Death Line (31 page)

She cut a glance at the house. What the fuck was going on? “I know the layout,” Bev said. “I’ve got a key.”

Pursed lips then: “You’ll need a vest.” Kevlar.

“I’m kitted out.”

“You’ll need a wire.”

“I have.” She’d made sure before leaving Highgate.

Knight sighed, shook his head. “I still think we should...”

“Let her go in.” Powell, stating not requesting. She met his eyes in the mirror. “DS Morriss knows what she’s doing.”

Yes! God. She could kiss the guy. Certainly buy him a drink when this was all over.

Byford had passed out: head slumped to the side, whisky drooled from slack lips.

“Had enough, Mr Byford?” Curran’s voice dripped insincerity. For twenty, thirty seconds he stood over the detective, watching, smiling. Satisfied, he raised the bottle to his
own mouth, took several slugs before strolling to the settee to retrieve the gun. Ears pricked, he cocked his head. Key in the door? Smiled again. Bev Morriss? She’d certainly been in no
hurry to leave last night. Then he cocked the gun.

The smell of booze hit Bev first. For a split second she imagined finding them having a friendly drink. Her nose wrinkled: no one was that friendly. Padding into the hall, she
headed for the only open door.

“Come in, Bev.” She stood stock still. How did he know? “Come join the party.” Low light. Lush red furnishings. First thing she saw was the gun at Byford’s temple,
second the empty bottles: her insides turned to ice. “In fact, Bev, you could call it a farewell do.” Curran’s laugh scared her witless. He wasn’t losing it: it had already
gone.

“I take it you’re wired?” He’d know, of course. She nodded. “That’s fine,” he said. “Famous last words and all that.” She forced a thin
smile to humour the mad fucker. He waved her towards an armchair. “Sit down... before you drop.”

She walked to it slowly, sat back, apparently unfazed, heart pounding so hard it hurt. She needed to busk it like never before. Even if the alcohol hadn’t been spiked, Byford needed a
stomach pump fast. Was he even breathing? She couldn’t see. “It’s not too late, Paul.” Conciliatory, cajoling.

He frowned as if considering the option, then: “Oh, I think it is.” Toying with her.

She edged forward, elbows on knees, as if getting closer would bridge the gap. “Mitigating circumstances. You could plead extreme provocation. Losing your broth...”

“Lose him?” He spat. “A filthy piece of scum killed him.” Her fists clenched when he pressed the barrel into Byford’s temple. “And you have no right to talk
about Scottie. You never knew him. He’s nothing to you.”

Neither did you, fuckwit. “No, but I can see he was everything to you. I can’t pretend to know how you feel. Losing him... your parents... your sister...” His eyes narrowed.
Had she hit a chord? “A sympathetic jury will see that, Paul.” Like hell they would.

“They won’t hear the sob story from me
.
” He switched the gun to his own forehead, pulled an imaginary trigger.

She froze. If he intended killing himself, there was a chance no one would get out of here alive. Curran had nothing to lose, he’d lost it thirty years ago. No. He hadn’t.“What
about your wife, Paul? Your little boy?”

“You really are thick, aren’t you?” He turned the gun again: Byford was back in the firing line.

Get on with it, dumbfuck. Though he’d been sharp enough to get a job that gave access to privileged information, and leak it to the media. “Tell me...?”

“You honestly imagine I could form some sort of relationship after...” He bit his lip. “I thought it was me. Being adopted, feeling unwanted, unloved. I didn’t know how
I’d lost my real family until...”

She cut the guv a glance; still couldn’t detect a sign of life. “Until what, Paul?”

“A scrapbook arrived in the post six months ago from a sister I wasn’t aware existed. She tracked me down... told me everything. She needed my help.”

For wife, read sister. Rachel. No wonder she’d thought they were alike. “She was pregnant?”

He nodded. “She’d had a pretty shit life, lived on the streets for a while, picked up a habit.”

Heroin? “She supplied the methadone?” Made the phone call pointing them to Haines too, presumably.

“Who else? She blamed everything on what happened after Scottie was murdered. We both wanted payback. It was her idea to plant the sock in Haines’s pad. I tell you, seeing Rory,
watching him grow these last few months...” He bit his knuckles. “I had to do something to protect the little children...”

Home truths time. “You won’t be much use to Rory or your sister if you’re dead, Paul.”

“They’ll never suffer again.” Smug smile. “They’re in a better place. We’ll all be together soon. Mum. Dad. Scottie...”

She’d been out of her depth before. This was the deepest ocean. She struggled for words. Curran broke the silence. “Maybe we’ll meet up with Josh there, eh? Little Josh started
it all really. Seeing his face, it was just like seeing Scottie.” His eyes filled with undiluted hatred. “And knowing what I’d missed.”

What was he saying? That Josh had been a catalyst for Curran’s killing spree? “You murdered Josh?” Her voice was a whisper.

“Don’t you ever listen?” He snarled. “I’d never harm a child.”

She held placatory palms. “Of course not, Paul. You’re their protector. You save them from scum.” He calmed fractionally; she breathed again. “Everything you do is to
avenge little children, isn’t it? I understand that.”

Sulky nod.

“Same as Mr Byford there. He’s sent down loads of bastards who hurt kids.”

“Save it.” He snorted. “A child killer’s out there now because this prat cocked up.”

“And he’s never stopped beating himself up over it, Paul. He’s a good man.”

“Not good enough.”

“Paul. Give it up.” She stifled a scream as he pressed the barrel harder to Byford’s temple.

“Stay away or I’ll shoot you first.” She’d drawn fire. The gun was aimed at her. She had one last desperate throw of a heavily loaded dice. She sank back in the chair
saying, “Then you’ll never know who killed Scott, will you?” Her expression, the tone of her voice said she did.

“I hate liars. You get to watch him die for that.” Barrel against temple. Finger against trigger.

“Sol Danvers.” She screamed. “He’s in custody. I swear.” Had the name even registered?

His eyes narrowed. “Talk.”

She fabricated a pack of lies. Veins fizzing with adrenalin, voice heavy with conviction she told him the vice squad had been keeping tabs on Danvers, he’d been under surveillance for
weeks, the net had finally closed, he was in a cell at Highgate. She held his gaze, every fibre of her willing him to buy the story. The guy had doubts, she could see it; but she was scared
she’d blown it.

“Give me five minutes with him.”

Why did everyone want five fucking minutes with someone? “I’m sure that can be arranged, Paul. Can I release the guv?”

“Do I have your word?”

“On my life. There are people outside who’ll take you.”

“Wait until I’m out of here.” He started walking towards the door. She was out of the seat when she heard the first shot. “I hate liars, Bev.”

The bullet hit Byford in the face, a second in the chest. Bev fell to her knees, momentarily stunned. Where did the blood come from? A scarlet pool spread across his shirt, his beautiful face a
mass of torn tissue, white bone. She barely reacted when two shots sounded in the street. Could even have been thunder. Except the storm hadn’t broken. Not outside. Sobbing, gasping, she ran
to him then; cradled him in her arms. “Bill, Bill, don’t die, don’t leave me.” Over and over and over again. Knowing he already had.

He’d never wanted the panoply of a police funeral, but hundreds had turned out to show respect anyway. His sons had been there too, of course. The Chief Constable had
done the eulogy. Bev had sat alone at the back of the church, slipped out first, waited in the Midget, watched through the heavy rain as mourners left. Gentle rain from heaven? Yeah right.

She gave a bitter scowl, lit a cigarette. There were still a couple of black-garbed stragglers bobbing like giant crows among the distant moss-pocked headstones. There was no hurry. The big man
wasn’t going anywhere. Bev was dead too, inside. Eyes screwed tight, she tried so hard to recall his sleeping figure cast in moonlight, but all she ever saw was his lifeless body bathed in
blood. Would he still be here if she hadn’t lied? Most cop colleagues thought Curran would’ve shot the guv anyway. Bev had been there and couldn’t say with certainty. It
wasn’t the hardest thing she had to live with.

She was convinced Curran had a death wish. He’d exited the house waving the gun around; two marksmen took him out. His wish was unfulfilled. Unlike Darren, who was now out of the coma,
Curran was in a vegetative state in hospital. It was too early for medicos to say whether the condition would become permanent. Bev hoped for his sake he never came round. He’d discovered his
bloodline, turned it into a death line. The hit list had been found at his house along with the scrapbook.

She still thought there was a chance Curran had killed Josh. His twisted weird logic wouldn’t see it like that of course. Mad bastard had thought he was sending his sister and nephew to a
better place – after smothering them. Why not Josh too? She picked a fleck of tobacco from her lip. If not Curran, who?

She’d heard via Mac on the phone that the red car hadn’t thrown out any leads. Brett Sullivan had finally been traced. He’d been all brash swagger as befitted a bully boy: his
description of the driver was useless.

Her eyes creased against the smoke. Did every cop have a baby Fay? Was Josh Banks destined to be hers?

She’d track down his murderer if it killed her – assuming she went back to the job.

The rain was easing off, the only remaining crows feathered and raucous. She stubbed out the cigarette, dragged herself from the motor, walked slowly to the fresh mound of earth under which
Byford lay next to his wife. She’d considered bringing flowers. A cactus maybe? She’d given him enough of those in the past, her jokey way of saying sorry. Exactly. She’d come
empty-handed, heavy-hearted, wearing the blue silk dress. He’d said the cornflower shade matched her eyes. She knelt in the wet mud, lowered her head, stroked the soil, talked to him. Not
God. Never again.

How much time passed she didn’t know. She was oblivious, too, when the heavens opened. Within seconds rain dripped from her hair, her chin, the thin silk clung to her skin. And for the
first time since watching him die, she let the tears fall.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Bev.”

Furious at the intrusion, she spun round, eyes flashing, ready to let rip. Mike Powell stood over her, his black trench coat soaked, blond hair like a skull cap. He reached out a hand.
“Come with me.” She opened her mouth to say no; saw the pain in his eyes, the tears running down his pale face. “Let me take you home, Bev.”

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