Hard Time (13 page)

A flint-faced woman, early thirties, observed the approach, made no effort to get out of the car. The fake tan, false nails and big hair were very footballer’s wife – pub team.
Powell showed a warrant card, mimed window opening. The glass dropped an inch.

“Morning, madam.” He smiled.

Carol peered into the back. The little boy was rummaging on the floor, probably dropped a toy or something.

“Police harassment, that’s what this is.” She crossed fleshy arms over what looked like a boob job.

“Sorry?”

“You will be. I’m sick of you lot.” The window descended another six inches. “It was speeding, for Christ’s sake, not effing murder. Shouldn’t you be out
there catching real criminals?”

Powell had a vision and it was pear-shaped. “We’re investigating reports of a missing child.”

“So?”

“Boss.” Carol tapped Powell’s arm. “Don’t bother.”

He followed her gaze. The child was now kneeling on a back seat that was strewn with stray chips and Skittles. The golden hair was Daniel’s but not the nose squashed against the glass. The
crossed eyes and lolling tongue could belong to any cheeky kid. But this one wore a satin dress. And answered to the name of Britney.

Flint Face cracked a smile. “Nice one, Brit. Now tell the nice officers to fuck off and get a proper job.”

Bev shielded the phone, lowered her voice. Byford was on the other end. Maybe her expression or tone let something slip. Without warning Jenny was on her feet and snatching the
parcel. Bev watched, helpless, as the action unfolded seemingly in slow motion: a mass of golden hair cascading on to the green carpet, unspeakable shock on the Pages’ faces, open mouths, no
words. Then Jenny fell to her knees, gathering the tresses, screaming, crying, tears streaming down her cheeks. “My baby! What have they done to my baby?”

Richard tried to comfort her; furious, she shoved him away. “You said you’d
seen
him! You’d said you’d seen Daniel! How could you have seen my little boy? You
liar
!” She lashed out, but he grabbed her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Jenny. I was so sure.” He dropped his gaze, maybe couldn’t bear the pain in his wife’s eyes. “I wanted it too much.”

Hysterical, Jenny ran from the room, colliding with Colin who was on the way in with a glass of water. Her footsteps echoed in the tiled hall, then became muffled as she reached the stairs.

“She’ll go to bed, try to sleep. It’s what she does when things get too much.” Page’s voice petered out.

Bev was vaguely aware of a discussion between the two men, something about calling in the doctor to take a look at Jenny. She wasn’t really listening; she’d spotted a corner of white
paper jutting from the parcel. Still wearing the gloves, she knelt, gently teased the rest out. The sheet had been folded in half to fashion a greeting card. Which in a sick way it was. She knew
immediately there’d be prints on it. Again, in a way, there already were.

The drawing was a stick figure with yellow hair, crimson mouth and huge green eyes. There was no subject name or artist signature. There was no need. The equally childish scrawl said it all and
raised countless unknowns.

Get well soon, Mummy. Love, Dan-Dan
.

Ask a child to draw a picture of a villain, Byford mused, and they’d come up with something close to Harry Maxwell. Swarthy, heavy brow, squat body, he put Byford in mind
of an ape who’d stolen a suit. And got the wrong size. The jacket seams pulled across the back and when he turned, Byford saw the same pressure on the shirtfront. Lardy flesh poked between
the buttons, though the coarse red face had clearly been in the sun.

“Time you call this?” he snarled, delving into molars with a stubby finger.

“I got held up.” Civil response: no mileage in anger at this stage. Maxwell was one of the few people who could get under Byford’s skin. Like a filthy needle. He’d been
mildly surprised the crime boss had waited. The so-called break in the kidnap case meant the DS was running twenty minutes late. Judging by Maxwell’s beery breath, he’d spent it at the
bar.

The venue was Maxwell’s call. The Grapes was a rundown, half-timbered pub in Digbeth. Décor ran the gamut of brown, nicotine being the lightest shade. Maxwell added another layer
with smoke from a fat Havana.

“Drink?” Byford asked.

Curt shake of the head.

The superintendent bought tonic water, indicated a corner table away from prying eyes and pricked ears. If he had hard evidence they’d be in Interview One at Highgate.

“What’s this about, then?” Maxwell re-lit the cigar with a flashy gold lighter; leathery cheeks puffed like miniature bellows; hard, almost black eyes stared through blue-grey
haze.

Rumour. Whispers. Hearsay. Byford started with the only tangible item he had. He opened an attaché case, slung Saturday’s
Evening News
across the table.

“Jaswinder Ghai. What was he doing at Robbie Crawford’s funeral?”

Maxwell pulled a fuck-knows face, then picked up the paper, turned it this way and that, brow creased in mock concentration. He gave a wide mocking smile, revealing crooked yellow teeth.
“Know what? I reckon he was filming.”

Byford clenched his jaw. “Why was he filming a police officer’s funeral?”

“How should I know? You’re the detective.” Maxwell aimed smoke at Byford. “Ask him.”

“I’m asking you.” He’d had uniform searching all day, but Ghai had gone to ground.

“I’m not my
brother’s
keeper.” The stress was deliberate. Meant to menace.

“You’re not his brother, you’re his boss. He wouldn’t shit without your say-so.”

Maxwell leaned forward, spoke slowly and raised the volume. “Are you deaf? I don’t know why he was there and couldn’t give a fuck.” The voice could sell gravel.

Byford swallowed more than saliva. “The hit and run? I don’t buy it, Maxwell.”

He shrugged. “What goes around comes around.”

“Meaning?”

“You know what it means, copper.” Maxwell slurped from a pint glass. “What you sow, you reap. Just deserts and all that.”

“And Doug Edensor? What did he sow?”

“Fucking cop, wasn’t he?” Maxwell spat.

“And did you make it happen?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Only his mouth smiled. “It was the answer to a prayer. After my boy was killed, I prayed every night you bastards would die horrible deaths. Divine
intervention, eh?” He lifted his glass. “Cheers, God.”

Byford’s jaw ached with tension. Maxwell’s smug taunts were getting to him. The bastard was enjoying this; either he was innocent or the tracks were so well hidden he believed he was
untouchable. Pointless, but he asked anyway. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

“Fuckin’ wish I had.”

Byford balled his fists. “I swear I’ll find...”

“Evidence?” He smirked. “You won’t. ’Cause there is none.” He scraped back the chair. “If that’s it...”

“Sit down,” Byford snapped. “I haven’t finished.”

The crime boss took his time but resumed the seat. Not that he was taking orders; the patronising sneer meant he was taking the piss. He knew as well as Byford that he could walk any time. And
time was in short supply; Byford moved on.

“I hear you’re branching out.”

“Always looking to expand.” Spread arms.

“Into child pornography.” Had he imagined the flicker in Maxwell’s eyes? Byford’s didn’t waver. “And I’m investigating the kidnap of a five-year-old
boy.” A purple flush started at Maxwell’s bull neck. “You’ve got the equipment,” Byford said. “And the workforce. Ghai’s not the only lackey handy with a
camera, is he?”

“You bastard.” The voice dripped hatred. “I don’t touch kids.”

“Your
brother
did.” Maxwell’s breathing was laboured; loathing seeped through every pore of his mottled skin. Byford had one more goad. “And one of your errand
boys delivered the ransom note. Wayne Dunston.”

The barb struck but Byford couldn’t define what it had hit: shock, fear, anger? The crime boss recovered quickly, stubbed the cigar butt in a heavy glass ashtray as he spoke casually.
“Never heard of him.”

“Where’s the child, Maxwell?”

“That’s it, copper.” He slammed the chair into the wall. “You want to talk again? Arrest me.”

“I’m close, Maxwell. Dead close.”

“What you want? A medal?”

“I want the boy back,” Byford shouted. Knew he’d blown it. The goading had backfired.

“And I want mine.” Maxwell stormed across sticky mud-coloured lino, turned at the door, still breathing heavily. “You wanna watch it, copper. You know what they say: trouble
comes in threes...”

Maxwell’s dumpy silhouette – like a poor man’s Alfred Hitchcock – waddled past the window. Byford drained his glass, wondered if he’d ever handled an interview so
badly.

“Know the worst thing of all, guv?” Apart from an on-going kidnap, the fiasco at Longbridge, the victim’s shorn hair, Richard Page drinking himself into a
stupor, Jenny being admitted to the Nuffield overnight with nervous exhaustion. And she didn’t even know about the Maxwell interview.

Byford stopped writing and glanced up from what Bev laughingly referred to as his captain’s log. Except it wasn’t a joke; it was a drag, yet more police-procedural paperwork.
Accountability was still a big buzzword: officers had to keep a contemporaneous record detailing each operation’s every strategy, every action, every decision. Obviously there were
advantages, but it also made it well easy to point the finger when an incident went off at half-cock. Talk about thought police. If faced with the same admin demand, James T Kirk would tell the
men-in-grey-spacesuits to boldly take a running jump.

The guv took one look at Bev’s face and laid down his Parker. “You mean there’s worse?”

She nodded, fiddled with the worry ball that would normally be gathering fluff at the bottom of her bag; the flexing was supposed to keep her calm. “Jenny Page lost a kid some years
back.”

Byford briefly closed his eyes. “No wonder she’s in hospital.”

“Her old man told me. Little girl. Stillborn.” Without the booze, Bev reckoned Richard Page would never have breathed a slurred word. Apparently the subject was verboten. Jenny was
in denial about both the birth and the death. The worry ball was really getting it in the neck.

“Don’t blame yourself, Bev. You weren’t to know.”

How did he do that?
Maybe this thought-police stuff was contagious. The big man was right, though. She’d been royally beating herself up for giving Jenny Page a hard time. Any
suspicions she’d harboured about the woman’s guilt had been well scuppered after witnessing her collapse.

“Too easy, isn’t it, guv? First impressions.” She’d clocked Jenny Page as the sort of woman she despised, a stuck-up bint who traded on her looks and thought sisterhood
was for nuns.

He stretched his legs under the desk, crossed his hands behind his head. “We all do it, Bev. Can’t avoid it, in this job.”

He sensed her misjudgment wasn’t the only reason for the current mood. It was fifty-four hours now since Daniel Page was last seen. Her sigh lifted a loose sheet of paper on Byford’s
well-covered desk. “I keep thinking about that poor little kid, snatched from his mum and dad, kept by god knows who, god knows where.”

He watched the worry ball as she tossed it from hand to hand. The hair-cutting aspect worried him. It worried everyone. Did it mean that the kidnappers had no intention of returning Daniel? If
anything, it made Maxwell’s involvement less likely. And the more he thought about it, the less Byford was convinced that Maxwell was in the frame. Either way, vice officers were keeping
close tabs on the crime boss.

Byford’s real fear was that Daniel’s new look could equal a new passport, leading to a new life in a new country with a new family; the ransom demand a ruse to lead them down the
wrong garden path. But who? And why? Control had circulated Daniel’s description on day one as a matter of course; now ports and airports had been asked to step up vigilance.

“And the card,” Bev said. The garish depiction was imprinted on her brain. “‘Get well soon, Mummy.’ What’s that all about?”

“And why send it to the agency?”

“And why no instructions for handing over the money?”

Twenty questions or what? She shook her head. The ball shot through her fingers, bounced across the desk. The guv caught it one-handed, chucked it back.

“I’ll confiscate it next time,” he warned. His faint smile didn’t register because she was deep in thought. She looked tired and tense. Byford reckoned she should get rid
of the ball permanently; it didn’t live up to the job spec. Thinking of which... “How’s the media liaising going?”

The change of tack seemed to perk her up a bit. She smiled, recalling her hands-on approach with Jack Pope. “Wicked, guv.” In fact the daily news-feed wasn’t as bad as
she’d feared. The hacks knew the score, generally accepted it would be meagre rations until the pig-out at the closure. As for Pope, she’d not yet replied to the reporter’s
e-mailed effusive apology. But she wasn’t convinced of the guy’s motives. Probably still regarded her as his personal deep throat.

“Bernie did a turn this afternoon.” Byford saw her confusion. “Not the kidnap, Doug Edensor.” The news chief’s appeal for witnesses was being run on local radio and
TV. It wasn’t big enough for network.

“Anything back?”

“Early days.” He sensed her indifference. Or maybe he was being unfair. He’d not exactly opened up to her about Maxwell, and there was still no proof of a link between
Doug’s death and Robbie Crawford’s. And obviously Bev’s priority was the kidnap.

“So is some psycho bumping you all off, then?” The smile didn’t reach her eyes. The jocular tone masked her concern. Byford chided himself: he should have known her better. And
until he had proof either way, he had no intention of making it worse.

“You watch too many movies, young lady.” The light tone hadn’t worked. He injected some gravitas. “I can take care of myself, Bev.”

She held his gaze for a several seconds, then appeared to take him at his word. She smiled, pointed a finger. “Better than you take care of that, I hope.” The cactus looked as if it
was facing the final curtain. “You watered it yet?”