Hard Time Read online

  It was early days to pull rank. Bev let Tyler’s remark go. Probably a lame attempt at a joke, anyway; there was ample time for what she needed.

  The photograph outside the law courts had been preying on her mind. She headed for the office, left voice mail on a couple of numbers. Hopefully she’d have answers later in the day. By the time she hit the early brief it was standing room only.

  The guv was at the front introducing Tyler to the squad. Matey smiles all round, a few hands casually raised in welcome. Bev watched from the back. It was clear Mac would be accepted from the word go: he was a bloke. The observation was statement of fact, not sour grapes. Women cops had to prove they had balls before being treated as one of the lads. Not that she was bitter or anything. Fact was she could have a sex change and still never be accepted by some of the older blokes.

  And what about DC Mac Tyler? She watched him bask in the metaphorical backslaps and bonhomie. Wondered how he’d take to a woman nearly twenty years younger dishing out the orders. Come to think of it, she’d no experience working with an older sidekick. Dream team? Or partnership made in the pits? Whatever. They’d find out soon enough.

  Mainly for the new guy’s benefit, Byford up-summed Operation Sapphire. Where they’d been, where they stood. It was day four, sixty-eight hours since an unknown woman not so much snatched as led a little boy away from his school. Lamb to the...

  Bev closed her eyes, saw Daniel’s shorn hair strewn across the carpet. Shit thing to do to a kid.

  “Door-to-doors have thrown up nothing.” The guv gestured at one of the white boards behind him. A map of the area around Daniel’s school was virtually covered in colour markers. A board on the right displayed the streets round the Page home in Moseley. More pretty patterns. Loads of shoe leather; sod all to show. It was the same blank picture with the CCTV footage. And it was ditto with well over forty interviews among the family’s friends, colleagues, contacts.

  Slumped shoulders and shit posture said it all; the squad knew what was coming.

  The guv said it anyway. “We’re going to have to go back, revisit every property, speak to everyone again. Someone must have seen something.”

  It was the cop’s mantra. And it was probably true. And nine times out of ten what they saw was as much use as chocolate sunglasses. The problem in this instance was that the only way of eliciting information was on a one-to-one basis, costly in terms of hours and officer power. The news blackout was a two-edged sword. OK, they didn’t have a flood of nut calls to wade through; Balsall Heath’s Jack the Ripper wasn’t going to surface again this time. But media appeals could also produce the occasional real-deal gem. With no press coverage feedback, they weren’t spoilt for choice. But neither did they have a lot to go on.

  “Got to be worth another chat with Stephen Cross,” Bev said. Posh Cross from Priory Rise. Mr Not-Have-A-Go-Hero and the source of the only even vaguely useful information they’d uncovered since the boy’s disappearance. It wasn’t unusual for wits to recall a detail or two after an initial interview. She’d left numbers but her faith in someone like Cross getting back was not high.

  “As soon as you like,” Byford said.

  “I take it the boy’s family’s pukka?” The new guy wasn’t backward in coming forward. He was on his feet at the front asking a question, making a point.

  “Bev?” The guv, presumably bowing to her greater knowledge.

  She nodded. “Far as I can tell.”

  “Background checks pan out.” Powell offered; Pembers nodded agreement.

  They were still following the Wayne Dunston line. Daz and Sumitra Gosh were heading out to Winson Green prison later that morning see if they could flush out any more of Dunston’s dodgy associates.

  “The kidnappers are bound to make contact soon,” Mac said. “Longer they hold on to the kid, the greater the risk.”

  “Of?” Byford asked.

  Mac spread his hands. “Some nosy bugger seeing something.”

  “I wish,” Bev muttered.

  “Who wants to be cooped up with a five-year-old longer than it takes?” Mac said. “If they want that half-million, I’m surprised they haven’t dropped hand-over instructions by now.” The new guy was clearly keen to make an impression, mark his territory.

  “So why haven’t they?” Mr Smart Arse.

  “I’m a cop, sarge, not a clairvoyant. But if they don’t get in touch PDQ, you have to question why they’re holding the kid.”

  Sounded good, meant nothing. She tried to recall something someone else had said in the last day or so. It was one of those mental silverfish moments, darting and difficult to pin down. When she tuned in again Byford was gathering his papers. “Right, everyone,” he said. “Let’s get on the phones and on the road. Stay focused. Stay positive. We’ll get there. It’s just a question of time.”

  As a rallying cry it wasn’t his best. What everyone wanted to know was how much time. And where exactly they were going.

  April 1997

  Holly dreamt of escape, fleeing from the man who abused her, the man she now called Satan. At first her plans had been childish, unrealistic, born out of despair and ignorance. But as she had grown older, her ideas became more focused, more workable.

  She no longer blamed her mother for the hell she endured. During her blackest hours, Holly’s greatest fear was that her birth mother was dead. It would explain why she’d never returned, why there’d never been even a birthday card.

  Still, Holly tried to keep faith, told herself there was a reason for her mother’s absence, assured herself she’d find out in time. Her adoptive parents, the Pipers, said they knew nothing about her background. Holly didn’t believe them.

  In a few years she would run away, trace her mother – and then together they’d wreak revenge on the man. Those were Holly’s only thoughts on the nights when the bedroom door was inched open.

  23

  “We stopping for a bite?” Mac was in the Midget’s passenger seat. Bev cast a sideways glance. No wonder the guy’s seat belt was straining. In the interval between the canteen fry-up and the fruitless visit to Priory Rise, he’d seen off a packet of crisps and a Twix.

  “Peckish, are we?” Like she cared.

  “TFR.”

  “Uh?”

  “Watch the red!” He gave a too-late shrug. “TFR. Too fucking right.”

  Bev ran a finger along her eyebrow, not sure what pissed her off most – the whistling, the winking or the initial-speak. Benefit, doubt, and all that. Maybe Mac was an acquired taste. Not that she was hungry; she’d been biting her tongue all morning.

  At least Mac had moved on from thinking about the next pit stop, and was now gazing through the window, people-watching. Keep him going for a while, that would. Moseley’s multi-ethnic mix was colourful in more ways than one. Place had a stack of flamboyant characters and in-your-face attitude. Bev, who’d never set foot in Mac’s old stamping ground, bet rural Derbyshire was pale in comparison. She was a second-city girl through and through.

  “What you make of this Cross geezer then, sarge?” He’d clearly been exercising brain as well as eye-movement. The new DC hadn’t had the dubious pleasure of making Stephen Cross’s acquaintance. Cross hadn’t been at home, neighbours hadn’t seen him around for a couple of days.

  She waggled a hand. “Sexist, arrogant git.”

  “Don’t hold back.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Seriously, was he straight up? Or after his fifteen minutes?”

  Good point. She pulled the visor down, struggling with retina flash from the noon sun. Tyler had already come up with a couple of valid points that morning. Like kidnap not being a woman’s crime. She’d been playing with the gender thing herself. A woman had collected Daniel from school, so obviously a female was involved, but to what extent? Almost invariably, in big-boy crimes, women played the minor roles: the often willing, occasionally unwitting accomplices. There were exceptions: the folie à deux exemplified by the evil coupling of
Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. Bev shuddered. Didn’t want to go there.

  As to Stephen Cross being Mr On-the-Level, she’d no real reason to believe otherwise, except... “It’s weird no one else saw anything. No corroboration anywhere.”

  “Like you say, he’s worth another chat. I’ll keep chasing, if you like.”

  Taking initiative, not control. “Nice one, mate.”

  “DMI.” He winked, flashed a smile. “Don’t mention it.” His head whipped round. “Hey, sarge. Wasn’t that a KFC?”

  Bernie Flowers strode into Byford’s office without knocking. Not a wise move. Everyone at Highgate knew the superintendent had a thing about people bursting in unannounced. Bernie had either a death wish or breaking news. “We’ve got a witness, Bill.”

  The guv laid down his pen. “Go on.”

  The news-bureau chief stood across the desk from the big man. “That turn I did for the telly?” The appeal for information in the Doug Edensor inquiry.

  Byford nodded, felt a faint tingle on his scalp.

  “Call just in. Geezer in the right place, right time, says he saw three men in the car park.”

  “Three?”

  “Yeah. The witness thought nothing of it till he saw the appeal. Reckoned they’d been on the jolly juice. The men’s arms were linked, lot of staggering about. Thinks now the two younger guys could’ve been forcing the other bloke.”

  “Forcing?”

  “As in frog-marching.” The witness had seen the men go through the door that led to the car-park roof, assumed their motor was up there. It was late, so he didn’t stick around.

  “Descriptions?” Byford asked.

  “Two Asians, early twenties, cargo pants, hoodies.”

  Byford forced himself not to overreact. Maxwell wasn’t the only crook in the city who hired Asians. Just the biggest. “And the third?”

  “Dead ringer for Doug, guv.”

  Bernie had arranged transport: the eyewitness was on the way to Highgate, where he’d work with e-fit specialists to come up with decent likenesses, which in turn could prompt more wits to come forward. “The street the garage is on?” Bernie said. “The locals call it Muggers’ Row.”

  Byford wasn’t convinced. Since when had the average mugger started carrying insulin? Was Maxwell into pharmacy now? There was one way to find out. Christ, he wished he’d known this earlier.

  The news chief turned at the door. “It’s Doug’s funeral Friday. You going, Bill?”

  He nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  Bev’s desk looked as if a pack of giant confetti had been dumped on it. A quick skim through myriad messages revealed the person she wanted to hear from most hadn’t replied. She hit a number, cradled the phone under her chin and tackled the wrapping on a Prét à Manger prawn-mayo sarnie. Multi-tasking, they called it. There was no answer so she ditched the phone, but the cellophane was still impregnable. Ready to eat? Yeah, right. It finally yielded after a stabbing from a letter opener. As for Andy Quinn, why hadn’t he got back?

  Feet on the desk, she bit into a prawn, recalling the first time she’d met Andy. She’d been a rookie on basic training at Ryton and Quinn one of the best lecturers there, acerbic and a bit of a loner. They’d hit it off from day one. Now, though, he was no longer a police officer, instead made a living as a private detective in Brighton. It was a bit seedy for Bev, mostly end-of-the-lens marital work, wandering husbands, flighty wives, dirty weekends. But when Andy had been photographed on the steps of the law courts, he’d been a young detective. Like Edensor, Crawford and the guv.

  Apart from the odd call and occasional postcard, she’d not hooked up with Andy for years. She gave a wry smile. He always sent cheesy shots of donkeys on the beach; she responded with Birmingham’s Bullring. Not much of a contest, really. She wasn’t even sure why she felt the need to talk. Just knew she’d feel better when she’d touched base.

  She pressed redial. Still no answer from his mobile. Didn’t mean anything, of course; he was probably doing his Jim Rockford bit. She left messages on Andy’s home and office numbers. He’d get back.

  24

  By early afternoon, two e-fits lay side by side on Byford’s desk. He’d leaned on the technicians and the job had been fast-tracked, but the witness was satisfied: these were the guys he’d seen with Doug Edensor. Byford studied the likenesses. Two Asian hard men. He recognised neither, but by God he’d know both again.

  Did Maxwell know them already? He’d despatched a squad car to bring the crime boss in for questioning. The pretext was flimsy but Byford didn’t care. He wanted Maxwell under pressure.

  The detective’s voice was sharp when he answered the phone. Regretted it instantly: Robbie Crawford’s widow didn’t deserve that.

  “Sorry, Josie.” He injected a warm smile. “Caught me at a bad time. What can I do for you?”

  He listened carefully; it was difficult to catch every word, her voice was breaking. She’d been bagging Robbie’s clothes for Oxfam when she found letters in a jacket pocket. Death threats.

  “They’re vile, Bill,” Josie sobbed. “Poisonous.” He pictured the pain twisting her pretty features. Josie was a petite blonde with a sharp mind, quick tongue. Robbie had worshipped the ground she walked on.

  “How many?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Anonymous?”

  “They’re not signed,” she said. “But I can guess who they’re from.” They’d been sent on the same date each year: the anniversary of James Maxwell’s death. Ditto the threats sent to Byford, though they’d dried up six years ago.

  “I’ll get someone over, Josie.” The letters would have to go to forensics. Though if Maxwell’s prints were on them, he’d eat the fedora.

  “Why didn’t he tell me, Bill?”

  Why didn’t he tell me? “He wouldn’t want you worrying, Josie.”

  And Doug? What might he have hidden from his wife?

  Byford rang off, reached for his hat and keys, decided to make a quick call to control before leaving. Patrols were still searching, he was told. It looked as if Maxwell was in hiding too.

  Bev put her head into the kidnap room. “Anyone know where the guv is?”

  Twenty other heads popped up or round, seemingly glad of a distraction, however brief, from pushing paper and bashing phones. Powell, who’d been leaning over DC Sumitra Gosh’s shoulder, lifted his gaze from her screen. “He’s in town. Auditioning for the Grant Young show.”

  Bev tapped the toe of a kitten heel shoe. “Meaning?”

  “He had a meeting with Young. Something to do with a TV programme. We all reckoned you’d gone with him.” The sly grin said more than the DI’s words. Mind, it must be the royal we. Every face in the room was as blank as Bev’s.

  He was clearly waiting for her to take the bait. Should she give him the satisfaction?

  “Hey! Where you off to?” he yelled. “There’s a stack of stuff needs checking here.”

  Like she’d been painting her toenails? She popped her head back. Powell was standing now, hands in pockets, dead casual.

  He looked her up and down. “So when’s the interview?”

  Bev sighed. The DI clearly had some snide gem he wanted off his chest. “Go on. Spit it out.” She could live without enlightenment but the squad was clearly dying to know.

  “The suit.” He smirked. “Either you’ve got an interview or there’s a royal visit.”

  She shook her head: how many cracks like that had she heard today? Actually, most of them were a good bit sharper. “Nah. I’m wearing it for a bet.” Her smile was sweet, too sweet.

  Powell’s turn to look blank. Least he had the nous not to ask what the bet was.

  “Hey, sarge?” Mac Tyler, the newbie, had slipped in behind. The subtle wink meant he’d cottoned on fast. “What’s the bet?”

  “Which loser’d be the first with a shit-for-brains cheap shot. And guess what?”

  The new DC turned his mouth down. “You just won?”

  “Got it in
one.”

  Byford wasn’t in town. He’d cancelled the meeting with Grant Young. As a sop, the detective had agreed to take a look at the media man’s programme treatment and get back with an early answer. Apparently Mansfield and one of the Birmingham Six had already signed contracts. Young had been full of it; Byford thought he’d never get off the phone.

  And the big man needed to get away...

  He sat now in the chintzy front room of a large Victorian villa in Harborne. The florals and frills, heavy furniture and low light added to his discomfort. Opposite, arms hugging waist, a painfully thin woman rocked herself slowly to and fro. Grey roots showed through faded auburn hair. Sylvie Edensor was in her late forties, looked a decade older. An agoraphobic, she hadn’t set foot outside the house in seven years; a bundle of neuroses. Doug would never have added to her worries.

  Since speaking to Josie Crawford, Byford had tried calling Sylvie, but knew Doug’s widow rarely answered the phone. She looked a wreck, much worse than he remembered. Not that he’d seen a lot of her in the seven years since Doug left the force. Her welcome had been frosty and a thaw hadn’t set in.

  She was aware that Doug’s death was being treated as murder. Byford told her he was following a line of inquiry. Given her fragility, he was working out how best to broach it.

  “I knew it wasn’t suicide all along. Doug would never have killed himself.” She twisted a strand of hair, the movement compulsive, probably unwitting.

  “Sylvie, did Doug ever mention... enemies?”

  “No.”

  “Threats?”

  “No.”

  “Letters?”

  “No. No. No. How many more times...?”

  “Sylvie.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I know this is difficult, but have you gone through his things?”

  She rarely made eye contact. He noticed, for the first time, flecks of yellow in the hazel pupils. Until tears welled and she turned her head.

  “Sylvie, I need to take a look.” He took her silence as assent.

  Upstairs, he checked obvious hiding places first: pockets, drawers, wardrobe, floor-boards, suitcases, bookcases, CD racks. But Doug hadn’t hidden it. The old tobacco tin was part of a collection on display in a glass cabinet on the landing. Inside were twelve cards, the kind found on funeral wreaths. All were black-edged, all bore the same message.