Death Line (10 page)

Knight chewed his bottom lip. On top of all that, it looked as if the nick had a leak the size of Wales. Floundering wasn’t quite the right word for the DCI’s current state, he
wasn’t out of his depth yet. But he wouldn’t say no to a lifebelt.

He strode back to the desk, picked up the phone, hesitated only briefly before hitting Byford’s internal extension. “Bill...?”

“I wanna see him? Where is the bastard?” High-pitched screeches punctuated by what sounded like a fist pounding wood.

“Hell’s that?” Back at Highgate, Bev was halfway up the first flight of stairs heading for the squad room, Mac bringing up the rear. The fracas was kicking off at the front
desk. And getting louder. Bev cast a wry glance over her shoulder. “Reckon Vince needs a hand?”

“Nah, Vinnie’s no wuss.” Well true. Vince Hanlon was fifteen stone of rippling... lard, longest serving front line sergeant in the nick, and safer pair of hands than a
micro-surgeon. “Nothing he can’t...”

Smashing glass. Jagged screams. Hurled obscenities. “Yeah right,” Bev murmured. “Let’s have a shufti.”

The sight pulled them up sharp. A dishevelled Stacey Banks waved a broken beer bottle perilously close to Vince’s air space. The blood could be coming from either of them, difficult to
tell from this distance.

Bev edged forward, voice low and soft. “Hey, Stacey, calm it, shall...”

“...’kin’ tell me to back off, you fat fucker.” Her own vast bulk swaying, she took more wild lunges with the bottle. Vince stepped back, palms raised. “Look,
love...”

“Bastard killed my boy. Got a right to see him.” Slurred words, staggered steps. Spectators were gathering, a couple of uniforms, two other men Bev didn’t know, punters
probably. Mac wandered over presumably to keep them well back, protect and serve in police-speak. Stacey was drunk enough to be dangerous. “Hey, Stacey?” Bev’s traffic-stopping
voice had the desired effect. The woman swirled, clearly finding it difficult to focus, almost lost her footing in a pool of beer and blood spill. It was apparent now that Stacey had a hand wound.
Casual stance, senses alert, Bev slowly approached the action. “What kinda good’s this doing?”

“Good?” A defiant toss of the head dislodged the ginger beehive. “I ain’t ’ere to do good. It’s the evil shit as killed Josh I’m interested in. Gimme
five minutes with him.”

“Come on, Stacey. It isn’t going to happen.” The woman didn’t need telling, her face fell into resigned features.

“Have to know
why
he done it, Bev.” The bottom lip quivered as she stifled a sob. Poor cow. Bev’s heart went out to her. Stacey’s parenting skills mightn’t
be up there with Penelope Leach’s, but Josh’s death was a hell of a wake-up call. “Need to see the bloke... it’s not a lot to ask is it?”

“Course not.” She let a few seconds lapse then: “But Haines isn’t here, Stacey.” Technically he was, but she didn’t need to know that.

“That’s a lie.” Puzzled face. “Said in the...”

“Papers got it wrong, Stacey. We’re still looking for the killer. And we’ll find him, I promise. We want justice for Josh much as you do.” She sensed some sort of confab
going on behind, kept her gaze on Stacey. Maybe it was Bev’s conviction, the look that passed between them. Stacey seemed to crumple, the fight gone. Tears welled in her eyes, dripped slowly
down fat cheeks already slick with sweat. She barely reacted when Vince took her wrist, gently removed the bottle from her grasp. Clearly, she’d been weighing up what Bev had said. And found
it wanting.

“Wasn’t just the papers cocked it, was it?”

“How’s she feeling?” Two podgy fingers poised over the keyboard, Mac glanced up as Bev entered the squad room; any distraction from paperwork was welcome.
Judging by his pile of notes, she reckoned RSI was on the cards. He wasn’t the only lucky boy; eight or nine other officers were hunched over desks, tapping out reports, bashing phones.

“Ish.” Bev waggled her hand. She’d not long slipped Stacey a tenner for cab fare, promising to keep her up to speed on any developments. I’ll not hold me breath then, was
the tart reply. Way the inquiry was going Bev couldn’t blame her.

Sighing, she ran her fingers through her hair. “Know what we need, mate?”

“Where shall I start?” He gave a lopsided smile.

“We need a decent break. Somethin’ solid to get the teeth in.” Maybe they should stock up on KitKats because at the moment they were all backtracking, making up lost ground,
checking nothing had been overlooked. It meant most of the team was trawling through old witness statements, cross-referencing police reports, plugging the gaps on the house-to-house,
re-interviewing residents where even the slightest chance existed that further probing might hit a richer seam.

Mac slumped in the chair. “Not like the last break then?” The one that fingered Roland Haines.

Which reminded her...“Did you get the tape?”

“Cued and raring to go.” He gave a helpful nod.

“Ta, mate.” She wandered to a desk by the window, dumped her bag, rifled the drawers for a set of headphones. It was curiosity more than anything, wanting to hear the voice of the
woman who’d called in. The informant had led rookie DC Tony Freeman to believe she lived in a block of flats in Marston Road. As they now knew, the only property that even vaguely fitted the
description was the four-storey Heathfield House. The team detailed with tracing her had been knocking on doors, questioning everyone who lived there. They’d only completed the task in the
last half hour, and drawn a blank. Roland Haines’s movements on the night Josh’s body was dumped were clearly not the only lying line the caller had spun. Bev scowled. Sodding
timewaster could audition for Spiderwoman.

Headphones on, she hit play. The voice was definitely female, the right side of middle-aged, no trace of an accent. Listening to it, Bev wasn’t surprised it had sent Freeman’s boxer
shorts in a twist. Unlike the loony tunes who usually rang in after a media appeal, the woman came across as precise, matter of fact, straight as a dye.

“
... oh, yes, I saw his face quite clearly, officer...
”

Bev cocked her head. Was that something in the background or just static? She rewound, played it again, eyes closed. Not sure. Maybe if it was enhanced? She’d get the techie boys on the
case, couldn’t do any harm. Slipping off the cans, she narrowed her eyes. Something else was bugging her as well. Was the woman too precise? Could she be reading from a script? Or was there a
prompt standing by in the wings?

“Hey, mate...?” She spun round. Mac was on the phone, lifting a finger for hush. She strolled across, craned over his shoulder trying to read his scrawl. It could have been the
footwork of an inebriated millipede.

“And?” she asked as the phone hit the cradle.

“Said you wanted a break? How ’bout a small crack?” He told her the caller was young, male and either local or a damn good mimic. The lad claimed he’d seen Josh Banks get
in a car outside a newsagent’s on Marston Road around half-three on Wednesday afternoon.

Obviously the caller hadn’t given his name. She turned her mouth down. “Model? Reg? Colour?”

“Red. No number. Male driver. And that’s it.” He held out empty palms. “We got cut off or...”

“1471?” She’d no need to ask. He was already tapping it out. It’d likely be a case of going through the motions. Everyone these days was a telecom smart arse; withholding
a number was child’s play. Eyebrow raised, she stood corrected. Mac’s pen was moving and he sure wasn’t writing his shopping list.

Beaming, he called the number. “Gone to voicemail.”

“No worries.” They’d keep trying and if they had no joy it should be easy enough to get a trace. Without realising, the informant might know more than he was saying. Witnesses
don’t generally suppress information, but first time round the full picture doesn’t always emerge. Surprising what further questioning can sometimes elicit.

“What you reckon, boss? As breaks go, will that do you?”

Time being it would. “That’ll do nicely.” Turning, she grabbed her bag. “Best give the gaffer a bell.”

Mac was already on the phone.

The minute Knight heard about the red motor, he wanted the intelligence released as in yesterday. Paul Curran had alerted the media to a hastily arranged news conference at
Highgate. Expecting a big turn-out, a first floor room had been set aside. Curran and DI Powell were in there now kicking their heels waiting for the pack to show.

The DI checked his watch, strolled to the window. “Eh, Paul? Seen this?” The media were in a frenzy all right, but they were in the wrong place. It was all kicking off on the
pavement out front. Cameras thrust, mics pointed, bodies jostled, questions were fired. Focus was on a bloke in the middle waving his arms, shaking the odd fist. Powell narrowed his eyes.
“That who I think it is?”

Curran craned his neck for a better angle. “Roland Haines, how the...?”

“As I live and breathe.” Powell had known the gaffer would be authorising Haines’s release. They’d no option but to let the guy walk. No evidence, more to the point. The
heroin found by the search team was neither here nor there. Small beer. Not worth the paper effort. But... “Talk about bad timing.” Running slap bang into the press gang. Powell blew
out his cheeks. Or was it perfect timing? Had the encounter been stage-managed? Had the media been tipped off as to when Haines would emerge?

“Revelling in it, isn’t he?” Curran observed. Hearing the exchange wasn’t necessary to get the gist but the press officer inched the window open anyway.

Powell rolled his eyes as combustible phrases rose in the hot air: police state, fascist thugs, slapping in compensation claim, several more in the same vein. “Tosspot.”

They turned in synch at the sound of a throat being cleared. Toby Priest the
Birmingham News
crime correspondent. Powell raised an eyebrow. The newshound wasn’t exactly on the ball.
Maybe he’d come in round the back, missed all the fun. “This gonna take all day?” Priest drawled. “I’ve got a deadline to meet.”

Beggars choosers. Powell straightened his tie, mentally ran through his lines. The rest of the pack wasn’t going to pull out for a sideshow.

Standing in reception, Byford cast a jaded gaze over the main attraction, too. Roland Haines was certainly enjoying his fifteen minutes of infamy. Ironic, really. The detective
was bowing out partly on the strength of believing Josh’s killer was banged up. Now Haines was free as a bird. And looked to be singing like a canary. Did Byford regret handing in the
resignation letter? No. And now it was out in the open, he’d heard one or two comments doing the Highgate rounds that convinced him the choice had been right.

“OK, sir?” A smiling DCI Knight headed towards him. Then pulled up sharp at the glass doors. “What the hell’s going on?”

Byford shrugged. The scene spoke for itself. Haines centre stage, shooting his mouth off to an excitable media. The superintendent had suffered enough bad press on his own account to last a
lifetime, he almost felt sorry for the DCI. The big man could read the headlines now. He shook his head. “God knows how they found out he was being released.”

“Not sure about God.” Knight’s jaw tightened. “Source is closer to home if I’m not mistaken.”

“Any ideas?”

“I wish. Working on it though. Hoping you might have a few thoughts, Bill.”

Byford nodded. Wished him well. He’d come across officers in the past who made a packet slipping the press snippets, knew it was usually the police who ended up footing the bill. “Go
out the back, shall we?”

He’d agreed to Knight’s suggestion of a quiet session in the café round the corner. Tactics, strategy, brainstorming, the DCI had called it. Byford suspected there might be a
bit of brain-picking going on as well. He had an inkling Knight was one of quite a few officers who’d be after his job.

DI Powell, bearing laden tray and wide smile, headed towards Bev across an almost deserted canteen. Her heart sank. Alone with her thoughts, she could do without company. The
solitary supper in the nick was because she couldn’t be arsed to cook and resident chef Frankie was having a night on the tiles. Oh yeah, and Sumi Gosh had cried off a trip to the flicks at
the last minute, Mac was on a hot date with The Squeeze, Pembers was babysitting and... now she came to think of it maybe idling a few minutes with Powell wasn’t such a bad idea. Light relief
and all that, given how the inquiry was going. And that she’d finally got round to reading Oz’s letter.

Toothy smile still in place, Powell slipped into the opposite seat. “So Morriss, reckon I’ll get it?” His raised eyebrow was in better shape than hers.

“What’s that then? Swine flu?” Masking a sly grin, she prodded a fork into a piece of kidney. She knew exactly where the blond was coming from. Powell was as subtle as Dracula
in a blood bank. With the guv’s departure imminent, the DI had his eye on the greasy pole. When he suddenly reached out with a napkin, she shot back. “Hey! What you doing?”

“That was so sharp, Morriss, I thought you’d cut yourself.” Ingenuous wink. “Pass us the salt.” She curled a lip. The fish on his plate was already swimming in
vinegar. “Anyway, petal, you know what I mean. Way I see it, Knight’ll go for the guv’s job which means...”

Petal? “Yeah yeah. There’ll be a DCI post going begging.” The feigned indifference concealed deep anger. The ink was barely dry on the big man’s resignation letter,
already the pygmies were eyeing his office. The more she felt, the less she’d show.

“So... what you reckon?” Head down, he was shovelling in chips like there was a potato famine.

She pushed her empty plate away. Bit back a barb about the odds being higher of finding a chain of McDonald’s on Mars. Powell’s current studied indifference meant he badly wanted the
leg up and, she supposed, must value her opinion for what it was worth. Pursed lips, she rated his chances. Whatever their past run-ins, Powell wasn’t a bad bloke. They’d grown close
over the years. OK, not close, that was going too far. But at least they knew where they stood.

“You’re a fine cop, Mike.” Fine and dandy. Never a hair out of place. All that high maintenance.