Grave Affairs

by Maureen Carter

  ‘What are the odds?’

  He waggled a hand. ‘Next few hours will be crucial.’

  Bev nodded. At least they’d not lost her. Watching the ambulance depart slowly down the rough track, she sensed Mac at her side.

  ‘Powell’s organizing the search, boss. He’s calling in dogs too.’ He muttered something that sounded to Bev like wank pot.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Said to thank you for the input.’

  She twitched a lip. I bet he did.

  As they walked back to get on with it, Mac asked casually how she felt. Bev turned her mouth down. Had to think about it. The training seemed to have kicked in, she’d assessed the facts, bounced a few thoughts with Mac, come up with an idea or two. The challenge – and truth to tell, the thrill – of working a crime scene had fully engaged her brain. And emotions. Early days, maybe, but the fact she’d not flunked the first hoop augured, well-ish.

  ‘Know what, mate? I feel OK.’

  11

  By late evening all the squad, bar one, were on happy pills and the briefing room buzzed. An early collar was cause for celebration in any inquiry. In this instance it was mainly thanks to a German shepherd called – and Bev still reckoned it was a piss-take – Nipper. Backslaps and Bonios all round, then? Her circling Doc Marten signalled scepticism. She’d been in at the arrest and now sat centre front, sandwiched between Sumi Gosh and Carol Pemberton. Bev’s more than bridled joy was partly due to the fact that the victim, Cath Gates, lay in the QE’s intensive-care unit clinging to her twenty-two-year-old life. The fact that Bev had partially misread the crime scene didn’t help, but most of her niggles were down to the current Powell-generated jubilation.

  Squad members looked to be hanging on the blond’s every word, spotlit as he was in a shaft of still-warm sunshine. Twenty-plus detectives, most of whom had been working their bollocks off in and around the park, now sat back in shirt sleeves. Dubious odours merged and mingled in a room already redolent of cheesy socks and stale sweat. Mac had opted for a seat near the window. Smart, that.

  Bev’s nose wrinkled as she observed Powell through her fringe. Action Man now paced the stage, regaling troops who’d missed out with a blow-by-blow account of the afternoon’s matinée. She switched off: been there, done that. Doodling on a notepad, she ran the tape through her head again. Saw the dog sniffing a trail of blood to a ramshackle hut on the far side of the allotments where its sudden transformation made the Hound of the Baskervilles look like a nervy chihuahua. Snarling and barking, it repeatedly flung itself against the flimsy wood until the door hung by a clapped-out hinge. As soon as uniform had the place surrounded, Harry the handler had given the Alsatian free rein. The perp, swathed in a cobweb mantilla, cowered in a corner, sat in a pool of his own pee with the latest mutt-have accessory clamped to his forearm.

  Harry told smirking cops milling round outside after the arrest that Tempest’s reaction was the worst case of cynophobia he’d ever come across. Mind, by then they were all pissing themselves. Bev hadn’t joined in the laughter and saw little cause for it now. ’Specially as Powell had just cracked the ‘Nipper by name, nipper by nature’ line. Again. It wasn’t just the limp gag though.

  Pensive, she tapped the pen against her teeth. Undoubtedly the attack was down to local villain Brian Tempest, a career crook with a rap sheet rivalling Jay-Z’s. Apart from being caught red-handed, the toerag had been in possession of the victim’s watch and rings. So far, so bad; but that was where Bev’s script deviated from reality. Far from the couple being an item, Cath Gates just happened to be passing the wrong place at the wrong time. Tempest, a chronic user as well as terminal loser, had been coming down from the mother of all trips. It was a given he’d be going down as well any time soon, but Powell fancied him for Lucy Rayne’s murder too. Bev didn’t see it, reckoned the DCI’s conviction verged on bloody-mindedness.

  Glancing up from her artwork, she tuned in again, the running commentary clearly over. Powell now stood hand-on-hip in front of a whiteboard, head tilted towards Tempest’s mug shot. Bev reckoned Johnny Depp could rest easy. Ginger dreadlocks hung like frayed theatre curtains round a pock-marked face with pink-rimmed eyes. The barbed-wire necklace had to be a DIY tat. Either that or Tempest could’ve asked for his money back.

  ‘’Course,’ Powell said, ‘right now he denies knowing Lucy Rayne from a hole in the ground.’ Hole in the ground? Bev only just staunched a mental groan from reaching her vocal cords. Powell’s eyebrow arched. ‘But then he would, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Pembers piped up. Good on you, Caz.

  Powell moved nearer, giving the three women, probably unwittingly, a close-up of the crotch area. ‘Do share, DC Pemberton.’ The jangling of loose change in his trouser pocket was too much for Bev; she looked down at her doodle, curled a lip. Wondered how Freud would interpret a line of pricks.

  Clearly made of harder stuff, Pembers didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’m thinking sheep and lamb. He knows he’s going down again anyway – if he killed Lucy, why not hold his hands up? It’s not like he’s got a lot to lose. Plus we’re taking his pad apart and he knows we’ve got his mobile. I doubt there’s anything incriminating there. Nothing linking him to Lucy at any rate.’

  ‘You reckon? And what if he’s sharp enough to have vanished it?’ Vanished it? Bev dropped her pen.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, sir.’ Carol smoothed a non-existent crease in her pencil skirt. ‘Pulling a stunt like that in the park has all the hallmarks of a criminal mastermind. Maybe we should call him Brains?’

  Bev just about managed to keep a straight face. Sumi Gosh ducked her head but the glossy blue-black hair fell a shade too late to hide the curve of her lips. Powell’s mouth tightened a fraction but either he couldn’t think of a comeback fast enough or his gung-ho balloon was too big to burst.

  ‘What else has he said, boss?’ Jack Hainsworth provided a face-saving way out. Bootlicker. Mind, he couldn’t abide lippy females. When he’d cut Carol a glance he looked as if he had a nettle smothered in bird shit in his mouth.

  ‘Not a lot.’ Powell backed off and parked his butt on the corner of a desk. ‘I reckon the duty solicitor’s got shares in the zip business.’

  What with the forensic and eye witness evidence they’d already accumulated, Bev reckoned Tempest could keep mum ’til the cows came home on full pension; he’d still get a lengthy stretch. And Powell’s late bid for a cheap laugh simply underlined his one-track mind. The zip quip only referred to Tempest’s reticence on the Rayne case. Soon as he’d been anywhere near capable of coherent thought and speech, he’d admitted pulling a knife on Cath Gates and stealing the jewellery. He’d no idea what possessed him. Right. Give him time and he’d probably blame it on voices in his head, but the main charge, almost certain to be laid tomorrow, would be attempted murder. That was if he, and more to the point Cath Gates, was lucky.

  Bev closed her eyes. Poor bloody kid. As if the neck and chest wounds weren’t bad enough, Cath’s heart had stopped again on the way to hospital. Last condition check hadn’t changed: stable but critical.

  ‘You up for that, Morriss?’

  ‘Sorry, gaffer.’

  His sigh was laboured. ‘Having another stab at Tempest first thing? I’ll lead, natch.’

  Like last time? She sniffed. ‘I’ll set my alarm.’ At least Tempest would probably have showered by then.

  Mac stood to open his window wider. Some clown asked if he was having a hot flush. The hand signal suggested two – as in ‘flush off’ – and unleashed a wave of sniggers.

  Bev shuffled in her seat, the banter for once pissing her off. Ordinarily she’d be up there cracking lines with the best of them: barbs and black humour went with the territory, a cop’s coping strategy for all the shit that flew their way. But Powell’s conviction that both cases were over bar the shouting didn’t sit easy. When her phone vibrated, she leaned across to dig it out of a pocket. Well, well, well. Better late tha
n never. She was about to open the text when another of Powell’s long-suffering sighs caused a re-think. His tapping foot clinched the decision. She slipped the phone back; Nina Night Nurse would have to wait a while.

  Powell rolled down a shirt sleeve. ‘Anyone got anything else?’

  ‘Someone needs to run Tempest’s pic past Rayne,’ Bev said. ‘Just in case.’ Given Tempest’s record she doubted the two men had shared history, but t’s, i’s, crosses, dots. She frowned. Come to think of it, she’d not heard back from Nathan Rayne since this afternoon’s curtailed visit. Either he’d failed to come up with anything, or he needed another nudge. She’d have been more than happy to provide it but Powell handed the baton to Sumi Gosh.

  ‘You know I’m picking up Jill Gates from the airport in the morning, sir?’ Cath’s mother. She’d been in New York, visiting family. Caught the first flight back after Goshi broke the news on the phone. A call known in the trade as a short shit-covered straw.

  ‘So?’ He tucked his tie down his trousers. ‘Never heard of time management?’

  ‘Hey, Mike.’ Hainsworth’s hand wiggled an imaginary beer glass. ‘I know what the time is now. Do the honours, shall I?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Powell grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. ‘Come on, chaps. Last one over can …’

  Cheers and the scraping of chair legs drowned Powell’s exit line. Bev stayed put, watching as they all drifted out. The Station had taken over these days as the cops’ favoured boozer. Pembers and Goshi still preferred The Prince but Bev declined an invite. The old place was full of ghosts. Well, one big one anyway.

  She pulled out the phone, this time read the text: Only the one. Youngish bloke. Tall, dark, quite tasty. Sound familiar? Give us a bell if you fancy a drink sometime. Nina.

  ‘Not joining the lads then, boss?’ Talk about stealth bomber. Mac hitched his jeans as he loomed over her.

  ‘Christ, mate.’ Her notepad slid off her lap. ‘Thought you’d long gone.’

  ‘Nah. Not thirsty.’ Both ducked for it at the same time, Mac’s hand reached there first. Squinting, he turned the page of doodles this way and that. ‘Something bugging you, sarge?’

  ‘Apart from Powell acting like a …?’ Prick. She stopped herself: dissing a DCI in front of a DC was well out of order. Besides, under the blond’s bullshit and braggadocio, he had a heart of … something.

  Mac’s lip twitched as he closed the pad, handed it over. ‘So it’s not a row of cactuses, then?’

  ‘If I was you, mate, I’d stick to the day job.’ She started tapping out a reply to Nina, waited until Mac reached the door before calling out. ‘And the plural’s cacti – get it right, gonzo.’

  Bev slipped on the Ray-Bans as she strode across the Texaco forecourt avoiding the odd petrol spill. At eight in the evening the shades weren’t strictly necessary, but with the MG’s roof down they’d protect her eyes from more than the sun. As she waited for a gap in the traffic, an Audi driver in a dark suit flashed his lights to let her out. She beamed in return; a smile went a long way sometimes.

  She had a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes and a cheeky little Pinot riding shotgun. The notion put her in mind of a legend on a Blues Brothers T-shirt she’d had as a kid. Bev’s mouth curved at the bittersweet memory. It had been her dad’s – they’d watched the movie together a million times – after he died, the smell of his skin and Eau Sauvage clung to the fabric for months. She’d not let her mum anywhere near – Emmy would have slung it in the wash. Still smiling, Bev shook her head. She’d worn that T-shirt as a nightie for years before it finally gave up the— Dropped to bits.

  She stretched out a hand to rifle through the CDs, knew the soundtrack was in there somewhere. Bingo. Hit it, boys. Humming along, she played wheel-drums picturing Frankie and herself as teenagers prancing round their bedrooms belting out Gimme Some Lovin’ into hairbrush mics. She hiked the volume a tad but this time left the vocals to Mr Winwood.

  Mental comparisons with the road movie petered out. Picturing her beat-up Midget as the Bluesmobile was too much of a stretch and Chicago was the last destination on her mind at the mo. Besides, Jake and Elwood were more likely to have a case of bourbon stashed in the boot than a bunch of flowers.

  She snorted. On the booze front, she bet Powell and Hainsworth had already necked more than their fair share. If the car roof was up, her ears would be burning. Make that ablaze. She could just see Blondie and Butch telling bolshie-Morriss tales out of school. Mac wasn’t even there to watch her back, never mind put in a good word. She sighed. Like it mattered. What’s the saying? Life’s too short. Damn right.

  She indicated, took the next left, and drove slowly through the gates of Green Lodge. The nearest place to park was by the church. Bev counted a dozen or so other vehicles as she stood by the car lighting a baccy. The guv wouldn’t give her a hard time; she’d have finished the smoke in the time it took to get there even with the diversion she had in mind.

  Flowers in the crook of her arm, she set off down the path. Long summer evening shadows fell from the tree-line across the grounds. Bev fancied her own silhouette looked like a wobbly image in one of those fairground mirrors. She was tempted to windmill an arm but on reflection decided not. Apart from her soft footsteps and the low rumble of distant traffic, it was eerily quiet, the air still. She took a deep breath, felt her lungs swell, caught a whiff of … what? Something that caught in her nostrils for sure.

  An old dear wandered past, dabbing a hankie to her eyes. Bev nodded and smiled, made a mental note to ring her mum. Not that Emmy was ancient; Bev’s gran was knocking on though, and Sadie had been getting forgetful of late. Getting? Her memory had been on the way out for months and twice recently she’d gone walkies in the middle of the night. Bev sighed, knew she should go round, spend time with her. She certainly didn’t need Emmy’s constant reminders; her guilt-plate was piled high already.

  Eyes creased against the smoke, she took a last drag, ground the butt on her heel, then slipped it back in the pack. After a few more paces, she veered off to the right. She’d seen Lucy Rayne’s grave from a distance on the day of the funeral, wasn’t entirely sure why she felt the need for a close-up now. Even standing right by it, Bev couldn’t distinguish the burial plot from a vast mound of rotting flowers with slimy stems swimming in their own juices under cellophane slick with condensation. She sure recognized the smell now. Christ, if it was like that above ground … Nice one, Bev. Hold that thought, why don’t you?

  ‘And don’t just stand there.’ She stiffened, glanced round. Had she really spoken out loud? Christ, talk about loopy-loo. At least there was no one in a white coat in earshot. Right, girl, get a grip. She placed her flowers on the grass, started ferrying dripping bouquets at arm’s length to the nearest bin. Disposal took several trips but, surveying the result, she deemed the effort worthwhile. Stooping, she plucked a single sunflower from her bunch and laid it on the raised earth. ‘That one’s yours, sweetheart,’ she whispered. ‘The guv won’t mind. Trust me.’

  As she walked away, she glanced back; the splash of gold stood out a treat. Her shadow looming ahead did too, made her look ten feet tall and skinny with it. Come to think of it, she’d not had a bite since Mac slipped her half a prawn mayo sarnie at lunchtime. She’d pick up some chips on the way home.

  Her smile froze as she glanced up. It had to be an illusion, a trick of the light. Rooted to the spot, eyes narrowed, she slowly raised trembling hand to slack jaw. Heart pounding ribcage, her breathing stopped for what seemed like a lifetime. The returning short rapid gasps hurt her chest. She’d known dizziness before but this was off the scale. Hyperventilation? Hallucination? If her mind wasn’t playing tricks … she was losing it. Her scalp tingled, stomach lurched, legs began to give way. Even with blurred sight, she knew the vision couldn’t be real. The man in a dark suit playing a fedora between his fingers could not be Byford. It was her last thought before she hit the ground.

  12

>   When she came round Bev lay flat out, arms at her sides, the blue velvet sky partially blocked by a looming silhouette. Byford’s face inches from hers. Blinking furiously, she scrabbled backwards, tried desperately to sit up, a million questions spinning in her mind.

  ‘Lie still a minute. I think you must’ve fainted.’ The voice she thought she’d never hear again. She rubbed her eyes, couldn’t get her head round it.

  ‘How long is it since you ate?’

  No. She shook her head, mouth too dry to speak. No, it can’t be. She stared in disbelief as he sank back on his haunches, crossed casual hands at wrist.

  ‘It’s Bev, isn’t it?’

  Still staring, she propped herself up on both elbows. Feasted for a while on the grey eyes, generous lips. Then she swallowed, nodded and finally saw the light. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Bev Morriss. Well remembered, Richard.’

  ‘So when did you eat last?’

  She waggled a hand. Knew the blackout wasn’t down to food deprivation. More like fantasy overload; wish fulfilment. She’d seen what she wanted to see, ached to see, and she’d forgotten just how much Richard Byford looked like his dad. They’d met a couple of times a few years ago and she recalled being struck then by the close resemblance. He’d come down from the Lake District once to stay with his dad for a week or two. She seemed to remember the guy going through a messy divorce at the time. There was an elder brother kicking round in … Southampton? Sussex? Surrey? Down south, any road.

  ‘Who’d’ve thought it?’ She gave a wide grin, tried laughing it off. ‘A funny turn at my age? Sorry if it came as a bit of a shock.’ She was apologizing for shocking him? How did that work?

  The guy didn’t say either way, just stared at his hands. A bit of ice-breaking was called for.

  ‘Are you—?’

  ‘Do you—?’

  Bev smiled. ‘You go first.’

  ‘OK. Do you … come here …?’ Please don’t say often. She hoped his throat-clearing was down to nothing more than a nervy frog. ‘Sorry, I’ll try again.’ Still no smile. ‘Do you visit Dad’s grave a lot?’