Hard Time (29 page)

She took a deep breath, furious with herself more than the kid. Why hadn’t they come to the agency the second they’d heard about Stephen Cross? Should’ve listened to her gut
instinct, not fed Mac’s fat face. It looked as if her DC’s earlier visit had acted as a wake-up call. The bird had flown. Or at least joined the missing list. Laura Foster wasn’t
expected back at work for two weeks and wasn’t answering any of her phones.

“I don’t think she’s gone away,” Chelsea said. “She cares for a sick relative.”

“Who?”

“Laura.”

Bev clenched her teeth. “Who’s the
relative
?”

Blank look.

“What makes you say she’s a carer?”

The girl hunched her shoulders. “Just a few things she’s let slip. And...”

“What?”

Chelsea glanced round, lowered her voice. “She’s hardly ever here, these days. Wish I could take...”

“Where’s she live?”

The girl frowned. “How would I know?”

Bev tapped a foot. “Have a look in the files.”

“I don’t have access to personnel details.” Poor girl had only been there a month. She looked as if she’d failed the probation, then suddenly had a bright idea.
“You could ask Mr Page. He’d know.”

She surely could. If she had the faintest idea where he was. Bev had been trying to reach him for a couple of hours. He wasn’t answering his mobile, and according to Colin he’d left
The White House shortly after lunch.

Four sachets of sugar and the canteen tea still tasted like piss. Bev could have murdered a pinot but needed all her wits about her. Listlessly she stirred the beige brew,
gazed at the night sky from the top-floor window. Searching for what? Inspiration? Revelation? Perhaps she’d consult the stars. She had a galaxy of questions.

She looked again, really saw the sky this time: the beautiful, seemingly endless dark blue, a flawless backdrop for a perfect silver moon. The universe put things in perspective, didn’t
it? So vast, so deep, so unfathomable. Like this sodding case.

Where the hell was Jenny Page? They’d had a flood of sightings from viewers who’d watched the media appeals. A couple of reports had sounded promising, but didn’t deliver.
Teams were still monitoring calls, following up as and when.

At least Richard Page was back at the house in Moseley. Mac was there making sure it stayed that way. As for Laura Foster – she could be anywhere. She’d recently moved, and when Bev
had asked Page, he said she hadn’t given anyone her new address yet. Yeah, right.

What were the links? They had to be there.
Think it through, girl.
At least the canteen was empty this time of night. No distractions.

“Stir for Europe you could, BM.” DI Powell nodded at the spoon in her hand, still doing the rounds.

BM?
New one, that. “What you doing here?” She gave the tea a few more whirls, licked the spoon.

“The canteen?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Or at all?”

The resignation letter? Double shit. “Bit cryptic for me, that one.”

“Thought you knew everything, BM. Before it happens, most of the time.” Sweat beaded his hairline; she could count the droplets, he was that close. “Thieving from a senior
officer? I could have you on a disciplinary.”

She floundered for a fib.
PMT? HRT? PTSD?
“I didn’t want you to go.” The blurted admission shocked them both.

He backed off, frowning. “Say that again.”

“I didn’t want you to go.” She peered at the cut on his forehead; it was healing nicely but would scar.

The DI flopped into the chair opposite. “You taking the piss?”

She’d nothing to lose. “Look, mate, you can be a right pain in the arse. There’s times I’d like to give you a good slapping.” She glanced away. “But I’d
miss you if you weren’t here.”

“Fancy me, do you?”

“Pur-lease.” She caught the smile tugging his lips. Best line he’d ever cracked.

It broke the ice floe between them. They chatted for a while: cases, cops, work in general. Being upfront had opened him up too; he was easy, relaxed. She’d have to suck up more often. She
kept an eye on the time but Powell was off anyway. He scraped the chair back, delved in pockets for car keys. “Catch you tomorrow. And don’t worry about the letter business. Next time
though, keep it out, eh?” He tapped the side of his nose.

She was so busy lying through her teeth she didn’t get the chance to ask what BM was short for. Had to be Bev Morriss. Didn’t it?

When Bev left an hour later, the light was on in the guv’s office. She frowned. What was he up to this time of night? Not far off ten. Maybe she’d nip in, mention
where she was off to? Her inspiration was recent and she was keen to give it a whirl. Though SOCOs had already fine-tooth-combed Cross’s place, had they looked for a link to Laura Foster?
Only one way to find out. It was gut instinct again more than anything, and if she told the guv, he’d probably put the kibosh on it. No harm saying goodnight, though.

The door inched open when she gave it a gentle tap. “Guv...?”

He wasn’t at his desk, she couldn’t see his briefcase, the fedora was gone, the cactus looked to be on the way out. She shook her head with a smile: last time she’d buy him
anything. She’d do him a good turn, though. He must’ve forgotten to switch off; the computer was booted as well. As she bent for the plug, her glance fell on a note.

Not that the guv had written a lot. Harry Maxwell’s name underlined, plus Grant Young’s circled. Maybe Young had come up with some goodies on the crime boss. The guv hadn’t
mentioned anything, though.

She shrugged. Please himself. End of the day, he was boss, she was lowly DS. That was the relationship. Having the hots for him didn’t figure in the equation. It’d never work anyway.
How d’you know?
I just do.
Ask him out.
Get lost.
No way.
Back off.

The internal dialogue raged as she leafed through the diary. She almost talked herself into making him an offer involving Haagen Das and a lot of rubber. Until she saw where he was tonight: a
party at Young’s in Kings Heath for
Hard Time.
She sniffed. Good of him to share.

Not that she was exactly broadcasting her own imminent spot of moonlighting.

She hoisted her bag, ready to hit the road, then gasped, threw a hand to her mouth.“Holy Mary.” There was a body hanging behind the door.

It took less than a second to realise her mistake. “Fuckwit,” she snarled. It was the guv’s black suit draped on a coat hanger over the lintel. Relief flooded Bev’s
system, already awash with adrenalin. She closed her eyes, took steadying breaths. Byford must have brought the suit in for the funeral tomorrow. She wasn’t going, hadn’t known Doug
Edensor well.

As she went past she caught a whiff of the guv’s aftershave clinging to the dark material. She backed up, breathed it in. Then she remembered Jenny Page. Burying her face in her lost
boy’s t-shirt.

Holly hadn’t recognised the handwriting on the cheap white envelope. Why should she? Lots of mail had arrived after the programme, much of it badly written in green
ink on lined notepaper, sick suggestions from pathetic perverts. The producer had warned about dodgy post. But she wasn’t troubled by their fucked-up fantasies; she’d lived through
worse. The letters went on the fire.

Appearing on television could succeed where everything else she’d tried had failed. The documentary was called
Lost and Found? –
a showcase for reuniting loved ones. One of
the other contributors met his birth mother for the first time within days of its transmission. But for Holly the question mark remained. Weeks went past and she began to believe her worst fear was
founded.

And then the letter had arrived.

It was not from her mother. But as Holly read, her heart raced, tears flowed even as she laughed in delight. She held the letter in both hands, danced round the room, already planning the
visit.

Why had it never occurred to her before? Of course – she had a
grandmother
. And granny, as she’d signed herself, was dying to meet Holly.

Holly travelled to Bolton in blissful ignorance. She’d suppressed worrying niggles about the letter. It was snobbish to associate the cheap paper and untidy scrawl with common people.
But her suspicions were more than founded. After watching
Lost and Found?
her granny had seen Holly as a meal ticket.

The old woman wanted cash for information, turned nasty when requests were refused. At first Holly dismissed the vitriol as lies, clamped her hands over her ears. The witch said her mother
was a slut who got pregnant at fifteen. That she had blackmailed the father – a married man – and had taken off with the hush money for a new life in London. That she’d never had
any intention of keeping the baby.

Granny should have kept her mouth shut. Especially when she told Holly she’d chucked the filthy tramp out anyway.

After the ‘accident’ on the stairs, Holly searched the mean little house. The shock at seeing her mother’s image for the first time was staggering. It was like looking at a
photograph of herself. The picture was in a battered suitcase along with her mother’s birth certificate and other documents. Enough to trace her.

Holly might have ended the search there. But she found the newspaper cuttings in a shoebox on top of the cheap wardrobe. That shock was even greater, the tears now scalding and bitter.
Miracle baby, coldest night, lucky to be alive...

Her mother had left her to die.

Every hope and wish was destroyed in that instant. Everything changed: her past, present and future. Holly started planning her revenge.

Life wasn’t the only thing the bitch would lose.

The key to Stephen Cross’s pad was in Bev’s pocket; she’d lifted it from an evidence bag in the exhibits room. The crime-scene guys had found nothing
suspicious or incriminating, nada to suggest Cross’s fall had been anything other than accidental. She’d studied their search report; it hadn’t even mentioned Laura Foster. But
maybe they were unaware of the possible link? Or maybe Bev thought she could do a better job. Either way, she’d not rest till she knew.

She parked the Midget a couple of streets away. Last thing she wanted was an audience and Priory Rise, as Mac had discovered, was full of nosy neighbours. She glanced round casually as she
locked the motor. At least she could be sure it’d have a full set of wheels on her return. This was nob territory, not asbo turf.

An elderly man doffed his cap as he ambled past, so she must look respectable. She nodded, flashed him a smile. The evening was warm and still; Bev was hot and bothered. She took brisk steps,
deep breaths. The air carried heady scents from immaculate gardens.

Hampton Place was peaceful, deserted; the gates of the school glinted in the moonlight. She recalled her first visit, the day Daniel was abducted. Her spine tingled; she hurried on, reminded of
that stupid expression: someone walking over your grave. How the hell could you feel a pair of size sevens when you were six feet under?

The box for the burglar alarm was in the hall. The disabling code had appeared in the search report and was now scribbled on her wrist. The job would be easier with house lights on but she
didn’t want to alert the neighbours. The pencil torch and moonbeams would have to do.

Start at the top. Cross wasn’t big on clutter. The rooms were sparse: bare walls, polished floorboards, sleek lines, sharp designs. All class – little character. What seemed hours
later, she stood in the hall. Here and there she’d caught a whiff of perfume. She’d smelt it before, couldn’t pin it down. Apart from that, the place was clean, far as she could
tell. The kitchen was the only room left to search. Was it worth it?

Wished she hadn’t bothered. Cross was as stainless as his steel and gleaming pots. Might’ve known he was too cute to leave clues lying around. Talk about anti-climax: pissed off
wasn’t even close. Her reflection in the huge mirror said it all.

She stiffened. Another face stared back – but not human. The clock. Breath bated, she backed and turned. Arms raised, she ran her fingers along the ledge under the dial.

A slip of paper. Don’t get your hopes up, girl. It could be a bill, a receipt, a...

A handwritten address. She’d see it before but was pretty sure it hadn’t been in Cross’s contacts book. She took it through to the hall, checked it against every entry. No
match. Not there, then. Where?

Come on, girl. Come on.
She studied the writing again. The squiggle in the bottom corner of the paper put her in mind of Frankie’s flamboyant curlicues. She smiled briefly then
frowned. What if...? She squinted, looked closer. The writer had done a Frankie – run his or her initials together in an almost indecipherable scrawl. Almost. Interpreting the squiggle
differently, this time Bev traced the letters with a finger: an L and an F.

She gave a low whistle. Laura Foster – the no-longer-missing link. As for the address, she’d definitely seen it before and recently. Suddenly it clicked. Bev grabbed her bag, ran out
of the house. The grave walker was on her case again.

“What did she say, Vince? The exact words?” The phone was tucked under Bev’s chin. She was either way off-beam or knew where Daniel was being held. And who
was holding him. Either way, she’d be there in ten minutes. The driver in front sat on a red for a second; Bev hit the horn, flashed the lights.

“Just trying to think,” Vince muttered. The TV blared in the background. She’d caught the desk sergeant at home, hoping he could supply a brushstroke or two to the nascent
picture in her head.

“Come on, come on.” It emerged louder than she’d intended.

“Hold your horses.”

She tapped the wheel, only vaguely aware of her surroundings. People were having fun. The streets were buzzing, life was going on as normal. But the bright lights were a blur, her focus
elsewhere. She was seeing an old lady in a purple suit complaining to Vince about noisy neighbours.

The old woman’s address had been on the back of the shopping list dropped at Highgate: 12 Marlborough Close. It’d rung a bell as soon as Bev stumbled across the scrap of paper in
Stephen Cross’s kitchen. Apart from being one house number out, she’d been spot on.