Hard Time Page 23

  She surely could. If she had the faintest idea where he was. Bev had been trying to reach him for a couple of hours. He wasn’t answering his mobile, and according to Colin he’d left The White House shortly after lunch.

  Four sachets of sugar and the canteen tea still tasted like piss. Bev could have murdered a pinot but needed all her wits about her. Listlessly she stirred the beige brew, gazed at the night sky from the top-floor window. Searching for what? Inspiration? Revelation? Perhaps she’d consult the stars. She had a galaxy of questions.

  She looked again, really saw the sky this time: the beautiful, seemingly endless dark blue, a flawless backdrop for a perfect silver moon. The universe put things in perspective, didn’t it? So vast, so deep, so unfathomable. Like this sodding case.

  Where the hell was Jenny Page? They’d had a flood of sightings from viewers who’d watched the media appeals. A couple of reports had sounded promising, but didn’t deliver. Teams were still monitoring calls, following up as and when.

  At least Richard Page was back at the house in Moseley. Mac was there making sure it stayed that way. As for Laura Foster – she could be anywhere. She’d recently moved, and when Bev had asked Page, he said she hadn’t given anyone her new address yet. Yeah, right.

  What were the links? They had to be there. Think it through, girl. At least the canteen was empty this time of night. No distractions.

  “Stir for Europe you could, BM.” DI Powell nodded at the spoon in her hand, still doing the rounds.

  BM? New one, that. “What you doing here?” She gave the tea a few more whirls, licked the spoon.

  “The canteen?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Or at all?”

  The resignation letter? Double shit. “Bit cryptic for me, that one.”

  “Thought you knew everything, BM. Before it happens, most of the time.” Sweat beaded his hairline; she could count the droplets, he was that close. “Thieving from a senior officer? I could have you on a disciplinary.”

  She floundered for a fib. PMT? HRT? PTSD? “I didn’t want you to go.” The blurted admission shocked them both.

  He backed off, frowning. “Say that again.”

  “I didn’t want you to go.” She peered at the cut on his forehead; it was healing nicely but would scar.

  The DI flopped into the chair opposite. “You taking the piss?”

  She’d nothing to lose. “Look, mate, you can be a right pain in the arse. There’s times I’d like to give you a good slapping.” She glanced away. “But I’d miss you if you weren’t here.”

  “Fancy me, do you?”

  “Pur-lease.” She caught the smile tugging his lips. Best line he’d ever cracked.

  It broke the ice floe between them. They chatted for a while: cases, cops, work in general. Being upfront had opened him up too; he was easy, relaxed. She’d have to suck up more often. She kept an eye on the time but Powell was off anyway. He scraped the chair back, delved in pockets for car keys. “Catch you tomorrow. And don’t worry about the letter business. Next time though, keep it out, eh?” He tapped the side of his nose.

  She was so busy lying through her teeth she didn’t get the chance to ask what BM was short for. Had to be Bev Morriss. Didn’t it?

  When Bev left an hour later, the light was on in the guv’s office. She frowned. What was he up to this time of night? Not far off ten. Maybe she’d nip in, mention where she was off to? Her inspiration was recent and she was keen to give it a whirl. Though SOCOs had already fine-tooth-combed Cross’s place, had they looked for a link to Laura Foster? Only one way to find out. It was gut instinct again more than anything, and if she told the guv, he’d probably put the kibosh on it. No harm saying goodnight, though.

  The door inched open when she gave it a gentle tap. “Guv...?”

  He wasn’t at his desk, she couldn’t see his briefcase, the fedora was gone, the cactus looked to be on the way out. She shook her head with a smile: last time she’d buy him anything. She’d do him a good turn, though. He must’ve forgotten to switch off; the computer was booted as well. As she bent for the plug, her glance fell on a note.

  Not that the guv had written a lot. Harry Maxwell’s name underlined, plus Grant Young’s circled. Maybe Young had come up with some goodies on the crime boss. The guv hadn’t mentioned anything, though.

  She shrugged. Please himself. End of the day, he was boss, she was lowly DS. That was the relationship. Having the hots for him didn’t figure in the equation. It’d never work anyway. How d’you know? I just do. Ask him out. Get lost. No way. Back off.

  The internal dialogue raged as she leafed through the diary. She almost talked herself into making him an offer involving Haagen Das and a lot of rubber. Until she saw where he was tonight: a party at Young’s in Kings Heath for Hard Time. She sniffed. Good of him to share.

  Not that she was exactly broadcasting her own imminent spot of moonlighting.

  She hoisted her bag, ready to hit the road, then gasped, threw a hand to her mouth.“Holy Mary.” There was a body hanging behind the door.

  It took less than a second to realise her mistake. “Fuckwit,” she snarled. It was the guv’s black suit draped on a coat hanger over the lintel. Relief flooded Bev’s system, already awash with adrenalin. She closed her eyes, took steadying breaths. Byford must have brought the suit in for the funeral tomorrow. She wasn’t going, hadn’t known Doug Edensor well.

  As she went past she caught a whiff of the guv’s aftershave clinging to the dark material. She backed up, breathed it in. Then she remembered Jenny Page. Burying her face in her lost boy’s t-shirt.

  December 2005

  Holly hadn’t recognised the handwriting on the cheap white envelope. Why should she? Lots of mail had arrived after the programme, much of it badly written in green ink on lined notepaper, sick suggestions from pathetic perverts. The producer had warned about dodgy post. But she wasn’t troubled by their fucked-up fantasies; she’d lived through worse. The letters went on the fire.

  Appearing on television could succeed where everything else she’d tried had failed. The documentary was called Lost and Found? – a showcase for reuniting loved ones. One of the other contributors met his birth mother for the first time within days of its transmission. But for Holly the question mark remained. Weeks went past and she began to believe her worst fear was founded.

  And then the letter had arrived.

  It was not from her mother. But as Holly read, her heart raced, tears flowed even as she laughed in delight. She held the letter in both hands, danced round the room, already planning the visit.

  Why had it never occurred to her before? Of course – she had a grandmother. And granny, as she’d signed herself, was dying to meet Holly.

  Holly travelled to Bolton in blissful ignorance. She’d suppressed worrying niggles about the letter. It was snobbish to associate the cheap paper and untidy scrawl with common people. But her suspicions were more than founded. After watching Lost and Found? her granny had seen Holly as a meal ticket.

  The old woman wanted cash for information, turned nasty when requests were refused. At first Holly dismissed the vitriol as lies, clamped her hands over her ears. The witch said her mother was a slut who got pregnant at fifteen. That she had blackmailed the father – a married man – and had taken off with the hush money for a new life in London. That she’d never had any intention of keeping the baby.

  Granny should have kept her mouth shut. Especially when she told Holly she’d chucked the filthy tramp out anyway.

  After the ‘accident’ on the stairs, Holly searched the mean little house. The shock at seeing her mother’s image for the first time was staggering. It was like looking at a photograph of herself. The picture was in a battered suitcase along with her mother’s birth certificate and other documents. Enough to trace her.

  Holly might have ended the search there. But she found the newspaper cuttings in a shoebox on top of the cheap wardrobe. That shock was even greater, the tears now scalding and bitter. Miracle b
aby, coldest night, lucky to be alive...

  Her mother had left her to die.

  Every hope and wish was destroyed in that instant. Everything changed: her past, present and future. Holly started planning her revenge.

  Life wasn’t the only thing the bitch would lose.

  42

  The key to Stephen Cross’s pad was in Bev’s pocket; she’d lifted it from an evidence bag in the exhibits room. The crime-scene guys had found nothing suspicious or incriminating, nada to suggest Cross’s fall had been anything other than accidental. She’d studied their search report; it hadn’t even mentioned Laura Foster. But maybe they were unaware of the possible link? Or maybe Bev thought she could do a better job. Either way, she’d not rest till she knew.

  She parked the Midget a couple of streets away. Last thing she wanted was an audience and Priory Rise, as Mac had discovered, was full of nosy neighbours. She glanced round casually as she locked the motor. At least she could be sure it’d have a full set of wheels on her return. This was nob territory, not asbo turf.

  An elderly man doffed his cap as he ambled past, so she must look respectable. She nodded, flashed him a smile. The evening was warm and still; Bev was hot and bothered. She took brisk steps, deep breaths. The air carried heady scents from immaculate gardens.

  Hampton Place was peaceful, deserted; the gates of the school glinted in the moonlight. She recalled her first visit, the day Daniel was abducted. Her spine tingled; she hurried on, reminded of that stupid expression: someone walking over your grave. How the hell could you feel a pair of size sevens when you were six feet under?

  The box for the burglar alarm was in the hall. The disabling code had appeared in the search report and was now scribbled on her wrist. The job would be easier with house lights on but she didn’t want to alert the neighbours. The pencil torch and moonbeams would have to do.

  Start at the top. Cross wasn’t big on clutter. The rooms were sparse: bare walls, polished floorboards, sleek lines, sharp designs. All class – little character. What seemed hours later, she stood in the hall. Here and there she’d caught a whiff of perfume. She’d smelt it before, couldn’t pin it down. Apart from that, the place was clean, far as she could tell. The kitchen was the only room left to search. Was it worth it?

  Wished she hadn’t bothered. Cross was as stainless as his steel and gleaming pots. Might’ve known he was too cute to leave clues lying around. Talk about anti-climax: pissed off wasn’t even close. Her reflection in the huge mirror said it all.

  She stiffened. Another face stared back – but not human. The clock. Breath bated, she backed and turned. Arms raised, she ran her fingers along the ledge under the dial.

  A slip of paper. Don’t get your hopes up, girl. It could be a bill, a receipt, a...

  A handwritten address. She’d see it before but was pretty sure it hadn’t been in Cross’s contacts book. She took it through to the hall, checked it against every entry. No match. Not there, then. Where?

  Come on, girl. Come on. She studied the writing again. The squiggle in the bottom corner of the paper put her in mind of Frankie’s flamboyant curlicues. She smiled briefly then frowned. What if...? She squinted, looked closer. The writer had done a Frankie – run his or her initials together in an almost indecipherable scrawl. Almost. Interpreting the squiggle differently, this time Bev traced the letters with a finger: an L and an F.

  She gave a low whistle. Laura Foster – the no-longer-missing link. As for the address, she’d definitely seen it before and recently. Suddenly it clicked. Bev grabbed her bag, ran out of the house. The grave walker was on her case again.

  “What did she say, Vince? The exact words?” The phone was tucked under Bev’s chin. She was either way off-beam or knew where Daniel was being held. And who was holding him. Either way, she’d be there in ten minutes. The driver in front sat on a red for a second; Bev hit the horn, flashed the lights.

  “Just trying to think,” Vince muttered. The TV blared in the background. She’d caught the desk sergeant at home, hoping he could supply a brushstroke or two to the nascent picture in her head.

  “Come on, come on.” It emerged louder than she’d intended.

  “Hold your horses.”

  She tapped the wheel, only vaguely aware of her surroundings. People were having fun. The streets were buzzing, life was going on as normal. But the bright lights were a blur, her focus elsewhere. She was seeing an old lady in a purple suit complaining to Vince about noisy neighbours.

  The old woman’s address had been on the back of the shopping list dropped at Highgate: 12 Marlborough Close. It’d rung a bell as soon as Bev stumbled across the scrap of paper in Stephen Cross’s kitchen. Apart from being one house number out, she’d been spot on.

  “It was mostly about a kid crying.”

  “Yeah, Vince, but you said something else.” As Bev had been leaving. God, don’t let her regret that. “Dig deep, mate.” She counted to ten.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Most complaints are a damn sight worse. It hadn’t even been going on that long.”

  She tightened her grip. “How long?”

  “’Bout a week.”

  And how long had Daniel Page been missing?

  Byford sat in the Rover outside Grant Young’s place, debating whether to stay for a drink or just pick up the wreath and the card and get off home. He wondered what Young’s media cronies made of George Road. Back-street Birmingham would be way out of their comfort zone.

  He looked in the mirror, straightened his hair with his fingers. Must be getting vain in his old age. He gave a wry smile. If he went ahead with the programme, when he hit his dotage he could play it to his grandkids. Bore them to death about the good old days.

  Silly ass. The big man rubbed both hands over his face, knackered. What he really needed was an early night. But it had been a gruelling few days; maybe a break from the grind was what he needed. And he owed Young a favour. Bit of quid pro quo wouldn’t hurt.

  Curry and cabbage odours lingered in the evening air. Black bin liners spilled rank contents on to the pavement. Byford sidestepped a chicken carcass and cracked eggshells. Early shout for the bin men tomorrow as well as the squad.

  Tomorrow. He halted briefly. Doug Edensor was being buried in the morning, a week to the day since Robbie Crawford’s funeral.

  Night had fallen; the air was still. As Bev drove past the nick, she gave a grim smile; Marlborough Close was just round the corner. How ironic would that be? Nah. She shook her head, almost convinced by now she was chasing phantoms, figments of her wishful thinking. Crying is what kids do.

  But enough to persuade a concerned neighbour to contact the police after less than a week? So why ignore the voice in her head urging her to call for backup? She told herself it was about protecting Daniel. But was it? Breaking the case would restore her shaky self-confidence and credibility at a stroke. She sniffed, dismissed the notion; more pressing concerns to get on with.

  She pulled over two doors down from number 14, switched the engine off. The houses were redbrick Edwardian: solid, reassuring, sitcom land. Easy to forget that the main drag was so close. Except for road-rage sound effects. And the police sirens. She frowned. They were going off like there was no tomorrow.

  She dropped the window an inch, lit a cigarette. Number 12 was in darkness. She glanced at the clock on the dash: half-ten. The old woman was probably in bed. In an ideal world she’d have a word with Julia Tate first, but this was Highgate.

  She inhaled deeply, savoured the nicotine hit, flicked the butt out of the car. Now or never. Momentary hesitation. Should she think it through a tad more? Sod that. She’d be here all night. She snapped the seat belt, grabbed her bag. As she locked the car, her gaze homed in on number 14. Even if she’d got it totally wrong, worst-case scenario was egg on her face.

  Snatches of Mozart, a buzz of conversation from within. Byford arranged his features into a sociable smile, rang the bell. Better late than never. The party volume increased w
hen Young opened the door.

  “Bill! Come in – good to see you.” He took the big man’s fedora, hung it from a hook in the hall. The wreath was against the wall. “Drinks are in there.” He pointed to the end door. “Go through. I’ll do the intros.”

  It sounded as if the party was in full swing. Byford took two steps into the room; froze. It didn’t make sense. Only two people were in there. Instant silence as the party soundtrack was switched off. Agonising pain as something crashed into the back of his head.

  In the split second before he hit the floor, he realised he’d seen the two faces before. But then, though no one touched the lights, everything went black.

  As Bev approached the house, a light came on at an upstairs window. They’d probably close the curtains in a min, see her if they looked out. She hung back; the element of surprise was about the only advantage she had.

  Thank God she’d waited. Her phone started up like a burglar alarm. Talk about early warning. Best switch the sodding thing off. She delved in her bag, peered at the screen. Brighton number. Paula Ryland. The DI wouldn’t phone for a friendly chat this time of night. She sighed, hit return call. It’d take a minute, max.

  “What took you so long?” Not friendly: brisk and businesslike. The man charged with Andy Quinn’s murder, Ronnie Stone, had offered a deal, she said. If they dropped charges, he’d drop his paymaster in the shit.

  “We talked a reduced sentence, maybe, and he finally went along.”

  “And?”

  “Andy Quinn was number three on a hit list. His boss is going after cops.”

  “Robert Crawford and Doug Edensor?” Bev closed her eyes.

  “One and two. There’s one more to go.”

  She didn’t need to ask. She was surprised she could talk, let alone sound reasonably calm. “What’s happening now?”

  Highgate was handling it, Ryland said. The superintendent wasn’t answering any of his phones, but as far as she knew an armed response unit was ready to go.