Hard Time Read online

  Hard Time

  Maureen Carter

  Also by Maureen Carter from Crème de la Crime:

  Working Girls

  Dead Old

  Baby Love

  Many writers would sell their first born for the ability to create such a distinctive voice in a main character.

  - Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence

  Complex, chilling and absorbing... confirms Carter’s place among the new generation of crime writers.

  - Julia Wallis Martin, author of The Bird Yard

  Imagine Bridget Jones meets Cracker... gritty, pacy, realistic and... televisual. When’s the TV adaptation going to hit our screens?

  - Amazon

  Fast moving, with a well realised character in Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss.

  - Mystery Lovers

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

  - Sarah Rayne, author of Tower of Silence

  ... it is good to see a publisher investing in fresh work that, although definitely contemporary in mood and content, falls four-square within the genre’s traditions.

  - Martin Edwards, author of the highly acclaimed Harry Devlin Mysteries

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

  - Reviewing the Evidence

  First published in 2007

  by Crème de la Crime

  P O Box 523, Chesterfield, S40 9AT

  Copyright © 2007 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

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

  ISBN 978-0-9551589-6-4

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

  www.cremedelacrime.com

  Contents

  December 1984

  Present Day

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  January 1994

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  December 1995

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  April 1997

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  August 2000

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  November 2000

  Chapter 34

  May 2001

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  December 2005

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Six weeks later

  About the author:

  Maureen Carter has worked extensively in the media. She lives in Birmingham with her husband and daughter. Visit her website:

  www.maureencarter.co.uk

  Huge thanks as ever go to Douglas Hill, whose editorial advice and acuity are beyond measure. Hard Time would not be the book it is without his expertise, enthusiasm and support.

  I am again enormously indebted to Lynne Patrick for her faith and focus, and her inspirational team at Crème de la Crime.

  For his valuable insight from both police and press points of view, I thank Richard Lakin.

  And for helping me see through Bev’s eyes, massive thanks to my favourite detective sergeant in the Midlands.

  Writing would be a lonelier place without the support of some special people. For ‘being there’ even when they’re miles away, my love and affection go to: Peter Shannon, Veronique Shannon, Corby and Stephen Young, Anne Hamilton, Frances Lally, Jane Howell, Henrietta Lockhart, Suzanne Lee, Paula and Charles Morris and Helen and Alan Mackay.

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

  For Sophie

  December 1984

  It was snowing when she dumped the baby. She laid the newborn on the ice-cold floor, winced as the pitted concrete dug into her knees. The blanket had loosened slightly during the short walk. She pulled it tighter, then drew the hood of the shawl over the baby’s head. Delicate mauve eyelids fluttered in protest, though the child didn’t wake.

  The young mother studied the tiny face, perfect in every detail. It was an image that would stay with her forever, returning unbidden over the years to torture her with feelings of guilt and shame and sorrow. Little more than a child herself, she believed the baby would be better off without her. It didn’t make the decision easy.

  Outside the cubicle, she paused, leaned against the door for support. What harm was there in one last look? She shook her head, nails drawing blood as they dug into her freezing palms.

  Seconds later, she emerged from the breezeblock building, raised the fur-edged hood of a grubby parka and glanced round. She’d never been to Stafford before, probably never would again. It was just a name on a map, a town with a railway station where she could break the journey south. No planning, no great design, no inkling of what the future held for herself – or the baby.

  She made her way across the Square. It was scattered now in icing-sugar snow and lay in darkness save for festive lights slung like gaudy necklaces between lampposts. Others nestled in the branches of a huge Christmas tree. Santa Claus and snowmen, reindeer and robins: the scene seemed to mock the young mother’s black despair.

  She found a place to watch from the shadows. Her pale face glistened with tears as she waited and watched. Waited for a stranger to take her baby.

  Stafford Weekly Observer, 22 December 1984

  ‘Miracle’ baby cheats death

  A newborn baby abandoned in public toilets in Stafford town centre is lucky to be alive, according to Staffordshire police.

  Sergeant Neil Jackson told the Chronicle: “It was the coldest December night in a generation. It’s a miracle the baby didn’t freeze to death.”

  Sergeant Jackson said a passer-by who found the little girl undoubtedly saved her life. Bridget Mackay, from Lark Rise in Stafford, was walking through Market Square when she heard cries from the ladies’ toilet.

  Mrs Mackay alerted the emergency services, then kept the baby warm until medical help arrived. “I only did what anyone would do,” she said.

  PRESENT

  The baby was rushed by ambulance to the Princess Margaret hospital where she is now recovering from her ordeal. Miss Susan Green, a nurse in the children’s ward, said: “She’s a poppet. We’ve been calling her Holly because it’s so close to Christmas.
Being reunited with her mum would be the best present ever.”

  Police want to talk to anyone who was in or near Market Square last night and who may have noticed anything suspicious. They particularly want to trace a young woman who was seen leaving the toilets at about 11 pm. A special hot-line number has been set up and all calls will be treated in strictest confidence.

  The police have also issued an appeal to the baby’s mother to come forward. “The woman has nothing to fear from us,” Sergeant Jackson said. “She’s the mother of a beautiful little girl. We just want the story to have a happy ending.”

  Present Day

  A man in a trench coat walked his dog down a wide pavement still slick with rain. It was past midnight, the street dark and otherwise deserted. Tall with stooped shoulders, the man carried a heavy torch. The young black labrador pranced at his side, pausing to investigate the damp bark of a dying oak tree. Through the fretwork of gnarled branches, indigo clouds skittered across a sallow moon.

  Robbie Crawford observed his dog with affection; a lazy smile softened the hard angles of his lined face. The former police officer was in no hurry. He knew sleep would be a long time coming; had no idea his life was almost over.

  He walked at night to combat insomnia worsened by early retirement. He’d held detective chief superintendent rank before quitting the West Midlands force two months earlier, at the age of fifty-three. Since then he’d learned more about his home patch, wandering around it, than in his previous twelve years’ residence.

  Wake Green was solid, respectable, not plagued by street crime. Thieves were more likely to target its large semidetached houses, half-timbered properties full of rich pickings. Crawford knew the location of every burglar alarm, which systems were linked to the police, which buildings were soft targets. He gave a wry smile. Luckily, he was one of the good guys.

  As a few spots of rain began to fall he lifted his collar, tugged gently at Jasper’s lead. If the heavens opened again, the walk would have to be cut short. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The nightly routine, the regular exercise, helped him sleep – eventually. Like most officers, serving or not, Crawford suffered flashbacks, unsettling images he thought he’d learned to live with. Nowadays, he found it more difficult to stave off ugly memories. Hopefully the new job would help. Security chief at the National Indoor Arena was a prestige post. He hadn’t expected to land it.

  Suddenly the dog yanked its lead. Crawford swore under his breath, almost lost his footing. Jasper strained forward, tail bristling; the deep growl in his throat was normally a prelude to prolonged barking. Crawford spoke gently while he scanned the street, wondering what had spooked the animal. Rustling leaves? A cat lurking in the bushes? No matter. The dog was already distracted, sniffing a gatepost as if his life depended on it.

  Crawford relaxed, thought again about the future. The NIA contract would start when he and Josie returned from New York next month. She wanted to renew their wedding vows during the trip. It wasn’t a lot to ask. At times over the years it seemed he’d been married to the job more than his wife. There was ground to make up; he looked forward to it.

  Panting, Jasper halted obediently at the kerb, waited for Crawford’s go-ahead. The ex-cop patted the dog’s head, whispered soothing words as they began to cross.

  Just as the black four-by-four burst out from shadows on the right. No lights. No warning. Engine gunned, aimed at Crawford.

  Wide-eyed, panic-stricken, he tried to leap away, but the vehicle was moving too fast. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide. His last coherent thought was that the driver had been lying in wait: it was no accident.

  The impact flung both Crawford and the dog into the air. Crushing blinding pain lasted only seconds. The final sound he heard was the sickening crunch of his skull smashing into concrete. Motionless, he lay on his side; torchlight flickered on the planes of his face as he stared sightlessly down the street.

  Jasper whimpered pitifully as he crawled closer, nuzzled his master’s hand. Only the dog saw the dark shape among the bushes. Only the dog saw the glint in the camera lens. The dog was dead, too, before help arrived.

  FRIDAY

  1

  Daniel Page was the cleverest little boy in Year One, probably the smartest five-year-old in the entire universe. His mummy said so. And she was always right.

  He was at the classroom window now, looking out for her. It was wet playtime and the air reeked of Marmite fingers and Monster Munchies. Daniel was dying for the bell to ring. Mummy would be here any minute to take him to the dentist. It meant missing two whole lessons: Daniel didn’t mind. He’d rather have five fillings than be in school any day. Not that his teeth had the tiniest hole. They were perfect. Mummy said so.

  He bared them now, tilting his head from side to side as he admired his reflection in the window. He hadn’t mastered winking yet so he practised that for a while as well. Daddy always said Daniel had his mummy’s eyes. It made the little boy laugh. How could he have someone else’s eyes? Of course he knew what Daddy meant: their eyes were exactly the same shade of green.

  He frowned. Where was she? He pressed his nose against the glass. It was pouring down. Everything was fuzzy because the window was steamed up inside and rain streamed down outside. He rubbed a porthole with the elbow of his jumper. Then his face lit up.

  “Miss!” he shouted. “Mummy’s here! Can I go?”

  Daniel’s teacher, Mrs Wilson, gave a tetchy sigh. She hated wet playtime; it meant she had no real break and she was trying to finish a letter to her son in Australia. “You’ll have to wait, young man.” The classroom assistant had popped to the staff room and there was no way Shirley Wilson was leaving thirty hyperactive infants to their own devices while she escorted the Page boy out.

  Daniel stamped a petulant foot. “I want to go now! Mummy’s getting wet. She’ll be very cross.”

  Tough, thought Mrs Wilson. Like a lot of beautiful women, Jenny Page imagined she only had to snap her elegant fingers and the world would come running. Shirley Wilson was two years off retirement: she only ran baths.

  “I’ll be late for the dentist,” Daniel wailed.

  It was a cue to the other kids. “Cry-baby, cissy-boy.”

  “That’s quite enough!” She had to shout to drown out the chorus. Daniel’s lower lip trembled as he pleaded with her to let him go. Mrs Wilson pushed her glasses up into her candyfloss perm and dragged weary legs to the window. Sure enough, Jenny Page was at the electric gates, tapping an equally petulant foot. Must be genetic. The teacher sighed. Presumably there was no one in the office or they’d have buzzed her in. Security was tight these days, even at The Manor prep school.

  Mrs Wilson squinted through the glass. The boy’s mother was tapping her other foot now. The teacher masked a spiteful smile. It could be worse. At least that ridiculous golf umbrella was keeping the poor dear dry.

  The classroom door opened and a young woman with a purple bob and parrot earrings backed in, carrying two mugs.

  “Tanya, before you settle, take Daniel out to his mother, will you?”

  “Sure.” The classroom assistant grinned, reached out a hand. “Come on, Tiger.”

  Ordinarily he’d have pointed out that his name was Daniel but he let it go this time. Miss was new and like most grown-ups was nice to him. Tanya led the little boy to the cloakroom and helped him on with his coat. “I’ll get Mr Gallagher to open the gates, then we’ll make a dash for it.” She tousled his blond thatch of hair. “If we were ducks, we could swim across.”

  He laughed. He liked Tanya. Though he doubted the puddles were that deep. While he waited for her to come back, Daniel wondered if Mummy would remember about the Disney Store. She’d promised they could go after the dentist.

  “OK, Tiger.” Tanya held the main door, pulled a face. If anything, the rain was worse. “Got your swimming trunks?”

  “And my goggles.” Daniel giggled, then looked concerned. Tanya hadn’t even got a coat. “Stay in the dry, miss.
I’ll be OK.”

  “No way, mate. I have to escort you to the gates.” She gave a mock frown. “Don’t want me to get into deep water, do you?”

  They burst out laughing.

  “Come on, Daniel, we’ll be late.”

  Daniel shot a glance at his mother, then back at Tanya. “Mummy,” he called. “Miss doesn’t have to come out, does she?”

  The woman struggled as a sudden gust of wind caught the umbrella. “Only if she wants to be blown away.” There was laughter in her voice.

  “See?” The little boy’s eyes shone. “I told you it’d be OK.”

  Of course it would. Even so, Tanya waited in the doorway until Daniel reached his mother, and lingered there watching as they walked away hand in hand.

  2

  Short of a terrorist alert or a royal visit, Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss had rarely seen so many uniforms. But then she hadn’t been to many police funerals. And never in rain masquerading as a monsoon.

  Cruising past, she glanced in the rear-view mirror. Tired blue eyes and matching bags told a tale she didn’t want to hear. Instead, she clocked the picture outside the church. Cops in black macs shuffling about like a bunch of crows. Murder of crows, wasn’t it? She grimaced. Ought to be a collective noun for coppers as well. Line-up, perhaps? Conviction?

  Or killing.

  Bev gripped the wheel, wished she could do the same with her thoughts. A hit-and-run might not be coldblooded murder, but the end result was the same: Detective Chief Superintendent Robbie Crawford was no less dead.

  She nudged the MG into a tight spot. Not that its bodywork was at risk. She knew its contours better than some of her old boyfriends’. And loved them more, despite the dodgy spray job. The original mustard yellow showed through the black in places, which meant when the boot was open the Midget looked like a giant wasp.

  The motor’s soft-top was currently being pelted with sharp stinging rain. Wet stuff bounced off the bonnet and paddling-pool potholes scarred the road surface. It was more April than early July. Momentarily cocooned against a storm both meteorological and mental, Bev sat head in hands, taking deep calming breaths. Her inner tempest had been going on pretty much all year.