Death Line

Maureen Carter

Description

When a child is murdered, everyone gets a life sentence. When ten-year-old Josh Banks's body is discovered dumped on waste ground, Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss wants justice. She's not alone. Everyone hates child killers - even hardened criminals. Tip-offs trickle in, and the new press liaison officer has his work cut out when the squad springs a leak. Trial by redtop is the least of the cops' worries... 7th in Maureen Carter's Birmingham-based 'Bev Morriss' police series.

Informations

• Publié par: Creative Content
• Date de parution: 26 août 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781906790936
• Langue: English

Extrait

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Praise for Maureen Carter’s witty, gritty Bev Morriss series:
... a cracking story that zips along...
- Sarah Rayne, author of Tower of Silence
Crime writing and crime fighting: Maureen Carter and her creation Bev Morriss are the Second City’s finest!
- Mark Billingham, author of the acclaimed Tom Thorne series
If there was any justice in the world she’d be as famous as Ian Rankin!
- Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence
Bev Morriss is a strong character inhabiting an energetic and compelling series of stories that would work well on TV. It’s only a matter of time, surely.
- Tangled Web
Carter has perfected the art...
- Sunday Mercury
A strong narrative voice and easy to understand slang...
- Publishers Weekly (USA)
British hard-boiled crime at its best.
- Deadly Pleasures Year’s Best Mysteries (USA)
... shows us another side of the hero and encourages us to connect with her on a deeper personal level than ever before.
- David Pitt, Booklist (USA)
Crème de la Crime... so far have not put a foot wrong.
- Reviewing the Evidence
First published in 2010 by Crème de la Crime P O Box 523, Chesterfield, S40 9AT
Copyright © 2010 Maureen Carter
The moral right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typesetting by Yvette Warren Cover design by Yvette Warren Front cover image by Peter Roman
ISBN 978-0-9560566-3-4 eBook ISBN 978-1-906790-93-6 A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library
Printed and bound in the UK by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire
www.creativecontentdigital.com
About the author:
Maureen Carter now lives in Birmingham and has worked extensively in the media.
www.maureencarter.co.uk
As ever, I am hugely indebted to Lynne Patrick and her exceptional and inspirational team at Crème de la Crime. It’s a pleasure and privilege to be with this innovative and exciting publishing house. For professional expertise, knowledge and insight, I’m more than grateful to Lead Forensic Scene Manager Robin Slater and Investigator Chris Elliott. Their input is more valuable than I can say, and goes far beyond answering my countless questions. Any errors of interpretation are mine.
As I’ve said before, writing would be a lonelier place without the love and support from some special people. For ‘being there’ even when they’re sometimes miles away my love and affection go to: Sophie Shannon, Dan Rees, Veronique Shannon, Suzanne Lee, Paula and Charles Morris, Corby and Stephen Young, Helen and Alan Mackay, Frances Lally, Anne Hamilton, Jane Howell, Henrietta Lockhurst, Sheila Quigley and Bridget Wood.
Finally, my thanks to readers everywhere – as always this is for you.
For Peter
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Twelve days later
The burgundy leather cover gave no clue to the scrapbook’s contents. A hand tentatively leafed through the pages, the reader’s face impassive, inscrutable. Every item was cleanly cut, painstakingly positioned: news cuttings, magazine articles, family photographs, the symmetry and chronology clearly important to the collector. The first story was on the opening page, dead centre. A short item, it was clearly breaking news: detail was sparse, head and shoulder snapshot slightly blurred. 1 July 1980 and Leicester Mercury was handwritten: black ink, bold copperplate.


Missing child

Police are increasingly concerned about the safety of 10-year-old Scott Myers.
Scott (pictured) hasn’t been seen since leaving Belle View Junior School at Highfields yesterday afternoon.
Detective Inspector Ted Adams told the Mercury that Scott was not in trouble at home and had not gone missing before.
The little boy was wearing a navy blue blazer, white shirt and short grey trousers.
Anyone who may have seen Scott is asked to contact Leicester police on 01533 999999.
The holder of the scrapbook stared intently at the photograph as if willing the little boy to speak, to share his secrets; exploratory fingers ran over the grainy image, tenderly traced Scott’s lips captured for ever in a gap-toothed smile. Had he been self-conscious about that? Had his friends teased him? Children could be so cruel.
Either way, the gap was tiny. It would have closed naturally.
Given time.
TUESDAY 1
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?