Death Line (13 page)

“Tell you this, gaffer,” Darren was saying. “Feelings are running high out there again.” Quarry Bank. Now no one was in custody for Josh’s murder.

“Some right hotheads on that estate,” Mac said. He’d talked to a few earlier in the week. “Not many, but...”

Knight raised a hand. “I’ll have a word, see if uniform can increase patrols.” Quick glance at his watch, then he rose, rolled down his sleeves. Maybe he had a hot date. Not
that hot. He started dishing out tasks to his team.

Bev observed, didn’t envy the guy. His workload was onerous without the extra pressure. Querying a fellow cop’s professional conduct was a shit job. But in this instance, did someone
really have to do it? She still felt her theory about the woman informant was pretty sound. Her call had deliberately led them to Haines’s door. What if she’d gone through it and laid
the trail herself? Knight hadn’t discounted the idea but seemed to favour the bent cop route. Far as Bev was concerned it was a fine line between favour and fixation. Which was why
she’d tasked two more DCs with digging into Haines’s past. Any journo worth his or her salt, she reckoned, would already be in there with excavators. And that would give Knight even
more grounds for believing Highgate had a mole. Mind, on that front he probably had a point; signs pointed to it being an inside job. Rumour had it that Byford had offered, or been asked, to trace
the leak. Big of him.

She glanced round to see if Paul Curran had slipped in late, made a mental note to thank the guy next time she saw him. So far the press had held back from using the tip-off about Haines being
murdered, though the reports she’d read had highlighted the fact that a man who’d threatened one minute to sue the cops had been found dead the next. She sniffed. Toss up which was
worse, really. Wrinkling her nose, she glanced down, clocked half a sodding cow pat on her right Doc. Mouth tight she swore under her breath. Daisy’d better watch out, next time she’d
be dead meat.

The beef Masala defeated Bev. She blew out flushed cheeks, shoved the leftovers to one side and fiddled subtly with the button on her waistband.

“Eyes bigger than your belly, boss?” Obviously not subtle enough. Mac, who’d cleaned his plate ages ago, was now slumped in a red velvet banquette ogling hers.

She cut a withering glance at his paunch. “Not something you’d worry about, is it, mate?” He was too busy gazing covetously at the lurid remains to make a comeback. “Feel
free.” She waved a magnanimous hand, swallowed a burp. “I’m stuffed.” Mind, she’d already seen off satays, samosas, pakoras and spring rolls. All beef. Eat your heart
out, Daisy.

The impromptu jaunt to K2 wasn’t exactly a works outing, just the two of them plus Paul Curran who they’d bumped into on the way out of the nick. The Moseley restaurant had been her
call; any later on a Saturday night they’d have been lucky to get a table.

“Room left for another drink, Bev?” Paul smiled.

Banqueting hall. “Cheers.”

“Mac?”

“Kushti.” He raised an empty Cobra bottle. “Same again.” For the fourth time, not that Bev was counting. Mac was decidedly merry, though. She’d a feeling he’d
had a spat with his woman. Could explain why he was at a loose end. As for Paul, his missus had apparently taken the kid to see her parents in Gloucester, decided to stay over for the night. In
Bev’s case Johnny Depp was getting too demanding, she’d decided to cut him some slack. Yeah right.

Said a lot for the demands and vagaries of the job though, didn’t it? Saturday night and here she was with a bunch of cops. OK. Slight exaggeration. Two people from work. Not that
they’d talked shop much, everyone needed to give it a rest. Paul particularly. When they’d run into him in the corridor, he’d confided that the gaffer had given him a bollocking.
Knight hadn’t gone so far as to blame the guy for the leaks, but Paul was convinced Lancelot regarded him as the prime suspect. It was pretty obvious he was upset, needed to chill. Even Mac
had picked up on it, urged them all to move on to non-work topics. Probably why there’d been a few silences.

Mind, when the small talk got round to kids Bev had kept mum. She’d managed a few simpering smiles and gushing ‘ahs’ when Paul showed her the baby pics in his wallet. The
photos of Mac’s two lads she’d seen before; didn’t stop him shoving them in her face though. At that point she’d left them to it, nipped out for a fag. And wished she could
escape the pictures in her mind’s eye, Josh’s and...

Mellower after throwing wine down her neck, she watched Paul beckon the waiter, engage in some friendly banter. Lips pursed, she gave him an unwitting once-over. Ginger wasn’t her thing
but in this light he really wasn’t a bad-looking guy. She smiled, told herself to pack it in. For all his pleasant easy manner, she doubted he was anyone’s pushover. From what
she’d witnessed, he was able to stand up for himself. And from what he’d said, he’d bloody well need to.

Mac leaned forward, slurred not quite in her ear. “He’s spoken for, boss.”

She rolled her eyes. He was asking for a good slap, but she knew it was the Cobra talking.

“No, it’s my shout, Mike.” Byford grabbed the pint glasses and weaved his way to the bar, acknowledging nods from one or two regulars. The Prince was racing
green tiles and dark wood panelling, horse brasses and dimpled bronze table tops. Its clientele was mostly old-timers who drank there largely because it was known as a police pub. With the Bill
around the wrinklies were less likely to get a load of lip and worse, courtesy of the local yobs. Look the wrong man or woman in the eye in some dives round here and next minute you’d be
picking glass out of your face.

The landlord, Charlie, was already pulling the Guinness as Byford approached. Dumpy, chinless and follically challenged, he put Byford in mind of Ian Hislop, apart from the earrings, eagle
tattoos and Black Country accent. Without fail, when he saw the superintendent Charlie came out with one of two lines of patter. The big man made a private bet with himself which it would be this
time.

“Mr B! Are the bad guys still...”

“... keeping me busy? You bet, Charlie.” Actually it was Byford’s wager, and he’d won. Eschewing further intellectual jousting, the big man reached for a menu –
tacky cracked brown plastic – leant an elbow on the bar and glanced back at Powell. The DI had his nose in the local rag, sports pages it looked like to Byford. It must be three or four years
since just the two of them had gone for a drink. Powell had issued this invite. It wasn’t how Byford had envisaged spending the evening. He’d hoped to catch Bev after the brief, ask her
out to dinner, maybe lay his cards on the table. Whether deliberate on her part or not, their paths hadn’t crossed. From his office window, he’d watched her leave with Mac and Paul
Curran in tow. The joshing and body language suggested they were making a night of it. Mike’s oh-so casual ‘fancy a jar, guv’ had caught him at a weak moment, perhaps. Anything
was preferable to another night in front of
The X-Factor.

“There y’go, Mr B.”

“Ta, Charlie. Keep the change.”

Byford had found it harder to divine why a young, good-looking bloke like Powell hadn’t anything better to do with his downtime. Talk so far had centred on the case, but he suspected the
DI had an unwritten agenda.

“Cheers, guv.” Powell jettisoned the paper on the bench, sank an inch or two of the black stuff, wiped froth from his top lip with the back of his hand. “Hungry?” he
asked.

Mouth turned down, Byford shook his head. Not in here he wasn’t. The menu was greasier than a deep fat fryer.

Powell shrugged. “Saw you with the menu.”

“That’s why you’re a detective.” Byford winked. Powell twitched a lip in what could’ve been a smile. Then maybe saw the remark as an opening.

“Ask me... you’re the sharpest detective round here, guv.” Staring into his Guinness, the DI missed Byford’s arched eyebrow. “Just like you to know... I’m
really sorry you’re going.” The eyebrow was on the rise again. This was so not Powell. Was he being straight or was it a case of thinking flattery would get him anywhere? Like a
reference, or a rung up the ladder?

“Appreciate it, Mike.” He clinked glasses with the DI then inserted his tongue firmly in his cheek. “Still, you know what they say? No one’s indispensable. Always someone
around ready and able to step into the boss’s shoes. And I believe promotion’s a good thing. Everyone needs something to aim for... even police officers.” Byford laughed. Not at
his feeble quip, more the emotions that had crossed Mike’s face. Bev always said Powell was easier to read than a primer.

Smiling, the DI lifted his glance. “Exactly what I told Bev... concentrate on your career for a change, girl.”

Byford had a mouthful of stout and almost choked. “Sorry about that. It went the wrong way.”

“I could see that.”

Byford certainly hadn’t. Powell’s remark was out so out of left field, it could have been winging its way from Jupiter. Oblivious, Powell ploughed on. “Like I was saying...
even without openings coming up at work, Bev needs to push herself forward. She’s been treading water too long. You saw how she handled that brief. With a bit more positive rope, if she put
her mind to it she could easily make inspector.”

Easily? Could she? With a disciplinary record like a music library? Or was he being unfair? “You reckon?”

“I’d certainly put in a good word for her.” He raised his glass. “Like you would for me, eh, guv?” he dropped in casually.

Byford barely took it on board. He was dwelling on the years gone by when Powell wouldn’t give Bev the time of day, wouldn’t even call her by her first name. “Changed your
tune, haven’t you, Mike?”

“Bev’s OK.” He met the guv’s gaze.

Byford narrowed his eyes. Was the blond blushing? Was the sudden turn-round more than professional? Far as he knew, Powell lived alone, had no family to speak of and received rumour had it that
his wife had run off with a toy girl years ago. He’d brought the occasional arm candy to police socials. If Powell was looking for more, Bev would certainly be a handful. But surely
she’d run a mile first? “So what did she say?”

Blank look from Powell.

“Bev. When you offered careers advice.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll certainly consider it.”

“Told you to sod off then?”

He had the good grace to grin. “Yeah.”

They drank in synch, the silence between them easy, Byford’s thoughts less so. He’d already dismissed as green-eyed absurdity his notion that Powell might harbour personal designs on
Bev, but as to her professional development – the DI could have a point. One that Byford had signally failed to recognise. Or acknowledge. It was easy to pigeonhole her as the lippie maverick
on a single-seat plough. But with the right guidance and Bev’s unusual blend of instinct and intelligence who knew where she might go? Without even knowing it, maybe he’d held her back.
Had he the right to ask her to up sticks now? How selfish was that?

“So what will you do, guv?”

He frowned. “Come again?”

“When you leave us? Guy like you isn’t going to sit at home twiddling his thumbs. You’ve got years ahead, haven’t you?”

“Haven’t really thought about it, Mike.” Maybe he’d better get back to the drawing board.

Was Scott’s fate sealed the instant he was seized? Had there been the slightest chance he could survive? Escape, even? A moment perhaps when his
abductor’s attention strayed? Was there a split second when the monster considered not committing the heinous crime? When he was first snatched maybe, if a passer-by had noticed something
wrong, alerted the police? A little boy distressed, being dragged into a car, crying for his mother.

The man with the scrapbook tried not to dwell on these thoughts; the speculation was torture: that way madness lay, and the musing was futile. By July fourteenth Scott was dead. It was the day
those who knew him began life sentences. Steeling himself to open the book, the man reread the news report in the Leicester Mercury, studied again the photo spread.

The paper had obtained a new image of Scott. It was a school photograph, the shoulders of classmates either side just visible. Scott’s smile was infectious: a happy time
for the little boy? Unwittingly the man smiled back, but not for long. Dry-eyed, dry-mouthed, he had no tears left right now. He’d cried long into the night, dreams when they came unbearable,
unspeakable. Eyes briefly closed, he clenched a fist.

Composure almost gained, he studied the distant shot of a police tent surrounded by indistinct figures on the edge of the golf course. The man couldn’t begin to imagine what lay inside.
No, of course he could. More and more often he had to make conscious efforts to rid his mind of horrific visions. Pity poor Bert Saffer. He’d seen the reality and probably been haunted for
the rest of his life. Still, the old groundsman had clearly been OK with having his picture taken. Unlike the police at the crime scene. Two officers had turned their heads from the camera, another
shielded his face with a clipboard.