Death Line (25 page)

She nodded slowly. “Terrible thing, Danny... to lose a child.” Under any circumstances. But to murder...?

“I know that now. The pain never stops, does it? Not even if the killer’s behind bars. The people left behind have to live with it, don’t they? The hurt doesn’t go away
until the day they die. Sorry, sarge, I’d just never seen it before. It really got to me.” Tearing up, he dropped his head. “Pathetic isn’t it?”

He meant his reaction. “No it isn’t, Danny.” She laid a tentative hand over his. “It means you care, means you’re a decent human being.” It was better than
the macho posturing that still went on in the hard men school of policing, but Danny needed to toughen up a tad if he was going to stay the course.

“I didn’t have a clue how to talk to them. If Carol hadn’t been there...”

“What are you, Danny, twenty-one, twenty-two?” She took her hand away.

“Twenty-four.”

“Carol’s older, more experienced, been round the block a few times. Don’t tell her I said that though for God’s sake.” She smiled.

He didn’t return it. “I was a waste of space, sarge.”

“Lighten up, Danny. We’re none of us perfect.” And it’s not just about you.

“What if I’m not cut out to be a cop?”

“Fake it. We all do.” She bit her tongue. No point getting snippy, but he was rolling in it a bit. “Policing’s no walk in the park. It’s tough out there, the pits.
The loneliest job in the world, dealing with the shit no one else will touch. Thinking you’ve seen the worst things human beings can do to another, knowing there are horrors you can’t
even imagine waiting round the corner.”

“Why do it then, sarge?”

“The uniform.” The crack prompted a token lip curve. “Every cop has a different reason. You have to find your own, Danny. But the thing that keeps me going? Gets me out of bed
in the morning? Thinking, just now and again, I might be making a difference helping to send the sick bastards down: the rapists, the murderers, the child molesters. Someone’s got to clear
the bad guys off the streets, Danny.”

“So what happens when we don’t... and they get away with it?”

What was this,
Mastermind?
She shrugged. “Pass.”

The name was written in the same hand as other annotations in the scrapbook. The man had read it before, knew it appeared on later pages too. He shook his head, face contorted
with hatred. Sol Danvers: head teacher at Belle View Junior School. The man who’d led prayers for Scott’s safe return. The man who’d used such glowing terms to describe the little
boy. While all the time...

With hands that shook, he leafed back through the scrapbook searching for the page that displayed Danvers’s photograph. He’d not noticed earlier but the teacher bore a passing
resemblance to Philip Larkin: the neat hair, the smart suit, the horn-rimmed glasses lent an air of scholarly authority, respectability. Here was a man who could be trusted, it said. Clearly not
everyone was convinced. The police might have protected his precious identity, but it was common knowledge in the small community where the Myers family lived that Danvers was the man in custody.
Maybe a neighbour or colleague saw police arrive at his house or school, watched him being driven away in the back of a car.

The man didn’t care. It was immaterial. Whatever information the cops had been given, the idiots couldn’t make it stick. Danvers the Larkin lookalike had walked.

He gave a mirthless laugh. It wasn’t just parents who fucked up kids.

“How poorly is she?” With a keen eye on the clock, Bev was on the phone to her mum. She knew Emmy wouldn’t be calling if Sadie was feeling on top of the
world, but no way was Bev dropping everything now. Not when, in a manner of speaking, she’d soon have her hands full with the guv. If she’d known a humble pie offering could lead to a
drink invite, maybe she’d have apologised sooner.

“She says she’s fine, Bevy, but she’s had this cough for weeks now. The doctor wants her to go in for tests, but you know what she’s like.” Tiny, feisty, stubborn,
proud. That was Bev’s gran. Or had been. She’d taken a knock in every sense five years back when a yob attacked her, hacked off her hair, left her for dead. She’d seemed more her
old self these last few months, but at eighty-plus was no spring chicken. Bev gave a tender smile: more game old bird. Even so...

“I just can’t get away, mum.” She sniffed her wrist. Hoped she hadn’t overdone the DKNY. “Does it have to be tonight?”

“It’d cheer her up no end. Take her out of herself. She’d love to see you, sweetheart.”

The smile faded. “I’ll pop by over the weekend, OK?” It was unlike Emmy to play the guilt card but Bev already had a full deck. Her workload provided reason and sometimes
excuse not to pay family dues. A reminder was something she didn’t need.

“That’s a real shame, Bevy.”

Sadie wasn’t exactly at death’s door. And it had been months since the big man had come knocking at Bev’s. “Really up against it at the mo, mum.”

“Fine. I’ll tell her you’re busy, shall I?” Emmy being snippy. She usually left that to Bev, who much as she loved her mum rarely let her down in the strop-stakes.

“Three unsolved murders,” she snapped. “What do you think?”

“Beverley.” Rare that. “You really wouldn’t want to know what I think.”

Open-mouthed, Bev stared at the phone. Emmy had hung up. That was a first. She sank into the seat, pondered for a while, then pushed a few buttons. “Guv...?”

“Better late than never eh?” A tad breathless, Bev slid into the dimpled leather bench opposite Byford. The Feathers was more or less his local so he’d
suggested waiting for her there. Not that he’d been idle; she’d just seen him slip pad and pen into his pocket. Bev had been occupied polishing her halo. Dazzlingly bright now,
beatification was surely just around the corner. In two hours she’d fitted in a house call to tell Stacey Banks Josh’s funeral could go ahead, then dashed to her mum’s place where
she’d plied her gran with Bristol Cream and brandy liqueurs. Sadie was in better spirits when she left and Bev had picked up Brownie points from her mum into the bargain. The fact her
carefully applied slap was now a distant memory and she’d spilt a spot or two of Sadie’s sherry down her frock...

“What can I get you, Bev?” ...was worth it for that smile.

“Pinot... just for a change.”

“You want a small glass then?”

He’d cracked the line before. Smiling anyway, she watched him stroll to the bar. Told herself he wasn’t really looking older, was bound to feel the pressure being back on a big case.
She sat back, tried to relax. It was a while since she’d been in here with the big man. Couldn’t say she’d missed the place. The Feathers was a bit of an acquired taste: all
cheesy chintz and brass bed pans. Still she wasn’t here to assess the décor. She smoothed her hair, licked her lips.
It’s just a drink, Beverley, just a drink.

“Ta, guv.” She savoured that first sip. “Solved it then?” She aped writing action, reckoned he’d been killing time making case notes, or working on his memoirs.

“I wish.” He was on orange juice. “I was just jotting a few ideas. Three victims, Bev, and it’s still unclear how many killers we’re looking at.”

“Tell me about it.”

Theories had been thrashed out at the late brief, again inconclusively. Likeliest scenario was still that the faked suicides were down to one perpetrator, but there was a chance Long had been
despatched by a killer who’d picked up the idea from press coverage of Haines’s death. Not copycat, but similar principle. The media was a possible link in providing motive too. Both
victims had been outed recently for crimes against children. The cops knew from Bridie Long that the exposure had provoked hostile public reaction towards her husband. But there were other
possibilities. The Longs had recently won a few grand. Killer might have thought he’d find it lying around the place, easy pickings. As for Haines, he’d been dealing hard drugs. It
seemed to Bev they were holding bits and pieces of different jigsaws; didn’t know what the pictures were, or where Josh Banks’s death fitted in.

She took another sip. “What did you make of Bobby Wells?” Byford and DCI Knight had interviewed the guy late afternoon.

“Not a lot.” He pursed his lips. “He strikes me as a small time crook. I can’t see him as a killer somehow. But we’ll run the checks. He’s not going
anywhere.” Not with an assault charge hanging over him. He’d appear before magistrates tomorrow, more than likely be remanded in custody.

“Does he admit to knowing Eric Long?” Bev asked. Wells’s attempted runner had pre-empted the line of questioning back at Ada Street.

“He says not.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a congenital liar. What about the search team at his pad?” The officers had been told to look for methadone among other things.

“Nothing.” Byford shook his head. “Anything from the lab on the test results?”

“Sometime tomorrow, hopefully.” They were still waiting on confirmation that the replacement drug had played a part in the deaths of Haines and Long. If so, surely it had to follow
the same killer had claimed all three lives?

“There is another way we could find out.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Go on.” A thought had already occurred to her.

“If it is one killer...” He held her gaze. “And if he is eliminating adults who harm children...”

She nodded. “...he’s not finished yet.”

“I’d say he’s barely started.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I daresay there are plenty of people out there who’d cheer him to the bitter end. If not give a
hand.” He drained his glass.

Lynch mob mentality? The remark was out of character; she reckoned he was playing devil’s advocate. “You serious?” His expression was unreadable.

He shrugged. “Some people see child killers as scum. That they forfeit the right to life.”

Some people. “Yeah but, you...?” She didn’t like the way it was going, the tone of his voice, the fact he wouldn’t look her in the eye.

“I’m just saying...” He held out empty palms. Saying what? She recalled the case file on his desk. Baby Fay’s murder. Knew the grief it had given him over the years, was
aware he made annual pilgrimages to her grave, had witnessed him in the grip of recurring nightmares about her torture and death. The file was definitely bulkier than before. Was there related
material in there? Other child crimes?
Fuck’s sake, Bev. You’re questioning the big man’s integrity here.
Not for a nanosecond did she think he’d take out the bad
guys himself. Never. But someone on the inside was leaking intelligence that enabled others to.

“You OK, Bev?”

She dropped the frown, shook her head, needed to think straight. “Know what, guv? I’ve got a bitch of a headache.” She slid out of the bench. “Reckon I’ll hit the
road.”

She didn’t even finish the drink.

The Pinot in the fridge took a hammering when Bev got home. Even before reaching Baldwin Street, she’d virtually dismissed the Byford as mole notion. Ludicrous. Get real,
woman. For Christ’s sake, he was a senior detective, a decent bloke, the most decent she knew.

Thankfully her housemate was in residence. Having Frankie around meant it was easier to switch off. They’d cobbled together a late supper, ate it on their laps, watching a re-run of
Have I Got News For You.
Frankie had dropped a slice of Mother’s Pride on Bev’s tray. The message got through without a word being spoken.

It was in the early hours the thoughts wormed their way back into Bev’s head. Just how well did she know the guv? He’d been her boss since God was a girl. But he’d distanced
himself big time these last six, seven months. Had he felt bitter being taken off operational duties? Anger having an internal inquiry hanging over his head? He’d certainly not shared his
feelings with her, they’d barely exchanged a syllable during the limbo period. Was he after revenge? Did he see leaks to the press as a way of hitting back at the way he’d been
treated?

Mouth dry, head pounding, she swung her legs out of bed, drained a glass of water on the bedside table. Fact was cops were ideally placed to let information slip. Byford perhaps more than most.
He’d be slipping out himself soon enough. After thirty-odd years on what – when he started – was called the force.

When he started... The image was imprinted on her brain but she took the picture from the top drawer anyway. She’d clipped it from an old newspaper, a young Byford in uniform looking like
the cat who got the creamery. Her return smile was involuntary. She shook her head. Policing had been the guv’s life for God’s sake. He’d never let colleagues down, bring the
service into disrepute. But, hold on....

Despite the stultifying heat, she froze. The cutting floated to the floor as her hand flopped to her naked thigh. Maybe he felt he’d already overstepped the line. Narrowing her eyes, she
saw again that night in December. Scarlet blood seeping into the snow, the sound of cracking bone, Byford grappling with the man who’d attacked her, shadowy figures then stillness and
silence.

When the guv saved her life, he’d taken another. Accident or not.

“I’ve just come from IC. I’m really pleased to say he’s showing signs of improvement.” Bev heard the smile in Doctor Sugar’s voice. Great
way to start the day. She didn’t get to speak to Cathy every time she rang the hospital but always asked if she was around on the off-chance. She liked the woman and was pretty sure they
shared a soft spot for Darren. Mind, after last night’s feverish imaginations, Bev was almost convinced she needed treatment herself. Byford as bad guy? How likely was that? She’d
suspect Sadie was an Al Qaeda sleeper next.