Hard Time by Maureen Carter

why you want it.”
    “Thanks.” Not that Bev had any great hope that the kidnapper was a disgruntled customer. More that she was trying to rattle the impossibly phlegmatic Ms Foster. And she wasn’t
even sure why. Except Laura seemed almost too good to be true. Another little shake, then. “Any problems in the Page marriage?”
    Laura flushed. Anger? Embarrassment? Something else? “I know you have to ask these questions, sergeant, but that’s one I can’t help with.” Perfectly civil.
    “Can’t or won’t?”
    “Both, actually.” Firm but polite.
    Bev let it go, asked about Richard Page’s movements the day before. Laura indicated the desk diary. It and she confirmed Page’s three client meetings and a working lunch at the
agency. His alibi appeared kosher.
    Asking if Laura had seen anything suspicious would be useless. Like kidnappers advertise? She posed it anyway.
    “I wish I had.” The woman had feelings after all. “I can’t bear to think of Daniel with a stranger.” Eyes welling, she turned her head.
    Bev started at an unfamiliar sound. Someone had changed the ring tone on her mobile. Rummaging in her bag, her mouth twitched as she recognised the strains of Miss You. Bet Oz had
downloaded it.
    The smile playing round her mouth didn’t last. The guv was on the end of the line. “The kidnap. We’ve got a lead. I want you back at Highgate.”
    Wayne Dunston had been arrested less than a minute after delivering a ransom note to The White House. The second Bev heard the name on the police radio, she had her doubts. Far
from being a Mister Big, Dunston was a petty thief, short on common sense let alone the intelligence to plan and execute a kidnap. He’d served time in both juvie and Winson Green for
burglaries that went pear-shaped. But if he didn’t have the nous, could he point the finger at someone who did?
    After an hour in Interview One with the guy, Bev was convinced Dunston’s only lead was clipped to a dog’s collar. She passed the verbal baton to Byford again, then took a
metaphorical back seat, observing. Dunston was mid-twenties with thin beige hair and an inane grin. Bev always thought of him as Nearly Man: nearly tall, nearly fit, nearly all there. But not
quite. He teetered on the fine line between slow and special needs.
    She listened again as he repeated his story almost word for word. Maybe he’d been well coached; maybe he’d learned his lines. Or maybe he was telling the truth. The Postman Pat act
had netted him a pony. According to Dunston, it was a favour for a friend of a mate of a pal. No names, no pack-drill, he said, tapping the side of his bent nose. With twenty-five quid cash in
hand, he didn’t give a toss where it came from. As to what was in the note he’d been carrying, Dunston didn’t have a clue. Bev could buy that; the guy was illiterate.
    With the interview wrapped and Mastermind in a prison cell, Bev and Byford were grabbing an early lunch in the canteen. Dunston was on a holding charge of demanding money with menaces; Bev
doubted he even knew what it meant. The premature hope of a break was now replaced by a pissed-off resignation. If her fish and chips were supposed to be comfort food, they weren’t working.
“Waste of sodding space.” She scowled. “Talk about useless.”
    Byford shook his head, impatient. “Obviously the note originated from the kidnappers. There’s a link somewhere. It’s up to us to dig it out.” Along with the search team
currently taking apart Dunston’s grotty bed-sit in Lozells. It was just possible they’d unearth something incriminating. No one was holding their breath.
    Bev glanced up as she constructed a chip butty. “What you thinking, guv?” His stare and knotted eyebrows were dead giveaways.
    “Why Dunston?”
    She shrugged. “Just an errand boy, isn’t he?”
    “Goes without saying.” He flapped a dismissive hand. “But they didn’t just pluck him off the street.” Byford pushed away the