages.”

“Saying?” He wished she wouldn’t purse her lips like that. Or cross the thighs. Hot enough in here as it was. He walked to the sink, poured a glass of water. “Roland
Haines, Eric Long, Patrick Woolly. What have they in common?” Slaked his thirst.

“They committed crimes against children.” She shrugged. “We know that, guv.”

“More than that.” Why wasn’t she seeing it? “They’re all instances where the perp didn’t get punished – ”

Raised palm. “Woolly got life, guv.”

“...didn’t get punished enough.” Keeping his gaze on her face, he walked back to his seat.

She had it in a heartbeat. “With you.” Ticking fingers she made his point. “Haines didn’t get to court. Long got a derisory sentence. And Woolly’s let out with a
new identity.”

“Exactly. And the killer wants his pound of flesh and then some. He’s protecting kids, Bev. More than that, he’s avenging them. But his agenda’s expanding. He’s
going after anyone with a record against minors.”

She blew her cheeks out on a sigh. “That narrows it down. Not.”

“Twenty thousand sex crimes alone every year in the UK.” He hadn’t checked, knew the figure anyway. “And how far back’s he going? Woolly was convicted thirty years
ago.” Without pointers, the search parameters would be vast.

“’Nother possible factor, guv.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He pointed at the bottle; she nodded. “Way the killer sees it, we’ve been cocking it up.
If he’s playing us, maybe it’s ’cause he takes us for a bunch of clowns? He’s no time for cops. He’s showing us how to do the job properly. And in his head
that’s taking a life for a life.”

He poured wine into her glass. “It’s taking the law into his own hands. And given the information he seems to have access to... he could be a cop.”

“It’s not so far-fetched. Christ, guv, I had my doubts about you the other night.”

“Thanks.” But then maybe it wasn’t so surprising given the rumours and lack of trust infiltrating the nick these days. A leak was corrosive in more ways than one.

She explained her thinking, then laughed it off. “Nah, guv.” Sip of wine. “The killer’s lost a kid close to him, something of that nature. Got to be something personal in
it.”

Byford nodded. The new line would mean serious plod work: cross-referencing child killers, cold cases, miscarriages of justice; across the country, over the years. He’d ask her to head up
a small select team, start first thing. He watched as she sank the wine, stood the glass on the drainer. “I’d best get off, guv. Early shout and all that.” She failed to stifle a
yawn, stretched both arms over her head.

It was now or never. Steeling himself, he stood, held her gaze. “How about a nightcap?” Bated breath. He saw in her eyes she knew it wasn’t what he was really asking. If she
turned him down now, so be it. He might lose her, but he was too old to play games, sick of the uncertainty. It was her call: whatever she chose. They could move on together or go their separate
ways.

“No ta, guv.” She smiled, took his hand in hers. “Never wear anything in bed, me.”

Neither did Byford. Later, propped on one elbow, lazy smile in place, Bev ran her gaze over his body, loved the way the moonlight glinted off his skin. It was one of those
images she’d capture on that inward eye, cherish for ever. Better than a bunch of daffs any day. Whichever way you looked at it, he was gorgeous: simple as that. He made her laugh, made her
happy, made her... The lazy smile morphed to lascivious. And the sex would get even better, less rushed, more relaxed. They’d take it easier next time. Had a lovely ring that: next time. She
gave a deep sigh of contentment, closure almost. Being with him this way felt like coming home.

And he wasn’t taking off any time soon, he’d told her. His son had sent the newspaper she’d spotted on his desk. Rich lived in Cumbria anyway and wanted his dad’s help
financing a new house. Byford had been looking over his potential investments. Sure he’d considered it, but how could he up sticks if she was thinking of going for promotion? She chuckled
softly. Maybe if they’d spent less time gabbing and more time...? She couldn’t tear her gaze from her sleeping partner: the curve of his lips, the broad shoulders, the rise and fall of
his chest, the line of thick black hair down...

“I’ve got my eye on you, young lady.” Smiling, he turned to face her.

She gave a speculative pout. “Is that all?”

This time they did take it easier.

They’d taken it so easy, it was touch and go whether Bev would hit work on time. Ten to eight and she was stuck in traffic and sticky heat on the Highgate Road. At least
the forecasters were talking about movement, a band of low pressure allegedly moving in. She tapped the wheel: why was every sodding light against her? Maybe they should have cut out the
touchy-feely first thing and just taken off? Nah. Broad smile. Where was the fun in that? It was only nipping home for a shower and change that meant she was in catch-up mode. But hey, it was no
problem. Cutting it fine was a small price to pay for an early morning love-fest with the guv.

And the solution was easy.

Hold your horses, girl. It was way too early to shack up. She cocked an eyebrow. Or was it? The big man didn’t think so, and he was the boss.

Yeah right. Her grin didn’t fit the mirror. She hit the CD player: bit of Cat Stevens this morning,
Father and Son.
What did he call himself now? Yusouf? Whatever. He had the
benefit of her backing vocals as she inched the Midget forward. For the first time in a while, she felt energised: the sun was shining, they had a new line of inquiry, the guv wasn’t going
anywhere. Guv. Why was it so much easier to say than Bill? What’s in a name? Chortling – she made a mental note to tell him what was in Joseph: he who will enlarge. William meant strong
protector. Might tell him that, as well. Long as he didn’t get ideas above his station.