Hard Time

by Maureen Carter

  “Cheeky sod.”

  “Joke. Must be the old woman’s.”

  Bev picked up the list. It was on the back of an old envelope. Julia Tate, 12 Marlborough Close. Just round the corner. “What was her gripe, Vince?”

  A horn blared. She swivelled her head, frowning. Mac on a double yellow. She turned to the door as Vince said something about noisy neighbours, crying kids. “Usual stuff, Bev.”

  She saluted on the way out. “As I say, Vince. You’re a bloody saint. Catch you later.”

  “I’m going nowhere till I’ve spoken to her.”

  Bev’s size seven wasn’t the only thing in the door. Her size twelve frame loomed foursquare as well. Arms crossed, fixed stare – it was gloves off, gauntlets down. The Morriss head of steam had built up in the motor on the way over to the Pages. Right now it could power the Rocket. Not that there wasn’t a plan B. If the tough-guy strategy failed, Mac was going to plead a dodgy prostate and beg to use the loo.

  Richard Page looked pleased to see them. Not. Pained was more accurate. “She’s still sleep...” He stopped suddenly, stroked his forehead as if to relieve an ache. Maybe he saw the glint of steel in Bev’s eyes. He stepped back. She opened her mouth to argue, closed it smartish when she realised he was letting them in. She threw Mac a puzzled glance, then stepped over the threshold before Page changed his mind.

  Surly but resigned, he swung an arm in the direction of the sitting room. “Wait in there. I’ll see if she’s awake.”

  Colin Henfield popped his head round the door. “Any news?”

  “’Fraid not, mate,” she said.

  Col looked crestfallen. Occupational hazard for family liaison: getting involved. He raised a hand, left them to it. Mac took the weight off his pins while Bev performed the usual prowl. Apart from another layer of dead skin cells, nothing appeared to have changed.

  She perched on the settee, slipped a hand down the side. Mac raised an eyebrow.

  “Force of habit, mate.” She grinned. Never knew what you might come across. Nada in this instance.

  “Taking his time, isn’t he?” Mac asked.

  She shrugged. “Maybe he was telling the truth and she’s doing a Sleeping Beauty.” She rose again, paced about. “Prince Charming’s lost his sparkle, though,” she murmured. There were footsteps overhead; a door closed, another opened. “Have to use that prostate scam another time. Reckon it’d work?” Stop wittering, Beverley.

  “You on edge, sarge?”

  “No.” She forced a smile, continued prowling. Mac was right, though. She felt wired and didn’t know why. Except it had been too easy. Page’s resistance had crumpled like a balloon with an air hole. She heard another door close overhead, more footsteps, quicker this time, then another door.

  “What’s going on up there?” Mac asked.

  “Dunno.” She scratched the side of her face, hoping to God the woman hadn’t done anything stupid. There’d been enough pills in Jenny’s handbag to make sleep a permanent state. But surely she’d only top herself if she thought Daniel wasn’t coming back?

  Mac’s sharp intake of breath broke her thoughts. “What you got?” she asked.

  “Force of habit, you said, sarge.” Mac held a creased piece of paper. “It was stuffed down there.” His side of the settee.

  Her frown deepened as she saw what was written. It read like a little kid’s wish list: Doctor Who duvet, a bunch of Harry Potter stuff, Dennis the Menace pyjamas, Spiderman slippers. “I don’t get it...”

  “I wrote it.”

  Richard Page defined haggard. How long had he been in the doorway? “They’re Daniel’s favourite things.” Staring at the floor, he was distracted, not really there. The words were delivered carelessly as if they weren’t important.

  “And?” Bev asked.

  “I realised last night. They’re missing.” Page leaned his head against the wood as if seeking support. “I noticed the mug wasn’t there. Looked to see if anything else had gone.”

  Shit. Since when? And why? Bev glanced at Mac, whose shrug echoed her own uncertainties. “When did you last see them?”

  He raised a half-hearted hand. “I’ve no idea.”

  The absent tone, the posture, still suggested the list was the last thing on his mind. Bev’s was screaming for answers. “Let’s ask Jenny.”

  “We can’t.” Page’s chest heaved. His words were barely audible. “She’s gone too.”

  It looked as if the bed had been slept in. The duvet was rumpled, the pillow indented. Jenny Page – like Daniel’s favourite things – was missing. Bev and Mac had searched every room in the house while Page attempted to pull himself together. Col was in the hall on the phone to Highgate. She knew the FLO blamed himself, though he couldn’t have stopped Jenny if she’d been determined to leave the house.

  “How long since you saw her, Mr Page?” Bev aimed for gentle concern. His son kidnapped, his wife missing, Page was close to the edge. He sat in a deep armchair, holding his head in his hands. “Yesterday evening. At about eight?” He seemed to be asking for confirmation.

  “How did she seem?”

  He snorted. “How do you think?” Contempt? Arrogance? Bev noted flashes of the original Page.

  “Doesn’t matter what I think.” With effort she’d kept her voice level.

  He closed his eyes. “Stressed. Exhausted. Desperate.”

  “So you stayed with her, tried to comfort her?” She’d seen the sleeping arrangements. Separate rooms, never mind single beds.

  “I tried...” He held out empty palms.

  “Was she asleep when you went to bed?” And are you about to lie through your teeth?

  “I don’t know. We don’t...”

  “Sleep together?”

  “Of course we do.” His eyes flashed indignation. Bev’s remained indifferent. “But...”

  “What?” she prompted.

  “Neither of us has been sleeping much at all. We thought it better...” He seemed incapable of finishing a sentence.

  “Did you check on her during the night?”

  He shook his head.

  “Any idea where she could’ve gone? Friends? Relatives?”

  Mac noted names, addresses, phone numbers; people the squad would check with as soon as the details were passed on.

  “Mr Page?” She waited till he lifted his head. “Does your wife have access to your bank accounts?”

  He frowned. “Of course. Why?” Could he really not see where she was coming from? She held his gaze but he hadn’t made the connection.

  “Is it possible she’s in contact with the kidnappers?”

  Page’s face hadn’t a lot of colour to begin with. It was grey now. “She wouldn’t...” The panic in the voice and eyes said different. “She couldn’t...”

  Bev wished she could be so sure. She was picturing a Doctor Who duvet, the Harry Potter paraphernalia and a little boy’s slippers and pyjamas. If Daniel already had his favourite things, when and how did he get them? And if not, was Jenny taking them to him now?

  “We don’t know, guv. Daniel’s stuff could’ve been AWOL since day one.”

  Bev was on the phone, Mac doing a Schumacher as they raced round south Birmingham mopping up their share of interviews with people Jenny might be staying with. Bev regarded it as an elimination exercise. She didn’t see Jenny as a woman who confided in anyone. Certainly not Richard Page. “The husband’s neither use nor ornament.”

  Byford was rubbing his chin, needed a shave; she could hear it. It was the only thing she could hear from the big man, whose head like hers was probably spinning with a zillion questions.

  Bev shot an arm out. “Watch him, Mac.” A drunken dosser was dithering on the kerb. The old guy looked like a down-market Dick Whittington with all his worldly possessions slung in a sleeping bag over his shoulder. She shuddered as Mac gave him a wide berth, had a sudden vision of Jenny Page roaming the streets clutching Daniel’s things to her breast. It was just possible the poor bloody woman was hav
ing a breakdown. It was also possible she was following the kidnapper’s instructions. And there was an outside chance she’d make straight for wherever Daniel was holed up.

  “Stupid, stupid woman,” Byford murmured. It had been the guv’s worst fear. Bev knew that. Hers too: going it alone made fraught with danger look like a walk in the park. “What the hell is she playing at?” The guv could’ve been talking to himself.

  “It’s not a game,” Bev said. “She wants her kid back. She’ll do anything.”

  “Thank you, sergeant, for your valuable insights.”

  She pulled a face at the phone. Stating the bleeding obvious wasn’t a road she normally went down, but if they’d recognised the strength of Jenny’s feelings a bit earlier, maybe they could’ve headed her off before this. It wasn’t for want of trying. The Pages had given her the bum’s rush into a brick wall time and again.

  “Bernie’ll look after the press,” Byford said. “He’s called a news conference. Back here at midday.”

  “Dandy.” At least they could bring the media in on this. Still no mention of Daniel’s kidnap, of course; they’d sell it as a missing-woman story. In the meantime uniformed officers and as many of the squad as could be spared would soon be on the streets showing Jenny’s picture to passers-by.

  “Did you get anything on the missing death certificate?” Byford asked.

  She frowned, couldn’t think for a second what he meant. Given everything else that had gone on recently, it didn’t figure large in her thoughts. But it was the reason they’d gone to the Pages in the first place: a stillborn baby whose death didn’t appear to have been registered. She’d mentioned it in passing to Richard Page but he didn’t have a clue. “Not yet, guv.”

  “By the way, Bev, Maxwell’s in custody.”

  “Who? Oh, yeah. Right.” One thing less to worry about was fine by her. “What’s he saying?”

  “Not a lot.”

  Maxwell could wait. Her focus was elsewhere. After days of going nowhere, the kidnap inquiry appeared to be heading for the home stretch against the clock. She had an image of a timer in her head. And the sands had started to run.

  Maybe it was the heat. Maybe they were bored. The young PCs had been standing round in the sun for hours. There was no way they should have entered the premises. On the other hand, the window at the back was an open invitation to burglars. Really ought to be checked...

  One of the uniforms waited on the drive while the other slipped his considerably thinner frame through the gap. Had the two of them played it by the book, who knew how long it might have been before Stephen Cross’s body was found?

  41

  “Stephen Cross?” Bev’s sense of verbal déjà vu was surreal. Only six hours earlier she’d shrieked Laura Foster’s name just as incredulously.

  According to Daz, phoning from the crime scene, a uniform had discovered the architect’s body at the bottom of his spiral staircase. In any other circumstances the fall might have been treated as accidental death. Except for the rank smell of metaphorical rats. A crime-scene team was sniffing around to see if more tangible evidence existed.

  “What you doing there anyway, Daz?” She thought he’d been assigned to Kenny Flint, chasing Liam Fallon’s mates.

  He snorted. “Bloody moveable feast, sarge. Hacked off with it, tell you the truth.” Daz’s weren’t the only mutterings she’d heard from the troops. Given the current workload, a lot of the guys felt like thinly spread jam – barely covering the surface and missing the corners.

  Bev checked the time on the dash: just after two. They had a couple more house calls to make and Mac was moaning about missing lunch. “Be there in fifteen minutes, mate.”

  “We won’t,” Mac said. He took the phone from her, asked a few questions, made the right noises and ended the call. By which time, Bev had closed her gaping mouth. “Everyone’s there,” Mac said. “They don’t need us. He was only keeping you in the loop. We’ve got our own stuff to clear and I’m starving.”

  “Fuck that...”

  “Come on, sarge. You can’t keep running round like a blue-arsed fly. No wonder you look rough. And it’s counterproductive. Follow too many lines, they get crossed.”

  “They’re linked, dumbo.” Laura Foster-Stephen Cross-the Pages. She folded her arms before she bopped him. “Can’t you see that?”

  “And we’re part of a team.” He flung her a glance. “Can’t you see that? Eighty officers at Highgate alone – what makes you think you’re the only one who can save the world? Christ, you’ll be wearing your underpants over your tights next.”

  “Not the sodding world I’m trying to save. It’s a poor defenceless little...”

  “Spare me, sarge.” He lifted his palms. “We all want Daniel back. No need to go OTT.”

  Christ’s sake. She didn’t have to take this shit from a junior officer. “Fuck off.”

  “That’s mature.”

  She turned her back, looked through the window. “Rough?” she snarled. Reluctantly and privately, she conceded he had a point. Several, in fact. She’d looked and felt ropey for the past few days. And the priority was tracing Jenny Page; and Daz had said not to bother putting in an appearance. But it was her way of working: being there, getting a feel for a crime scene. She sighed. Saw too many loose threads. She shivered despite the heat. Realised she was scared; scared the whole fucking shooting match was in danger of unravelling.

  She was still miles away when he pulled over. Might’ve known: Ronald’s golden arches. Good to see he’d got his priorities sorted. He took a tenner from his wallet and gave her a wink. “Fancy a Big Mac?”

  “Daft sod.” She smiled despite herself. He probably had her best interests at heart. The other sort she’d pursue when he wasn’t around.

  Daniel was very very hungry; he thought he might even eat the nasty woman’s yucky scrambled eggs. Not that he’d been offered much food. She’d barely looked at him since she caught him knocking on the wall.

  The lump on his head wasn’t quite so swollen but it still hurt a lot. He’d examined the bump when she let him go to the toilet. He’d had several ‘accidents’ when he was tied up and she wasn’t there. Tears pricked his eyes. Only babies wet themselves. He tightened his little fists.

  The bump hurt. He itched to stroke it but his arms were tied fast round his body, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t work the rope loose from his ankles. The skin was raw and bleeding. He wouldn’t mind the pain if only his plan had worked; he was so sure someone had been knocking in reply.

  His bottom lip quivered. No one cared. No one loved him any more. Where were Mummy and Daddy? Why hadn’t they rescued him? Scalding tears ran down his cheeks. He hated the nasty woman. She told wicked, wicked lies. Mummy wasn’t coming for him. The witch woman only told him things like that to hurt him more. He didn’t believe a word she said. He wanted her to die. He wanted her to go to hell. He wanted to kill her.

  “It arrived first thing.” A worried Grant Young was on the phone to Byford. A wreath had been delivered to the media man’s home in Kings Heath.

  “Any message?” Not that it needed one.

  “You could say that.” The laugh sounded forced. “A card showing a coffin and my name on a headstone.”

  Byford’s pen would snap if he didn’t loosen his grip. Even behind bars, Maxwell pulled his puppets’ strings.

  “I’ve had calls warning me off, too.”

  “Why didn’t you say?” Byford heard a rustle, pictured a shrug.

  “I’m a big boy now. I can take care of myself.” The attempt at levity didn’t work. Young sounded uneasy.

  “If it’s any consolation, Maxwell’s in custody.” Not for much longer, though. He couldn’t hold the crime boss indefinitely. And the army of goons was still out there.

  “Maxwell doesn’t worry me.” The clipped delivery suggested the opposite. “Just thought you should know. In case I go missing or anything.” Nervous laugh. “Do you want to see the wreath or the card?�
��

  Byford checked the time. “I’ll drop by this evening, pick it up. Get it off to the lab.” He could send a uniform but it was on his way home, and he felt he owed Young a favour.

  “Excellent! I can introduce you to a few of the crew.”

  “Crew?”

  “The Hard Time team. I’ve asked a few people round. Drinks and nibbles. Nothing fancy. Just a bit of bonding, ice-breaking, whatever they call it these days.”

  “I can’t prom...”

  “One glass? Just say hello?” Young sounded his old self.

  Byford gave a faint smile as he hung up.

  “What do you mean, she’s not here?” Bev loomed, hands on hips, over the young girl at Full Page Ads. Chelsea trembled in the swivel chair behind reception, ginger freckles swamped by a beetroot flush.

  Mac leaned in, tapped Bev’s arm. “Messenger, sarge. Don’t shoot.”

  She took a deep breath, furious with herself more than the kid. Why hadn’t they come to the agency the second they’d heard about Stephen Cross? Should’ve listened to her gut instinct, not fed Mac’s fat face. It looked as if her DC’s earlier visit had acted as a wake-up call. The bird had flown. Or at least joined the missing list. Laura Foster wasn’t expected back at work for two weeks and wasn’t answering any of her phones.

  “I don’t think she’s gone away,” Chelsea said. “She cares for a sick relative.”

  “Who?”

  “Laura.”

  Bev clenched her teeth. “Who’s the relative?”

  Blank look.

  “What makes you say she’s a carer?”

  The girl hunched her shoulders. “Just a few things she’s let slip. And...”

  “What?”

  Chelsea glanced round, lowered her voice. “She’s hardly ever here, these days. Wish I could take...”

  “Where’s she live?”

  The girl frowned. “How would I know?”

  Bev tapped a foot. “Have a look in the files.”

  “I don’t have access to personnel details.” Poor girl had only been there a month. She looked as if she’d failed the probation, then suddenly had a bright idea. “You could ask Mr Page. He’d know.”