manner with the mother was entirely
inappropriate. I’d welcome the opportunity to rectify the situation and develop a more constructive future relationship with Mr and Mrs Page.”
“At ease, sergeant.”
She fixed him with blue bayonets. “Another chance, guv? I’d really appreciate it.”
The plea was real, the voice told him that. He told her to leave it with him, then turned to the troops. He tasked a couple of DCs to check if the Pages were known to social services, child
protection. Not looking the type meant zilch. Child abusers don’t have it tattooed on their forehead.
Other interviews had already been assigned; officers in pairs would continue questioning intimates and acquaintances of the family. Byford ran through the strategies: what they were after, what
they should listen and look for. Discrepancies, especially: conflicting statements, information that didn’t tally. Until they’d gathered the facts there was little to go on. And as most
officers in the room knew, even if few acknowledged, it was piss in the wind.
Byford voiced everyone’s thoughts. “We need whoever’s holding the boy to make contact again.” His gaze was fixed on one of the posters. It showed a bright beautiful child
with his mother’s jade eyes. “Till then, like Daniel, we’re in the hands of the kidnappers.”
Daniel didn’t know what time it was. He could tell the time, of course, but he seemed to have lost his watch. Aunty – as he was calling the nice lady – said
they could get another one if he liked. He asked if they could go and buy one today but he didn’t think Aunty had heard. He supposed it didn’t matter. Not if Daddy was coming soon.
Mummy was still in hospital. Aunty hadn’t said anything but Daniel could tell by the way her face sort of crumpled that Mummy was very sick. Aunty had told him not to worry, in that voice
grown-ups use when they don’t want to talk about something.
Daniel had been watching a Harry Potter DVD but could barely keep his eyes open. Maybe it was later than he thought. He turned his head when the door opened.
“Here you go, Dan-Dan.”
“Thank you, Aunty.” The little boy smiled politely, then drank his milk.
12
Post-brief, Byford perched on the corner of his desk staring at a sepia news cutting. He’d retrieved it from the back of a drawer where it had been gathering dust and
Hobnob crumbs. Photographs, even press pictures, were something he rarely junked. The attic at home was crammed with shoeboxes spilling out happy snaps. The Byfords at play: Margaret and the boys
at every age and virtually every angle. He never looked through them; the potent memories of a shared history would make his present solitary life seem even lonelier. His wife had died seven years
earlier. And though Chris and Rich were on the end of a phone, he missed that daily contact with someone who cared.
“Guv! Can you get the door?” Bev calling. Byford frowned. Why couldn’t she let herself in? He laid the cutting on the desk and wandered across. He could just about see her
face.
“Got my hands full, guv.” With the biggest cactus he’d ever clapped eyes on. It could star in a western movie; John Wayne could live in it. She’d had to drive in with the
sunroof down.
It was his sergeant’s first horticultural peace offering for months. She’d said sorry with cacti so many times his windowsill used to resemble a succulents’ superstore. It had
dried up since the attack.
“What’s brought this on?” he asked.
“Gift horse? Mouth?” she admonished. The bloody thing wouldn’t fit on the ledge. “It’s a simple token of my appreciation.”
He laughed, recalled her words at the briefing a few moments ago. The cactus was in the way of a bribe, as well as an apology. “You won’t get round me with that.”
“Won’t get round anything with this,” she groaned.
He watched as she struggled to position the monster growth on the floor in the corner, waited until
inappropriate. I’d welcome the opportunity to rectify the situation and develop a more constructive future relationship with Mr and Mrs Page.”
“At ease, sergeant.”
She fixed him with blue bayonets. “Another chance, guv? I’d really appreciate it.”
The plea was real, the voice told him that. He told her to leave it with him, then turned to the troops. He tasked a couple of DCs to check if the Pages were known to social services, child
protection. Not looking the type meant zilch. Child abusers don’t have it tattooed on their forehead.
Other interviews had already been assigned; officers in pairs would continue questioning intimates and acquaintances of the family. Byford ran through the strategies: what they were after, what
they should listen and look for. Discrepancies, especially: conflicting statements, information that didn’t tally. Until they’d gathered the facts there was little to go on. And as most
officers in the room knew, even if few acknowledged, it was piss in the wind.
Byford voiced everyone’s thoughts. “We need whoever’s holding the boy to make contact again.” His gaze was fixed on one of the posters. It showed a bright beautiful child
with his mother’s jade eyes. “Till then, like Daniel, we’re in the hands of the kidnappers.”
Daniel didn’t know what time it was. He could tell the time, of course, but he seemed to have lost his watch. Aunty – as he was calling the nice lady – said
they could get another one if he liked. He asked if they could go and buy one today but he didn’t think Aunty had heard. He supposed it didn’t matter. Not if Daddy was coming soon.
Mummy was still in hospital. Aunty hadn’t said anything but Daniel could tell by the way her face sort of crumpled that Mummy was very sick. Aunty had told him not to worry, in that voice
grown-ups use when they don’t want to talk about something.
Daniel had been watching a Harry Potter DVD but could barely keep his eyes open. Maybe it was later than he thought. He turned his head when the door opened.
“Here you go, Dan-Dan.”
“Thank you, Aunty.” The little boy smiled politely, then drank his milk.
12
Post-brief, Byford perched on the corner of his desk staring at a sepia news cutting. He’d retrieved it from the back of a drawer where it had been gathering dust and
Hobnob crumbs. Photographs, even press pictures, were something he rarely junked. The attic at home was crammed with shoeboxes spilling out happy snaps. The Byfords at play: Margaret and the boys
at every age and virtually every angle. He never looked through them; the potent memories of a shared history would make his present solitary life seem even lonelier. His wife had died seven years
earlier. And though Chris and Rich were on the end of a phone, he missed that daily contact with someone who cared.
“Guv! Can you get the door?” Bev calling. Byford frowned. Why couldn’t she let herself in? He laid the cutting on the desk and wandered across. He could just about see her
face.
“Got my hands full, guv.” With the biggest cactus he’d ever clapped eyes on. It could star in a western movie; John Wayne could live in it. She’d had to drive in with the
sunroof down.
It was his sergeant’s first horticultural peace offering for months. She’d said sorry with cacti so many times his windowsill used to resemble a succulents’ superstore. It had
dried up since the attack.
“What’s brought this on?” he asked.
“Gift horse? Mouth?” she admonished. The bloody thing wouldn’t fit on the ledge. “It’s a simple token of my appreciation.”
He laughed, recalled her words at the briefing a few moments ago. The cactus was in the way of a bribe, as well as an apology. “You won’t get round me with that.”
“Won’t get round anything with this,” she groaned.
He watched as she struggled to position the monster growth on the floor in the corner, waited until
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