Hard Time (31 page)

“What do you think?” The knife must’ve been on the sill. Smiling, Holly slashed it through the air. Bev blinked as light glinted on the blade.

“Life for a life, eh, old man?”

Byford screamed as a bone cracked in his face. A second later Young smashed the gun into the other cheek. Blood already gushed from the superintendent’s nose, dripped from his chin. Two
teeth were on the carpet, others loose in the gums, lips split.

“Didn’t hear you, cop,” Young sneered, whipped back the gun. Byford braced himself, eyes tight. There was a rush of cool air as Young took a swing, stopped a hair’s
breadth from impact. “Not time yet, old man. Don’t want you passing out on me again.”

Byford could barely speak; if he could, he wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction. Anyway, Young was revelling in the sound of his own voice. He’d told the detective every gory
detail. Bragged about how he’d planned the deaths, how hit men had carried out the killings, how he’d bankrolled it all with his compensation money. And how he’d pointed Byford in
Maxwell’s direction, every false step of the way. The big man groaned. Every confessional word was a nail in his coffin.

Young’s white suit was already splattered with Byford’s blood. “Remember what you got me sent down for, cop? Do you
know
what happens to child killers inside?” The
ex-con wanted eye contact, smacked the detective’s face till he got it. “They get a hard time like you wouldn’t believe.” Cold steel bit into raw flesh. “You believed,
though, didn’t you?
Hard Time
?” He sniggered. “There’s no programme, you arrogant twat.” Another spit in the face. “Fucking flatter yourself,
cop.”

Fixated on Maxwell, the superintendent hadn’t even checked Young’s information. Even though it had always been his mantra to Bev: check, check, check again. Her picture flickered in
his head: heart-shaped face, teasing smile, wide mouth. The image was still there when he closed his eyes.

“Wake up, cop.” Young slammed a boot into Byford’s shin. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your moment of glory.” A wild wave of the gun took in the cameras.
“Time to shoot your famous final scene.”

A Bob Seger track. Byford heard the music in his head as Young breathed curry fumes in his face. The detective prayed silently to a god he’d spurned since childhood. The gun was hard
against his temple; Young’s voice hissing in his ear.

“Twenty years, I’ve waited for this.” Slow pressure on the trigger. “Time to die, cop.”

Seconds to decide. Seconds to save – or lose – a life. Holly wouldn’t give a fuck about her own. It had been crap from the word go. She’d killed before;
she’d murder her mother in a heartbeat. Bev’s pounded her ribs. Jenny would take a blade if she didn’t act.

“Don’t even think about it.” A man’s voice from behind. It couldn’t be...

Startled, confused, Bev whipped her head round.

Holly laughed. “Quite the family reunion, isn’t it?”

Richard Page, unsmiling, stood in the sliding door, Daniel limp in his arms. Holly strolled over, kissed Page full on the lips. “Couldn’t have done it on my own, could I,
darling?”

Bev closed her eyes: the great fucking detective. Page had traded Jenny in for a younger model: fuck mother, fuck daughter. Grim-faced, Holly beckoned to Bev. With the knife. “Let the
bitch in.”

Mind racing, she walked slowly to the door, playing for time that was fast running out. Her plan: grab Jenny, leg it, alert control. Page wouldn’t hurt his son.

A calming breath. Plan wasn’t perfect... The blade pressed into her spine. Plan wasn’t possible.

“One false move,” Holly hissed, “you’ll never walk again.”

Slumped shoulders, sunken cheeks – in the long black coatdress Jenny looked as if she was in mourning. The moonlight cast dark shadows on a complexion the colour of ash. Barely a glance at
Bev; the wary green eyes were focused to the side. The face showed emotions Bev could never imagine. Jenny knew she was staring at the daughter she’d left to die.

“Seeing a ghost?” Mocking, contemptuous. The expression had been meaningless to Bev before. But Holly was right. Jenny looked haunted by a past she’d tried to bury.

“Bring her in,” Holly ordered.

Bev glanced over Jenny’s shoulder. The street was deserted. Where the fuck was Mac? He was supposed to be tailing Richard Page. In the seconds since the smarmy bastard had shown up, it had
been her chink of light at the end of a long flooded tunnel.

The room was getting crowded. Jenny registered nothing but her son. She dashed to the settee where Daniel lay on his side. “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll...”

Bev glanced round, desperately seeking a weapon. If she could reach the lamp, the bottle...

“You’ll what?” Holly mocked. “Give me a smack? Send me to bed without any supper?” Her voice grew ragged. “There was a time I’d have given my right arm
for you to do that. But you weren’t there.” She ran a finger along the blade. “Were you,
Mummy
?”

On her knees, Jenny stroked Daniel’s brow, didn’t even look round. “Take the money. Please. Just go.”

“We will. And Dan-Dan’s coming with us.”

Jenny’s hand stilled; her eyes followed her daughter’s gaze. God knows what was going through her mind; one word issued from her lips. “Richard?” He couldn’t look
at her; watched his feet shuffling the carpet.

Bev flung him a contemptuous glance, then froze. Willed herself not to react. Trick of the light? Or had she caught a fleeting shadow outside?

Daniel mumbled in his sleep, threw an arm over his shorn head.

“I’d love to stay and chat, catch up on old times.” Holly laughed. “But places to go, planes to catch, you know how it is.”

“Fat chance.” Bev sniffed. She needed to draw metaphorical fire. Mac’s fat frame had just flashed across the french window again.

“Lippy cow, aren’t you?” If looks could kill. At least she had Holly’s attention.

“You’re kidding yourself, sunshine.” Bev’s stare was flat, unafraid. “Only one place you’re going. One-way ticket. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred
pounds.”

“We’re wasting time.” Richard’s voice trembled. “Let’s get it over with.”

Holly’s gaze was still fixed on Bev. Even set in a sneer, her face was stunning, breathtaking.

“Take after your mum, don’t you, love?”

The barb hit home, but recovery was quick. “And from.” She turned to Jenny. “Kiss the boys goodbye,
Mummy
.”

Tears welled; Jenny’s face was wet from those already shed. She rose, her expression unreadable as she looked into her daughter’s eyes. “Can I kiss you first?”

Holly’s mouth gaped in stunned silence. Jenny’s voice faltered, her stare stayed rock steady. “I never ever stopped loving you. I dreamt of holding you in my arms. I knew
you’d been found. I keep the cutting in my purse.” An unwitting smile, faded. “Every single day of your life, I’ve lived with guilt.”

“Bullshit.” Holly tapped a foot, knife held at her side. “You were a money-grabbing tramp. The only way you could have ditched me faster was with an abortion. Don’t look
so shocked, Jen.” She gave a sly smile. “I heard it from your witch of a mother before her –” She made a shoving motion with her hands – “accident.”

“But I didn’t, did I?”

A flicker of uncertainty. “What?”

“Abort you. It never crossed my mind for a second.”

Holly mimed a violin playing.

“You have every right to hate me...”

“I do.” Holly’s eyes shone. “With a passion.”

“You’ll never know how much I ached to hold you.” Tears flowed down Jenny’s cheeks.

“Then why?” She took a step closer, eyes searching her mother’s face. “Why did you dump me?”

“I was little more than a child myself. I couldn’t give you the life you deserved.”

“You left me to die.”

“I never meant to hurt you, Holly. I know it’s too late.” Jenny held out her arms. “But one kiss, one hug, then I’ll go.”

Holly wavered further, then stepped forward.

Jenny wrapped her in a warm embrace.

And knifed her in the back.

Bursts of static, barked orders. A voice cut through the babble:
officer down, officer down
. Hammer blow. Bev hunched, retched, willed herself to keep driving, to get
there. Kings Heath seemed a lifetime away. Live commentary played on the speaker as terrifying pictures ran unbidden in her head.

“Dear God. Dear God.”
Don’t let me be too late.
White knuckles showed through Holly’s dried blood on her hands. She dashed angrily at scalding tears, left warpaint
smears on her face. “If the guv dies...” The warning was hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ll kill you!” God? Grant Young? Page? Holly? Jenny?

She fumbled for a baccy, lit it with trembling fingers. Bad for the health? Yeah. Like psychos. Deep drag, then another, then another, red glow in the dark. Whatever gets you through.
“Don’t die on me, guv.” Sod the age gap, the rank divide; if the big man made it, first chance she got she’d hit on him like there was no tomorrow.
What if there
isn’t?

While she was playing Happy Families, the guv had been in the hands of a cop killer. Another throat-burning drag. Should’ve left the Pages to their pathetic devices. She’d legged it
the second she could. Left Mac and the team mopping up.

He’d tailed Page’s motor but it was the Midget parked in the close that rang Mac’s alarm. Unlike Bev, he’d not played superhero. He’d radioed control, requested
assistance. At Marlborough Close, officers had entered at the front as Mac smashed his way through a back window.

Richard Page put up no resistance; last she’d seen of him was in the back of a police motor; Holly in the back of an ambulance. Her wound wasn’t fatal. The entry angle missed vital
organs. A wonder the stiletto went in at all, given how Jenny had attached it inside her sleeve. Holly would live, then get life. Extenuating circs would probably lead to a suspended sentence for
Jenny. Right now, Bev didn’t give a fuck. Even the tearful mother-son reunion left her cold. Kids. Who’d have them?

She leaned on the horn, ran a red. More radio static. Shouts. Silence. Had they gone in? What was going on? She slammed a palm on the wheel.

George Road was cordoned off. Tough. She mowed down the police tape, narrowly missed a police officer. Flashing a card, Bev ignored shouts, returned hand signals. There’d be a disciplinary
to face for the Page fuck-up: if you’re going to hang, sod a sheep, make it a flock. Adrenalin, nicotine, incandescence? Whatever. She was more wired than she could remember.

Two wheels straddled the kerb, door gaped; she glanced around, took in events. Four armed officers on the street. How many located out of sight? An AR vehicle was up at the top. She jogged
towards it. Heightened senses; shortened breaths. Something was wrong. Three flak-jacketed men stood in a group, talking. Too casual. There were too many people around, too much idle noise. Bev was
clammy-palmed, light-headed, nauseous – a classic panic attack. Sod that. She started to run, tripped, almost fell. A horn blasted behind her. Flashing blue lights. An ambulance. And a meat
wagon. It was all over.

Byford had no doubt he was about to die. The gun was cold against his temple; Young’s hot breath in his face. The superintendent closed his eyes, not ready but resigned.
A shot rang out, deafening in the small room. His body’s desperate heave toppled the chair sideways. Overwhelming pain as his head hit the floor.

Unconscious, he was unaware that the shot, from a police marksman, had taken out the light. And totally unaware of the second shot that took out Grant Young.

They brought Young’s body out first. Paramedics were working on Byford. They’d been in there twenty minutes, feeling like another lifetime to Bev. The senior
officer, a burly thickset woman she barely knew, wouldn’t let her in. Crime scene; fair enough.

“Will he make it? All I need to know...” She’d asked just about everyone else. No one would look her in the eye. Not even Mike Powell, who was about somewhere.

“I’m no expert,” the woman said. “He’s drifting in and out. Head injuries causing concern.”

Disciplinary? Suspension? Sod it.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

Bev didn’t look back. The guv was on a stretcher, unrecognisable. Face a bloody open wound, a black hole where his teeth had been, chips of bone showing white through the battered flesh.
The paramedics were talking to him, trying to keep him awake.
Keep him alive?
Fractured skull, pressure on the brain, touch and go. Drips were in place, the medicos making leaving noises.
One of them turned at the sound of her footsteps. He opened his mouth, said nothing. Maybe her face said everything.

She knelt at Byford’s side, gently stroked the blood-matted hair, voice soft and low. “Looking good, boss.” His eyelids fluttered. He couldn’t smile: needed a working
mouth for that.

Hers was tight as she fought tears. “Not George Clooney good...but, hey, you can’t have everything.” She bit her knuckles, tasted blood. “Loads to tell you, guv.”
Gently she ran a finger along his jaw. “Best let you go for now. Get a few running repairs, eh?” His eyelids fluttered.

She bent close. “Ever do this to me again...” She pressed her lips against his forehead. “I’ll bloody kill you.”

He’d missed
her
birthday; she was taking
him
presents. How did that work?

Bev was walking to the house, trying to get fitter, keep down the kilos. No hardship on a day like this. The long avenue of trees formed a cool green canopy backlit by the sun. The sky was the
colour of her eyes; the new dress a close match. Her fringe was a pain; she’d not had a chance to get a trim, but maybe she’d keep it longer anyway.

The goodies in her bag weren’t Bev’s only gift to the guv. She’d given him her time too, visited him every day in hospital, brought vineyards of grapes. Not that there’d
been a bunch else to do. Her suspension still had two weeks to run: insubordination (two counts); contaminating a crime scene (one); failure to communicate (countless). The disciplinary board
hadn’t ruled out busting her down a rank.