Hard Time (22 page)

Passion killer if ever there was one. “Right, ta, guv.” The young constable had been in her thoughts off and on all day, like a stack of other things: Operation Sapphire, Operation
Hawk, the fire, the SOAP protesters, Andy Quinn’s murder.

Thank God they could probably cross that one off the list. Paula Ryland, the Brighton DI, had left her a message during the afternoon. They had a suspect in custody. She’d promised to keep
Bev in the loop. Bev had passed it on to the guv soon as she heard. He’d not been surprised.

She gave a mock salute as the big man pulled into a line of traffic, watched until his Rover disappeared. Most likely he was right, and Andy’s killing wasn’t linked with the other
police deaths. She’d not really got a handle on all that; the kidnap took up so much headspace.

Lost in thought, she leaned on the nearest lamppost, lit a Silk Cut, frowned uneasily. There was too much going on, too many snatched conversations, hurried thoughts, half-baked ideas. Not
enough time to think things through. A tap on her shoulder made her jump.

“Looking for business, love?”

She glared, then stamped off. Mac struggled to keep pace. He had no idea how lucky he was to be walking at all.

Grant Young had called. More than once. Byford frowned. The media man wasn’t normally a time-waster, and it wouldn’t be to do with the programme. He’d already
told Young he was up for it, assuming he was free when filming began. He slung his fedora on the cactus, checked the time on the messages, dialled back. They’d come in while he’d been
out at Kings Norton, liaising with officers on the ground. He hated being stuck at a desk when there was action going on. Action? Bloody fiasco, more like.

“Bill. Thanks for getting back.”

“I take it you’ve got something?”

“Not on Wayne Dunston.” Byford wasn’t heartbroken. Dunston wasn’t going anywhere anyway; he’d been remanded in custody.

“It’s more for your porn people. I keep hearing the same whisper...”

Byford froze. Three separate sources had volunteered the same information to the media man. Harry Maxwell was moving into kiddie porn. “People don’t like it, Bill. Even the bad
guys.”

“I owe you, Grant. Thanks a lot.”

Was a case against the crime boss beginning to come together at last? He felt a stir of excitement. He’d give a lot to make Maxwell toast. And it was time to turn up the heat.

The phone rang before Bev sat down. She juggled printouts, shoulder bag, bottled water, and a tub of M&Ms before picking up. “Detective Sergeant Morriss.”

“I love it when you talk formal.”

“Oz! How goes it?” She smoothed her hair, licked her lips, thanked God it wasn’t a videophone. He talked her through Fulham, his flat, thumbnail sketches of colleagues. She
ignored a niggle that a female name got more than a fair share of mentions. She pictured his lips moving, those dark chocolate eyes. It was great to hear the dulcet tones, a welcome break from the
grind.

“When you up next?” She wasn’t begging but he knew it was her birthday soon.

“One of the reasons I’m calling, Bev.” Not good. She could hear it. “I’ll be away last weekend of the month. Only just found out and I wanted you to
know.”

Fuckety-shit. “No prob, mate. What you up to?”

“Diversity awareness course.”

“That’ll come in handy.” She scowled, more gutted than she’d admit. “Someone on the other line, mate. Catch you later.”

She broke the connection, slumped in the chair, leaped a mile when the phone actually rang. Maybe he’d had a change of mind. “Oz?”

“Bev, it’s Jack.”

As in Pope. Is there no end to the joy? Mind, she’d wanted a word anyway. “And?”

“Might have something for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Can we meet?”

“Not tonight, mate. Up to my neck in it. Before you go...” She stretched a hand to reach the bin. The local rag was in there somewhere. She’d jettisoned it in disgust after a
fruitless search for information on the protest group, SOAP. The
Evening News
was the only paper that mentioned it. But even the
News
hadn’t named names. Which meant either it
didn’t have them, or they didn’t exist.

“You seen Snowie today?” The paper’s crime correspondent stared from the front page in a single-column smug shot: Matt Snow looked pretty pleased with himself. She’d
tried calling him a couple of times but he’d gone to ground.

“He was in the Jug earlier,” Jack said. “Liquid lunch.”

Jug of Ale: Moseley pub. Snowie would need more than a stiff drink if he’d been pissing in the wind.

“Why? What’s up?” Jack asked.

“Just wondered.” The arson attack wasn’t her baby, of course. Maybe she saw it as a way of helping Powell. Either pointing him in the right direction or eliminating a line of
inquiry. No point wasting precious time if the SOAP angle wasn’t going anywhere. OK, Kenny Flint was SIO, but the DI could do with a break. Anyway, when had she ever kept her nose out of
other cases?

“He had a few names for me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the SOAP groupies.” She crossed her fingers, not for luck; she was telling whoppers. “Said you had them as well.”

He snorted. “Maybe if I wrote scripts.”

So it was fucking fiction?
“How d’you mean?”

“Nothing. Forget I said it.”

“Jack?” One word, a million wheedles. She waited, breath bated. He was probably weighing up if he still owed her.

“Sorry, Bev. Can’t do it.”

“What?”

“Drop a mate in the shit.”

“What’d you chuck me in? A bed of sodding roses?” She came out in a cold sweat every time she remembered that news conference. She was still Deep Throat to a few Highgate wags.
She pricked her ears: had he hung up?

“Off the record?” he asked.

“Aren’t I supposed to say that?”

“If you’re gonna piss about...”

“Sorry.”

“Snow was flag-flying.”

She scored out the reporter’s eyes with a biro. “That the same as making it up as you go along?”

“If you like.”

“I don’t fucking like.” She scrawled
tosser
across Snow’s forehead. OK, the reporter hadn’t started the Monks Court fire but he might have distributed the
matches. The story had brimmed with emotive phrases, verbal incendiary devices. “How’s the scumbag live with himself?”

“Come on. He wrote a story. End of.”

“Yeah. Three lives.”

“Fuck’s sake. You can’t blame Matt for that.”

’Course not. Not directly. But didn’t Snow’s sort of coverage add fuel to all sorts of metaphorical fires? A constant drip of anti-this-anti-that – surely it had to feed
a culture of fear and suspicion. And people like her picked up the pieces. She was sick of it. And she couldn’t be arsed to argue with Pope. She slammed the phone down before she said
something she wouldn’t regret.

It was getting on for ten pm before she was ready to hit the road. The M&M tub was empty and the office stank of smoke. Standing on a chair near an open window for a crafty fag or two
hadn’t really worked. Good job she kept a can of air freshener in the drawer. Tropical Glade. Yeah, right.

She flicked the light, headed for Powell’s office. The note she’d scribbled made it clear SOAP was a non-starter. It didn’t further the investigation but was worth knowing for
elimination purposes. She gave a crooked smile. Knowing the DI, he’d tell her not to stick her nose in anyway.

The light was on, so she knocked. No answer. She slipped in. The paper fairies had been busy in here. Only one A4 sheet on the desk. How come hers was still covered in the stuff? She
shouldn’t have read it; certainly shouldn’t have shoved it in her pocket. She wasn’t thinking straight. Like Powell. Must be the bump on his head. Obviously he needed time to mull
it over. Something serious as resigning.

For years it had rarely been out of Holly’s thoughts: getting away, fleeing from Satan and the bitch wife. Escape was so close now. Just another few weeks and
she’d be sixteen, legally entitled to leave. Then nothing would keep her here.

She moved to the mirror, gazed critically at her reflection, knew she would more than survive. Tall and slender, she’d grown in other ways too. These days Satan and his evil sidekicks
weren’t the only men who wanted her. They all looked at her that way. Her beauty turned heads in the street; seemingly natural, though her every sensual move was controlled, every casual
gesture calculated. Under Satan’s malign control, she’d developed a power of her own. And under his obscene tutelage knew how to use it.

Holly was wise beyond her years, but then she’d had no childhood since the age of ten. Not since Satan snatched it. She gave a knowing smile. She’d been systematically robbing him
as well, ever since. Every penny she ever found she squirreled away for her new life in London. With her mother.

She scowled. She hadn’t quite worked that part out yet.

The money was concealed beneath a floorboard in Holly’s bedroom; every now and then she’d count it, fantasising. She lived in a dream world to keep out the nightmare.

The temptation was to act too hastily. Burn Satan and the bitch on her birthday. Set fire to the house and sling her hook. The best present she could wish for. Almost. Except there’d be
too many questions.

No. Patience and planning. She’d steal back one night, after escaping to London, and serve her revenge. But it wouldn’t be cold.

Hey, my friend! Leave a photo – I forget what you look like!!!

FP xxx

The note in Frankie’s distinctive diva scrawl, all loops and curlicues, was propped against the toaster. It was the first thing Bev saw when she popped her head into the kitchen, hair damp
from the shower. Would that there was time for breakfast. On the other hand... A smile played on her lips as she grabbed the scissors from a drawer and flicked through Frankie’s latest copy
of
heat.
That’d do it: Keira Knightley in strapless backless little number. She clipped it to the note and was still grinning when she left the house.

Frankie had a point, though. Bev had hardly been around of late. Baldwin Street felt like a hotel. Shame it didn’t have room service, breakfast in bed served by a tasty bloke. Perhaps
she’d pick up a bite on the way in. It wasn’t that she was running late, she wanted to get cracking.

As she eased into the MG, her cotton dress, the coolest blue in her wardrobe, was already sticking to her skin. Sauna in the city. And it wasn’t even seven am. She wondered vaguely how
much weight a body lost through sweating. She looked down. Not enough.

She reached for the CD, briefly closed her eyes. Every sodding day she did it, every sodding day forgot. There was no player. She’d had it stripped out, couldn’t listen to music in a
car any more. Before the attack, it had always been her way of switching off, singing along at the top of her voice, driving a tad too fast. Not now. The rapist had taunted her with tapes played in
her home and a police motor.

Move on, Beverley, move on.
She gripped the wheel, put her foot down. Christ, there were plenty more productive thoughts to keep her going. Her brain had been working overtime in the
early hours, compiling a list that would occupy an army. It had been nearly three before she finally drifted off. She stifled a yawn just thinking about it.

Three early birds, all slap and sundresses, were waiting for a bus on the Alcester Road. The women were about Bev’s age, shop workers, office staff, maybe factory hands. They were having a
giggle, nattering about last night’s telly or where to drink at the weekend. Did she envy them? People who didn’t take their job home, whose heads weren’t crammed with killers,
whose lives weren’t haunted by death?

Yes. No. Maybe. She turned her mouth down. A few years back she’d not have given it a second thought. Now?

Focus, for Christ’s sake, Beverley.
She lit a Silk Cut, dropped the window an inch. Current priority was pinning down any possible collusion between the parents and the kidnappers.
Mac could check the Priory, find out who’d visited Jenny. As for Bev, she had a financial avenue to explore. Half a million pounds might not be a lot of cash to the Pages but if the handover
went pear-shaped it could turn into the costliest mistake of their lives. One that Daniel could end up paying.

Byford’s office smelt of peppermint and Pledge. The cleaners had left the polish fumes, and a mug of mint tea stood at his elbow. He’d brought in a flask of the
stuff from home to try and combat a flare-up of IBS. Byford had hit the Laphroaig last night, hoping it might help him sleep. Big mistake. The guv was now as irritable as his bowel. There’d
been no overnight developments on any of the inquiries – nor the Maxwell case. That could change. He’d told the news bureau to issue a picture to the media and a release about
man-wanted-for-questioning. He hoped the hotline number would melt in the heat.

At least, coming in early, Byford had caught up on most of the other paperwork. He skimmed yet another crime-scene report. And heard a faint alarm. He read it again from the top, seeing a line
of spinning plates. One lay shattered on the floor.

On Monday, a man and woman in their thirties had been found dead in a stolen fume-filled car in Stirchley. The attending officers had written it up as a suicide pact. Or written it off? The big
man pictured a child’s body lying in the city morgue, unidentified, unclaimed. Wondered if there was a connection and why no one else was thinking along the same lines. He dialled an internal
number. “Mike? A word...”

Powell arrived a minute later, tie askew, looking as rough as Byford felt. Byford noted mauve shadows under the eyes, blood beading from a couple of shaving cuts on the DI’s jaw. In all
the years he’d known Powell, he’d never seen the DI less than perfectly groomed. “You OK?”

Powell nodded; didn’t elaborate. Byford pushed the report across the desk, curious to see if he would read it the same way.

The DI’s frown deepened. “Rings a bell, actually.” He ran a finger gingerly along the gash at his right temple, still an angry scarlet. “I was at the lab when Overdale
got the call-out.”