Death Line Read online

  Also by Maureen Carter:

  Our website: www.creativecontentdigital.com

  Visit us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/CreativeContent

  Follow us on Twitter: www.twitter.com/CCTheLowdown

  Praise for Maureen Carter’s witty, gritty Bev Morriss series:

  ... a cracking story that zips along...

  - Sarah Rayne, author of Tower of Silence

  Crime writing and crime fighting: Maureen Carter and her creation Bev Morriss are the Second City’s finest!

  - Mark Billingham, author of the acclaimed Tom Thorne series

  If there was any justice in the world she’d be as famous as Ian Rankin!

  - Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence

  Bev Morriss is a strong character inhabiting an energetic and compelling series of stories that would work well on TV. It’s only a matter of time, surely.

  - Tangled Web

  Carter has perfected the art...

  - Sunday Mercury

  A strong narrative voice and easy to understand slang...

  - Publishers Weekly (USA)

  British hard-boiled crime at its best.

  - Deadly Pleasures Year’s Best Mysteries (USA)

  ... shows us another side of the hero and encourages us to connect with her on a deeper personal level than ever before.

  - David Pitt, Booklist (USA)

  Crème de la Crime... so far have not put a foot wrong.

  - Reviewing the Evidence

  First published in 2010

  by Crème de la Crime

  P O Box 523, Chesterfield, S40 9AT

  Copyright © 2010 Maureen Carter

  The moral right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typesetting by Yvette Warren

  Cover design by Yvette Warren

  Front cover image by Peter Roman

  ISBN 978-0-9560566-3-4

  eBook ISBN 978-1-906790-93-6

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

  Printed and bound in the UK by

  Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

  www.creativecontentdigital.com

  About the author:

  Maureen Carter now lives in Birmingham and has worked extensively in the media.

  www.maureencarter.co.uk

  As ever, I am hugely indebted to Lynne Patrick and her exceptional and inspirational team at Crème de la Crime. It’s a pleasure and privilege to be with this innovative and exciting publishing house. For professional expertise, knowledge and insight, I’m more than grateful to Lead Forensic Scene Manager Robin Slater and Investigator Chris Elliott. Their input is more valuable than I can say, and goes far beyond answering my countless questions. Any errors of interpretation are mine.

  As I’ve said before, writing would be a lonelier place without the love and support from some special people. For ‘being there’ even when they’re sometimes miles away my love and affection go to: Sophie Shannon, Dan Rees, Veronique Shannon, Suzanne Lee, Paula and Charles Morris, Corby and Stephen Young, Helen and Alan Mackay, Frances Lally, Anne Hamilton, Jane Howell, Henrietta Lockhurst, Sheila Quigley and Bridget Wood.

  Finally, my thanks to readers everywhere – as always this is for you.

  For Peter

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Twelve days later

  The burgundy leather cover gave no clue to the scrapbook’s contents. A hand tentatively leafed through the pages, the reader’s face impassive, inscrutable. Every item was cleanly cut, painstakingly positioned: news cuttings, magazine articles, family photographs, the symmetry and chronology clearly important to the collector. The first story was on the opening page, dead centre. A short item, it was clearly breaking news: detail was sparse, head and shoulder snapshot slightly blurred. 1 July 1980 and Leicester Mercury was handwritten: black ink, bold copperplate.

  Missing child

  Police are increasingly concerned about the safety of 10-year-old Scott Myers.

  Scott (pictured) hasn’t been seen since leaving Belle View Junior School at Highfields yesterday afternoon.

  Detective Inspector Ted Adams told the Mercury that Scott was not in trouble at home and had not gone missing before.

  The little boy was wearing a navy blue blazer, white shirt and short grey trousers.

  Anyone who may have seen Scott is asked to contact Leicester police on 01533 999999.

  The holder of the scrapbook stared intently at the photograph as if willing the little boy to speak, to share his secrets; exploratory fingers ran over the grainy image, tenderly traced Scott’s lips captured for ever in a gap-toothed smile. Had he been self-conscious about that? Had his friends teased him? Children could be so cruel.

  Either way, the gap was tiny. It would have closed naturally.

  Given time.

  TUESDAY

  1

  Josh lagged behind in the stuffy classroom, desperate to be last out. He was small for his age, wore nerdy glasses, scruffy clothes and knew he smelt bad. The other kids were always on at him, giving him a hard time, calling him Stig, as in dump. Worse, Brett Sullivan’s gang usually lay in wait to give him a good hiding. Josh dreaded going home time.

  Not knowing where the big lads would be was the pits. Some days they crouched by the stinky wheelie bins outside the kitchens, another time they’d be sniggering round the side of the bike sheds. Once or twice they’d followed him to the house, calling him names, throwing stones, booting him up the backside, ripping his t-shirt. Just thinking about it made his stomach churn like as if he was going to throw up. It wasn’t as though he had any money or a mobile. As if. The big kids got a kick out of seeing him cry, bashing him, making his life a misery.

  Little legs tightly crossed, Josh paused at the main entrance, pressed his nose against the reinforced glass and peered through into the playground. Bright sun, blue sky again; the teachers were calling it a heatwave. Josh shivered, checked the shadows. Was the coast clear? Well, his mum wasn’t going to be there, was she? Never had been really. Chewing his lip, casting wary glances, Josh slipped through the heavy swing door. He knew his mum drank too much, took too many drugs, didn’t clean the house or cook nice food. He loved her though, loved her to bits – and she only hit him when she was really, really, mad. He worried himself sick when she passed out. What if she didn’t come round one time? When she was in a good mood, had a few quid to spare, it was mint. They’d fetch fish and chips, maybe pick up a DVD – Harry Potter, something like that – then cuddle up on the settee. She’d ruffle his hair, tell him he was her big man. His sweet smile faded fast. When had they last done that?

  He sniffed, caught a whiff of exhaust fumes, glanced up to see the ice cream van pull away. His mouth watered. What he wouldn’t give for a 99 or a Magnum. Not that he’d turn his nose up at an ordinary ice lolly. Fat chance. He was well skint; couldn’t remember the last time he’d had money in his pocket. Head down, he scoured the pavement just in case...

  It was just before he reached the block of cheapo shops, beginning to drop his guard when they jumped him. Brett and one of his bully boys. Mouth dry, heart pumping, Josh darted nervous glances every which way. Why was no one there when you needed them? Strong hands grabbed his arms, spiteful fingers pinched his flesh as they frogmarched him along.

  “This way, Stiggie,” Brett sneered. Like Josh had a choice. His scuffed trainers barely skimmed the pavement.

  “What you want? I ain’t got nothing.” Josh hated the whimper in his voice. Made him sound a wuss.

  “Shut it, loser.”

  He bit his lip, tears pricked his eyes. “I’m not a los...”

  “Loser, loser, Stiggie is a loser.” They were both at it now, winding him up, pulling stupid ugly faces.

  He’d not cry. Not give them the satisfaction. “Come on, Brett, let me go. I never done nothing to you.” Brett jabbed a bony elbow into his ribs. “Stop whinging. Dumpboy.”

  Josh smelt dog shit, hot tarmac. They were nearly at the waste ground on Marston Road. He so didn’t want to end up there; all those bricks and rubble. They’d use him as target practice again. Please God, don’t let me pee my pants. “Wh... where we going?”

  “The pictures, not.” Brett flicked his finger into the little boy’s cheek. “So you won’t be needing these will you, speccy?” He snatched Josh’s glasses, twirling them round and round. Shit. Not another pair. His mum’d go ballistic. Josh licked his lips, tasted blood. Scared, hacked off, he lashed out but they released their grip and were already scarpering. “Give ’em back,” he yelled. “Please! I need ’em.”

  “Come and get ’em, shit brain.”

  Lost without his specs, Josh could barely focus; Brett and his mate were just blurry figures in the distance. Fists clenched, eyes smarting, he thought about giving chase, but even if he could catch them, what was he going to do? He sighed heavily, in no hurry to get home now; his mum’d kill him. Dashing away angry shameful tears, he dragged his feet, vaguely registered a red car idling at the kerb just up ahead. As he approached, the driver wound down the window. “Want to go after them? Teach them a lesson?”

  Josh squinted. Did he know the man? The face looked vaguely familiar but without glasses the little boy couldn’t be sure. He remembered what his mum said about getting into strangers’ cars. Best not. “It’s OK, thanks, mister.”

  “Your call. I’m surprised you’re happy to let them get away with it though, Josh.”

  Josh? He must know the bloke. As for letting gobbie Brett get away with it – like hell. Face screwed, he peered closer. “What you mean, mister? Teach ’em a lesson?”

  “Hop in, Josh. You’ll see.”

  2

  Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss glared at the pewter sky over a tatty council house on the Quarry Bank estate and told God to get her act together. The clock was ticking: the kid who lived here was missing, all hell was let loose. It was a category A incident, every available officer on the case. Bev had been landed with mother-watch – not a pretty sight. She’d just slipped out to make a call. Or that’s what she’d told the family liaison officer who’d more than earn her whack with this one.

  Leaning on the wall, a Doc Marten against the brickwork, Bev lit a Silk Cut, inhaled deeply, blamed the smoke when her eyes stung. Yeah right. Except it was more the image of a little boy with red hair, Bill Gates glasses and a cheeky grin – William Brown meets the Milky Bar kid. Her weak unwitting smile lasted only seconds. Ten-year-old Josh Banks had vanished into emaciated air and even out here, even over the intermittent drone of the police helicopter, the low-level buzz of traffic, Bev could hear the mother wailing.

  And the cop in her was questioning if the grief was genuine. Josh had been missing for three hours before Stacey Banks raised the alarm, since when she’d shown wall-to-wall hostility. Bev hadn’t even taken the brunt of it. The woman’s foul-mouthed abuse had been targeted at the initial search team, even though she’d been told the family home’s the first place cops look for a missing child. Home Sweet Home? Not always.

  Cynical? Damn right. Bev had seen it all and then some. Either way, Josh had not been hiding and his body had not been hidden. Though filthy and rank, in the legal sense the house was clean. Ish.

  Light spilled on the narrow path as the front door opened and her partner DC Mac Tyler emerged. She budged along a gnat’s so he could join her, watched him wipe an already moist hankie round his clammy neck. Mac was mid-fifties and not so much running as ambling to fat; she doubted either was responsible for the heat under his open collar.

  “OK, mate?” Her enquiry was casual, the glance concerned.

  “Sure.” The response was knee-jerk. His tense features reflected his real thoughts. With two lads of his own, he had more idea than Bev what the impact would be if one went AWOL. In what little spare time the job left, Mac did stand-up comedy; right now he wasn’t cracking a smile, let alone a joke.

  “Give us a drag, sarge.” He held out two podgy fingers, a gesture that would normally have sparked an irreverent one-liner; she passed the baccy on autopilot. Mac took a quick draw then, grimacing, ground the stub under a scuffed desert boot. She wasn’t surprised: he usually equated smoking with a one-way ticket to Switzerland. Their deep sighs were synchronised, both lost in speculation, both vaguely aware of the urban ambience – such as it was.

  A snatch of Lily Allen’s Smile drifted from a passing soft top; a scrawny Alsatian-cross piddled down a black bin liner; eau de curry and Ambre Solaire wafted in the still warm air. And an irritating TV ad from within signalled the end of News at Ten. Because you’re worth it. Bev sniffed. Says who?

  “That’s another thing,” she muttered. “I wish she’d turn that sodding telly off.” The widescreen plasma had been blaring since their arrival: The Bill and Big Brother were bad enough, but the coverage of Josh’s disappearance was neither use nor ornament.

  “Helps, maybe,” Mac offered. “Seeing what we’re doing.”

  “Helps?” The voice was inadvertently high; volume lower, she continued, “Banging on about the ‘golden hour of a police investigation’. That’s all we need.” The sneer was over the top, but her fear was still there. Cops know if an abducted child’s not found sharpish, odds are a body will turn up. The hanging around not knowing either way was, for Bev, the worst time. Except when... She closed her eyes, banished never completely buried flashbacks of small broken bodies. Dear God, please let us find him.

  She swallowed hard, told herself it was still just possible Josh hadn’t been snatched; though for seven hours he’d certainly not been seen. He’d walked out of Hyde Lea junior school in Jubilee Row that afternoon – and that was it. Nada. Thank God it was July and they’d still had a few hours’ daylight to play with.

  Highgate’s new boy Detective Chief Inspector Lance Knight was co-ordinating the inquiry; Bev hoped it didn’t turn into a baptism of fire. DCI Knight – dubbed Lancelot, natch – had called the right shots so far. Not difficult: police procedures were well established. After searching the immediate area, a mix of uniforms and detectives had visi ted Josh’s school friends, called on relatives, canvassed passers-by and questioned drivers. No leads had been uncovered, so specialist search trained officers had been called in.

  The hastily-assembled Police Search Advisors – known as POLSA – had made a start on tracing Josh’s footsteps; the half-mile route covered a row of seedy shops, rundown terraces and a scrubby patch of wasteland. Despite the police activity and as yet limited media coverage, not so much as a dodgy sighting had been reported. Light was fading now and the hunt would be winding down, but at dawn the search grid would be extended, tooth combs made finer.

  “Think we’ll find him, boss?” Mac hitched baggy denims over a button-straining paunch. She glanced along the street: drizzle danced like fake diamonds in the muted glow of the few street lamps that weren’t faulty or fused.

  “Not out here we won’t.” She peeled herself off the wall, nodded at the door. “Let’s have another crack at Madonna.”

  3

  Stacey Banks resembled a bleached whale with attitude. Her coarse over-dyed hair looked like wee-coloured straw with ginger roots. Under the blubber and pasty face it was just conceivable a slim pretty woman was not struggling to get out. Currently her backside was wodged into the shabby depths of a sludge-green settee. The skimpy yellow sun dress was a brave choice: the dimpled thighs were too fat to close let alone cross. At twenty-six, she looked forty-plus. The overheated under-ventilated room stank of body odour, chips and cheesy feet.

  When Bev and Mac re-entered, Stacey lifted a lazy-eyed glance. She’d been staring morosely at a school photograph of Josh that lay quivering on her lap. Taken two years ago, it was the only picture in the house of her first-born. Copies had been circulated to other forces and the media, missing posters would be printed and posted first thing. If need be.

  “’Ave yer found ’im?” Her Birmingham accent was broad, the delivery still slightly slurred. Bev’s blank expression was answer enough. Stacey Banks’s porcine eyes creased in contempt. “Fuckin’ useless. The lot on yer.”