“Turned up in a country lane in Tamworth, torched.” Bev ripped a ring-pull off a can of Red Bull. She and DI Pete Talbot were standing chatting in Interview One’s viewing room. The show next door must have attracted a matinée audience too, going by the empty cups and crumpled crisps packets. Typically, Pete had asked if there’d been any progress on Operation Swift. “We’re getting it towed over: let FSI loose on what’s left.” She glugged half the contents of the can, dragged a hand across her mouth. “We’re not exactly cracking open the champagne.” Warm smile. “Not like you, eh, Pete?”
He gave a modest shrug. The DI towered over Bev, towered over anyone under six-five and not built like a brick shit-house. Gentle Giant? Bollocks. His bulk was intimidating and he wasn’t scared to use it on arsey customers. In Ben Lawson’s case it hadn’t proved necessary. The low-life who’d attacked Darren had spilled so many beans, Pete’s team was calling him Heinz.
“Not so big now, is he?” The DI tilted his head at the glass, swigged lemon tea from a thick white mug. He was taking a short break from the interrogation. Bev had dropped by for a nose.
Lawson sat with his feet up, hugging bony knees that poked through ripped denims. Snivel Boy had tears and snot running down his face. The petulant scowl was history, the yob more mindful of his future. According to Pete, he’d dished enough dirt on three mates to cover an opencast mine, never mind his arse. Or thought he had. The little shit couldn’t talk his way out of hard evidence like blood traces in the treads of his Nikes. Bev’s palms itched. “Want me to take over, Pete? Read him a bedtime story?”
He laughed. “I want him standing when he gets to court.”
Then he’d go down. Lawson and the others. There was already enough forensics to build a case. The team hoped to throw in separate less serious charges as well. All four antisocial gits had been named in calls logged from cowed residents at Heathfield House. Pete reckoned the tenants would be queuing up to give evidence, and not as character witnesses.
She cast Lawson a contemptuous glance. “Has he said why, Pete?” No need to spell it out. Why? was always the big one and, when mindless violence came into the equation, usually the hardest to figure out. Stacey Banks wanted it answered too, she’d asked that day at the station, asked again when she called to give Bev details of Josh’s funeral.
“He won’t say.” Deep crevices appeared when Pete turned his mouth down, the craggy face cried out for Botox. “They were bladdered, egging each other on. They knew he was a cop though. They’d seen him on the estate asking questions.”
Fair cop? Is that what it boiled down to? Bev shook her head. Thank God Lawson’s mother had come forward. She drained the can, chucked it in a bin. “’Fore I go, can you sign this?” If anyone’s name deserved to be on Darren’s card, it was Pete’s.
Byford watched through the glass, waiting until Bev finished. It was like watching a mime show; he half smiled even though he couldn’t make out a word she was saying. Sitting forward, elbows on knees, her eyes shone and rapid hand movements underlined points as she talked. The conversation looked sparkling, animated and one-sided. Darren was a captive audience. Still comatose.
This was the guv’s first sight of his officer since the attack. He’d had it in mind to visit before. Not because it was expected of him but because he had time and affection for the young detective. He’d given Darren his CID break, even teamed him with Bev for a while. He’d been told the injuries were bad but seeing the extent was still a shock: the lad was barely recognisable. Still, he was making steady progress according to the nurse Byford had waylaid. The brain swelling had subsided, motor responses were markedly improved. Great news. The big man was glad he’d come. But if he was being completely honest, Darren wasn’t the only reason he was here.
Bev was laughing now, reading out messages from the huge get well card everyone at the nick had signed. Byford had brought along a couple of CDs. He’d read somewhere that coma patients may still be able to hear. He gave a wry smile: if it was true, Darren was certainly getting an ear bashing.
“Pete’s got the lot banged up, Daz. How brill is that? They’ll soon be spending a bunch of time with the queen... if you get my drift? Course you do, don’t you, Daz? Hey! And guess what the station clowns call the toerag spilling the beans? You got it: Heinz. No flies on you, Daz. Snivel Boy, I call him.
“Anyway... enough work stuff. Kasabian are playing the NIA in November. My treat, yeah? Grab an Indian after? Got your birthday present sorted, mate. Yeah, I know it’s a bit early. But HMV were doing this deal on a Mission Impossible box set. Have a Tom Cruise-fest when you come out, eh? Y’know I always take the piss about you looking like Cruise, Daz? Yeah, well, I see it now. You and him could be brothers. Course, you’d be the young good-looking one. Creep creep.
“What’s it like in there, Daz? No need to feel lonely, y’know. Everyone’s rooting for you, mate. And you should see some of the nurses and doctors, running round after you. Tasty or what? Well, you’ll have a butcher’s soon enough. Ask me you’ve had enough time lazing round. We need you back at the nick. I mean, take a look at this...”
Reaching for the card, she glimpsed Byford through the glass. Good of him to show, typical of the guy. “You’ve got a visitor waiting. I’ll get out your hair in a minute, mate.” Not that he had hair to get out of, but that was news she wouldn’t be breaking.