Hard Time (2 page)

Daniel Page was the cleverest little boy in Year One, probably the smartest five-year-old in the entire universe. His mummy said so. And she was always right.

He was at the classroom window now, looking out for her. It was wet playtime and the air reeked of Marmite fingers and Monster Munchies. Daniel was dying for the bell to ring. Mummy would be
here any minute to take him to the dentist. It meant missing two whole lessons: Daniel didn’t mind. He’d rather have five fillings than be in school any day. Not that his teeth had the
tiniest hole. They were perfect. Mummy said so.

He bared them now, tilting his head from side to side as he admired his reflection in the window. He hadn’t mastered winking yet so he practised that for a while as well. Daddy always said
Daniel had his mummy’s eyes. It made the little boy laugh. How could he have someone else’s eyes? Of course he knew what Daddy meant: their eyes were exactly the same shade of
green.

He frowned. Where
was
she? He pressed his nose against the glass. It was pouring down. Everything was fuzzy because the window was steamed up inside and rain streamed down outside. He
rubbed a porthole with the elbow of his jumper. Then his face lit up.

“Miss!” he shouted. “Mummy’s here! Can I go?”

Daniel’s teacher, Mrs Wilson, gave a tetchy sigh. She hated wet playtime; it meant she had no real break and she was trying to finish a letter to her son in Australia. “You’ll
have to wait, young man.” The classroom assistant had popped to the staff room and there was no way Shirley Wilson was leaving thirty hyperactive infants to their own devices while she
escorted the Page boy out.

Daniel stamped a petulant foot. “I want to go now! Mummy’s getting wet. She’ll be very cross.”

Tough, thought Mrs Wilson. Like a lot of beautiful women, Jenny Page imagined she only had to snap her elegant fingers and the world would come running. Shirley Wilson was two years off
retirement: she only ran baths.

“I’ll be late for the dentist,” Daniel wailed.

It was a cue to the other kids. “Cry-baby, cissy-boy.”

“That’s quite enough!” She had to shout to drown out the chorus. Daniel’s lower lip trembled as he pleaded with her to let him go. Mrs Wilson pushed her glasses up into
her candyfloss perm and dragged weary legs to the window. Sure enough, Jenny Page was at the electric gates, tapping an equally petulant foot. Must be genetic. The teacher sighed. Presumably there
was no one in the office or they’d have buzzed her in. Security was tight these days, even at The Manor prep school.

Mrs Wilson squinted through the glass. The boy’s mother was tapping her other foot now. The teacher masked a spiteful smile. It could be worse. At least that ridiculous golf umbrella was
keeping the poor dear dry.

The classroom door opened and a young woman with a purple bob and parrot earrings backed in, carrying two mugs.

“Tanya, before you settle, take Daniel out to his mother, will you?”

“Sure.” The classroom assistant grinned, reached out a hand. “Come on, Tiger.”

Ordinarily he’d have pointed out that his name was Daniel but he let it go this time. Miss was new and like most grown-ups was nice to him. Tanya led the little boy to the cloakroom and
helped him on with his coat. “I’ll get Mr Gallagher to open the gates, then we’ll make a dash for it.” She tousled his blond thatch of hair. “If we were ducks, we
could swim across.”

He laughed. He liked Tanya. Though he doubted the puddles were that deep. While he waited for her to come back, Daniel wondered if Mummy would remember about the Disney Store. She’d
promised they could go after the dentist.

“OK, Tiger.” Tanya held the main door, pulled a face. If anything, the rain was worse. “Got your swimming trunks?”

“And my goggles.” Daniel giggled, then looked concerned. Tanya hadn’t even got a coat. “Stay in the dry, miss. I’ll be OK.”

“No way, mate. I have to escort you to the gates.” She gave a mock frown. “Don’t want me to get into deep water, do you?”

They burst out laughing.

“Come on, Daniel, we’ll be late.”

Daniel shot a glance at his mother, then back at Tanya. “Mummy,” he called. “Miss doesn’t have to come out, does she?”

The woman struggled as a sudden gust of wind caught the umbrella. “Only if she wants to be blown away.” There was laughter in her voice.

“See?” The little boy’s eyes shone. “I told you it’d be OK.”

Of course it would. Even so, Tanya waited in the doorway until Daniel reached his mother, and lingered there watching as they walked away hand in hand.

Short of a terrorist alert or a royal visit, Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss had rarely seen so many uniforms. But then she hadn’t been to many police funerals. And never
in rain masquerading as a monsoon.

Cruising past, she glanced in the rear-view mirror. Tired blue eyes and matching bags told a tale she didn’t want to hear. Instead, she clocked the picture outside the church. Cops in
black macs shuffling about like a bunch of crows. Murder of crows, wasn’t it? She grimaced. Ought to be a collective noun for coppers as well. Line-up, perhaps? Conviction?

Or killing.

Bev gripped the wheel, wished she could do the same with her thoughts. A hit-and-run might not be coldblooded murder, but the end result was the same: Detective Chief Superintendent Robbie
Crawford was no less dead.

She nudged the MG into a tight spot. Not that its bodywork was at risk. She knew its contours better than some of her old boyfriends’. And loved them more, despite the dodgy spray job. The
original mustard yellow showed through the black in places, which meant when the boot was open the Midget looked like a giant wasp.

The motor’s soft-top was currently being pelted with sharp stinging rain. Wet stuff bounced off the bonnet and paddling-pool potholes scarred the road surface. It was more April than early
July. Momentarily cocooned against a storm both meteorological and mental, Bev sat head in hands, taking deep calming breaths. Her inner tempest had been going on pretty much all year.

She straightened, let out a deep sigh that lifted a short fringe the shade of Guinness. A final check in the mirror confirmed her mascara wasn’t waterproof. She wiped licked fingers under
panda eyes then, using an old
Evening News
as a rain-hat, reluctantly left the haven of the car. Three o’clock. Time to strengthen a few sinews. Assuming she could find any.

The church, silhouetted against a pewter sky in the distance, was like something out of a Hammer horror: Vampire Towers, hot and cold running bats. It glowered and towered over rows of tired
terraces. The Victorian two-up-two-downs were relatively new kids on the block. Bev reckoned St Luke’s was
faux
late Gothic – the sort of place you’d
only
want to be
seen dead in.

Button it. It was a funeral, not the Comedy Store.

She paused halfway up the steep incline, slightly out of breath and not impressed with her fitness level. This close, the church looked more workhouse than God’s house. Not that it
mattered. Minarets outnumbered missals in Balsall Heath.

Soggy now, the newspaper was doing a crap job. She dumped it in a bin, glimpsed a local dial-a-quote, the ubiquitous Grant Young, on the front page. She wondered idly what he was banging on
about this time.
For Christ’s sake, woman, get a move on.
She hiked the collar of a black trench coat (borrowed) and broke into a trot.

Her tardy arrival was due to a panic attack. Usually she recognised the signs, but this one had caught her off guard crossing the car park back at Highgate. They’d been happening off and
on for six months or so. An unwanted legacy from the bastard who’d raped her. One of several unwanted legacies. Mind, she hid them well.

“You look shit.” Sergeant Oz Khan. His outstretched hand didn’t quite touch her. Bev still thought of him as detective constable. Still thought of him as her lover. Copulating
cops – they’d made a fucking good team.
Bitter? Moi?

“Nice one, Khanie.”

Oz’s sculpted jaw tightened a fraction, though she doubted anyone else would’ve noticed. She’d forgotten how beautiful he was, how she used to lie awake just watching him
sleep: the tip of his tongue peeking between soft lips, the curve of his cheek, the
... Fuck’s sake, woman.

He shrugged, did his best to match her casual delivery. “Coming tonight?”

His leaving do? Genuinely wouldn’t miss it for the world. She gave an indifferent sniff. “Dunno yet.”

Oz had walked the sergeant’s exams a few months back, piss-easy given his Oxford law degree. The new posting with the Met had only just come through. He started Monday. Not that his
departure featured in their split. There was a chasm between them anyway: her reluctance to let anyone close, Oz’s problem with her increasing aggression. Oh, and a dead serial rapist called
Will Browne.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “You generally do.” She watched as he rejoined Darren New and Mike Powell, huddled under the only tree in the street. If they didn’t stop
staring, she’d give them a bow. Did she really look shit?

Carol Pemberton didn’t. The DC was waiting for Bev on the steps of the church. Tall and willowy in classy black velvet, Carol’s curtains of dark glossy hair were drawn back for once,
showcasing a seriously attractive woman. At thirty-four, she was five years older than Bev, looked ten younger. How did that work?

“Cutting it fine, aren’t you, sarge? Thought you were catching a ride.” The Highgate contingent had hired a minibus.

“So did I.” Only she hadn’t fancied an audience: hyperventilating into a brown paper bag was not cool.

Carol tilted her head at the church. “They’re running late anyway.”

Late?
“You’re joking.”

“Hardly. There’s another funeral going on.”

Christ Almighty. It’d be the last place Bev’d choose to make a final exit. She glanced round. How bad would it look to light a ciggie? She fingered a crumpled pack of Silk Cut in her
pocket. Yeah, right. The cardboard was almost as damp as her best mate Frankie’s trench coat. And Carol’s brolly was a waste of space. Other mourners were sheltering under a choppy sea
of the things but piercing rain still homed in on the gaps.

“Good turn-out,” Carol said. “More police than family.”

No more than you’d expect. For a popular cop who should be on early retirement, not permanent leave.

“And vultures.” Bev nodded at a sheepish-looking bunch keeping a discreet distance across the road. The press was out in force. A police officer’s death in suspicious
circumstances was still rare enough to make the news.

The car that killed Crawford hadn’t been traced, nor the scumbag driver. It was most likely an accident, but like any cop Robbie Crawford had made enemies. A possible revenge attack was
among the lines of inquiry. Which explained the media interest. It wasn’t Bev’s case, but she knew a number of suspects had been questioned and eliminated. No one was in the frame.
Yet.

Crawford’s widow looked shell-shocked. Bev’s heart went out to her. At least with illness there was a chance to say goodbye to the people you love. But when it comes out of the
blue... She swallowed hard, closed her eyes, until a sudden tap on her elbow brought her spinning round in fury.

“What the f...”
Whoops.

“Sergeant?” Detective Superintendent Bill Byford lifted a curious eyebrow. “You were saying?”

“Guv. How you doing?” She aimed for an engaging smile. “Better late than never, eh?”

Why was Daniel always the last to emerge? Jenny Page smiled indulgently as she kept an eager eye on the infants’ exit. It was already 3.20. Apart from a select band of
yummy-mummies exchanging juicy gossip outside the school gates, she was the only parent there. At least it wasn’t raining now, bar the odd spot. Under her breath she muttered, “Come on,
Dan-Dan.”

Not that she really minded. Daniel was a sunny, sociable little creature. He’d be bending Mrs Wilson’s ear, describing the Pages’ plans for the weekend, giving away all the
family secrets. She shook her head, picturing the little boy who’d stolen her heart the second he was born. Any minute now he’d come hurtling through the double doors, huge grin
lighting his lovely face. On the way home she’d be lucky to get a word in as he chatterboxed her through his day in excruciating detail. Jenny’s smile turned wistful as she thought
about the teenage years ahead when she’d be lucky if he threw a surly grunt in her direction.

“Mrs Page? How may I help you?”

The voice was distinctive; Jenny concealed a wince. Gruesome Gallagher, the head with halitosis and a yen for Hawaiian shirts. The old lech talked through a mouth full of rotting plums. Taking a
step back, Jenny swiftly masked her distaste. “Mr Gallagher. How nice to see you. You couldn’t chivvy Daniel along, could you?” And while you’re at it, get out of my
face.

“
Doctor
Gallagher.” His pointed index finger, a touch too close, reinforced the reprimand. His rubbery lips were spread in a smarmy smile that displayed tiny pointed teeth not
quite taking root in anaemic gums. “Come with me, my dear.”

For the umpteenth time since Daniel started at The Manor, Jenny Page neatly sidestepped a wandering hand as the head tried to shepherd her along. Short of a burqa or a bin liner, she
couldn’t avoid his roving eye. The left one was currently traversing the contours of her body, even though they were all but swamped in a green leather swing coat.

Gallagher’s small talk during the short walk majored on the weather; Jenny was more interested in the children’s gaudy daubings that brightened the dark panelled walls on which they
were displayed. The sights and smells evoked memories of her school days. Though God knows why: The Manor was more beeswax and potpourri than sweaty trainers and over-boiled brassica. She
concentrated on the present: Corporation Street wasn’t a place to revisit, even in her thoughts.

“Ah, Mrs Wilson. Where are you hiding Daniel?”

The teacher was rummaging in the bottom of a cupboard, inadvertently offering a rear view. Jenny looked expectantly at the teacher, pointedly ignored the head’s laboured wink. His
jocularity was forced, too, unlike the genuine confusion that flashed across Shirley Wilson’s moon face. Her troubled glance flitted between Gallagher and Jenny; she opened her mouth a couple
of times but didn’t get as far as actually speaking.