Frankie put a spurt on, reached the exit first and blocked it. ‘OK, here’s a lesson for you, kid.’ Bev stared at the finger prodding her chest but it wasn’t going anywhere. Frankie waited for eye contact before firing off. ‘You’re turning into an obnoxious, self-obsessed, boring little git. And if you ever talk to me again like I’m a piece of shit, you’ll get a damn good slapping.’
Pin-drop time. No one moved an eyelash. A million put downs lined the tip of Bev’s tongue. Apart from a dripping tap, the silence lasted another ten, twelve seconds then Bev lifted a corner of her mouth, raised a questioning eyebrow before a tentative, ‘Turning?’
The shared laughter may have been a tad too loud, a touch too brittle, but it amounted to a step forward.
‘Daft sod.’ Frankie opened her arms. ‘Come on, give us a hug.’
‘Sorry, mate. I’m running late.’ She wasn’t going that far.
‘Where do we go from here then, Morriss?’ Mike Powell was in his office, hands laced behind head, ankles crossed on desk, chair tipped back.
Taking in the angle, Bev was tempted to say ‘osteopath’ or – another inch or two – ‘fracture clinic’. She held his gaze as she took a sip of coffee. His fulsome smile didn’t get past her bollocks radar. Powell never used the royal ‘we’. Bev knew full well where he was coming from: which direction did she think the inquiry should go? She’d been hot-footing it back from the canteen when he called her in and now realized she should’ve brought her brain on a plate. Not to mention her crystal balls.
To stop the session turning lengthy, Bev hung back near the door. Her desk was still snowed under, plus the sausage roll in her shoulder bag wasn’t getting any warmer. ‘Told you where we shouldn’t be going.’ She took another sip. ‘I don’t buy the random thing.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘The attack was frenzied, right? The bloke lost control.’
He nodded. ‘Got that right. Ask me, it was a nut job. An impulse thing. He sees her, lashes out, legs it. Prob’ly got off on it, an’ all. And from where I’m sitting, that’s well random.’
Another move and he’d not be sitting. ‘Yeah, but he didn’t touch her sexually and it’s been what?’ She turned her mouth down. ‘Three, three and a half weeks? If he’s a crazy, gets turned on by the buzz, the violence, the control, whatever, why’s he not done it again?’
‘That’s what I like about you, Morriss. Always the little ray of sunshine.’ Powell smoothed his tie, swung the legs down. Shame.
‘Well, think about it,’ she said. Powell’s frown suggested whirring cogs. Bev’s take was this: every cop, and telly crime-show addict, knows about serial killers. Sure, it was a cliché now, but the term had been coined for a reason. Repeat attacks happen; a certain sort of criminal mind doesn’t, maybe can’t, stop at one offence. Added to which, some perps find blood-letting addictive, acquire the taste for it.
‘OK,’ Powell stretched the syllables, stroked his jaw. ‘Assuming he’s not a cornflake and it was a one-off.’
Cornflake? Bev rolled her eyes. Why couldn’t he just say serial killer? ‘I’m assuming nothing.’ HOLMES 2 – ‘son of Holmes’, as Bev called it – had thrown out no links, no patterns, no matches. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System was on tap for cops across the country to input, collect, collate, cross-reference and exchange information. There’d been little of that going on in Operation not-so-Swift. Lucy Rayne’s murderer had either fooled the system or didn’t fit the profile.
‘So you reckon he targeted her?’
‘That’s how I read it … sir.’ The last word stuck in her craw; acknowledging Powell’s exalted rank had been difficult enough when he was DI. He’d not so much pipped her to the post; way Bev saw it, she’d been robbed. Water. Bridge. End of. But no way could she address him as guv and with sir increasingly out, she’d best come up with another handle pronto.
‘Why’d he nick her bits, then?’ A sceptical sniff from Powell this time. Unless he’d caught a whiff of her late-breakfast-stroke-elevenses take-out.
‘Bits?’ She raised an eyebrow. Not the word she’d have used. The rings alone were worth a cool twelve grand, the bag was Victoria Beckham. ‘Probably so we’d fall for it.’ The robbery scenario.
‘Come on, Morriss.’ The snort made a change from the sniffs. ‘Even if there’s an ulterior motive, he still robbed her blind.’
‘So where’s the stuff?’ She hoisted her bag, recalled reports from a couple of detectives who’d been tasked with tracing it virtually since day one. They’d checked jewellers, pawnbrokers, fences, snouts – even trawled eBay. Pics of the stolen goods had been e-posted all over the shop and local papers had printed them. Every iron in the fire had come back cold.
‘Can you smell something in here, Morriss?’ Must’ve been rhetorical. He was already at the window. After letting in some petrol-laced air, he perched on the sill, folded his arms, looked her in the eye. ‘As for the swag, sunshine, you’d have to be thick as pig shit to try shifting it when the heat’s on.’
Whatever the perp was, he wasn’t faecal matter, porcine or otherwise. Bev reckoned he’d run rings round the cops so far. She lobbed the cup in the bin, wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. ‘Ever thought he’s hanging on to it for a reason?’
‘What? Like some kind of trophy?’ He turned his mouth down. ‘S’pose it makes a change from pubes.’
What a charmer. ‘Not trophy; think keepsake. Fits with what I said at the brief.’ With one hand on the door, she tapped a salute.
He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. ‘That he knew her?’
‘Yeah, that the attack was personal and he had Lucy in his sights. Or …’ She glanced back, waiting until he caught up, in more ways than one.
‘Or …’ Powell was struggling to get into a sleeve. ‘He killed her to get back at her old man.’
‘Got it in one, gaffer.’ A meet with the widower was top of her task list. ‘And now I gotta go.’ All the coffee had left her busting. Masking a cheeky grin, she slipped into the ladies.
Gaffer? Powell grimaced, sauntered on down the corridor, heading for a strategy meeting deep in thought. A good bit of what Bev had come out with mirrored his thinking. He hoped she assumed he’d been picking her brain. Calling her in was more an ongoing case of trying to assess how many cylinders she was firing on, whether the recent events would impact on her ability to do the job. He didn’t particularly approve, but Powell was under orders from on high: keep a close watch on DS Morriss; monitor every move she makes. He’d had to enlist Mac Tyler, too. Powell hoped to God she didn’t pick up on it. If he could keep everything normal: attitude, the way he spoke to her … hopefully she’d never know. He sighed, made a wry mental note not to go round whistling Every Breath You Take.
On the other hand, the squad couldn’t afford a weak link. What if recent events had left her emotionally unbalanced, her cop’s judgement shot to shit, the characteristic energy and sharp thinking blunted? It was too early to tell. And though he barely admitted it to himself, Powell’s concern was more than professional. Not that he could afford to let that slip either. He twitched a lip. Still, looking on the bright side – the Morriss tongue didn’t appear to have lost its edge.
8
‘Feck’s sake, Tyler. What you playing at?’ Going on a few uneasy glances darting round the squad room, Bev’s voice must’ve been louder than she intended. Her hands-on-hips-foot-tap stance spoke volumes too. She raised a palm partly in apology, partly to signify show over. She’d sorted an interview with Nathan Rayne, and Mac was supposed to have hooked up with her in the car park. She’d checked her texts – still nothing back from Night Nurse Nina – and smoked two cigs before spotting him through a second-floor window in cahoots with Carol Pemberton. Mind, she was beginning to wish she’d just buzzed his mobile.
‘Sorry, boss.’ He shucked into a beat-up brown leather bomber jacket. ‘Thought you said half-past.’
‘Get the wax out, then,’ she cal
led, striding towards the door. If they hit the gas they might just make it. ‘I said two.’
‘Nowt wrong with Mac’s hearing, matey.’ Jack Hainsworth. Inspector. Office manager. Beefy arms folded across barrel chest, a bloke from Yorkshire who made Boycott look like a wimp. ‘As it happens, I was there when you told him.’
Bev cut him a glance; they’d clashed before. ‘Bully for you.’ The murmur wasn’t meant to carry. From the rising shade of puce on his face, it had. Point-scoring was stupid: Hainsworth outranked her, didn’t particularly rate her. In the past, the guv might’ve stood up for her, but who’d watch her back now? Going by the bent heads, there’d not be many takers. As for Hainsworth, he was still throwing her that cheese-curdling look. She raised the palm again.
Maybe grovel later.
‘So sorry we’re late, Mr Rayne.’ Unsmiling, Bev stretched out a hand. ‘We spoke on the phone. Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss? You’ve met DC Tyler.’ OK, she couldn’t pin the Moseley Road traffic on Mac but the jam sure hadn’t helped. They’d barely exchanged a word in the Astra apart from Tyler dropping a hint about Hainsworth being partial to a pint of Black Sheep. ‘Yeah, and take a guess where he can stick it,’ she’d sneered, keeping up a tetchy tap on the steering wheel. Moving on …
Nathan Rayne, man-in-black, ignored the proffered shake, raked tapering fingers through tousled hair. Bev recalled seeing a similar gesture on the interview tape – maybe a nervous thing?
‘I hate being kept waiting.’ Maybe not.
‘Me too, but the traffic—’
‘Doesn’t interest me. Now you’re here …’ Turning, he walked away, leaving them to trail in his wake. The hall was bigger than Bev’s living quarters, décor a classy ivory and oyster combo. A gilt-framed mirror the size of a tennis table bounced light and added illusion of even more space. Bev caught Rayne checking his image and for a second or two their glances locked in the glass. Who’s a pretty boy? Opening double doors on the left, he led them into what estate agents call a reception room. In this case they’d be spot on. Bev half expected to see the queen holding court.
He waved his unwanted guests towards one of three three-seater settees in teal leather. The entire interior was decked out in similar shades. The blue-green surround put Bev in mind of the sea, marine fantasies furthered by a ginormous wall-mounted aquarium. Dominating another wall was a near life-size portrait of a smiling Lucy, sympathy cards stood on just about every surface, late arrivals still lay fanned out on a glass coffee table.
Rayne waited till Bev and Mac squatted like mismatched book-ends then perched casually on the arm of an adjacent wing chair. His pumping foot maybe gave the lie to the laid-back look. ‘Have I seen you somewhere before, sergeant?’
Their paths crossed a few times when they were kids, but Rayne wouldn’t remember that. Bev broke eye contact with an angelfish, then: ‘I’m a friend of Frankie Per—’
‘Frankie?’ The voice rose, and he ditched pretty pronto what must have been an unwitting smile. ‘You know Frankie?’
Like Bev wasn’t in the same class. Ta, mate. ‘We go back a long way.’ Rayne clearly hadn’t clocked Bev at the funeral. Mind, she’d deliberately kept her distance, a face in the crowd. She also harboured serious doubts how much Rayne had been capable of taking in that day, he’d seemed pretty out of it to her.
He’d not forget her again, not the way he scrutinized her now. ‘I don’t recall her mentioning you.’
She stared back. Frankie would probably have told him about taking a friend to the service, but not given chapter and verse. Bev’s job and private life was no-man’s land to all but a chosen few. As for Frankie discussing Rayne and the murder, on the occasions she’d tried Bev made it more than clear she’d enough grief to contend with. Not to mention, if and when she went back to work, a possible conflict of interests. ‘Ditto, Mr Rayne.’ Well, as good as.
Mac cleared his throat, pulled a notebook from his pocket.
Rayne hadn’t taken his gaze off Bev. ‘I’m a blank slate then, sergeant?’
‘You are to me.’ Which given the circs was lucky. Cops can live without preconceived ideas, foregone conclusions. When she’d told Powell Frankie hadn’t had a bad word to say about the guy, it had been stretching the truth: her friend had barely uttered a syllable either way.
‘In that case I trust your sidekick writes down every word I say so your colleagues can share.’ His message was obscure but the clamped-lips crossed-legs body language gave Bev a clue where he was coming from. She sat tight, waited for elaboration.
And waited. The fish were more communicative. Stifling a sigh, she asked him why.
‘OK, here’s the thing.’ He peeled himself off the chair, adopted another cool pose in front of the huge open fireplace. ‘I’m sick to death of talking to a procession of police officers who don’t seem to have the faintest idea about the case or what’s gone before. God knows how many times I’ve been interrogated, but for the life of me I can’t see any need to go through it all again. It’s not like anything’s moved and your lot keep records, don’t you? Why can’t you just get what you want from the files?’
For a supposedly sharp cookie that was a dumb-ass question. Or a way of avoiding more answers. She held his gaze and let the silence ride, broke it only when she sensed Mac was about to open his mouth. ‘There’s just one reason we’re here, Mr Rayne.’ She turned her head towards the portrait. Didn’t take him long to get the picture.
‘Point taken, sergeant.’ This time he sat in the chair, leaned forward, palms spread. ‘Tell me what you want.’ Jekyll hadn’t quite turned into Hyde but Rayne was heading towards reasonable.
‘We still need to establish the motive. Soon as we find out why, we’ll be that much nearer knowing who.’
Heavy black eyebrows knotted. ‘But surely that’s what you’ve been doing?’ Not stroppy, more nonplussed. Rayne had been kept informed about most lines of inquiry. Powell had needed him to furnish names: people with grudges or grievances (groundless or otherwise), previous sex partners, dodgy fans. The few leads Rayne had suggested had gone nowhere.
‘What we’re doing isn’t enough. We have to go further, cover more ground, look closer. I’m asking you to dig deeper.’
He picked up on the you. The pain in his eyes looked real. ‘You think she was killed because of me?’
‘It must have crossed your mind, Mr Rayne.’ Extensive checks into Lucy’s past had uncovered what the tabloids like to call a blameless life: loving parents, happy childhood, star pupil, good mates, marriage plans with a boy she’d met at school. Love’s young dream died when he was killed in a smash on the M6. Shortly after, Lucy dropped out of a media studies course at Birmingham City University, returned to live at home and took a job flogging perfume in John Lewis.
‘I thought it was some dope fiend off his face on crack, something of that nature.’ He stared at the carpet, wringing his hands.
‘I want you to look back.’ Bev edged forward. ‘Think who might want to harm you. Or who’s shown an unhealthy interest. Anyone you might have crossed, however long ago.’ Not forgetting the time he spent with the Backbeats, the boy band formed in 1996 which lasted about three years.
‘Really?’ He looked as dubious as he sounded.
‘Give it some thought, eh?’ The shock-jock show he hosted now probably had more potential; pissing punters off was almost part of the job description. Perhaps Rayne had needled someone too far? Someone who’d wreaked revenge for a verbal bashing on the radio? As for the ‘Rayne’s Rants’ column, it wasn’t exactly full of gardening tips, unless dishing dirt counted. Detectives had already trawled the couple’s Facebook and Twitter accounts for trolls and e-stalkers but Rayne agreed to wade through them again. As for the real world, Bev asked if Lucy had mentioned anything untoward in the weeks and days leading up to her death – strangers hanging round, anyone acting odd. It didn’t have to be an axe-wielding psycho with a gun in his pocket. Anything off-kilter would do for starters.
‘I’m asking again.’
Nothing came to mind, but he said he’d get back if and when. Grimacing, he glanced at a monitor in the corner; the loud screeches emanating from the speaker sounded to Bev like a scalded cat. A cat getting hotter and crosser by the second. Shame babies don’t come with a volume control. Even the fish looked peed off with the racket.
‘Excuse me a moment, please.’ Rayne gave a tight smile, rose and left the room.
Mac sat back, rested crossed hands on his paunch. ‘Sounds hungry to me.’
‘You’d know of course, Mr Spock.’
‘Doctor, actually, and yeah, I—’
‘I can live without the lecture, mate.’ Mind, he’d know a damn sight more than she would. With two teenage boys, Mac had undoubtedly done his share of nappy changes and night feeds. The only time Bev could recall her partner bricking it was when his youngest had been rushed to hospital with a serious head injury. The lad had made a full recovery, thanks be.
‘Your loss, boss.’ He reached into a pocket, pulled out a Polo mint coated with fluff. Sighing, she leaned forward and started nosing through the sympathy cards on the table. Rayne’s soft murmur issued from the speaker and the bawling calmed a tad. Thank God.
‘Small mercies or what?’ She glanced at Mac. He either hadn’t heard or was too busy de-fuzzing the Polo.
Suit yourself. She strolled over to a sideboard, started picking up more cards. Daisy clearly didn’t appreciate Rayne’s rendition of Row, Row, Row Your Boat. What with that and the increased caterwauling, Bev could barely hear herself think.
‘Put that back this minute.’ Nor the command. First she knew was when a hand tapped her shoulder. ‘Are you deaf, young woman?’
Bev spun round, eyes flashing. Stella Rayne was lucky not to get landed. No one, but no one, touched Bev without her say-so.
Grave Affairs Page 4