Like the day Tempest attacked Cathy Gates and left her for dead within spitting distance of his aborted attack on Rachel Howard.
‘You OK, sarge?’
‘Peachy, ta.’ She could just do without the private screenings of slasher movies – wished she had a mental off-button. Or at least, when cases whirled round her head, see connections. Thinking of pictures she wondered what, if anything, the telly news crew had shot that day. Might be worth a check.
Sighing, she straightened, took a swig of Coke, watched Caz polish off her jam doughnut pudding. The woman could eat for America and not put on an ounce. Bev gave her stomach a subtle pat, guessed she’d added at least a couple pounds now she was back on the police diet.
She finished her drink, crushed the can between her fingers. ‘You fit, then?’
‘Yeah, I reckon.’ Caz checked the back of her skirt. Brown sauce and bird shit was so not a good look. They gathered the greasy wrappers, slung the lot in the bin, started strolling back to the motor.
‘So Caz, all this wondering of yours, what you come up with?’
‘You’re not going to jump down my throat?’
‘Caz. As if.’ All innocence. ‘You know me better than that.’
‘Exactly. I rest my case.’ Dead serious until she caught Bev’s eye and winked. ‘OK. I get they’re old mates, known each other for years and all that. But Christ, sarge, his wife’s not cold in the ground and Frankie’s swanning round as if she owns the place, sporting what looked like his dressing gown.’
Bev turned her mouth down.
‘I reckon they’d both had a skinful last night.’ Carol sure hadn’t skimped on her musings. ‘And did you see the way he looked at her?’
Bev nodded. She’d registered the way he gave Caz multiple once-overs, too. Clocked him watch her cross her legs, twist her hair. Without a doubt, the guy had roving eyes. And hands? If he’d tried it on with Frankie when he was married, he’d have got a right slapping. But now?
‘You’re not saying much, sarge.’
She ferreted round in her bag for the keys. Despite the mother of all rows, Frankie was still a mate. And Caz hadn’t exactly held back. ‘I reckon you probably said it all, Caz.’
‘Sorry, sarge, but I kinda think it’s inappropriate.’ They parted for a second to skirt a pile of dog shit in the middle of the path. ‘A bit … y’know – tacky?’
She got the drift. ‘Friends with benefits?’
‘Looked that way, didn’t it? But, hey, you know her way better than me, sarge. Who am I to say? From what I’ve seen of Rayne, though, I bet he’s had women chasing him for years. Well-tasty guy with loadsa money? Even without the celebrity kudos bit, he’s got to be a good catch.’ She sniffed. ‘He certainly fancies himself.’
‘Got that right.’ Though Bev couldn’t believe the worst of Frankie, casting Rayne in the serial shagger role came easy. Trouble was, last time she’d looked womanizing wasn’t a crime. Mind, given Caz’s pithy summing up of Rayne’s attractions, it seemed even less likely the guy had to put his hand in his wallet for sex.
So much for Bev’s assumption about the woman in the back of the cab. No wonder Mo Iqbal hadn’t come up with the goods, let alone bads.
‘Cheeky sods. Come and get a load of this, sarge.’
Bev wandered round to the Astra’s passenger side. Frowning she knelt down for a closer look still couldn’t quite make out the scrawl in the dust. ‘What’s it say?’
‘Looks like Miss Piggy to me.’
She masked a smile. ‘Glad it’s on your side, Caz.’
‘Yeah, but how’d anyone know? It’s an unmarked car.’
Bev shrugged. A toerag they’d collared in the past had probably clocked them getting out. ‘Not now it isn’t.’
41
Bev glanced up from a screen as Mac entered the squad room. ‘Howdy, stranger.’ He was supposed to have had a couple hours off; it was gone one now. ‘What you been up to, then?’
‘Sorry, boss, took a bit longer than I thought.’ Was it her imagination or did he look a tad sheepish? ‘I’ll just get that call.’
She watched him amble off to answer a phone, shoving what looked suspiciously like a tie in his pocket. Christ, had there been a royal visit she didn’t know about? That Mac knew neckwear existed was a minor miracle, let alone that he owned any.
‘Morriss.’ She glanced round to find Powell looming over her desk. Hips spread, hands in pockets, he looked like someone had peed on his parade. ‘Rayne. What gives?’
She’d tried calling but the blond had still been ensconced in his meeting. He listened along with much sighing and eye-rolling while she brought him up to speed. ‘So in a word, we’re no further forward.’ Like it was her fault.
‘That’s four actually.’
‘Fuck’s sake. What does it matter how many, we’re still pissing in the wind.’
‘Get my magic wand out, shall I?’ she muttered.
‘Hey, you guys.’ Mac headed towards them. ‘We need—’
Powell cut Mac mid-flow with a raised hand. ‘What did you say, Morriss?’
She shook her head. ‘Forget it.’
‘Don’t push your luck, Morriss.’ Having some to push would be a good start. ‘What is it, Tyler?’
‘Talking of luck. The Raynes could do with a bit. Stella Rayne’s in casualty. She’s been mugged.’
By the time Bev and Mac were allowed in the cubicle, Mrs Rayne was sitting at the side of the bed, right arm in a cast, left cheek the shade of damson jam. Seemed to Bev, the woman’s face fell even further when she registered who her visitors were. From what they’d learned en route, Stella Rayne had got off lightly.
She’d been attacked in Saint Anne’s churchyard, only a few streets from Tudor Rise. A public-spirited passer-by had seen a guy dressed in black leap out, fist raised. The Good Samaritan had yelled, ‘Police, stop,’ and given chase before dialling triple-nine. All this had come via a phone call from one of the attending officers, which was lucky because Mrs Rayne wasn’t giving much away.
‘I don’t know why you’re here. Nathan’s arriving any minute to pick me up.’
‘You’re leaving?’ Bev asked. ‘Is that wise?’ And why the hell wasn’t Rayne here already, helping his doting Ma through her ordeal? Despite the imperious manner and regal disdain, the woman was clearly shaken, fearful even. Given what had happened to her daughter-in-law and granddaughter, was it any surprise?
‘I’ll be more comfortable at home.’
‘Either way, Mrs Rayne, we need to ask a few questions.’
She nodded. ‘Get it over with, then.’
Bev dragged the other chair closer, started by asking for the attacker’s description. Mac perched on the edge of the bed taking notes. The ink wouldn’t run out any time soon. Mrs Rayne hadn’t seen anything. The assailant had said nothing, taken nothing; hadn’t actually hit her. She’d broken her arm when she fell; same with the bruising.
‘Look, officer, for all I know he could be some drunken idiot whose idea of fun is jumping out on some unsuspecting soul in a graveyard.’
Bev cut Mac a glance. His said the same as hers: Yes, ’cause there’s a lot of that about.
‘Really, sergeant, I don’t want to make a fuss.’ She patted her hair. ‘I just want to go home and forget it.’
Bev wondered if disingenuousness ran in the family. Way she saw it, the odds of the attack being random were a zillion to zilch. The woman had to have worked that out, surely?
‘Do you often walk through there?’
‘Why on earth—?’
‘Please, Mrs Rayne, answer the question.’ Bev’s best guess was that the guy had lain in wait knowing it was one of her regular haunts. Or he’d tailed her.
She ran three fingers down the undamaged cheek. ‘I’ve been there once or twice.’
‘Any reason why?’
‘It’s pleasant, peaceful. Now if you wouldn’t mind … I’m really rather tired.’ She glanced down, stroked the plaster
cast.
Bev curled a lip. Maybe if Stella played her cards right, her son would autograph it for her. ‘Fair dos; we’ll get out of your hair, Mrs Rayne.’ She nodded at Mac who stowed his notebook and got to his desert boots.
‘Just one thing.’ Bev was about to open the plastic curtain, ‘You’re sure you can’t describe the man who attacked you in any way?’
‘I said, didn’t I?’
She nodded. ‘Good job we’ve got an eye witness, then, eh?’
‘Why’d you tell her that, boss?’ Mac cut her a glance as he sparked the engine. ‘’Bout the witness.’
She shrugged. ‘Well we have, sort of.’
‘Man in black from the back?’ He checked the mirror, eased his foot on the pedal. ‘Best rush out an e-fit. Get ’em to do a Crimewatch special.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ Bev flapped a hand. ‘But Stella Rayne don’t know that, do she?’ Anyway, the description given by the bloke who’d saved Stella’s hide wasn’t as black as Mac painted: white, fair hair, around six feet tall, slim build, fancy trainers. OK, it didn’t amount to an early collar, but it was better than Stella Rayne’s paltry offering.
He handed her an unopened pack of Polos. ‘So why the paucity with the veracity?’
She curled a lip. ‘Who put you in dictionary corner? Nah, don’t answer that.’ Like Stella Rayne who’d stonewalled every question. ‘Come on, Mac, you must’ve seen her face when I let her believe we could pick him up any time.’ She dropped a mint in his palm, popped two in her mouth.
‘Yeah, like she’d seen a ghost. But I still don’t get it.’
‘Think about it, mate. What if she’s holding out on us? What if she has more than an idea who attacked her and—’
‘Yeah, but she reck—’
‘Don’t give me that guff about a drunk having a laugh. Total bollocks, mate, and stop interrupting. What if the man who attacked Stella’s the same perp who killed Lucy and who’s holding Daisy?’
‘Come off it, boss. If we really were closing in on him, surely she’d be hanging out the bunting.’
‘You’d think.’ Mind, it struck Bev if anyone was homing in, it was the perp – on the entire Rayne family. ‘It all depends why he’s doing it.’ Crime always boiled down to motive. ‘Maybe she and her bloody son are even more terrified of it all coming out.’
‘All what?’
‘Yeah, well.’ She sniffed. ‘I haven’t worked that bit out yet.’ She checked her phone: six new messages, two missed calls. A quick flick through the first few revealed the world wouldn’t end any time soon. On the other hand, how’d Oz Khan get her new number? The guy had a friggin’ nerve.
‘I still don’t see how they can be one and the same.’ Mac in muse mode. ‘The perp hasn’t put a foot wrong so far. Turning up bold as brass like that was hell of a risk to take. He could be in a police cell by now if Stella’s knight in shining armour had been a bit nippier on his feet.’
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged. ‘Unless he wanted to show his hand.’
He sure hadn’t shown his face. Roughing up Stella might just have been a warning to the Raynes. If he’d really wanted to damage her, Nathan’d be sorting out a headstone for her by now. Instead she’d lived to tell the tale. Not to the cops, natch. But Rayne would sure have got the message. If they were lucky, he might even get a follow-up in the post. Monday tomorrow.
Mac opened the window. ‘Y’know, boss, if you’re on the money, whatever “it” is, the Raynes won’t be able to keep a lid on it for ever. Bound to come out in the end, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but if the Raynes know who’s behind all this – what if they try and call a halt? As in, shut the perps up. Permanently. ’Cause if the Raynes get to them before we do …?’ She waited, hoping he’d caught on.
Mac held her gaze a second. ‘Law. Hands. Take?
‘You got it.’
He gave a sober nod, chewed it over for a while then: ‘How ’bout we have a word with the guy who gave chase, boss?’
She glanced at the clock on the dash. Nearly six. ‘Nah, you’re all right, mate. I wanna get home. We’ll swing by in the morning, take a stroll round the churchyard while we’re at it.’ She’d forgotten Mac’s tardy start; little wonder he was in no rush to knock off. Which reminded her …
‘Did you get your knighthood then?’ Deadpan.
‘Yer what?’
She waggled an eyebrow. ‘Is that a tie in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?’ Gawping, he missed the green until the driver behind sat on his horn. Mac slipped the motor into gear, cut her another glance. ‘You got sunstroke, boss?’
‘You and a tie?’ Bev laughed. ‘I thought the royals were in town.’
‘Daft sod.’ He gave his shoulders a Del Boy roll.
‘Come on then, give, what kept you?’ She dished out another round of Polos. ‘Wasn’t Sunday School, was it? You’ve not gone all born-again Mormon on me?’
‘No. And it’s Christian.’ And he wasn’t smiling.
‘Go on then.’
‘I had a meeting. It dragged on a bit.’
Meeting? She frowned. So had the blond, and that had taken longer than expected, too. ‘It wasn’t with Powell, by any chance?’
‘Among others.’ Straight-faced, staring ahead.
‘What others?’ A tie? Powell’s flash new suit? Had to be with the brass, didn’t it? What had Caz said? Watch your back, Bev.
‘Let’s leave it at that.’
‘Let’s not.’ Both her fists were clenched. ‘All boys together, was it?’
‘Bev—’
‘Don’t fucking Bev me, Tyler.’ She recalled shared glances, low voices, conversations that stopped when she entered a room. ‘Have you been keeping tabs on me all this time as well? Telling tales behind my back? Mac the mole, is it? Yeah, and Mac the bloody knife.’
He checked the mirror, pulled over, killed the engine. Still staring ahead, he clenched his jaw three or four times. ‘The only reason I go behind your back is so I can watch it.’
‘Big deal.’
Jack Hainsworth, he told her, had slapped in an official complaint. The assistant chief constable in charge of professional standards had called an informal meet. Colin Strong wanted it sorted, or at least to have an idea how the land lay, before going on a month’s leave from tomorrow.
‘Who else was there?’
Powell, Chris Baxter, Vince Hanlon, DI Pete Talbot. A guy from HR.
‘Thank God for that.’ She snorted. ‘I’d hate to think it was a man’s world.’
‘Yeah, and you know what, boss? Apart from Hainsworth, every one of them blokes stuck up for you.’
Eyes smarting, she stared at her lap as he recited some of the accolades: fine cop, intelligent, intuitive, tells it like it is. ‘Yeah, well, easy enough to say.’
‘Christ, Bev, get over yourself. Everyone but that asshole put in a good word for you today.’ Sighing, he made to restart the car. ‘And you know something? I’m beginning to wonder why we bothered.’
‘Sorry, mate.’ She lifted her head, held his gaze as she brushed away the tears. ‘Just the one, was it?’
Sort of smiling, he turned the key. ‘I swear I’ll swing for you one of these days.’
42
It seemed like a plan at the time. Sunday evening. Sadie had a bunch of mates going in, so Bev had a night off from hospital visiting. Kushti. Great chance for her to try her hand in the kitchen, reawaken those dormant culinary skills. Her cooking wings had been clipped for far too long by Frankie bloody Perlagio. And let’s face it: corned beef hash? How difficult could that be?
Yeah, right. Perhaps she should have opted for a blind tasting? Bev’s version looked like sick on a plate. After a forkful or two, she was forced to it admit it tasted worse than it looked. Lip curled, she junked the lot in the bin. Glancing round the bombsite she wondered – not for the first time – about getting a cleaner. Better still, a housekeeper. Or hot and cold running olive-skinned waiters flexing their glistening p
ecs in skintight … Cool it, Beverley.
She poured a Frascati refill, raised her glass. ‘Come back, Frankie, all is forgiven.’ It was more of a plea than a toast. Though a couple of rounds of toast looked like filling the bill, once she’d finished the homework she’d been doing in between cooking up the gastronomic tsunami.
Music first. Needed something to drown the silence. She ran her gaze down the CD stack and her eyes lit up when she spotted an old favourite. ‘Well, hello …’ Couldn’t beat a blast of Jolene. And if you can’t beat it … she joined the chorus. Belting out lyrics, she ran a damp cloth over the worktops. She’d seen Dolly play Birmingham’s National Exhibition Centre a couple years back. What a night that had been. Perlagio in a Barbie-pink jumpsuit with more rhinestones than a Nashville cowboy convention. The Italian had pimped up the pink Stetson with a set of fairy lights and, what joy, she’d brought along a spare. Smiling, Bev took a bow, aimed the cloth at the sink.
Still smiling, she sat at the table, dragged the laptop closer. Flicked a stray bit of corned beef off the mouse. No doubt about it, what amounted to a vote of confidence from some of her colleagues had given her a boost. OK, she wasn’t in line for a Queen’s Medal any day soon, but nor was she staring at a P45. If and when she left the force it would be her choice, and until then she’d give it her all – including tonight’s unpaid overtime.
While La Parton poured a cup of ambition, Bev scoured the web, checking on-line newspapers, gossip mags, Google, the lot. After about an hour, she reckoned Dolly had it easy. Working nine to five would be a doddle compared with a cop’s lot.
Another half-hour and she sat back, tapped her teeth with a pen. Maybe Rayne was right. She’d not come across so much as a passing reference to Daisy. Well, not before the media shit storm after the baby was snatched. Eyes narrowed, she lit a baccy. So how could Tempest have known about the kidnap? He was banged up by then. She picked up her phone, dialled a number, drummed the table with her fingers. Maybe no one was home? She was about to hang up when someone picked up.
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