Hard Time (18 page)

Yeah. While Paul Burrell peels me grapes. “Pressed for time today, Matt.”

“The group’s calling itself SOAP.”

“SOAP?” ’Course it was.

“Selly Oak Against Perverts.”

Shit. “The residents of Monks Court aren’t...”

“People aren’t happy. They want it shut.” More nods and mutters.

“There’s nothing to suggest a link between the boy’s death...”

“And there’s nothing to suggest there isn’t.” She’d started but he’d not finished.“They plan to picket the place till they get a fair hearing.” He
tapped his pen on the notebook. “Or till you lot catch the killer.”

She met his gaze. “There may not be a killer.” The media were aware of that; she’d disclosed the PM wasn’t conclusive.

“Oh, of course. Natural causes, then?”

Smart arse. Not worth pursuing. Not with serious stuff around. “You said a fair hearing, Matt. What about the men in Monks Court? Do they get one?”

“Best ask SOAP.” He shrugged. “I just report the news.”

“Tell me about it.” The tabloids were full of it: stabbings, unprovoked attacks, motiveless murders. She was a cop and the level of violent, almost casual crime pissed her off
royally. The streets weren’t safe because of a shit system. And Selly Oak certainly had its fair share of mindless thugs. There was no discipline; yobs got away with terrorising decent
people. Courts didn’t crack down and prisons couldn’t cope with the numbers anyway. And what puerile goodie had that Tory tosser come out with: hug a hoodie? Pass the crusher.

She held the glass to her forehead. It wasn’t cold enough. Christ, there were plenty of issues to get worked up about. But a bunch of losers in what amounted to a care centre?

“I need a quote,” Snow said. “What’s the police take on it?”

Thin ice. Freeze. Except this was potentially inflammatory: hot nights, hotheads, volatile vigilantes. “No comment at this stage.”

Not till they’d been there, assessed it properly. If it stood up, there’d have to be a police presence at the property till things cooled down. Great. Like they were awash with
bodies right now. On the other hand, Snow could be stirring.

“Is the
senior
investigating officer available?” The stress said it all.

Nice one, Matt. She shook her head. “Operational duties.”

He muttered something that sounded like
bollocks
but let it go.

“OK, if there’s nothing else...” She started gathering papers, tried to look busy as opposed to bushed. It was gone eight, she was starving, knackered and a shite day
wasn’t over.

“Bev...” Pope made to stop her as she swept out.

“Not now, mate.” The curt dismissal felt good at the time.

It was gone nine before Bev had struggled through the reports, writing her own and skimming the latest offerings from others. She wished a paper fairy came in every night to
look after the words. Give her action over admin any day. By now she had a thumping head and a grumbling stomach. No surprise. A plate at her elbow bore the greasy outlines of a brace of sausage
rolls. Sod school dinners, Jamie Oliver should kick up a stink about police cuisine. When was the last time she’d eaten something green? Or cooked a real meal? As for her mental stove, pans
were bubbling and the burners full. Too full.

The Sapphire and Hawk inquiries had shoved less pressing stuff to the back. She checked her to-do list, picked up the phone. No answer on both Andy Quinn’s numbers. She left messages
again, then transferred the task to tomorrow’s list. When she’d spoken to Andy she’d tick it off. Why hadn’t he got back to her? She scribbled a note to Byford; he needed to
know about the SOAP bunch. But they hadn’t got their act together yet; according to uniform, there was no sign of picketing outside Monks Court. As SIO, Powell had ordered extra patrols on
the place.

Bag and bits hoisted, she headed for the superintendent’s office. OK, she shouldn’t have looked. The folder was nothing to do with her but the title,
Hard Time,
piqued her
curiosity. She glanced at a few pages, registered a couple of names. If anything, she was a tad miffed that the guv hadn’t mentioned it. She laid her own note on top. Jumped a mile when she
caught someone watching from behind.

Wally. She laughed out loud. Not someone, something. The cactus she’d given the guv as a peace offering. It was more like a sodding triffid lurking in the corner. And it looked decidedly
sorry for itself.
Join the club.

Mac Tyler had dropped in to the Hurst Street glee club on the way home. Home? A grotty crib in Balsall Heath, a cheap bed-sit in a multi-occupancy gaff more suited to penniless
students than DCs past the first flush. He was never in a hurry to get back. It wasn’t as if anyone was waiting for him.

Standing at last in what was laughingly called a kitchen, he scoffed his last few chips, chucked the paper in the bin and stepped all of two feet into the living space. It was like a shoebox and
the beige anaglypta walls put him in mind of porridge.

The club hadn’t been a bundle of laughs, either. He’d heard the material before, used some of it. But he loved doing the comedy, standing up and making people laugh. Or not. Either
way, it kept him going, made him feel good, compensated for the nine-to-five crap. He snorted: would that the hours were that regular. And some of the shit nothing would compensate for. Like the
image of that little kid.

Mac emptied his pockets on a wonky bedside table: wallet, keys, warrant card, gum, loose change. He told himself not to, but picked up the wallet again anyway. He’d taken the boys’
picture just before he kissed them goodbye on Saturday. George was seven, Luke eight. Mac was supposed to have access every other weekend. Like that was going to happen, living in this dump and his
ex ensconced with Prince Fucking Charming up in Matlock.

He ran a finger over the kids’ faces. Thank God they’d inherited their mother’s looks. Despite himself, he returned a grin with identical dimples. He sighed, propped the
photograph against the wall. No point moping. He was a glass-half-full bloke.

Maybe he should cheer the place up a bit, buy a few posters and a telly. Or get a goldfish or a budgie. Something he could talk to without getting a load of verbals. Unbidden, an image sprang to
mind: Bev Morriss. Prickly or what? He gave a slow smile, loosened his belt, and sat on the edge of the bed. She called a spade a fuck-you shovel and she’d definitely be a handful, but he
hoped they’d get on. He patted his paunch. And maybe she had a point: he probably was a fat old fart.

“You have to eat, little man.” There were runny scrambled eggs in the bowl. Daniel didn’t think much of the lady’s cooking and he’d stopped being
polite. She brought the spoon close but he clamped his lips together so tightly his teeth hurt. He wasn’t hungry and he didn’t want her food. Didn’t want anything from her. All he
wanted was to go home and be with Mummy and Daddy.

She placed the bowl on the arm of the chair and forced his head round to face her. “I’m getting angry, Daniel. You don’t want me to get angry.” The smile wasn’t
friendly, not like when nice people smiled. “Trust me on that, little man.”

He didn’t trust her on anything. She didn’t even lie about Daddy coming to visit any more. And she wouldn’t answer any questions about Mummy. Just told him to shut up, be
quiet, stop acting like a baby.

Tears filled his eyes. He was a baby. Mummy’s baby.

“Stop snivelling.” She picked up the bowl and placed the spoon to his lips. He took a mouthful this time. “There’s a good little boy.” It was the silly voice she
used when she tried to make him do things. But he wasn’t a good little boy. He spat the egg in her face, then grabbed the bowl and hurled it against the wall.

He cowered, convinced he’d get a slap, but she rose, walked to the door. “That was very silly, Daniel. Mummy’s outside and she’s going to be very upset, isn’t
she?”

He raced across the room, clutched at her skirt, clung to her legs. “Where is she? Where is she? Can I see her? Please let me see her.”

“Oh, dear me, no. You should have thought of that before, Daniel.”

“Please, please, let me see Mummy.” He sobbed hysterically. “I’ll be a good boy.”

She gestured at the eggs running down the wall. “Eat, little man. And I’ll think about it.”

Broad Street it wasn’t. At least there was a bit of nightlife in the city centre. OK, lowlife. Binge drinkers, blokes on the pull, birds on the pill, clubbers on whatever
they could grab before hitting the pavement. Kept you on your toes. Not like being on traffic, especially in the not-particularly-mean streets of Birmingham suburbia.

PC Simon Wells stifled a yawn, opened the window an inch. Selly Oak’s pubs, chippies and eating-houses had closed a couple of hours earlier. Apart from Dosser Jo kipping in the job-centre
doorway, the place was dead.

Truth to tell, lates didn’t do anything for Si. They were same-old-same-old: drunks, druggies, domestics. He preferred day shifts when more people were around, anything could kick off.
Fact was – or fantasy – he fancied himself as a Tom Cruise,
Mission Impossible
kind of guy. Rescuing the blonde, saving the world, nothing too taxing.

As it was, he couldn’t even have a smoke. Not with Ram riding shotgun. Ram Karimjee, his sergeant, was in the ASH camp. Talk about smoke police. He could detect the slightest whiff at a
hundred metres with his nostrils taped.

Ironic, as it turned out. Because it was Simon who spotted the flames.

Weird, the notions that go through the head when the eyes and brain are out of sync. Simon Wells saw flashing lights behind the glass-panelled door at Monks Court and for an instant – no
more than half a second – thought it was a disco. Except the movement was dancing flames and they were all shades of red.

Simon leapt out as Karimjee hit the brake. “Fuck’s sake, Ram. Call it in: fire, control, Powell.”

Neck. Block. Bollocks. They’d driven past the building three or four times every hour since coming on shift. How could a fire-raiser have slipped under the radar? Simon had no doubt the
blaze was deliberate. Apart from not buying an astronomical coincidence, the petrol fumes made him gag as he approached. What he couldn’t be sure of was how long it had been burning and how
far it had spread.

Karimjee shouted his name as he reached the door. The young constable looked back briefly – just before the blast blew apart the front of the building.

Mike Powell made it to the scene as a fire crew brought out a body. They knew it was male because Monks Court had no female staff or residents. The corpse gave no clues.

The DI weaved a wary path through emergency vehicles, snaking hoses, puddles of greasy water. He needed a word with the chief fire officer. No point pissing round with minions. It looked like a
shoot from
London’s Burning:
six fire appliances, two ambulances, four squad cars, flashing blues, TV lights, cameras. Controlled chaos.

At six-five, Chief Fire Officer John Preston was easy to locate. He continued directing operations as he fed top lines to Powell. Thirteen men had escaped through the back before the flames took
grip, but it wasn’t yet known whether that was all the occupants. A team wearing breathing apparatus was in there searching.

The noise was intense: engines, pumps, generators, barked instructions. Powell had to shout to make himself heard. “Any more good news?”

Preston ignored the comment, turned anxious eyes on the building. The tall Geordie wouldn’t relax until the outbreak was under control; thirty of his men and women were fighting to stop it
spreading. The neighbouring properties were business premises; empty, thank God, in the early hours.

Powell tapped the fire chief’s arm. “Sorry, mate. It’s a bit much to take in. We had patrols keeping an eye on the place.”

“You knew there was a risk?”

“Of picketing.” Shadows flickered on the planes of the DI’s face. “Not this.”

Death and destruction. He shook his head in sorrow and anger. Were there more bodies inside? As for the halfway house, it would be a charred shell by first light. Even as the thought formed, a
huge cloud of sparks shot into the night sky, sounds of cracking timber added to the frenetic vocal chorus.

The DI felt the heat, turned his head. An office block over the road reflected the flames, every window a screen showing the same movie, a poor man’s
Towering Inferno.
Powell’s eyes smarted and his forehead throbbed; the cut must’ve opened again. He dabbed it with a tissue. Should he have ordered a 24/7 police guard at Monks Court? He’d taken
the budget and lack of police bodies into account but it could be a costly mistake. In his favour, the risk had seemed minimal, flimsy almost. In his experience, action groups were mostly all
mouth, and this one had only been established the previous afternoon. It was a hell of a jump from waving a placard to lobbing a petrol bomb. Unless mindless cretins looking for senseless kicks had
hijacked the bandwagon conveniently provided by SOAP.

Either way, there’d be an inquest. He sighed. Too soon to apportion blame, but where the hell had his patrol officers been? And where were they now? They should be briefing him. Powell
already had squad cars cruising the neighbourhood but anyone who had a hand in this would have to be brain-dead if they were still out there.

“Seen Hughes anywhere?” he asked. Gavin Hughes, manager at Monks Court. Bald, ex-boxer, Captain Bird’s Eye beard. Wasn’t as though you’d miss him in a crowd. Not
that there was a crowd. The DI took a confirmatory glance round. It was the only crime scene he could recall where there wasn’t a band of gawpers taking perverse pleasure in other
people’s personal tragedies. Maybe SOAP fans didn’t give a toss what happened to Monks Court clientele.

“Probably on the phone somewhere,” Preston said. “Trying to organise emergency accommodation.” The CFO nodded at the pavement opposite where dazed-looking men wearing
nightclothes huddled in foil blankets. They put Powell in mind of refugees, except the shelter they’d been given had been snatched away. An old woman moved among the men, offering hot drinks
from a tray. Salvation Army or local do-gooder? Powell shook his head. Unbelievable. Everything those poor bastards owned was going up in flames and an old biddy was dishing out PG Tips.