Death Line (3 page)

“Read my lips, granddad.” Bev read: go fuck yourself.

After you, sunshine. “Not helpful, Ms Banks.”

“And you are?” she shrieked. “Why aren’t you out there looking for him instead of sitting there on your arse, talking to me like I’m a piece of shit on your
shoe?”

“Maybe if you...”

“Tea anyone?” Cathy half rose, more in peace-keeping mode than to make a brew. With a warm smile never far from regular features, she looked and played the Oxo-mum to perfection. In
reality, Cathy Reynolds was Highgate nick’s most experienced and ablest liaison officer.

Stacey swallowed a burp as she waved her down. “You ain’t leeching off me. If you want tea, buy your own.”

“I already did,” Cathy said. “Don’t you remember, Stacey?” The subtle implication eventually hit home, and Stacey’s slack-jawed confusion morphed into sulky
pout.

“More important things on me mind.” Thrusting Josh’s picture in Cathy’s face. “Case you hadn’t noticed.’

Calm, unmoving, Cathy waited until the waving stopped. “We all have, Stacey. That’s the only reason we’re here.”

“Yeah, and you’re doing my head in.” Snarling, she jabbed a thumb in Bev’s direction. “’Specially that toffee-nosed bint.”

Bev nodded at Mac. Enough already. They’d asked the biggies and were getting nowhere slow; further questioning now would be counter-productive. “I know it’s a difficult time,
Ms Banks.” She rose, hoisted her bag. “But trust me, we’re doing everything we can to find Josh. Try and get some rest, eh?” If nothing broke overnight they’d be back
first thing.

“If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.” The curled lip didn’t do her any favours: Stacey’s teeth were never going to sell toothpaste. The aggression was overt;
Bev should’ve let it go but she was fighting for Josh.

At the door she glanced back. “There’d not been a row? Some reason Josh might not want to come home?” She could see a fair few but kids weren’t bothered about living in a
hovel.

For a fat woman, she sure could shift. Before she knew it, Bev’s back was against the door, her head dodging Stacey’s fist and baccy breath. Mac grabbed the woman’s arm, pulled
her off. “That’s enough, love.”

“Stuck up patronising cow,” Stacey hissed. There was a lot of saliva flying around. “Think what yer like, but I’ll tell yer this: Joshie’s a good kid. He’d
never do nothing to hurt me. Looks out for his mum, does Josh.”

“Yeah?” Bev asked. “And who looks out for Josh?”

“That seemed to go well.” Mac broke the in-car silence. They were heading for the nick, Mac driving, Bev scanning near empty streets on the off-chance of spotting a
little boy who by rights should be tucked up in bed. Balsall Heath being part of the Balti triangle, its brightly-lit restaurants were still playing to packed houses; some, she noted, even had
queues outside. Come to think of it, she’d not had a bite since a sausage sandwich at lunch. No sweat. Once she’d collected the Midget, she’d drop by Spice Delight and grab a
take-out on the way home.

“I said that seemed to go well.”

Yeah, and it wasn’t funny the first time. “Big ho,” she drawled. “Stick to the day job if I was you.”

“Come on, boss. That’s all you were doing. Your job. She’d no call to give you a hard time. You’re a lot of things, sarge, but patronising’s not one of them.”
Bev would’ve asked for elaboration but – novel experience – couldn’t get a word in. “If I’d not dragged her off, the fat cow would’ve landed one on you.
What was her problem?” Harsh words from Uncle Mac. He usually left the plain speaking to Bev. Then again, Stacey-people-skills Banks could rub a pumice stone the wrong way.

“Where to stop?” She stifled a yawn. The woman’s truculence could be down to a bunch of factors: guilt, the need to blame someone, sheer grief at the terrifying prospect of
losing Josh permanently. But Bev was too knackered to think straight. One thing stuck out though. “Know what got me? I didn’t see her shed a single tear.”

“I’d noticed.” He hung fire while she checked in with the incident room. The call didn’t last long, her monosyllables and fringe-lifting sigh said it all: nothing
doing.

“Reckon she’s pulling a Matthews, boss?” A few years back, Karen Matthews had colluded in the kidnap and concealment of her own daughter, then taken West Yorkshire police on a
public and humiliating three-week ride. Caper like that damages trust: for a lot of cops, the name’s now synonymous with conniving bastard.

Bev shrugged. A hoax so cruel needed animal cunning. She reckoned only one of those words applied in this instance. She thought it more likely the woman was still stoned, that Josh’s
disappearance hadn’t hit her yet. Or arsey was her default mode when it came to dealing with authority. Either way, Stacey Banks was a big girl. It was a little boy with oversized glasses who
was giving Bev grief. She slipped Josh’s picture out of her pocket, was still studying it when they turned into the car park at the back of the nick. Shoving it in her bag, she grabbed her
bits, gave Mac a wan smile. “Don’t forget Lancelot’s brought the brief forward.” Seven. Early birds catching wor... No. Best not go there.

“What you make of Knightsie, boss?”

The new gaffer. Not guv. Not to Bev. Only one of them at Highgate. “Seems decent enough.” Time would tell; the new DCI had only been in post a couple of weeks.

Her hand was on the door when Mac reached his towards her. “Bev?” At the last second, he pulled back, didn’t actually touch. She’d obviously taught him well.
“The... er... guv... Any... word?” But not that well. She didn’t have a problem with the ‘Bev’; they were more or less off-duty and he’d been her DC for nigh on
three years. Given the age gap and gender divide, she suspected his perpetual use of ‘boss’ held a hint of irony anyway. It was no big deal: respect between them was two-way, most of
the time. But sniffing round her for news of Bill Byford was verboten any time.

“Back off, Tyler.” Like she’d know anyway? The detective superintendent barely acknowledged her these days. Which was rich considering her erstwhile almost lover had saved her
life a few months back. In the process, the mad git who’d tried to kill her had lost his. Now Byford – and everyone else at Highgate – was gagging for the outcome of the internal
inquiry into his actions that night. Far as Bev was concerned, it boiled down to this: did her attacker fall or was he pushed? On to a handy rock.

“No offence... I just thought...” Mac raised an eyebrow.

“Well, don’t.” Back turned, she swung her legs out of the car. Other people’s thoughts she could do without. Three weeks she’d spent in hospital recovering, and
re-playing the scene over and over and... In evidence, she’d stated categorically that her assailant had slipped, that it was an accident. In truth, she didn’t know, she’d not
witnessed the fatal moves. With the guv’s professional neck on the line, she didn’t care. A damn fine cop stood to lose a sight more than his job. Like that was the only reason. Coming
close to death had sorted Bev’s emotional wheat from the crap. She’d finally admitted – if only to herself – that she wanted Byford. Badly. And now, for whatever pigheaded
reasons, he could barely look her in the eye.

Story of her sodding life. And Mac was sharp enough to pick up on it.

“You want something to think about?” Unlocking the Midget, she pointed to the night owls on the second floor; half-eleven and the incident room was lit like an operating theatre.
There’d be no let up till the boy was found, one way or the other. “Think about finding Josh.” She regretted the dig soon as it was out of her mouth. Mac of all people
didn’t deserve it.

Stern, straight-faced, he said: “Are you patronising me?” Dead serious. Except for the twinkle in his wise old eye.

The curve of her lips was involuntary. “Sod off home.”

“Anything you say... boss.”

Still smiling, she followed Mac out of the car park, flashed the Midget’s lights as they wended their separate ways. Right now she wanted nothing more than to get back to her Baldwin
Street pad, sling off the Docs, sluice under a hot shower, sink a vat of Grigio. She hit the gas, reckoned if she looked sharp, best friend and house mate Frankie might still be pottering round
downstairs. She shook an indulgent head: Frankie had done a Sinatra, made yet another comeback as lodger, the bust-up that sent her packing in the first place paling into insignificance after the
attack closer to home. Over the months since, Sister Frankie had tended Bev’s wounds, physical and mental. Yeah. It’d be good to chew the cud with the old girl over a cup of cocoa. Or
calvados.

Two hours later, eyes peeled, she was still in the MG cruising the dark streets of the Quarry Bank estate.

Just in case.

Eyes narrowed, Byford scanned a building site in Northfield. A child was missing: baby Fay. The cops had received a tip-off, an anonymous call. He caught a slight movement, a
flapping, in his peripheral vision. He advanced slowly, then crouching he lifted some filthy sacking, dodged a concrete dust cloud that flew into the suddenly fetid air. Gazing down, he recoiled in
horror; his stomach lurched in wave after wave of nausea. He tasted bile in the back of his throat, fought to keep it down. He wanted to tear his gaze away, but couldn’t; more than that, he
wished to God he’d never seen it. Baby Fay’s tiny lifeless body reminded him of a miniaturised mummy, milky blue eyes stared sightlessly into his face. Unlike in the other dreams, the
face wasn’t Fay’s. It was Josh Banks.

Screams woke the detective: his own. He flung off the duvet, perched on the edge of the bed, held his spinning head between naked knees, staving off genuine nausea. Calmed a touch by several
deep breaths, Byford rose slowly, walked to the window, opened it even further, inhaled the slightly cooler, fresher air.

How long since the last nightmare? Two, three years? They’d recurred, albeit less frequently, since the early 1980s when Byford, a young sergeant on his first murder inquiry, had found
Fay’s body. He shook his head, not that the gesture affected the image. It would be with him until the day he died.

And watching coverage of Josh’s disappearance had resurrected it.

Byford strolled back, drained the water glass on the bedside table. He craved a Scotch, but had already exceeded the daily limit he’d felt forced to impose a couple of months ago. The late
news wasn’t the only reason Josh had been playing on the detective’s mind. Back at Highgate, he’d surreptitiously skimmed witness statements, kept a quiet eye on the printouts.
His copper’s instinct was in overdrive, part of him itched to be involved in the case. He knew it wasn’t going to happen. Not with the internal inquiry hanging over his head. Maybe just
as well. Fay’s killer had never been caught. And the big man didn’t think he could face failing another child.

By now the news story was splashed across the front page. Scott’s photograph was sharper this time. His hair had that just-combed look and his clothes that semblance of
Sunday best. What looked like a forced smile didn’t quite reach the little boy’s eyes. The formal pose suggested it was a studio portrait. The holder of the scrapbook wondered how the
newspaper had acquired it. No pictures of the parents accompanied the article, which suggested they didn’t want the press exposure. Not then anyway. The photographer had made do with a shot
of the family home: white, detached, double-fronted. It looked smart, neat, well cared for.

Like Scott.

As the man stared, the little boy’s image became blurred. His eyes brimmed, the angry tears taking him by surprise. He blinked hard, brushed his cheek. A damp spot appeared on the page of
the scrapbook. As he watched it darkened and spread.

“Morning, Mike.” DCI Lance Knight’s head appeared round the door of Mike Powell’s office. DI Powell, a sheaf of printouts in one hand, swung his legs
off the desk, straightened a perfectly aligned grey silk tie and flashed a fake smile. One of his pet hates was people who waltzed in without knocking, an aversion he’d picked up over the
years from Byford. Mind Knight could have rapped out the Blue Danube before entering, Powell still wouldn’t be joining the new boss’s fan club. Why drop by anyway? The brief was in ten
minutes.

“What can I do you for, sir?” Powell ran ostensibly casual fingers through perfectly coiffed blond hair. The mateyness sounded forced even to his ears, but he’d rather eat shit
than show he was rankled. Powell had also been up for the DCI job, reckoned he’d been robbed. Assumed his name was written all over it, hadn’t figured on the board being illiterate. Was
he hacked off? Hell yes. As if being pipped wasn’t bad enough, Knight was three years younger, three inches taller and the best looking bald bloke Powell had ever set eyes on. Not that he was
gay or anything.

“I hear you’re good with the press, Mike?” Cool hand-in-pocket pose, the DCI exuded effortless confidence. Powell thought he looked more diplomat than detective, or a sort of
James Bond special agent. Dressed the part too; his suits were almost as classy as Powell’s own. Almost.