Grave Affairs

by Maureen Carter

  Bev did a double take when Marie Foster opened the door. It was like seeing Lucy a lot sooner than she’d expected, or at least how she’d look in her mid-fifties. A Lucy who didn’t watch her weight and whose life hadn’t been a bowl of morellos.

  ‘Mrs Foster? I’m Bev. Bev Morriss. Detec—’

  ‘I can see that,’ she snapped, flapped a hand. ‘What do you want?’

  Make allowances, Beverley. She pocketed her ID. ‘Perhaps I could come in a moment?’ Nosy neighbours were twitching either side of the poky terrace. Net curtain Nellies, Bev called them.

  ‘S’pose so.’ She tucked a strand of dark blonde hair behind an ear, cut and colour looked DIY. Grey spotty frock, more Primark than Prada. ‘Seems every time the police come knocking, it’s bad news.’

  Tell me about it. Bev gave a half smile. ‘I hope—’

  ‘Whatever.’ She sighed, turned her back, traipsed down a narrow hall. ‘Close the door behind you. We’re in the snug.’

  The small back room looked less than plush to Bev. Cracked walls lined with beige woodchip, thin, grubby orange carpet, pair of gold Dralon wing chairs. Her gaze flicked to the wall-mounted telly where a balding bloke in chef’s whites ponced round brandishing a carving knife. Falling on deaf ears, mate. Smelt to Bev like the Fosters had just had fish and chips. Eau de vinegar. Malt, not balsamic. She caught a mental glimpse of Rayne’s place, the teal leather, flash aquarium, and the angel fish giving her the eye.

  ‘Who is it, love?’ A reedy voice emanated from one of the chairs, then a friendly face peeped out from behind a wing. His mousy hair shifted slightly, seemed to have a mind of its own. If it wasn’t a post-chemo weave, Bev would eat her own hand.

  ‘You’re a cop.’ He smiled, didn’t get up but zapped the volume down with the remote. ‘A cop, right?’

  Bev nodded. ‘Got it in one, Mr Foster.’ Two actually. Had she sprouted truncheons or something. ‘Sorry to intrude like this.’

  ‘Sit yourself down, love.’ He waved a hand towards the other chair which bore Mrs Foster’s bum-print. ‘Go on, take the weight. How about a cuppa, our Mar?’

  Mar or Ma? First, more like. Bev reckoned Ma would be pretty crass given they’d not long buried their only child. Mouth tight, Mrs Foster took a perch on the piano stool. ‘We’re not a caff. And she’s not here to socialize.’

  Mr Foster’s smile faded. ‘No, I don’t suppose she is.’

  Reminders, everywhere. Pictures of Lucy. Grinning gap-toothed toddler, shy schoolgirl, and … blushing bride? Where were the wedding pics? Bev spotted one behind a studio shot of Lucy, and her mum and dad trying not to look too proud. Bob Foster must’ve dropped five stone since then, and his wife had caught most of it.

  ‘Go on, then. What you here for?’ Mrs Foster. Not big on social graces.

  ‘Marie. Manners,’ he chided gently. ‘Manners, love.’

  Mar-ie. Give the girl a gold star. Bev wondered if he repeated everything ’cause no one listened first time round. She shuffled forward in the seat, arms resting on thighs. ‘We want you to know, before it hits the news, we’ve charged someone with Lucy’s murder.’

  ‘Thanks, love.’ He lowered his head. ‘Thanks. Much appreciate it.’

  ‘What you thanking her for?’ His wife straightened, crossed her arms under her boobs. ‘It won’t bring Lucy back. Nothing will.’

  Talk about the odd couple.

  Bev cleared her throat. ‘He’ll appear before magistrates in the morning. Get remanded in custody.’ Mr Friendly still stared down; Mrs Flintface looked off to the side. Bev filled the silence. ‘The case’ll go to crown court, of course. Not for a while, though. It’ll—’

  ‘He’s to blame. I’ll never forgive him.’

  Frowning, Bev followed Mrs Foster’s glare. The wedding snap. The happy couple.

  ‘Sorry?’ She lifted her jaw from the floor. Surely she’d misunderstood?

  ‘That … that … Nathan bloody—’

  ‘Marie. Enough’s enough.’ Mr Foster grasped the arms of the chair ready to rise. Bev reckoned he’d need a hoist, too. ‘Stop this now.’

  Please don’t. ‘I’m not with you, Mrs Foster. What—?’

  ‘Leave her be, love. Woman doesn’t know what she’s saying half the—’

  ‘What would you know? Rayne and that bloody mother of his. All swank and big talk – they’re no better than us.’

  A touch of green-eye. That was one thing, but accusing your son-in-law of murder …?

  ‘Taking her away from her family, buying her things, filling her head full of stuff and nonsense. Money can’t buy everything, you know.’ Green eye? Marie Foster sounded like she was jealous in every bitter bone of her body. God knew how hard it must be to lose a grown child, but if tonight was anything to go by, no wonder Lucy got out soon as she could.

  Mr Foster dabbed his eyes with a hankie. ‘Marie, Marie.’

  ‘And let me tell you this, young woman.’ She pointed a trembling finger at Bev. ‘My daughter would be here now if she’d not married that … that …’

  ‘She was pregnant, wasn’t she?’ Bev had kept mum long enough. She asked like she knew the answer.

  ‘So what?’

  She did now.

  ‘And that’s another thing.’ Mrs Foster was really into finger-jabbing. ‘What’ll happen to the little one now? Who’s gonna look after her properly? He’s a waste of space. And she won’t let us anywhere near. Not good enough for that stuck-up bitch.’

  Bev struggled. Never thought she’d feel sympathy for Stella Rayne. ‘I’ve taken enough of your time.’ Smiling at Mr Foster, she rose, hiked her bag. ‘The man charged? His name’s Brian Tempest. Apparently Nathan Rayne knew him a while back.’

  ‘There y’go.’ Mrs Foster sniffed. ‘What did I tell you?’

  Too much, thought Bev. And not nearly enough.

  No wonder Powell had asked her to do the honours.

  22

  ‘What kept you, boss?’

  ‘What you doing here?’ Bev slipped her jacket off, hung it on the back of a chair. Last bloke she expected to see with Chris Baxter in The Prince was Mac. She assumed he’d be in The Station quaffing with Powell and the rest of the squad.

  ‘And greetings to you too.’ He raised an empty glass in mock toast. ‘Here’s to it still being a free country, just about. Talking of which, it’s my round. What you having, madam?’

  Parked next to Chris, she watched Mac stroll to the bar. ‘Has he been bending your ear?’

  ‘Nah. I like Mac. He’s a good bloke. Always strikes me as a bit lonely.’

  She frowned. She’d never really seen it that way. ‘He’s got quite a following on the comedy circuit, you know. I rag him rotten about his groupie cling-ons.’

  Chris snorted. ‘Most comics I know are miserable sods. Tears of a clown? Dead right if you ask me.’

  Clown. Sore subject. She smoothed her skirt. ‘Anyway, Chris. Brain-picking time and all that. Brian Tempest’s place, where’d you find the bag?’ And how come it took so long? She could’ve voiced the criticism but reckoned Chris didn’t need anyone else giving him a hard time. The guy was a pro and would have beaten himself up about the lapse. She watched him rake fingers through thick fair hair, then: ‘For the life of me, Bev, I don’t know how it was missed on the first sweep.’

  The Stirchley bedsit, he said, gave hovels a bad name. Filthy dirty. Furniture most people wouldn’t give skip room to. Boarded-up windows, tacky lino. Black bin bags in every room, full of rotting rubbish, dirty laundry. Lucy’s bag had been wrapped in a sweatshirt that should’ve come with a health warning, shoved at the bottom of one of the bin liners. ‘I could’ve sworn we’d gone through it, Bev.’

  She nodded. ‘Where was it?’

  ‘I said … at the bot—’

  ‘No, the bin bag.’

  ‘With a stack of others lining a wall.’

  ‘Here y’go, guys.’ Mac had a precarious hold on three glasses.

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ She re
lieved him of her Pinot pretty damn fast. Still had a bad taste in her mouth after the confrontation with Marie Foster. ‘So, is it possible your guys didn’t miss the bag because it wasn’t there first time round?’

  He was about to take a sip but paused. ‘You thinking someone stashed it later?’

  She turned her mouth down. ‘Could be. Say whoever it was believed the place had been given the all clear?’

  He drank a few mouthfuls this time. ‘They’d have to be well dense, Bev. Breaking in and that. And I can’t see why they’d do it. I’d agree it wasn’t our finest hour, but we found the stuff eventually. As dirty tricks go, I’d say it bombed.’

  She cocked her head. ‘Not if they wanted it found.’

  He sank more beer, then licked his top lip. ‘It still isn’t making any sense.’

  ‘It does if the idea’s to frame Tempest.’ Mac shifted in his seat. ‘And right now the guy reckons he could be hanging in the Tate.’ Tempest had shouted his mouth off, kicking and screaming all the way down to the cells according to Mac. Effing and blinding about corrupt cops, planted evidence. ‘I tell you, he made the gaffer sound like Alan bloody Titchmarsh. Swore he’d never laid an eye, let alone anything lethal, on Lucy Rayne.’

  ‘Par for the course, isn’t it?’Baxter asked. ‘The guy’s looking at a long stretch.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Mac said. ‘He’s put his hand up to attempted murder. It’s not like he’s saying he’s innocent as the driven doodah.’

  Bev sipped her wine, knew where Mac was coming from. Tempest was under no illusion, knew he’d be doing time, but if he’d not done the crime, drew the line at a bottomless pit. ‘Talking of hands, well fingers … how come the bag was clean, Chris?’ Tempest’s prints seemed conspicuous by their sodding absence.

  ‘Gloves, I guess.’ He shrugged. ‘Not convinced?’

  She couldn’t see Tempest keeping Marigolds under the sink somehow. ‘Struck me as odd.’

  ‘Come on, Bev, the world and his aunt know about dabs and DNA these days.’

  ‘Yeah. But not a single trace, Chris?’ Tempest barely had the nous to remember his own name, and he’d certainly not worn gloves when he attacked Cathy Gates. He’d snatched her jewellery and cash, yet let fifty quid go begging in Lucy’s bag. As for Lucy’s bling, it still hadn’t shown up.

  ‘So you’re saying he’s been set up?’ Chris asked.

  ‘I think it’s a tad … convenient.’ She looked at Mac but he was staring at his beer, swirling his glass. He’d had the dubious pleasure earlier of listening to Tempest’s running commentary on bent cops and stitch-ups. Even before the interview ended so abruptly, she’d heard Tempest tell Powell to put his sewing kit away. She’d love to know what was going on in Mac’s head.

  ‘What’s your take, Mac?’ Baxter put the question for her. Thanks, CB.

  Mac pursed his lips, placed the glass on the table. ‘When we reached the cell, Tempest broke down sobbing. Begged for a lie detector test. Pleaded on his hands and knees. I know it’s daft but I saw … something in his eyes.’ He shook his head. ‘Nah, Chris, I’m not convinced he killed Lucy Rayne. But I’d lay a bet someone’s keen it looks that way.’

  ‘Ditto,’ Bev said.

  Baxter blew out his cheeks. ‘You’d better be damn sure of your ground, then. I know you’ve had your run-ins with Powell, Bev—’

  ‘Not Powell. Nah.’ Couldn’t be him. He was no angel but he couldn’t have planted the bloody bag. On the other hand, she reckoned he wasn’t unhappy to reap the reward. A clean clear-up rate on any cop’s record looked good. Why else accept at face value the lack of prints and late appearance of evidence? Carol Pemberton reckoned Tempest had lashed out because he saw Powell had him by the short and curlies. What if all Tempest saw was a load of bollocks?

  ‘So who?’

  Bev drained her glass. ‘Believe me, Chris, I’m working on it.’

  ‘Best have a top-up, then.’

  23

  Bev checked her phone again on the way home in the back of a cab. At least she’d had the sense to leave her motor in the pub car park, but why the hell she’d agreed to go for an Indian she’d never know.

  Bullshit, Beverley. A meal out with Mac and Chris had been a damn sight more palatable than an evening in chewing the cud with her Ma and Sadie. The operative words being ‘had been’. Boy, did she regret it now; and not just because of the missed calls, mostly from her Ma, and the fact she’d not bothered phoning to tell them she wouldn’t be there. She swallowed a garlic-laced burp, wound the window down a fraction, then a foot. Apart from sweating cobs, she was uncomfortably aware of the lamb balti and lagers doing the rounds in a stomach that had started circling the other way. Again. The nausea appeared to have returned and now she had the joy of a thick head to look forward to in the morning as well.

  ‘Yow aw roit, bab?’

  She glanced up to see the cabbie eyeing her in the mirror. ‘Bostin’, ta.’ When she felt like it, she could do a mean Brummie accent. ‘Warm, though, ay it?’ Not that she often felt like it.

  ‘Ar. ’Tis that.’

  She glanced at her watch. Nearly midnight. Too late to give Emmy a bell now. She’d nip round on her way to work, show willing. Not to mention, the job provided her with an early out.

  ‘I ’ad that Jasper bloke in the back last week.’

  ‘Carrott?’

  ‘Nah, Conran.’ He rolled his eyes, gave a stage tut. ‘’Course Carrott. Local lad, inee?’

  Fascinating. A soul could only take so much excitement. She turned her head for a full blast of fresh air and sent a message by staring pointedly through the window. At least some folk were in high spirits – well, high something. She caught snatches of lively chatter and over-loud laughter from drinkers milling round on pavements outside pubs and wine bars. Palls of smoke hung like low cloud in the still air. Wished she had some cigs left.

  ‘Yeah, I get all sorts in here.’ Black cab man banging on again. ‘Dead interesting, some of ’em.’

  ‘That right.’ She clocked his ID dangling from the dash. Mo Iqbal. The pic must’ve been taken on a good hair day. Good everything, in view of the reality. Who says the camera never lies?

  ‘Yeah. Frank Skinner. Nick Owen. Nathan whatsit. Gary Barlow.’

  Now you’re talking. ‘The guy from Take That?’ She sat up straight, licked her lips.

  ‘Smashing bloke. Dead genuine. Got his autograph and everything. Generous an’ all – when he gets out he only hands me twenty nicker.’

  ‘Knicker?’

  ‘Smackers.’ He caught her puzzled frown in the mirror. ‘Y’know. Dosh.’

  She raised a hand. ‘With you.’ All the way back to Baldwin Street he crooned. Even in tune, she could’ve done without Mo’s take on Take That numbers. His rendition of Could This Be Magic was so loud, she could have bopped him. The unwanted gig explained why she’d waved him off without a tip. It had to be why her key was in the front door before the penny dropped.

  For whatsit, read Rayne? Had to be, didn’t it? Another local lad who’d made an impression on Birmingham’s singing cabbie. Bev slung her bag over the banister, headed upstairs making a mental note to call the company first thing. Chances were the two men had discussed nothing more juicy than Villa’s chances or the weather, but how would she know if she didn’t ask?

  ‘Ask and it will be given, Beverley.’ She pulled a face in the bathroom mirror. God, she looked a mess. ‘Seek and ye shall find, knock and…’ Who the hell was hammering the door this time of night?

  Bloody racket. She spun round, took the stairs two at a time. The banging only stopped when she flung the door wide open. ‘I’m not sodding deaf y’…’ She frowned. Traffic cops? Hats in their hands?

  ‘DS Morriss?’ The guy looked ridiculously young to Bev. So did the woman.

  Clocking their expression, she tried swallowing, but her tongue felt too big for her mouth. She managed a brisk nod.

  There’d been a hit and run, he said. She needed to get to t
he hospital. Fast. The flashing blues helped.

  Bev picked up the gist in the car on the way to the QE. Sadie had wandered into the road and been knocked down by a car. The driver hadn’t stopped, but they had a description of the vehicle. The young PC in the front passenger seat turned to look at Bev, who stared sightlessly ahead in the back.

  ‘Don’t worry, sarge, we’ll get him.’

  Don’t worry? When all she could see was a little old woman in her winceyette nightie lying broken on the tarmac. Bev rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. No. Who was she kidding? That wasn’t all she saw. In her head was a picture of herself with Chris and Mac swilling down curry with copious amounts of booze. When she should have been sitting playing Scrabble with her mum and chatting gently to her gran.

  She cleared her throat. ‘D’you think she’ll make it?’ Maybe they’d not heard. After that she kept it zipped until the car pulled up outside A&E. She muttered her thanks, then strode towards the automatic doors.

  Emmy sat all alone on a hard chair under harsh lighting at the end of a long corridor. Bev held back for a while, watching her mum quietly weep then dab her eyes with a lace-edged hankie. She’d not often seen her mum cry. Or look so vulnerable. Ever since Bev’s dad died, Emmy had always been there for her, endlessly encouraging, always supportive, never an unkind word. Who’d been there for Emmy, Bev? She took a deep breath. Music-facing time.

  ‘Mum, I’m so sorry.’ When Emmy lifted her glance her pale face looked drawn, almost haggard. Bev realized how rare it was to see her without a smile. Perching alongside, she wrapped an arm round her thin shoulders. ‘How is she? What are the doctors saying?’

  Bev listened without comment. It boiled down to broken leg, extensive bruising, blood loss.

  ‘They’re doing what they can, Bev, but she’s an old lady and she’s in deep shock.’ Emmy bit her lip. ‘I tried ringing but…’

  ‘I know. So what happened, Mum?’

  ‘She took herself off for an early night. I didn’t think any more about it until I popped my head round before I went to bed.’