Hard Time Read online

  “He’s sure to be here tomorrow, Dan-Dan.”

  “Don’t call me that!” Daniel shouted, leg kicking out. “Only Mummy can call me Dan-Dan.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Mummy isn’t calling you anything at the moment, little boy.”

  Daniel glared. He didn’t quite understand what she meant but knew it wasn’t very kind. He turned his back, snuggled into the arm of the settee. She tried to stroke his shoulder but again he pulled away sharply. He heard her sigh and felt the cushion move as she stood.

  “Look, Daniel. I didn’t want to tell you this...” He clamped his hands over his ears.

  Only pretend.

  “I don’t know when Daddy’ll get away. He’s with your mummy in the hospital. She’s very sick, Daniel. Much worse than we thought. I’m so sorry.”

  She sounded so kind but Daniel didn’t know if he could trust her any more. His tears were soaking the soft material but he didn’t want her to know he was crying.

  “Thing is, Daniel darling, Mummy might not get better. Ever.”

  His shoulders trembled, then his whole body shook. He was frightened, needed a cuddle. When she stroked his back he flung himself into her arms, sobbing hysterically.

  She hugged him tightly, calmed him, smoothed his brow. “Daddy’ll come when he can, Daniel. You wouldn’t want him to leave Mummy all on her own, would you?”

  Chastened, the little boy shook his head, wiped his nose with a sleeve, gave a shuddering sigh. The nice lady settled him into a nest of cushions, and ruffled his hair. “I’ll get your milk now. It’s nearly bedtime, Dan-Dan.”

  Bev had spent most of the afternoon chasing some of Wayne Dunston’s known associates. Known to the law, that was; associates as in criminal partners. A few feelers were out but Wayne had a lot of mates. She stretched the kink in her spine, reached fingertips towards the ceiling and let out a sigh. It was a shit job but someone had to do it. Wouldn’t be so bad if she was sure of a break but it was all a bit iffy.

  If the kidnappers had handpicked Dunston to do their dirty work, chances were they’d come across him inside. Prison had its old boys’ network too.

  She pushed back the chair, crossed Doc Martens on the desk, sucked a biro. First poser had been a piece of piss. Wayne’s cellmates and prison peers were on record. Winson Green had dished out the baddies, no prob. She’d thought sheer numbers’d prove a bugger but logic told her asthmatic bigamists from Brazil could probably be crossed off the hit list. No sense pursuing extremes. Even with the discounts, deadbeats and deceaseds, it still left a bunch.

  A bunch of habitual criminals, most of who would rather poke a rusty needle in their scrotum than stitch up a mate. On the other hand kidnapping, especially a child, was one of those crimes where even hardened lags had been known to turn a blind eye to the code-of-silence crap.

  Absentmindedly she ripped the pull ring from a Red Bull. It was her third can. She could open a Starbucks with the caffeine in her system. She took a slug, scrolled through data on the screen. Once she’d whittled down names she’d spread the honours among the squad. The cons still inside were a captive audience, so to speak. She’d get a team over to Winson Green, see what, if anything, was what. As for the ex-cons, it was a case of tracking down where they lived. She recognised names on the list, could put faces to a few.

  She’d seen one the day before, though not in the flesh. Grant Young’s photograph had been on the front page of the newspaper cum rain-hat she’d used walking to the church. She tapped a finger against her lip, recalling what she knew about the ex-con who was now a C-list celebrity.

  Young had been sentenced to life for child murder and served twenty years before the real killer confessed. He’d been released a couple of years back and awarded two hundred and fifty grand compensation. Since then the media dragged him out every time they needed a quote on miscarriage of justice or anything along the lines of ‘the law’s an ass’. And the guy knew his stuff: twenty years of inside information plus degrees in law and criminology. He’d carved a career in news and documentaries, even used the guv from time to time when he needed a police quote. At least she knew where to find Young and that he could string two words together.

  She pulled a face, heart not really in it. What was Young or any of the gorillas gonna say? “Yeah, love, kidnapper’s a mate. Here you go... name, address, inside leg.” As if.

  Daniel gazed at Bev from the photo she’d pinned to her corkboard. Talk about an infectious smile. She studied his face, took in every detail. Again. “Where are you, little boy?” She sighed, shook her head. It was the Pages, especially the mother, that quickened the Morriss heartbeat. The parents were closer to the crime than anyone and, even if they didn’t know it, they had to be closer to the solution.

  15

  Saturday, late brief, kidnap room, Highgate. Operation Sapphire was in its thirtieth hour; if anything, the squad was more fired up than on day one. Reasoning went that as the minutes ticked away, a result had to be closer. The kidnappers would make contact again, and each time they made a move they risked making a mistake.

  Bev was slumped in a chair near the front, listening to that theory being bandied about. Sounded like wishful thinking to her. The kidnappers hadn’t put a foot wrong and they were patently several steps ahead.

  The guv’s up-sum hadn’t exactly inspired confidence. Predictably the ransom notes were a forensic wasteland: untraceable paper, untraceable PC, untraceable printer. Prints, no problem: Richard Page’s on Friday’s missive, Dunston’s all over today’s.

  As to sightings, covert canvassing carried out round Daniel’s school in Edgbaston had revealed diddly. Forty-nine residents had been interviewed. Each statement was virtually identical, invariably negative. Posh-boy Stephen Cross’s report of a woman struggling with a small boy was the only incident of any potential significance, but was unconfirmed by anyone. Bev was beginning to think the guy had been on something.

  Other lines of inquiry were proving equally barren. Daz hadn’t elicited anything useful from his share of the interviews at the ad agency. He and a couple of other DCs were now working their way through Richard Page’s client list, faxed through by the super-efficient Laura Foster. Bev had found it on her desk after lunch, Ms Foster’s professionalism as impressive as her posture. Like everything else, the list was going nowhere.

  Bev waved a few sheets of paper in the air. “I have a little list too.” There was a chorus of groans from the troops. Everyone knew it meant more phone bashing, more plod work. She passed copies round, talked through what she’d done, what was still needed.

  “Grant Young rings a bell,” Carol Pemberton said. “He’s on the telly a lot, isn’t he?”

  “I can do Young,” Byford offered. “I’m seeing him later.”

  The guv didn’t elaborate, but Bev reckoned Young was probably after a talking head for yet another programme he was putting together.

  “Gonna be a star, guv?” Daz asked.

  The big man ignored the quip, moved on to the search results from Wayne Dunston’s pad. It was a predictable lot of nicked MP3s, Play Stations, SatNavs. Not that Dunston would need satellite guidance in the back of a prison van. No link with the kidnap had been uncovered.

  No surprise there, then. Big fat zeros all round. Bev’s exasperated sigh wasn’t meant to be so loud.

  “And?” Byford queried, tapping a brogue.

  She shrugged. “It’s all going-through-the-motions stuff.”

  “Solid routine police work; it has to be done.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She knew that. “But it’s all peripheral. The kid’s parents are where it’s at. We need to get in there, get them talking.”

  Mike Powell bristled. The DI had spent the better part of the day with the couple, come back with a blank Page. “Fuck you think I’ve been doing? Waxing my legs?”

  She shrugged. Pembers, who’d pulled out of the house when the FLO returned, had been pretty withering about the DI’s interview technique.
/>   “No, come on, Oprah. Tell it like it is.” Powell leaned back, hands tucked under his arms.

  The grovel was going to be a first; she drew a deep breath. “I fucked up big-time with Jenny Page, OK? Taking pops when I’d only just met her was a no-brainer. Fact she’s not saying much is prob’ly down to me.” Jenny’s withdrawn state was a coping mechanism, according to Powell, not a question of being unco-operative.

  “Way I see it,” Bev went on, “the parents are still the key. Me mouthing off might’ve jeopardised our relationship with them. Least I can do is try and sort it.”

  “How’ll you manage that, Mrs Springer?”

  Byford saw Bev’s clenched fists, the slight quiver in her limbs. The admission was taking it out of her. Contrition took courage. The emotions might be wobbly but the reasoning was sound. And she needed a bit of support, not shooting down. “It’s already arranged, Mike. Bev’s going over first thing.”

  It was news to her.

  Byford tucked his battered brown fedora under his arm and headed for the back stairs.

  He’d expected Bev to drop by after the brief but the coast was clear. Now home was calling, though not as loudly as a pie and a pint at The Prince.

  “Hey, guv, what was all that about?” Sheepish, he looked up. Bev framed in the stairwell, glared down. Fair cop, not.

  He lifted a hand. “Tomorrow.”

  She’d see it differently then. Maybe he shouldn’t have stuck his oar in but she’d looked decidedly shaky in the face of the DI’s snide digs. Byford had donned shining armour, but Bev didn’t do distressed damsel. He still thought it’d been the right thing to do. He reckoned he’d spotted the green shoots of a re-emerging confidence. They didn’t need trampling by Powell’s size tens.

  The evening was still warm, an almost Mediterranean azure sky, humid air scented with sunscreen and Indian cuisine. Byford breathed it in, relished a relatively early night. When Operation Sapphire really kicked off he’d be lucky to get away at all. Maybe a balti instead? The tap on his shoulder wasn’t a complete surprise.

  “Pile of poo. Nothing’s arranged for tomorrow, is it?”

  Bluff or bullshit? “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Good job you butted in.” A smile twitched her lips.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I was about to land him one.”

  He masked a smile as she fell into step. Tough talk? Fake veneer? He read body language like most people read books. Maybe Bev had sent the wrong signals. Or maybe he didn’t know her as well as he thought.

  “Mind, guv, I’m well ahead in the name stakes.” She kicked a pebble across the car park. “Me and Vincie got a tenner on it.”

  He’d heard a whisper, not the full story. “Go on.”

  “What the DI calls me.” She explained the rules. It was quality and quantity. He couldn’t just keep saying “hey you”; it had to be something ingenious and it had to be used six times. When someone else picked up on it, it counted double.

  “Ingenious.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She twisted her mouth. They were at the guv’s Rover. “Could be a sticking point, that.” Definition of an oxymoron – ingenuity and DI Powell. “Oprah wasn’t bad,” she conceded. “Can’t see it getting another airing, though.”

  “Glad your priorities are sorted.” The silence was uneasy.

  “Just a bit of fun, guv.” She scuffed the concrete. The mock reprimand had been taken to heart.

  He softened, knew she generally pulled more than her weight. “What are you up to tonight?”

  She hoisted her shoulder bag. “Hot date with Johnny.”

  “Johnnie Blake?” His eyebrows disappeared. The information officer was gay – never looked at another man besides his partner.

  “Depp. As in Pirates of the Caribbean. DVD’s just out.” The grin was endearing. He didn’t see enough of it.

  “Enjoy.” He saluted her with a smile.

  “’Less you’ve got a better offer.”

  “Sorry, Oprah.” The door clicked open. “Got a date.”

  Not a date. Grant Young was more business than pleasure. Earlier, the media man had floated another programme idea and wanted to tap into Byford’s expertise. Young’s Kings Heath terrace was on the detective’s way home anyway.

  The place was pristine compared with its neighbours. No rusting bikes or greasy engines out front, paintwork wasn’t peeling and intact windows sparkled. Byford reckoned a man with Young’s capital and kudos could afford something more upmarket, but that sort of thing wasn’t important to him. Byford admired the guy for turning his life round.

  “Bill. Thanks for dropping by.” Young stepped back to let the detective in.

  “Flying visit, Grant. Can’t stop long.”

  He’d been there before and followed Young through to the office. Floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books covered three walls. Dotted among legal tomes and textbooks were bulging files and tapes. Young videoed every show he appeared on. Byford raised a vaguely amused eyebrow. Made a change from showing your etchings.

  “Before we get down to your programme idea, I want to pick your brain,” Byford said.

  “Sure. Take a pew.” Young perched on the edge of a desk. He was taller in the flesh than on the box, sinewy, obviously familiar with the inside of a gym. He wore a white round-necked shirt and black linen trousers. The hair was in a curiously dated Beatle cut except for the grey streaks, seeming at odds with the goatee and half-moon glasses that added a vaguely academic air.

  “The name Wayne Dunston mean anything to you?”

  “A vague ringing,” Young said with a frown. “Nothing special. Why?”

  “I need to know who his friends are. Whether he’s in with any of the major players.”

  Young shrugged. “I can ask round if you like.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” Byford was disappointed but not surprised. Young moved in more rarefied circles these days. “Tell me more about this show, then.”

  Young wanted to take a wider look at the implications, when justice went wrong: the impact not just on the person wrongfully convicted but on the parents, wife or husband, children. Further still, what were the effects on the police and the judiciary? The individuals whose collective actions not only led to the wrong person going down but allowed the real perpetrator to escape punishment?

  “Working title’s Hard Time – what do you think?” Young’s enthusiasm was laudable but somewhat naïve. Byford didn’t want to burst the bubble but he thought Channel Four had more chance of getting the pope on Celebrity Love Island. Sure, some people would take the money and run their mouths off – a wronged wife, a bitter father. But as to getting the closed ranks of senior police and judges to open up... No way.

  “Great idea...”

  “I hear a but,” Young prompted.

  Byford shrugged. “What cases have you got in mind?”

  Young ran through a number of causes célèbres: individuals and a couple of groups championed by the media over years of high-profile campaigning, cases that had all invariably ended in jubilation on the steps of the appeal court.

  “I’m hoping to get a few big guns on board. Michael, Chris, a couple of the Birmingham Six.” His wavering hand said it could go either way. “And you, of course.”

  Byford masked a wry amusement. He was hardly in the same league as the Mansfields and Mullins of this world. “What about your own story?”

  “Not sexy enough. No wife. No kids.”

  No people to rip into the system, baying for pints of blood and pounds of flesh. “Who else have you approached?”

  “Police-wise, you’re the first. Actually, no. I dropped Mr Crawford a line. Talk about bad timing. I didn’t know till I saw the coverage of the funeral in the paper.”

  “Paper?” Byford hadn’t seen anything.

  Young riffled through a pile of newspapers and magazines on the floor. “Yeah. Thought I’d kept it. Here you go.”

  It wasn’t the story that transfixed Byford. It w
as one of the pictures. Presumably to indicate the level of media interest, one of the photographers had snapped the other snappers. Among the line of lens-men, one figure stood out, video camera on his shoulder, crooked smile on his face. He was known to his friends as Jazz – a benign affectionate name for one of the most ruthless thugs in the city.

  He was known to the police as Jaswinder Ghai. And Byford had seen him many times before. Never far from Harry Maxwell’s right hand.

  December 1995

  The second time Holly’s bedroom door had inched open in the middle of the night, she had known who it was and what he would do – had known she must endure the pain and shame. Who could she tell? Who could she turn to? Who would believe her? He came when everyone was asleep, the house silent but for his moist breath in her ear, the animal grunting as he took her.

  She lost count after the first year. And lost every vestige of faith. The little girl no longer believed her mother would return and take her away, tell her it had all been a terrible mistake, beg her for forgiveness. At eleven years of age, Holly recognised the hopes for what they were: childish fantasies.

  After twelve months of rape and vile assaults, Holly lived in hell and harboured only dreams of revenge against her mother.

  Vivid dreams. Against a woman she’d never seen.

  SUNDAY

  16

  Highgate, Sunday, 9.12am. Operation Sapphire. Day Three.

  Bev had a hangover the size of Wales. She blamed it on curry, carousing and half a bottle of Armagnac. Gingerly, she stroked her temple. It was all coming back to her now. She and Frankie had stayed up half the night playing Desert Island Dicks. Bev’s wish list featured the guv for the first time. How did that work?

  She seemed to recall, around two am, texting knock-knock jokes to Oz. And finally called it a day just after three, persuaded by a compulsive urge to belt out I Will Survive. Right now, that was a moot point.