Hard Time (26 page)

He opened the bottle of malt he kept in a filing cabinet and poured an inch into a paper cup. He hadn’t eaten since lunch; the scotch burned a path to his gut. Reluctant to return to an
empty house just yet, the detective adopted his habitual thinking pose: head back, feet on desk. Bev’s gibe about an open mind had hit a raw nerve. He’d been unwilling to authorise a
round-the-clock tail on Richard Page, but had ordered search teams and surveillance on Maxwell. Not that she was aware of that.

Like the rest of the squad, she was wrapped up in the Page inquiry. If she regarded Maxwell at all, it was as a side issue. And maybe she was right. Byford feared he was in danger of becoming
obsessed with the man. He’d barely discussed the case with Bev or anyone else. He felt he was ploughing a solitary furrow.

Except for the media. Maxwell’s ugly mug was still getting a fair share of exposure. A last resort, maybe. Byford hoped it’d pay off. He raised the cup, sank the contents,
half-smiled at the thought that popped into his head: here’s looking at you, Harry.

The water sloshed over the sides of the glass as Jenny Page’s hand jerked. Desperate for sleep, she swallowed the pills one by one. Staring in the mirror, she barely
recognised her reflection. And didn’t care. Didn’t care either about the fine house, the gleaming cars, the designer clothes – none of it meant a thing. All she wanted was her
son. And he was beyond her reach. Jenny Page, so accustomed to being in control, was at the mercy of faceless monsters. Since Daniel’s disappearance, she’d existed in a state of
absolute constant terror, had never imagined such mind-numbing fear existed.

With pale slender arms stretched out to maintain a precarious balance, she drifted to the side of the bed. She was dizzy; her face felt on fire, her hair plastered to her scalp. She’d
burned the other notes – taunting, torturing threats – flushed the charred flakes down the toilet. She retrieved the latest message from where she’d hidden it inside a satin
pillowcase, read the instructions again. Where she should go, what to do with the money. And what would happen if she failed, or involved the police.

He’d be killed in forty-eight hours if she didn’t do what they said. But could she trust them? How could she be sure they’d return Dan-Dan?

Jenny pictured the woman detective she’d so nearly confided in: DS Morriss, was it? Bev? The wooziness was getting worse, her forehead felt clammy, she had to lie down. Maybe Richard was
right. Bringing the police in could be a fatal mistake. How had he put it? Ruthless professionals against a bunch of amateurs. Poor Richard was a pawn too, making the pick-ups, sneaking the vile
notes back to the house. If only she could sleep for more than a couple of hours at a stretch. It could clear her thoughts. Maybe make a decision a little easier.

Daniel’s t-shirt lay on top of the duvet next to her. Jenny buried her face in it, though all trace of the little boy’s scent had gone. She broke down, sobbed herself into troubled
sleep, oblivious of the tears that soaked into the soft cloth.

Emmy Morriss wiped the tears from her eyes. She’d not laughed so much since last dropping by Baldwin Street. Not that Bev was back yet. “Eeh, you should be on
stage, girl.”

“Darlink, I am.” Frankie tossed a glossy curtain of ebony curls, slapped theatrical hand to forehead. She had singing gigs lined up for months but it was her miming talent that was
creasing Emmy. “Your turn, Mrs M.”

“Y’know what I mean, lovie.” Emmy plucked a card from the box. “You should be a star. Get yourself on one of them shows.”

“Sky at Night?”
Frankie delved into a family pack of liquorice allsorts. They were playing Charades. Bev’s mum was a games freak: she’d play Battleships on the
Titanic
.

“I’m serious,” Emmy sniffed. “
The X Factor,
something like that. You’d run rings round that lot.”

“Don’t give her ideas, Mum. Head the size of a planet as it is.” The twinkle in Bev’s eye softened the barb. A twinkle the spit of Emmy’s.

“Bev!” Mrs Morriss rushed over, drew her daughter into loving arms. Frankie fixed her best friend with a stare and pointedly bit into one of Bev’s favourite sweets. “Do I
know you?” she asked, deadpan.

“Funny girl.” Bev ambled over, snatched the pack. “That was the last one!”

“Get over it, muppet.”

“Moose.”

“Ming...”

“Girls, girls.” Emmy called them to order just as she had for twenty-odd years.

The banter continued, good-natured, familiar; it gave Bev a rosy glow, like the warmth of the welcome from two people who mattered in her life. They were as far removed from the arse-wipes she
came across on the job as chalk from mature cheddar.

Even without the gales of laughter, Bev had known the second she stepped in the house her mum was there. Wherever she went, Emmy trailed a signature scent of orange shampoo and peppermint. The
chocolate cake and cheese scones on the kitchen table gave the game away as well. Bev’s quick peek in the freezer had confirmed the mercy-dash nature of her mum’s mission. There was
enough comfort food to keep her and Frankie going for a month. Chili, shepherd’s pie, lasagne, stews, soups. Eat your heart out, McDonalds. There was an opened bottle of frascati too. Silly
not to, wasn’t it? She’d grabbed it and headed for the sitting room, but rather than wade straight in had stood and eavesdropped on the two women for a moment.

The girlish giggling was infectious; an unwitting grin had spread across her face. It gladdened her cynical cop’s heart to hear them joshing round. Christ, sometimes Frankie got on better
with Em than Bev did. Not that Bev minded. Frankie had lost her mum when she was a kid. If Em wanted to play surrogate, that was fine by Bev.

She’d been taken aback for an instant, though, when she’d peeped through the half-open door. People always said she and Emmy were two peas in a pod but this was the first time Bev
saw where they were coming from. She sniffed. Em must’ve had a facelift. Bev couldn’t possibly be showing her age.

Now she sat round with them drinking wine, chewing the cud, snaffling a bowl of nuts. Frankie’s latest demo CD played in the background as they talked birthdays, books and blokes. When
Frankie slid over with the frascati, Bev held out a glass but Emmy covered hers with a hand. “No thanks, sweetheart. I’d better get home.”

Bev hauled herself to her feet. “Gran OK?”

Emmy screwed up her face, searched for her keys. “Not brill.” It was two years since the vicious attack on Sadie. The old woman rarely ventured out now and was nervy staying in
alone. “Vi from next door’s with her.”

Bev nodded, unsmiling. Her spiky feisty gran reduced to needing a sodding babysitter. Bev had reduced the scumbag attacker to a bloody pulp. His wounds would be healed now; Sadie would take her
scars to the grave.

“She’d love to see a bit more of you, Bev.” It was gentle but an admonition nonetheless. Fact was, it pained Bev to see the old lady. Sadie’s way of coping was to talk
about it, relive the trauma over and over. It revived memories Bev desperately wanted to let go. “I’ll do my best, honest.”

Emmy paused in the hall, studied her daughter’s face. “Looking a bit peaky, sweetheart. You OK?”

“’Course I am.” Felt like shit, had for a couple of days. Went with the bad-diet-lack-of-sleep territory. She let Emmy get to her Punto at the kerb, then called, “Thanks
for the grub, mum.”

Emmy blew a kiss. “You’re welcome.”

“Did I tell you I’d gone veggie?”

“Yes, dear. And I’m Linda McCartney.”

Maybe it was the nuts or the slab of chocolate cake, but there was a storm brewing in Bev’s gut four hours later. Staggering to the bathroom, she vowed never to let food
pass her lips again. After sluicing her face and brushing her teeth, she stole to the kitchen, helped herself to a bowl of Frankie’s cornflakes.

Sneaking cereal upstairs and scoffing it under the bedclothes reminded her of illicit midnight feasts when they were kids. Mind, the orthodontically aware Emmy would’ve had a fit had she
known. Bev sat cross-legged on the duvet, feeding her slightly guilty face. She smiled fondly as she pictured her mum. She loved the old bird to bits, couldn’t imagine life without her. It
was inconceivable, going through life without a mother’s love. Look at Frankie. OK, Gio Perlagio would die for his daughter. But Bev knew Frankie would give her right arm to have her ma
back.

The spoon froze halfway to Bev’s mouth. Jenny Page had lost her mother too. A daughter had died at birth. And now her son’s life was in danger. Bev closed her eyes. How much of a
battering could the maternal bond take?

How far would Jenny Page go to get her son back?

The cornflakes lost their appeal. Deep in thought, she slipped the bowl on to the bedside table. Jenny hadn’t said a word to Bev about the stillbirth; she’d not exactly opened up
about her mother’s death. Then again, Bev hadn’t been able to get near Daniel’s mother for days.

She reached for a notepad next to the lamp. A minute later, the to-do list had a new top line. If the Pages were deliberately keeping the inquiry in the dark, a few checks first thing might just
shed some light.

Edgbaston wasn’t on the way in to work for Mac Tyler, but he generally followed through on what he said. He had an eye for detail and despite the borderline scruffy
appearance was a sharp cookie. The lumberjack-wannabe look was deliberate. People often underestimated him; it was well sweet when they came a cropper.

Mac had no reason to suspect the elusive Stephen Cross was anything other than a witness, a pretty unreliable one at that. But the fact he’d not bothered to make any return calls bugged
the DC. Showing a bit of common courtesy didn’t hurt, did it?

He cruised past Cross’s pad a couple of times to suss signs of life. One more lap and he’d pull over, pay a personal call. He’d finish the bacon roll first before it got cold.
Priory Rise was more muesli-and-smoothie territory. The DC cast a few envious glances as he drove, reckoned his finances could just about stretch to a garage. Make that a kennel. Still, at least
his imminently ex-missus had agreed to let the boys stay this weekend.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror, caught sight of a fit-looking lass coming out of one of the houses near Cross’s place. He gave a low whistle. Even at this distance she was well tasty,
legs up to her ear lobes. He drove on, taking in the sights. Summer was good for tottie: high temperatures, rising hemlines; great for bird-watching.

His face froze; the three-point turn was fluid and fast. The woman hadn’t emerged from a house
near
Stephen Cross’s. It
was
his place. And unless Mac was very much
mistaken, the bird he’d fancied a minute ago was one he’d spotted before.

“Laura
Foster
?” Bev’s voice was so high-pitched it went off the register. Throat cleared, she tried again. “Laura Foster? You sure?”
Another early bird, Bev had been busy catching worms of her own when Mac called. But it looked as if her DC had netted a big one.

“I was,” he said. He’d given chase, but Ms Foster – if that’s who it was – must’ve had wheels round the corner. He told Bev he’d tailed a Porsche
for a couple of miles, thinking Laura was driving. At Fiveways roundabout, he’d clocked the face properly. Turned out to be some cocky bloke who gave Mac the finger for giving him the
eye.

The DC was now on his mobile standing outside Cross’s executive pile back in Priory Rise. Short of a battering ram, he wasn’t going any further. No one had answered, let alone
admitted him, despite repeated hammerings. Mac’s activities were attracting more attention from a man across the road dragging an ancient spaniel and the woman at number eight who was a dead
ringer for the Duchess of Cornwall.

“And now?” Bev sucked a biro, thoughts racing. What was Richard Page’s right-hand woman doing with Stephen Cross? Cross hadn’t given them much, but he was the only
witness they had to what could have been Daniel’s kidnap. “You still sure?”

Mac hesitated. Wished he’d focused more on the face. “Wouldn’t swear to it.”

“Shit.”

“What does Cross do?” Mac asked.

“Architect. He’s not a client of Page’s, if that’s what you’re thinking.” The ad agency list was on her desk; she’d already double-checked. She’d
run Cross’s details through criminal records days ago; they’d come out clean. “Even if he was on their books, why would she pay a home visit? And so early?”

“Working breakfast?”

She snorted, didn’t buy it.

“Bit of how’s your father?” Mac suggested.

“Shagging?” Her lip twitched. For an old lech, Mac didn’t half mince his words.

“
Tres
eloquent.”

Didn’t matter how you put it, she doubted Cross put it anywhere near the female of the species. “I’m sure he’s gay.”

“Maybe he just hadn’t come across the lovely Laura when you saw him.”

“Fast fucking workers, then,” Bev drawled. No, if Mac really had seen Laura leaving Stephen Cross’s place there had to be another reason. She’d just not come up with it
yet. Not when she was still trying to get her head round the worms she’d unearthed.

“What now, sarge?”

She sighed. No sense staking out the place. Couldn’t afford to lose a body for one thing. “Best get to the agency. Hear what Ms Foster has to say.” Phoning wasn’t an
option. If Laura had gone straight to the office, she’d be wearing the same gear. Might help Mac make the ID. And for anyone with something to hide, lying was a lot easier at the end of a
line.

“Mac?” All she could hear was a dog barking and muffled voices in the background. She tapped the biro; at this rate she’d miss the brief. She assumed the heavy breather now
offending her ears was Mac. “What was that all about?”

“Sorry, sarge. Some nosy twat over the road reckoned I was casing the joint and called the cops. I nearly got arrested.”

At about the time Mac was evading arrest, there was no such get-out clause for Harry Maxwell. Control was on the phone to Byford: two uniformed officers acting on a tip-off to
the hotline number had picked Maxwell up in a not-so-safe house in Handsworth. The crime boss was in the back of a police car on the way to Highgate, threatening to sue the arse off everyone from
the Chief Constable down. The steer must have come from someone in the know. Maybe there was honour among thieves and pimps. And porn chiefs? Byford allowed himself a raised fist and a silent
gotcha
. A slow smile spread across his strained face as he replaced the receiver.