causes célèbres : individuals and a couple of groups championed by the media over years of high-profile campaigning, cases that had all
invariably ended in jubilation on the steps of the appeal court.
“I’m hoping to get a few big guns on board. Michael, Chris, a couple of the Birmingham Six.” His wavering hand said it could go either way. “And you, of
course.”
Byford masked a wry amusement. He was hardly in the same league as the Mansfields and Mullins of this world. “What about your own story?”
“Not sexy enough. No wife. No kids.”
No people to rip into the system, baying for pints of blood and pounds of flesh. “Who else have you approached?”
“Police-wise, you’re the first. Actually, no. I dropped Mr Crawford a line. Talk about bad timing. I didn’t know till I saw the coverage of the funeral in the paper.”
“Paper?” Byford hadn’t seen anything.
Young riffled through a pile of newspapers and magazines on the floor. “Yeah. Thought I’d kept it. Here you go.”
It wasn’t the story that transfixed Byford. It was one of the pictures. Presumably to indicate the level of media interest, one of the photographers had snapped the other snappers. Among
the line of lens-men, one figure stood out, video camera on his shoulder, crooked smile on his face. He was known to his friends as Jazz – a benign affectionate name for one of the most
ruthless thugs in the city.
He was known to the police as Jaswinder Ghai. And Byford had seen him many times before. Never far from Harry Maxwell’s right hand.
December 1995
The second time Holly’s bedroom door had inched open in the middle of the night, she had known who it was and what he would do – had known she must endure the
pain and shame. Who could she tell? Who could she turn to? Who would believe her? He came when everyone was asleep, the house silent but for his moist breath in her ear, the animal grunting as he
took her.
She lost count after the first year. And lost every vestige of faith. The little girl no longer believed her mother would return and take her away, tell her it had all been a terrible
mistake, beg her for forgiveness. At eleven years of age, Holly recognised the hopes for what they were: childish fantasies.
After twelve months of rape and vile assaults, Holly lived in hell and harboured only dreams of revenge against her mother.
Vivid dreams. Against a woman she’d never seen.
SUNDAY
16
Highgate, Sunday, 9.12am. Operation Sapphire. Day Three.
Bev had a hangover the size of Wales. She blamed it on curry, carousing and half a bottle of Armagnac. Gingerly, she stroked her temple. It was all coming back to her now. She and Frankie had
stayed up half the night playing Desert Island Dicks. Bev’s wish list featured the guv for the first time. How did that work?
She seemed to recall, around two am, texting knock-knock jokes to Oz. And finally called it a day just after three, persuaded by a compulsive urge to belt out I Will Survive. Right now,
that was a moot point.
Groaning, she plopped a couple of Alka-Seltzers into water. When the phone rang she nearly sent the glass flying. The call was sobering. Laura Foster had found a Jiffy bag at the ad agency
marked urgent.
“And, sergeant, it’s addressed to Jenny Page.” The unflappable Ms Foster sounded ruffled.
Bev beckoned to Daz, who was en route to the brief. Muffling the phone, she mouthed, “Something’s come up, I’ll get there soon as.”
“Later, sarge.” He tapped the side of his head but her full focus was now on Laura. Apparently she’d popped into the agency to collect a portfolio she needed to work on at
home. The package was the first thing she noticed on opening up.
“Obviously there’s no post today, so I was a little surprised but not unduly concerned. We do get items delivered by hand.”
“But this one worries you?” It was beginning to bug Bev.
“Well, yes. I can’t ever remember anything coming here for Mrs Page.”
invariably ended in jubilation on the steps of the appeal court.
“I’m hoping to get a few big guns on board. Michael, Chris, a couple of the Birmingham Six.” His wavering hand said it could go either way. “And you, of
course.”
Byford masked a wry amusement. He was hardly in the same league as the Mansfields and Mullins of this world. “What about your own story?”
“Not sexy enough. No wife. No kids.”
No people to rip into the system, baying for pints of blood and pounds of flesh. “Who else have you approached?”
“Police-wise, you’re the first. Actually, no. I dropped Mr Crawford a line. Talk about bad timing. I didn’t know till I saw the coverage of the funeral in the paper.”
“Paper?” Byford hadn’t seen anything.
Young riffled through a pile of newspapers and magazines on the floor. “Yeah. Thought I’d kept it. Here you go.”
It wasn’t the story that transfixed Byford. It was one of the pictures. Presumably to indicate the level of media interest, one of the photographers had snapped the other snappers. Among
the line of lens-men, one figure stood out, video camera on his shoulder, crooked smile on his face. He was known to his friends as Jazz – a benign affectionate name for one of the most
ruthless thugs in the city.
He was known to the police as Jaswinder Ghai. And Byford had seen him many times before. Never far from Harry Maxwell’s right hand.
December 1995
The second time Holly’s bedroom door had inched open in the middle of the night, she had known who it was and what he would do – had known she must endure the
pain and shame. Who could she tell? Who could she turn to? Who would believe her? He came when everyone was asleep, the house silent but for his moist breath in her ear, the animal grunting as he
took her.
She lost count after the first year. And lost every vestige of faith. The little girl no longer believed her mother would return and take her away, tell her it had all been a terrible
mistake, beg her for forgiveness. At eleven years of age, Holly recognised the hopes for what they were: childish fantasies.
After twelve months of rape and vile assaults, Holly lived in hell and harboured only dreams of revenge against her mother.
Vivid dreams. Against a woman she’d never seen.
SUNDAY
16
Highgate, Sunday, 9.12am. Operation Sapphire. Day Three.
Bev had a hangover the size of Wales. She blamed it on curry, carousing and half a bottle of Armagnac. Gingerly, she stroked her temple. It was all coming back to her now. She and Frankie had
stayed up half the night playing Desert Island Dicks. Bev’s wish list featured the guv for the first time. How did that work?
She seemed to recall, around two am, texting knock-knock jokes to Oz. And finally called it a day just after three, persuaded by a compulsive urge to belt out I Will Survive. Right now,
that was a moot point.
Groaning, she plopped a couple of Alka-Seltzers into water. When the phone rang she nearly sent the glass flying. The call was sobering. Laura Foster had found a Jiffy bag at the ad agency
marked urgent.
“And, sergeant, it’s addressed to Jenny Page.” The unflappable Ms Foster sounded ruffled.
Bev beckoned to Daz, who was en route to the brief. Muffling the phone, she mouthed, “Something’s come up, I’ll get there soon as.”
“Later, sarge.” He tapped the side of his head but her full focus was now on Laura. Apparently she’d popped into the agency to collect a portfolio she needed to work on at
home. The package was the first thing she noticed on opening up.
“Obviously there’s no post today, so I was a little surprised but not unduly concerned. We do get items delivered by hand.”
“But this one worries you?” It was beginning to bug Bev.
“Well, yes. I can’t ever remember anything coming here for Mrs Page.”
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