Hard Time by Maureen Carter Page B

house.
    “Might be nothing, guv, but...” Her instinct said otherwise. A temperature nudging thirty wasn’t the only cause of damp palms. He didn’t respond; come to think of it,
he’d not said much at all.
    “Anything back there I need to know, guv?” Silence. “Guv?”
    “Sorry. What’d you say?”
    The big man was distracted. “Something up, boss?” She couldn’t unscrew the top on her Highland Spring. Wedging it between her thighs, she tried again.
    “Doug Edensor didn’t kill himself.”
    Spring water was apt; she just managed to dodge a squirt. “Say again, guv?”
    “Doug Edensor. He didn’t commit suicide.” She took a swig, frowned. The name rang a bell. Had it been on a recent crime report? She skimmed them every day, didn’t retain
every detail. “He took a dive...?
    “No,” Byford corrected. “He didn’t. Looks like he had a helping hand.” The crime-scene guys hadn’t picked up signs of a struggle because Edensor had been dead
to the world before he’d gone over. “Insulin overdose.” A rasp filled a pause as Byford rubbed a hand across his chin. “Doug wasn’t diabetic.” Once Overdale had
the tox results, she’d re-examined every inch of Edensor’s flesh. The puncture mark was in his chest.
    “Right.” She tapped fingers on the wheel. “Nasty.”
    Shitty way to go, but she couldn’t get worked up about it. Not with an ongoing kidnap. A five-year-old life on the line versus some middle-aged bloke who’d crossed it? No contest.
’Course they’d investigate, but Edensor was beyond help. Whereas Daniel...
    “By the way, guv,” she said. “Know those feelers I put out on Dunston?”
    “Yes.” Like he could care less.
    “A guy called, wouldn’t give his name, reckons Dunston does odd jobs for Harry Maxwell.”
    “What?”
    “Yeah, I know. Maxwell must be scraping the bottom of the barrel.” Crime lord and low-life.
    “Why wasn’t this in a report?” The voice was way too quiet.
    “Come on, guv. I only just heard.”
    “What else did you only just hear?” Sarcastic. Not like Byford.
    “That’s it. Odd jobs. Bit of driving.”
    “And delivery boy?” As in ransom demand?
    She frowned. “Maxwell involved in the kidnap? You can’t be serious.”
    “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t be.”
    “But guv, we know he doesn’t touch kid stuff. Porn, prostitution, protection, trafficking but never...”
    “You’re wrong,” he snapped. “The vice squad’s been hearing whispers for months.” Byford had checked with his counterpart in the squad that morning.
    “Whispers?”
    “ Child pornography.” It made twisted sick sense. Maxwell already owned the equipment and a list of potential clients. It made Byford’s blood run cold, but was kidnapping
a way of obtaining young victims?
    “I’ll get someone to check...”
    “Don’t bother. I’ll do it myself.”
    Why was he being so arsey? He’d been off since the start of the call. Then a thought occurred. “This guy, Doug Edensor, guv?”
    “Ex-detective superintendent. He retired a few years back.” Retired was a euphemism for shown the door. The former cop had been offered treatment for alcoholism. Twice undergone
re-hab but couldn’t give up the bottle.
    “Mate of yours, was he?”
    “He was in the photograph you saw yesterday.” She heard a phone ring. “I’ve got another call,” Byford said. “Let me know the minute anything moves.”
    She pressed the end button, deep in thought. Doug Edensor and Robbie Crawford. Both friends of the guv. Both dead. No wonder he was distracted. She started the car, circuited the square. What
was that Oscar Wilde line? To lose one police mate’s a misfortune – to lose two... She snorted. The quote was close enough. Except she didn’t buy careless. She wasn’t
sure what she’d put her money on. Yet.
    Byford wasn’t a betting man, but Harry Maxwell had been front-runner in the detective’s uneasy mind even before the link with Wayne Dunston