Death Line (2 page)

Either way, the gap was tiny. It would have closed naturally.

Given time.

Josh lagged behind in the stuffy classroom, desperate to be last out. He was small for his age, wore nerdy glasses, scruffy clothes and knew he smelt bad. The other kids were
always on at him, giving him a hard time, calling him Stig, as in dump. Worse, Brett Sullivan’s gang usually lay in wait to give him a good hiding. Josh dreaded going home time.

Not knowing where the big lads would be was the pits. Some days they crouched by the stinky wheelie bins outside the kitchens, another time they’d be sniggering round the side of the bike
sheds. Once or twice they’d followed him to the house, calling him names, throwing stones, booting him up the backside, ripping his t-shirt. Just thinking about it made his stomach churn like
as if he was going to throw up. It wasn’t as though he had any money or a mobile. As if. The big kids got a kick out of seeing him cry, bashing him, making his life a misery.

Little legs tightly crossed, Josh paused at the main entrance, pressed his nose against the reinforced glass and peered through into the playground. Bright sun, blue sky again; the teachers were
calling it a heatwave. Josh shivered, checked the shadows. Was the coast clear? Well, his mum wasn’t going to be there, was she? Never had been really. Chewing his lip, casting wary glances,
Josh slipped through the heavy swing door. He knew his mum drank too much, took too many drugs, didn’t clean the house or cook nice food. He loved her though, loved her to bits – and
she only hit him when she was really, really, mad. He worried himself sick when she passed out. What if she didn’t come round one time? When she was in a good mood, had a few quid to spare,
it was mint. They’d fetch fish and chips, maybe pick up a DVD – Harry Potter, something like that – then cuddle up on the settee. She’d ruffle his hair, tell him he was her
big man. His sweet smile faded fast. When had they last done that?

He sniffed, caught a whiff of exhaust fumes, glanced up to see the ice cream van pull away. His mouth watered. What he wouldn’t give for a 99 or a Magnum. Not that he’d turn his nose
up at an ordinary ice lolly. Fat chance. He was well skint; couldn’t remember the last time he’d had money in his pocket. Head down, he scoured the pavement just in case...

It was just before he reached the block of cheapo shops, beginning to drop his guard when they jumped him. Brett and one of his bully boys. Mouth dry, heart pumping, Josh darted nervous glances
every which way. Why was no one there when you needed them? Strong hands grabbed his arms, spiteful fingers pinched his flesh as they frogmarched him along.

“This way, Stiggie,” Brett sneered. Like Josh had a choice. His scuffed trainers barely skimmed the pavement.

“What you want? I ain’t got nothing.” Josh hated the whimper in his voice. Made him sound a wuss.

“Shut it, loser.”

He bit his lip, tears pricked his eyes. “I’m not a los...”

“Loser, loser, Stiggie is a loser.” They were both at it now, winding him up, pulling stupid ugly faces.

He’d not cry. Not give them the satisfaction. “Come on, Brett, let me go. I never done nothing to you.” Brett jabbed a bony elbow into his ribs. “Stop whinging.
Dumpboy.”

Josh smelt dog shit, hot tarmac. They were nearly at the waste ground on Marston Road. He so didn’t want to end up there; all those bricks and rubble. They’d use him as target
practice again.
Please God, don’t let me pee my pants.
“Wh... where we going?”

“The pictures, not.” Brett flicked his finger into the little boy’s cheek. “So you won’t be needing these will you, speccy?” He snatched Josh’s glasses,
twirling them round and round. Shit. Not another pair. His mum’d go ballistic. Josh licked his lips, tasted blood. Scared, hacked off, he lashed out but they released their grip and were
already scarpering. “Give ’em back,” he yelled. “Please! I need ’em.”

“Come and get ’em, shit brain.”

Lost without his specs, Josh could barely focus; Brett and his mate were just blurry figures in the distance. Fists clenched, eyes smarting, he thought about giving chase, but even if he could
catch them, what was he going to do? He sighed heavily, in no hurry to get home now; his mum’d kill him. Dashing away angry shameful tears, he dragged his feet, vaguely registered a red car
idling at the kerb just up ahead. As he approached, the driver wound down the window. “Want to go after them? Teach them a lesson?”

Josh squinted. Did he know the man? The face looked vaguely familiar but without glasses the little boy couldn’t be sure. He remembered what his mum said about getting into
strangers’ cars. Best not. “It’s OK, thanks, mister.”

“Your call. I’m surprised you’re happy to let them get away with it though, Josh.”

Josh? He must know the bloke. As for letting gobbie Brett get away with it – like hell. Face screwed, he peered closer. “What you mean, mister? Teach ’em a lesson?”

“Hop in, Josh. You’ll see.”

Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss glared at the pewter sky over a tatty council house on the Quarry Bank estate and told God to get her act together. The clock was ticking: the
kid who lived here was missing, all hell was let loose. It was a category A incident, every available officer on the case. Bev had been landed with mother-watch – not a pretty sight.
She’d just slipped out to make a call. Or that’s what she’d told the family liaison officer who’d more than earn her whack with this one.

Leaning on the wall, a Doc Marten against the brickwork, Bev lit a Silk Cut, inhaled deeply, blamed the smoke when her eyes stung. Yeah right. Except it was more the image of a little boy with
red hair, Bill Gates glasses and a cheeky grin – William Brown meets the Milky Bar kid. Her weak unwitting smile lasted only seconds. Ten-year-old Josh Banks had vanished into emaciated air
and even out here, even over the intermittent drone of the police helicopter, the low-level buzz of traffic, Bev could hear the mother wailing.

And the cop in her was questioning if the grief was genuine. Josh had been missing for three hours before Stacey Banks raised the alarm, since when she’d shown wall-to-wall hostility. Bev
hadn’t even taken the brunt of it. The woman’s foul-mouthed abuse had been targeted at the initial search team, even though she’d been told the family home’s the first place
cops look for a missing child. Home Sweet Home? Not always.

Cynical? Damn right. Bev had seen it all and then some. Either way, Josh had not been hiding and his body had not been hidden. Though filthy and rank, in the legal sense the house was clean.
Ish.

Light spilled on the narrow path as the front door opened and her partner DC Mac Tyler emerged. She budged along a gnat’s so he could join her, watched him wipe an already moist hankie
round his clammy neck. Mac was mid-fifties and not so much running as ambling to fat; she doubted either was responsible for the heat under his open collar.

“OK, mate?” Her enquiry was casual, the glance concerned.

“Sure.” The response was knee-jerk. His tense features reflected his real thoughts. With two lads of his own, he had more idea than Bev what the impact would be if one went AWOL. In
what little spare time the job left, Mac did stand-up comedy; right now he wasn’t cracking a smile, let alone a joke.

“Give us a drag, sarge.” He held out two podgy fingers, a gesture that would normally have sparked an irreverent one-liner; she passed the baccy on autopilot. Mac took a quick draw
then, grimacing, ground the stub under a scuffed desert boot. She wasn’t surprised: he usually equated smoking with a one-way ticket to Switzerland. Their deep sighs were synchronised, both
lost in speculation, both vaguely aware of the urban ambience – such as it was.

A snatch of Lily Allen’s
Smile
drifted from a passing soft top; a scrawny Alsatian-cross piddled down a black bin liner; eau de curry and Ambre Solaire wafted in the still warm air.
And an irritating TV ad from within signalled the end of
News at Ten.
Because you’re worth it. Bev sniffed. Says who?

“That’s another thing,” she muttered. “I wish she’d turn that sodding telly off.” The widescreen plasma had been blaring since their arrival:
The Bill
and
Big Brother
were bad enough, but the coverage of Josh’s disappearance was neither use nor ornament.

“Helps, maybe,” Mac offered. “Seeing what we’re doing.”

“Helps?” The voice was inadvertently high; volume lower, she continued, “Banging on about the ‘golden hour of a police investigation’. That’s all we
need.” The sneer was over the top, but her fear was still there. Cops know if an abducted child’s not found sharpish, odds are a body will turn up. The hanging around not knowing either
way was, for Bev, the worst time. Except when... She closed her eyes, banished never completely buried flashbacks of small broken bodies. Dear God, please let us find him.

She swallowed hard, told herself it was still just possible Josh hadn’t been snatched; though for seven hours he’d certainly not been seen. He’d walked out of Hyde Lea junior
school in Jubilee Row that afternoon – and that was it. Nada. Thank God it was July and they’d still had a few hours’ daylight to play with.

Highgate’s new boy Detective Chief Inspector Lance Knight was co-ordinating the inquiry; Bev hoped it didn’t turn into a baptism of fire. DCI Knight – dubbed Lancelot, natch
– had called the right shots so far. Not difficult: police procedures were well established. After searching the immediate area, a mix of uniforms and detectives had visited Josh’s
school friends, called on relatives, canvassed passers-by and questioned drivers. No leads had been uncovered, so specialist search trained officers had been called in.

The hastily-assembled Police Search Advisors – known as POLSA – had made a start on tracing Josh’s footsteps; the half-mile route covered a row of seedy shops, rundown terraces
and a scrubby patch of wasteland. Despite the police activity and as yet limited media coverage, not so much as a dodgy sighting had been reported. Light was fading now and the hunt would be
winding down, but at dawn the search grid would be extended, tooth combs made finer.

“Think we’ll find him, boss?” Mac hitched baggy denims over a button-straining paunch. She glanced along the street: drizzle danced like fake diamonds in the muted glow of the
few street lamps that weren’t faulty or fused.

“Not out here we won’t.” She peeled herself off the wall, nodded at the door. “Let’s have another crack at Madonna.”

Stacey Banks resembled a bleached whale with attitude. Her coarse over-dyed hair looked like wee-coloured straw with ginger roots. Under the blubber and pasty face it was just
conceivable a slim pretty woman was not struggling to get out. Currently her backside was wodged into the shabby depths of a sludge-green settee. The skimpy yellow sun dress was a brave choice: the
dimpled thighs were too fat to close let alone cross. At twenty-six, she looked forty-plus. The overheated under-ventilated room stank of body odour, chips and cheesy feet.

When Bev and Mac re-entered, Stacey lifted a lazy-eyed glance. She’d been staring morosely at a school photograph of Josh that lay quivering on her lap. Taken two years ago, it was the
only picture in the house of her first-born. Copies had been circulated to other forces and the media, missing posters would be printed and posted first thing. If need be.

“’Ave yer found ’im?” Her Birmingham accent was broad, the delivery still slightly slurred. Bev’s blank expression was answer enough. Stacey Banks’s porcine
eyes creased in contempt. “Fuckin’ useless. The lot on yer.”

And you’d know, sister. Bev bit back the barb; a spat with the mother wouldn’t help relations with the FLO. Cathy Reynolds would likely be here all night and on hand to take the
flak. Besides, whatever Bev’s opinion of Stacey, this was about Josh. But, boy, had she struggled to find common ground. She was now short on benefit, big on doubt. Unlike the colleagues she
knew who’d cut a withering glance and dismiss Stacey Banks as white trash, Bev didn’t do stereotypes, but she’d seen the statements taken from neighbours and they read like
scripts from
Shameless.

Word on Mill Street had it that Stacey Banks was an antisocial slob who lived on benefits and booze, supplementing handouts with thieving and blowjobs. Police cautions for shoplifting and
soliciting confirmed some of the hearsay. Worst sin in most neighbours’ eyes? When there was a man around, she didn’t give a toss about her kids. There was no current partner, according
to Stacey.

“Where is he?” The heavy-weather wailing set Bev’s teeth on edge. “Where’s my little boy?” A dry-eyed Stacey buried the picture in mounds of cleavage.

Bev un-balled her fists and perched on the threadbare arm of a health hazard chair. If the woman hadn’t been off her face it might’ve occurred to her earlier that Josh hadn’t
arrived home.

Still, Mother Earth knew where her other kids were. She’d offloaded the year-old twins at her mum’s place round the corner. Back in January. It was either that or – according
to social services – Jordan and Joel would be in care now. As for the six-year-old, he lived with his father. Tracing Josh’s was more difficult. Bobby Wells was less one-night stand,
more lunchtime shag. If Stacey was to be believed, his name was no more pukka than the address he’d fobbed her off with. If.

Bev had another stab. “You’re sure he’s never had any contact with his dad?” It was one of the first questions they’d asked. Same when any child went missing.
Stranger-danger is always drummed into kids – even though stats prove it’s parents some should fear most.

“How many times you need telling? He buggered off years back. Josh wouldn’t know him from Adam. Nor give him the time of day if he did.”

“And you say Josh has never gone off before, love?” Mac tried the paternal approach; again it wasn’t the first time of asking. But if Josh made a habit of bolting, they could
maybe tone down the urgency level. Stacey rolled her eyes, she’d already answered. Mac persisted. “I know what kids are like... They get an idea in their head, lose track of
time...”