Hard Time (14 page)

“Yeah, but. No, but.”

She shook an indulgent head. He sounded like Vicki Pollard in drag. “Shan’t buy you any more.”

“Promise?” He winked.

Bev rose, stifled a yawn. “Time to go home, boss.”

Byford glanced at the desk. The procedure log lost what little appeal it had; anyway it might look different in the morning. “I’ll join you,” he said. “Amazing what a
good night’s sleep can do.”

“Your place or mine?” She said it without thinking. It was a glib one-liner, a throwaway remark. Her cheeks would be pink; she could feel the heat. “Sorry, guv. Well over the
line there.”

She shifted her feet, studied the carpet, sensed his gaze on her. If she’d looked up, she might have seen disapproval in his eyes. Or was it disappointment?

Byford had come so close to saying
mine
. But what if she’d said, you’re on, guv? Would he have run a mile? Fact was, he didn’t know. He certainly no
longer saw Bev as the daughter he’d never had. Fearless and fragile, she evoked a plethora of feelings in the big man, none of which was remotely paternal.

He’d skirted the issue, made some excuse about needing to pick up a file, then watched from his window as she crossed the car park. She must’ve put her foot down. The exhaust fumes
lingered in the warm air when he left a few minutes later.

Now it was another Sunday evening, home alone, except for myriad unwanted thoughts impossible to switch off. He was plonked in front of the box with an empty plate and an almost empty bottle of
Chianti. And still his head was full.
Midsomer Murders
wasn’t doing it for him: he had enough of his own.

Leaning back, he flicked the remote, his interest as high as Bev’s in line dancing. A smile tugged his lips as he recalled her words: “Sorry, guv, well over the line there.”
The smile grew when he imagined her in cowboy boots and Stetson, all guns blazing.

All guns blazing.
Like the Longbridge fiasco, the false sighting of a child who wasn’t Daniel. He sighed. Getting the troops out in force had been a knee-jerk reaction; it had cost
a packet and he blamed himself. He’d wanted it too much. What Daniel’s parents were going through was inconceivable. He wondered how he’d have played it if one of his kids had
been snatched. A big concern was the kidnapper finding a way round the surveillance and contacting one of the Pages direct. He hoped to God the couple didn’t try going it alone.

Did he seriously rate Harry Maxwell as a suspect in the kidnap inquiry? It seemed a hell of a coincidence. And a hell of a leap. They had only one anonymous tip-off that the crime boss was
involved in child porn. Unless Maxwell had staged the kidnap as a distraction, to hamper police inquiries into Doug and Robbie’s deaths? Byford shook his head; even to his ears that sounded
far-fetched. There wasn’t even proof that those deaths were down to Maxwell. If he were waging a personal vendetta against officers he blamed for his son’s death, surely he
wouldn’t have agreed to see Byford? Unless he got some sort of sick kick out of it...

He felt for his glass on the carpet, searching fingers making contact with a file. It was the one he’d told Bev he needed to pick up. It had been a white lie to spare her further blushes.
It contained everything Highgate had on the crime boss. With hindsight, he’d been woefully unprepared for today’s interview. It wouldn’t happen again. Only an idiot would
underestimate Maxwell twice.

His copper’s instinct told him Maxwell was involved in Robbie’s death. But Doug’s as well? As for the crime boss’s throwaway threat about trouble coming in threes:
bravado or bullshit? Whatever, he needed evidence to go on.

If he could prove that Crawford’s death – like Edensor’s – was no accident and establish a Maxwell connection, he’d take squad members off Sapphire. As it stood
now, he couldn’t justify that. Live cases took priority, and developments like those this afternoon demanded immediate decisions and actions.

So, meanwhile, he’d have to go it alone.

He had in mind a visit to the crime scene, to talk to people living nearby. They’d been questioned once but another session might unearth something new. He’d already spoken to Robbie
Crawford’s widow Josie, discovered the ex-detective’s nightly routine of walking the dog. Had someone else established it was a regular pattern and worked out where was the best place
to strike? Had Robbie been tailed on those nights?

Or was he becoming obsessed with Maxwell? Sidetracked and fixated? Deep into mountain-molehill territory? Either way, he couldn’t let it go. It niggled away in a brain already overloaded.
No wonder his memory wasn’t what it was. Thinking of which... He’d forgotten yet again to tell Bev who her new partner was. He’d ring Highgate, get someone to leave a note. The
name wouldn’t mean anything to her but she’d be able to keep an eye out for the guy.

Byford had decided on Mac Tyler soon as he saw the transfer application. The superintendent had watched Bev walk all over Darren New in the last few weeks. She wasn’t even aware of it but
it was no good for them or the squad. On the other hand, during a recent West Midlands-Derbyshire operation he’d seen Tyler in action. The DC – a bit like Bev – didn’t take
any crap and didn’t do doormat.

Byford gave a slow smile. Maybe in this instance the memory lapse was deliberate.

Bev drove straight home and headed for the kitchen. It was either that or a cold shower. Fanning her face with the fridge door open, she contemplated pulling an ice pack from
the freezer. It was a sticky night and she was feeling the heat, particularly under the collar. She groaned. She’d as good as hit on the guv.

“You OK in there?” Frankie in concerned-lodger mode.

“Tickety.” Another groan,
sotto voce
. OK, the come-on had just slipped out. No big deal.
But it was. She fancied him.
The startling revelation had dawned in the
nanosecond between delivering the line and the apology. If he’d said yes, she’d have been in there. Then she recalled the guv’s inclusion in her Desert Island Dicks wish list the
other night. She’d thought it had been the wine talking. Maybe
in vino veritas
? Another groan.

“There’s salad in the fridge,” Frankie shouted. Bev grimaced, stomach flipping at the thought. Plate of chips, maybe... Actually she couldn’t eat a thing. Felt a tad
sick. Must be the heat, maybe a bug?

“Coming in?” Frankie’d get a sore throat if she carried on throwing her voice.

“Nah,” Bev called. “Brought a bit of work back.”

Frankie popped her head round the door. “Y’know what they say, my friend, about all work and no play?”

“Yeah, right.” Bev gave a token laugh and carried on up the stairs. Dunno about dull boy; she felt dorky bint.
Your place or mine, guv?
How much crasser could it get?

The long shower was cooling in more ways than one. Ten minutes later, towelled and turbaned in front of the bathroom mirror, Bev tilted her head, practised her pout.
Christ, if the guv
can’t take a joke...
She was dead good at denial. Say it enough times, she might even believe it.

Where was her bag? On the carpet next to her cords and Docs. She’d downloaded a shed-load of stuff from newspaper websites that afternoon, local and national. Bit of light reading.
Printouts fanned on pillow, she lay on her front on the duvet, tried to get a handle on the case.

Operation Rainbow was way before her time. 1986. The rape and murder of a little boy. The gangland boss Reg Maxwell sent down for life. The story had been front-page across the country. Ugly
scenes outside the court; Harry Maxwell and the family screaming stitch-up; the usual suspects demanding the return of the death penalty.

Her eyelids were growing heavy and she wasn’t taking it all in. Not lack of interest, more sleep deprivation. And it needed looking at properly. Not in the context of the kidnap; she still
didn’t see Harry Maxwell having a hand in that. A tip-off that he used delivery-boy Dunston from time to time didn’t do it for her.

No, it was more to do with the guv. Either he wasn’t taking his mates’ deaths seriously or he was deliberately making light of his concerns when she was around. She pondered that for
a moment, then held up a copy of the photograph she’d first seen on the Byford’s desk. Two of the police officers pictured there had died in the last two weeks. If that wasn’t
coincidence, it was scary.

Because if someone was killing cops from back then, Byford was in the firing line. And so was another face she’d recognised in the line-up.

Daniel was frightened. He didn’t want to go to sleep. She’d cut off his hair last night. Actually he didn’t know that for sure. It could have happened during
the day. He had no way of knowing any more. Had no idea what he looked like now, either. A tear ran down his cheek and he dashed it away angrily. He’d be brave. It’s just that Mummy
loved his hair so much... Daniel ran his fingers over his scalp. A few tufts stuck up and the rest felt like tiny soft feathers, or like Smoky the kitten next door. He smiled, thinking of Smoky,
then realised he didn’t know who lived next door now.

Daniel stroked his head again. She’d said he had nits and cutting his hair was the only way to get rid of them, but he knew that wasn’t true. He counted on his fingers all his
school-friends who’d had nits: Laurie, Benjie, Matt, Eloise and the new girl who’d only just started. Their mummies just washed their hair in special shampoo and used a special
comb.

There was a glint in the little boy’s eyes. At least he knew now. Knew the woman wasn’t a nice lady; knew she told lies. Mummy said only wicked people told lies.

Daniel wiped away another tear. He wanted his mummy very badly.

Bev knew where Bob Geldof was coming from. Even though she’d had ten hours’ sleep, even though the sky was an unbroken azure, even though Oz had texted before
breakfast, there was still something about Mondays she didn’t like. Mind, some weeks she didn’t go a bundle on Tuesdays, Wednesdays or Thursdays, either. She glanced in the mirror,
flashed a bright smile.
Come on, Beverley, it’s gonna be a cracking week.
Cracked case – with a bit of luck.

She was waiting for a green at the lights in Moseley Road. This early, the streets round Highgate had that down-at-heel out-of-season shabbiness. Post-weekend litter was strewn around: chip
paper, vomit puddles, empty cans, the odd shoe. A mangy fox was ferreting in a bin liner outside a butcher’s. The exhaust-and-excrement fumes made her gag. Summer in the city and no air
conditioning. She patted the MG’s dash. “Might have to trade you in, old boy.” Fucking thing stalled.

Ten minutes later she strode into headquarters, shoulders back, head high. She’d bought an electric-blue power suit off eBay and was trying to live up to the new image. Even the Docs had
been abandoned for a pair of blue suede kitten heels.

She liked getting in early. The nick never slept but there were fewer bodies around, less buzz. Gave her a bit of thinking space. She grabbed a coffee from the machine and took the stairs at a
trot. The door to her office was open. She frowned, nudged it gently with her foot.

A bucket and chamois stood on the desk, a ladder was propped against the far wall. A burly guy displaying bum-crack was bent double, tying a lace. Given she’d passed the window
cleaners’ van in the car park, the scene didn’t call for amazing powers of deduction.

“You’ve missed a bit.” She pointed to a smeary streak, bottom right.

“Thanks, Sherlock.” He was on his feet now, giving her the once-over.

Cheeky sod. An ostentatious removal of the cleaning gear was followed by the pointed positioning of paperwork. “Will you be long, love?” she drawled. “Got a stack to
do.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He tugged an imaginary forelock, wielded the chamois. “I’ll try not to get in your way.”

The whistling got on her tits. Not only did it make Dazza’s sound like the Philharmonic,
When I’m Cleaning Windows
was so not original. Bev sipped the coffee and cast the
occasional glance. Talk about Mr Bean in a fat suit.
Tad harsh, Beverley.
On slightly closer inspection, the brown eyes were warm and friendly and his mouth looked as if it smiled a lot. The
wavy hair was almost too long and, apart from the silver threads, so dark that the six o’clock shadow was probably permanent. Still, at least he was happy in his work.

Sighing, she reached for a file. How long could it take to clean a fucking window? Two things happened almost at once: she noticed the tip of a yellow post-it under her keyboard, and a fit guy
in overalls entered the room.

The note read:
Bev, Keep an eye out for DC Mac Tyler – he starts first thing. BB.

The logo on the young guy’s overalls read Stay-bright.

Bev closed her eyes, so she missed the new DC’s wink as he chucked the chamois at the window cleaner.
Could it get any worse?

“Morning, both.” Byford popped his head round the door. “I see you two are getting acquainted. Unless there’s anything outstanding, Bev, you and Mac may as well team up
straight away.”

Oh yes.

“No, straight up, sarge, anyone could’ve made the same mistake. Me and George Formby?” Mac Tyler crossed two chubby fingers. “We’re like
this.”

Even Bev knew Formby was a long-dead British actor who’d played a gormless window cleaner – and the ukelele – to perfection. Tyler winked. Bev smiled without moving her lips.
He was taking the piss.

“I mean.” The new DC shovelled black pudding down his throat. “I had you down as Margaret Thatcher’s love-child when you walked in.”

She glared. Fucking suit was going straight back on eBay. The new look had attracted a bunch of unwelcome one-liners and double-takes. Vince’d called it “very Dynasty” and Daz
had asked if she’d got dressed in a power cut. As for Mac, he was digressing.

“You could’ve said something, mate,” she pointed out.

“I was only having a laugh.” He winked. “NHD.”

“NHD?”

“No harm done.” The wink was getting to her. Maybe it was a tic. She shrugged, took a sip of tea, tapped her watch.