Death Line (30 page)

Powell was running a tad late too. He got out of his car just as Bev was locking the MG. She waggled her fingers, threw him a “Wotcha.” Headed towards the back
stairs.

“Hey, Morriss, where’s the fire? I want a word.” Her eye-roll was resigned: he had the social skills of a skunk but hey-ho, better the skunk you know... “I hear
there’s a DI post going in Worcester.”

“Oh yeah?” Like she didn’t know. She’d just not decided yet whether to submit the completed paperwork. She hiked her bag as they fell into step. “Trying to get rid
of me?”

He winked. “Doubt you’d get it.” She spotted a shaving nick on his neck, bet it stung when he chucked on the Paco.

“Cheeky sod.” Casual sniff.

“You could walk it, Morriss. You know that.” Did she balls. “Long as you don’t gob off at the interviews.” He held the door for her.

“Who says I’m going for it?”

“Your call.” He shrugged. “Least the opening’s there. New frock, Morriss?”

Silk shift, same shade as her eyes. If Powell had noticed, it must look shit hot. “Yeah. So?”

“Looking good.” He gave a mock salute, trooped off to his office, called back. “Wear it on the interview, pet.”

The current job was more than enough to keep Bev busy. And the rest of the squad. The early brief had been brisk, businesslike. Byford dished out tasks like there was no
tomorrow: he’d despatched detectives to all four crime scenes in a concerted effort to canvass more locals. It went further than mopping up house-to-house, it meant stopping, questioning and
flashing stills at passers-by and motorists. Though the murders had received mega coverage in the media, it didn’t necessarily follow the stories reached everyone. Some watchers switch off
mentally when the news is on, or when
The X Factor
isn’t. And too many folk round here couldn’t read to save their own lives never mind help solve the murders of others. In
addition to work in the field, the press exposure was still prompting punters to phone in with what could loosely be called intelligence. Calls had to be answered, assimilated and in some instances
acted on. That task was keeping another bunch of officers occupied.

The guv was now closeted with Knight and Powell, reviewing the inquiries and assessing strategies. It was all in the name of accountability. When the brass asked questions, people like the guv
had to be able to justify every decision, every thought, every step of the way.

For once, Bev was happy to be back at the ranch. She, Mac, Danny Rees and Carol Pemberton had commandeered a corner of the squad room and were up to their metaphorical epaulettes in checks.
Byford had asked her to head up a digging team: crimes against children where – it could be argued – the perp had gone unpunished or got off lightly. It was mostly web-based, but also
meant a fair bit of liaising with other forces on the phone. If you asked Bev, they needed a fleet of excavators. Maybe some midnight oil. Definitely a lunch-break.

Even so after four hours solid, she was still decidedly upbeat. Logging off, she rolled back her chair. “I’m grabbing a bite to eat. Get anyone anything?”

“Pack of happy pills.” Mac nodded his head at the screen. “Depressing, isn’t it, boss? All this... stuff.”

“Chin up, mate. Gotta be done.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did Pollyanna win the lottery?”

Something like that. She curled a lip in an exaggerated snarl. “Get on with it, Bozo.”

“That’s better, boss.” He grinned. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

“My God, there’s actually a cloud in the sky.” Mac leaned back in the chair, hands crossed behind his head, paunch straining buttons as per. “I’d
forgotten what they look like.”

“Not being paid to look at clouds, Tyler.” Bev wouldn’t say her sunny mood had gone but by seven they were all burned out. Their desks were littered with paper cups, empty
cans, sweet papers and KitKat wrappers. They’d do another hour then call it a day. None of the four had said no to a bit of overtime. Unlike the guv, who’d taken an early out after the
late brief, some police authority meeting at the Council House. He’d told Bev it had a three-line whip. Mine’s got nine, she’d quipped. Her lip twitched at the memory.

“The heat’s gone on for ever,” Mac muttered, turning to face the screen again. “Be glad to see the back of it, me.”

“Moan, moan, whinge... fuck me.” Bev froze, her gaze fixed on the monitor, a newspaper front page. Mac, Danny and Pembers were already out of their chairs eager for a
butcher’s. “Hold on a tick,” Bev said. Maybe it was just her. She covered the text with her hands, leaving the picture in view. “Who’s that, then?”

They took their time but the chorus was unanimous. “Josh Banks.”

“New pic.” Pembers tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’ve not seen him without his glasses before.”

“You wouldn’t.” Bev took her hands away. “It’s not Josh.”

Three heads leaned in for a closer look. Danny asked first. “So who’s Scott Myers?”

“Find out, shall we?”

Byford was in the bedroom, fastening his tie in the mirror. He’d not planned on nipping home, then again he’d not planned on leaving the police authority paperwork
on the hall table. He wasn’t complaining about the memory lapse. There’d been far more interesting things on his mind this morning, and in other places. He smiled. Thank God she’d
said yes to that nightcap. Ironic really. The last time he’d offered the same thing was the night of the attack. She’d not refused, just deferred it twenty-four hours, walked out into
the snow and...

Forget it, man. That was then, this is... A ring at the door. He frowned. Wasn’t expecting anyone. He dashed downstairs, grabbed his jacket off the newel, shucked into it as he opened the
door. Christ, saying he wanted every news release to go through him didn’t mean house calls. “Paul?”

“I know this is out of order, Mr Byford, but... please... can we talk?” Hesitant, wary. It was a plea, reinforced by what might be fear in his eyes.

“Can it wait?” Clearly not, or the guy wouldn’t be here.

“It won’t take long, honest.” He didn’t look well; flushed, sweating. “I know who’s behind the leaks.”

Byford checked his watch, had a few minutes in hand. More than that, his curiosity was piqued.

Curran raised a slim file. “It’s in here. Believe me... you need to know.”

The bare bones of Scott Myers’s story didn’t take long to unearth: a ten-year-old boy abducted on the way home from school in Leicester thirty years ago, murdered
and the killer was never found. Bev and the team were working feverishly to find the flesh, forge a link. She kept telling herself it could all be coincidence. The likeness between Scott and Josh
Banks was uncanny. But how did it fit with the murders of Roland Haines, Eric Long and Patrick Woolly?

Glancing across the desk she saw Danny and Carol hunched over screens, tapping keyboards. Mac was on the phone talking to Leicester police, he’d already passed Bev a home number for the
detective who’d headed the Myers inquiry. She’d dialled Ted Adams – twice got the engaged tone. Powell and Knight were up to speed, had opted to hang round, the guv’s phone
had gone to voicemail.

“Mr Adams?” Thank you, God. She was hoping for insight, detail that never made it into the public domain. “DS Bev Morriss, West Midlands police.” Adams recalled the case
immediately. She’d been expecting an East Midlands accent but this guy’s Scottish brogue was so thick she had to ask for a repeat every so often. What was more than clear as the story
unfolded was that the unsolved case still haunted the retired detective: for Adams, Scott’s murder was the equivalent of Byford’s baby Fay: unfinished business.

“I’d have done anything to put the bastard behind bars, lass.” No one had even been in the frame going on the reports Bev had read.

“You had a suspect?”

“Closest we came was the lad’s head teacher. Sol Danvers. We had him in a couple of times. No forensics though. Wife gave him a cast iron alibi.” She sensed a but. “There
was talk in the village. Something about the man...”

Sounded slim to Bev. “That it?”

“Instinct’s sometimes all you have.” Deep sigh. It wasn’t enough. She thanked Adams, gave him her number, asked him to call if anything came to mind. Something had:
“Shattered the entire family you know, lass. I often wondered what became of the other bairns. They lost a lot more than their wee brother that day.”

“They’d be what, early thirties now?” She tapped a pen against her teeth.

“Aye. The little one, Alan, was only just three when it happened. Wendy the girl was a few years older.”

“Sarge.” Danny Rees, gaze fixed on screen, beckoned her over.

“Got to go, Mr Adams. I’ll keep you posted.”

The whole team clustered round the desk. The picture on the monitor had been taken at Scott Myers’s funeral. Bev frowned, couldn’t get her head round it. The grieving father
couldn’t be Paul Curran, it didn’t make sense. She leaned closer, read the caption. It wasn’t; it was Noel Myers, arm round his wife, and in the background two kids dressed in
black looking like little lost souls: Alan and Wendy. He’d changed the name but Paul Curran couldn’t alter the genes: even back then he was the image of his dad.

“They were given up for adoption, sarge.” Danny pulled up another page. “Mother was killed in a road crash. Father died of a heart attack in prison.”

She felt a chill down the spine, knew with absolute certainty: “He’s avenging his brother’s murder.”

Danny broke what felt like a dubious silence. “How does that fit in with Josh?”

“Don’t know yet, Danny.” She didn’t have the full picture, finer detail could be filled in later. “Curran can’t take out Scott’s killer: he was never
caught. So he’s going after the next worst thing. Haines, Long, Woolly.”

“Anyone he thinks has got away with crimes against children?” Powell was partly on board.

Eyes creased, she recalled last night’s conversation with the guv.
He’s no time for cops.
What if he’d started targeting cops too? Her palms tingled. “Where is
Curran?”

“Last time I saw him he was looking for Byford,” Knight proffered. “Said he needed a green light on a news release.”

Bev kept her voice calm; the racing heart was beyond her control. “Any way of checking the guv’s at that police meeting?”

“Sarge?” Mac picked up the hidden urgency.

“It’s escalating. He’s losing control.” She ran both hands through her hair. “Could be he sees the guv as fair game.” Glancing round the circle, she saw
scepticism.

“Come on, Bev...” Powell remonstrated.

Impatient shake of the head. “Think about it. Even the guv blames himself for not catching a baby killer. Who’s to say Curran doesn’t see it that way too?”

“He wouldn’t know about that case, Bev.”

“He does.” Knight drew his lips together. “He’s seen the file.” He related Curran’s attempts at casting Byford as the Highgate mole, presumably to deflect
suspicion closer to home. “Curran’s got no time for Byford. He said...”

“Sarge?” Pemberton interrupted; she’d just finished a call. “The guv isn’t at the meeting. He didn’t show.”

Until he came round Byford had no idea what hit him. Slowly opening his eyes, he winced as waves of pain broke around his skull. Curran sat in the chesterfield opposite, a
Scotch in one hand, a Heckler and Koch in his lap. The guy’s smile was almost as menacing as the gun.

“Drink, Mr Byford?” The detective shook his head, regretted it instantly. Quickly realised it wasn’t an offer. Either way he was in no position to refuse. His hands were cuffed
round the back of an upright chair, twine drew blood at his ankles. He watched warily as Curran sprang from the seat, scooped a bottle of Laphraoig from a low table, moved into Byford’s
peripheral vision. Braced for a blow, he gasped when Curran grabbed his hair, forced his head against the wall, jammed the bottle between his lips. The malt ran down his chin, his neck, mostly it
burned the back of his throat. God knew how much he’d drunk but when Curran tipped the bottle, the flow was too great: Byford gagged, spluttered, his eyes streamed.

“Naughty naughty, Mr Byford.” Curran took it out, examined the contents. “There was really no need to drink it all at once.”

Byford gulped, gagged again. “Why are you doing this?”

Curran walked to the sideboard, selected another bottle. “To make it easier for you, Mr Byford.”

“Make what easier?” Words were slurred, vision blurred.

“Shush now.” Curran put a finger to his lips. “Have another drink. I promise you won’t feel a thing.”

It took five minutes for a patrol car to establish Curran’s Volvo was parked outside Byford’s detached house at Four Oaks. An armed response vehicle was in position
out of sight within forty yards. It could be overkill, no one was taking chances. Nine o’clock now. Still light despite louring clouds, Knight favoured waiting for nightfall, arguing darkness
would give them the edge.

Bev was on it already. “Let me go in, sir.” She sat in the back of an unmarked police motor, Mac alongside, Knight and Powell up front.

The DCI glanced over his shoulder. “No one goes anywhere till we know what we’re playing with.”

Playing? With the guv’s life a possible stake. Byford knew how to handle himself, but if she was on the money Curran had killed three times. Desperate and deadly, he had nothing to lose.
She shivered. Partly the drop in temperature, more down to the icy calm she’d forced on herself during the twenty minute drive across town, plea-bargaining with God. Sitting here, watching,
waiting, was sending her crazy. “We’re not going to know until someone goes in, sir.” Still cool, oozing a confidence she struggled to maintain. If Knight thought for a second she
was emotionally involved he wouldn’t let her anywhere near the place. His face in the mirror was a portrait of indecision.

Strategically stationed police marksmen had established far as possible that upstairs rooms were empty. Downstairs curtains were drawn, a slight gap showed lights on in the living room.
“Curran knows me, sir. We get along.” Tight fists were clammy with sweat. “I’ll talk to him. He’ll listen.”

More than Knight appeared to be doing.