‘You gonna shack up with him properly when he gets out?’
‘As opposed to improperly?’ Frankie strapped Daisy into the pushchair. ‘Nah. Now you and me have kissed and made up, I’d like to come back here.’
Bev sniffed. ‘I’m putting the rent up.’
‘Wouldn’t expect anything less.’
‘You’re more than welcome, Frankie.’ One thing still bugged her. ‘Just don’t go cracking any more hormone jokes with Powell, eh?’
She had to think for a second or two. ‘Oh, that. I saw the tester in the bin. You’d been sick a few times and what with the way you were acting …’ She smiled, tilted her head at the door. ‘Come, see me out?’
‘Got your brolly?’ It had rained stair rods for three solid days. By rights, Bev reckoned the storm should’ve broken the heatwave that night in the graveyard. In a movie a bolt of lightning would’ve sent the angel crashing down, not a fifteen-stone cop who was bloody lucky not to have lost his pension. Turned out the old girl had been a tad unsteady on her plinth and Bev had kept schtum about what she saw.
Push, shove, and all that.
She was under no illusion, though. If Daisy had died that night, both she and Mac would probably be on job seekers’. To be fair, Truss had seen why they’d no option but to go it alone, though Powell still wasn’t too chuffed at what he called the Green Lodge goose chase.
‘Fancy coming round for a bite tonight?’ Frankie offered from under the umbrella.
‘Love to, mate.’ But not with a table waiting at Simpson’s. ‘I said I’d have a night at Ma’s though, now Sadie’s out.’
‘Give the girls my love.’ A few steps down the path, she turned back. ‘Bev? That tester?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘NO.’
‘They’re notoriously unreliable in the early days. Just saying. Ciao.’
Talk about food for effing thought.
Hours later, in her best blue bib and tucker, Bev’s niggles were mostly relegated to the mental backwaters. Creating ripples out front was Oz Khan. Once upon a time he’d been the tastiest guy at Highgate; certainly the best-looking bloke Bev had ever let into her bed. But they shared more history than the Ottoman Empire. Chewing on a scallop, she wondered if she’d find it easier to ignore the elephant-shaped iceberg in the room if Oz had put on twelve stone and lost all his teeth. Sod’s Law but like the food, the guy still looked good enough to eat.
Either way, after ten minutes of playing nice, she’d done with the pussy-footing. She refilled her glass – Dom Perignon, natch. ‘OK, Khan. What’s it all about?’ A limp riposte of ‘Alfie?’ elicited a Morriss lip-curl.
‘Come on, Bev, can’t a guy treat a girl to dinner?’ He threw a lopsided smile in as well, then signalled to the waiter for another bottle. She tried not to widen her eyes: he must’ve been made Police Commissioner or something.
‘Talking of girls.’ Spearing another scallop. ‘Last I heard, you were getting spliced.’
‘Yeah, well.’ They’d broken it off a while back, he told her. Footloose and fiancée free, then?
‘And this is to do with me why?’
‘Just thought when I come back we could …?’
Come back? She’d deal with that curveball in a minute. Had to pause anyway, while multiple waiters cleared the first course. ‘Could what, Khan?’
‘You know …’ Seemed to her his shrug was sheepish. As in flock.
‘Kiss and make up? Wander off into the sunset? Wear matching tank tops? ’Course we can, Oz.’ She tilted her glass. ‘Pushover’s always been my middle name.’
‘Tank tops?’
She flapped a hand. ‘Don’t piss around, and anyway what’s with the coming back bit?’ The waiters made it back first. Great timing. She finger-drummed the table while they served the sea bass main. Even then he needed a prompt. ‘Well?’
‘I’ve got an interview next month for a DI post in Birmingham.’
‘Bully for you.’ Bollocky bollocks. She tucked into the fish, thoughts racing. Oz had been her partner in way more than the professional sense. Powell had long since nabbed the DI post with her name on it. How come she was still a lowly DS? Yeah, OK. Down to her as much as the men in suits. She narrowed her eyes. Didn’t have to be like that though. Look at Jessica Truss. Not that Bev wanted four kids, God forbid, but if Oz Khan could go for promotion why the hell couldn’t she? Nice work if you could get it. And why not give him a run for his money.
‘Penny for them?’
‘Cheapskate. ‘And definitely time for a change of tack. ‘Anyway, how’s your mum?’ She’d not long been widowed apparently and, reading between the lines, Bev reckoned it was another factor in Oz’s prospective homecoming. The Khans – there were four girls as well – had always been close; Oz was big on family.
Like the Howards. Not. She stifled a snort.
‘What’s up?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
He kept topping up her glass while she gave a blow-by-blow account of the case.
‘Sounds as if the mother and son reunion’ll be a long time coming, then. Non-relatively speaking.’
She smiled. So he had been listening. ‘Got it in one, mate. And it’d be a damn sight longer if Rachel really was his mom.’ Incest would’ve been added to the charge sheet – on top of everything else. The pair had been at it like rabbits on Viagra. At least that was Bev’s take on what La Howard had let slip during questioning. Lover boy had been less forthcoming. He’d be in hospital for weeks, maybe months, and in a wheelchair for the foreseeable. The accident had snapped his spine: whatever the courts eventually dished out, Tom Howard had a life sentence of sorts.
‘I bet the Highgate clowns are having a field day, aren’t they?’ Oz shuffled the chair so he could cross his legs.
She’d been watching the action. ‘Sorry?’
‘All those fallen-angel gags?’
‘God, yeah. They keep whistling the Doctor Who tune. And Mac’s new nickname’s Gabriel.’ She didn’t mention hers was gabby, as in gift of.
‘Not Charlie?’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘You know, Charlie’s Angels? Seventies TV show?’
Repeats were required viewing in the Morriss household. ‘Nah, too young, me, mate.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Spoken like a true gent.’
‘Can’t bullshit me, Bev, I know you too well.’
She held his gaze. That he did. Maybe better than she knew herself. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. Like they say something about absence and heart. Was there sufficient fondness left in Bev’s? Enough to ask him back for a … nightcap?
Why not? She sank the rest of the bubbly. ‘I’m stuffed, Oz. Fancy coming back for … coffee?’
‘Sounds good to me.’ He winked. ‘Sort the bill, shall I?’ Hell, yeah.
While Oz was otherwise engaged, a smiling Bev checked her phone. Stiffened. Swallowed hard. Tasted bile.
Hey, Bev, thought you’d like to know … the “patient’s” showing signs of improvement! Looks as if he might finally be coming round!! Good news or what?! Nina x
The text, a couple of hours old, put any plans on hold.
‘OK, Bev?’ He held her coat. ‘Call a cab, shall I?’
‘Really sorry, Oz.’ She felt sick as a pig, wished she could blame the food. ‘Something’s come up.’
‘Unfinished business … as they say?’
It was one way of putting it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Maureen Carter has worked extensively in both print and broadcast journalism. She worked on newspapers and commercial radio before joining BBC TV News and Current Affairs. As well as being a reporter, Maureen co-presented BBC’s flagship News night programme and went on to become the first woman news producer outside London when she edited Midlands Today. She is now a freelance writer and narrator. Her work has been short-listed in the Crime Writers’ Association’s New Writing Competition. Maureen lives in Birmingham and is married with one daughter.
ALS
O BY MAUREEN CARTER
Maureen Carter’s crime series breathes fresh life – and deaths – into detective fiction. Her creation Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss is a young cop with a heart as big as her mouth – and a woman who never fails to shoot from the lip. Bev cares about the underdog and likes putting away the bad guys. As a welcome change from all the curmudgeonly middle-aged male detectives with drink problems and no personal life – you’ll love her. Over the course of seven books, Bev Morriss will make you laugh, make you cry and make you think.
Find out more at www.creativecontentdigital.com or by visiting Maureen Carter’s website: www.maureencarter.co.uk
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