Hard Time (11 page)

Young shrugged. “I can ask round if you like.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Byford was disappointed but not surprised. Young moved in more rarefied circles these days. “Tell me more about this show, then.”

Young wanted to take a wider look at the implications, when justice went wrong: the impact not just on the person wrongfully convicted but on the parents, wife or husband, children. Further
still, what were the effects on the police and the judiciary? The individuals whose collective actions not only led to the wrong person going down but allowed the real perpetrator to escape
punishment?

“Working title’s
Hard Time
– what do you think?” Young’s enthusiasm was laudable but somewhat naïve. Byford didn’t want to burst the bubble but he
thought Channel Four had more chance of getting the pope on
Celebrity Love Island
. Sure, some people would take the money and run their mouths off – a wronged wife, a bitter father.
But as to getting the closed ranks of senior police and judges to open up... No way.

“Great idea...”

“I hear a but,” Young prompted.

Byford shrugged. “What cases have you got in mind?”

Young ran through a number of
causes célèbres
: individuals and a couple of groups championed by the media over years of high-profile campaigning, cases that had all
invariably ended in jubilation on the steps of the appeal court.

“I’m hoping to get a few big guns on board. Michael, Chris, a couple of the Birmingham Six.” His wavering hand said it could go either way. “And you, of
course.”

Byford masked a wry amusement. He was hardly in the same league as the Mansfields and Mullins of this world. “What about your own story?”

“Not sexy enough. No wife. No kids.”

No people to rip into the system, baying for pints of blood and pounds of flesh. “Who else have you approached?”

“Police-wise, you’re the first. Actually, no. I dropped Mr Crawford a line. Talk about bad timing. I didn’t know till I saw the coverage of the funeral in the paper.”

“Paper?” Byford hadn’t seen anything.

Young riffled through a pile of newspapers and magazines on the floor. “Yeah. Thought I’d kept it. Here you go.”

It wasn’t the story that transfixed Byford. It was one of the pictures. Presumably to indicate the level of media interest, one of the photographers had snapped the other snappers. Among
the line of lens-men, one figure stood out, video camera on his shoulder, crooked smile on his face. He was known to his friends as Jazz – a benign affectionate name for one of the most
ruthless thugs in the city.

He was known to the police as Jaswinder Ghai. And Byford had seen him many times before. Never far from Harry Maxwell’s right hand.

The second time Holly’s bedroom door had inched open in the middle of the night, she had known who it was and what he would do – had known she must endure the
pain and shame. Who could she tell? Who could she turn to? Who would believe her? He came when everyone was asleep, the house silent but for his moist breath in her ear, the animal grunting as he
took her.

She lost count after the first year. And lost every vestige of faith. The little girl no longer believed her mother would return and take her away, tell her it had all been a terrible
mistake, beg her for forgiveness. At eleven years of age, Holly recognised the hopes for what they were: childish fantasies.

After twelve months of rape and vile assaults, Holly lived in hell and harboured only dreams of revenge against her mother.

Vivid dreams. Against a woman she’d never seen.

Highgate, Sunday, 9.12am. Operation Sapphire. Day Three.

Bev had a hangover the size of Wales. She blamed it on curry, carousing and half a bottle of Armagnac. Gingerly, she stroked her temple. It was all coming back to her now. She and Frankie had
stayed up half the night playing Desert Island Dicks. Bev’s wish list featured the guv for the first time. How did that work?

She seemed to recall, around two am, texting knock-knock jokes to Oz. And finally called it a day just after three, persuaded by a compulsive urge to belt out
I Will Survive.
Right now,
that was a moot point.

Groaning, she plopped a couple of Alka-Seltzers into water. When the phone rang she nearly sent the glass flying. The call was sobering. Laura Foster had found a Jiffy bag at the ad agency
marked urgent.

“And, sergeant, it’s addressed to Jenny Page.” The unflappable Ms Foster sounded ruffled.

Bev beckoned to Daz, who was en route to the brief. Muffling the phone, she mouthed, “Something’s come up, I’ll get there soon as.”

“Later, sarge.” He tapped the side of his head but her full focus was now on Laura. Apparently she’d popped into the agency to collect a portfolio she needed to work on at
home. The package was the first thing she noticed on opening up.

“Obviously there’s no post today, so I was a little surprised but not unduly concerned. We do get items delivered by hand.”

“But this one worries you?” It was beginning to bug Bev.

“Well, yes. I can’t ever remember anything coming here for Mrs Page.” There was a slight pause. “I’m probably wasting your time, but you did say. And in view
of...”

Bev’s glance fell on Daniel’s picture. “Fifteen minutes, max. See you there.”

The tingle in her palms could be premature. But at the very least the package was her calling card for Jenny Page.

Byford’s desk phone rang just as he was leaving for the brief. Doctor Gillian Overdale was the relatively new police pathologist. She had a penchant for berets and
brogues and an attitude that veered between businesslike and brusque. “There was a note attached to the Doug Edensor file? I was asked to keep you informed?”

No greeting, polite or otherwise, and her habitual antipodean inflection got up Byford’s nose. To be fair, whatever her verbal idiosyncrasies, she was a skilled operator. She’d
succeeded Harry Gough who’d grabbed early retirement and headed for sunnier climes with a laptop, fancying himself as the next Ian Rankin. Byford wished Overdale had inherited Harry’s
skills with live bodies as well as stiffs. “Thanks, doctor. What...?”

“Edensor had multiple injuries consistent with a fall. Broken bones, internal bleeding? He was a mess. But the fall probably didn’t kill him, and anyway he wouldn’t have felt a
thing.”

“Sorry?” What had she said?

“Completely out of it. Enough medication in him to down a rhino.”

A faint alarm bell sounded in Byford’s head. “What had he taken?”

“Who said anything about
taken
?”

The alarm was so loud Byford could barely hear himself think. According to Overdale, a lethal dose of insulin had been administered. Doug Edensor wasn’t diabetic. It appeared that Doug had
been murdered and the death made to look like suicide. Which made it increasingly likely that Robbie Crawford’s hit-and-run had been no accident.

“How did you move it?” Bev asked, fingers crossed. The package lay on a low table in reception at Full Page Ads. She and Laura were the only people in the
building.

“I used a tissue. I hope that’s all right.”

“Nice one.”
Thank you, CSI
. Amazing how much savvy viewers picked up from cop shows; shame villains watched telly too.

Laura sounded her old self now and as far as Bev knew also looked it. The ebony hair and alabaster complexion put her in mind of Snow White. Bev felt like one of the dwarves standing next to
her. “Sit for a minute, shall we?”

La Foster’s crisp white suit looked classic and cool. Bev was feeling the heat in navy cords. It wasn’t a brilliant colour for summer but her entire working wardrobe was blue: saved
thinking first thing. Came in handy earlier that morning. “It definitely arrived after you left yesterday?” she asked.

“Absolutely.” Straight-backed, knees together, she nudged her glasses up her nose, like she was taking an oral exam.

“How often do you come in on a Sunday?”

“Hardly ever.” Her mouth turned down. “Ah... so it’s probably nothing to do with Daniel’s disappearance, is it? The kidnappers wouldn’t want any delay.
They’d contact the family direct, not leave something here.”

Wasn’t the way Bev saw it. Kidnappers generally played a waiting game, convinced they had all the time in the world – because they drew up the timetable. Their main priority
wasn’t the victim or the family’s trauma. It was not to get caught. Given how tight security was round The White House, the agency could’ve seemed a safer bet. They’d not
give a rat’s arse when it was found. Assuming that’s who it was from.

“Hold this for us, will you?” she asked.

Laura held open an evidence bag; Bev carefully slipped in the package.

There was only one way to find out.

The MG was like a furnace and it wasn’t half ten yet. Thank God she’d eschewed yesterday’s skirt, her bum would be melting into the plastic. She lowered the
windows, then put a call through to the guv, brought him up to speed before heading out for Moseley and the Page house.

“Might be nothing, guv, but...” Her instinct said otherwise. A temperature nudging thirty wasn’t the only cause of damp palms. He didn’t respond; come to think of it,
he’d not said much at all.

“Anything back there I need to know, guv?” Silence. “Guv?”

“Sorry. What’d you say?”

The big man was distracted. “Something up, boss?” She couldn’t unscrew the top on her Highland Spring. Wedging it between her thighs, she tried again.

“Doug Edensor didn’t kill himself.”

Spring water was apt; she just managed to dodge a squirt. “Say again, guv?”

“Doug Edensor. He didn’t commit suicide.” She took a swig, frowned. The name rang a bell. Had it been on a recent crime report? She skimmed them every day, didn’t retain
every detail. “He took a dive...?

“No,” Byford corrected. “He didn’t. Looks like he had a helping hand.” The crime-scene guys hadn’t picked up signs of a struggle because Edensor had been dead
to the world before he’d gone over. “Insulin overdose.” A rasp filled a pause as Byford rubbed a hand across his chin. “Doug wasn’t diabetic.” Once Overdale had
the tox results, she’d re-examined every inch of Edensor’s flesh. The puncture mark was in his chest.

“Right.” She tapped fingers on the wheel. “Nasty.”

Shitty way to go, but she couldn’t get worked up about it. Not with an ongoing kidnap. A five-year-old life on the line versus some middle-aged bloke who’d crossed it? No contest.
’Course they’d investigate, but Edensor was beyond help. Whereas Daniel...

“By the way, guv,” she said. “Know those feelers I put out on Dunston?”

“Yes.” Like he could care less.

“A guy called, wouldn’t give his name, reckons Dunston does odd jobs for Harry Maxwell.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know. Maxwell must be scraping the bottom of the barrel.” Crime lord and low-life.

“Why wasn’t this in a report?” The voice was way too quiet.

“Come on, guv. I only just heard.”

“What else did you only just hear?” Sarcastic. Not like Byford.

“That’s it. Odd jobs. Bit of driving.”

“And delivery boy?” As in ransom demand?

She frowned. “Maxwell involved in the kidnap? You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t be.”

“But guv, we know he doesn’t touch kid stuff. Porn, prostitution, protection, trafficking but never...”

“You’re wrong,” he snapped. “The vice squad’s been hearing whispers for months.” Byford had checked with his counterpart in the squad that morning.

“Whispers?”

“
Child
pornography.” It made twisted sick sense. Maxwell already owned the equipment and a list of potential clients. It made Byford’s blood run cold, but was kidnapping
a way of obtaining young victims?

“I’ll get someone to check...”

“Don’t bother. I’ll do it myself.”

Why was he being so arsey? He’d been off since the start of the call. Then a thought occurred. “This guy, Doug Edensor, guv?”

“Ex-detective superintendent. He retired a few years back.” Retired was a euphemism for shown the door. The former cop had been offered treatment for alcoholism. Twice undergone
re-hab but couldn’t give up the bottle.

“Mate of yours, was he?”

“He was in the photograph you saw yesterday.” She heard a phone ring. “I’ve got another call,” Byford said. “Let me know the minute anything moves.”

She pressed the end button, deep in thought. Doug Edensor and Robbie Crawford. Both friends of the guv. Both dead. No wonder he was distracted. She started the car, circuited the square. What
was that Oscar Wilde line?
To lose one police mate’s a misfortune – to lose two...
She snorted. The quote was close enough. Except she didn’t buy careless. She wasn’t
sure what she’d put her money on. Yet.

Byford wasn’t a betting man, but Harry Maxwell had been front-runner in the detective’s uneasy mind even before the link with Wayne Dunston emerged. Not in
connection with the kidnap – like Bev, he had severe doubts on that score. But why had the crime boss sent one of his lieutenants to film Robbie Crawford’s funeral? That question had
kept the big man awake for much of the night.

Then he’d picked up the child-porn rumour. And now Doug...

Byford walked to the window, stared across the car park. He’d hoped it was in the past – the road accident that killed Maxwell’s son. He could still recall every detail of that
night twelve years ago. Not surprising, given he’d been driving the police pursuit vehicle. The stolen car – a BMW – had careered into the side of James Maxwell’s Mini on
Fiveways roundabout. The teenage joy rider had been killed outright. Fire crews had to cut James’s mangled body from the wreckage.

For several years on the anniversary of the crash, Byford had received thinly veiled death threats: sympathy cards, black armbands, funeral wreaths. It didn’t take intelligence to work out
who sent them. The detective had two sons; sympathised to an extent with Maxwell’s grief. But when the tyres were slashed on his motor six years back, he’d pulled Maxwell in and issued
a few threats of his own. The unsolicited mail had dried up since then.