Hard Time (17 page)

“Can’t give you a cause of death. Nothing obvious. No apparent injuries. Given the state of the body, he’s been dead hours rather than days. I’ll run the post mortem this
evening. Seven o’clock. Can’t tell you anything more until after that.”

But Bev could. As Overdale rose, Bev had a clear view of the body. The little boy lay on his back, wide eyes staring sightlessly into a cloudless sky. She shot a hand to her mouth, felt the
colour drain from her face.

“Sarge?” Mac reached out an arm as she swayed forward.

“It’s not Daniel.” She breathed. “Look at his eyes.”

Big beautiful eyes – almost as blue as Bev’s.

Any relief in knowing Daniel Page might still be alive was tempered by the fact that an unidentified child lay dead on a steel slab in the city morgue at Newhall Street. DI
Powell and DC Pemberton were on the way there. The guv had assigned Mike Powell senior investigating officer to the new inquiry that had been codenamed Operation Hawk. It was seven pm, three hours
since the body’s discovery.

At Highgate, Byford paced an incident room that was still in the throes of being set up. He sidestepped technicians as they carried in gear and walked round electricians installing it. A mobile
IU and most of a hastily appointed squad was already active at the Paradise Row site. With two major criminal investigations plus regular smaller-scale inquiries, they were short on space and
– more important – personnel.

Bev and Mac were on hand, with Seth Gregson, the information officer who was running the admin show. Short and stocky, Seth did more than shuffle papers; IOs were human hard disks. Scanning,
logging, prioritising, cross-referencing, updating hundreds of witness statements, police reports, messages, phone calls, every scrap of information that could have a bearing on an inquiry. Gregson
was one of the best. The top man was on Sapphire.

“A child can’t just go missing,” Byford said. “Why hasn’t it been reported? Where are the parents, for Christ’s sake?”

His complexion was tinged with grey, sweat dampened non-designer stubble. He looked as rough as Bev felt. Her throat and chest were still sore from throwing up. The nausea had kicked in back at
the nick. It didn’t often happen these days. Delayed shock, perhaps. Plus the heat, and the smell of rotting pork that clung to her hair and skin. As for the electric-blue suit, she was
getting shot of it anyway.

“Bound to get a steer soon, guv.” The search team and dog handlers were still at the location, officers were canvassing passers-by and uniforms were on the knock. Christ, a whole row
of houses backed on to the wasteland. Surely no one could dump a body without being seen.

As well as the police activity, the press boys had been busy. The story had been running on TV and radio for a couple of hours. The media circus had set up camp while the body was still on site.
No big surprise, given how many of the locals had mobiles clamped to their necks. There’d been no police news conference but plenty of press speculation: sad-faced, mournful-toned pieces to
camera all milking the Paradise Row name. As in hell on...

Byford finally came to rest on the edge of a desk. “I wish I had your faith, sergeant.”

Sergeant? Bad as that? She shrugged. She was doing her media-liaising bit in a minute, conveying what little they had on Operation Sapphire with the even leaner offerings on Operation Hawk. The
news hounds might be content with the occasional titbit on the kidnap but they’d be chasing every crumb on the dead child. “What if they want you on camera, guv?”

“Saying what?”

She spread empty hands. “Appeal for witnesses? Help identifying the body? Usual stuff.”

“You do it.” He rubbed a hand over drawn features. “I can’t see the point.”

Bev took in the slumped posture, the flat tone, reckoned there was more than one point the big man wasn’t seeing.

In his office a few minutes later, Byford was seeing so many points he felt dizzy. A five-year-old boy was in the hands of kidnappers and now the mystery death of another
child. Two major on-going inquiries that demanded a hundred per cent of everything from everyone, in particular a fully focused SIO.

So why couldn’t Byford get Harry Maxwell’s ugly smirk out of his head? Patrols had failed to locate either the crime boss or his right-hand henchman, Jaswinder Ghai. Uniform had been
out much of the day trawling massage parlours, casinos, clubs, pubs – all Maxwell’s usual haunts. His home, a detached Tudor pile on the outskirts of Alvechurch, was under surveillance.
But for how long?

Operations Sapphire and Hawk had to take precedence. The detective couldn’t afford to waste valuable resources on a case still based more on instinct than evidence. Death threats and a
penchant for hiring Asians weren’t proof of anything.

He rose, paced the space, hands deep in pockets. He kicked himself for giving Maxwell an easy ride the other day in The Grapes. It wouldn’t happen again. The cocky bastard thought he could
walk on water.

And get away with murder?

“Boss always like that, sarge?” Mac offered her something that reeked of cheese and resembled a bright orange slug. She was starving, not suicidal. He munched as
they walked along the corridor.

“How’d you mean?” The question was unnecessary; she knew where he was coming from. The guv had been uncharacteristically negative, leading from the back.

“Wasn’t exactly Braveheart in there, was it?”

She turned, hands on thrust hips. “Fuck you know, Tyler?” The benefit-of-the-doubt shop was empty. “He’s a bigger man than you’ll ever be.” OK, she knew it
was childish: “Fatso.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” He casually licked orange fuzz from his fingers.

She wasn’t expecting that; she threw him a life-threatening glare. “The guv’s got a lot on his plate, right now. Fucking dinner service full.”

Mac shrugged, shoved the empty pack in his pocket. “Goes with the job. Know what they say about kitchens and heat?”

Finger jabbing, she let rip. “Don’t slag the guy off. Yo u haven’t got a fucking clue. He’s forgotten more about policing than you’ll ever pick up.
Constable.”

“Know the workings of the great man’s mind, do we, sarge?”

She moved in, caught a whiff of cheesy breath. “Back off, fuckwit.”

“Everything OK, Bev?” Vince Hanlon’s head poked round the corner.

She nodded, held eye contact with Tyler. “As your senior officer...”

“Act like one then, Bev.” She flinched. Not because Tyler had used her name but the way he’d spoken the words. No hint of aggression or defiance; well-meant advice gently
administered. “I’m the new guy, remember? I asked a reasonable question. Your loyalty does you proud, sergeant. But not your attitude.”

Tears blurred her eyes and she turned her head. She’d heard it before, never really listened. But there was something about this guy... OK, they weren’t going to be instant best
buddies – and there’d certainly be no kiss-and-make-up-session – but maybe she’d try to find another benefit-of-doubt place to shop.

He touched her arm; she didn’t pull back. “OKM?” he asked tentatively.

Easy peasy. “OK, mate,” she said. His eyes lit when he smiled. There was mischief in hers. “FOF.”

He worked it out fast. “You swear too much.” Then wagged a finger in mock admonition. “And I’m not fat.”

DI Powell slumped next to Carol Pemberton on a wooden bench in a narrow corridor at the Newhall Street morgue. The busy black-and-white floor was marginally less nauseating
than the bile-green walls. Neither held a candle to the gut-wrenching odours all around them. Disinfectant hadn’t been invented that could mask the smell of death. A hot shower and a change
of clothes would get rid of most of it, but not the stink at the back of the throat. That would be trapped there for days.

“Is this the short straw, or what?”

Pemberton raised an eyebrow. Given why they were here, others were a damn sight shorter.

“Inspector?” Overdale in green scrubs, mask slung round her neck, beckoned to them. Appropriately booted and suited, they followed her into the dissection area. Powell breathed
slowly through his mouth, carefully timing each inhalation and exhalation if only to concentrate on something other than the corpse. He hated post mortems with a passion. It was about the only time
in his professional life that he found the bravado almost impossible to sustain. It would be infinitely harder now. Until this evening, he’d managed to avoid attending a child’s
autopsy. Maybe if he closed his eyes...

Worse. He saw Sam in his mind’s eye. The DI’s brother had died at about the same age as the little boy on the slab. Sam had been swept to sea off a Greek island, his body never
found. It was the Powells’ last family holiday. After Sam’s death, there was no family. Not to speak of. His father walked out, his mother never really recovered. It was no
cliché to say her death five years ago had been a release.

Powell rarely thought about any of it, never talked about it. But his mind was currently running the movie. What was the saying? What doesn’t kill us makes us strong? He’d played the
tough guy so long, he’d forgotten the tender part.

Until now.

Maybe it was the tag round the tiny toe: a little boy reduced to a number. Or those dead eyes, the shade of the sea on a summer’s day. Powell steeled himself as the pathologist selected a
scalpel – passed out as she made the first cut.

“We’ve all been there, sir.” Pemberton sat next to Powell in an anteroom next to the path lab. He was clutching paper towels to a fair-sized gash on his
forehead. The DI had been out cold for several minutes after hitting the edge of a steel trolley on his way down.

“Dodgy burger,” he muttered. “Felt ropey all afternoon.”

“Sure.” Poor guy. Carol was genuinely sorry for him. Why lie about it, though? He wasn’t the only cop to faint at the first sight of blood. Though they normally stayed on their
feet till the Y incision.

“All over in there?” Powell asked.

“Yeah. Just the tidying up.”

He made to stand. “I’d best have a word.”

“She’s gone. Called out. Stirchley way. Fume-filled car.”

Good. The pratfall would be history next time they met. “Top line?”

Pembers rubbed the back of her neck. “Doesn’t know.”

“What!”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, boss.”

“Sorry. Go on.” He dabbed the cut, grimaced at the blood.

“No signs of abuse, no broken bones, bruising, bleeding. Something might show up on the tox results but Overdale’s stumped. The guv wants...”

Powell jerked his head up, regretted it instantly. “What did you...?”

She raised a palm. “He rang. Wanted to know what was happening. Wants pictures circulated like yesterday.” Obvious action. Once they had an identity they’d have a better idea
where to look for answers. “I had a word with the news bureau,” Carol said. “They’re sorting the visuals. If you’re OK, boss, I’m gonna get off.” She
wanted a cold shower, a hot bath, then a long cuddle with her kids.

“No prob. I’m outa here.” He rose, waited out a blood rush. As they left, they talked priorities for the morning, assuming nothing broke overnight. There should be forensic
follow-ups; and surely a lead or two from the good folk of Paradise Row.

It was like stepping into a wall of heat outside: high temperatures trapped by tall buildings. Powell felt a tad light-headed. “Carol?”

“Sir?”

“When you spoke to the guv... did you mention...?” No need to spell it out.

“Not a word.” She smiled. “Could happen to anyone. Dodgy burger.”

Good girl. He’d never hear the last of it if it got back to Morriss.

Carol turned to leave, hesitated. “Who’s Sam, sir?”

He tensed, couldn’t respond.

“You mentioned the name a few times while you were out. I thought...”

“Well, don’t.” The smile was meant to take the edge off the words. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just someone I used to know.”

The hacks were restless tonight. Hunting in a pack, they scented blood. Bev reckoned it was hers. Seated behind an ebony table on a dais at the top of the conference room, she
did a quick head count. Thirty-two. Even with big Mac on side, the odds weren’t brilliant. She glanced up. Make that thirty-three. Jack Pope was putting in a late appearance. She’d not
clapped eyes on him since their brief encounter at The Prince. He raised a casual hand, slipped into a seat at the back. He hadn’t missed much.

Operation Sapphire had been dealt with summarily. It went: any developments? No. She sensed a keenness among the reporters to move on. The
Evening News
crime correspondent Matt Snow was
centre front. She’d noticed Snowie exchange pointed glances with other sharp operators. There was a stir in the air that wasn’t down to the kidnap inquiry.

She raised an eyebrow at Mac, then indicated a carafe of water. Considering she’d not said much, her mouth felt like the Gobi. “Ta, mate.” She used the sipping time to try to
work out what was afoot. In the absence of hard fact, the journos had been on site at Paradise Row in Selly Oak pulling together vox pops and colour pieces. Most people spout off when there’s
a camera in their face. Occasionally, it’s worth hearing.

“Heard of Monks Court?” Matt Snow asked.

Natch. It was a halfway house for ex-offenders, parolees, what were nowadays called the socially challenged.
What’s this?

“Sorry? Say again?”

“Monks Court. Locals aren’t happy.” Snow riffled pages in a dog-eared spiral notebook. With a less than natty line in shiny brown suits and dirty blond Tintin tuft, he put Bev
in mind of something short and snappy. Like a shitzu.

“Oh?” She drew out the word, wished it were longer. There’d never been any trouble at Monks Court; vetting was tight. But it was in a neighbouring street to Paradise Row.
Tread carefully, Beverley.

“Residents are forming a pressure group,” Snow said. Peripherally she registered other hacks nodding sagely.

“Since when?” A cool pool of sweat was forming at the bottom of her spine as she sensed the potential minefield.

“This afternoon.” No wonder the fringe was vertical; he couldn’t stop fingering it. “Don’t you read the papers?”