She tapped the wheel. Maybe she should let it go anyway? At least for the time being. It wasn’t as if she was scratching round for work. Christ, she’d agreed to go in tomorrow lunchtime even though it was her day off. As for future leave, she reckoned it wouldn’t be long before Powell cancelled it for the foreseeable. Daisy was still out there, and that meant all hands on deck for the duration. However long it took.
An early night, then? She gave a wry smile. It’d mean cancelling Johnny Depp yet again. She couldn’t fit him in and a date with her gran. Emmy reckoned seeing Bev would do the old girl the world of good. A right tonic, she’d said. Knowing Sadie, Bev reckoned a bottle of Bailey’s wouldn’t go amiss either.
Bottle. Baby. Daisy. Bugger. Bev’s fingers tightened round the wheel. Where was the little mite and would her dad’s outburst provoke the bastard who’d snatched her? Driving on autopilot, Bev tried to work out how many times Rayne’s sound-bite had been broadcast that day. Given the plethora of outlets she soon gave it up as a bad job.
She wound the window down, flicked on the radio. As God’s my witness, if you harm one hair on her head, I’ll … And flicked it off. Not that it mattered. The news blared out from other motors in the queue. Talk about surround sound.
Bev shook her head. If the kidnapper hadn’t heard Rayne’s threat by now, she reckoned he’d either gone to ground or was stone deaf. One thing she’d no doubt of: neither the cops nor Rayne had heard a peep from the kidnapper.
No news is good news? She didn’t buy into that crap.
The exposure had certainly opened the sluice gates at the sewage works. The police hotlines had been deluged with calls from fruitcakes and nut jobs. Daisy had been sighted by Tom, Dick and Harriet, here, there and everywhere; mediums had left detailed accounts of visions; a couple of loopy-loos said they’d heard Daisy’s voice in their head. A six-month-old baby. Go figure.
Danger was, genuine nuggets could slip through with the faeces, so poor sods on the squad were even now wading through the lot with a bullshit detector. And praying they got it right.
Trouble was, like Powell said earlier, anyone can make a mistake.
30
Make Sadie smile – tick. Blitz Asda – tick. Clean loo – tick. World peace – tick. OK, she’d lied about the last bit. Bev gave a lopsided smile. Truth to tell she felt a bit of a smug-pants. Barely nine o’clock and she was in her onesie, feet up on the settee, large Pinot in one hand, baccy in the other and in the background, Ol’ Blue Eyes begging her to fly away with him. Baby steps maybe, but she was as near to normal, if not chilled, as she’d come in a while.
Might be the wine, of course. She curved a lip, took another sip. No. The mood was more down to getting the first week back at work under her belt. There’d been the odd hiccough, but on the whole getting stuck in again had been just the … job. Apart from grounding her and giving her something to focus on, in the last day or two she’d found herself going for as long as an hour without thinking about the big man. Soon, maybe, she’d be able to read another of his letters.
She stubbed the ciggie out in a tinfoil dish swimming with greasy red sauce and shoved the last chunk of naan in her mouth. Give her a break. She’d done the shopping, couldn’t be arsed to cook as well. At best, Bev was into low cuisine; she had a way to go before reaching her peak. She’d go upstairs soon, though, get that early night – once the bloating from the chicken vindaloo had gone down. Best clear away the mess first and spray some air freshener, or Frankie would have her guts for G-strings. Bev’s grin morphed into a grimace at the vision that prompted. Not one to hold.
Where was the wine bottle? The bread needed washing down. She raised her glass to Sinatra who was now on the sunny side of the street. ‘Cheers, Frank.’ She lay down, rested her head, hummed a few bars and closed her eyes for just …
‘Thanks a fucking bunch, friend.’
Bev shot up then so wished she hadn’t. Talk about a rude awakening. She swung her legs down from the settee. Not a dream, then. Frankie still stood there, hands on hips, metaphorical guns smoking, dark eyes blazing. ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’
‘Sorry, mate, I must’ve dropped off.’ And landed on her head? She rubbed her eyes. According to her watch she’d been out nigh on three hours.
‘Don’t “mate” me. The least you could’ve done—’
‘Hold it right there, buster. Anyone’d think this is your pad.’ She started stacking the dirty trays. ‘I fully intended clearing—’
‘D’you really think I give a flying fart about the mess you create?’ She knocked the trays out of Bev’s hands. ‘Daisy’s missing. I’m her godmother. Nat’s an old friend and I get to hear it on the news like everyone else. Why the hell didn’t you call me?’
Bev narrowed her eyes. ‘I guess I was too busy trying to find her.’ Still seething, she stood and more than matched Frankie’s glare. ‘And say I’d told you, what would you have done, sister?’
‘What I’ve been doing since I heard. Been at the house with Nat. I’ve just left him, he’s in pieces.’
She shrugged. Daisy got Bev’s sympathy vote. Especially after Rayne’s rash threat.
Frankie folded her arms. ‘You don’t give a toss about him, do you?’
‘Tell you what concerns me more?’ She took a step closer. ‘That when we get to Daisy she’ll still be in one piece.’
Frankie’s olive skin turned white. ‘You callous bitch.’
A step too far, then, but Bev had never known when to stop digging. ‘Sticks and stones, babe.’ Plus a stinging slap. Bev stroked her fingers down her left cheek. ‘That frigging hurt, Perlagio.’
‘Tough.’ Frankie’s eyes glistened with tears. ‘She’s a tiny baby. How could you say a thing like that? How do you live with yourself, Bev?’
‘Easy. Hop it. Now.’ She held out a palm. ‘And I’ll have the keys before you go.’
‘Too right.’ She dangled a keyring, then dropped it into Bev’s makeshift ashtray. ‘But don’t flatter yourself, honey. I only came back to grab a few things.’
‘Are you staying with Rayne?’ Could be useful, that.
Frankie snorted. ‘Don’t even go there. I’m not your sodding snout. Do your own dirty work.’ She tilted her head at the table. ‘It’s one thing you are good at.’ The Indian fallout spoke for itself.
‘Sorry. Are you still here?’
Frankie clomped round upstairs as Bev restacked the trays, then ferried the lot through to the kitchen. Lip curled, she scraped the remains into the bin. Said it all, really. She glanced at the ceiling: stomp, stomp, bang, slam – could the woman make more noise? Keep it down for Christ’s sake. Talk about overreacting. Maybe Bev could’ve phrased her concern about Daisy better, but at least she hadn’t flung out the stats on child murders: one a week in England and Wales; most at risk, nippers under twelve months. Abductions by strangers on the rise, getting on for three hundred a year at the last count. And it was people like Bev who had to deal with the aftermath. Stick that in your pipe, Perlagio.
She lit a baccy, leaned against the sink. From now on she’d smoke wherever she damn well pleased. Frankie could go nag some other sucker.
So how come Bev felt like shit? The Morriss mouth needed a restraining order, that’s why. No. Not this time. Frankie had started it, kicking off like that. And had the Italian expressed one word of sympathy for Sadie? Or asked Bev why she hadn’t come home last night? Had she thump. Actually, she had. Bev’s hand went to her cheek. It still felt tender.
She took a quick drag, doused the butt under the tap and flapped a hand round. Not that it had anything to do with twinkle-toes’ descent. The ostentatious sniff from the hall told Bev the wafting hadn’t worked anyway.
‘I’m off.’ Frankie appeared in the doorway with a rucksack the size of Wales. ‘I’ll get the rest when I can.’
‘Whatevs.’
‘I shouldn’t have slapped you. Sorry.’ She could try sounding it. ‘You asked for it, though.�
��
Bev stared at her phone. ‘Toodle-pip.’
‘Oh, by the way.’ She popped her head back. ‘I was supposed to give you a message.’
That perked her up a tad. ‘From Rayne?’
‘Nah. Oz Khan.’
‘Can go fornicate.’
‘Fair enough. Ciao.’
Hey! Bev caught up with her at the front door. ‘So, give.’
‘And?’ Frankie raised an eyebrow.
‘Please.’
‘Nothing heavy.’ She hefted the holdall, held out a scrap of paper. ‘He just wants to talk. With your gob, that should be right up your street.’
Sunny side? Maybe not.
31
Saturday had dawned like the preceding twenty-plus days: wall-to-wall sunshine, mercury on the up, Met Office forecasting the hottest temperature so far this year and last. Given its previous strike rate, Bev wouldn’t put her shirt on it. Reckoned bringing a brolly along might not have been a bad idea. Bit late now. She was nursing an Americano in Costa Kings Heath, still waiting for Charlie Silver to show. Dressed to impress, she’d opted for a navy shift and a linen jacket a couple shades lighter. Gravitas gear. Theory, anyway; her mood was on the heavy side too. The inquiry hadn’t moved a corpuscle overnight. Daisy was still out there and the kidnapper might have turned Trappist. As for the bust-up with Frankie … what could Bev say?
She’d filled the current hiatus with a couple of calls. Mo the cabbie was getting back to her and she’d had a word with her mum: Sadie was doing fine. Cathy Gates’s improvement continued. Oz’s number was burning a hole in her pocket, but there’d be another ice age before she rang it. She’d also decided to pop round to the Fosters, depending how long the meet with Charlie took.
‘Skinny latte and a cappuccino, please.’
Bev knew the voice, looked up from the freebie Guardian – more gravitas make-believe – and clocked golden boy Tommy Howard at the head of the queue. Glancing round, she spotted his Ma making for a table at the back. Mutton, lamb sprang to Bev’s mind, but that’s bitch genes for you. She reckoned she could give Momma Howard a decade and more but Bev wouldn’t be seen dead in a skirt that skimpy. Mind, she rustled up a sheepish smile when Rachel fluttered friendly fingers Bev’s way.
‘Fancy seeing you here.’ Bearing a tray, Tom paused en route, treated Bev to a toothsome smile and over-matey wink. ‘Not drinking on duty, are we?’
Oh, how they laughed. ‘Nah.’ She lifted a corner of her mouth.
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I see you need a top-up. You’re welcome to join us if you like. Ma’s over there.’
‘You’re OK, thanks. I’m waiting for someone.’
‘No worries.’ Another wink. ‘See you round.’
‘Deffo.’ Unless I see you first. She glanced at her watch. What was keeping the old boy?
‘DS Morriss?’
Nothing. He stood there large as life and in good nick, considering. Just shy of six foot and around thirteen stone, apart from the white hair being thinner and the addition of a pencil moustache he looked much the same as in his police pic. ‘Mr Silver.’ Smiling, she rose, held out a hand. ‘The name’s Bev. What can I get you?’
‘Pinta mild. Only joking. Nice cuppa tea’ll do me, bab.’
Took her a second or three to decipher the broad Black Country accent, then she smiled. ‘Take a seat.’
As she waited in line, Bev cut a glance or two at the Howards. Lots of tinkling laughter from her, much hand waggling from him. Maybe he was telling a joke? Or reading the news. She sniffed. They all had to have a Masters in manual gestures these days. Either way, the pair seemed dead pally. Bev reckoned they could even pass for brother and sister. No sign of the sugar daddy though.
Charlie sure had a sweet tooth. Bev had to go back for more sachets.
‘Nice drop-a tea, lass.’ He ran his tongue over the ’tache. ‘Now. This cold case. What is it you’re after?’
She leaned forward, elbows on table, said she’d been taking another look at the Fay Doolan inquiry, wondered if he could tell her anything that wasn’t in the reports.
‘Official, is it?’ She broke eye contact a second or two. Enough for Charlie to work out the lie of the unofficial land. ‘Not, then.’ Sizing her up, he took a few more sips then put the mug down, pushed it to one side. Shit. She’d not blown it already, had she?
‘I’m only surprised it’s taken so long. Someone digging it up.’ He shifted forward, looked Bev in the eye. ‘It was a case got under a copper’s skin. Babby dying like that. Know what I’m saying?’
Oh yes. She nodded. ‘Sure do.’
‘DC as found her barely slept, hardly ate, days after. Young chap then, of course. First murder. Bill Byford. Made it to Super, in the end. Likely retired now but he’s the one you need talk to.’
She swallowed. ‘Can’t do that, Mr Silver.’ Might have been her brimming eyes, wobbly bottom lip, but for a man in his late sixties Charlie wasn’t slow on his thinking feet. His eyebrows shot up.
‘Killed on duty,’ Bev said. ‘Sorry. I assumed you knew.’ She dropped her head, muttered something about the papers, telly.
‘Not much for following the news, me.’ He blew his cheeks out on a sigh. Bev watched grains of sugar skitter across the table. ‘I’d have liked to pay me respects. One of the finest coppers I ever worked with, Bill. Here y’are bab, take this.’ A pristine white handkerchief appeared in her sightline. Once she’d wiped the tears, she raised her head, met his gaze.
‘Meant a lot, did he?’
She nodded. Couldn’t trust her voice not to break. Charlie had no problem in that department. ‘Everyone liked him, Bev. And respected. Decent, straight as a die, always knew where you stood with Bill. What you saw was what you got.’ He winked. ‘And boy, was he a looker.’ He started telling tales of a young Byford, showed sides of the man she’d not known. Loved a lads’ night out apparently, liked a drink and a smoke, had all the birds flocking round on the dance floor. Bev knew what Charlie’s game was. Filling the silence, giving her time to get her emotional act together. And it worked. She found herself smiling, laughing even at the thought of Byford puffing on a cig.
‘Had to learn to take orders though, did Bill.’ Charlie tapped the side of his nose. ‘Bit of a maverick first off, had a few run-ins with the brass, handy with his lip, if you catch my drift.’
No way? She grinned. No wonder they’d bonded.
‘But you can’t keep a good man down, lass.’ He raised his mug. ‘And here’s to Bill, one of the best.’
Silver wasn’t so bad either. She smiled. ‘Thanks, Mr—’
‘Any time. And it’s Charlie.’ He patted her hand. ‘Now, back to business.’
He’d kept a few notebooks, cuttings, that kind of thing. Said he’d have a ferret round in the loft back at home, but: ‘One thing I’ve always thought, though: Bill had an inkling who the killer was.’
‘Fay’s dad, you mean?’ She knew he’d suspected Neil Doolan but the man’s alibi had been bombproof.
Charlie shook his head. ‘He’s dead, any road. Car smash. America somewhere.’
New York. 2006. Not that she’d done her homework. ‘Who, then?’
‘Ever heard the old Black Country saying – “pig-on-the-wall”?’
Sounded like Powell trying to make a decision? ‘A new one on me, Charlie.’ She gave a thin smile. ‘Fits a senior officer I know, though.’
‘Not far off the mark there, Bev.’ Silver fixed her with a stare. ‘The saying comes from when some daft sod plonked his pig on top of a wall so it could get a better view of a passing band or some such like.’
And? Price of onions?
‘Mebbe Bill saw things more clearly than the rest of us on the ground.’ He smoothed the moustache with finger and thumb. ‘Seemed to me he had his sights set on one of the bosses.’
A cop? Bev gasped.
‘DCI called Mellor. George Mellor. Left the force seven or eight months after Fay’s body was found.’
Bev sat back, thoughts on fast spin. They were still doing the rounds when he came back carrying refills. ‘I don’t buy it, Charlie.’
He sugared the tea, stirred slowly, took a slurp then: ‘It’s my guess Bill had something on Mellor. Not enough to go public, let alone prosecute. Maybe Bill threatened him, issued some sort of ultimatum. Jack in the job, get out of town. Or else.’
Allow a suspected child-killer to evade justice? Byford wouldn’t let a law-breaking tiddler off the hook. She turned her mouth down. ‘Not doing it for me, Charlie. Just can’t see it.’
He shrugged. ‘You might be right, bab. I’m only going on a couple things Bill came out with in the pub. Just the two of us, like.’
‘Like what?’
‘Buggered if I can remember chapter and verse after all these years, but I knew where he was coming from, sure as I’m sitting here. Call it a copper’s nose. Want some?’ He held some kind of biscuit, chocolate shortcake it looked like.
‘No, ta.’ She watched him eat, still trying to get her head round what he’d said. Wondering if Mellor was still around, and more to the point what he was up to.
‘Hope you don’t mind … I just wanted to thank you, sergeant.’
Distracted, Bev glanced up. Rachel Howard took a hasty step back, almost trod on sonny’s toes. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I saw the report in the paper? The man who attacked me? I want you to know how glad I am he’s no longer roaming the streets.’
‘Just doing my job, Mrs Howard.’ Now stroll on, love.
‘I don’t envy you.’ She gave an elegant shudder. ‘The poor baby who’s missing? Is there any news yet?’
Stifling a sigh, Bev shook her head. ‘Not that I’m aware.’
‘Everyone round here’s so concerned.’ The sweep of her hand took in a clientele that looked totally indifferent; presumably she meant the wider community was losing sleep over Daisy’s predicament. ‘We’re all praying she’ll be found safe and well.’ She ran her hands up and down her bare arms, like she had goosebumps or something. ‘A lost child’s every parent’s nightmare, isn’t it?’
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