Hard Time (25 page)

“I take it you’ve not heard from Liam, Mrs Fallon?” Daz’s glance took in spotless surfaces and hoover tracks in a speck-free carpet. Plastic sheets squeaked as he and
Sumi perched in synch on a gold brocade settee. The air smelt of pine forests, sweet peas and bleach.

“Not a word, bab. It’s not like Liam. I can’t understand it.” Neither could Daz; he needed a phrase book to decipher her accent. The old woman’s hand signals were
lucid. She was running bony fingers with bitten nails through lank greying hair.

Mrs Fallon clearly spent more time on the house than herself. Washed-out and weary, there was a slight though constant wobble to the cast of her head. It put Darren in mind of a cheesy nodding
dog in the back window of a car. Poor old dear was either wired or in the early stages of Parkinson’s. He watched as she jammed pink chapped hands in the pockets of a blue nylon overall.

“Sit down, Mrs Fallon.” The hovering made him uneasy.

“There’s tea in the pot.” She edged backwards towards the door. “Shall I...?”

“I’ll get it.” Sumi smiled. “You stay and talk to DC New.”

There was a matching armchair, gold velvet, clear plastic. Reluctantly she took a seat, wringing her hands in her lap. “He never goes off. I worry, see...”

Darren nodded; certainly did. “Who does Liam knock round with, Mrs Fallon? Can you give me his mates’ names?”

“I would if I could. But you know what kids are. It’s all nicknames these days.”

He took out a notebook. “Tell me what you can, love.”

She ran through what little Darren already knew. That Liam had left the house on Monday night and she’d not heard a word since.

“Did he say where he was going, who he’d be with?”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’ve been racking my brains but I can’t seem to think straight.”

Senior moments? She was certainly getting on. Looked old enough to be Darren’s gran. “Is he seeing anyone?” The blank look was probably genuine. He prompted. “Has he got
a girlfriend?”

She hesitated slightly, circling a thin wedding ring. “Not that I know of.”

The generation gap still bugged him. How to broach it? He turned back a page or two. “Can I just check Liam’s age with you, Mrs Fallon?”

She looked down at her hands. “Twenty-two. Just.”

“Only child, is he?”

Casual delivery but she stiffened, appeared to be debating whether to answer at all, let alone what to say. Darren opened his mouth but she spoke first, confirming his suspicions.
“He’s not mine. His ma did a bunk when he was a nipper. I’m his nan.”

It clearly gave her grief talking about it. Who else hadn’t she told? “Liam knows, does he?”

She bit her lip. “Found out a couple years back.” Her hands would be raw if she didn’t stop rubbing. “He’s OK about it. Still calls me Mum and
everything.”

Darren nodded. “Can I take a look in his room, Mrs Fallon?”

“Oh no, bab. He wouldn’t like that.” She placed a hand against the side of her face. “I never go in there.” She jumped up, took the tray from Sumi and bustled about
sorting cups. Her hands shook so much he thought she’d chip the china.

“Liam’s room?” Darren persisted. “It might point us in the right direction. Help us know where to look.”

“Maybe in a day or two.” Still playing mum, she couldn’t or wouldn’t meet Darren’s gaze. “If he hasn’t turned up.”

Sumi asked if she could use the loo and the old woman’s relief at the distraction was obvious. Darren could’ve forced the issue but the woman was a bundle of nerves. More pressure
might push her over the edge. And there was more than one way to skin a cat. “Have you got a recent photograph of your grandson, love?”

A smile, the first since they’d walked in, lit her drab features. He waited as she searched the drawers of a heavy oak sideboard. “Here you go.” Liam Fallon didn’t take
after his grandmother. Blessed with preppy clean-cut looks, he could do male lead in a soap – the Australian variety, not
EastEnders.

“Good-looking boy.” He studied it a few seconds before slipping it into a breast pocket.

“What will you do?” She lifted a cup to her lips but was shaking so much couldn’t drink from it.

“It’s early days, love, and Liam’s an adult...”

“But he wouldn’t just go off. I know him, officer. He wouldn’t do that. He’d call, let me know where he was.”

“You’ve tried his mobile?”

“Of course.”

Darren rose as Sumi returned. “We’ll look into it further, Mrs Fallon. Try not to worry. Let us know when Liam gets in touch.”

“Anything?” Daz’s question was out before the door closed.

“Kitchen was clean.” Sumi was dead serious, but when Daz burst out laughing she pulled a face as it dawned. “You know what I mean. Not so much as a mug with his name on.”
Let alone a signed confession.

A brace of teenaged mums barging buggies two abreast down the middle of the pavement forced the detectives to give way. Both girls had a fag on the go and were yacking into mobiles. Daz shook
his head. “And they say conversation’s dead.”

Sumi waited until they were in the Peugeot, then slipped an evidence bag from her pocket. The hairs were blond and plentiful.

Daz’s eyes lit up. “Nice one, Sumi. Not just a pretty...”

Her glare cut Daz off at the pass. “And this.” She held another evidence bag aloft. Daz could see her smile through the plastic – and a toothbrush.

“Don’t do things by halves, do you, Sumi?” With saliva and hair, they could probably fast-track DNA results.

“What now?” she asked.

“Get the samples to the lab. See if Flint wants it taken further.”

They had a few names to go on, teenagers who were on record as Liam’s partners in crime. They could maybe shed light on his whereabouts. Daz reckoned any decision would depend on the DNA
results. If there was a match between Liam and the unidentified body from the fire, the inquiry would shift a gear or five.

Cannock Advertiser, 12 June 2001

Fire kills family

Three members of the same family perished when flames swept through a detached house at Cannock in Staffordshire last night.
Thirty fire-fighters tackled the blaze that took the lives of Hannah and James Piper and their six-year-old daughter Amy.

One fire-fighter broke down in tears as he described hearing terrified screams from upstairs. But intense heat and thick black smoke prevented rescuers from
entering the property.

ALARMS

The cause of the blaze is not yet known but arson has not been ruled out. Smoke alarms were fitted but unconfirmed reports suggest they failed to operate. The
tragedy has led Staffordshire police to issue this warning. “It’s vital smoke alarms are checked regularly. Had the alarm been raised earlier, this appalling loss of life might have
been averted.”

Mr and Mrs Piper were teachers at the town’s high school. Amy was a pupil at Lea Bank Primary where prayers were said for the family at assembly this
morning.

Neighbours told the
Advertiser
that Mr and Mrs Piper’s elder daughter, Holly, had left home several weeks ago. One woman who didn’t want to be
named said: “Thank God she was away – or the entire family would have been wiped out.”

Eight pm, Highgate. Bev stood in her office, forehead cooling against the windowpane. She watched a couple of police cars take off in a flurry of squealing tyres and hot
rubber, shook her head and sighed. Traffic cops were so
Top Gear.

Her emotions were less heated since the earlier stand-off with Richard Page. Several hours’ phone-bashing and paper-pushing usually had that effect. Shame there wasn’t more to show
for it. The absentee home-owners from Edgbaston had been in touch and were now eliminated as potential witnesses. But the Stephen Cross box had yet to be ticked; their only witness still
couldn’t be arsed to put in a call.

On the personal front, her mum had phoned, wondering if she’d emigrated, and Frankie was threatening to swamp Moseley with missing posters as in
Have you seen this woman?
A big case
took precedence over family, friends, food and the other f-word. She sniffed. Chance’d be a fine thing.

Turning back to the office, she pulled a face. The waste bin said it all, circled as it was by screwed-up balls of paper and crushed Red Bull cans. Too much caffeine quaffed, too many theories
bitten the dust.

One idea hadn’t been discarded. She’d already bounced it off Mac. Time to share it with the guv. ’Course, she could have floated it at the late brief but then she’d have
no excuse to drop in on the big man. She combed her hair with her fingers and pinched a bit of colour into her cheeks.

For a second, she thought he had someone in with him. Then it registered: the guv was using the cactus as a hat stand. The fedora hung at a jaunty angle. The man himself had his feet on the
desk, hands clasped behind head.

“Hard at it, then?” She smiled; wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been catching a few zeds. His eyes were bloodshot and the skin underneath matched the smoky grey irises.

“Are you just here to have a go?” He swung his legs down, stifled a yawn. “Good thinking, by the way.”

“Oh?” She perched opposite.

“The Liam Fallon angle?” The Selly Oak misper she’d pointed in DCS Flint’s direction. “There could be something in it. Kenny’s pursuing it, he’s put
Darren New on the case tracking down Fallon’s associates.”

“Tickety.” A few credit points could come in handy. Not that she was crowing. “Makes you wonder how much slips through the net, though.” Actions not taken, statements not
followed up, calls not returned.

“You heard about Mike Powell, then?” Byford asked.

Hadn’t everyone? Talk about kicking a guy when he was on the carpet. It was so easy to point the finger. OK, he’d been a bit slow off the mark but given the same circs, it would be
‘there but for the grace of God’ for most cops. Herself included.

She bristled on his behalf. “He’s well made up the lost time.” She’d read his report. The dead couple’s relatives had been traced through the letters, and
arrangements were underway to fly the bodies back to Albania for burial. He’d established who, where, when, what. The biggie was still elusive: why.

“You’re very supportive all of a sudden,” Byford said. Powell had never been Bev’s flavour of the month; nasty taste in the mouth, more like. But he was like an old pair
of slippers; she hated the thought of having to wear in another pair.

“Better the devil you...” She left the implication hanging.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

Should she tell him? Break a confidence? That was a laugh. Like the DI had shown her his resignation. “No way. Just... he’s up against it. If I were you, I’d have a
word.”

“I have.” Byford picked up a pen, initialled a sheet of paper. “He’s not about to disappear, if that’s what you think.” He glanced up before she had time to
close her mouth. “Mike had a bad day. We all do. He offered to resign, then changed his mind.”

Been there, done that. “So the letter...” Game. Away. Given. Shit.

“The letter on his desk? He’s furious. Thinks some idiot stole it for a laugh.” Byford paused, locked glances with her. “I told him no one would be that stupid. What do
you think, Bev?”

She giggled like a schoolgirl on helium. “Honestly. As if. What is he like?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You tell me.” She had the grace to drop a sheepish glance; he wasn’t asking for a thumbnail sketch of the DI.

“Anyway, guv.”
Moving on.
“We need a tail on Richard Page.” Moved too fast, she could see the guv wasn’t with her. She’d had more time than him to
consider. And the more she did, the less she liked the fact that Daniel’s father disappeared whenever the fancy took him. Even if he wasn’t colluding with the kidnappers, the guy could
be up to all sorts of dirty tricks. In this business it was either follow the money or
cherchez la femme
. If Page was playing away from home it raised a zillion questions.

“Have you any idea of the cost?” The big man stroked an eyebrow. “We’re already over budget, running three major inquiries plus the bread and butter stuff. And you want
surveillance on a man who happens to rub you up the wrong way.”

“Below the belt, guv.” She hadn’t needed to pinch her cheeks, the remark was like a slap in the face. “Give me a bit of credit.”

“You’re asking for a blank cheque.” He pointed at the door.

“Nice to see you’re thinking about it.” She sat back, crossed her legs.

“Good night, sergeant.”

She folded her arms. “That’s what I like about you, guv – open mind.”

He tightened his lips. “We’re keeping an eye on Page.” The voice was menacingly soft. “You know that.” Just not 24/7.

Like Simon Wells had kept an eye on Monks Court? She swung a leg. “I don’t think that’s enough.” His expression was difficult to read. In one way, she conceded, he was on
the money: Page had got right up her nostrils. But it was more than that. Six days the kidnappers had held Daniel, six days without hand-over instructions, six days without any sign of closure. It
stank. Like rotting fish.

Byford shook his head. “No can do.”

She shrugged. “OK.” She could tell by his eyebrows he’d expected a harder time. She also sensed he’d not budge, weighed down by pressure from top brass and bean counters.
Balance sheets? Boy’s life? Close call. Over-harsh, ludicrously simplistic, she knew that. It didn’t stop a cynical snort.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

She held out empty palms. No mileage arguing. It wasn’t a battle she’d win. She needed more ammunition. Maybe get hold of a few rounds by keeping unofficial tabs on Page’s
movement? She wondered if Mac would be up for it as well.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” he said, “don’t.”

“You don’t fancy a pint, then?”

Byford didn’t fancy a pint. He was dog-tired and there was little to celebrate. It had been another frustrating day: pushing paperwork, monitoring reports, liaising with
Powell and Kenny Flint. Developments in the Hawk and Phoenix inquiries highlighted the lack of success in Sapphire. As for the Maxwell hotline, it might as well be ex-directory.