Grave Affairs

by Maureen Carter

  ‘Are you still here?’ Truss picked up a pen. ‘Mike Powell’s going to need a hand.’

  Bev shot up, made for the door. ‘On it, ma’am.’

  ‘One more thing, Bev.’ About to exit, she looked back. Truss held her gaze. ‘I know how hard it’ll be for me to follow Bill Byford. I’ll do my best to live up to his legacy.’

  ‘You in there, sarge?’ Carol Pemberton.

  ‘Give us a sec.’ Bev blew her nose, chucked the tissue in the bowl. She’d not exactly been hiding in the ladies; apart from dying for a pee, she needed a few minutes after Truss’s lecture to try and get her brain in gear. She’d never before been wrong-footed and kept on her toes at the same time. The woman was way smarter than she looked, and she looked like she’d eat Jeremy Paxman for a light supper. She’d certainly left Bev a stack of questions. Starter for ten: how did Truss know the big man? And did she regard Bev as protégée or pain in the arse? For all Bev knew, Truss could turn out to be her biggest fan or a total bee-atch. Not knowing was a real pisser. She wiped the scowl off her face and flushed the loo.

  When she emerged, Carol Pemberton was washing her hands, their gaze met in the mirror. ‘Everything all right, sarge?’

  ‘Peachy.’ She reached for the soap.

  ‘You don’t look—’

  ‘What you make of the new boss, Caz?’

  She shrugged. ‘From what I’ve seen, I reckon she’s Chief Constable material.’

  Caz was generally pretty astute. Bev nodded, turned her mouth down. ‘Top job, eh?’

  Carol got to the paper towels first, handed Bev a few sheets. ‘I don’t know how she does it, sarge. I can hardly keep up and I’ve only got two kids.’

  ‘What did you say?’ The woman didn’t even wear a wedding ring.

  ‘She’s got four. Three teenagers and an eighteen-month old baby.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Carol sniffed. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘Were you looking for me, by the way?’ Bev held the door.

  ‘Oh, yeah. The girl you brought in this morning?’ Bev nodded. Verity Parsons.

  ‘She’s been throwing her toys out the pram. Wants to see you. Like yesterday.’

  50

  Verity Parsons had been kept waiting another two and a half hours. It hadn’t taken that long to finalize details of the surveillance operation, but Bev wasn’t at the girl’s beck and call. And Parsons’ grubby little demand for money with menaces wasn’t exactly up there with the kidnapper’s threat.

  Bev and Mac sat side by side at a scarred metal table, waiting on her arrival. Interview Room Three had even fewer delights on offer than the police cell: piss-coloured walls; scuffed tiles and the sort of smells heavy-duty disinfectant had a job shifting. Still, it could work as an incentive for Parsons to come clean.

  ‘Filthy perv. Get your hands off me.’ Or not. Sounded like she was kicking off just outside the door. A uniformed officer opened it, muttering a few words. Bev was pretty sure she’d heard ‘bargepole’, ‘with’ and ‘touch’ – not necessarily in that order. The drift was easy enough to catch, though, given the wave of rank body odour that had just merged with IR3’s other olfactory challenges. Maybe they should’ve let the girl shower at home before bringing her in.

  Bev pointed a pen at a chair. ‘Take a seat, Miss Parsons.’

  The girl took a few steps forward, squinting round. With only one available pew, Bev couldn’t see the problem. ‘What a crap hole,’ Parsons clarified.

  ‘Make yourself at home.’

  Cutting Bev a scowl, the girl parked her backside, jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. ‘And tell that fat git to keep his hands to himself.’

  The uniform held out empty palms. ‘She tripped, sarge. If I’d not grabbed her—’

  ‘Thanks.’ Bev nodded, watched him leave.

  ‘That’s right. Close ranks.’ The girl snorted, slouched and folded her arms.

  ‘You sure you don’t want a lawyer?’ Bev crossed mental fingers, prayed she’d say no.

  ‘I’ve told you once. Just ask your questions.’

  ‘That little exchange out there?’ Was a godsend. Bev paused a few beats. ‘Make a habit of it, do you, Miss Parsons?’

  ‘Habit?’

  ‘Accusing men of inappropriate behaviour.’

  ‘Inappropriate behaviour?’ She frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Seriously, I’m not with you here.’ The lines deepened.

  ‘It’s just about the worst thing a guy can be accused of, isn’t it, DC Tyler? Rape.’

  Mac nodded. ‘Ruins lives, DS Morriss.’

  ‘Rape?’ The girl straightened, glance flicking from Bev to Mac and back again. ‘Are you on something?’

  Bev raised an eyebrow, took a drag on her pen. ‘Memory gone to pot, has it?’

  ‘I think I might remember accusing someone of rape, don’t you?’ She sighed, rolled her eyes as if Bev had lost the plot. Top marks for brass neck.

  ‘How about your head for figures?’ Bev ran the pen down an imaginary list in a virgin notebook. ‘That’s right. You reckoned five grand?’

  ‘Five grand?’

  ‘To keep mum?’ She tilted her head. ‘Want a little rethink? ’Cause Nathan Rayne swears blind it was ten.’

  ‘The lying bastard.’ Without screws the chair would’ve tipped over. Standing now, the girl pressed both palms on the table. ‘And what the fuck’s it got to do with crying rape?’

  ‘Sit down, love.’ Mac said.

  Bev took a sip of water. ‘Are you saying you didn’t?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. The guy’s a total scumbag. I loathe his frigging guts.’ That sounded like the real deal to Bev – didn’t mean she hadn’t tried screwing him for every penny she could get, though.

  ‘Is that because he wouldn’t let you get away with your dirty little game?’

  She frowned, her gaze doing the face-reading thing again. ‘What game?’

  ‘Kiss and tell? Though in your case it’d be more rape and yell.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘He told you I threatened to report him for rape? That’s absurd.’ She almost laughed. ‘I can’t believe the bastard had the nerve.’ Even Meg Ryan couldn’t have faked the girl’s conviction. ‘To accuse me? After all he’s …’

  Bev and Mac exchanged glances.

  ‘After all he’s what, Miss Parsons?’

  51

  ‘Basically, he told her to fuck off. Wouldn’t have anything to do with her.’ Verity Parsons took another tissue from a half-empty box on the table. ‘It made her feel like shit, that life wasn’t worth living – being rejected twice by her own father.’

  So Nathan Rayne’s daughter Chloe Todd had popped enough sleeping pills to make sure she never woke again.

  And Chloe’s bestie and college mate, Verity Parsons had seen it as a nice little earner. The girl’s cack-handed stab at blackmail had nothing to do with exposing Rayne’s paternity but on revealing to the world he’d as good as murdered his own flesh and blood. Telling Chloe he didn’t want her in his life had, according to Verity, tipped her over the edge.

  Bev took one final look at the passport-size pic before sliding it back to Verity. ‘Pretty girl.’

  And what a frigging waste. Chloe Todd had been just eighteen years old when she decided she’d had enough.

  Secrets and lies? More a case of buried truths and omissions. Why the hell didn’t people come out with the full picture a bit sodding quicker?

  It had taken Bev and Mac more than an hour to persuade Verity Parsons to talk. Partly because she’d sworn to Chloe that she’d never break her confidence. Bev had stifled a snort at that. Reckoned it had more to do with Verity protecting her own sorry ass. Who wants to look like an avaricious self-serving little cow? Of course, so far they only had Parsons’ side of the story: Rayne and Chloe’s mum had a brief fling back in the days of gigs and groupies. And when he got her pregnant, he didn’t want to know. />
  Irony was, had Rayne not cast Verity Parsons as a scrubber with a sideline in blackmail, she might not have opened her mouth at all. The last time they’d met, he’d scared the shit out of her.

  Rayne was no better: he’d kept schtum from the get-go when surely he must’ve known that Chloe’s death had unleashed powerful emotions – emotions that could be the catalyst leading to his wife’s murder and baby’s kidnap? Bev glanced at her watch. Pembers and Goshi should be en route to question the guy now. Mac had texted Powell at intervals during the interview so the gaffer could task the squad as and when. Bev had asked for anything they could come up with on Chloe Todd.

  Watching Verity Parsons shred yet another damp tissue, Bev struggled to mask her contempt. Never in a million years could she imagine trying to exploit a mate’s death. Clearly the girl had no involvement in the ongoing inquiries, but why hadn’t she come forward sooner? She must have seen the news stories about Rayne, known which way the wind was blowing. Bev sighed. It took all sorts and right now she still needed this one on board.

  ‘Would Chloe have confided in her mum, Verity?’

  ‘I don’t know how close they were. Never met her.’ Nor visited the house.

  ‘Was she an only child?’

  She wiped her nose with the back of a hand. ‘I think she had a brother.’

  ‘Older? Younger?’

  ‘No idea. I don’t think she got on with her old man, though. Said he was dead strict.’

  ‘Old man?’

  ‘It’s what she called her stepdad. Mind, I think he was a lot older than her mum.’

  Stepdad? Shit. Why hadn’t she asked before? ‘Is Todd the family name, Verity?’

  ‘It’s the only one I ever heard her use. Why?’

  Because Chloe might have refused to use her stepfather’s name. What if Todd was her mother’s maiden name? Damn. The squad could be digging in the wrong place.

  ‘Mac, can you—’ Frowning, she glanced at the door. It had better be good. ‘Come in.’

  Better than good. Bev’s face momentarily lit up. Dazza was a sight for sore eyes. She should’ve remembered it was his first day back. ‘DC New?’

  ‘Think you need to see this, sarge.’ He handed her a printout.

  Chloe’s suicide had made the local rag. The headline writer hadn’t gone to town.

  Funeral of suicide student

  The snapper had used a long lens. The slightly fuzzy black-and-white pic showed half a dozen black-clad mourners standing round a grave. Bev didn’t need to read the caption to know who three of them were. Showing every one of her years for once, a drawn and haggard Rachel Howard clutched a hankie. Bev couldn’t recall the husband’s name but could see why Chloe called him the old man. Tom Howard stared hollow-eyed at the open grave, a rosebud pressed against his lips.

  Mac nudged her elbow. ‘You know where that is, don’t you, boss?’

  Oh, yes.

  And it wasn’t Green Lodge cemetery.

  Bev looked up at Parsons. ‘Says here it was down to exam pressure?’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe the family didn’t know.’

  52

  ‘I should’ve seen it, boss.’ Mac whacked a palm across the steering wheel. ‘She told me she’d lost a kid.’

  ‘Yeah, and you told me. Twice. Put your foot down, mate. See if we can’t make up for lost time.’

  Traffic was against them but they were en route to the Howards’ place, opposite Kings Heath park. Pembers and Goshi were still at Rayne’s pad waiting to question him – he’d yet to show.

  Bev had brought Powell and Truss up to speed in double-quick time. Unmarked cars had been despatched, plain-clothed officers were already in strategic positions keeping a low-profile eye on the Howards’ house. Bev didn’t know if Daisy’s kidnap was an entire family affair, but she’d swear mother and son were in it together.

  With a bit of luck they’d get a handle on the issue shortly: back at the nick, among a shed-load of other tasks, squad members were feverishly digging into backgrounds. As it stood, the Howards had no reason to believe the cops were onto them. In theory they’d be sitting tight at home, waiting for nightfall.

  That was Bev’s argument, anyway, and she was sticking to it. Mind, in this bloody heat everything was sticky. She opened the window, flapped the front of her dress, trying to circulate some air.

  Mac passed her a bottle of water. ‘Makes you wonder why they called us in the first place, boss. Remember? It was Rachel Howard—’

  ‘Who rang the hotline. Ta, mate. Yeah, I know. And oh-so-helpfully pointed us in Brian Tempest’s direction. And you know what, mate, I reckon she switched the signposts.’

  ‘Away from?’

  ‘Tommy-you-know-how-I-like-it-darling?’ Maybe it wasn’t just G and T the bloody woman had in mind.

  ‘Don’t make sense, boss. We know Tempest attacked Cathy Gates.’

  ‘We don’t know he killed Lucy Rayne, though, do we?’ Tempest had claimed time after time he’d been framed. ‘What if the Howards stitched him up?’

  Mac frowned. ‘You reckon one of them killed her?’

  ‘One or both.’ She took several swigs. ‘They put on a double act in the churchyard, didn’t they? I reckon Rachel knew Stella Rayne had a habit of walking there.’ Assuaging a guilty conscience, maybe? Because her precious son had driven an inconvenient daughter to her death.

  ‘Tom could easily have taken the old lady out then and there, Mac. My feeling’s he put the frighteners on her so Rayne would be in no doubt they were getting closer.’

  ‘Reckon they’ll go after him next?’

  ‘And give him an easy out? I doubt it. What better payback than to kill Daisy and let him live with that?’

  ‘She’s not dead yet, boss.’

  Please God. She nodded. ‘I’d like to know where Rayne is though, Mac.’

  53

  ‘It doesn’t look like they’re in, gaffer. No car. No sign of life.’ Bev talked into her phone as she took another nose through the front window; Mac was having a shufti round the back. They’d hammered the door loud enough to wake the dead.

  ‘We could do with getting in there, Morriss.’

  You don’t say? ‘Did you that hear that, gaffer?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sounds like a fire alarm. I’m thinking someone inside might need a hand?’

  ‘Good thinking, Morriss.’ His voice held a smile. ‘Best do your Fireman Sam act, pronto. And, no, I didn’t hear it.’

  Mac caught her mid eye-roll, slipping the phone in her bag. She gave him the gist.

  ‘Gaffer turning a deaf ear? Fancy that. No worries, boss, there’s no need to break in.’ And break the law. ‘Follow me.’ He beckoned her with a finger. The kitchen window looked a tad on the small side to Bev. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a leg up.’

  She snorted. ‘I don’t think so, mate.’

  ‘Don’t be soft. You’re half my weight.’

  ‘And the rest.’ Cheeky git.

  Getting up was a doddle compared to the descent which – hands first into the sink – couldn’t have been ladylike, though a damn sight quicker. She had the door open in seconds.

  The place had a touch of the Marie Celeste. Empty Heinz baby food jars were drying in the drainer, a couple of pink bibs were slung over a radiator, dirty plates and crumbs still lay on the table.

  ‘Have a scout round down here, mate.’ Bev took the stairs. She gave the bathroom and what looked like a spare room a cursory once over. The next bedroom stopped her in her tracks. Two walls were plastered with posters, magazine articles, CD sleeves all showing Rayne in his boy band heyday. Chloe, once upon a time, had clearly worshipped her father – from afar. Until the fairy tale ended. Bev narrowed her eyes. It looked as if some of the memorabilia had been signed. In a way it had: most images were scrawled with the words Die, bastard, die.

  Chloe’s handiwork?

  Bev found the answer several minutes later in the third bedroom. Tennis gear and trainers li
ttered the carpet, but Tom Howard’s night-time reading lay on the pillow. A suicide note. And exam pressure had nothing to do with her death. Chloe had made contact with Rayne not long after Daisy’s birth. The agony when he rejected her was laid bare and recorded in her own hand. The neat script bore no relation to the scribble in the other room. As Bev read, one line leapt out:

  The pain’s like a knife in my heart. Why can’t he love me as well?

  A knife in the heart like Lucy Rayne? Love me as well … as well as Daisy?

  Had the idea of Nathan Rayne having a new baby he adored twisted the blade further for Chloe? Was that Tom and Rachel’s warped thinking for exacting revenge?

  ‘Boss. Come and have a butcher’s.’

  There was another room yet, but she nipped down to see what was what. Mac had spread a load of documents across a table: marriage licence, birth certificates, divorce papers. She’d started reading when he said, ‘She’s not his mum, sarge.’

  ‘I can see that, mate.’ Tom was one of two children from Greg Howard’s first marriage. He was twelve when his parents split in 1998. Four years later, Rachel, who already had daughter Chloe, became the second Mrs Howard. ‘So Tom and Chloe aren’t blood-related?’

  ‘Meaning he could’ve been in a relationship with her?’

  ‘Christ, Mac, he could be shagging her mother for all I know.’ Talk about family affair.

  ‘Think we’ve got enough to get forensics in?’

  ‘Yeah, but we’d best run it past Powell. Give him a bell while I finish off upstairs.’

  A shaft of light streamed in through the window of the fourth bedroom. A sun, moon and stars mobile suspended from the ceiling swayed gently as she pushed the door wider. Once inside, she gave a low whistle as she took everything in. There was pink everywhere: walls, carpet, curtains, cot. Cot?

  She opened drawers packed with dinky pink clothes, a linen chest full of pristine sheets, clocked the rocking horse in the corner and enough stuffed animals to keep Toys ’r’ Us afloat. Why kit out a complete nursery for a kidnapped baby?

  Daisy was about the only thing missing. In the flesh.