Death Line (7 page)

Bev crossed her legs, flicked a loose thread of cotton from her trousers. Just about the only sound in the deliberate police silence was the swishing of tapes, audio and video. The chewed biro
in her hand was superfluous, other than giving itchy fingers something to do apart from close round Haines’s scrawny neck. She sat at the DCI’s right, observing, assessing, mainly
Haines, to a lesser extent the DCI. Not being au fait with his interview technique, she needed to pick up subtle signs, intuit when he wanted her to jump in, or not. So far he’d been
politeness on legs. Well, bum.

Swishing tapes, ticking clock, gurgling pipe. Stares that could be called hard. Or defiant. The silence wasn’t working. Haines was playing the same game. Bev pictured a little boy’s
body on a slab in the morgue. This was no game. Why didn’t the gaffer go for it?

“You were seen, Mr Haines.” Knight rose, made a slow circuit of the metal table, came to rest against a pea green wall, hands in pockets, ankles crossed. “As you’re
aware, we have a witness.”

“Maybe so.” Casual shrug. “But they didn’t see me.”

Hoo-flipping-ray. Bev tapped the pen on her thigh. Haines had changed the record, if not his tune. They waited. Waited some more. Haines fidgeted in his seat, all shifty-eyed. Fact that Knight
had positioned himself just out of Haines’s eye-line was deliberate far as Bev could see. Since the get-go the suspect had barely acknowledged her presence; now he wouldn’t even look at
her. Could be telling. Though Christ knew what. Issues with women? Scared? Revolted? Certainly uncomfortable.

Knight upped the ante. Maybe anti. “Sergeant?” The anonymous call placing Haines at the crime scene had been transcribed. Knight nodded at Bev’s copy on the desk, lobbed the
ball in her court. “For Mr Haines’s benefit?”

Haines was already familiar with its contents. Knight had read out the key points. Still, once more with feeling. She reached for the paper. Haines’s corresponding backward movement was
slight. He’d recoiled. Or had she imagined it? One way to find out. Chair legs screeched against floor tiles as she moved in. Any nearer and she’d be sitting in his lap. And it was no
figment of her imagination. Beads of sweat oozed in a line above his thin top lip, buckets of it elsewhere must account for the smell now assaulting her nostrils. She gave an ostentatious sniff,
opened her mouth to start reading.

“Save it, love.” He flapped a hand. “I’m not deaf.”

Soon sodding will be. “Musta heard then. Name’s Morriss. Detective Sergeant to you.” She edged in an inch or two, didn’t want the tape to pick up her next words.
“Don’t ‘love’ me – you worthless gobshite.” The endearment had the undesired effect. For the first time Haines looked her in the eye. His tiny irises were pale
blue, the palest she’d seen, the whites were flecked with red and the lashes sparse enough to count. Not that she stuck round long enough to take a tally. She glanced away first, then backed
out of his face. Taken aback. What she’d registered was naked hatred. Pure evil, if she was given to oxymoron and cliché. And if the saying was true that the eyes are windows on the
soul, then somebody close the curtains. Get a blackout. Haines was latest in a long line of crims who’d tried freaking her out. Fact he’d succeeded briefly was a first. Must be the
contrast between the everyman look and those creepy peepers. God forbid she was getting soft in her not so old age. A cop couldn’t afford that.

Haines gave a knowing smirk, cocked his head at the nearest tape. “Need to speak up a bit, love.”

“Loser,” she mouthed, then told herself to cool it. Haines wasn’t worth the aggro. They were here to nail not nettle him.

Clearly Knight sensed the frisson. He pushed himself off the wall, casually strolled back to his seat. “Let’s run through it again, Mr Haines. Where were you between the hours of
midday Tuesday and five a m? Wednesday.” Still scrupulously polite.

“Told you before.” Haines stuck a nicotine-stained finger in his ear, examined the colour co-ordinating wax. “Why don’t you check it out, Mr Knight?” He
wasn’t being polite. Less uptight now, he was taking the piss.

Like they weren’t checking his alibi. Two DC teams were on the case as they spoke. For part of the time, Haines claimed he’d been doing business with one of the working girls
operating out of two or three streets off the Hagley Road in Edgbaston. Officers were out there touting Haines’s mug shot, armed with a description of the prostitute. Timing wasn’t
brilliant given the girls spent most of the day in bed, sleeping. And given what Knight had gleaned from the cops in Bristol, it was out of character for Haines to pay for sex. On past record, he
usually took what he wanted. And not always from women.

Wasn’t the only thing Knight had picked up. The child murder charge against Haines hadn’t been heard let alone proved: the case had been dropped.

“Answer the question, Mr Haines.” Knight tightened his lips a fraction. Patience running out? Gobsmacking it had lasted so long, considering what he’d learned from his opposite
number.

The dead kid Robbie Sachs had lived with his single mum in the same rundown multi-occupancy property in the Saint Paul’s district as Haines. ‘Uncle’ Roly was a soft touch when
it came to providing sweets, soft drinks, somewhere for the kids to hang out. Robbie and a few of his mates used to gather in Haines’s place to play computer games, net surf, that kind of
thing. Until Robbie was found battered to death in Haines’s bathroom.

Should’ve been an open and shut case. Then the judge threw it out. Contaminated evidence, DNA secondary transfer. Big time cock-up. Haines had been let off the hook.

Maybe he could read her thoughts. The slimeball had a smug smile on his face, probably regarded himself as fireproof.

Knight smiled too as he leant across the desk. “You still a kiddie-fiddler, Haines?”

Bev struggled to keep a straight face. Nice one, boss. Kiddie-fiddler was a term she hated, but it had done the trick. Haines was seething, the ears were getting a steam-clean now.

“You charging me?” he snarled.

Palms out, Knight asked: “What’s the rush?”

“That’s it.” In his haste, Haines toppled the chair, headed for the door. “I’m out of here.”

“Sit the fuck down.” The DCI’s bellow made Bev’s bum prickle. “We haven’t started yet.”

Late afternoon, the search team had nearly finished. At that stage, Roland Haines’s seedy bedsit wasn’t a crime scene so two uniforms got the initial glory. Doug
Wallace and Andy Pound had gone through all the rooms bar one. Saved the best till last, Dougie quipped back at the nick. Best or worst, depending how you looked on it. Either way the sock had been
rolled up and hidden in the cistern: a child’s sock, Mickey Mouse. Chances of lifting DNA were infinitesimal, but even then a damn sight bigger than it not belonging to Josh Banks.

The briefing room buzzed like an apiary on ecstasy; the squad had just been brought up to speed by Knight. The murder of a child was the worst crime in the book, and to have
collared the killer so quickly was equivalent to winning the lottery. It was breezy smiles, matey winks all round, doubtless The Prince would be humming tonight, too. In contrast, a slightly
subdued Bev had taken a seat at the back, hadn’t even bucked up when Byford slipped in five minutes after the six p m start and adopted his once customary perch on the window sill. No matter
how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake off the image of Roland Haines’s face when he’d been told what they’d found.

Knight sat on the edge of a table, swinging a leg. He’d witnessed it, too, but she’d describe his current mood as jubilant. “Course, Haines claims we planted it.”

What he had actually said was
you stinking lying filth have stitched me up
. And that’s about all he said. The rest of his comments, mostly four-lettered, were yelled at the top of
his voice. The clam-like silence came only after a truculent demand for a lawyer. They’d had to suspend the interview. Pending the unforeseen, it’d resume first thing.

“Yeah, sure. General issue, isn’t it? Kids’ socks. Dead handy when a cop’s fitting some poor sod up.” Hainsworth’s observation elicited a chorus of sniggers
from the stalls. Bev would’ve joined in but for that image. Haines’s reaction to the discovery was utter incredulity. The shocked expression so total and spontaneous, she didn’t
think it possible to fake. Jesus, for a second she thought he was going into cardiac arrest, clutching his chest, colour draining from pinched features. The scared-witless panic that ensued
appeared equally genuine. Then it seemed to her as though, to Haines’s way of thinking, the penny had dropped, a bent copper penny. Whatever other doubts Bev held, she was damn sure her
reading of that, and Haines’s searing contempt, was on the money. Didn’t mean he was right, but...

“Can I let the press have a whisper, Mr Knight?” Tie askew, glasses slipped down nose, Paul Curran propped up a side wall. He’d been jotting notes on an A4 pad, looking gung-ho
as the rest of the troops.

Knight considered it briefly. “Yeah. Man helping with inquiries. Usual line.” Made sense. She clocked Mac’s nod of approval. He’d been pushing for it to be made public
since returning with Carol Pemberton from the Quarry Bank estate. A few tempers there were high as the temperature, he reckoned. Hopefully a suspect in the frame would assuage the hothead
contingent.

“Aren’t we naming him?” Curran asked. Did she detect a hint of disapproval?

Knight shook his head. “Not yet.”

“How come?” Powell wanted to know.

“Loose ends. Time enough tomorrow.” The tone said
end of
.

Decision wasn’t down to the DCI sharing Bev’s doubts; he wasn’t privy to them. She knew he’d issue Haines’s inside leg measurement once he thought the case was
watertight. They were waiting on sealant, primarily the informant from Balsall Heath. Once they’d tracked her down an ID parade would be organised with Haines starring in the line-up. As to
the prostitute he claimed could alibi him, teams were still in Edgbaston trying to trace her. Going through the motions? The girl was proving elusive. Or non-existent?

“Something on your mind, sergeant?” Knight asked.

She had neither time nor sympathy for Roland Haines. Guy was a sleazy turd who’d probably already got away with murder. But if he wasn’t responsible for the sock found on his
property, someone else was. She pictured that ashen face again, those freaky eyes, the spittle round cracked lips. Haines deserved to go down for how ever many years of his waste-of-space life were
left.

But not for a murder he might not have committed. Not if the real killer went Scot free.

“Sergeant Morriss.” Knight’s hand was in his pocket, jingling coins. “Is something on your mind?”

She must’ve been staring into space. She focused on the DCI, shook her head. Haines wasn’t going anywhere. It could wait.

Byford was waiting by the Midget when Bev knocked off just gone seven. The early out was as unexpected as it was welcome. Given the hours clocked up lately, she’d almost
forgotten what her best mate Frankie looked like. La Perlagio – star that she was – had offered to have pasta and Pinot on the go for a girlie night in. Bev had declined. Not.
She’d snatched Frankie’s hand off. Perlagio. Pasta. Go figure.

Head down, still slightly preoccupied, she didn’t spot the guv until they were at arm’s length. Shame, that. She might have surged forward accidentally on purpose. Or beaten a hasty
retreat. He was fiddling with his trademark fedora, so he didn’t see her approach either. When he did, the smile that tugged his lips didn’t quite reach the sexy grey eyes.
“Bev.”

How deep and meaningful could one word sound? Bugger. She wasn’t ready for this, not in the mood. “Evenin’ all.” She gave a mock salute. Then mental cringe. As an attempt
to lighten what could turn into a heavy exchange, it was piss-poor. Must be the blue lamp on the wall. Thought association and all that bollocks.

Byford cottoned on, loosened up. “Wasn’t he a bit before your time?”
Dixon of Dock Green.
Daddy of all TV cops.

She flapped a hand. “Don’t ask.” A few of the old shows were on DVD. It was forced viewing at her mum’s house. “I blame the parents.”

It was the full treatment now, his George Clooney smile. “So did Larkin.” Philip. The big man was quick, but how quick?

“Pa Larkin?” Feigned furrowed brow. “David Jason played him, didn’t he?
Darling Buds of May
?”

“He was better in Inspector Frost.”

“Nah.
Fools and Horses
any day... why the fuck are we doing this, Bill?” Silence. Except a pair of pigeons, billing and cooing on the perimeter wall.

The ‘Bill’ was rare as hen’s dentures, rarer than Mac calling her Bev. Byford held her gaze. She swallowed, reckoned the big man was a damn sight easier on the eye than Haines.
And admonishing the guy was a bit rich considering she’d set the tone. But he was the one who’d put distance between them, nigh on six months of it. There’d been times she ached,
not even to jump him, just to talk, have a quick jar after work, a cuppa in the canteen. Way he was studying her now, you’d think he wanted to paint her from memory.

“I don’t know, Bev. You tell me.”

She shook her head, toed the tarmac with a Doc Marten. Yeah, she was royally pissed off with him, but it wasn’t just that. She was crap at letting people get close. Been badly burned over
the years, best not to chance it at all. So, naff banter was easier than opening your heart; being in denial beat being in too deep. And wordplay was less risky than foreplay. The snort was loud
and unwitting. Yeah right. She should be so fucking lucky. Morriss duvet action meant changing the sheets. Bev... the born again virgin.

The big man ran his fingers round the hat’s brim. “Just that... you’ve been distant, Bev. I thought I’d give you some space...”

Space? More like a black hole.

“
I’ve
been distant?
I’ve
been...” She jerked her head round. The rising volume had startled the pigeons. They were winging it, scared shitless judging by
the brickwork. Hands on hips, she lowered her voice. “
You
accuse
me
of...” Footsteps approaching. She held fire. Two uniforms sauntered past, synchronised smirks on their
faces. Across the way, Powell gave them a cheery wave as he got into his car. Grenadier Guards’d give them a march past next. Place made Piccadilly station look like a mausoleum.