Hard Time (30 page)

“It was mostly about a kid crying.”

“Yeah, Vince, but you said something else.” As Bev had been leaving. God, don’t let her regret that. “Dig deep, mate.” She counted to ten.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Most complaints are a damn sight worse. It hadn’t even been going on that long.”

She tightened her grip. “How long?”

“’Bout a week.”

And how long had Daniel Page been missing?

Byford sat in the Rover outside Grant Young’s place, debating whether to stay for a drink or just pick up the wreath and the card and get off home. He wondered what
Young’s media cronies made of George Road. Back-street Birmingham would be way out of their comfort zone.

He looked in the mirror, straightened his hair with his fingers. Must be getting vain in his old age. He gave a wry smile. If he went ahead with the programme, when he hit his dotage he could
play it to his grandkids. Bore them to death about the good old days.

Silly ass. The big man rubbed both hands over his face, knackered. What he really needed was an early night. But it had been a gruelling few days; maybe a break from the grind was what he
needed. And he owed Young a favour. Bit of
quid pro quo
wouldn’t hurt.

Curry and cabbage odours lingered in the evening air. Black bin liners spilled rank contents on to the pavement. Byford sidestepped a chicken carcass and cracked eggshells. Early shout for the
bin men tomorrow as well as the squad.

Tomorrow. He halted briefly. Doug Edensor was being buried in the morning, a week to the day since Robbie Crawford’s funeral.

Night had fallen; the air was still. As Bev drove past the nick, she gave a grim smile; Marlborough Close was just round the corner. How ironic would that be? Nah. She shook
her head, almost convinced by now she was chasing phantoms, figments of her wishful thinking. Crying is what kids do.

But enough to persuade a concerned neighbour to contact the police after less than a week? So why ignore the voice in her head urging her to call for backup? She told herself it was about
protecting Daniel. But was it? Breaking the case would restore her shaky self-confidence and credibility at a stroke. She sniffed, dismissed the notion; more pressing concerns to get on with.

She pulled over two doors down from number 14, switched the engine off. The houses were redbrick Edwardian: solid, reassuring, sitcom land. Easy to forget that the main drag was so close. Except
for road-rage sound effects. And the police sirens. She frowned. They were going off like there was no tomorrow.

She dropped the window an inch, lit a cigarette. Number 12 was in darkness. She glanced at the clock on the dash: half-ten. The old woman was probably in bed. In an ideal world she’d have
a word with Julia Tate first, but this was Highgate.

She inhaled deeply, savoured the nicotine hit, flicked the butt out of the car. Now or never. Momentary hesitation. Should she think it through a tad more? Sod that. She’d be here all
night. She snapped the seat belt, grabbed her bag. As she locked the car, her gaze homed in on number 14. Even if she’d got it totally wrong, worst-case scenario was egg on her face.

Snatches of Mozart, a buzz of conversation from within. Byford arranged his features into a sociable smile, rang the bell. Better late than never. The party volume increased
when Young opened the door.

“Bill! Come in – good to see you.” He took the big man’s fedora, hung it from a hook in the hall. The wreath was against the wall. “Drinks are in there.” He
pointed to the end door. “Go through. I’ll do the intros.”

It sounded as if the party was in full swing. Byford took two steps into the room; froze. It didn’t make sense. Only two people were in there. Instant silence as the party soundtrack was
switched off. Agonising pain as something crashed into the back of his head.

In the split second before he hit the floor, he realised he’d seen the two faces before. But then, though no one touched the lights, everything went black.

As Bev approached the house, a light came on at an upstairs window. They’d probably close the curtains in a min, see her if they looked out. She hung back; the element of
surprise was about the only advantage she had.

Thank God she’d waited. Her phone started up like a burglar alarm. Talk about early warning. Best switch the sodding thing off. She delved in her bag, peered at the screen. Brighton
number. Paula Ryland. The DI wouldn’t phone for a friendly chat this time of night. She sighed, hit return call. It’d take a minute, max.

“What took you so long?” Not friendly: brisk and businesslike. The man charged with Andy Quinn’s murder, Ronnie Stone, had offered a deal, she said. If they dropped charges,
he’d drop his paymaster in the shit.

“We talked a reduced sentence, maybe, and he finally went along.”

“And?”

“Andy Quinn was number three on a hit list. His boss is going after cops.”

“Robert Crawford and Doug Edensor?” Bev closed her eyes.

“One and two. There’s one more to go.”

She didn’t need to ask. She was surprised she could talk, let alone sound reasonably calm. “What’s happening now?”

Highgate was handling it, Ryland said. The superintendent wasn’t answering any of his phones, but as far as she knew an armed response unit was ready to go.

“Go where?”

“Kings Heath.”

“Why there?” Bev frowned. “Anyway, Harry Maxwell’s in custody.”

A pause, two heartbeats. “Who’s Harry Maxwell?”

Then she saw it. The guv’s diary. The Kings Heath address. There was a roar in her ears; she clung to the wall for support.

“Jesus Christ. Paula, get on the radio. Warn Highgate.” Her voice broke. “Byford’s in there.”

Bev dropped to her haunches, stomach heaving. She had to get there, make sure the guv was OK. First had to wait out the shallow breaths, shaking limbs. As she reached the Midget, she glanced
back at the house.

And knew she had to stay. A little boy was standing at the window. A little boy with a shorn head, green eyes and tears sliding down his cheeks.

The pain was blinding, breathtaking. Arms pinned back, body strapped to a hard chair, Byford couldn’t move. Eyes slowly opening, he gasped as he saw his distorted
reflection in a lens. Two cameras on tripods were trained on him – and a gun. He tried not to flinch as Young stroked the barrel down his cheek.

Byford sensed they were alone. No sign of the two men he’d recognised before blacking out. The witness’s e-fits had been accurate. They were the goons who’d murdered Doug
Edensor. Sent by Young. Not Maxwell.

Byford winced as his head was yanked savagely to the side. The cameras recorded every tic, every bead of sweat. Young jabbed the gun at a monitor. “Private screening. Watch.”

He squinted. The hand-held jerky shots were difficult to make out. But Byford knew, felt his blood run cold. Three crime scenes, three dead cops. The bastard had filmed the murders.

“No long lens for you, though, big man.” He recoiled as Young’s saliva slithered down his face. “Up close and personal.”

“You won’t get away with it.” It was a line from a crap film.

“I know.” Young’s eyes were already dead. “But I’ll take you with me.”

The armed response unit was at Young’s place; Bev had elicited that much from control. Officers on the ground were keeping comms to a minimum. She slipped the police
radio in her bag anyway. Right now all she wanted was to grab Daniel, get this thing over, get to the guv. Fired up, distracted, she hammered on the door.

Not Laura Foster. Jenny Page. Jenny was the last person Bev expected to see. But a closer look showed that it wasn’t Daniel’s mother. A younger version – the blonde hair a
shade darker, the green eyes more vibrant. Same gene bank, though. No time for twenty questions. No time for any.

“Police. I know Daniel’s here.” She flashed her warrant card. “I’m taking him home and I’m taking you in.”

“Don’t be ridic...”

She raised a finger. “The bedroom. I’ve seen him.”

“Shouldn’t have untied him, should I?” The woman gave a resigned shrug. “You’d better come in.”

Wrong-footed, Bev followed warily, darting uneasy glances. The sitting room was minimalist, neutral shades, nothing fancy; french doors leading out back, sliding door into the rest of the place.
Bev stood with her back to the wall. “Fetch Daniel, please.”

The eyes held a warning. “Not yet.” In the silence, more sirens.

Bev took a step closer. Getting the boy out was priority. If it came to a fight, the woman was on a loser. “Have you hurt him?”

“All relative, isn’t it?” She sneered. “You may as well sit. He’s going nowhere till I’ve seen his mother.”

“You’ll be lucky,” Bev mocked. “She’s legged it.”

“Wrong again,
detective
. She’ll be here any minute.” An eyebrow arched in contempt as she took great delight in putting Bev right. Jenny Page was simply following
instructions, lying low in a back-street hotel until the handover.

“Why the f...?”

Haughty. Defiant. “Because I wanted her to.”

Bev shook her head. It was a power thing, the act of a control freak. A zillion thoughts swirling, she watched as the blonde lowered herself on to a leather sofa, languidly crossed her legs,
raised a wine glass to her lips. And then it dawned. The mannerisms, the voice, the pose: the picture in Bev’s head was turning into a family portrait.

“You’re the daughter,” she breathed.

The blonde put down the glass, started a slow handclap. “Give the dog a bone.” Malevolence in the green eyes. “Not very good at this detecting lark, are you, Bev?”

She blinked. The ID had only been flashed.

“You really don’t know, do you?” She laughed, too loud, throwing her head back.

Bev itched to knock it off her shoulders. Her own head was spinning. The young woman had to be Jenny’s supposedly stillborn daughter. That explained the lack of a death certificate. But
not how she knew Bev’s name...

She froze. The woman was reaching into her bag. Knife? Gun?

Glasses. Fashionable dark frames. Bev recalled trying them on, posing for Mac. Fucking shame they hadn’t improved her eyesight.

“They’re clear glass. Amazed you didn’t pick up on that.” The woman laughed again. “I use contact lenses, myself. Blue ones.”

To go with the Laura Foster ebony bob. Bev closed her eyes. Poor vision? Blind, more like. But what had Jenny Page done to deserve revenge as savage as this? There was only one answer. And it
suddenly slotted into place.

“She gave you away, didn’t she, Laura?” Bev’s phone beeped; she ignored it.

“Gave?” The laugh chilled Bev’s bones. “The bitch
dumped
me, the day I was born. Just before Christmas, in a public toilet. On the coldest night of the year. A
miracle baby, they called me.” She raised her glass. “And my name is Holly.”

Bev shook her head. Why hadn’t she seen it? From day one the kidnap had been intensely personal, an attack aimed at the mother. She aimed for damage limitation. “Maybe she
thought...”

“The bitch didn’t think.” Holly poured a refill from an almost empty bottle. “It was out of the frying pan into the furnace for me.” Impassive, she described a
grotesque childhood that turned Bev’s stomach. Abducting Daniel was payback time.

Bev bit her lip. Though never excusable, taking Jenny’s son was maybe understandable. But what could she say? Sorry your life’s been shit. Now I’m taking you in.

“Your phone.” It was beeping again. “Turn it off.”

Reluctantly Bev reached into her bag; somewhere the balance of power had shifted. She cast a quick glance at the screen: missed calls and messages. Dear God, let the guv be OK.

“What’s she like?” Holly asked casually, elegant ankle swinging.

“Your mother? You’ve never...?”

“Not in the flesh. Twenty-two years old and I’ve never actually seen her. Liam met his birth mother days after doing the telly.”

She must’ve misheard. “Sorry?”

“Liam Fallon. He was on the programme with me –
Lost and Found?
I’ll miss Liam.”

Bev knew nada about any TV show. Far as she was aware, Liam was the Selly Oak misper who might or might not have perished in the Monks Court fire. She was getting a bad vibe. “Why will you
miss him, Holly?”

“He’s dead, of course. He couldn’t get out.” She bit the skin round her thumbnail, winced when it drew blood. Bev wiped clammy hands on her skirt. What the hell had she
got herself into? “We kept in touch after the programme.” Holly smiled. “We even had a bit of thing going for a while. I told him about the abuse, what I’d been through
growing up. He was more than happy when I asked him to help me set the blaze.”

It took a superhuman effort not to react. “Monks Court? Why did you do that, Holly?”

The blonde stared at her hands. “My adoptive father used to bring his sick friends along sometimes for a little extra fun. Satan’s cronies, I called them. I may not know all the
names but I never forget a face. I bumped into one of them in the street. He didn’t even recognise me, but I followed him back to that pervs’ hostel. It’s sad about Liam, but men
like that...”

Bev swallowed; pictured a young police officer with a sunny smile. Itched to beat the shit out of the woman. Then a thought occurred. “Stephen Cross...? Was he another crony?”

“His was a name I did remember,” she spat. “I tracked him down. Amazing how helpful he was, to protect his precious reputation. Until the spineless bastard got too scared,
threatened to go to the police.”

Bev tried to keep a lid on her rising panic. The woman was barking. The abuse hadn’t just damaged her childhood. “Holly, don’t worry about...Satan. Give us his details.
We’ll bring him in.”

“You’ll be lucky.” More brittle laughter.

“Dead, is he?”

“And his bitch of a wife. It was a shame Amy died too.”

No question, Bev thought; she was in striking distance of a psycho serial killer. She jumped when Holly leaped to her feet, walked to the window, gazed out. “Where the fuck is
she?”

A knock on the door answered the question. Bev had one too. “What are you going to do?”