Hard Time (20 page)

Byford paced the small airless room, Ghai’s after-shave more than a match for the stale smoke and sweat. They were both going round in circles – again. Ghai’s stonewall
technique was an interview nightmare. Byford had no chance of catching him in a lie, throwing words back in his face. Ghai wasn’t suddenly going to trip up. Not over three syllables. No
wonder he’d refused a brief. He was brief without a lawyer.

The routine had been going on for more than an hour: sixty precious minutes down the pan as vital inquiry work backed up outside. Byford could hear it: Highgate’s corridors buzzed with
urgent voices, quick footsteps. And Ghai now feigned sleep.

The detective slipped the e-fits of Doug’s alleged assailants into a file. Not surprisingly, Ghai had dismissed them early on. “Right, you’re free to go...”

Incredible so much flesh could move so fast. The Asian was bouncing on Reeboks before Byford opened his mouth to finish the sentence. “On condition you let us search your
property.”

Ghai stiffened, every molecule rigid, face suffused with colour – even the pockmarks. Black granite eyes glittered; Byford caught the merest glimpse of what he was capable of, what lay
beneath the skin. For a second, he thought the Asian would lash out. So did the uniforms; they stepped forward smartly.

The heat faded almost as fast. Ghai slowly, deliberately, started cracking his knuckles as a thin smile twisted his mouth. “Be my guest.” The sound was surprisingly loud. Byford
refused to wince. Not impressed by the hard man. Nor the offer. If Ghai was happy to let them take his place apart, anything they’d want to find had already been removed.

Mike Powell was still at Highgate. The gash on his forehead throbbed and he was so knackered he could barely walk straight, let alone think. What he had to do would only take a
minute, then he’d nip home for a few hours’ sleep. He dry-swallowed a couple of paracetamol, picked up a pen, mentally reviewed Operation Hawk as he wrote.

He had sensed a level of hostility at the brief but had just about held his own. The squad knew what had to be done anyway; establishing the identity of the dead child was priority. Without a
name they had nothing. Hopefully they’d get a steer from the media. The boy’s picture had been widely circulated and was getting national coverage, according to Carol Pemberton.
Uniformed officers had been out at Paradise Row since first light, knocking on doors, stopping traffic, canvassing people on the streets. Powell briefly closed his eyes. Please God, let there be a
development by the time he got back. Maybe the boy’s death was one case he could close.

Gently the DI ran a finger along the wound at his temple. It would undoubtedly scar. Not just physically. Every time he saw it, he’d remember. Remember the night he fainted at a post
mortem that revived the trauma of his brother’s death, the night three lives were lost in an arson attack that could have been prevented.

The decision to bring in Kenny Flint as investigating officer didn’t tally with the guv’s public vote of confidence. However Byford couched it to the troops, it must be a blow to the
big man’s professional pride. It had certainly shattered Powell’s. He wouldn’t even have the satisfaction of nicking the bastards who’d done it. And whatever anyone said, he
blamed himself.

The DI sighed, laid down the pen. His resignation letter just needed a signature.

The charred hulk that had been Monks Court squatted in the middle of a row of seedy three-storey business premises on Friars Road. As Kenny Flint took his first look at the
building where PC Simon Wells had perished, it put the normally prosaic DCS in mind of a blackened rotting tooth. And it would have to come out – or down – as soon as the council made
arrangements. The tape closing off both ends of the road wasn’t just protecting evidence, it was preventing further casualties.

After a six-hour operation, fire investigators had declared the property unsafe, a verdict confirmed by a local surveyor. It didn’t stop a stream of stroppy property owners banging on
about access. The uniforms posted at either end did.

Flint paused before ducking under the police tape to have a word with a constable who looked about twelve. It was a bad place to stop. The detective had been spotted by a roving pack of
reporters, desperate for a sound bite, and camera people looking for something marginally more interesting to shoot than the exterior of a burned building. Flint certainly looked the part: a
hard-nosed copper straight out of central casting, late forties, close-cut greying hair, cool blue eyes and craggy features. A suit-and-tie man, he’d look equally at ease, and in command, in
a bomber jacket and jeans.

Half a dozen journos had broken away and were actually running down the road to grab a few words with him. He glanced round at the noise, sighed and masked a scowl. Did he want to talk to the
media? He knew the news bureau had issued releases with the official police line on the fire and the tragic loss of lives. Flint hadn’t known Wells. Anything he added would sound trite. And
he couldn’t feed them any new lines until he’d liaised with the fire investigation team who were still on site.

“Superintendent...?”

“Sir...?”

“What’s the...?”

“Have you any...?”

“Is there any...?”

They weren’t going anywhere. He waited until the bombardment petered out. He needed them on side but was acutely aware that yesterday’s reporting on the Selly Oak protest group might
have fanned the flames. He’d assigned a couple of DCs to trace and talk to SOAP members. No point getting heavy with the messengers till he knew the score.

“First off,” he said, “there’s nothing new to add to what you’ve already got. I’d just reiterate that we’re anxious to talk to anyone who was in the
vicinity of Friars Road prior to and in the hours following the arson attack at Monks Court.”

In Flint’s broad Wolverhampton accent, the police-speak sounded stilted, even slightly comic, like something out of Monty Python. His grim features reflected in the nearest TV lens were
anything but amusing. “They may have seen something or someone suspicious without realising the significance. I’d ask those people to contact us at the earliest opportunity.”

“What times are you talking?” A hack shoved a mic in front of his face.

“I’m not tying it down,” Flint said. The arsonists would have recced the place at least once, could have been hanging round for days, weeks even. He didn’t want a defined
timeframe to deter potential witnesses from coming forward. He wound up with an appeal for the perps to turn themselves in. Everyone knew the likelihood had less chance than a snowflake on a
red-hot hob. Flint’s raised hands dismissed a chorus of further questions, then he turned his back and walked away in search of answers.

Nigel Blackwell, head of the fire investigation team, stood on the pavement opposite Monks Court surveying the remains. Even as the two men watched, timbers creaked, debris crashed down into
pools of black greasy water.

Blackwell was in his late thirties, tall, thin, nervy. His sweaty hand left dirt streaks across his pale face. “I’ll tell you something. We’re bloody lucky the body count
wasn’t higher.”

The tone was inappropriate, almost upbeat. Flint stiffened. “There’s nothing lucky about three dead.” There was steel in the voice and the unblinking stare was lethal.
“Tell me something else.”

Blackwell’s thin lips tightened. “I’m telling you: it was luck, not judgment, that no one else died. These people knew what they were doing: they were out to kill. The more
the...” Either a belated sensitivity or Flint’s incredulity stopped Blackwell in his crass tracks. “Sorry. But the evidence is there.”

Flint listened, face impassive, as Blackwell ran through what the team had uncovered. At least four petrol bombs had started four separate outbreaks – two on the ground floor, two on the
first. The fires had been located to prevent egress, designed to endanger lives. It looked as if furniture had been shifted to hamper escape further and to provide fuel for the flames. The top
floor may have been set alight too; there wasn’t enough of it left to determine.

“Evil bastards.” There was ice in Flint’s voice.

There was more. According to Blackwell, the killers had disabled smoke alarms, dismantled security cameras.

“How come the noise didn’t wake anyone?” It was a question for himself as much as Blackwell.

“It did, eventually, or we’d be looking at double figures.” The fire investigator brushed off ash that had settled like grimy dandruff. “I’d say there had to be two
arsonists, maybe more. And timing was crucial.” A few seconds out and a perp risked being trapped in the burning building.

Flint’s nod acknowledged the observation. This was no one-man operation. It was team-work, well planned and all too ably executed. On the other hand, all the residents had now been
accounted for – but one of the bodies had yet to be identified. Maybe, Flint thought, that’s where the bastards’ luck ran out.

Byford had spent most of the morning flitting between incident rooms trying to keep on top of an unprecedented workload. The decision-taking and task-assigning was seemingly
endless, as was the tsunami of calls and information from officers on the ground. Christ. He was getting too old for all this. Three major ongoing inquiries: three overall pictures to try to
maintain in a head that pounded.

He’d just popped back to check his desk and was now eating a cheese sandwich in the comparative quiet of his office. His other hand clutched a report from the search team that had gone
through Jazz Ghai’s Balsall Heath flat. It looked as if the cleaners had been in. Byford scowled. No surprise there. Half the city’s criminal underworld knew the police had been on the
Asian’s tail; someone would have tipped him the wink.

And Maxwell?

Byford was on the point of calling off the search. Sapphire, Hawk and Phoenix needed every available police body. He couldn’t justify allocating cash or resources to flush out Maxwell. Not
without something more substantial to go on.

It came in a phone call. He swallowed a mouthful of lunch, lifted the receiver and listened. Then he tossed the rest of the sandwich aside and headed for the control room.

There had been something vaguely familiar about the voice. He asked the officer to play it again, tapped an impatient foot and ran possibilities in his head as the tape was re-cued. The caller
was male, sounded local, middle-aged, ill-educated. Whoever it was had also watched the lunchtime news, had seen the e-fits of Doug’s assailants.

Them fellows you’re after...? Ask Mad Harry...

No one called Maxwell a maniac. Not to his face. Certainly not more than once. Only criminals and cops even knew the nickname.

“Can you trace it?” Byford asked.

The officer shook his head. “Phone box, sir.”

“If he calls again, try and keep him on the line.” Like the man would call. Grassing up Maxwell was equivalent to suicide. Not that the snitch had given more than a blade or two. But
it was enough. Byford decided to keep the search going, see what else might crop up.

The last thing Julia Tate wanted was for other people to classify her as a nosy old biddy, with twitching net curtains and a nose forever stuck in other people’s
business. Miss Marple she was not, thank you very much. But.

Keeping a polite distance was one thing; it was something else entirely to maintain aloof indifference or, God forbid, criminal neglect. If there was – how should she put it – a
problem
next door, she’d never forgive herself.

Julia poured Earl Grey into a porcelain cup, took a genteel sip. Tea always helped her think. Maybe she was just feeling piqued; she’d always been rather over-sensitive. But Julia had so
hoped to make friends with her new neighbour. Not live in each other’s pockets or anything vulgar like that. But the occasional morning coffee would be rather nice, wouldn’t it?

She sank large yellow teeth into a slice of home-baked granary bread thickly spread with homemade marmalade. A retired librarian, living alone, she perhaps had too much time on her hands. She
drifted into the sitting room, munching the remains of breakfast on the way. Look, she thought with a smile, I don’t even possess a net curtain. She drew back the wooden shutters and basked
for a moment or two in the warmth of the sun.

She also happened to notice that the rather ostentatious motorcar wasn’t on next-door’s drive, so she dismissed the idea of popping round with one of her Victoria sponges. Maybe
later... She ought to try to elicit information before deciding whether to take action.

It must be a month now since the woman had moved in and Julia still didn’t know her name. Rather a good-looking blonde with striking green eyes; younger, but surely that didn’t
matter. Julia thought the woman would have welcomed the kindness an older neighbour could offer. Taking in post? Admitting tradesmen? Keeping a protective eye on the place? Julia hadn’t even
mentioned baby-sitting, because back then she hadn’t seen the little boy. Well, she thought it was a little boy – it wasn’t always easy to tell these days, was it? Such lovely
hair, though.

Julia sighed. She’d not spoken at all with the woman since that first time. So she’d had no opportunity to ask if anything was wrong. But surely it wasn’t normal for a little
one to cry so much... And not just during the day; the sobbing woke Julia at night as well. She’d held a tumbler against her ear and pressed it against the bedroom wall. She couldn’t be
sure, but thought she heard the little boy cry for his mummy. It couldn’t be right, leaving a child so young alone in the house, could it? Julia shook her head. She didn’t even think it
was legal.

But one was so afraid to interfere nowadays, wasn’t one?

A quiet word, the very next time she saw the woman. That’s all it should take. Calling social services at this stage seemed so heavy-handed. And yet... the crying haunted Julia. It really
needed some more serious thought.

She turned from the window, drifted back to the kitchen. There should be more tea in the pot. She always made enough for two.