Grave Affairs

by Maureen Carter

‘Give it to me.’ The matriarch held out a palm. ‘It’s bad enough police harassing my son, without you snooping through his post.’

  ‘I need to take this, sorry.’ The women’s heads turned in sync as Mac sauntered out holding the phone to his ear.

  Bev dropped the card in Mrs Rayne’s hand, at the same time registering her tremble and sherry breath. The red-rimmed bloodshot eyes could be down to the booze or an afternoon nap. The towelling dressing gown, mussed hair and smudged make-up suggested the baby’s bawls had woken her. Either way she’d definitely got out of bed the wrong side.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Rayne.’

  ‘And I should care about your meaningless platitudes why?’ It ain’t compulsory, you old bat. Shooing Bev back towards the settee, she scowled at the monitor. ‘It’s Nathan you should feel sorry for. How he’s going to cope with … with … that …’

  That? The poor mite’s name was Daisy. Bev bristled on the baby’s behalf but kept her voice neutral. ‘That what? Mrs Rayne?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Maybe the hair-raking thing was genetic. Stella’s grey locks now looked like a mini-Mohican. ‘The situation, of course. In one fell swoop my son’s a widower and a single father.’

  And Lucy’s mouldering in her grave. Bev fought not to voice the notion. ‘I’m sure he’ll survive, Mrs Rayne.’

  ‘Really?’ Her head toss might have been coquettish twenty years ago. ‘Then in my recent experience you’ll be the only police officer sure of anything.’ Tight-mouthed, she tautened the robe’s belt as well. Daisy had finally buttoned it too.

  Seemed to Bev the old biddy was spoiling for a fight. On the other hand, people taking pops at cops was part of the job. Tough. It wouldn’t work today. Perched demurely on the edge of the settee, Bev looked up with a rueful smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Rayne. We need evidence and help from good people like yourself before we can be sure what’s what. It’s why we’re here.’

  She curled a lip. ‘And how much longer is this going to take?’

  Rayne would need at least a few hours before getting back to them with any gen. ‘As it happens, we’re just about done.’ But why did Stella Rayne seem in such a hellfire rush to get rid of them?

  ‘In that case, I’ll show you out.’

  ‘With your son.’ Bev nodded to the recently vacated chair. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Rayne?’ She clearly did, but lowered herself on the cushion anyway. Bev reckoned there’d be little mileage going through the woman’s previous statements – she’d already told Powell she’d been here with her son the night Lucy died, given him the full three monkeys.

  ‘How close were you and Lucy, Mrs Rayne?’

  The poker-up-the-posterior face told Bev the woman didn’t like the tack. ‘Close enough.’ Her fingers traced the rings round her neck. ‘I was … fond of her.’

  Fond? Praise. Faint. ‘Close enough for her to confide in you if, say, she had any worries?’

  ‘Worries? Lucy was a healthy young woman. She had no work pressures, lived in this beautiful home, married to a wonderful man. What possible worries could she have?’

  As if on cue, Daisy kicked off again. Bev cocked her head at the monitor but not before clocking Mrs Rayne puckering her pastry cutter lips. Distaste? Disgust? Certainly not doting. ‘Daisy your first grandchild, Mrs Rayne?’

  ‘Yes.’ Looking down, she brushed something invisible off her lap.

  ‘Healthy set of lungs on her.’ Bev waited for a response, prompted with a further goad. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’d say this is small talk.’ She made to rise. ‘If you’ve no further questions.’

  ‘One more. This time.’ In for a penny … ‘Were your son and Lucy happily married?’

  Wittingly or not, Mrs Rayne circled her wedding ring. ‘It was what she wanted.’

  ‘And Mr Rayne?’

  ‘He adored her.’ The pause was a tad too long and to Bev it seemed the woman’s shrug was dismissive. ‘And of course with a baby on the—’

  ‘Boss.’ Scowling Bev glanced towards the door.

  ‘Give me a min, mate.’

  ‘We need to leave.’

  ‘Not—’

  ‘Now.’

  9

  ‘This had better be good, Tyler.’ Bev hit the ignition, then stepped on the gas. Sooner the AC kicked in, the better; the car was doing its shit-hot impression of a blast furnace. Mac just about managed to moor his seatbelt before take-off. Lucky, that. Nasty injury, whiplash.

  ‘I doubt we’ll make it in time anyway,’ he said.

  Oh yeah? She put her foot down. ‘For?’ Whatever it was had interrupted her needling of Stella Rayne just when the mean-spirited old bat was maybe about to make a point. That her son’s marriage had been at the end of a shotgun? Who gave a stuff about that sort of thing these days? Bev shifted the notion to the back burner for the time being. ‘Come on, Mac, give.’

  A jogger’s leap over a sheet of tarpaulin in Kings Heath park had exposed a woman’s body, he told her. Only the body was still warm, still breathing. The bloke who’d found her wasn’t feeling too tickety. Paramedics were there trying to stabilize the victim’s condition, uniform were in the process of cordoning off the scene, forensics were on site waiting for a green light.

  ‘Powell sounded wired on the phone,’ Mac said. Why hadn’t the gaffer called her? ‘Either way, boss, they’re keen to move in soon as.’ That meant whether the woman made it or not.

  ‘Is she conscious?’ Bev’s eyes narrowed behind her Ray-Bans. If the woman could talk, there was the chance of a heads-up.

  ‘Drifting in and— bloody hell, sarge.’ She saw him flinch; the intake of breath was audible. Glances in wing mirrors showed an ashen-faced cyclist mouthing off and flicking the bird.

  ‘He’ll get over it,’ Bev said. At least Wiggins wannabe was still in the saddle. Mac’s sigh was laboured and she clocked his fist flexing. Stella Rayne’s belligerence must be contagious, but Bev doubted Mac had the balls for a verbal bust-up.

  ‘Get an eye test, smart arse. He was a she.’

  Bev sniffed. Can’t be right all the time.

  ‘And Bev, drive like that again and I will personally book you for without DCA. Got that?’ A Bev? That was the closest to a bollocking Mac came.

  ‘OK, OK.’ She flapped a hand. ‘But man, woman, whatever – Lycra Aphrodite shouldn’t have swerved like that.’

  ‘At least get it right.’ He tutted in time to his shaking head. ‘I think you’ll find it’s hermaphrodite.’

  She muttered something about not having the benefit of a classical education but did as he bid for the rest of the journey. Mind, it was a mere half-mile to the park: Moseley and Kings Heath butt-joined.

  A group of gawpers had already gathered beyond the iron railings. Word got round fast in these parts. On the other hand, the place would have been packed with picnickers and the like. Blue sky, wall-to-wall sun, kids’ lido: a trio of goodies that brought people out in waves, families, courting couples, dog walkers, youths playing footie, druggies looking to score, pensioners, pervs and peepers. All potential witnesses. Bev rubbed mental hands. With a bit of luck a few of them would have seen something noteworthy. And uniform looked to be on the case; driving through the entrance gates she counted four PCs talking to punters.

  ‘He wants you to pull over, boss.’ She followed Mac’s gaze to a PCSO standing on a scrubby grass verge just up ahead. ‘PC-lites’ was Bev’s less than fulsome catch-all for community support officers though in this case the term was wide off the mark. The guy’s hi-vis jacket fought a losing battle against the bulge and, as he waddled towards them, the swaying jowls seemed to have a life of their own.

  In your own time, dude. ‘Sodding jobsworth,’ she murmured.

  ‘Come on, sarge.’ Mac drummed a beat on his thigh. ‘Play nice.’

  Bev held ID at the ready through the open window; should’ve held her nose, too, given the heady bouquet of sun cream, hot dogs, cat piss and curry wa
fting her way.

  Lard Arse was taking no chances. ‘Would you mind removing your sunglasses?’

  I so would. ‘Not in the least.’ Time pressed. She flashed a smile, whipped off the glasses, held the card next to her face. ‘Good call, officer. We can’t be too careful these days, can we?’ At that point Lardy couldn’t have been more helpful, though his directions were pretty superfluous given it looked like they were shooting a cop show on the far side of the park.

  On the approach Bev spotted even more police vehicles, some still with flashing blues, a line of seven or eight plods geared up ready for a fingertip search, the white-suited forensic team standing in a circle round their steel cases. A sudden vision of girls dancing round handbags was one she decided not to share. Not when she’d just clocked an ambulance with gaping doors and, in a dip beyond, the tops of two paramedics’ heads.

  ‘Looks like they’re still working on her, Mac.’

  She tightened her grip on the wheel, conscious of increasingly clammy palms. The familiar tingling of her scalp started when she cut the engine, grabbed her bag. The full-blown adrenalin buzz kicked in as she stepped outside, sensed the frisson, heard the squawks and static from police radios. Then the smell stopped her in her tracks: the unmistakeable odour of blood caught in the back of her throat.

  The flashback came from nowhere. Byford dying in her arms, so much blood, too much blood, a sea of blood. Gasping, she took a step but faltered, gagged. Breathe, Bev. Breathe. Without warning her knees buckled, she shot out a hand for support.

  Mac grabbed her forearms, ran an anxious gaze over her face. ‘Boss?’

  She shook her head, pulled back, couldn’t afford to let him read the panic. Bending forward from the waist, she placed both hands on her thighs, took a long slow breath to control the nausea. Then another.

  ‘Boss?’

  She swallowed, tasted bile, straightened. ‘I’m OK, mate. Lost my footing is all.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ He held out a hand. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you back to the car. I can suss out what’s what while you catch your breath.’

  ‘No. I’m good, ta.’

  Mac glanced over his shoulder, aware the touching scene might spark audience interest. ‘Boss …’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’re patent—’

  ‘Leave it, Mac.’ If she couldn’t hack it she might as well walk, full stop. The flashback hadn’t come out of the blue, for feck’s sake. Out of the red was closer. Up ahead lay her first crime scene since … Eyes tightly screwed behind the dark lenses, she blanked the images out. Get a frigging grip, woman. What with the sights and sounds and smell, a wobble was par for the course. Surely? ‘I’m fine, mate, honest.’

  The fear churning her belly was disturbing, though. If being shit-scared was going to be part and parcel of the job from now on, the sooner she found out the better because, as a cop, she’d be less use than a lace Taser. She took another deep breath, hoisted her bag, and strode towards the police tape.

  ‘One thing you need to know, boss.’ She sensed his gaze on her as he kept pace alongside, assumed the pause was to make sure she listened properly. ‘The bloke who found her? Reckoned she had a red necklace on.’

  10

  The necklace now looked like a scarlet cravat, which on closer sight turned out to be a blood-drenched bandage. Bev’s bile rose again, but without saliva in her mouth the burn lodged in her throat. How the hell the woman was still alive, God alone knew. When she and Mac drew even closer it became clear the wound wasn’t the only startling aspect to the scenario.

  ‘I see now why Powell was so jumpy.’ Bev nodded towards the prone figure. If not for the fact she was dead and buried, it could’ve been Lucy Rayne lying there. The victim was about the right age, similar build, same sort of clothes, long blonde hair, and that was without the neck wound to die for. Of. Get it right.

  Only she hadn’t.

  ‘What was going on back there, Morriss?’ Powell popped up at her side in a bunny suit, jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. He must have been chatting to the forensic guys when she drove by, had a bird’s-eye view of the Bev floor show. Great.

  ‘Went over on my ankle, didn’t I?’ She clocked a lightning exchange of glances between Powell and Mac. Chose to ignore it. ‘No sweat. I’ll live. What’s more important’s will she?’ They stared down the litter-strewn slope to where two paramedics hunched over the victim. An ice-cream van’s chime sounded loud in the near silence. Just One Cornetto struck a duff note in the circs.

  Bev wondered if the woman’s ripped blouse revealing naked flesh and another knife wound was down to the assailant or the paramedics. The latter most likely: electrode pads were in place ready for shock treatment, although right now one of the crew was administering CPR. She seemed to recall the compressions had to be timed to the Bee Gees’ Staying Alive track. Damn sight more upbeat option than Tragedy. Either way, it wasn’t long before the thickset guy sank back on his haunches, and the woman, sweat dripping off her chin, had another go with the defibrillator. Bev presumed the cardiac arrest was down to blood loss or shock, assuming the victim didn’t have a dicky heart.

  Engrossed in the unfolding drama she held her breath, crossed mental fingers, willed a happy-ever-after ending. Hang on in there, love. Just hang on in there.

  ‘You’re not listening are you, Morriss?’

  She turned her head to look at Powell. ‘Sorry, gaffer, say again.’ How long had he been giving her the stink-eye?

  ‘I said it looks as if your powers of mental reasoning were bang on, as per.’ DCI Snide. Acting.

  ‘I’m still not with you.’ Though she knew what he was getting at. She turned to face the drama again while he repeated what she suspected would be a crap line. In essence, he reckoned her theory about Lucy’s murder being personal was so far down the pan it was indistinguishable from poop.

  ‘“Targeted” my eye, Morriss. If you ask me the only thing the perp’s got in his sights is leggy blondes with long blonde hair and too much slap.’

  ‘Bit early for assumptions, isn’t it?’ Even for an insensitive twat like you. Mind, he always got antsy when the media were sniffing round. She’d no idea how they’d got past security, but a Midlands telly reporter with a camera chum in tow headed their way across a soccer pitch. A couple of uniforms were running to cut off the incursion.

  ‘Bloody vultures.’ Powell twisted his mouth. Bev kept her counsel. It was all very well slagging off the press, but when Powell needed a collar he courted coverage like a C-list soap star on I’m A Celebrity.

  ‘As for me conclusion-jumping, Morriss, are you seriously suggesting that’s a coincidence?’

  She’d not taken her gaze off the woman, so God knew why he felt the need to point. ‘Dunno, gaffer. You tell me.’

  ‘Don’t be dense. She could be Lucy Rayne’s clone. And look at the set-up – it’s got serial killer written all over it. It could be a carbon copy.’

  How the hell he could say that when the medics would have moved and mauled her round, Bev had no idea. She shifted her focus to the woman’s left hand, zoomed in on the third finger where she spotted a band of paler skin. A little higher, ditto where a watch strap had been. Point was: had she not worn the jewellery for some reason or had the items been forcibly removed? Powell couldn’t have noticed or he’d have banged on about further proof of a link. Was Clouseau on the money after all? ‘Any ID yet?’

  They’d not found anything lying round, he told her, and pocket rifling hadn’t exactly been top priority. Bev nodded. Went without saying, when the bottom line was saving a life. Doubtless they’d get a name soon enough. The victim was clearly well-groomed, well-nourished, would have family or friends or both looking out for her. Presumably then, Bev thought, she couldn’t have been missing long. Even more to the point, she couldn’t have been lying there any great length of time. Bev checked her watch: 3.15. Clocked Mac doing the same thing.

  ‘You thinking what I’m thinking, Tyler?’ How the hell had a woman been attacked
in broad daylight in a public park and no one appeared to have witnessed the act? True, she’d been lying in a hollow and the nearby track wasn’t what you’d call beaten. But it was a hell of a risk for an assailant to take, and why hadn’t she screamed blue murder? Unless …

  ‘I’m thinking maybe they knew each other, boss.’ Mac scratched the stubble on the side of his face. ‘There’d be no element of surprise, no cause for her to be scared ’til it was too late.’

  ‘Snap.’ And had the bloke snapped too? Say they were an item, they’d been out walking, he’d tried it on and …

  ‘I’m also thinking it can’t be long since it happened,’ Mac said, ‘or she’d …’

  ‘… have bled out.’ Bev nodded, tight-lipped. The attacker wouldn’t have been a pretty sight, either. They’d certainly not find him washing off blood in the lido – he’d have hot-footed it from the place soon as.

  Even wearing the Ray-Bans, Bev shielded her eyes as she scoped the terrain beyond the trees and wire fence that marked the park’s boundary. Gardener’s bloody question time, she thought. At a rough count there must be thirty, forty allotments in varying states of upkeep. Most had a shed, greenhouse, or both. A row of Victorian terraces backed on to the site, sunlight glinted off a glut of satellite dishes, and lines of washing gave the occasional limp flap in the half-hearted breeze.

  Eyes narrowed, she stared at the expanse of plots and outbuildings. A couple of bods were pottering about out there too. ‘We need to search now.’

  ‘Who died and made you boss?’ Powell bit his lip. ‘Shit, I’m sorry, Bev.’

  She’d never seen Powell blush before but she’d bet six months’ salary his colour was nowhere near as red as hers. ‘It’s your call.’ She could barely get the words out. Furious tears pricked her eyes. She knew they were down to anger, but he didn’t. She turned her back. Good move too or she might have missed the woman being stretchered out. When the medics reached the ambulance, Bev was already there. She watched and waited until the bloke closed the doors then wiped the sweat from his brow.