Death Line (18 page)

Frowning, she raked her fingers through the fringe, or what was left of it. She’d forgotten last night’s DIY job in the bathroom with a pair of nail scissors. “New look. Like
it?” Might as well brazen it out.

“Very you.” He winked as he held the door for her. “Spiky.”

DCI Knight hadn’t shown yet. It was just shy of midday. Hot as high noon though. There was a lot of body heat floating round in a briefing room that was pretty packed but
unmistakably subdued. Even if Darren hadn’t been a popular guy, he was a cop and that meant family, one of their own.

As Powell swaggered to his patch of wall, the difference in the DI suddenly hit her: he wasn’t wearing a suit. Mr Button-Up had swapped the designer gear for chinos and open-necked shirt.
Of course. The dodgy settee spring. Pembers’s story had had Bev in stitches. Bit like the DI, come to think of it. Shame. She’d missed a trick there, could’ve worked in a line
about bum jokes, or something.

“Wotcha.” Still smiling, she slipped into a seat next to Paul Curran near the back. The press officer looked knackered, must’ve had a hectic morning. Bet the nights were no
easier either with a baby.

“Bev.” He tapped his forehead. She spotted the local rag rolled under his arm.

“Can I have a quick butcher’s?”

“Sure. It’s the early edition though, nothing on Darren in it.” The media had made up for lost news ground since. Driving through town to and from the hospital, she’d
seen the story headlined on billboards, heard it on local radio. Christ, she’d do a telly turn herself if she thought it’d do any good. The more coverage the better.

She frowned. Except when it was the kind the cops didn’t want. She zoomed in on a short piece on page one. “Where the frig they get this?”

The head-and-shoulders of Eric Long looked liked a police mug shot. The accompanying story didn’t do him any favours either. It was only a few lines – restrained compared with Toby
Priest’s normal lurid prose – but it named Long, said he came from Stirchley and was being held in connection with the killing of Birmingham schoolboy Josh Banks.

She gave a low whistle. “Seen this, Paul? It’s contempt surely?”

Derisive snort. “Probably libellous too, given the guy was released without charge last night.”

It was news to her. “Really?”

And Curran apparently. “I know... tell me about it. No one even told me he’d been brought in till this morning.”

No chance to tell him anything, even about the baby gloop she’d just spotted on the back of his shirt. The guv was striding in, suit jacket flapping, DCI Knight a few paces behind. What
little chat there’d been among the squad, ceased; there was a mass straightening of spines, squaring of shoulders. Bev crossed her legs, and fingers. Maybe Byford leading the way meant he was
taking over as senior investigating officer? Lancelot hadn’t exactly shone in the post. The hope was shortlived as she watched the guv hive off and bag his customary perch on the windowsill
leaving the floor open.

Knight positioned himself in front of the whiteboards, ran his gaze over the squad. “I can’t start the brief without saying I know how you all feel about the attack on Darren
New.” Course he did. “It was vicious, cowardly and almost certainly unprovoked. DI Talbot’s heading up the inquiry. He’s out there now, he’s got a good team.
Let’s hope we get an early result. DC New was a fine young...”

“Was?” Bev yelled, then shuffled back in the seat. Platitudinous cliché was one thing but: “Get it right for God’s sake.”

Pin-drop silence for a second or five then Knight articulated clearly said: “It was a slip of the tongue, I’m sorry.” The quick clench of his jaw meant he didn’t like
being pulled up but had the sense to realise the squad was on Bev’s side. He dug a hand in his trouser pocket. “As I say, Pete Talbot’s on the case. I think we need to focus on
our own inquiries.”

“You don’t see a connection then?” Powell asked. Bev noted there was no ‘sir’. Looked as if it had registered with Knight, too. It was a reasonable question though:
Darren along with other squad members had spent a fair amount of time nosing round the Quarry Bank estate in recent days.

“Obviously it can’t be ruled out. But until there’s evidence, I want it treated as a separate inquiry. Darren’s attack could be down to the level of street crime in that
area anyway.”

Oh! That’s OK then. What a fucking admission.

Bev tried biting her tongue. It didn’t work. “So what happened to the extra patrols? Did you get on to uniform?” It was probably below the belt. He’d said he would, but
more bobbies out there didn’t necessarily mean the assault wouldn’t have happened.

This time he hit back. “Don’t lay that on me, sergeant. You know as well as anyone, we can’t cover every inch of the patch twenty-four-seven. We’re overstretched as it
is. The regular stuff doesn’t stop just because we’ve got our hands full.” Knight waved an arm at the whiteboards, one dominated by a picture of Josh Banks, the other featuring
the creepy Roland Haines. “And no one needs reminding we’ve got two ongoing major inquiries.”

“Best get on with it then,” Bev muttered. Paul Curran was the only person close enough to hear. She caught the twitch of his lips and a low-profile thumbs-up. But before she
forgot...

“One point worth bearing in mind: Darren’s girlfriend lives out that way.” It was the only interesting snippet she’d picked up driving Mrs New to the hospital. Payoff for
persisting in giving her the lift. “His mum assumed he was spending the night with her. So he had reason to be there.”

“Is DI Talbot aware...?” Knight didn’t finish what he saw was a stupid question. “Right. Operation Swift.” The DCI’s up-sum lasted twenty minutes. Bev’s
ankle started doing the rounds after ten. She loathed time-wasting meetings with a passion. Finally he threw it open.

Most officers were following up calls that were coming into the incident room at a rate of knots. Intelligence had to be checked, however dumb it sounded. A couple of lucky DCs were still
tracking down owners of red cars, especially those in the area and more especially those that had been caught on CCTV. Bev jotted a few notes, perked up when Carol Pemberton started talking.

“Brett Sullivan’s still not turned up, sir.” She’d taken over the task from Daz. “I’ve been out there this morning. His mother’s now saying he’s
taken off before and the school says he’s rarely there.” It was all too common: a hundred thousand under-eighteens go missing every year in the UK, one every five minutes. Most are
runaways, most run back. Carol tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I get the impression he’s a bit of a handful.”

Knight nodded. “How long since she saw him?”

“Friday night, so we’re into the third day.” She opened a slim file on her lap.

“And he’s... what... fifteen?”

“Sixteen. I asked for a photograph. Mrs Sullivan gave me this.” A blond, blue-eyed Brett looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his armpit in a heatwave.

“OK. Work with Paul on a news release. We’d best get it out there.”

“What about his mates, Caz?” Bev asked. Amrik Singh had given three names.

“Can’t get a thing out of them, sarge. They flatly deny having anything to do with bullying Josh and they certainly aren’t prepared to drop Brett Sullivan in the
mire.”

“Had any of them seen Eric Long in Marston Road?” Byford asked.

“No, sir.” She shook her head. “We flashed Long’s photo all over the estate as well. Not a bite.”

Bite. Bev glanced at her watch. Nearly one o’clock. No wonder her stomach was giving her grief. She’d not eaten since... Shit, she’d not eaten. The Mother’s Pride was
still in the toaster.

Mother’s Pride. She thought of Mrs New and Darren. Stacey Banks and Josh. Somehow couldn’t get worked up about a bit of white bread...

“Watching dirty movies on the job again?” Bev’s voice had an arch you could sleep under. DI Powell spun round to find her leaning casually in his office
doorway; her eyebrow was raised too. He’d been squatting on the floor in front of a monitor squinting at the screen, and very nearly lost his balance. And cool. “Button it,
Morriss.”

Rising carefully, he smoothed his hair, sat in the swivel chair. “If you’ve got nothing better to do than...”

“Actually, I have.” Couple of possible leads had come up. “Tony Freeman? Newbie DC? Young guy with the bum fluff?”

Powell raised his palms. “Whatever you do in your own...”

“That is so funny not.” She sniffed, strolled in, perched on a corner of his desk. “Anyway... I asked him to do a bit of digging into Roland Haines’s murky past.”
Murky past? She couldn’t believe she’d said that. “He’s come up with a couple of people he thinks are worth follow-up interviews.” Face to face as opposed to on the
phone where all the subtle nuances and significant expressions were out of sight at the end of a line.

“So?” The DI dunked a digestive into a mug of coffee.

“Means a half-day in Bristol. Knight’s OK with it. Wants me to check you don’t have a problem.”

“I’d rather you don’t take Tyler.” With Bev off the patch, he’d not want to lose Tyler as well. Mac’s rank didn’t reflect his experience.

“Thought you might say that.” She helped herself to a biscuit. “Danny Rees could tag along. He could do with learning from the master.”

“Who’d you say he’s going with?” He gave a crooked smile.

She winked, took a bite then pointed a toe at the monitor. “What’s the movie then?”

“Security camera tape from the front of the nick.” He was digging around in his drink with a spoon. “Hoped we might get lucky with shots of whoever dropped the anonymous
letter.”

“The one that dumped Eric Long in the shit?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Sure did.” He hit the remote. “Whoever just about covers it.” Got that right – the shapeless strutting figure on the screen gave no clue: male, female, young, old,
thin, fat, black, white, hermaphrodite, take your pick. Baggy jogging pants were combined with a hooded parka; the baseball cap peeking out was just for luck, or taking the piss.

“See what you mean – or not.” She dipped her biscuit into his mug. “What you make of all that business then?”

“The letter or Long?”

She gave a half-shoulder shrug. “Either, both, whatever.”

“Letter’s probably someone playing silly buggers. As for Long, I reckon he was dicking us around. His missus put us right. She said when Long was supposed to have been bundling Josh
in a car in Balsall Heath, they’d both been in Stirchley playing bingo.

“A . She would say that...” She reached for another biscuit.

“Sod off.” He snatched away the pack.

Suit yourself. “...B. Why didn’t he tell us himself? And C. His name wasn’t just picked out of a hat.” With well-wishers like that who needs enemies?

“Yeah well. A. They won some jackpot; had a pic proving it. B. I genuinely think Long enjoyed playing us for idiots. And C. It’s possible some nasty sod remembered the court case, thought they’d have a stir. We’re not gonna know because the letter’s cleaner than a squeaky clean
thing.”

She turned her mouth down. Didn’t buy the stirrer theory but had her own case to concentrate on. She jumped to her feet. “Anyway, you OK with me going to Bristol tomorrow? I’m
aiming on heading off first thing.”

“Sure.”

She gave a mock salute. “Catch you later.”

“You in tonight?”

Her hand stilled on the door. “Tonight?”

“I’m viewing a house round the corner from your place about eight. Time I lived a bit nearer the nick.” Shifty eyes; nervous laugh. “Thought if you fancied a
drink...”

My God. She’d not seen that coming. Her response must’ve been down to shock. “Yeah, why not?”

Mind, she jumped a mile when the door swung open. How long had the guv been standing there?

“Knew I’d find you here. Skiving again?”

DC Danny Rees glanced up from a plate of canteen lasagne that put Bev in mind of squashed innards. He gave a tentative smile. “Sarge?” He’d nicked Bev’s favourite seat by
the window. Good job she wasn’t stopping. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“Couldn’t be better, Daniel. It’s your lucky day.” She raised a can of Red Bull, took a swig. “Well, tomorrow is as it happens. You’re coming to Bristol with
me.”

“You driving?” Had he gone pale all of a sudden?

“No. I’m getting Scottie to beam us down. Problem?” What had he heard? Had Mac been talking? Or had the Highgate funny men told him her nickname: Jeremy. As in Clarkson.

“Absolutely not. I’m sure it’ll be good experience.” Creep. “So what’s in Bristol, sarge?”

He ate while she briefed him on why they were going, nodded as she told him to liaise with Tony Freeman on the information he’d already come up with then see what further background Danny
could find on the two men they’d be interviewing. Neil Proctor was Robbie Sachs’s natural father. Clive Sachs was the kid’s uncle. Both had sounded off big time when the case
against Roland Haines had been thrown out.

“Sounds good, sarge.” He waved his fork. “I’ll just finish this and get on the case.”

“Don’t know how you can eat that stuff, it looks like road-kill. See you in the car park. Half seven, OK ?”

He swallowed. “Can’t wait.”

She spotted Sumi Gosh on the way out, dropped by to say hello. Their relationship had taken a knock recently. Against her better judgement, Bev had given sanctuary to Sumi’s cousin a few
months back after someone had used the girl as a human punchbag. It seemed to Bev the father might’ve had a hand in it and she’d become embroiled in a family split. She arrived home one
night to find cousin Fareeda had flown the nest, or had her wings clipped permanently. The only indication the girl was alive was a series of postcards purportedly from Fareeda to Sumi. They were
still arriving, about once a month; Bev’s fear was that anyone could be writing them.

“Sumi.” She flashed a smile.

Brief glance up from a copy of
Heat.
“Sarge.”

“How’s things?”

“Fine. You?”

“Mustn’t grumble.”

What was this? They’d been good mates at one time. Now they were skirting round like ballroom dancers on thin ice. Trouble was, Fareeda’s circumstances had brought them too close.
Bev reckoned the girl had been pregnant and it wasn’t just her old man’s hand that had been involved. Either way, she knew about the dirty linen in the skeleton cupboard and it pissed
Sumi off. It was a tad harsh when Bev had only done the decent thing, but that was the way it went when you let people in – and not just to your home. As long as it didn’t affect their
working relationship, she could live with it.