Hard Time (4 page)

He’d detected changes in Bev over recent months, not just in her appearance. The shorter spikier hair did nothing to soften her face; the tongue, always sharp, could now be lacerating.

Byford hoped Will Browne was rotting in hell for what he’d done to her. And for what he’d taken from her.

The big man suppressed a weary sigh. “You tell me, Bev.”

Long black mac flapping in the wind, he cut a lone figure in the huge bleak cemetery. Other mourners gone now, the grounds were deserted and silent apart from a chorus of rooks cawing in the
wings. Byford had been paying his last respects to ex-DCS Robbie Crawford. The two men went back a long way. As young cops, they’d patrolled the same patch in Aston, moved to CID within a few
months of each other, worked a handful of big cases together and socialised off-duty occasionally. Bev’s call was disturbing more than his private sorrow at a friend’s senseless and
untimely death.

If that’s what it was. The superintendent had been unable to shake off a faint sense of unease about the hit-and-run. Difficult to describe, impossible to pin down but there all the same,
a niggle at the back of his mind.

“It’s a bugger, guv.” On the phone he heard the rasp of a match followed by the sharp intake of what would undoubtedly be smoky breath.

Byford glanced at his watch: 4.50. Alarm raised 3.30. Daniel last seen 12.20. Given that the first sixty minutes in any inquiry were the most crucial, the so-called golden hour, by his
calculations they were already in extra time. “What’s priority, Bev?”

“The boy.” Ten out of ten.

“Well, then?” All the fast actions were underway: tracker dogs, chopper, every available body searching, Bev en route to interview the father. Byford couldn’t see the
problem.

“It’s not that simple.” More aural smoke signals. He’d already heard her out, read the silences, sensed the nuances. It was clear she had a problem with the boy’s
mother.

“Jenny Page...”

That was as far as he let her go. “Sergeant, don’t let personal...”

“Not.”

“You are. I’m aware the woman doesn’t fit your image of a distraught parent, but...” He didn’t need to spell it out. “A five-year-old boy’s missing.
That’s the bottom line, the top line, every line in between.” He paused. “It is that simple.”

And Bev didn’t need him to tell her that. The operation was textbook so far, couldn’t be faulted. It was her attitude that was out of line.

“It doesn’t add up, guv. There’s...”

He supplied the word. “Discrepancies.”

“Exactly.”

His sigh went unsuppressed this time. “Is Mike Powell up to speed?”

The DI. He’d been on the phone to Bev, said he’d handle the press. No surprise there: it could be a biggie and Powell was a media tart. “Yeah?”
Why?

“Where are you now?” Byford stroked an eyebrow. In guv-speak that was not good. She’d picked up the signals in his voice anyway.

“Almost at the house.”

Their unmarked police Vauxhall was just behind Jenny’s Audi. The woman had insisted on driving herself home. Like Bev, the Pages lived in Moseley, though the couple’s house in The
Close was more Georgian pile than her Edwardian pad.

“I’ll get Mike over there. Make your way back to Highgate.” He heard the teeth grit. When she spoke, it was sweetness and light.

“S’OK, guv. Daz is here. Virtually on the doorstep. We can handle it.”

“Mike’ll want it.” There was no way to break it gently. “I’m making him SIO.”

Senior investigating officer.

The phone coughed and died. Doubtless they’d been cut off. He’d give her the benefit – this time.

“Double shit with shit on top.” Bev rooted in the foot-well to retrieve her mobile, then lowered the window. Hot air; stinking mood.

“New pizza topping?” DC Darren New’s grin-cum-smirk was ill-judged.

“Fuck off.”

“Please.”

His deadpan delivery made her lip twitch. “Daft sod.” She twirled a finger in a U-ey, sighing from the soles of her Doc Martens. She conveyed the guv’s change of plan: that
Powell was now on parent duty. That she was pissed off didn’t need explanation.

“Not
flavour
of the month then?”

“Darren. Let’s not do flavour jokes. OK?” His witty repartee, like his whistling, was well flat, both were distracting and she had a load on her plate.

Despite chucking the phone and throwing a wobbly, she privately conceded the guv had probably made the right call. Admitting it hurt – but, like a lot of stuff lately, she’d not done
herself any favours with Jenny Page. If he’d let her loose on the boy’s father, odds were she’d have cocked up again.

She rubbed a hand over her face. The over-the-top tantrum was for Dazza’s benefit: very Bev Morriss. If she acted the same as always, no one would know how shit-scared she was. Scared of
responsibility, scared of decision-taking; her judgment was down the pan, searching for her confidence. Maintaining the Morriss façade was like treading a tightrope over the Grand Canyon. In
stilettos. On stilts.

Daz broke the silence and her thoughts. “Where to, boss?”

She snorted at the unwitting irony. “Drop me at the school. I’ll catch you back at the nick.”

Pursed lips ready to launch into another tuneless rendition, Daz took a look at her face and changed his mind. Stomach-rumbling starving, she raided the glove compartment for food, came up with
half a packet of beef and onion crisps. She sniffed the contents, curled a lip, stuffed her face anyway.

No pigging out, though, Beverley.
The slinky little number she’d bought for Oz’s leaving do didn’t leave much to the imagination. And didn’t have a lot of slack.
She pictured her grand entrance, designed to give Oz an eyeful, make sure the man knew what he’d be missing. That didn’t include lumpy bits and visible panty line. On the other hand,
lunchtime was practically prehistoric. She crammed in another mouthful, casting a covetous glance at Subway Moseley as they drove past.

Moseley Village. She gave an affectionate snort. A scrubby patch of green soaking up exhaust fumes was as rural as Moseley got. Bev had lived there for the better part of a year, loved its
ethnic blend and urban buzz. The place was jammed with pubs, wine bars, restaurants, some already gearing up for a Friday night
al fresco
. Pavements were dry now, tables already filling.
Rain would not stop play.

“Prob’ly as well, you know, sarge.”

Life, the universe, everything? Had she missed something?
“What’s that, Daz?”

“Not having another go at the Page woman.”

“Another go?” she spluttered.

“If you don’t mind me saying...” So she would. “I thought you gave her a hard time.”

The criticism was brushed off, along with a smattering of crisp crumbs. “She’s lying. Kid’s missing. No mileage pissing round.”

“Maybe she is.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean she’s lying about the kid, though.”

“She’s a fake. Christ, I bet even the emerald eyes are plastic.”

“They’re not, actually,” Daz corrected her. “I took a close look.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

Ostentatiously she rummaged in the depths of a bottomless shoulder bag, withdrew a jotter and started making notes. Did Daz have a point? She’d always prized herself on getting along with
anyone: empathy, rapport, whatever, she was
simpatico
on legs. Was she losing that as well? Best watch it, make an effort.

“Hard time?” She sneered. “Not me, mate. It was you creaming your jeans.”

Hampton Place was chocka with cops and squad cars; uniform had thrown a police cordon round the school and the force helicopter was circling in a slate sky. If this were a
shoot for
The Bill
or an incident in Small Heath, gawpers would be lining the road. But this was real and Hampton Place didn’t do nosy buggers. Posh with a capital P, Big Brother round
here meant George Orwell, not Jade Goody.

That was a point. No telly cameras. Bev frowned, scanning both sides of the street as she headed for The Manor. Where were the journos? The pack? Not so much as a cub reporter. DI Powell
obviously hadn’t got the media circus together yet, and the newshounds clearly hadn’t picked up the incident or Hampton Place’d be crawling with sniffer hacks.

A stony-faced Daz had dropped her as far from the school as he dared, saying the exercise would do her good. She sniffed: another mate’s nose she’d put out of joint.

“Beverley Morriss. Light of my life. How you doing, babe?”

My God, that voice took her back. She turned and grinned. “Jack Pope, as I live and – got a baccy, old son?”

“For you, precious...” He proffered a pack of Marlboro. “Looking tasty as ever, kid.”

She rolled her eyes, took a light as well. She and Jack had done basic training together. Eighteen weeks at Ryton. They’d hit it off from the word go, even gone as far as the odd grope
behind the motorbike sheds. But she had no illusions: he’d always been full of shit, no matter how sweet it smelt. Jack was the original lad: twinkling grey eyes, ink-black curls, more boyish
charm than anyone she’d met, though the tight black cords left no doubt that he was a big boy now.

“When did you make CID?” Last she heard, Jack was a beat officer in Oxford. “Thought you were slumming it under the dreaming spires.”

“Thought wrong, babe. I could fill you in, though.” The twinkle turned into a glint. “Fancy a pint later?”

Hiding a smile, she shook her head. “Where you based?” Nowadays it was Christmas cards they exchanged, not bodily fluids.

“Birmingham.”

Ta for mentioning it.

“No need to get arsy, Ms Morriss. I’d’ve given you a bell. I don’t start till next week.” He jabbed his thumb at the action. “Heard this kicking off. Thought
I’d take a look.”

“You gonna be working out of Highgate?” Jack was a good mate, but as partner? Pain in the butt.

“Why?” He overdid the eyebrow waggling. “Would you like that, little lady?” Seeing the audience reaction, he cut the drama. “Sorry, mate. Nah. City
centre.”

She nodded at the school gates, carried on walking towards them. “What you picked up?”

“Only just got here. I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“The kid’s been missing five hours. Taken by some woman the spit of his mum. And that’s it. Earth. Face of. Vanished. No sightings. No calls. Nothing. Big fat nada.”

“Door-to-door?”

She flicked the butt in the gutter. “Place is full of disabled monkeys: deaf, blind, dumb.”

“No leads at all?”

“Where do we always look first?” He shrugged. “Come on, Jack. You know as well as me – nearest isn’t necessarily dearest.”

Sage nod. Murder, rape, abuse, the stats showed it every time. Victims – especially women and children – suffer at the hands of the people they love.

“Close to home,” she went on. “Not so far to lash out.”

“Who’s your money on?”

“Early days, mate.”

“Gut instinct?” He offered another baccy. “You used to swear by it.”

“If the mother’s not in it up to her neck –” she grabbed two for later – “I’m Naomi Campbell.”

He pulled an ear lobe. “Listen, Bev...”

Through the gates the woman Bev wanted a word with was about to get in a Ford Ka. Bev cut him off. “Gotta go, Jack.” She ducked under the tape, flashed him a smile. “Catch you
later.”

“Prince ’bout nine?” he called. “Got something to tell you.”

Shirley Wilson had probably seen better days. That was the best Bev could say. Seated in the Ka’s passenger seat, Bev saw on the teacher’s face what was probably
going through her troubled mind, sensed the guilt she felt.

Bev had just established that – as Jenny Page claimed – the older woman wasn’t wearing her glasses when she’d looked through the classroom window. What Page hadn’t
pointed out was that the teacher didn’t need them for distance.

But that was no comfort to Mrs Wilson. “I should have taken him down myself.” She picked compulsively with paint-stained fingers at her frumpy skirt.

Bev wasn’t there to make her feel worse. “You had no reason to doubt the woman was his mother.”

The teacher shook her head. “That’s not really the point, sergeant. I expected to see Mrs Page. I saw a blonde-haired woman with an umbrella and made an assumption.”

Shee-it. If the woman had been concealing her face, Shirley Wilson could’ve had a telescope – it would’ve made no difference. “So you never actually saw the woman’s
face?” She tried to keep the accusation out of her voice.

“The window was misted, it was pouring with rain, Daniel was eager to get away. I was in the middle of...”

Bev waited as long as she could. “What?”

“Writing a letter.” The teacher made eye contact for the first time. “ To my son.”

That was the big stick, then. Keeping in touch with her own son, Shirley Wilson had failed to look out for someone else’s. It wasn’t the only reason she was giving herself a hard
time.

“Tanya had never even seen Daniel’s mother before. How was she to know who was waiting outside?”

The ID thing had been bugging Bev too. “You’re right, Mrs Wilson. Tanya wouldn’t know.” She reached to touch the older woman’s hand. “But
Daniel
would.”

According to the classroom assistant, he’d gone without a second’s hesitation. Which meant Jenny Page had been there and was lying. Or Daniel had been taken by someone he knew.

Jack Pope sat in his Boxster tapping a biro on the steering wheel and wrestling with an alien concept: his conscience. Even if he hadn’t bumped into Bev Morriss,
he’d have looked her up. She’d been a good mate way back and whatever
it
was, young Beverley had it in spades. And, boy, did she still have a mouth on her.

He needed contacts like that in the police.

Jack glanced at the notes and quotes he’d jotted from memory:
disabled monkeys...big fat nada...lying mother...
OK, Bev hadn’t actually called her a liar, but
If the
mother’s not in it up to her neck, I’m Naomi Campbell
wasn’t the biggest vote of confidence.

Pope could see the headline now. Not that he’d write it; the subs did that. But the story was his baby; the smile suggested this was one he’d love. Technically he didn’t start
until Monday. But he could file early, get a piece in this week’s
Sunday Chronicle.
Every new boy needed brownie points.