Hard Time (8 page)

Culpable or not, the Pages were crucial to the case. The fact she’d made herself
persona non grata
with the mother was giving Bev grief. On reflection, her behaviour hadn’t
just been insensitive; it was unprofessional. She was paid to help women like Jenny Page; they didn’t have to be best buddies. She waited for a lull, then lifted a hand. “Can I have
another shot at the Pages, guv?”

“Revolver or Kalashnikov?” Powell muttered.

Bev glared, then turned in mute appeal to the guv. Getting people to open up had always been one of her strengths. The guv knew that, probably why he gave it some thought. “No.”

Shoulders slumped. “Aw, go on, guv.”

“We need to keep the Pages sweet, sergeant.”

“I can do sweet.” The smile was a kind of sickly-simper. It didn’t work. She sat up straight, cut the crap. “Seriously, sir, my manner with the mother was entirely
inappropriate. I’d welcome the opportunity to rectify the situation and develop a more constructive future relationship with Mr and Mrs Page.”

“At ease, sergeant.”

She fixed him with blue bayonets. “Another chance, guv? I’d really appreciate it.”

The plea was real, the voice told him that. He told her to leave it with him, then turned to the troops. He tasked a couple of DCs to check if the Pages were known to social services, child
protection. Not looking the type meant zilch. Child abusers don’t have it tattooed on their forehead.

Other interviews had already been assigned; officers in pairs would continue questioning intimates and acquaintances of the family. Byford ran through the strategies: what they were after, what
they should listen and look for. Discrepancies, especially: conflicting statements, information that didn’t tally. Until they’d gathered the facts there was little to go on. And as most
officers in the room knew, even if few acknowledged, it was piss in the wind.

Byford voiced everyone’s thoughts. “We need whoever’s holding the boy to make contact again.” His gaze was fixed on one of the posters. It showed a bright beautiful child
with his mother’s jade eyes. “Till then, like Daniel, we’re in the hands of the kidnappers.”

Daniel didn’t know what time it was. He could tell the time, of course, but he seemed to have lost his watch. Aunty – as he was calling the nice lady – said
they could get another one if he liked. He asked if they could go and buy one today but he didn’t think Aunty had heard. He supposed it didn’t matter. Not if Daddy was coming soon.

Mummy was still in hospital. Aunty hadn’t said anything but Daniel could tell by the way her face sort of crumpled that Mummy was very sick. Aunty had told him not to worry, in that voice
grown-ups use when they don’t want to talk about something.

Daniel had been watching a Harry Potter DVD but could barely keep his eyes open. Maybe it was later than he thought. He turned his head when the door opened.

“Here you go, Dan-Dan.”

“Thank you, Aunty.” The little boy smiled politely, then drank his milk.

Post-brief, Byford perched on the corner of his desk staring at a sepia news cutting. He’d retrieved it from the back of a drawer where it had been gathering dust and
Hobnob crumbs. Photographs, even press pictures, were something he rarely junked. The attic at home was crammed with shoeboxes spilling out happy snaps. The Byfords at play: Margaret and the boys
at every age and virtually every angle. He never looked through them; the potent memories of a shared history would make his present solitary life seem even lonelier. His wife had died seven years
earlier. And though Chris and Rich were on the end of a phone, he missed that daily contact with someone who cared.

“Guv! Can you get the door?” Bev calling. Byford frowned. Why couldn’t she let herself in? He laid the cutting on the desk and wandered across. He could just about see her
face.

“Got my hands full, guv.” With the biggest cactus he’d ever clapped eyes on. It could star in a western movie; John Wayne could live in it. She’d had to drive in with the
sunroof down.

It was his sergeant’s first horticultural peace offering for months. She’d said sorry with cacti so many times his windowsill used to resemble a succulents’ superstore. It had
dried up since the attack.

“What’s brought this on?” he asked.

“Gift horse? Mouth?” she admonished. The bloody thing wouldn’t fit on the ledge. “It’s a simple token of my appreciation.”

He laughed, recalled her words at the briefing a few moments ago. The cactus was in the way of a bribe, as well as an apology. “You won’t get round me with that.”

“Won’t get round anything with this,” she groaned.

He watched as she struggled to position the monster growth on the floor in the corner, waited until he had her full attention. “I’ll give it some thought, but no promises.”

Her eyes shone. “Ta, guv.”

It was a look he’d not seen in a while. He nodded at the cactus. “Where did you lay your hands on that at this time in the morning?”

“Had it ages, saving it for a rainy day.”

It was early July. The sun had already turned the guv’s office into a greenhouse. He made no comment. Her glance fell on the news cutting as she passed his desk. The picture showed a group
of people on the steps of the city’s old law courts in the mid-eighties. The briefs stood out in wigs and gowns but there were plain-clothes lawmen as well.

Byford resumed his preferred perch on the windowsill. “Are you off to the ad agency now?” She’d not heard or wasn’t listening. “Bev?” She’d obviously
spotted a face in the crowd and was now taking a closer look.

“Hey, guv, you never said...” There was mischief in her eyes.

Despite himself he asked. “What?”

“You and George Clooney.” Crossed fingers added sign language. “Peas in a pod, back then.” She grinned.

“I’m taller than him,” Byford mumbled.

“This just after you joined the force?”

He opened his mouth to say
not long
, but her focus was back on the picture, another face. She frowned. “Is that...?”

Her index finger hovered over a smiling man on the guv’s right. “Robbie Crawford,” Byford supplied. “DC then. I was sergeant.”

She nodded, still studying the line-up. “Big case, guv?”

“Operation Rainbow.”

Her blank look was no surprise. She’d have been in pigtails when Reg Maxwell was sent down. He gave her the top lines: Maxwell had been a Birmingham crime boss behind a huge porn and
prostitution racket. Until he’d raped and murdered a ten-year-old boy.

“This guy Reg?” Bev frowned. “He any relation to Harry Maxwell?” Every cop knew that name. Harry Maxwell’s crime empire extended far beyond the Midlands.

“Was,” Byford said. “They were brothers. Past tense.” Reg Maxwell had served five years before a vicious beating by another prisoner put him on life support. “And
when the plug was pulled –” Byford stared into the distance – “only Harry shed any tears.”

A ringing phone brought him back to the present. His features sharpened as he grabbed a pen. She read the urgency in his voice – as well as the name and address he wrote. “Looks like
we’ve got a witness,” Byford said. “A man says he saw a child being forced into a car.”

She was on her feet before he replaced the receiver. “It’s on the way.”

“Call in...” Her heels echoed in the corridor. He shook his head, then studied the cutting again. Maybe she’d never come across Doug Edensor, or she’d have picked his
face out too.

He reread the note that crime scenes had dropped off first thing. It was in way of a favour from one of the officers who’d attended Doug’s broken body. This was early stuff; a
detailed report would follow, but the note appeared to confirm that ex-DCS Edensor had committed suicide. No evidence pointed to an accident, nothing suggested the fall was forced.

Byford pinched the bridge of his nose. Two cops’ sudden deaths. Maybe it
was
coincidence. Maybe there was no link. Even so, pending the follow-up report on Doug’s death,
he’d have another look at Crawford’s hit-and-run, go through the police reports, re-read the statements and interviews.

He’d already had a word with the DI in charge at Wake Green. The accident was still being treated as suspicious even though no one was in the frame. Byford knew everyone who’d been
questioned. Harry Maxwell had been among the first.

And Harry Maxwell had more reason than most to hate cops – not primarily because of Reg’s death in prison. Twelve years earlier, Harry’s only son had died instantly when the
driver of a stolen BMW lost control and ploughed into Maxwell junior’s Mini. A police car had been chasing the stolen motor. Robbie Crawford had been one of the officers in the pursuit
vehicle.

It was the norm for witnesses to be nervy round police officers. Even Bev felt stressed if a traffic cop was on her tail. But Stephen Cross was totally unfazed: cucumber on
ice. And not just cool, but aloof and condescending. He lived in a swanky show-off pad in Priory Rise, Edgbaston, the road parallel to Hampton Place where Daniel’s school was situated.
Popular location this morning; hacks were already in the area, knocking on doors.

Cross led Bev and Daz through to the kitchen as if they were there to clean the place. Like it needed cleaning. It resembled a theatre, operating not playhouse. Every latest gadget and bit of
kit gleamed, probably all for show. Bev doubted if Cross had ever shelled an egg, let alone boiled one.

“Can’t offer you anything, I’m afraid.” Most people would have concocted a polite excuse. “Can we get on with it?”

Taking her time, Bev strolled to a bum-numbing chair round a glass-topped table. Daz took the other. Cross decided to pose against the stainless steel sink, maybe because it faced the mirrored
wall. Tall and graceful, he moved like a dancer: ballroom, not ballet. Receding bland blond hair accentuated a high shiny dome. Hazel eyes bulged slightly; the nose was a real stonker. If it was
Bev’s she’d have it taken in.

She unbuttoned her blue linen jacket. “Tell us exactly what you saw, please, sir.”

“I’ve alread...”

“From the beginning.”

He folded his arms, ankles already crossed. “I was on my run.” Four-mile circuit, three times a week. “I was waiting at the top of Hampton Place, checking for traffic, and saw
a woman bundling a small child into a car. She had her hand on his head, and was forcing him into the back seat. The kid was kicking and screaming.”

So why didn’t you do something?
“Did you consider taking a closer look, sir?” Her smile was forced. He was admiring his in the mirror.

“Have-a-go hero? You’re joking. Wouldn’t stick my nose in if you paid me.”

She tried to keep her voice non-judgmental. “But a woman... and a little boy?”

He shrugged. “Why get involved? She could’ve been armed, stoned off her face. You never know these days.” He studied his nails. “Anyway, little Johnnie was probably just
throwing a tantrum and mummy lost it.”

“So what did she look like, sir?” This mad axe-murdering mummy.

“Didn’t see much. I wasn’t that close and she was leaning into the car. Blonde hair, though, and I’d guess above average height.”

“And the boy?” Daz asked.

“Again, the only thing I can recall was the hair, blond and lots of it.”

Bev glanced at Daz, who was clearly sharing the same thought. Clock on the wall chimed the hour: nine am. Time to turn up the heat. But after closer questioning not much more emerged except the
timing fit: Cross had left his place at twelve-twenty. Apart from that, he wasn’t sure but thought the car could have been a Merc, maybe a BMW, definitely silver. Or grey. Or light blue. He
seemed to recall a P or D in the number but wouldn’t swear to it. He hadn’t registered other vehicles in the road but he’d not been looking. He couldn’t remember what the
boy or the woman was wearing but wouldn’t rule out green.

Suppressing a sigh, she handed him a card. “You’ve been very helpful, sir. Anything else comes to mind, give me a bell. Any time.”

None of it was conclusive. But it was a start.

Daz checked the mirror, eased the Vauxhall into a stream of city-bound traffic. Richard Page’s firm, Full Page Ads, occupied pole position in Saint Paul’s Square,
Hockley. “Tosser or what?” Daz was muttering about Cross. “Talk about hooray bleedin’...”

“Henrietta.” Bev’s saucy tone was accompanied by a leer and a wink.

“Never!” Daz said. “How’s that work?”

“Bloke couldn’t keep his beadies off you.”

“You’re jok...” He caught the glint in hers, shifted uneasily in his seat. Poor Daz. He protected his macho image like the crown jewels. She gave him a break, put a call
through to the guv, brought him up to speed.

Byford wasn’t surprised reporters were doorstepping properties round the school. The media were as desperate for a lead as the cops. He’d already deployed plain-clothes teams down
the same path, all canvassing potential witnesses. Christ, they’d be falling over each other in the rush. Her query as to whether they were chasing CCTV footage was met with a
what do you
think
?

She ended the call, ripped the wrapping off a Lion bar and swatted Daz’s open palm; guy could buy his own this time. He gave an easy-come-easy-go shrug and pulled out to pass a 2CV with
go-faster stripes. “I thought you showed amazing restraint back there,” Daz said.

Dog. Bone. God, he was still on that. Mind, she had bitten her tongue a few times. The concept that Cross could’ve thwarted the kidnap if he’d intervened was a tough one. Part of her
empathised: the papers were full of horror stories about attacks on innocent passers-by, a man or woman in the wrong place at the wrong time making inadvertent eye contact with the wrong yob. But
Cross was well fit and he’d not so much walked by as run past a young woman struggling with a little boy. Still, easy to be wise after the event and nobody liked a smart-arse.

“Sir this, sir that,” Daz mocked. “Talk about three bags full.”

“It’s the new me.”

He shot her an old-fashioned look. “Turning over a new tree?”

She ignored the quip. “I need the practice for when I interview Jenny Page.”