Death Line (6 page)

The man closed the scrapbook, traced a finger along his eyebrow. Would the outcome have differed had the story made the national press earlier? It was impossible to tell. Did it really matter
after all these years? Staring into the distance, he pictured the past, found it almost impossible to contemplate the future.

“... obviously you’ll get it in writing, Bill, and the board’ll have to ratify it. Just thought I’d tip you the wink, old man.” Breezy.
Dismissive. Condescending. The voice on the line was Harry Astwood’s, Assistant Chief Constable, citizen focus. Detective Superintendent Bill Byford, tight-lipped, gouged a hole with his
Waterman on the report he’d been writing. Astwood was more into politics than policing, a graduate tosser and ten years younger. Byford had no time for the creep and wasn’t in the mood
to pretend otherwise.

“Thanks for letting...” Whoops. A slip of the digit. Was ending the call prematurely the same as hanging up? Who cared? Byford slung the pen on his desk, sat back, loosened his tie.
Six months of dark clouds on the horizon lifted in one fell swoop phone call. The internal inquiry had put Byford’s personal and professional life more or less on hold since January. And now
it was all over bar the rubber-stamping. So why wasn’t he cracking open the Scotch, dancing a jig round the office? He rose, hands in pockets, paced an already well-worn carpet.

Richard Cooper was dead, nothing was going to change that. As to how he died, the inquiry had finally made up its split mind that it wasn’t Byford’s fault. Just like that. He turned
his mouth down, wished he could be so sure. Christ, he’d been there that night and still had doubts, still had nightmares: Bev semi-conscious on the ground, her life blood leeching into the
snow, Cooper looming over her with a baseball bat ready to strike the death blow. Byford dragging him off. Cooper dead with his head in the gutter, Byford kneeling beside him. The detective had
been on paper-shuffling since the incident. Now he was free to resume operational duties. Clean sheet. Stainless character. To coin a Bev Morriss phrase: Yeah right.

Wandering to the window, he avoided his reflection in the glass. If he didn’t register the now permanent stress lines, the hair that was more grey than black, the slight stoop to his
six-five frame, he could kid himself they weren’t there, at the same time fully aware they’d worsened lately. That’d be the endless partying, the loose women. Ironic snort. Or was
it the pressure, the soul searching sleepless nights? What if he didn’t want the hassle any more? At fifty-more-years-than-he-cared-to-remember-plus, he’d served his time. The job
wasn’t what it used to be anyway what with all the hoop-jumping, the Forthbridge paperwork, the mindless political correctness.

He sighed then narrowed his eyes. Something was kicking off in the car park below. Half a dozen uniforms running to motors, doors banging, tyres squealing. Was a time action like that would have
sent his adrenalin into overdrive. He turned away, pulled a ten pence piece from his trouser pocket, tossed it in the air. Tails. He shrugged. To coin another Bev-ism: the suits could stick it
where the sun don’t rise.

First things first: grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair he headed for the door. Bags of time to make it official.

Josh’s Joe 90 glasses were burning a metaphorical hole in Brett Sullivan’s combats pocket. Couldn’t be a real hole ’cause Brett had off-loaded the bins
soon as he’d grabbed them, chucked them in a stinky dustcart and waved bye-bye. No naffin’ use to him, were they? Nothing wrong with Brett’s eyes, except for the last two days
everywhere he looked Josh Banks’s ugly mush stared back. And not just on the telly. When Brett had nipped in Select and Save to nick some fags this morning, the kid’s pic had been all
over the papers. Stupid git getting himself killed. And the cops wanting witnesses.

Brett was in McDonald’s now, wagging it. School was no place to be. He needed to think. He polished off a big Mac then slumped against a cracked orange banquette. What the feck was he
meant to do? Slurping the dregs of a chocolate milkshake, he gave the bird to an old geezer who’d glanced up, glowering. Granddad shook out a copy of the
Sun,
hid his grizzled face
behind it. Stone me. Brett curled a lip. Stig was there again. Was it a sign from on high? Was it buggery.

He watched an ugly slag and her two screaming brats leave the next table then leaned across and dragged over a carton with a few chips in it and stuffed his face. Brett hated the filth. His
older brother was banged up in the Scrubs, his old man had done more time than Big Ben, Brett himself could open a police caution shop. He owed the Bill squat. He burped then dragged a sleeve
across his mouth. OK, Stig’d had it tough, but if Brett ’fessed up about the glasses, the cops wouldn’t let it go. They’d needle him till he couldn’t think straight.
Then stitch him up. Sod that for a game of
Star Wars.
It wasn’t down to Brett. Stig should’ve known better, stupid kid had been asking for it getting into that sodding car.

Bev stood at a desk, leafing through a pile of paper, glanced up when the door opened. Her widest smile was in situ before she could stop it. “Guv! How you doing?”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was ages since Byford last showed his face in the squad room. Scrub that. It was five months, two weeks, three days.

“Not bad, thanks.” Brisk nod. She gave him a subtle onceover. Looked as if he was putting on a bit of beef, hitting the booze, maybe? Couldn’t live without her, eh? Yeah. And
I’m the Pope’s daughter-in-law.

“DCI Knight around?” he asked.

Only if he was the Invisible Man. The place was comparatively deserted since the turnout first thing, just Hainsworth and a handful of DCs phone-bashing and taking incomings. Most detectives
were in the field... detecting. And keeping the peace. A couple of officers thought a spot of bother could be brewing on the Quarry Bank estate, angry residents scared about their kids’
safety, demanding police protection. Powell had asked her and Mac to suss it out, nip it in the bud. Mac was waiting for her in the car with a pair of secateurs.

Smile dropped, she matched Byford’s delivery. “Not seen him since the brief.” Jotted a number on a post-it note, shoved it in the pocket of her navy linen pants.

“He said something about a strategy meeting?” Partial enlightenment came from a rookie DC nestling a phone under his chin. “Policy review? Something like th...” He raised
a finger, returned to the call.

“Cheers, mate.” Bag hoisted, she was about to hit the road, took a call on the way out. Just some routine query from admin. Byford was now chewing the cud with Hainsworth over by the
printers. Call ended, she headed out again, take two. Byford held the door.

“Ta, guv.” He looked well pleased with the proximity. Not. Like she was? “You back with us, then?” The question was more to fill an uneasy silence than in any real
expectation. If he’d heard from the brass, surely he’d have said? It wasn’t as if it didn’t involve her. She cut him a glance, couldn’t read his expression as he
worked on a reply.

“Maybe.”

Was equally enigmatic. She frowned. “How’s that work then?”

“Later, Bev. How about...?”

“Sarge!” Shit. Fire broke out? Bomb gone off? Both spun round, made brief body contact, side on. She felt warm flesh, smelt the soap he used, the mint tea on his breath. Had no time
to consider what the effects were having on her heart rate. The detective constable who’d been on the phone was waving frantically from the squad room doorway. Even from here she could see he
was wired.

“Sarge. The killer?” As she neared, his trembling hand held out a scrap of paper. “Looks like we’ve got a name.”

And address.

Roland Haines. It had a familiar ring. Bev ran it through her memory bank. Where’d she heard it before? Byford was quicker off the mark. “He’s known to us.
Bristol police, if I remember right.” He creased his eyes, clearly trying to recall the detail. “Case was in the news a few years back...” Not quick enough.

Waving the note, Bev glanced at the DC. “What you done with this?” True what they said. Cops were getting younger these days: floppy fringe, bum fluff, pimple cluster under a
retroussé nose. This guy could’ve been on work experience.

“I passed it on to Inspector Hainsworth? He’s getting a squad car there? Someone else is on to the gaffer?” Answers sounded like questions. Either way it was three out of
three. Least he was learning. Textbook stuff.

They were back in the squad room now, Jack Hainsworth shouting down the phone, Byford heading for a computer. Sun streaming through the windows. Light on the case as well?

“What’s your name?” Bev asked.

“DC Freeman. Tony.” He was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Either the excitement was too much or he needed a piss.

Perching on the edge of a desk, she kept her voice calm. “You took the call?” It’d be dead easy to get infected by Freeman’s excited conviction. Everyone wanted a collar
but there was a load of nutters out there. Hoaxers. Axe grinders. Stirrers.

Eager nod. “Yeah. A woman.” He smoothed already impeccable hair with a still fluttering hand. “Wouldn’t say who she was. But she lives in one of the flats in Marston
Road?”

Good. Should be easy to trace if need be. “Go on.”

“Says she saw a motor pull up in the early hours on Thursday, and this bloke take something out of the boot. She thought it was a roll of carpet or something.” Or something? Bev
shuddered. Hold on, though. Unless Mrs X had X-ray vision...

Freeman must’ve read her thoughts. “Street lights were on, and she saw his face in the courtesy light.”

Better. “How come she knew it was Roland – ” Bev glanced at the note again. “ – Haines?”

He shrugged. “Maybe she saw him in the papers like that guy.” Freeman nodded over at Byford who was tapping a keyboard. Christ, Bev thought, the rookie didn’t even know the big
man. “Either way, sarge, she says she recognised the face, realised she’d seen him around.”

Even better, but: “How come she didn’t...?”

“What’ve we got?” The door took a hammering, Knight came hurtling in, tie over his shoulder, Powell on his tail.

“Take a look.” Byford swivelled the screen. As one, they moved closer. He’d pulled up a court report from the
Guardian.
And a picture of Mr Nobody, the sort of guy
you’d pass in the street, not think twice. Roland Haines still gave Bev the shivers. He’d stood trial for murdering a child in Bristol in 2005.

And been acquitted.

Haines hadn’t changed much over the years. Apart from the lavish damson eye shadow. Clumsy. Head-banged a door according to Hawkins and Gibson, the uniforms who’d
brought him in. Their word against his, and he’d been yelling blue murder. Had he not been so tired and emotional, someone might have given a shit. Haines was currently cooling off in a
holding cell before helping with inquiries. The search team taking his Balsall Heath pad apart had already found a couple of heroin baggies. Leverage as they were known in the trade.

Elsewhere in the nick, feelings were also running high. To some cops Haines was already ‘that murdering bastard’. Quite a few had dropped by to have a butcher’s through the
peephole. Not that it was a freak show. Roland Haines was middle-aged, mousy-haired, average height, average weight, average looks. Call me Norm, as Bev had just told Mac on the phone.

She was in the canteen, multi-tasking, scoffing a pasty and cramming for an interview: Haines’s. Knight wanted her in on it. Mac was calling from Balsall Heath where, in lieu of Bev,
he’d taken Carol Pemberton to cast an eye on the Quarry Bank’s troubled waters. Sounded to Bev like they needed a little oil drizzled. According to Mac, a dozen or so hotheads were
calling for a visible police presence 24/7 on the estate until Josh’s killer was arrested. If not, Mac reckoned the ringleaders would likely take to the streets themselves.

“Any chance I can drop a hint we’re holding a suspect, boss? Make clear it’s off the record, obviously.”

“Nah.” She blew on a steaming mug of builder’s tea. “Knight wants a lid on it. See how it pans out.” Lancelot was adamant. The latest development was on a
need-to-know basis. Not a peep to anyone, especially the press.

“Nice.”

He’d lost her. “What?”

“Pan. Lid. Nice one.”

“Hey, mate!” Three second pause. “Hear that?”

“What?”

“The sound of eyes rolling.”

A mock guffaw down the line. “God, I love a woman who makes me laugh.”

“Sod off, Tyler.” Smiling wryly she ended the call, went back to her homework studying Roland Haines’s criminal record. For an inoffensive looking bloke, he’d pulled some
nasty stunts: flashing, lewd behaviour, child pornography, indecent assault, sex with a minor. He’d spent twelve of his forty-two sleazy years doing time. She checked her watch; Lancelot
should’ve got his act together by now. He’d been liaising long enough with Bristol cops, hopefully he’d have something to pull out of the interview hat.

She drained her mug, blew pastry off the paperwork. No doubt about it: Roly had been a very naughty boy.

But was he a murderer?

“I. Did. Not. Do. It.” The stint in the holding cell had sobered Haines. He wasn’t going to make the judge’s bench any time soon, but ramrod straight,
arms crossed tight, he sat in a hardback chair in Interview Room One, skewering Lancelot with an unblinking stare. Bev clocked the ill-fitting, well-worn navy suit, the narrow tie that was in situ
despite the sauna heat, the neat side-parting. Yep. Mr Conventional just about covered it. She cut the DCI a glance; though Knight was a sight more aesthetic than the tired surroundings, she
doubted that was why Haines was giving him the dubious benefit of his undivided focus. The unwavering eye contact was more likely aimed at relaying what appeared to be the absolute conviction of
his innocence.
I didn’t do it
was pretty unequivocal, wasn’t it? But then he would say that, wouldn’t he? And apart from initially furnishing them with what sounded like a
frankly flimsy alibi, the flat denial was all he’d uttered, albeit half a dozen times. As for turning down a brief prior to the interview kicking off? Cocky? Confident? Could go either
way.