Death Line (8 page)

“Why don’t we go for a drink? Bite to eat? Somewhere quiet.” Byford asked.

Tempted. Torn. Teetering. “No ta.” He’d just given her food for thought, and she’d not let Frankie down. Again.

He cocked his head. “We could... talk.”

Her raised eyebrow was pretty voluble. He’d not even told her the outcome of the inquiry, the fact he was back on operational duties. She only found out ’cause it was all over the
nick by the time she came out of the Haines interview. Word was that Knight would stay on as SIO with Byford acting in an advisory capacity. Like that was going to happen. Knowing Byford if he was
back in harness he’d be chomping at the bit for a taste of the action. Either way he could’ve had the decency to give her a heads-up. She’d e-mailed to say great, thanks for
telling me, big of you. OK, maybe not those exact words.

“Fair enough.” He dug in a pocket for car keys. “Knowing how arsey you can be....”

“Arsey? Me?” Damn cheek. Uncharacteristic use of slang there, though. Must be feeling a tad prickly too.

“... I just want you to be the first to know...”

“First?” It was a night for snorting. “Do me a favour, guv.”

“... that I’ve resigned. I’m jacking it in.”

“So what did you say, my friend?”

Frankie and Bev, glass in hand, were slumped in opposite corners of a chocolate leather two-seater like a mismatched pair of slightly wonky book ends. Even without the candlelight glow La
Perlagio would look impossibly glam, raven-haired, long-limbed, Nigella only less obvious. No mean cook either. She’d learned at her father’s knee and when she wasn’t working in
his restaurant, sang semi-pro: blues, a little jazz, local joints mostly. They’d met on the first day of primary school, closer than some sisters. Even so, it had taken Bev three hours before
she could open up enough to spill Byford’s beans, make that bombshell. Actually, Bev mused, it had taken three hours, two bottles of Pinot and a couple of Calvados snifters. Between them. Bev
wasn’t greedy. The fettuccini Alfredo with scallops and garlic bread was good. But she’d forced that third portion down. Like hell. Smiling, she swirled the shot glass, feeling
surprisingly mellow. Wonder why...?

“Earth to Major Bev.” Frankie gave her almost full wine glass a flamboyant wave. “Is there anybody there, please?”

“Watch it!” Flying vino. She ducked but failed to dodge the fallout, sucked a few drops off her arm.

“Open another bottle if you’re that desperate, Bevy.”

“Funny girl.” Tight smile.

Amy Winehouse was saying no to rehab in the background. Bev was toying with the idea of a nightcap. Frankie straightened, tossed back the pre-Raph locks, turned face-on. “Put me out my
misery here. Boss man says he’s slinging his hook – what’s your next line?” The tone was glib, but Bev wasn’t so squiffy she couldn’t read the concern in her
mate’s dark eyes. She’d confided only in Frankie about her on-off relationship with the guv. Frankie was well aware it had a darn sight more ups and downs than in and outs; also knew
just how much Byford meant to her.

“Got on my knees. Begged him. Don’t do it, guv. Stay here, I...”

“Yeah yeah yeah. And you said?”

“Tricky saying anything when your jaw’s on the floor, Frankie.” Bev’s sigh lifted her fringe.

She nodded. “Needs trimming, that.”

“I know.”

Few seconds’ silence then: “Musta said something, Bevy?”

Got that right.
Start a collection shall, I?
Bev closed her eyes, pictured him storming off, driving away without a backward glance. Start a sodding collection. Foot. Herself. Shot. Talk
about kneejerk reaction. But the shock announcement had felt like a slap in the face. And she’d lashed back without thinking. Even now she didn’t know how the guv’s news would
affect a future they might or might not have. Either way, the subject was too raw, she could live without Frankie’s two penn’orth, however well-meaning. “Nah, mate. Not a dickie.
By the time I’d got my head round it...”

“Hey, Bev.” Frankie knew her too well, didn’t buy it. “When you’re ready. Tell me.”

“Sure.” Reckoned she’d have three months to work on it. That’s how much notice he’d have to serve. She knew he loved the Lakes, had a son up there. He’d joked
once about retiring there. At least she’d thought it a joke.

What she didn’t know was this: when the time came, would Byford take off up north? And would he leave behind more than the job?

Start a collection, shall I?
Byford shook his head, gave a wry smile. Bev’s comeback was almost funny. Or it was by the time he’d driven home, picked at the
leftovers of a shepherd’s pie and downed a dram or two of malt in front of
Newsnight.
Relaxing now in his beloved recliner, Byford took in the city nightscape from an upstairs window,
his mind’s eye still on the exchange in the car park. The stroppy posture, the pithy putdown were archetypal Morriss: mouth in gear, blue eyes flashing, toe tapping. Prickly? Oh yes.
Infuriating, exasperating, stubborn as a mule farm. You got it. But underneath? He still wasn’t sure. Maybe that’s why his smile was tinged with sadness this time.

The news had caught her on the hop, of course. If there’d been more time to think, he could probably have predicted her reaction. But then he’d not long put his resignation in
writing. The decision when to go had rested on finding Josh Banks’s killer. Based on what he’d heard at the brief Byford thought: job done. Haines hadn’t been charged, and even
though Byford had jumped the gun, it had only been by a few hours.

Either way, it was time to move on. The letter would be waiting on personnel’s desk first thing. The big man drained the tumbler, ran the malt round his tongue. Regrets? Sure. After thirty
odd years, he’d miss the job, miss Birmingham, miss one or two old friends. And he’d miss Bev even more.

If he couldn’t persuade her to go with him.

The man with the scrapbook studied the photograph first, held a magnifying glass over the face. Unwittingly, he caught his breath at the likeness. The
little boy so resembled Scott they could have been twins. The lookalike wore identical clothes, carried a similar satchel, and had been captured mid-stride, one sock half-mast, walking through the
gates of Scott’s school. The man took in the brick walls, high railings and a barely discernible chalked hopscotch grid.

His hand no longer shaking, he moved the glass back to the little boy’s image. He wondered if the substitute Scott also had a gap-tooth. The child took his walk-on role too seriously to
tell, cognisant of why he was there, and who was not. Unaware he’d been holding his breath, the man exhaled deeply. Sighing, he laid the magnifier on the table. He didn’t need it to see
the cutting; he’d read it so often, he knew the words almost by heart.

Still alive? The man swallowed. His gaze returned to the little boy in the reconstruction. The reporter had described the scene as dramatic. Idiot. He slumped back in the chair,
squeezed the bridge of his nose. The man was aware by now that even as Scott’s last known steps were being staged, they’d already been taken.

Still a news junkie on the sly, Paul Curran had most of the dailies and all the regional mornings delivered to the house, a bog-standard Bartley Green semi that would do for
the three of them for the time being. Half seven now and the front pages were laid out on the kitchen table, all singing from the same hymn sheet. Curran scowled. Maybe that should read him sheet.
Hair still damp from the shower, he played a preoccupied fork through rapidly cooling scrambled eggs. The press coverage hadn’t come as a surprise. He’d heard the story on the bathroom
radio and there’d been a brief mention on Breakfast TV. But seeing the photo splashed all over the papers was a gut-wrencher. Somehow the eggs had lost their appeal.

Grimacing, he shoved the plate away, deliberately obscuring the nearest picture. He’d need a dinner service to do a proper job: eight identical images of Roland Haines’s face
remained, all giving the same glassy-eyed stare. Haines looked as hacked off as Curran felt. DCI Knight hadn’t even wanted the suspect’s identity released. And here he was getting more
column inches than Katie Price. OK, the leak could’ve come from just about anyone in the squad, but Curran reckoned it’d be his neck on the block. Or would it?

He felt the stirrings of a smile as he reached for his coffee. It wasn’t all bad news. Truth be told, the journo in him had a sneaky admiration for what the pack had done. They’d no
choice but to rush the story out, ’cause soon as Haines appeared in court reporting restrictions would come down like a ton of the proverbial. He’d have done the same in their
shoes.

Hearing muffled footsteps overhead, he rose to pop the kettle on. Rachel would be down any minute gasping for a cup of tea. He knew she’d been up in the night feeding a fractious Rory.
Curran glanced at the baby’s picture, one of a zillion stuck to the fridge. Smiling, he traced the baby’s cheek with a tender finger.

Yes. If there was any justice in this world, it wouldn’t be long before Haines was remanded in custody, up to his neck in charges. It’d be back slaps and high-fives all round. And
the leak would be water under the news bridge.

Bev tapped her fingers on the wheel waiting for a green on the main drag through Moseley. Like the rest of the world and its aunt. She was a tad later than planned and was
hitting rush hour metaphorically head-on. Despite or because of the booze, sleep had been log-like. That’s if logs are prone to weird dreams and immune to wake-up calls. She could sue both
alarm clocks under the Trades Description Act. Neither had lived up to its name; her awakening had been down to Frankie belting out the lyrics to
Summer Time
before slamming the front door
and clacking down the pavement on her Eiffels.

The tune was damn catchy; Bev was humming it even now. Had been while grabbing a shower, slipping on a sky blue shift dress, slapping on some lippie and snatching breakfast, the virtual variety,
again. Scooping up the post on the way out, she’d briefly questioned why Oz Khan had bothered putting pen to paper when she couldn’t even be arsed to read his e-mails. Far as she was
concerned, soon as her former lover started shacking up with someone else, he’d written himself out of her love life. Now detective sergeant with the Met, her onetime DC could go screw. Which
he undoubtedly did. Bothered? Fuming. She blamed it on the traffic. Wished she could get rid of the damn lyrics in her head, all that ‘don’t you cry’ bollocks.

Mind, the song title was in tune with the day. A quick scan of the streets showed shorts, skimpiness and shades all round; sky so flawlessly blue it looked fake. Bev was an expert on blue, wore
nothing but for work. As this morning proved, it saved dithering.

And the traffic was moving; ’bout time too. Inching down the window, she wrinkled her nose at waves of eau de exhaust. Thank God she’d resisted the temptation to go topless, soft
top, that is. Yeah, those dreams had been dead kinky. Haines, buff naked but for a mortar board, had been switching a cane across the gaffer’s buttocks. Cut to Byford in Hawaiian shirt and
hammock, necking pina coladas, DI Powell handing over peeled grapes. She sniffed. Couldn’t imagine where that came from.

Sod. Go-mode didn’t last long. Handbrake was taking a fair few hits this morning. She glanced at her watch. The brief would be kicking off in twenty minutes, at this rate she’d be
luck...
What the ’kin’ hell?
Nah. Must’ve imagined it. What with the night visions and all. Out of the corner of her eye, for one split second she could’ve sworn
she’d caught a glimpse of Roland Haines on the telly. Not one telly, a whole bank of the buggers in the showroom next to the bookies. No way. She turned, peered over her shoulder. Yes way.
Haines in all his opposite of glory. What were the odds on that?

A slaphead in the white van behind papped his horn. She gave him the bird in the mirror, touched the gas. Thank God they were moving. She’d hate to miss anything, and there were bound to
be fireworks.

And the livin’ is easy? She raised an eyebrow. Course it is.

There’d been no stomping in slamming doors, striding up front. Early arrivals to the brief didn’t even notice the gaffer’s low-profile presence glowering at
the back. Bev, ferrying a mug of builder’s tea, cut him a glance as she passed, knew exactly where he was coming from. The positioning and pose were deliberate tactics: Lancelot wanted an
unwitting squad filing in like naughty kids under the headmaster’s disapproving glare. Paul Curran had definitely clocked him. As Bev squeezed into the pew next to Mac, she spotted the press
officer’s Adam’s apple do a double-take.

The g-as-in-gaffer word spread, banter gave way to wary silence. Maximum impact.

Strolling to pole position, Knight slipped a casual hand in pocket, swept a slow gaze over the audience and kicked-off high decibel. “Total fucking disgrace.”