Hard Time Page 5

  “Ready any time, boss.”

  Everyone in the team needed a copy; needed to know Daniel’s face better than their own. “Thoughts on the note, anybody?” Byford asked.

  All eyes turned to one of the kidnap boards where the kidnappers’ message, now copied and enlarged, was displayed. Just eleven words. Not a lot to go on: certainly nothing forensics could sink their scientific teeth into. The original had been clean as a bleached sheet. Byford waited a few seconds, but what was there to say?

  “OK. This is the current situation.” He paused, wanted everyone’s full attention. “We’re looking at virtually a blank page. It’s up to all of us to fill it. Obviously we look at the parents but we talk to everyone. And I mean everyone the Pages have ever had contact with: family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, butcher, baker... Check every word. Don’t take anything for granted.” Another pause. “And keep an open mind.”

  Bums shifted, throats were cleared; a few questions were thrown, then the guv dished out the fast actions and the donkeywork, the key interviews and the slightly less urgent. No one needed reminding that kidnap was a big crime like no other. It carried the highest risk and the lowest profile. While the victim was still being held there’d be not be a whisper in the media and all police activity would be covert.

  One slip could cost a little boy his life.

  Bernie was hanging round outside the room where the press conference was to be held, skimming what looked like the local rag. “Wotcha, Bev.”

  She’d just had time for a coke and a pee before entering the lions’ den. Below-the-belt noises suggested indigestion or nerves. Either way she was windy.

  “Word in your shell-like.” Bernie pushed up from the corridor wall. “Clear how we play this?”

  “You bet.” She zipped her lips.

  “Good girl.” Bernie’s crooked smile displayed a chipped front tooth. Story went that some Right Hon took a swing after starring in a kiss-and-tell on a Bernie front page. A tooth for the truth was Bernie’s favourite tag-line. “Watch every syllable. Keep it short. Don’t offer a thing. If in doubt, no comment.”

  Her hand was on the door. “Nothing new there, then.”

  He didn’t return the smile. “These embargos are voluntary, Bev. None of them’ll break it; that don’t worry me. But they’ll beaver away so they can make a splash soon as we know the score. They’ll track down anyone with a pulse as long as they add to the story. Specially if they’ve got any dirt. And the more people in the know, the greater the danger it’ll leak.”

  She nodded, laid a hand on his arm. “Trust me, Bernie.”

  Almost as many hacks were gathered as there’d been cops upstairs. Pecking order was same old same old: TV, radio then print. She nodded at a few familiar faces: Matt Snow, a Tintin look-alike from the Evening News; Nick Lockwood, the Beeb’s Mr Midlands; even Celia Bissell, who looked after features for the Chronicle. She’d be working on colour pieces to run when the story broke; flimflam to pad out a few inside pages.

  Vague mutterings faded as Bev ran through the intros for those not already in the know. She threw out the barest of bones, then outlined what would happen over the next few days: regular off-the-record updates and more formal sessions where they could record material with the SIO and other main players for later use.

  Just about everyone in the room jumped on that. “What about the parents?”

  Bev broke the bad news that the family’s identity was being withheld for the moment. Then she handed over to Bernie, who reinforced the imperative of keeping the news blackout in place. It was a no-brainer; protests were token. Ten minutes in and Bev was beginning to relax; this liaison lark was a piece of piss. She glanced at her watch: getting on for half-seven. When this little lot was over, she’d be heading for home and a scrub-up. Bases were covered, she’d cleared it with the guv, and she’d be on the end of a phone if anything broke. The glimpse she’d caught earlier of Oz clearing his locker wasn’t going to be her final memory.

  “Can I run a name past you, Sergeant Morriss?” The clipped tone was familiar. Bev looked up to find Celia Bissell flicking though her notebook, red talons clutching what looked like a Mont Blanc.

  “Say again?”

  “Can I run the victim’s name past you?” The tight smile didn’t reach the caked mascara. “Our crime correspondent says it’s from a reliable source.”

  Bev stiffened. How the fuck did it get out so quick? “Who’s that, then?”

  “I never reveal sources.” Smug bint.

  “She meant who’s your crime guy these days?” The query was Bernie’s. It wasn’t as nonchalant as it sounded, going by the clenched fist under the table.

  “New operator, just joined us,” Bissell said. “His name’s Pope. Jack Pope.”

  9

  Jack Pope was propping up the bar at The Prince of Wales when Bev rolled up an hour later, itching for a fight, still staggering from a bollocking. It had been damage limitation all round, back at Highgate, after Bissell dropped the name-bomb. Then came the inquest. Without a body. The normally laconic Bernie lost it big-time; the guv was incandescent. But it was nothing compared with her self-imposed mauling. Fucking idiot. She’d trusted Pope and he’d stitched her up like a baby kipper. The fact that the victim’s identity was almost certain to come out eventually was no comfort.

  “Beverley. I was beginning to give up on you.” Waving a ciggie in welcome, Pope aimed a peck at her cheek. She flinched, not just from the beery breath and fag mouth. “What’s up, doll?”

  “Bastard.” Her lips barely parted.

  His laugh, though nervous, was a mistake. “What?”

  “Arsehole,” she hissed.

  Pope glanced round, hating scenes. Not a big crowd. The Prince was a police pub; tonight most cops were occupied elsewhere. “Come on, Bev.” The playful tap was a major error. “Knock it off.”

  “My pleasure.” She moved in. “Where do I start?” She needed to know how far he’d betrayed her.

  “I was gonna tell you.” He scratched his nose. First sign of veracity deficit.

  “Lying toe-rag.” Another step backed him flush against the bar, her index finger lodged in his chest hair kept him there. “I don’t care about looking a complete moron.” She did. “Don’t give a shit that you dropped me in it.” Untrue. “Fact you looked me in the eye and lied through your teeth – that pisses me off, Pope.”

  Apart from cops, the pub’s nicotine-and-sawdust interior was a geriatrics’ haven: real-ale drinkers and serious domino players. Several pairs of rheumy eyes were agog at the sight of a woman at the bar about to knock spots off some bloke. Livid, Bev was oblivious, but maybe the audience was getting to Pope.

  He swatted her arm away. “Back off, lady.” At five-ten, he had four inches on Bev. She edged back, palms damp, heart racing. Scared what she’d do to him.

  “Go back through what I said,” he sneered. “Every word was true. You jumped to your own conclusions, kid.”

  Momentarily flustered, she ran a mental check. OK, he’d never actually said he was with CID. On the other hand, he hadn’t exactly put her straight. “You let me think...”

  “No one lets you think.” He swigged from a full pint. “Supposed to be some shit-hot detective, aren’t you?”

  She felt the flush hit her cheeks, spat the next words. “You should have fucking told me!”

  “You should’ve listened, lady. Instead of mouthing off.”

  Tears pricked; she had to look away. The uncharacteristic vulnerability had a softening effect. Pope put an arm around her shoulders, drew her close. “Come on, Bevy. You rushed off before I had chance to say a word.”

  She nestled her head against his chest, all nods and muffled sobs. “I could lose my job over this, Jack.”

  “No way.” He wanted her to face him but she clung tighter when he tried to pull her away. “Listen, Bev, I only gave Celia the name. That disabled-monkey business and the stuff about the mother? It’ll go no further.” He smoothed
her hair, hated seeing her like this. “You have my word.”

  “Promise?”

  “I’d never do that to you, Bev.”

  “Sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hundred per cent?”

  “Hundred and ten.”

  “Your maths is shite as well.”

  He was too late to protect his balls. She was there first.

  “OK, Bev. Let go.”

  “Cross me again, Pope...” She squeezed hard. “Your chances of fatherhood are fucked. Clear? Kid?”

  He croaked what had to be a yes.

  She smiled as she tightened her fingers. “Mother’s-life clear?”

  Beyond words, Pope nodded.

  “One slip...” She turned the screw. “And you’ll look back on tonight as one of life’s pleasures.”

  Grip released, she picked up his glass, a glint in her eye. “Hot in here, innit?”

  Pope raised his palms as she took aim. “Bev. No.”

  His top half was the last place she had in mind. Especially when below the belt was an open goal.

  Two minutes later, Bev’s sobs in the MG were the real deal. Hugging herself, head bowed, she drew deep breaths, heart still on double time. The crocodile tears and weasel words in The Prince had done the trick but the cost was high. Truth hurt. And she’d enjoyed inflicting the pain. Pope had seen that in her eyes and it had scared the pants off him. He’d not go back on his word: she’d got what she wanted. Bully for Bev. The thought choked her up again. But what if he was right? Did she have the listening skills of a dead slug? And as for foot in mouth, was there a sodding shoe shop in there? The snipes would have been water off a duck’s back before the attack. But now? Her confidence and judgment were shot to shit.

  She wound the window, lit a Silk Cut. Bullying? Jenny Page had slung the same accusation at her. Had she gone in heavy-handed? Christ, Bev. Who do you think you are? Robocop? She snorted, not sure who she was any more.

  That was one of the problems.

  After the rape, the police welfare people had leaned on her to see one of their therapists. No real choice. A sceptical Bev had gone along with it, was still hearing the same psycho-crap every week: her aggression was a direct result of the rape; every time she lashed out, verbally or otherwise, she was hitting back at Will Browne.

  Bullshit. Hard-ass had always been her middle name. She’d always given better than she got. But what if it was out of hand? What if the trick cyclist was right? Sigmund, as she called him, said she must learn to pull her punches, count to ten, stay calm, trust people again. Like yeah. And find a cure for bird flu.

  She smacked the wheel with her palms. Why couldn’t she let go? She had to move on; couldn’t see the way forward. And the road behind was littered with burnt bridges.

  Nice one, Bev. Clichés ’r’ us. She flicked the butt through the window. Last time she looked, she still had a job to do. Just. She picked up an envelope from the passenger seat, took out a photograph. She’d not had chance to study it yet. And little Daniel Page was what it was all about.

  “Drink your milk, Dan-Dan.” The nice lady smiled as she ruffled Daniel’s corn-thatch hair, gave him his beaker.

  It was the Harry Potter one from home, his favourite. Not enough sugar; still, he always drank warm milk last thing at night. She took the mug back and tucked the Doctor Who duvet under his chin. It was good to have his own things around him.

  “Sleep tight, little man.”

  The nice lady blew him a kiss. She knew he was afraid of the dark so she left the nightlight. He yawned even though he wasn’t a tiny bit sleepy. He wasn’t frightened or anything, either, just very, very worried. He hadn’t known Mummy was ill. The nice lady had told him Mummy was in hospital, and he had to stay here for a while. He’d forgotten the lady’s name but she said Daddy would come to take him home soon so it didn’t really matter.

  Daniel thought he might call her Aunty, even though he didn’t have any aunties. Picturing the lady’s face, he recalled her eyes: green eyes like Mummy’s. Daniel’s eyelids fluttered, and fell. The little boy yawned and snuggled into the pillow. Sleepy after all.

  10

  The slinky little number didn’t get an outing. It was late and Bev couldn’t be arsed to go home and change. Nor was she in the mood after her pop at Pope. It meant that when she slipped into the prefab annexe at the back of Highgate for Oz’s leaving do, she was still in the funeral weeds she’d worn all day.

  Fitting, then. Given it felt like a bereavement.

  Except for the music floating into the lobby. Not so much Abide With Me as Get Off of My Cloud. She gave a slow smile. Oz was an old tart for the Stones. She ran her fingers through her hair, licked her lips and made an entrance of sorts.

  “How’s it going, Bev?” A familiar face at the bar, tombstone teeth and flapping jowls; Vince Hanlon had a permanently avuncular grin. Deceptive. The sergeant had nearly thirty years’ service and had felt more collars than Sketchley’s.

  “Tickety, Vincie.” She tapped a salute.

  “Drinkin’?”

  “Diet coke. Not.” Wide grin. She could murder a large pinot. “Cheers, Vince.”

  She spied out the land as she sipped the wine. Oz was at a table with the usual suspects: Pembers, Daz, Del Chambers, Ken Rose, Brian Latham. DCs tended to stick together. Not that Oz was DC any more. To the right, Powell was chatting up Gorgeous Goshie at the far end of the bar. Like that would work. Sumitra Gosh had a functioning brain.

  Vince nodded at the DI. “Has he come up with a new one yet?”

  She gave a rueful smile. “Nah.” The whole nick knew Powell had a problem knowing what to call Bev. For years, she’d just been Morriss, occasionally sergeant. He’d used her first name only once: when he comforted her immediately after the rape. That subject was taboo, never mentioned let alone discussed. Given the intimacy – however unwilling – they’d shared, Morriss was now too impersonal, but he balked at calling her Bev because she still got up his nose. She and Vince monitored the DI’s dilemma daily, notched up the ways he got round it. “Hey, you” was current favourite.

  Vince tilted his grizzly-bear head. “Will you miss young Khanie, Bev?”

  Like an arm. “Who?”

  “Daft sod.”

  “Guv around?” Easier territory.

  “Popped his head in earlier.”

  Good. Bev nodded, took a few more sips. It was a piss-poor turnout, really. Maybe no surprise, given the kidnap, but even so the Highgate hard men had kept away. Oz had never been admitted into the crusty club: too cute, too clever, wrong colour.

  “’Nother drink, Vincie?”

  “Why not?”

  She did the honours and chinked her glass against his pint. “Bottoms up, old girl.”

  “Less of the girl,” Vince tutted.

  Girl? That reminded her. Jenny Page had been convinced initially that one of the ‘girls’, the women at Page’s ad agency, had collected Daniel from school. She’d bear that in mind when she and Daz did the staff interviews first thing.

  Daz was on sparkling form. Looked as if he was stringing out one of his jokes. Shame the guv had bowed out early; she could’ve asked if he was teaming her up with Daz for the foreseeable rather than the current job-by-job footing.

  Jagger had moved on to You Can’t Always Get What You Want. You can say that again, she thought. Oz was strolling over. Black linen pants, sexy black shirt, dark floppy hair.

  “Bev.” He nodded. “Glad you made it. What you drinking?”

  Two large vinos were making their presence felt in an otherwise empty stomach. Her head wasn’t exactly spinning but... “Pinot. Cool.”

  “I’m off.” Vince drained his glass. “Best of luck, Khanie. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

  “Cheers, mate.”

  A handshake, Vince left, then silence. It wasn’t that they had nothing to say – they had too much. But for months now they’d been talking on eggshells. Scratching round for safe ground, bot
h pounced simultaneously on Vince’s departing bulk.

  “Nice guy...” she started.

  “Good bloke...” Oz began. Their laughter was too loud. The eye contact between them was rare these days. It said more than either was willing to put into words. She watched as he positioned his glass dead centre on a beer mat, then ran both hands through his fringe. The gesture was habitual and she interpreted it accurately. He was about to spout.

  “Sod it, Bev. I’m sick of messing about.”

  So was she, despite the so-what shrug.

  “I’m going tomorrow. I don’t want to leave it like this.”

  The eyebrow was raised and arch. “It?”

  “You. Me. Us. Unfinished business.”

  Neither did Bev, but hell would host winter sports before she’d admit it. Oz could read her body, too: knew she had a PhD in pig-headedness. He reached to touch her; for once she didn’t pull back. “I won’t be around any more, Bev, but I’ll always be there for you.” He paused, brown eyes shining. “If that’s what you want.”

  Does fire burn? She had to look away.

  “If you won’t say it, Bev...I will.” He left another gap she didn’t fill. “What we had was precious.” Gently he turned her head to face his. “It was to me, anyway.”

  Another Stones track: It’s All Over Now. “Listen to the words, mate.” She removed Oz’s hand, gulped the wine. “Catch you later.”

  Oz was still at the bar when she reached the door and looked back. Her heart did that flip-thing like when she first met him. She’d never wanted him more. And he’d never appeared so hurt. Maybe it was his pain or her pinot but she drew a deep breath and sauntered back. If he told her to fuck off, so be it; she couldn’t leave it like this. She whispered in his ear. Let’s Spend the Night Together usually had the desired effect.

  It was late. The multi-storey car park in Northfield was badly lit and virtually deserted. Emerging from a foul-smelling lift, the man staggered, almost fell. His flushed face had the broken veins and spreading purple nose of a boozer. Doug Edensor was over the limit and, as a former police officer, knew he’d be stupid to get behind the wheel.