Hard Time Read Online Free Page B

surprise there: it could be a biggie and Powell was a media tart. “Yeah?” Why?
    “Where are you now?” Byford stroked an eyebrow. In guv-speak that was not good. She’d picked up the signals in his voice anyway.
    “Almost at the house.”
    Their unmarked police Vauxhall was just behind Jenny’s Audi. The woman had insisted on driving herself home. Like Bev, the Pages lived in Moseley, though the couple’s house in The
Close was more Georgian pile than her Edwardian pad.
    “I’ll get Mike over there. Make your way back to Highgate.” He heard the teeth grit. When she spoke, it was sweetness and light.
    “S’OK, guv. Daz is here. Virtually on the doorstep. We can handle it.”
    “Mike’ll want it.” There was no way to break it gently. “I’m making him SIO.”
    Senior investigating officer.
    The phone coughed and died. Doubtless they’d been cut off. He’d give her the benefit – this time.
    “Double shit with shit on top.” Bev rooted in the foot-well to retrieve her mobile, then lowered the window. Hot air; stinking mood.
    “New pizza topping?” DC Darren New’s grin-cum-smirk was ill-judged.
    “Fuck off.”
    “Please.”
    His deadpan delivery made her lip twitch. “Daft sod.” She twirled a finger in a U-ey, sighing from the soles of her Doc Martens. She conveyed the guv’s change of plan: that
Powell was now on parent duty. That she was pissed off didn’t need explanation.
    “Not flavour of the month then?”
    “Darren. Let’s not do flavour jokes. OK?” His witty repartee, like his whistling, was well flat, both were distracting and she had a load on her plate.
    Despite chucking the phone and throwing a wobbly, she privately conceded the guv had probably made the right call. Admitting it hurt – but, like a lot of stuff lately, she’d not done
herself any favours with Jenny Page. If he’d let her loose on the boy’s father, odds were she’d have cocked up again.
    She rubbed a hand over her face. The over-the-top tantrum was for Dazza’s benefit: very Bev Morriss. If she acted the same as always, no one would know how shit-scared she was. Scared of
responsibility, scared of decision-taking; her judgment was down the pan, searching for her confidence. Maintaining the Morriss façade was like treading a tightrope over the Grand Canyon. In
stilettos. On stilts.
    Daz broke the silence and her thoughts. “Where to, boss?”
    She snorted at the unwitting irony. “Drop me at the school. I’ll catch you back at the nick.”
    Pursed lips ready to launch into another tuneless rendition, Daz took a look at her face and changed his mind. Stomach-rumbling starving, she raided the glove compartment for food, came up with
half a packet of beef and onion crisps. She sniffed the contents, curled a lip, stuffed her face anyway.
    No pigging out, though, Beverley. The slinky little number she’d bought for Oz’s leaving do didn’t leave much to the imagination. And didn’t have a lot of slack.
She pictured her grand entrance, designed to give Oz an eyeful, make sure the man knew what he’d be missing. That didn’t include lumpy bits and visible panty line. On the other hand,
lunchtime was practically prehistoric. She crammed in another mouthful, casting a covetous glance at Subway Moseley as they drove past.
    Moseley Village. She gave an affectionate snort. A scrubby patch of green soaking up exhaust fumes was as rural as Moseley got. Bev had lived there for the better part of a year, loved its
ethnic blend and urban buzz. The place was jammed with pubs, wine bars, restaurants, some already gearing up for a Friday night al fresco . Pavements were dry now, tables already filling.
Rain would not stop play.
    “Prob’ly as well, you know, sarge.”
    Life, the universe, everything? Had she missed something? “What’s that, Daz?”
    “Not having another go at the Page woman.”
    “Another go?” she spluttered.
    “If you don’t mind me saying...” So she would. “I thought you