Death Line (22 page)

“Good on you, Mac. Takes guts at your age.” She wiped sauce off her chin.

Poor bloke hadn’t got a clue. He shifted uneasily. “Guts to...?”

“Come out? Wave goodbye to the closet. Way to go, man.”

“Sod off.”

“Sod off boss.” Screwing the wrappers, her smile soon faded. Bit of banter was harmless enough but where the hell was DCI Knight? Any time soon, some clown would start a chorus of
Why are we wait...?

“Sorry for the delay.” Not Knight. Byford’s voice. Bev turned to see him striding to the front, the DCI followed a few paces behind. Knight’s expression was difficult to
read but he didn’t look happy. It took no time to find out why. The guv didn’t even wait for the buzz to die down.

“As of now, I’ll be heading the inquiry. DCI Knight will act as my deputy.” No explanation. Known in the trade as a Tommy Cooper: just like that. If anything the noise level
increased a gnat’s. Byford raised a hand, waited a couple of seconds. “Just so you know – this has nothing to do with anyone’s handling of the case. The decision was taken
purely for operational reasons.”

Course it was. Operational reasons? It was like giving a football manager a vote of confidence. She cast Knight a covert glance. At least he was holding his head up, taking it on the chin. She
bet he felt like shit. Typical of Byford though, not kicking the guy when he was down, actually helping him save face.

“The twice daily briefs will continue. I’ll be taking them. When needed, I’ll call more. There are three major ongoing inquiries now.” He nodded to the third whiteboard
already added to the line-up. “The scale’s such I can’t stress too strongly how vital it is everyone keeps up to speed. If you can’t make a brief, make sure you know what
came out and what needs covering. I don’t spoon-feed anyone. It’s every officer’s individual responsibility to check logs, read reports, keep on top of developments.
Jack?”

“Guv.” Office manager and professional Yorkshireman Jack Hainsworth raised a hand.

“I want a bigger room for the squad. More computers. More phones.”

“Yeah, but...” He was a professional whinger, depressingly negative.

“No buts. You’ve got until five tonight. Don’t worry about the bean counters. It’s sorted. We’ll have more support staff starting first thing, too.”

“Leave it with me, guv.” Hainsworth agreeing almost immediately? That must be a first.

“Right, let’s get on with it.” Byford hooked his jacket on the back of a chair, rolled his sleeves, reached for a pointer on one of the tables. Bev watched with mixed emotions.
How did the big man do it? He didn’t have to command respect, it was given him in spades. Already the atmosphere had changed: the squad’s body language was more positive, attitudes
sharper. God, it was good to have him back, made it harder somehow, knowing he’d be going.

“So what have we got?” Facing the team he stood in front of the boards. “Three murder victims. Josh Banks. Roland Haines. Eric Long. Are they connected? Are we looking for one
killer? Or three? Both men were recently outed in the media for crimes against children. Is that significant? Could it be a motive for the killings? Or are there reasons we’ve yet to
establish? These are questions that need answers, lines that need following.” Cut. Chase. To. Go for it, guv. He ran his gaze over every officer in the room. “I’m asking for
common threads. Anybody?”

She glanced at Knight expecting him to pick up. Suit yourself. “Dodgy suicides, guv,” she said. “Got to be something there.”

He nodded. “Go on.” Byford was probably already on to it, but only three or four officers present had been at the latest crime scene.

Sitting forward, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. “Chris bagged a knife out at Long’s place this morning. Bathroom floor... there it is. Dead handy, eh? Except the blade
wouldn’t cut melted butter never mind slice flesh.” Over-egging the pudding but they got the picture. “Anyway according to the pathologist, Long could’ve been sitting there
waving a meat cleaver round in each hand singing
I’m a Believer
– the wounds still couldn’t have been self-inflicted.”

“Nice image. Thanks for sharing, Bev.” Byford gave a lopsided smile. She’d miss that. “And Roland Haines’s death?”

Warming to the theme, her blue eyes shone. “Yeah, well. There’s a guy who takes himself off to Foxton, lies on the track and waits round for the 23.10 to Euston to take his head off.
I don’t think so.”

“Neither does Gillian Overdale.” Byford stroked an eyebrow.

She knew he’d be up to speed. “Exactly.”

“And in Haines’s case...” Mac was on the same page. “The killer leaves a suicide note lying round just in case we’re in any doubt.”

“Or he’s taking the p...” Whoops. “Sorry, guv.” Best curb the language; he didn’t like it.

The eye-roll said he’d heard it all before. “Why would he do that?”

It was a feeling more than anything, she tried articulating it. “As suicides they couldn’t be more badly executed: amateur doesn’t come close. Overdale could tell before
setting foot on the crime scene that Haines was dead before he was laid on the track. As for the knife thing this morning, once the mismatch was pointed out it was obvious. So either the
killer’s dense as a box of fog, or he thinks we’re the Keystone cops. Or...” It had only just occurred.

“What?”

“Or maybe he doesn’t give a monkey’s either way.” Not that she thought him careless. Not that. More... what was the word? Yeah. Cavalier. If he was careless they’d
have caught the bugger by now.

“We’re assuming there’s just the one killer.” Knight jumped in while she was still struggling. “Could be two perps. The MOs are similar but not identical, same
could apply to motives.”

Faking suicide? The modern killer’s must-have modus operandi? Bev turned her mouth down. It was rare as a hen’s orthodontist.

Byford nodded. “Certainly something to consider. We need open minds every step of the way.”

OK, what did she know? Thinking about it though, Haines’s death had been covered in gruesome detail in the media, conceivably it could’ve sparked ideas in an equally sick mind.
Little wonder they were releasing only the barest details on Long’s death.

“Who’s checking backgrounds?” Byford asked.

“Danny Rees and Carol Pemberton are in Bristol this morning looking into Haines,” Bev said. “Mac’s made a start digging round Eric Long.”

Mac lifted a hand. “You wanted threads. What about misdirection, guv? We get a letter fingering Long. And an anonymous caller naming Haines.”

“Yeah, and we’ve had no joy tracing the woman, guv.” Bev tapped her teeth with the pen. “And the only prints on the letter were the cleaner’s and DI
Powell’s.”

“Malicious intent certainly. But both names have been in the public domain.” It didn’t automatically follow the killer was behind both tip-offs, they all knew there were
crazies out there who loved stirring. “Again we’ll bear it in mind. Thanks, Mac.”

Byford nodded before deliberately moving to one side of the first whiteboard: Josh Banks’s smiling face gazed out. Like everyone else, Byford stared at the picture for five, six seconds.
The point was made without a word being spoken. There’d been no reference so far to the little boy’s murder. Bev saw colleagues fidget, sensed uneasiness, maybe even a touch of shame
among the squad. Sure, checks were ongoing: red cars were being traced, CCTV footage was being chased, the poster campaign had been widened, extended, street interviews were still being carried
out, Brett Sullivan’s picture was doing the rounds of the media and other forces, but they were still no nearer finding who’d killed Josh.

“We don’t even know how he died yet.” There was sorrow in Byford’s voice, and a sliver of censure? “A mother can’t bury her son.” Definite censure. He
gazed at the squad letting it sink in. “Somebody chase the pathologist. I want the tox results by lunchtime. I don’t care who does it, but don’t take no for an answer... I
won’t.”

Bev made a few notes as officers gave routine feedback, the guv issued tasks then: “OK, listen up. Mike Powell will stay as deputy SIO on Josh Banks’s murder. Bev, you stick as
deputy with the Haines case, and DCI Knight? You look after Eric Long. Obviously there’ll be grey areas and overlap; that’s why I want every officer whenever practical to report
developments directly to me. Not an hour later, not ten minutes. Soon as they happen I want to know, right?”

“DI Powell was in over the weekend, that’s why he’s off today.” Bev pursed her lips. Crafty beggar had kept that quiet last night. “As of now,” Byford said,
“time off in lieu will have to be postponed and I want all leave cancelled. Anyone has a problem with that, you know where I am. Metaphorically the door’s always open.” He cocked
his head. “As always... I expect you to knock.”

He lifted his jacket from the chair, swung it over a shoulder and swept out. No one spoke but there were plenty of meaningful glances being exchanged. “One more thing.” Byford turned
at the door. “Darren New. It may be a bit early but we ought to do something. Get a card signed, send some fruit, chocolate. Whatever. Maybe someone could start a collection?” Bev
thought she detected the ghost of a smile. Nah. She must’ve imagined it. “Perhaps you could do the honours, Bev?” Had she hell.

Laid to rest? Laid to rest? How fucking stupid was that? A sombre service? What else would it be? All-singing-all-dancing may as well crack a few jokes while we’re
standing round? As for the hottest day of the year? Who gave a damn? Would bucketing rain have made it any less gut-wrenchingly painful?

Tears blurred his vision; the man with the scrapbook could no longer read the article. The bland meaningless words weren’t the target of his blind anger anyway. He knew that well enough.
He blinked hard, took three or four calming breaths before he could bring himself to look at the photographs again. He was actually pleased the shots had been taken. Not that the press would have
been invited, he was sure. But the snatched pictures were the only record of the occasion. The man had cause to be grateful. He steeled himself again.

Was any sight in the world sadder than a child’s coffin? Strip away the smooth white wood, the shiny brass handles, the flowers fashioned in the shape of a teddy bear, a football. The
answer lies within. Was Amy Myers imagining her son in there, torturing herself with those images? It appeared so. The photograph showed a haunted woman, her life wrecked. Hunched between the arms
of her husband and another man, she looked incredibly frail and unfocused, as if she were already some place else. The children looked like lost souls, too.

The man closed his eyes, bit down hard on his bottom lip. In one respect the reporter had been right: it was Amy Myers’s first public appearance since Scott’s death. It was also her
last.

Oh, yes. And the police were still searching for Scott’s killer.

Laid to rest? He slammed his fist into the wall, slammed it again and again and...

“Methadone?” Bev made a note on a scrap of paper, toned down her voice. “Blimey, doc. That’s a turn up for the book of proverbs.” Despite the
casual suggestion to Mac he might like to chase the pathologist, Bev had assigned herself the task. Job had to have some perks didn’t it? Prodding the handsome Doctor King was a darn sight
more appealing than ploughing through yet more background on Haines and Long. Her desk was already snowed under with printouts, police reports, web archives and the fallout from a pack of Maryland
cookies. Apparently the doctor had been on the point of calling Highgate anyway, the tox results had just come in.

Josh Banks had died from asphyxiation following a methadone overdose. Trying to get her head round that now, Bev didn’t feel quite so perky. “How would it work, doc?”

“It was probably administered in a drink. Josh would have become drowsy, fallen asleep then eventually stopped breathing. Respiratory arrest we call it. I know it’s not much comfort,
but death would have been entirely painless. Josh wouldn’t have known what was happening.”

Josh. She liked that. The little boy wasn’t just another number on a file to the doctor. Josh’s picture would remain in place on her office wall until they’d nailed his killer.
Glancing at it now she ran a mental check on what little she knew about methadone. A synthetic drug, it was used primarily as replacement treatment to wean addicts off heroin and cocaine. Trouble
was it could be obtained illegally and no one had any real idea how much was floating round on the street. Abused, it was lethal. Some reports claimed it killed more drug users in the UK each year
than heroin. Hard to equate with a little boy who’d only been hooked on Power Rangers.

Bev pursed her lips. “I guess a fair few people can get their hands on it, doc?”

“If you could see me now, sergeant, I’d be holding a piece of string.” He could hold anything he liked, he’d still be a sight for sore eyes. “It’s mostly
associated with treating drug addicts but it’s also a widely prescribed painkiller. Mainly for cancer patients, people terminally ill, in chronic pain.”

She sighed. That narrowed it down. She made another note: they’d need to check medical centres, doctors’ surgeries, drug clinics, see if methadone had been on a burglar’s
recent shopping list. Assuming whoever used it to kill Josh had needed to lift it. “Why methadone though, doc?” Dumb question. As if he’d know.