Death Line (17 page)

He glanced at the door, pushed the drawer to. “Come in.”

Knight popped his head round. “Not stopping, guv. I’m about to head for home. Just letting you know I’m letting Eric Long go. His wife’s downstairs. She’s given him
an alibi.”

“Tight?”

“As a gastric band.”

Byford gave a grim smile. “Good night, Lance.”

The guv shook his head: gastric band. Sounded straight out of the big book of Bev-isms. Come to think of it... he pulled Knight’s list closer. Why wasn’t her name on it? If Mac Tyler
knew about Long, pound to a penny she would too. He added Knight’s name while he was at it.

A picture had been taken at the news conference: Ted Adams was flanked by Scott’s father and a young unnamed police officer. They were seated at a shiny black table, only
one microphone in shot where there’d been a bank when the story broke. It was the silly season but the media obviously weren’t biting. Where was the hook? Unless you were a relative or
friend of the family, another police appeal was a non-story. On the wall behind someone had stuck a reminder of what it was all about: a blown up photograph of a smiling Scott. The image was huge,
the three men dwarfed by it.

Apt, thought the man with the scrapbook.

Four weeks after the little boy’s death and the police were still floundering. Asking people to examine their conscience? All that stuff about strictest confidence? Justice for Scott?
Meaningless twaddle. If the cliché had been in currency back then Adams would have appealed to the killer to give the parents closure.

Relaxing a clenched fist, the man told himself to calm down. Peering closer at the news picture, he noted that stress was starting to show: Adams’s face was lined, the features drawn.
Scott’s father looked as if he was on medication. He probably was. It would be a couple of years yet before Noel self-medicated with booze and drugs.

The man’s grasp tightened on his glass, three fingers of single malt in a crystal tumbler. As for the mother, she was well out of it. Living with her parents? Only if they ran the
psychiatric ward where she’d been sectioned.

Monday Monday – so good to me.
Yeah right. Bev’s Midget had a flat, her hair was shite, the top button hadn’t fastened on her favourite linen pants and
the spot near her nose looked like a set of traffic lights on green. Apart from that...

“Hunky bleeding dory. Thank you, so much, Mrs Cass.” She cut off the Mamas and the Papas in their prime, couldn’t be arsed to search for another station, couldn’t be
arsed to change the tyre either. Standing in the kitchen, she was waiting for Mac to show with a lift. Quick glance at the clock on the cooker showed 7.29 – Parker would be here any time,
maybe she should perfect a Lady Penelope impression.

And breakfast? Yeah. Why not? Limbs doing the puppet dangle she grabbed two slices of Mother’s Pride from her hidden cache, sniffed cautiously before popping them in the toaster. The
cupboard under the sink wasn’t the best place to keep bread, but if food fascist Frankie came across sliced white, she’d junk the lot in the bin. Bev could live with the faint smell of
Persil. Though why she let the mad Italian hold sway in the kitchen was beyond her. On the other hand, Frankie’s chicken parmigiana last night was to die for. She licked her lips. She’d
never liked those linen pants much anyway. And look at it: not a cloud in the sky again. Day like today cried out for a loose dress.

Muffled ringtone was going off. She glanced round, eyes creased. Where’d she left it? Course. Shoulder bag. On the hall table. Mac’s number on caller display. Her chauffeur must be
waiting in the car. She wasn’t much cop at talking posh but: “Ay’ll be with you in a tick, Parker.”

“Now. Get your butt in gear, boss.”

Not the time to piss round. Mac didn’t often sound urgent. Well, not that urgent. “What is it, mate?”

“Body on the Quarry Bank estate. Uniform’s out there. Control wants us to take a look.” She sensed there was more but he’d hung up. Grabbing her bag and a denim jacket
off the banister she dashed out. The engine was still running and a clearly uneasy Mac tapped the wheel. Keeping a keen gaze on him, she slipped into the passenger seat. “And?”

“They’re pretty sure it’s Darren New.”

The attending officers’ doubt was down to the extensive damage. The victim’s face was bruised and battered virtually beyond recognition. Stamped on too, impressions
of at least one trainer were just detectable in the bloody bone-chipped pulp. And the body had taken a kicking. Though first-aid trained, neither Doug Wallace nor Andy Pound, both police
constables, had been able to detect a pulse. It had taken senior paramedic Sheila Gardiner to determine that life hung by a thread. It was when Sheila and her colleague gently moved the victim that
the warrant card – warm, creased, bloodstained – was found confirming Darren’s identity.

Eyes smarting, Bev held it now. The picture showed a chuffed-looking Daz trying hard not to smile for the camera. He loved being a cop, always said joining CID was the best day of his... The
image dissolved. She dashed away hot angry tears with the heel of her hand. Strong emotion wasn’t going to nail the bastards who’d done this. Hopefully the three-strong FSI team
currently suiting up and checking equipment would provide something more concrete. The usual good-natured banter as they prepared was absent: they’d all knocked about with Darren.

Mac, who’d been parking the motor, joined her, puffing slightly. “How’s he doing, boss?”

She shook her head. “Not good.” Standing slightly back from the action, they watched the green-clad paramedics huddled either side of the young detective. Their expressions were
difficult to read, hushed voices impossible to hear. Their big concern, according to Doug Wallace, was brain injury. Not if, but how extensive. Little could be done on site to reverse the damage
but it was vital to stabilise him and prevent further harm. A neck restraint had been fitted and Darren, tubes and drips everywhere, had been placed on a back board. They’d carried out the
endo-tracheal intubation to keep the airways open, now they were working to maintain oxygen supply, control blood pressure. An ambulance, doors open, was parked at the kerb, neurosurgeons at the
city’s General Hospital were on standby, an ICU bed available. But Darren had to make it there first. And Christ knew how long he’d been lying here before the alarm was raised.

“Who called it in, boss?”

“Paperboy.” Thank God kids had surgically attached mobiles these days.

Mac glanced round, a puzzled frown deepening the lines on his face. “What was Dazza doing here?” He lived with his mum in Selly Oak. ‘Here’ was the parking area for
Heathfield House, the low rise block of flats Daz had visited, tracking down the non-existent woman who’d tried framing Roland Haines.

“Fuck do I know,” she snapped, reached in her bag for a ciggie, came out with a tissue instead. “Sorry, mate.” This wasn’t down to Mac.

The land was little more than a patch of tired-looking grass, fast food cartons falling out of overflowing bins, it would only take ten or twelve motors max. Daz’s souped-up Mini
wasn’t among them, she’d already scanned the lot.

“No idea why he was here, mate.” She blew her nose. “The line of inquiries was at a dead... over.” Last time he’d been this way was on another tack, trying to trace
Brett Sullivan, talking to the boy’s mother. “He sure wasn’t on duty.” Darren had passed the task back to Bev because today was meant to be a day off. Catching a glimpse of
his ruined face, she reckoned his leave would be extended, maybe permanently. “So how come...” Eyes creased, she could have been talking to herself.

“What?” He offered her a bottle of water.

Waving it away, she said: “Why’d he have his warrant card out, Mac? One of the paramedics found it when they moved him.”

He turned his mouth down. “Could’ve fallen out during the attack.”

She tried picturing the scene. Nothing else had been found either lying round or in his pockets; no wallet, keys, mobile. Surely Darren wouldn’t leave home, or wherever he’d been,
without them? Nah. They’d been stolen. Was it a mugging then? Random? Senseless attack? Eyes shining, she turned to Mac. “Maybe he spotted something suspicious, someone up to no good,
approached to have a word, took out his card, and...” Faltering, she couldn’t stand the thought that he couldn’t bear to let it go.

“Boss.” He reached out a calming hand, almost placed it on her elbow. “It’s all speculation.”

“At this stage it’s all we’ve got.” She spun round, eyes flashing.

“So let’s get on with it, eh?” He nodded at the rear of the flats. “See what that lot has to say for a start.” The number of silhouettes at the windows had grown,
residents having a good gawp at the action.

“Don’t tell me...!” She swallowed, took a deep breath. Mac hadn’t had the benefit of Doug’s top lines. “Teams are in there now. Others are on house-to-house,
and we’ve got patrols cruising the streets.” Soon as control put out the word every available cop on the patch had responded. Like her and Mac – Balsall Heath was on the way to
Highgate. The case probably wouldn’t be assigned to them though, not with the current workload.

“That should keep the buggers out.” Doug Wallace approached mopping his brow, police hat gripped under muscular arm. She spotted the white band of un-tanned skin at his hairline,
always thought of it as the cop equivalent of cabbie’s elbow. Doug was about her height, but in better shape courtesy of the police boxing team. Not that she envied him the nose. Smoothing
damp fair hair, he replaced the hat. “Just heard on the radio, sarge. DI Talbot’s on his way.”

“Good man.” Pete Talbot. Experienced SIO. Safe pair of hands.

Rustling off to the side. The paramedics were on their feet. “We’re moving him now.” Bev walked to the back of the ambulance watched as they bore the stretcher closer, and
seeing for the first time the full extent of Darren’s injuries bit down hard on her lip. She kept her gaze on his face until the doors closed, willing him to pull through.

“He’s stable now.” Sheila Gardiner peeled off the surgical gloves, made to leave then paused briefly. “Try not to worry, love. He’ll be in the best
hands.”

Bev watched the ambulance pull away, blue light flashing but no screeching tyres. She’d wanted to ask if he’d be OK but hadn’t trusted her voice not to break. She’d
wanted a magic wand to wave but didn’t believe in fairies. As for scumbags who could do that to another human being, she wanted to kick shit. Cancel that.

She would kick shit.

Death knocks were the pits, but breaking news of the attack to Darren’s mum had been a close run thing. Pete Talbot was a damn good detective but not big on people
skills; he’d asked Bev to take it on. To be fair, she’d probably have volunteered anyway. Mac had dropped her at the nick so she could pick up a pool car. Back at Highgate now, she was
walking down the corridor with Powell, heading for an extra brief Knight had felt compelled to call.

“How’d she take it?” the DI asked. He looked different somehow. Bev couldn’t put her finger on it, didn’t dwell, either. She still had an image in her head of a
frail thin woman in bits.

“Hard.” Patty New was a widow, Darren her only child. His pictures were plastered all over the modest semi in Selly Oak. Go figure. Mrs New had ranted, raved, chucked a couple of
ornaments, screamed about never wanting him to join the police in the first place. She blamed the cops in general and seemingly Bev in particular for what had happened to the son she doted on.
People react in a zillion different ways to bad news. Bev had witnessed similar outbursts before. The woman might come round, might not. Right now Bev was more concerned about Daz coming round from
the coma. “I dropped her at the hospital.” After finally persuading her to accept a lift. “I suspect she’ll have a long wait.”

“What’s the word on Daz?” Powell asked. Word? The medico she’d nobbled operated in initial-speak; some of it Bev could make out, some of it sounded like a furniture
showroom: TBI, RSI, ICP, CT. Asked for a rough translation the doctor had talked about traumatic brain injury, rapid sequence intubation, intra-cranial pressure. The CT was easy. They needed to
take a scan to determine how bad the damage was.

“Stable.” Bev said. The DI had asked for just the one.

“That’s good, right?” Always a guy with a half-full glass.

“Except when the starting point’s critical.” No comeback for that.

“Done something to your hair?” Talk about a non sequitur.