Death Line (5 page)

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Bev strode down the pathway and headed for the Astra, metaphorically holding the shortest straw in straw land. Far as she was concerned, the DCI had passed the
buck. Big time.

Tight-lipped, staring ahead, she ignored shouted questions from half a dozen reporters and five times as many onlookers keen to get in on the act. Great entertainment, wasn’t it? Nearly as
good as the telly:
FSI Balsall Heath.
What the...? Eyes screwed, she thought for a second she was seeing things. But, no. Pitched up at the end of a slew of badly parked police vehicles was
a Mr Whippy van. For fuck’s sake. Anyone’d think it was a fairground.

At the motor she stripped off the white suit and overshoes, chucked them in the boot. Glowering, she sank into the passenger seat, slammed the door. Mac had the nous to keep shtum. He’d
been holding the phone-call fort in the car, plus the forensic guys were antsy about cross-contamination; the fewer people on site the less chance of evidence being compromised. He took one look at
her rigid profile, fumbled in his pocket for a crumpled tissue. “Here y’go.”

Out of the corner of her eye she caught his stubby fingers flicking through a dog-eared notebook, knew it was his version of a diplomatic silence. As her DC he’d suffered enough
ear-bashings to know she hated sympathy and soft words. Josh’s death had hit her hard; she needed a bit of space to get her head round it. Crimes against kids were always emotionally
difficult to handle. Was the death two years ago of her unborn twins at the hand of a crazy making it even harder?

Making the job impossible? She closed her eyes, took a deep breath.

Mac opened the window, started the motor. Summer in the city and the temperature was rising. “Where to, boss?”

She raised a palm. “Give us a min, mate.” The ice cream van’s jingle blared, a tinny
Teddy Bears’ Picnic
. Tasteful. Not. She shook her head. “Ever wish for a
nine to five easy number? No shit-sticks. No psychos.”

“No. And neither do you.” He switched off the engine, half-turned to face her. “Come on, boss. We’re the good guys. We’ll get the bastard. Do we know how the lad
was killed yet?”

“Should have it later today.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Christ, Mac, what sort of scum kills a little kid and dumps his body like it’s a pile of trash?”
The vision of Josh in his makeshift shroud wasn’t going any time soon.

The question was rhetorical. Mac’s knuckles tightened round the wheel as she relayed how the lifeless body had been left a stone’s throw from a busy pavement. Inside a filthy
sleeping bag, fingers clutching a one-armed Power Ranger. Her hands shook with rage and frustration. Partly shock. She couldn’t remember the last time a crime scene had come so close to
making her throw up.

“Time of death?” Mac asked.

“Overdale reckons four, five hours maybe.” The pathologist had hedged her bets: a warm night, insulation from the sleeping bag and Josh’s tender years were all factors that
could muddy what was by no means a precise science. But it was coming up to nine-thirty now, and with partial lividity and early rigor, the signs pointed to Josh dying between four and five a
m.

Mac voiced a thought she’d already wrestled with. “So he could have been lying there some time?”

“Yep.” She tapped a beat on her thigh. How many people had passed by? Dismissed the bag along with the other crap? Imagined a wino in there catching his zeds? “Pensioner who
lives round the corner found him.” Showing a bit of community spirit, the old dear thought she’d do the decent thing and get rid of the sleeping bag in a skip up the road. That’s
what she’d told the attending officers. Course, she may have intended it as an extra blanket. Who knew round here? Skid marks showed she’d dragged it a few feet before the pitiful
contents spilled out. A passing milkman had found the old woman in a quivering heap on the ground. When she was up to it, they’d question her again.

Bev fastened her seat belt, slipped on a pair of Raybans. And froze. Josh’s specs? He’d not been wearing them. Had they fallen off, had the killer taken them? Were they missing or on
site? Knight needed to know. She reached for her mobile, punched in a number.

“Cool sunglasses, boss.” Winking, Mac turned the engine, checked the mirror. “Dead posh.”

“Just hit the road, eh?” Quips she could do without right now.

“Where we going?”

“Where d’you think?” she said. “His mum doesn’t know yet.”

“Try and eat something, Stacey.” The family liaison officer Cathy Reynolds pushed a plate of toast across a rickety kitchen table.

“Ain’t hungry just now.” Stacey lit another Embassy, traced her finger round an old burn mark on the bright red Formica top; cracked tacky lino was dotted with similar scars.
Her face looked grey, the frizzy hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she’d swapped the sun dress for black trackie bottoms and a hoodie. It wasn’t just the gear that was more
sober. Gentle, non-judgemental Cathy had sat up talking with the woman for much of the night. Stacey had become more reflective, more reasonable. There’d been no sudden transition into Mother
Theresa, but she’d gradually dropped at least some of her defences. The FLO had gained glimpses of, perhaps, the real Stacey. Under the brash exterior, she’d sensed a woman who was
bright, vulnerable and in despair.

“Switch the radio on, shall I?” Cathy smiled. Hoped the pop channel would drown the sound of truanting kids whooping it up on skateboards in the street.

Flicking ash and missing, Stacey shrugged a
suit yourself
. Michael Jackson’s
Thriller
did the trick. “Any tea in the pot, Cath?”

She lifted the lid, peered in. Stewed and tepid. “I’ll make another.” Grabbing a piece of toast, she sorted the fixings while Stacey stared at the wall, smoking incessantly.
Sunlight barely made it through the grime on the windows. When the bell rang Stacey bolted upright, cut Cathy a frightened glance.

“I’ll get it.” She was on the case already. Answering doors was part of a FLO’s remit: two short rings meant Bev was likely out there – and the news could go either
way. As it happened, Stacey heard it first. The story led Heart FM’s ten o’clock bulletin.

A body’s been found on wasteland in Balsall Heath. It’s believed to be that of missing child...

Stacey gagged, staggered to the sink. Didn’t make it.

“I thought her heart had given out, but she’d fainted.” Bev drained half a bitter shandy, ran the back of her hand across her mouth. “Course, cracking
her head open on the way down didn’t help.” Grimacing, she recalled the pool of vomit she’d slipped in rushing to Stacey’s aid. She’d driven the woman to casualty to
get the cut stitched, then opened a weeping emotional wound by taking her to the mortuary to identify Josh’s body. It would be lying to say the shared experiences had drawn them closer, but
the Wales-size wedge was gradually shrinking. Bev shook her head: must be easier ways to forge a connection. Whole sodding day had been crap: hot, sticky, soul-destroying. Ditto evening. No wonder
a few of the squad had wandered over to The Prince. Knight had declined the invite.

“How is she now?” Paul Curran asked. The press officer had latched on to the party, though looking round the table it was more of a wake. Mac was dead on his feet, slumped against
the bench, legs sprawled; Powell had barely opened his mouth. Danny and Darren were at the bar talking balls. Cricket, mostly.

“Her boy’s dead, how’d you think?” The redhead flush again. Bev half-regretted the barb. Curran probably blamed himself for the news leak, or at least not staunching its
flow. Mind, who’s to say it
was
a leak? Enough reporters had been sniffing round Marston Road to put two and two together. One had probably taken a premature punt. It was a shit way
for Stacey to find out Josh had died, but shortly after they’d all jumped on deck and there’d been saturation coverage: radio, telly, papers, web. With police blessing. DI Powell had
done more turns than a Phillips screwdriver. And the inquiry still wasn’t pointing in the right direction.

“I meant the injury, actually,” Curran said, polite but standing his ground. “I can’t begin to imagine how she feels emotionally.”

Corrected, she stood. “No offence, Paul. Bark, bite and all that.”

“None taken, sergeant.” Nice smile, white teeth. And she had to admit, after the initial boob, he’d certainly known how to tame the pack. Almost had them eating out of his
hand.

“Tell you this for sure.” She tapped a soggy beer mat on the edge of the table. “Stacey’ll feel a damn sight better when we nail the bastard.” Then again,
won’t we all?

“I’ll drink to...” He noticed her glass. “Can I get you another?”

Intravenous Pinot please. “Diet coke, ta.” She was driving and there wasn’t a bunch to celebrate. Though Overdale had been as good as her word and prioritised the post mortem,
they still didn’t know the precise cause of death. DCI Knight, who’d been in attendance, told the late brief there were no visible injuries, no signs of molestation, and clothing was
intact apart from missing Mickey Mouse socks. Asphyxiation was Overdale’s best guess, but given that means anything that cuts off oxygen, the term covers a multitude of sins. The absence of
pressure marks, skin discolouration and tiny pinpricks of blood in the eyes known as ocular haemorrhages suggested some sort of toxic substance had had a hand in the death. Bev’s sigh lifted
her fringe. With the best will in the world, it’d be a while before the results were back from the lab.

Same with scores of bag-and-tags FSIs had lifted from the crime scene. Wide open site like that was a forensic nightmare, shedloads of potential but how much of it actual evidence? She pictured
the sweet wrappers, cigarette butts, beer cans, bus tickets, soil samples, hoped there’d be gold dust among the dross. Hopes they might have come across Josh’s glasses had already been
dashed. Neither the forensic team nor uniforms searching the ground outside the cordon had had any joy.

As for the plod work, it was ongoing: house-to-house inquiries, street interviews, sex offenders’ register, snout checks. Slow and ponderous, but it had to be done. Had people genuinely
not seen anything? Or were they just not saying? She ditched the beer mat before it gave up the ghost. Difficult to believe witnesses wouldn’t come forward when the victim was a kid.

“There’s another reason I ask, sarge.” Curran sat down, placed the glass in front of her. Miles away, Bev frowned. He’d lost her. “About Stacey?” A clue.
“How she is?” He downed an inch of Guinness, looked a tad cagey.

“Go on.” She sucked an ice cube.

“The media appeals.” He held out flat empty palms. “I’m not slagging off Mike Powell, he’s perfectly competent in front of the cameras, but the boy’s mother
would have a lot more impact.”

Bev puffed out her cheeks. She’d already sounded Stacey out: the woman would do anything to see her son’s killer rot, not necessarily behind bars. God help the bastard if she got her
hands on him before the cops did. Even so, the media en masse at a mega news conference? It was a hell of an ordeal for anyone to go through. Maybe with some psyching up, a little coaching...

“Can it wait a couple of days, see how things pan out?”

Curran made eye contact. “You tell me.”

He already knew, just as every member of the squad knew. Until they discovered a motive for Josh’s death, they were dealing with a random killing.

And the same went for the killer.

The man with the scrapbook studied the picture of Scott’s father. Visibly shaken? He thought there were better descriptions: gaunt, haggard, eyes that looked almost
haunted. Maybe that was the man’s imagination, or the benefit – no, not benefit – of hindsight. The photo was one of several featured in the Mail’s inside pages. Visible
round the father’s neck was a steel whistle on a piece of string. The man frowned but quickly realised that Noel Myers would have been involved in the hunt for his son. There was a picture of
the boy, of course. The newspaper had used what the man thought of as Scott in his Sunday best. He gave a sad smile before moving his gaze to the next photograph, a long line of volunteers spread
out across the Leicestershire landscape. All had whistles, all carried sticks to beat the grass, separate the undergrowth. Most wore shorts, t-shirts, wide-brimmed hats. The man imagined an
unforgiving sun blazing down on a tired and desperate search party.

Party? Sighing, he shook his head. Yet at a quick glance and without context the shot was vaguely reminiscent of some sort of quaint country ritual, folk dancers, Morris men, harvesters. Instead
of villagers searching for one of their own. The man ran his gaze along the people, but the image had been taken at some distance and it was impossible to discern features let alone recognise
faces. He wondered if Sol Danvers had taken part in the search. He’d been quoted and could have turned up on the day. It was difficult to judge from the head-and-shoulders picture. He looked
the part, short back and sides haircut, horn-rimmed glasses, sombre expression.