Death Line (4 page)

The DI gave a modest shrug. “I’ve done the odd turn.” Media tart was how Bev Morriss put it. Got a way with words, had Morriss. Mind, Powell had realised recently just how
tough it must’ve been for her a few years back when he got the DI post over her. Maybe they could compare notes, lick wounds. Or something.

“Anyway...” Knight’s full lips gave an almost imperceptible twitch. “The media’s going ballistic over the Josh Banks story. The news bureau’s got a list of
interview requests long as your arm. Think you can manage the telly stuff today?”

“Piece of cake.” Like hell. Powell saw a Damoclean sword. Or poison chalice. With Knight’s sticky fingers on it. Being a talking head for the cameras was no problem, except the
DI knew how these things worked. If there were no developments, there’d be naff all to say and muggins here would be the one getting it in the neck from the pack. Of course, if there was a
half decent police press officer around to take... share... the flak: “Who’s looking after it upstairs?” News bureau boss Bernie Flowers would be the obvious choice but the lucky
bastard was on a sabbatical.

“I’ve asked Paul Curran to co-ordinate for the duration. Case like this needs continuity.” Long fingers picked a speck of white from a charcoal sleeve. Powell spotted nails
that were bitten to the quick; his childish smirk was subliminal, replaced by a knowing frown. Curran seemed a nice enough bloke but he was another new guy.

Maybe Knight sensed the DI’s reservation. “Paul knows what he’s doing. He was a reporter, knows what they want, how their brains work.” Mindset of a vampiric vulture
then. “Either way, Mike, with a kid missing, we need them on side.” He lifted a cuff, checked a slim gold watch. Subtle. “Liaise with Paul after the brief, OK?”

Like there was an option. Powell seethed inwardly. Far as he knew, Curran had come from some cushy public relations berth in a sleepy Hereford backwater. Cutting edge media supremo he
wasn’t. It wasn’t so much that, though; at least the guy would be malleable. It was the way Knight dished out orders that stuck in Powell’s craw. Like he’d ever show it.
“On it, boss. Good call.”

“Yeah.” Three, four second pause then: “I knew I could count on you, Mike.” Powell looked away first, but not before he’d clocked the glint in Lancelot’s eye.
As the DCI headed for the door, Powell nonchalantly gathered a few files, pocketed pen and mobile. Close run thing, but he saw the skirmish as one-all.

When he glanced up the DCI was still in the doorway. “Don’t play heavy with him, Mike. I know he’s young, but he’s enthusiastic, bursting with ideas. Give him a fair
hearing. From what I’ve seen these past few weeks, this place needs a bit of new blood.”

Powell’s knuckles went white. That score-line? Maybe a tad premature.

“Somebody saw something. Somebody out there knows where the boy is.” DCI Knight ran his cool gaze over a tense squad packed tight into a too-cramped space. Through
the windows, an azure sky was at odds with the communal dark mood. With no small step let alone giant leap in the hunt for Josh, extra man- and womanpower had been drafted in. A bigger
incident-stroke-briefing room was currently being fitted out along the corridor to cope with the scale of the inquiry now codenamed Operation Swift. Everyone hoped it would live up to its
billing.

Bev carried out a quick scan, head-counting, clocking faces: a fair few she’d not seen before. Among them, maybe, would be members of the eight-strong POLSA team plucked from stations
across the city. Wherever they worked the moveable feast of specialist trained officers tended to stick close, as in super-glued jam. Among new recruits were old hands: Powell, ankles crossed,
leant against a side wall sucking a lemon; Mac, seated alongside, surreptitiously wiped canteen fallout from his shirt front; DCs Darren New, Sumitra Gosh and Carol Pemberton sat at a desk near the
door. Propped against a printer was Jack-Mr-Nice-Guy-Not-Hainsworth, the incident room co-ordinator. New DC Danny Rees was on the front row, hanging on Lancelot’s every hackneyed word.

Hackneyed. Bev pursed her lips. Was that fair? There were only so many ways to say what Knight was getting at. Police need witnesses. And in Josh’s case, the squad needed quality
intelligence now. As he paused to let the import sink in, Bev subtly scrutinised the new guy.

Until yesterday, their paths had barely crossed, but with any Category A enquiry it was a given it’d be headed by a DCI. After perfunctory intros, he’d kicked off the brief by naming
Powell as deputy senior investigating officer which could explain the current citrus-sucking.

Brushing a shaggy shade-of-Guinness fringe out of strikingly blue eyes, Bev wondered idly if the follically-challenged Knight shaved his head. Lot of blokes did, cutting their losses and hoping
the look was more macho. Not Knight. He was way too pretty to be a goon; the bald scalp only accentuated the chiselled bone structure, full lips, sexy eyes that were a tad bluer than grey. He was
fit and knew it. One of the reasons she didn’t fancy him.

Had a certain amount of sympathy though, must be well hard for any gaffer to come to an enclave like Highgate and lead a squad that took no prisoners. She gave a wry smile. Well, no prisoners
far as bosses go. Bev knew the odd colleague was gunning for him, others would suck up like heavy duty Dysons. Which was worse? Close call, because behind the scenes they’d all hold back to
see if he was any cop. Only then would he be admitted to the pack. Human nature, wasn’t it?

Sharp cookie like Knight would be aware of all this peripheral stuff. He also had to contend with the professional pressure of the current case. A missing child didn’t just give parents
nightmares. Not that you’d know it to look at Knight. Casual, hands in pockets, he stood in front of one of the whiteboards like some trendy university don.

“The boy didn’t just disappear in a puff of smoke.” The smooth vowels would grate on some people round these parts. “We’re not in the Bermuda triangle – and I
don’t believe in little green men.” If he was waiting for a laugh it didn’t come.

Ironically his head obscured the most important exhibit on the board: Josh’s photograph. Bev didn’t need to see it; the boy’s likeness was fixed in her mind’s eye. Like
most officers here she’d worked on missing minors inquiries before, but something about little Josh touched her heart. Last night’s trawl of the Quarry Bank estate had netted nothing.
Back home, tossing and turning in bed, she was hard pushed to explain the nocturnal wanderings. Except a deep need to do
something
for a kid she fervently hoped to see in the flesh.

Knight stepped to one side revealing an enlarged street map, used a pointer to indicate key locations. “This is his school. This is where he lives.” A thick red line had been added
in shaky felt tip; Knight’s pointer traced it. “This is the route he’d most likely take. It’s not the Kalahari Desert.”

Got that right. It was a half-mile strip surrounded by a maze of back streets that in New York would be called mean. It ran from Josh’s squat redbrick school in Jubilee Row to the only
concrete and steel high-rise still standing on the council estate. Dotted around were two-up-two-down terraces, a seedy block of shops, grafitto-ed lock-ups and a patch of waste ground. As for
residents, it was ethnic all-sorts land, pavements clogged with burquas and crop tops, saris and shell suits, hoodies and hijabs. Cultures clashed, sure, street crime was rife, but people mostly
rubbed along. Bottom line was this: it was riddled with places to hole up or be forcibly held.

“Anything on CCTV, sir?” Brown eyes earnestly creased, DC Rees leaned forward slightly. Out of uniform, tall, dark, smooth-cheeked Danny looked even more like a member of a boy band.
And clearly keen to make his voice heard. It was a fair question – if you hadn’t done your homework. This was Balsall Heath, not Belgravia. Low-rent dirt-poor areas aren’t flooded
with security cameras. Four, if Bev recalled correctly.

“Do you not read the reports, lad?” Two cameras had no tape, one wasn’t working, the fourth was in that favourite haunt of small boys, a cut-price nail salon. Knight chewed a
piece of loose skin from his thumb. “Try and keep up, eh?”

Not unreasonable. Masses of paperwork would accrue over the course of the inquiry. Keeping on top of it was essential and expected. There was too much at stake for left hands not to know what
right hands were doing. Rees would learn.

“OK.” Knight faced the troops. “We hit the streets, knock doors. Question shop keepers, householders, landlords, dossers, dustmen, dog owners. Anything with a pulse.”
Interpreters were already on standby. “We talk to taxi drivers, bus drivers, delivery drivers. Closer to home, we interview relatives, family friends, teachers, anyone who’s had contact
with the boy. Who’s looking at sex offenders?” Abrupt change of tack. Meant to keep them on their toes? Bev wondered if he made a habit of it. He nodded as a couple of hands went up:
Darren’s and Sumi’s. They’d have made a start yesterday. The register was always high on the checklist when a child was missing. “OK. Carry on, and if you need help –
ask. That goes for anyone who can’t cope with the workload.”

The second whiteboard displayed the search grid. Knight talked as he walked. “As you know, it’s a difficult terrain. Fortunately we have the top team. Joe Gregson leads it. Anyone
with ideas, input, talk to him.” All six-six of him, Bev gauged as a gym-trim guy with a grey buzz-cut rose to put face to name.

“OK, listen up.” Heads turned back to Knight. “The POLSA guys will turn every stone, go through every outhouse, garden shed, lock-up. Check every drain, manhole, gutter and
roof top. We walk the area, drive it, cover every centimetre. We find the boy. Failure is not an option.”

That’s OK then. Bev wasn’t big on bluff. She sat back, arms folded, legs crossed. “Assuming he’s still in the area,” she said. “He could be anywhere by
now.”

Three, four second pause, then: “Detective Morriss, isn’t it?” Fingers slowly traced his jaw-line. As poses go it was classic. It cut no ice with Bev.

“Sergeant.” She sniffed.

“Until we know otherwise, sergeant, it’s where we concentrate resources.”

She raised a palm. “Open mind is all I’m saying.” It was one of Byford’s mantras: eggs, baskets and all that. “Doesn’t do to...”

They’d never know. Knight wasn’t listening. “Ports and airports have obviously been alerted. And there’ll be national media coverage.” The stress on national was
presumably for Bev’s benefit. She opened her mouth for a comeback, but Knight was moving on. “Perhaps you could pick up on that, Paul? And for Christ’s sake will someone get that
bloody phone.”

Carol Pemberton was nearest. The diversion was probably no bad thing. It was early days to cross verbal swords. Especially with a guy the troops called Lancelot.

This time joint focus switched to the fair-skinned sandy-haired man, early thirties perhaps, perched on a radiator. Not that the heat was on, only the metaphorical kind going by the unbecoming
flush spreading up from his neck. Bev watched, fascinated. Poor Paul. Thrust into the limelight. And a ginger. “No sweat, sir.” Really? Denim shirts come with damp patches nowadays, do
they? “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Paul Curran.” Bev had liaised with the press officer on a knife crime story a few weeks back. Knife crime, news? Given the number
of blades out there, it was an oxymoron if you asked her. Curran had made a decent job of selling it to the media though. She had him filed him under DD, as in doting dad: his missus had not long
had a baby.

Head down, she jotted a few thoughts, half-listening, as Curran ran through media interest: newspapers, radio and telly clamouring for access, interviews, pictures. Nice voice. She reckoned
Curran could make a car manual read like the Kama Sutra.

“... course, they all want the mother.” Bev’s pen stilled: the media were after Stacey Banks? Already?

Curran held out empty palms. “Until the boy shows up she’s the big story.”

She was certainly big. Stop it, Bev. Curran was dead right of course. The media would want the full waterworks, close-ups on the tears, the hands wringing a damp hankie, the sobbed out appeal.
Was Stacey up to it?

“What do you think, sergeant?” Knight had read the interview notes; Bev reckoned her thinking should’ve been pretty obvious. “Will she go for it?” Knight
pushed.

“She may not need to.” Every head turned as Carol Pemberton slammed the phone on the desktop. The ensuing silence lasted seconds, seemed longer. Carol, an experienced DC, mother of
two school-age kids, swallowed hard then bit her top lip. Her classic features appeared calm, glacial almost. Bev knew her well, sensed she was only just keeping it together. “There’s a
body... a little boy...”

Blue and white police tape had been hastily slung round the wasteland’s entire perimeter. The plot had housed five Edwardian villas until a few months back when they
reached their dwell-by date and were demolished to make way for starter homes. Developers had second thoughts or faltering cash flow. Either way, the site was now an urban eyesore: weed-infested,
fly-tipped, dog-shat. Among dust-coated nettles, crumbling house bricks, rusting bike wheels and stinking rubbish, clumps of poppies provided incongruous splashes of colour.

As did the white forensic tent erected over a little boy’s body.

Though the entire Marston Road site was now ring-taped, an inner cordon marked out a forensically safe corridor to the main action. Or temporary lack of. A subdued five-strong Forensic Science
Investigation team stood anything but at ease within the circle, waiting on the gaffer’s nod. Elsewhere on the streets of the estate Operation Swift was in full swing; the inquiry’s
tactics had already been thrashed out and its tasks assigned at the brief.

Difference now? The squad was hunting a killer not looking for a missing minor.

DCI Knight was under the sterile canvas talking to police pathologist Gillian Overdale. Bev had heard enough and emerged head down, struggling to hold back the tears. When she’d prayed to
see Josh in the flesh, she should have specified live. Thanks, God. Irony – and heartbreak – was that the little lad with mussed hair looked as if he was just asleep. Apart from what
Overdale thought could be chocolate round his mouth there wasn’t a mark on him. Not to the naked eye. Probing further was the pathologist’s baby. She’d readily agreed with
Knight’s request to prioritise the post mortem.