Hard Time (6 page)

“A kid needs guarding 24/7. Can’t do that and run errands; needs teamwork.” A few heads nodded. “Daniel wasn’t just snatched off the street; the pickup took
meticulous planning, precision timing. And insider gen.”

“Kidnappers always learn everything they can about their victims,” Byford said. They’d often shadow a target for days, weeks, months even.

“Or pick it up from an expert.” It sounded like a sneer. She didn’t mean it to. “The woman who took Daniel knew about the dental appointment, knew to be at the school and
when; knew to call off the father. She looked like Jenny Page, sounded like Jenny Page. What if...?”

“For Christ’s sake,” Powell exploded. “The poor bloody woman’s catatonic.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Bev muttered. She spread her hands. “Maybe she’s sick, maybe she needs help...”

“Sarge,” Carol Pemberton intervened. “She didn’t pick the boy up. I’ve checked. She was in town lunching with a mate. I’ve spoken to the guy.”

Wind. Sails. Out of. Then a puff of breeze. “But if she lied about the medical appointment...?” The implication was clear: for Jenny Page, truth was a moveable feast.

“You’re lucky she’s not putting in a complaint,” Powell said. “Bullying, intimidation.” He tucked hands under armpits. “Touch of the green eyes,
sergeant?”

Jealous? Never. Then a sudden thought; she narrowed blue ones. “Did Jenny Page leave the room while you were there?”

Powell sighed impatience. “Let it go.”

“Was she out of your sight any time?”
Long enough to drop a ransom note?

“For Christ’s sake,” Powell said.

She ignored him. “What’s your take, Carol? Anything iffy?”

DC Pemberton shrugged. “She’s a cold fish, I’ll give you that. And she didn’t just lie to us; her old man didn’t know she had a lunch date. As for this guy she was
with – I don’t think he’s the only one she sees.”

Powell crossed his arms. “How’s that work, Rosie Lee?”

Carol riffled the pages in her notebook. “She said,
Richard hates it when I see other men
.” She looked pointedly at Powell. “Plural.”

“No crime, is it?” He sniffed. “She’s not a bad-looking woman. No reason why she shouldn’t meet up with an old mate.”

Secrets and lies. Bev made a mental note.

“One other point,” Carol added. “It may be nothing but... the place wasn’t exactly child-friendly. No toys scattered round, no sticky finger marks. They had to root round
to find a photo.”

“Big deal,” Powell said.

Byford picked up on the visuals. “What about the pic, Mike?” Richard Page had sorted out the most recent image of Daniel. It was being copied.

“Ready any time, boss.”

Everyone in the team needed a copy; needed to know Daniel’s face better than their own. “Thoughts on the note, anybody?” Byford asked.

All eyes turned to one of the kidnap boards where the kidnappers’ message, now copied and enlarged, was displayed. Just eleven words. Not a lot to go on: certainly nothing forensics could
sink their scientific teeth into. The original had been clean as a bleached sheet. Byford waited a few seconds, but what was there to say?

“OK. This is the current situation.” He paused, wanted everyone’s full attention. “We’re looking at virtually a blank page. It’s up to all of us to fill it.
Obviously we look at the parents but we talk to everyone. And I mean everyone the Pages have ever had contact with: family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, butcher, baker... Check every word.
Don’t take anything for granted.” Another pause. “And keep an open mind.”

Bums shifted, throats were cleared; a few questions were thrown, then the guv dished out the fast actions and the donkeywork, the key interviews and the slightly less urgent. No one needed
reminding that kidnap was a big crime like no other. It carried the highest risk and the lowest profile. While the victim was still being held there’d be not be a whisper in the media and all
police activity would be covert.

One slip could cost a little boy his life.

Bernie was hanging round outside the room where the press conference was to be held, skimming what looked like the local rag. “Wotcha, Bev.”

She’d just had time for a coke and a pee before entering the lions’ den. Below-the-belt noises suggested indigestion or nerves. Either way she was windy.

“Word in your shell-like.” Bernie pushed up from the corridor wall. “Clear how we play this?”

“You bet.” She zipped her lips.

“Good girl.” Bernie’s crooked smile displayed a chipped front tooth. Story went that some Right Hon took a swing after starring in a kiss-and-tell on a Bernie front page.
A
tooth for the truth
was Bernie’s favourite tag-line. “Watch every syllable. Keep it short. Don’t offer a thing. If in doubt, no comment.”

Her hand was on the door. “Nothing new there, then.”

He didn’t return the smile. “These embargos are voluntary, Bev. None of them’ll break it; that don’t worry me. But they’ll beaver away so they can make a splash
soon as we know the score. They’ll track down anyone with a pulse as long as they add to the story. Specially if they’ve got any dirt. And the more people in the know, the greater the
danger it’ll leak.”

She nodded, laid a hand on his arm. “Trust me, Bernie.”

Almost as many hacks were gathered as there’d been cops upstairs. Pecking order was same old same old: TV, radio then print. She nodded at a few familiar faces: Matt Snow, a Tintin
look-alike from the
Evening News
; Nick Lockwood, the Beeb’s Mr Midlands; even Celia Bissell, who looked after features for the
Chronicle.
She’d be working on colour pieces
to run when the story broke; flimflam to pad out a few inside pages.

Vague mutterings faded as Bev ran through the intros for those not already in the know. She threw out the barest of bones, then outlined what would happen over the next few days: regular
off-the-record updates and more formal sessions where they could record material with the SIO and other main players for later use.

Just about everyone in the room jumped on that. “What about the parents?”

Bev broke the bad news that the family’s identity was being withheld for the moment. Then she handed over to Bernie, who reinforced the imperative of keeping the news blackout in place. It
was a no-brainer; protests were token. Ten minutes in and Bev was beginning to relax; this liaison lark was a piece of piss. She glanced at her watch: getting on for half-seven. When this little
lot was over, she’d be heading for home and a scrub-up. Bases were covered, she’d cleared it with the guv, and she’d be on the end of a phone if anything broke. The glimpse
she’d caught earlier of Oz clearing his locker wasn’t going to be her final memory.

“Can I run a name past you, Sergeant Morriss?” The clipped tone was familiar. Bev looked up to find Celia Bissell flicking though her notebook, red talons clutching what looked like
a Mont Blanc.

“Say again?”

“Can I run the victim’s name past you?” The tight smile didn’t reach the caked mascara. “Our crime correspondent says it’s from a reliable source.”

Bev stiffened. How the fuck did it get out so quick? “Who’s that, then?”

“I never reveal sources.” Smug bint.

“She meant who’s your crime guy these days?” The query was Bernie’s. It wasn’t as nonchalant as it sounded, going by the clenched fist under the table.

“New operator, just joined us,” Bissell said. “His name’s Pope. Jack Pope.”

Jack Pope was propping up the bar at The Prince of Wales when Bev rolled up an hour later, itching for a fight, still staggering from a bollocking. It had been damage
limitation all round, back at Highgate, after Bissell dropped the name-bomb. Then came the inquest. Without a body. The normally laconic Bernie lost it big-time; the guv was incandescent. But it
was nothing compared with her self-imposed mauling.
Fucking idiot.
She’d trusted Pope and he’d stitched her up like a baby kipper. The fact that the victim’s identity was
almost certain to come out eventually was no comfort.

“Beverley. I was beginning to give up on you.” Waving a ciggie in welcome, Pope aimed a peck at her cheek. She flinched, not just from the beery breath and fag mouth.
“What’s up, doll?”

“Bastard.” Her lips barely parted.

His laugh, though nervous, was a mistake. “What?”

“Arsehole,” she hissed.

Pope glanced round, hating scenes. Not a big crowd. The Prince was a police pub; tonight most cops were occupied elsewhere. “Come on, Bev.” The playful tap was a major error.
“Knock it off.”

“My pleasure.” She moved in. “Where do I start?” She needed to know how far he’d betrayed her.

“I was gonna tell you.” He scratched his nose. First sign of veracity deficit.

“Lying toe-rag.” Another step backed him flush against the bar, her index finger lodged in his chest hair kept him there. “I don’t care about looking a complete
moron.” She did. “Don’t give a shit that you dropped me in it.” Untrue. “Fact you looked me in the eye and lied through your teeth –
that
pisses me off,
Pope.”

Apart from cops, the pub’s nicotine-and-sawdust interior was a geriatrics’ haven: real-ale drinkers and serious domino players. Several pairs of rheumy eyes were agog at the sight of
a woman at the bar about to knock spots off some bloke. Livid, Bev was oblivious, but maybe the audience was getting to Pope.

He swatted her arm away. “Back off, lady.” At five-ten, he had four inches on Bev. She edged back, palms damp, heart racing. Scared what she’d do to him.

“Go back through what I said,” he sneered. “Every word was true. You jumped to your own conclusions, kid.”

Momentarily flustered, she ran a mental check. OK, he’d never actually said he was with CID. On the other hand, he hadn’t exactly put her straight. “You let me
think...”

“No one
lets
you think.” He swigged from a full pint. “Supposed to be some shit-hot detective, aren’t you?”

She felt the flush hit her cheeks, spat the next words. “You should have fucking
told
me!”

“You should’ve listened, lady. Instead of mouthing off.”

Tears pricked; she had to look away. The uncharacteristic vulnerability had a softening effect. Pope put an arm around her shoulders, drew her close. “Come on, Bevy. You rushed off before
I had chance to say a word.”

She nestled her head against his chest, all nods and muffled sobs. “I could lose my job over this, Jack.”

“No way.” He wanted her to face him but she clung tighter when he tried to pull her away. “Listen, Bev, I only gave Celia the name. That disabled-monkey business and the stuff
about the mother? It’ll go no further.” He smoothed her hair, hated seeing her like this. “You have my word.”

“Promise?”

“I’d never do that to you, Bev.”

“Sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Hundred per cent?”

“Hundred and ten.”

“Your maths is shite as well.”

He was too late to protect his balls. She was there first.

“OK, Bev. Let go.”

“Cross me again, Pope...” She squeezed hard. “Your chances of fatherhood are fucked. Clear?
Kid
?”

He croaked what had to be a yes.

She smiled as she tightened her fingers. “Mother’s-life clear?”

Beyond words, Pope nodded.

“One slip...” She turned the screw. “And you’ll look back on tonight as one of life’s pleasures.”

Grip released, she picked up his glass, a glint in her eye. “Hot in here, innit?”

Pope raised his palms as she took aim. “Bev. No.”

His top half was the last place she had in mind. Especially when below the belt was an open goal.

Two minutes later, Bev’s sobs in the MG were the real deal. Hugging herself, head bowed, she drew deep breaths, heart still on double time. The crocodile tears and weasel
words in The Prince had done the trick but the cost was high. Truth hurt. And she’d enjoyed inflicting the pain. Pope had seen that in her eyes and it had scared the pants off him. He’d
not go back on his word: she’d got what she wanted.
Bully for Bev.
The thought choked her up again. But what if he was right? Did she have the listening skills of a dead slug? And as
for foot in mouth, was there a sodding shoe shop in there? The snipes would have been water off a duck’s back before the attack. But now? Her confidence and judgment were shot to shit.

She wound the window, lit a Silk Cut.
Bullying?
Jenny Page had slung the same accusation at her. Had she gone in heavy-handed?
Christ, Bev. Who do you think you are? Robocop?
She
snorted, not sure who she was any more.

That was one of the problems.

After the rape, the police welfare people had leaned on her to see one of their therapists. No real choice. A sceptical Bev had gone along with it, was still hearing the same psycho-crap every
week: her aggression was a direct result of the rape; every time she lashed out, verbally or otherwise, she was hitting back at Will Browne.

Bullshit. Hard-ass had always been her middle name. She’d always given better than she got. But what if it was out of hand? What if the trick cyclist was right? Sigmund, as she called him,
said she must learn to pull her punches, count to ten, stay calm, trust people again. Like yeah. And find a cure for bird flu.

She smacked the wheel with her palms. Why couldn’t she let go? She had to move on; couldn’t see the way forward. And the road behind was littered with burnt bridges.

Nice one, Bev.
Clichés ’r’ us.
She flicked the butt through the window. Last time she looked, she still had a job to do. Just. She picked up an envelope from the
passenger seat, took out a photograph. She’d not had chance to study it yet. And little Daniel Page was what it was all about.

“Drink your milk, Dan-Dan.” The nice lady smiled as she ruffled Daniel’s corn-thatch hair, gave him his beaker.

It was the Harry Potter one from home, his favourite. Not enough sugar; still, he always drank warm milk last thing at night. She took the mug back and tucked the Doctor Who duvet under his
chin. It was good to have his own things around him.

“Sleep tight, little man.”