‘And Lucy Rayne? Anything coming back on that?’
Beads of sweat oozed above his top lip. ‘Look, I swear I didn’t touch the woman.’
Still standing, Powell placed both hands on the table and leaned in. ‘Tell me, Mr Tempest. Are you a congenital liar or does it come naturally?’ Bev shook her head. Innate ignorance or what?
‘I’ve never laid eyes on his missus.’ Touch of panic in the voice? ‘You’ve got to believe me, man.’
‘I don’t.’
‘For fuck’s sake, what more can I say?’
‘How about the truth?’ Powell sat again and cut a glance to his left. Pembers took the cue, delved into a box on the floor at her feet, added a couple of items to the collection on the table. ‘Did you really think we wouldn’t find it?’ The evidence was clear even through the protective plastic: handbag, keys, purse.
Tempest muttered something about ‘bastard cops’ then dropped his head in his hands.
‘I’d say Powell’s pretty much got it in the bag, mate.’ Bev scraped back the chair. ‘Come on, places to go.’
They had their backs to the screen when the punch was thrown. They heard it land, though.
20
By the time Bev burst into the interview room, Pembers had Tempest’s arm pinned so far up his back it looked as if he was double-jointed. Or wished he was. The lawyer had tried to flatten himself against the wall, but at twenty stone plus he wasn’t exactly fading into the background. As for Powell, he was still on the floor looking dazed. His nose probably wasn’t broken, but his lip was split, and boy, had his pride taken a bash.
Bev knelt by his side dabbing at the blood with a tissue. She glanced up to see Mac had taken over restraining duties while Carol terminated the interview a tad more conventionally than Tempest had tried. The only thing the guy was hurling now were obscenities aimed at Powell. The gist being that the gaffer was bent enough to fuck himself.
‘Get him down to the cells, will you, Mac?’ Bev tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘And I could do with a towel in here.’
‘I’ll get one, sarge,’ Carol offered, then turned to the lawyer. ‘Will you be wanting a word with your client, Mr Hicks?’
‘I can’t see the point, officer.’ He shoved a legal pad into his case. ‘He’s more or less told me he’ll be acting in his own defence.’
Good luck with that. Bev waited until the door closed before helping Powell into a chair. He sat with his head in his hands for half a minute or so, then, ‘Well, I sure didn’t see that one coming.’ They winced in sync as he gingerly probed the bridge of his nose.
‘Reckon it needs x-raying, gaffer?’ Studying the damage, she handed him a glass of water.
‘Ta. I can’t feel a lump or anything. I’ll see how it goes.’
‘If you want running to A&E just say the word.’
‘What with the blood and that, it probably looks worse than it is.’ He drained the glass, then slowly rose. ‘Thanks, Bev. I’ll go get cleaned up. Can you make sure that lot gets back to exhibits?’
‘On it, gaffer.’ She reached for the box on the floor.
Powell turned on the way out, still looked a tad unsteady on his pins. ‘I’ll tell you something for sure, when I see the bastard again he won’t know what’s hit him.’
She could’ve pointed out the irony but he probably wasn’t thinking straight. She just raised a hand, continued replacing the evidence bags. She knew what he meant though. The charge book heading Tempest’s way would be an even heftier tome now, covering Lucy Rayne’s murder, assaulting a police officer, theft, concealing evidence. Frowning, she stared at the open purse in her hand. To count it she’d need latex gloves but there had to be at least thirty quid in there. When Tempest supposedly hadn’t got two pennies to rub together?
‘Has he gone, then?’ Carol appeared with a damp towel.
Bev glanced up, gave a distracted nod.
‘Should’ve been a detective, me.’ Carol’s smile didn’t last long. ‘Problem, sarge?’
‘Prob’ly just me, Caz.’ She needed time to think it through. ‘Well done, by the way.’ She must’ve leapt to Powell’s defence pretty damn presto. Mind, Pembers had done almost as many self-defence courses as Bev.
‘For what? Want me to get the door?’
‘Cheers. Damage limitation,’ she said squeezing past. ‘Who’d a thought Tempest would be so handy with his fists?’
‘Soon as he clapped eyes on that handbag his whole body language changed. If you ask me, he could see Powell had him by the short and curlies, reckoned he might as well go down fighting.’
‘I guess.’ He’d certainly taken the gaffer down.
‘I should get back, sarge.’ She nodded at the box. ‘Will you be OK with that?’
‘Sure will. Catch you later, Caz.’
Bev slipped the cash back into the clear plastic bag, snapped off the gloves, let them drop in the bin. Where’d the box come from? She spotted the gap on one of the evidence room’s shelves and reached up to slot the box back into place. Pondering, she stood, tapping a finger against her lip. Fifty quid in used ten pound notes. Fair enough, it wouldn’t set Tempest up for life, but there’d be more than enough to keep him off his face for a few hours. So why hadn’t he blown it? And what about Lucy’s rings? Just in case they’d slipped through the lining Bev had had a good old ferret in the bag, but Victoria Beckham didn’t do dodgy stitching. So where was the bling?
‘Not tampering with evidence are we, Bev?’
She heard a smile in the voice, turned to see one of the forensics guys, Nigel something or other. ‘Nah, mate. Just half-inched a few bob to put on a horse.’
‘I suppose you’ll retire on your winnings, eh?’ Still smiling, he snapped the locks on a steel case. Nigel Archer, was it? Lovely face, but he could do with losing a few kilos.
‘Got my eye on a nice little pad in the Bahamas.’
‘Best take me along if you don’t want dobbing in.’
‘Deal.’ She sealed it with a wink. ‘Nige, the stuff from Brian Tempest’s place? Any idea what prints were lifted?’
‘Not my bag, Bev. Chris Baxter’s your man. Get him to give you a bell, shall I?’
CB’s report would probably be knocking round the incident room by now but she definitely needed a word with the guy. ‘I’d appreciate it, Nige, ta.’ One way or another Chris would get the message: she’d already left him a voicemail.
‘Incident room, DS Morriss.’ The call wouldn’t be for Bev: she just happened to be passing a landline on her way out the door armed metaphorically with a few fingerprint facts.
‘Vince here, Bev.’ Vince Hanlon. Highgate’s longest serving sergeant, front desk nowadays as opposed to front line. ‘I’ve got a woman down here after Mac Tyler.’
‘Got a guide dog with her, has she, Vinnie?’
‘Come on, Bev, I don’t think she’s of a mind to hang round long. Think cat. Tin roof. Forty degrees in the shade. Any idea where Mac is?’
More than likely making sure the visuals were primed for Rachel Howard. ‘Cat got a name, Vince?’
‘Rachel Howard.’
‘Two ticks. I’ll be right with you.’ It sounded as if the woman was getting antsy being in a police station. Plus she was here to point the finger at a man who’d tried to attack her. A little edginess was natch. And as Mac said, Rachel Howard could’ve just kept her trap shut, so after yesterday’s pops Bev decided to play nice, try to make up a bit of lost ground. She glanced across the room, but the only squad members around were otherwise engaged. Office manager Hainsworth surveyed his realm as per, from his desk by the window. ‘Jack? If you see Mac tell him I’ll be in the screening room, yeah?’
Miserable sod gave a curt nod. She wouldn’t have bothered asking, only Rachel Howard would almost certainly feel more at ease with Mac holding her hand too.
And boy, it looked as if she needed it. The woman was perched on the edge of a moulded plastic chair in reception, leg jiggling like a piston,
wary glance darting all over the shop. An old bloke in the next seat said something but she flapped a hand, turned her back. As soon as she spotted Bev she was on her feet, metal bangles clinking together as they dropped down her stick-thin arm. ‘I wouldn’t have come if I’d known you’d be here. If you’re rude once more, I shall leave.’
Bev held up a palm. ‘I was out of order yesterday, Mrs Howard. Please accept my apologies. Are you all right, Vince?’ She’d glanced round but all she could see was light bouncing off his bald patch.
‘Fine, fine, just dropped my pen, found it now.’ He rose from behind the desk, waving a biro.
‘It’s all very well being sorry after the event, but your remarks were highly offensive. I’ve a good mind to—’
‘Rachel, let it go.’ The old bloke had joined the party. Bev frowned, wasn’t sure who was more gobsmacked, her or Mrs Howard. ‘I’m sorry, officer, my wife’s overwrought.’ Wife? That was a turn-up. Bev closed her mouth.
‘Please, Greg, let me deal with this.’
He took her gently by the elbow and led her out of earshot, though God knows Bev tried hard to catch the drift. The guy towered over his missus and though he could give her a few years, he clearly wasn’t as old as Bev had assumed. The amiable face was animated, the body language lively. The age thing was probably down to the drab brown suit and Cornish pasty shoes. The dated gear did him no favours, especially next to a woman who dressed like a teenager. After the pep talk and a pat on the shoulder, he hived off back to his seat. Mrs Howard approached straight-faced.
‘I accept your apology, officer. Shall we start again?’
‘Let’s do that.’ Bev smiled. ‘It’s good of you to give up your time like this. If you want, your husband can join us.’
‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’
Bev held out an arm to usher her through to the business side and Mrs Howard clutched it with trembling fingers. ‘I won’t actually have to see him, will I?
Doh. It was kinda the point. She knew what the issue was, though, it’s why the old line-’em-up-head-’em-out system had been knocked on the head. ‘Not in the flesh, Mrs Howard. It’s all done on vid nowadays – video identification parade.’
‘There’s absolutely no way I’ll come face to face with him?’
Bev shook her head, talked her through the procedure as they walked along a corridor to the viewing suite. The National Viper Bureau database had nearly thirty thousand moving images on tap, film of volunteers facing the screen then turning their heads from side to side. Tempest had been shot the same way and the footage edited into a sort of slide show with eight of the nearest lookalikes.
‘Think of it as really boring telly, Mrs Howard.’ Bev smiled as she pulled out an easy chair. After checking the DVD was cued and ready to go, she perched on a desk and pointed the remote at the screen. ‘If you could just indicate when the man you think attacked you appears, that’d be dandy.’
‘What do you mean, think? I’m not a fantasist, you know.’
‘I didn’t say you were, Mrs Howard.’ Keep your sodding hair on. Talk about high maintenance. Where the hell was Tyler when—?
‘Sorry I’m late. I got held up.’ He nodded at Bev. ‘Want me to take over, boss?’
‘Nah, you’re all right.’ Now she was here she might as well stay for the show. She kept more of an eye on Rachel Howard than the movie parade. She knew Tempest was last man in and found his ugly mug hard enough to stomach on its own without subjecting herself to eight close likenesses. Who’d have thought so many blokes thought ginger dreads was a good look? None shared his dubious taste in tattoos, though, which was why replicas of the barbed-wire noose had been superimposed round each man’s neck. Rachel Howard’s elegant neck was flushed pink and her brow glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Probably a hot flush. Meow.
Her manner appeared slightly more relaxed, though Bev guessed it was superficial. Her fingers were clasped so tightly the ends of her nails were white, and the ankles couldn’t have been crossed tighter if they were fused. When Tempest appeared she seemed to shrink back even further into the chair. ‘That’s him. Oh my God. That’s him.’
‘No call to get upset, Mrs Howard.’ Mac smiled reassurance.
Upset? She looked bloody petrified to Bev. It was a damn good job face-to-facers were a thing of the past. She waited while the woman took a sip of water, then: ‘You’re a hundred per cent sure that’s the man—’
‘Two hundred. I’d know that animal anywhere.’
‘That’s it then,’ Mac said. ‘Well done.’
She rose then reached down for her bag on the floor. ‘Will I have to give evidence in court? I don’t think I could stand being that near him.’
Mac would take her to an interview room, Bev told her, get a statement down and they’d see how it panned out. It might take a while because colleagues were building several cases against Tempest.
‘Several cases? Not just mine and the young woman’s?’
‘Can’t really say any more at this stage, Mrs Howard.’
Mac got the door but she turned in the corridor to face Bev. ‘He didn’t have anything to do with that murder?’
‘Murder?’
‘In Moseley. It’s been in all the papers. Oh my God.’ She lifted a hand to her mouth. ‘The victim was another young woman. That’s three of us.’ Young? Don’t flatter yourself, love. ‘Tell me he won’t be allowed out. That you’ll charge him soon?’
‘That I can tell you.’
She again laid a hand on Bev’s arm. ‘I’m lucky to be alive, aren’t I?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, Mrs Howard.’
But touching Bev was definitely pushing it.
21
‘Bev, Chris Baxter here. It’s your lucky night.’ Bev gave a wry smile. People getting back were like buses. You wait for one, next thing they’re clogging the kerb. Nina had just been on the line too.
‘How’s that, CB?’ Quick glance at her watch, speedy glug of Red Bull.
‘I’m gonna let you buy me a drink.’
Given it was half six already, she’d be hard pushed to oblige. Despite spending the better part of three hours sweating over a hot desk, she wasn’t done yet. Powell wanted her to call in on Lucy Rayne’s parents this evening, felt they ought to hear the latest development face to face. Bev wasn’t convinced it had to be her face: she’d not met the Fosters before. She’d read the file, knew he was on sickness benefit recovering from bowel cancer, she worked part-time in Aldi. Powell had questioned them before, several times, maybe thought his new look, bruiser-chic, might put them off their dinner.
‘Not sure I can make it, Chris.’
‘Shame. Your loss though, sunshine. Thought you wanted to pick my brain.’
Pass the forceps. Forceps? She shuddered. Scalpel maybe. Either way, he was right. She’d a stack of questions for the forensics’ head honcho. Not least, how come Tempest hadn’t left a solitary dab on the evidence found in his gaff? The bag, cash and keys were covered in Lucy Rayne’s prints, but not so much as a whorl from Tempest. Not that it had stopped him from being slapped with a murder charge.
Bev turned her mouth down, worked out timings. The Fosters’ house call shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, then she was due at her mum’s. Chris could play piggy in the middle. ‘Half seven do you?’
It would. Smiling, she ended the call then gazed up at Lucy’s pic on the wall. ‘What do you reckon then, Luce? Time I let you go?’ Once a killer was behind bars, Bev generally removed the victim’s photo, kept it safe in a box file. Couldn’t leave them in situ, she’d have run out of space years ago. Tempest sure wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Lucy’s murder headed a long list of charges against him that Powell had read out at the late brief. Had she imagined it or had the squad’s cheers been less than elated? Doubtless the chaps would wander over to The Station anyway, any excuse …
She reached for the Red Bull, scowled. When had she finished that? She dropped the can in a bin full
of empties. Come to think of it, the blond had seemed a tad flat at the brief too. Mind, a fat lip and mangled nose couldn’t help, nor the temporary lisp and what sounded like a heavy cold. She sniffed. Maybe she should put Powell in touch with Nina Night Nurse.
Nina had certainly helped Bev, to an extent. She tapped a key and the image she’d emailed the nurse appeared on her screen. Turned out Paul Curran’s mystery visitor was definitely Richard Byford. But Nina only recognized the face, not the moniker. She couldn’t recall the name he’d given at the nursing home, but sure as eggs are boiled it wasn’t Byford. Nina would ask around, keep Bev posted and give her a bell as soon as he showed again. Bev knew the chances of catching Byford junior at the bedside of his dad’s killer weren’t high, but they had to be worth a shot. Shot? Better ways to put it, Bev.
Sitting back, she folded her arms, gaze fixed on the monitor. ‘So, what you sniffing round for, eh?’ She studied the face, its strong features, so like the big man’s, beautiful but inscrutable, unreadable. Bev’s was more open book. Make that mobile library. ‘What’s the draw then, sonny?’ Stop talking to yourself, woman. She glanced over her shoulder. Christ, if anyone heard her chuntering away, she’d never hear the last of it.
She logged off, watched the screen fade to black, then scooted the chair back. Baby Byford might not be playing ball right now, but it really wasn’t a game. Sooner or later, she’d have to put the questions to him for real. Richard certainly didn’t visit Curran for the lively conversation, so what exactly did he have in mind? And would it queer her pitch?
She blew out her cheeks on a sigh. Good as it was to sit round chatting … She rose, reached for Lucy’s picture, then paused, slipped on her jacket instead. No rush, was there? Actually, not quite true: people to see, places to go, parents to tell their daughter’s murderer had been charged.
But not convicted.
At the door, Bev turned her head, looked at the picture again. ‘See you later, Lucy. Hang on in there.’
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