Hard Time Page 7

  She tried to keep her voice non-judgmental. “But a woman... and a little boy?”

  He shrugged. “Why get involved? She could’ve been armed, stoned off her face. You never know these days.” He studied his nails. “Anyway, little Johnnie was probably just throwing a tantrum and mummy lost it.”

  “So what did she look like, sir?” This mad axe-murdering mummy.

  “Didn’t see much. I wasn’t that close and she was leaning into the car. Blonde hair, though, and I’d guess above average height.”

  “And the boy?” Daz asked.

  “Again, the only thing I can recall was the hair, blond and lots of it.”

  Bev glanced at Daz, who was clearly sharing the same thought. Clock on the wall chimed the hour: nine am. Time to turn up the heat. But after closer questioning not much more emerged except the timing fit: Cross had left his place at twelve-twenty. Apart from that, he wasn’t sure but thought the car could have been a Merc, maybe a BMW, definitely silver. Or grey. Or light blue. He seemed to recall a P or D in the number but wouldn’t swear to it. He hadn’t registered other vehicles in the road but he’d not been looking. He couldn’t remember what the boy or the woman was wearing but wouldn’t rule out green.

  Suppressing a sigh, she handed him a card. “You’ve been very helpful, sir. Anything else comes to mind, give me a bell. Any time.”

  None of it was conclusive. But it was a start.

  Daz checked the mirror, eased the Vauxhall into a stream of city-bound traffic. Richard Page’s firm, Full Page Ads, occupied pole position in Saint Paul’s Square, Hockley. “Tosser or what?” Daz was muttering about Cross. “Talk about hooray bleedin’...”

  “Henrietta.” Bev’s saucy tone was accompanied by a leer and a wink.

  “Never!” Daz said. “How’s that work?”

  “Bloke couldn’t keep his beadies off you.”

  “You’re jok...” He caught the glint in hers, shifted uneasily in his seat. Poor Daz. He protected his macho image like the crown jewels. She gave him a break, put a call through to the guv, brought him up to speed.

  Byford wasn’t surprised reporters were doorstepping properties round the school. The media were as desperate for a lead as the cops. He’d already deployed plain-clothes teams down the same path, all canvassing potential witnesses. Christ, they’d be falling over each other in the rush. Her query as to whether they were chasing CCTV footage was met with a what do you think?

  She ended the call, ripped the wrapping off a Lion bar and swatted Daz’s open palm; guy could buy his own this time. He gave an easy-come-easy-go shrug and pulled out to pass a 2CV with go-faster stripes. “I thought you showed amazing restraint back there,” Daz said.

  Dog. Bone. God, he was still on that. Mind, she had bitten her tongue a few times. The concept that Cross could’ve thwarted the kidnap if he’d intervened was a tough one. Part of her empathised: the papers were full of horror stories about attacks on innocent passers-by, a man or woman in the wrong place at the wrong time making inadvertent eye contact with the wrong yob. But Cross was well fit and he’d not so much walked by as run past a young woman struggling with a little boy. Still, easy to be wise after the event and nobody liked a smart-arse.

  “Sir this, sir that,” Daz mocked. “Talk about three bags full.”

  “It’s the new me.”

  He shot her an old-fashioned look. “Turning over a new tree?”

  She ignored the quip. “I need the practice for when I interview Jenny Page.”

  “How long’ve you got?”

  13

  The only genuine Georgian real estate left in Birmingham, Saint Paul’s Square was an attractive mish-mash of red brick and white stucco, garnished with pinks and purples spilling from window boxes and hanging baskets. Neat properties of three or four storeys surrounded a well-kept green. Brass-topped railings, a grade-one listed church and the occasional Doric column completed the eighteenth-century ambience. Close your eyes and smell the horseshit. Gleaming horsepower lined the kerbs now. Daz spotted a gap between a Jag and a Porsche.

  Bev scanned the square, taking in the trendy restaurants and chic wine bars dotted among classy commercial premises. Discreet brass plaques were the only clue to what went on behind highly polished doors. Mostly it was media-connected. Like Page’s ad agency.

  The reception area was all bamboo, water features and koi carp. Those glassy eyes gave Bev the creeps; she shuddered as she crossed the expensive carpet. She and Daz had already decided to split the interviews: saved time, made sense. Bev would take Page’s second-in-command.

  Laura Foster didn’t need a badge to indicate she was in charge during the boss’s absence. Not with her presence and posture. Bev almost searched for the wires. A couple of inches taller than Bev and a couple of dress sizes thinner, Ms Foster’s combination of glossy elfin-cut black hair and pale blue eyes was knockout. Even the glasses were sexy. The scarlet silk shift dress would look tarty on most women. Not on Bev; she’d look like a post box.

  There were three other staff members, all female. Frighteningly well-groomed, if not actually starched, Maggie Searle and Imogen Boateng were clearly older than the twenty-something Foster. Auburn-haired teenage Chelsea, face mapped in freckles, made up the numbers. She was the office junior, had worked there less than a month. Laura asked her to look after the coffee.

  Leaving Daz to make a start with the others, Bev trailed Ms Foster’s subtle sashay through a glass-panelled door. One side of the huge space was kitted out like a control deck from Star Trek: banks of monitors, levers, knobs, dials. The name of the agency said more about the size of Page’s ego than the area in which it operated: this was visual media, not newsprint. Bev hoped to God she didn’t press anything irrevocable.

  “Do sit down, sergeant.” Laura waved Bev into a huge black-leather swivel chair. The castors were well oiled; she tested. A few times. Glancing round, it was obvious whose space they’d invaded. Most men kept a family photograph on their desk at work; Richard Page had covered almost an entire wall. Pictures of the little boy dominated: Daniel from birthday-suit days to fancy-dress parties; Daniel building sandcastles and snowmen; Daniel scoffing Easter eggs and Christmas cake.

  “As you can see,” Laura said, “Richard’s wife and son mean the world to him. I so hope nothing awful’s happened.” It was a platitude but didn’t sound it.

  Bev focused on Laura, who now sat poker-straight on the other side of the desk, hands neatly folded in her lap. “Have you met the little boy?”

  “Once or twice when Richard brought him in. He’s such a happy child, always smiling.”

  “Friendly? Outgoing?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Laura hesitated, catching the implication. “You mean would he go with someone?”

  “Would he?”

  The response wasn’t pat; she gave it some thought. “I don’t know is the honest answer. Who knows how perverts entice children?”

  Puppies, promises, pretence. But not this time. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, Ms Foster...”

  “Laura. Please.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but it appears Daniel went quite happily with a woman a couple of people at the school mistook for his mother.”

  Laura frowned. Bev explained the initial confusion, some of which still lingered. Because originally Mrs Page was under the impression someone from the agency had collected Daniel.

  Laura’s frown deepened. “That doesn’t make sense. Richard would never dream of asking anyone here to do that sort of thing. And how could anyone mistake Imogen or Maggie for Daniel’s mother?” Imogen and Maggie were black. As for Laura, her hair colour was the polar opposite to Jenny Page’s.

  Bev said nothing; waited for the other woman to come up with an idea.

  “So Jenny must have got the wrong impression somehow,” Laura went on, then paused. “Or she’s lying...” She shook her head. “No. That’s ridiculous.”

  She made it sound so simple. “Do you kno
w Mrs Page well?”

  Laura took off her glasses, polished them with a tissue. “Not terribly,” she finally conceded. “But enough to be certain she loves her child.” She glanced at the picture gallery, warm smile on her face. “You can see that in her eyes, can’t you?”

  “How long have you known Mr Page?”

  The abrupt change didn’t throw Laura. “I’ve worked for Richard for about eighteen months.”

  Worked, not known; for, not with. “How do you get on?”

  “I can’t see the relevance...” Curious, not hostile.

  Bev reckoned if Page chased skirts, he’d definitely be on Laura’s tail. No sense stirring, though. “Just trying to build pictures, Ms Foster.”

  “Of course.” She smoothed the silk dress over a shapely knee. “We have an excellent working relationship. Everyone here does. We’re a strong team.”

  “What is it you do exactly?” Not an easy one to put her at ease; Laura was well cool.

  “I build the client list, chase the big campaigns, organise the corporate stuff. I used to do a little modelling, still have contacts, know how to network.”

  Bev nodded. That would explain the walk and the way Laura held herself. Bev had noted the habitual hair-flicking as well: very Kate Moss.

  “And the others?” she prompted.

  “Richard and Imogen are the creative brains. Maggie looks after finance and marketing.”

  “I’ll need a copy of your client list.” The door opened and Chelsea entered with a tray holding cafetière and white china. The interruption dragged on as Laura poured, then handed Bev a cup. The request hadn’t been forgotten or dodged.

  “I’ll get a list together before you leave.” She met Bev’s eyes. “I can see why you want it.”

  “Thanks.” Not that Bev had any great hope that the kidnapper was a disgruntled customer. More that she was trying to rattle the impossibly phlegmatic Ms Foster. And she wasn’t even sure why. Except Laura seemed almost too good to be true. Another little shake, then. “Any problems in the Page marriage?”

  Laura flushed. Anger? Embarrassment? Something else? “I know you have to ask these questions, sergeant, but that’s one I can’t help with.” Perfectly civil.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both, actually.” Firm but polite.

  Bev let it go, asked about Richard Page’s movements the day before. Laura indicated the desk diary. It and she confirmed Page’s three client meetings and a working lunch at the agency. His alibi appeared kosher.

  Asking if Laura had seen anything suspicious would be useless. Like kidnappers advertise? She posed it anyway.

  “I wish I had.” The woman had feelings after all. “I can’t bear to think of Daniel with a stranger.” Eyes welling, she turned her head.

  Bev started at an unfamiliar sound. Someone had changed the ring tone on her mobile. Rummaging in her bag, her mouth twitched as she recognised the strains of Miss You. Bet Oz had downloaded it.

  The smile playing round her mouth didn’t last. The guv was on the end of the line. “The kidnap. We’ve got a lead. I want you back at Highgate.”

  Wayne Dunston had been arrested less than a minute after delivering a ransom note to The White House. The second Bev heard the name on the police radio, she had her doubts. Far from being a Mister Big, Dunston was a petty thief, short on common sense let alone the intelligence to plan and execute a kidnap. He’d served time in both juvie and Winson Green for burglaries that went pear-shaped. But if he didn’t have the nous, could he point the finger at someone who did?

  After an hour in Interview One with the guy, Bev was convinced Dunston’s only lead was clipped to a dog’s collar. She passed the verbal baton to Byford again, then took a metaphorical back seat, observing. Dunston was mid-twenties with thin beige hair and an inane grin. Bev always thought of him as Nearly Man: nearly tall, nearly fit, nearly all there. But not quite. He teetered on the fine line between slow and special needs.

  She listened again as he repeated his story almost word for word. Maybe he’d been well coached; maybe he’d learned his lines. Or maybe he was telling the truth. The Postman Pat act had netted him a pony. According to Dunston, it was a favour for a friend of a mate of a pal. No names, no pack-drill, he said, tapping the side of his bent nose. With twenty-five quid cash in hand, he didn’t give a toss where it came from. As to what was in the note he’d been carrying, Dunston didn’t have a clue. Bev could buy that; the guy was illiterate.

  With the interview wrapped and Mastermind in a prison cell, Bev and Byford were grabbing an early lunch in the canteen. Dunston was on a holding charge of demanding money with menaces; Bev doubted he even knew what it meant. The premature hope of a break was now replaced by a pissed-off resignation. If her fish and chips were supposed to be comfort food, they weren’t working. “Waste of sodding space.” She scowled. “Talk about useless.”

  Byford shook his head, impatient. “Obviously the note originated from the kidnappers. There’s a link somewhere. It’s up to us to dig it out.” Along with the search team currently taking apart Dunston’s grotty bed-sit in Lozells. It was just possible they’d unearth something incriminating. No one was holding their breath.

  Bev glanced up as she constructed a chip butty. “What you thinking, guv?” His stare and knotted eyebrows were dead giveaways.

  “Why Dunston?”

  She shrugged. “Just an errand boy, isn’t he?”

  “Goes without saying.” He flapped a dismissive hand. “But they didn’t just pluck him off the street.” Byford pushed away the remains of a plain omelette, and now sipped peppermint tea; the irritable bowel must be playing up again. “The kidnappers would have to have been pretty sure Dunston would deliver without too many awkward questions. So they must have known him beforehand. Or someone pointed them in his direction.”

  Bev shrugged, nodded. “But we don’t know who...”

  “No, we don’t.” He scraped back his chair. “Yet.”

  She stood, grabbed a few chips. “Get the spade, shall I?”

  14

  The spacious sitting room at The White House was like a West End set, the elegant figures of Jenny and Richard Page draped in theatrical poses on peppermint damask furnishings. Lit by shafts of sunlight, DI Mike Powell paced the carpet, long fingers stroking lantern jaw. “You’re sure you’ve never seen him hanging round?”

  A pair of heads shook in unison. The Pages were adamant. They didn’t know Wayne Dunston, they’d never met Wayne Dunston. Until he turned up at the house, they’d never laid eyes on Wayne Dunston. They’d made the points, several times.

  DC Carol Pemberton observing, taking notes, sensed the couple’s growing impatience. As far as the Pages were concerned, Dunston was a minor player in the unfurling drama. Unlike their son.

  The couple’s edginess confirmed a concern expressed by the family liaison officer. Colin Henfield was away, grabbing a change of clothes, but he’d taken Carol aside for a quick word on the QT. He reckoned the pressure was getting to the Pages, especially the father. Richard had stormed out several times to cruise the streets, searching for Daniel. Colin had tried restraining him, tried talking sense, but Page had been beyond reason and reasoning.

  Carol recognised the pattern. Fathers often need to get out, to do something; mothers stay home, can’t do anything. She watched Page wander to the window to gaze across a manicured lawn. Frown lines suggested deep unease. For a successful businessman accustomed to a lead role, playing and needing support clearly didn’t come easy. Mr Ad Man of the day before now looked more Big Issue salesman, unshaven unkempt underdog.

  He turned, shoulders sagging, hands stuffed deep in casual cords. “How do we play this?” The ransom demand had been clear: half a million or Daniel would be killed. Details for the drop would follow.

  The DI stopped pacing, consciously or otherwise mirrored Page’s stance. “By the book.”

  Carol, face a blank, glanced up. As if there was one.

  Still,
precedents and police procedures existed, even if no case was the same. And there were consistent factors, as Powell explained in a general way. Duty of care to the child was paramount, and a non-confrontational set-up had to be in place for the handover. Of course, that could only be activated when the kidnapper released instructions.

  “Meaning?” Jenny Page appeared ghost-like, ethereal. Except she was the haunted one. In her pale arms lay a Dennis the Menace t-shirt. It belonged to the angelic Daniel, the scarlet and black in stark contrast to the trailing ivory dressing gown Jenny still wore at lunchtime. Every few minutes she lifted the soft material to her face, inhaled little boy and lost love.

  Powell sank into a deep armchair at right angles to her. “The kidnapper has to believe you’ll do what he says.”

  “We will.” No hesitation.

  “It’s not that simple, Mrs Page.”

  Gaze fixed on Powell, she made it easy for him. “Someone’s holding Daniel. We pay. He comes home. End of story.”

  But it wasn’t. They weren’t writing it. A happy ending wasn’t a given.

  Powell didn’t go there. He gave a tight smile, brisk nod. “We’ll have a clearer idea, Mrs Page, when we know what’s in the kidnapper’s head.”

  “How much longer, inspector?” she groaned. “I can’t...” She buried her face in Daniel’s shirt. Carol felt huge sympathy, even felt sorry for a floundering Powell, who was clearly out of his emotional depth.

  The ormolu clock ticked away long seconds. A blackbird’s song drifted through the open window, thin curtains rustled in a gentle breeze. Everyone jumped at the sudden shattering of the near silence. Everyone but Jenny Page: the agonised scream of an animal in pain was hers.

  Daniel was trying very hard not to cry. His bottom lip quivered and his green eyes welled with bright shiny tears. Clutching Eeyore in his tiny hands, he pleaded with the lady he called Aunty. “But why isn’t Daddy coming? You said he’d be here today.”

  The woman tried to put comforting arms round Daniel but he ducked away, shuffled along the settee as far he could. She’d tried to hide it, but he’d seen the look on her face. She was smiling now, but underneath she was very cross.