Hard Time (7 page)

The nice lady blew him a kiss. She knew he was afraid of the dark so she left the nightlight. He yawned even though he wasn’t a tiny bit sleepy. He wasn’t frightened or anything,
either, just very, very worried. He hadn’t known Mummy was ill. The nice lady had told him Mummy was in hospital, and he had to stay here for a while. He’d forgotten the lady’s
name but she said Daddy would come to take him home soon so it didn’t really matter.

Daniel thought he might call her Aunty, even though he didn’t have any aunties. Picturing the lady’s face, he recalled her eyes: green eyes like Mummy’s. Daniel’s eyelids
fluttered, and fell. The little boy yawned and snuggled into the pillow. Sleepy after all.

The slinky little number didn’t get an outing. It was late and Bev couldn’t be arsed to go home and change. Nor was she in the mood after her pop at Pope. It meant
that when she slipped into the prefab annexe at the back of Highgate for Oz’s leaving do, she was still in the funeral weeds she’d worn all day.

Fitting, then. Given it felt like a bereavement.

Except for the music floating into the lobby. Not so much
Abide With Me
as
Get Off of My Cloud.
She gave a slow smile. Oz was an old tart for the Stones. She ran her fingers
through her hair, licked her lips and made an entrance of sorts.

“How’s it going, Bev?” A familiar face at the bar, tombstone teeth and flapping jowls; Vince Hanlon had a permanently avuncular grin. Deceptive. The sergeant had nearly thirty
years’ service and had felt more collars than Sketchley’s.

“Tickety, Vincie.” She tapped a salute.

“Drinkin’?”

“Diet coke. Not.” Wide grin. She could murder a large pinot. “Cheers, Vince.”

She spied out the land as she sipped the wine. Oz was at a table with the usual suspects: Pembers, Daz, Del Chambers, Ken Rose, Brian Latham. DCs tended to stick together. Not that Oz was DC any
more. To the right, Powell was chatting up Gorgeous Goshie at the far end of the bar. Like that would work. Sumitra Gosh had a functioning brain.

Vince nodded at the DI. “Has he come up with a new one yet?”

She gave a rueful smile. “Nah.” The whole nick knew Powell had a problem knowing what to call Bev. For years, she’d just been Morriss, occasionally sergeant. He’d used
her first name only once: when he comforted her immediately after the rape. That subject was taboo, never mentioned let alone discussed. Given the intimacy – however unwilling –
they’d shared, Morriss was now too impersonal, but he balked at calling her Bev because she still got up his nose. She and Vince monitored the DI’s dilemma daily, notched up the ways he
got round it. “Hey, you” was current favourite.

Vince tilted his grizzly-bear head. “Will you miss young Khanie, Bev?”

Like an arm.
“Who?”

“Daft sod.”

“Guv around?” Easier territory.

“Popped his head in earlier.”

Good. Bev nodded, took a few more sips. It was a piss-poor turnout, really. Maybe no surprise, given the kidnap, but even so the Highgate hard men had kept away. Oz had never been admitted into
the crusty club: too cute, too clever, wrong colour.

“’Nother drink, Vincie?”

“Why not?”

She did the honours and chinked her glass against his pint. “Bottoms up, old girl.”

“Less of the girl,” Vince tutted.

Girl?
That reminded her. Jenny Page had been convinced initially that one of the ‘girls’, the women at Page’s ad agency, had collected Daniel from school. She’d
bear that in mind when she and Daz did the staff interviews first thing.

Daz was on sparkling form. Looked as if he was stringing out one of his jokes. Shame the guv had bowed out early; she could’ve asked if he was teaming her up with Daz for the foreseeable
rather than the current job-by-job footing.

Jagger had moved on to
You Can’t Always Get What You Want.
You can say that again, she thought. Oz was strolling over. Black linen pants, sexy black shirt, dark floppy hair.

“Bev.” He nodded. “Glad you made it. What you drinking?”

Two large vinos were making their presence felt in an otherwise empty stomach. Her head wasn’t exactly spinning but... “Pinot. Cool.”

“I’m off.” Vince drained his glass. “Best of luck, Khanie. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“Cheers, mate.”

A handshake, Vince left, then silence. It wasn’t that they had nothing to say – they had too much. But for months now they’d been talking on eggshells. Scratching round for
safe ground, both pounced simultaneously on Vince’s departing bulk.

“Nice guy...” she started.

“Good bloke...” Oz began. Their laughter was too loud. The eye contact between them was rare these days. It said more than either was willing to put into words. She watched as he
positioned his glass dead centre on a beer mat, then ran both hands through his fringe. The gesture was habitual and she interpreted it accurately. He was about to spout.

“Sod it, Bev. I’m sick of messing about.”

So was she, despite the so-what shrug.

“I’m going tomorrow. I don’t want to leave it like this.”

The eyebrow was raised and arch. “
It
?”

“You. Me. Us. Unfinished business.”

Neither did Bev, but hell would host winter sports before she’d admit it. Oz could read her body, too: knew she had a PhD in pig-headedness. He reached to touch her; for once she
didn’t pull back. “I won’t be around any more, Bev, but I’ll always be there for you.” He paused, brown eyes shining. “If that’s what you want.”

Does fire burn?
She had to look away.

“If you won’t say it, Bev...I will.” He left another gap she didn’t fill. “What we had was precious.” Gently he turned her head to face his. “It was to
me, anyway.”

Another Stones track:
It’s All Over Now.
“Listen to the words, mate.” She removed Oz’s hand, gulped the wine. “Catch you later.”

Oz was still at the bar when she reached the door and looked back. Her heart did that flip-thing like when she first met him. She’d never wanted him more. And he’d never appeared so
hurt. Maybe it was his pain or her pinot but she drew a deep breath and sauntered back. If he told her to fuck off, so be it; she couldn’t leave it like this. She whispered in his ear.
Let’s Spend the Night Together
usually had the desired effect.

It was late. The multi-storey car park in Northfield was badly lit and virtually deserted. Emerging from a foul-smelling lift, the man staggered, almost fell. His flushed face
had the broken veins and spreading purple nose of a boozer. Doug Edensor was over the limit and, as a former police officer, knew he’d be stupid to get behind the wheel.

His Jaguar was in the far corner, the only car on this level. He fumbled with the key, caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Two hooded figures. Edensor presumed they’d been hiding
behind one of the concrete pillars: muggers or druggies. He put a protective hand on his wallet but the swaggering bastards weren’t interested. He lashed out but they were younger, quicker,
stronger. His muscles screamed in mute agony as one of them twisted his arms behind him. The pain was so intense he barely felt the needle enter his chest.

Supporting his body between theirs, his assailants mounted the stairs. Edensor was barely conscious when they emerged at roof level.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Where to locate the camera had been a difficult decision. A top-shot would have captured the body’s flight. But the long lens would show the crash landing. The shadowy figure at the end of
the street gave a satisfied smile, whispered, “Cut.” The choice had been a good call.

Dark thoughts about Daniel Page’s kidnap were keeping Byford awake. When the phone rang in the early hours, his heart sank. He expected the worst when he reached for the
receiver. It was Highgate control and it took a while for the news to sink in. Two traffic officers had found Doug Edensor’s body smashed almost beyond recognition in a street in
Northfield.

“It looks like suicide,” the duty inspector said. “We thought you’d want to know.”

Dougie had been a good friend before he left the police. “Of course,” Byford said. “Thanks for telling me.” Deep in thought, he ended the call, swung his legs out of bed,
headed for the kitchen.

Two minutes later, he lay back in a recliner, a crystal glass of single malt in his hand as he gazed through the window at the city skyline. The view usually helped put his troubled thoughts
into some sort of perspective but tonight all he could see was Dougie. Byford found it difficult to imagine his ex-colleague dead, impossible to picture him taking his own life.

He sipped the Laphroaig, saw another figure jostling for attention in his mind’s eye. The unease he’d felt since Robbie Crawford’s hit-and-run accident was no longer faint. If
there was the merest sniff of suspicion about Doug’s death... He shook his head. SOCOs were still out there; he’d study the reports first thing before jumping to conclusions. He laid
his head back, closed his eyes. The view’s customary magic wasn’t working; neither was the malt’s.

In less than a week, two senior police officers – both old friends – had died. And Byford didn’t do coincidence.

Holly wasn’t scared the first night the bedroom door was inched open – she was excited. The little girl shivered under the duvet, hardly daring to look. From an
early age she’d fantasised about it: Mummy finding her, telling her it had all been a terrible mistake and now it was time to come home. Not for one second had she doubted her mother would
return.

So that first night, she wasn’t scared. Not really. Hardly at all. In her child’s head, she’d worked it all out. Obviously Mummy would have to steal her back. The people
who’d adopted Holly wouldn’t let Mummy anywhere near her, would they? They hated it when Holly asked questions; she wasn’t even allowed to talk about her.

Her mummy could be a princess or a movie star. It didn’t matter. She was Holly’s Mummy and she loved her. And Mummy loved Holly. The little girl knew something awful must’ve
forced her mother to let her go. But none of that mattered. One day she’d return. The little girl just knew her mother followed her every move, would have watched over Holly from afar –
until the moment was right.

So the first time a shadowy figure crept into Holly’s room in the middle of the night, the little girl was excited as could be. Even when that figure slipped into bed beside her, Holly
wasn’t frightened. Mummy would want to catch up on all those cuddles she’d missed. Mummy would want to hold her darling girl as tightly as could be.

Wouldn’t she?

Oz’s smell lingered on the pillow, and other places, but he was gone when Bev woke. Better that way. She lay still, eyes closed, savouring the moment – a morning
when she felt good, fighting fit. Will Browne was not the last man inside her. She and Oz had made gentle tender love and she’d clung and cried and confided and confessed. Ironic or what?
She’d let him close at last and now he’d buggered off. She laughed, not really concerned. He was going to the Met, not the dark side of the moon. What was it her dad used to say?
Que
sera sera
. What’ll pan out’ll pan out.

She flung off the duvet, headed for the loo and a shower. Frankie was clearly on galley duties. Bacon odours and Bizet wafted up from below. Frankie was bellowing out a number from
Carmen
. Girl must be in a good mood.

When Bev entered the kitchen ten minutes later, her friend whirled round, raven curls flying, mouth a perfect O. Bev frowned. “Wind changes, you could catch flies for a living,
mate.”

Frankie Perlagio missed nothing. “Did we have a little company last night, my friend?”

Trying to keep a straight face wasn’t going to happen. “This the Italian inquisition?”

“Drawer there.” Frankie pointed. “Pass the thumbscrews.”

Bev flapped a hand, took a seat at the table. Frankie tilted her head. “Are you going in today?”

“Doh.” Flexi-hours Frankie didn’t know what full time meant. If she wasn’t giving her dad a hand in the family restaurant, she busked it as a session singer. A kind of
Katie-Melua-Nigella-Lawson hybrid. Her current incredulity wasn’t down to the fact it was a Saturday.

“But you’re...” She pointed to Bev’s legs. “And you’re...” Wearing make-up.

“Yeah, yeah.” So she hadn’t forgotten how to put on slap and a skirt. Bev’s main concern was the angle of the plates in her friend’s hands. “Shall we eat or
are you just gonna drop them?” For a half-Italian, Frankie cooked a mean full English. And she had the nous not to talk with her mouth full.

Early brief. Highgate. Nineteen hours since Daniel Page was seen being led away from The Manor prep school by an unknown woman. Any of the thirty-plus officers present who
doubted what was at stake only had to look at the posters pinned on every wall in the kidnap room. Little people didn’t figure large in Bev’s life but she’d never seen a more
angelic-looking child. Only the halo was missing. Halo. Wings. Afterlife. That train of thought made her shudder.

The guv gave her a glance but didn’t break verbal stride. There’d been nothing earth-shattering overnight, not even a minuscule flicker on the Richter scale. Hardly surprising, given
a news blackout was operating. How could the public call if it didn’t know about the kidnap? Cops depended to a large extent on witness information. The case wasn’t so much hamstrung as
straitjacketed.

“On the plus side.” The guv was key-jangling, a sign he was keen to get on. “Obs are in place near the Page house. And comms are on the case.” Observation officers had
set up in a property over the road. And telecommunications officers were ready to monitor, record and trace every conversation. “Covert surveillance teams are cruising the immediate area plus
the key locations we’re aware of so far.” The school and the ad agency. “And Colin reckons he’s establishing pretty good rapport with the couple.” Colin Henfield,
family liaison, pivotal role in a kidnap. Pembers lobbed in a question about FLOs and the boy’s grandparents but Bev was distracted, another issue playing on her mind.