Hard Time (5 page)

Naomi Campbell.
Pope shook his head. If Bev ever needed a proper job, she could try stand-up. Pope had switched to news reporting because he was sick of a police culture so politically
correct that cops were scared of their own farts. It stank because in the main it was still all lip service. Gobby headstrong mavericks like Morriss were the new endangered species.

Mind, for a woman sharper than a syringe factory she’d not cottoned on to his career move. Pope told himself he hadn’t lied, hadn’t tried to hide the fact that he’d
turned in the badge. Bev had made all the assumptions. It had always been a failing: rushing in, jumping to, presuming that, this and the other. If she hadn’t dashed off, he’d have put
her straight there and then. Probably.

Question was: would he keep her name out of it? Quoting her direct would drop her in shit so deep she’d be struggling for air. He didn’t relish doing that to a mate. And he might
need her again.

Glancing in the mirror, he eased the motor into early evening city-bound traffic. He could murder a drink and there was no deadline to worry about. He’d give the Morriss thing some thought
over a pint or three.

“Dead original.” DI Mike Powell tilted his blond head at a discreet road sign: The Close. Behind the wheel, DC Carol Pemberton could care less; she was keeping an
eye out for the Page place. It was a
tres
des res in what was becoming Moseley’s most prestigious development. The Close’s classic Georgian dimensions were pretty convincing,
considering a screw factory had occupied the site three years back.

Powell checked his teeth in the mirror for green bits, and after a quick adjustment to his dove-grey necktie reckoned he was ready for anything. The guv’s order had come as a bit of a
shock. Bev Morriss should’ve been a natural to interview the boy’s father but she’d got another bloody beehive in her bonnet. And Powell had to pick up the pieces. Talk about
making allowances. It was the police service, not the social. Powell had worked his arse off arranging a six-thirty news conference. It was five-fifteen now; if they didn’t get a move on
he’d miss the action. Suppose he could leave Carol mopping up the dregs; girl needed the experience.

“There.” He thrust a finger across her line of sight, indicating a pristine property on the right, aptly named The White House.

Already pulling over, Carol shot him a pointed
gee thanks
look.

The man waiting anxiously in the doorway had to be Daniel’s father. His arms were tight across his chest, the left leg jerked like it was wired. Even Powell could feel the tension. The DI
extended a hand that went either unnoticed or ignored. Richard Page wasn’t into polite preamble.

“Have you found him?”

“Not yet, Mr Page.” Powell reckoned any other time Page would be Mr Smoothie. Chestnut hair, caramel eyes, expensive tan; he was a top earner, good looker, clearly successful. But at
the moment the man was as crumpled as his Hugo Boss suit.

“You’d better come in.”

The hall was bigger than Powell’s flat. He had a quick butcher’s, but it was all a bit ostentatious for his taste: yellow stripes, massive gilt mirror, showy white flowers
everywhere. Place smelt like a florist’s. Or a funeral parlour.

Page was about to disappear through high double doors at the end. Powell caught up, cocked a disapproving eyebrow. He so didn’t like ponytails on men. Made them look well gay.

The DI wasn’t up on interior-design trends, but presumably green was the new black. The huge sitting room was wall-to-wall pea with a dash of avocado. Even the shag-pile looked as if it
could do with a mow. As for the woman...

Powell hadn’t registered Jenny Page initially, now couldn’t take his eyes off her. Like a sculpture in ice, she perched on the edge of an upright chair gazing through a casement
window. He had a hard spot for cool classy blondes, and they didn’t come much chillier or more classic. As she turned her head at his approach, he clocked the eyes. They made the other greens
looked insipid.

“No news, darling,” Page answered his wife’s unspoken question as he took her hand in both his. Touching tableau though it was, Powell had a stack of questions he wanted off
his chest. And he was damned if he’d conduct the interview on his hind legs. Carol interpreted the rapid hand-and-eye movements, dragged over a couple of straight-backs, pulled out a tattered
notebook.

The DI kicked off with the easy ones: full names, ages, occupations, then significant movements and timings during the day. Throughout, Page hovered at his wife’s side, gently massaging
her elegant neck and shoulders.
Jammy sod.
Powell took off the kid gloves.

“The phone call bothers me,” he said to Page. “When the arrangement was changed, you had no doubt you were speaking to your wife?”

“None.”

“What was said exactly?”

“That she could get to the school, so not to worry about Daniel. I was a bit disappointed. I’d been quite looking forward to seeing him. I don’t spend enough time with the boy
as it is.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I...”

“Take your time,” Carol said. Powell glared at his colleague.

“That was it, really. It was a bad line. Lot of background noise.”

“Yet you were convinced it was your wife?” Powell asked.

“It was her voice!” His was raised. “Sorry. It sounded like Jenny. That’s all I know.”

“Mrs Page?” Powell asked.

“It wasn’t me.”

Powell tended to believe her; they’d find out either way when the techie boys traced the call.
If
they traced the call.

“Can either of you think why anyone would take Daniel?”

A glance passed between husband and wife. Powell couldn’t read it. Page shook his head.

“He’s just a little boy.” Jenny circled a white gold ring on her wedding finger. “Why would anyone take Dan-Dan?”

“These are difficult questions, I know, but what about enemies? Have you rowed with anyone recently? Anyone out there who might bear a grudge?”

“Jenny and I have discussed this already. We can’t come up with anything.”

“Has anyone followed you? Any strangers hanging round? Either of you seen anything suspicious?”

Page sighed. “Don’t you think we might have called the police if we had?”

“You’re a successful businessman, Mr Page...”

“So?”

Powell paused, prepared the ground. “Is it possible Daniel’s being held for ransom?”

“Kidnapped?” The guffaw was a shock but appeared genuine. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re comfortable, not rolling in it.”

The answers were predictable, automatic. “You both need to think about these things. We can’t rule anything out.” Seed planted, Powell changed tack. “You had a medical
appointment, Mrs Page?” Did she start slightly? Page’s fingers definitely stilled momentarily.

“I...” An ornate ormolu clock on an Adam fireplace ticked the seconds: ten before Jenny Page spread her hands. “I’m sorry. It was the first thing that came into my
head.” She bowed it now. “It was a stupid thing to say.”

“You lied.” Carol stated a fact, not asked a question. She locked her gaze on Jenny. The blonde failed to meet it, sent distress flares to Powell, leaning towards him, jade eyes
welling.

“The officer at the school... I felt harassed. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Powell frowned. What had Morriss been playing at? The Highgate rumour mill reckoned she was losing it, crumbly as a chocolate flake. He’d not go that far, but she could be her own worst
enemy.

“I’ll have a word with her, Mrs Page.”

“So will I.” Carol paused. “It’ll be interesting to see if that’s how she sees it.”

Powell flapped a hand at the DC. “So where were you, Mrs Page?”

Lowering her head, she did the Diana thing through thick eyelashes. “In town. Having lunch. It just seemed so... so
frivolous
, with Dan-Dan...”

Powell nearly reached to comfort her. Carol didn’t. “Which restaurant?”

“Chez Jules.” Not so much as a glance at Carol.

“With?” she persisted.

Jenny appealed to the DI. “Is it important?”

“Yes,” Carol said.

“Is that the door?” Powell asked.

Page squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “I’ll check. Back in a minute, darling.”

Jenny touched the DI’s knee, softened her voice. “Quick thinking. Thank you, inspector.” He was nonplussed; he’d only mentioned a noise outside. “I was with an old
friend,” Jenny revealed. “A man called Justin Weaver. He lives in Northfield, Tudor Rise. Number’s in the book. Please don’t tell my husband. He’ll kill me.” She
slapped an overdramatic hand to her mouth. “Sorry. That was a slip of the tongue. Richard’s not a violent man. I’ve known Justin for years. It’s entirely platonic, but my
husband hates it when I see other men.”

Powell had no idea how long Page had been standing in the doorway, but the man clearly had more important things on his mind than his wife’s lunch partners. Staring at a sheet of paper
fluttering in his hand, his skin tone blended with the décor. He tried to control his voice, but it broke as he read out the message.

“
Involve the police and the boy dies. Instructions for payment will follow
.” The note floated to the ground.

Carol ran into The Close as Powell rang control. Given the level of police activity over the last two hours, Daniel Page was as good as dead.

The ransom note changed everything. Taking a child was sick, maybe sad; kidnapping was calculated evil. Within minutes of its arrival, established procedures were activated, an
immediate news blackout requested. Less than an hour down the line from Powell’s call to control and Operation Sapphire was in almost-full swing.

The force’s top family liaison officer was on his way to The White House. No cushy berth this. Colin Henfield wouldn’t just be there to brew tea and burn toast. As well as getting
close to the Pages, he’d be the eyes and ears of the police. Throughout the inquiry, skilled operators would monitor home and business calls; surveillance teams and gear would be installed at
a neighbouring property. If a suspected perp so much as sneezed, cops would be there with a tissue. And cuffs.

Back at Highgate, a kidnap room had been set up and was now crammed with forty-plus officers raring to get out there. Early arrivals had seats, others lined the walls or took floor space.
Canteen smells clung to the clothes of guys who’d been called in off their break. Not that there’d be any complaints. Not while there was a chance Daniel was alive. The atmosphere was
electric and then some. Bev, next to Daz in the front row, could feel the sparks.

The DI had just brought everyone up to speed with events at The Close and was now perched on a table at one side, ankles crossed. Current focus was centre stage where Byford wielded a pointer
across a line of whiteboards covered with street maps, aerial shots and blow-up photographs. Key locations were highlighted: the school, the Page home, possible routes taken by the kidnapper.
“It seems likely a vehicle was involved,” Byford speculated. “It’s yet another thing we don’t know.”

The superintendent had relieved Powell of SIO status, opted to take the reins of the inquiry himself. The hands-on role suited. Six-five and well covered, his fifty-plus years had started to
show just recently but Bev reckoned right now he was as wired as anyone in the room. She detected flashes of the younger Byford, especially the sparkle in his slate-grey eyes. Not for the first
time, she wished she’d known the big man before he was old enough to be her dad.

Byford told the squad he’d run twice-daily briefings for the duration. Made it clear he wanted as many bodies there as possible and it was up to those who couldn’t make it to
familiarise themselves with updates. Johnnie Blake would be their first port of call. The tough-talking Lancastrian was Operation Sapphire’s newly assigned information officer.

There’d be regular news conferences as well but not a word printed or broadcast until the outcome was known. No cop or reporter wanted a repeat of the Black Panther fuck-up back in the
seventies. Donald Nielson had kidnapped the Midlands teenager Lesley Whittle; the press got wind of it, details appeared, the girl died. Reporting restrictions had been tight ever since. The media
would have its day when the police had a result: Daniel Page’s release or the discovery of his body. Right now the press pack was milling downstairs, keen to be put in the picture.

“Fucking miracle they didn’t get a sniff.” The nasal drawl was pure Bernie Flowers, head of the police news bureau. Bev reckoned the grey-civil-servant image was carefully
cultivated and deliberately misleading. In a former life Bernie had edited a national redtop and was sharp as a blade. He’d be holding her hand shortly when she faced the hacks. That was
another role the guv has assigned: Bev Morriss, media liaison. On top of DS duties.

Not that she needed a fancy title to know Bernie’s assessment was sound. All conspicuous police activity had been called off the instant they knew what they were dealing with, but for two
hours the full works had been up and running: helicopter, tracker dogs, uniforms on the knock. The kidnapper must’ve known the all-singing all-dancing police show would kick off the minute
Daniel was reported missing; must’ve realised there was every chance it would hit the news.

“Something on your mind, Bev?” Byford was loosening his tie. Maybe he was feeling the heat too.

She dropped the frown. “Can’t get my head round the delay,” she said. “The kid’s snatched at lunchtime. The note’s not delivered for five hours.”

It had bothered the superintendent as well, but at this early stage the kidnapper held every card. All the police could do was try to force a hand. “And?”

She tried to ignore the line of sweat trickling down her spine. “Everyone knows when a kid goes missing, the cops are on the case like a rash.”

“As we were.”

“Exactly. Kidnappers aren’t stupid. These characters knew exactly what they were playing at. They wanted us out there. Now they want us to stop. They want to call the shots. Show
who’s boss.”

“You keep saying ‘they’?” Byford asked.