Trembling, she looked round; detected a hint of menace. Whether it was in the damp air or her fevered imagination, she wouldn’t like to guess.
She gazed down, knowing the answers were beneath her feet, a shroud of black plastic giving protection from wet earth and voracious mouths. There was no rush. Oz hadn’t put in an appearance yet.
She lit a cigarette, one of several items she’d bought en route from the General. She inhaled deeply, savouring the forbidden weed, refusing to consider it yet another failure. On her current rap sheet it didn’t register. The nicotine hit made her dizzy, nauseous. She took another deep drag, then another and another. She threw away the butt only after lighting another cigarette from the glowing end. The nausea passed; at least she’d mastered that. She was watching, waiting, making sure he wasn’t around, half-hoping he was.
A boring old fart up at the school.
Only he wasn’t. Bev had made the same sort of mistake as Cyanide Lil. Only worse. Much worse. Lil wasn’t a cop; just a harmless old biddy who’d seen Henry Brand as a ‘real gent’. Bev knew he was a pervert with a taste for S&M. She’d just never seen him as a killer. She’d only ever seen one man as the killer. She’d been backing the wrong horse from the start. The favourite had faded before the finishing post. A rank outsider had come up from behind. Digging out the tapes would confirm what she was sure she already knew.
It had started to make sense in the car on the way over. There was no sudden flash, no specific spark. The complex threads had simply started drawing together; a gentle tug here, a little pull there, and the loose ends had begun to fuse. She didn’t know everything but —
A sudden noise. She twisted her head; recognised it as the thud of a decaying branch falling onto a lush carpet of rotting vegetation. She relaxed again. No, not relaxed: shifted focus, then zoomed in.
Cassie had talked her through the videos. Shell had nicked them from Charlie. They made the tape Ozzie took look tame. Henry Brand in shot throughout and in the shit forever. Shell had threatened Brand that the movies were going on general release unless he wanted exclusive rights. Bev covered her face with her hands. No wonder the poor kid thought her boat had come in; she’d probably seen a whole fleet. All Shell had to do was keep her mouth shut and she’d make a killing. Brand couldn’t afford not to pay. That was the theory.
Bev lifted her head, suddenly alert. The sharp crack had come from the upper branches of an old fir. She listened again. Nothing.
Her cigarette was almost out. She snatched a last drag then flicked the butt into the water. It was so quiet in the park she heard the hiss. She toyed with the idea of lighting a third. No. She’d waited long enough.
She rose, reached for the spade. The price tag was still attached, not that she’d be writing it off on expenses. This wasn’t just part of the job. Anyway, a few quid bore no relation to what she felt she owed the girls and the guv. Her obsession with Hawes had cost everyone dear.
She sighed, felt an unbearable weariness. ’Course, she could call out a plod for the donkey-work, and by rights the boss should be here. Somehow it felt better like this, though. She’d been out on a limb from the start; ending it on another seemed fitting. Okay, she’d called Oz, but that didn’t count. They’d come a long way together. She glanced at her watch.
The earth was still soft after Tuesday’s downpour. Nothing to work up a sweat. She wondered if Shell and Cassie had found it easy or if they’d had to take it in turns. Maybe one kept lookout while the other dug.
About a metre down, Cassie had said. Bev looked into the hole; halfway there then. A worm, gross in its fat whiteness, was struggling on top of the soil, protesting about the intrusion, the light, whatever pissed worms off. She felt like killing it, cutting it, really giving it something to whinge about. Wrong target: she tossed it aside in the next clod.
She was working more carefully now, alert for a glimpse of black plastic. Did plastic still shine after a month’s interment? Better not risk it: she went down on her hands and knees. The earth’s dampness seeped through her tights, on to her skin.
It was there. She could see it. Maybe she should hang fire till Oz got here? Nah. He’d cover her back with the guv. Christ, she’d back-covered big time for Oz. She scraped at the earth with her fingers, revealing more of the sack beneath. Nearly there now. The soil was blacker, more cloying, smelt stronger.
And then it was closer. Too close. Far too close.
She’d seen nothing, heard nothing but now she was face down, head down, a foot hard on her neck. She was winded, fought not to gasp for the breath that had been knocked from her lungs.
How had he known she was there?
With her head down, Brand’s voice was muffled. Her body was making competing noises of its own: blood rushing in her ears, heart pounding against ribcage. She was terrified, fighting a rising panic. She was afraid of the earth; afraid it would fill her mouth, her nostrils, she wouldn’t be able to speak, wouldn’t be able to breathe.
The pain was excruciating. For a second she feared blacking out. Then she remembered what he’d done to Michelle and Louella; tried to do to Jules. There’d been enough victims.
There was very little time. That was all she knew. The park wasn’t much used at this time of year but he wouldn’t hang around. He’d gone to extraordinary lengths to keep them off his back; he wouldn’t take more of a risk than he had to now. Think, girl, think. He could snap her neck like a twig whenever he liked, but she didn’t think he’d go for that. Not his style. So which hand held the knife?
Every nerve was charged, every muscle taut. She sensed a lessening of the pressure on her windpipe. He’d have to crouch to use a knife; was he going for the kill?
Was the pressure easing, or was her neck going numb? Her eyes were accustomed to what little light there was. She’d only have one chance of a pop.
A second? Two? That’s all she had. The fist-sized rock was just within reach. If she could grab it when he lifted his foot, she might just be able to…
His hot rank breath was in her ear. “Don’t even think about it, bitch.”
Oz was running. He had to get to Bev. Boy, had he got news for her. He’d just left Men’s Surgical. It was all in his notes. Desperate Dan, a k a Danny Glover, hadn’t so much grassed on Charlie Hawes as covered him in turf. As a former heavy of Hawes Danny’s words carried weight. Talk about putting a smile on Bev’s face. Oz couldn’t wait. His own face fell when he saw the empty space at the girl’s bedside.
“Hi, Cass. Where’s Sergeant Morriss?”
“Bev?” Cassie lifted her glance from a dog-eared copy of heat. “Dunno.”
Oz turned but something in the girl’s expression gave him pause. “You sure, Cassie?”
She turned a page ostensibly intent on some Hollywood C-list celeb.
Oz tapped a foot. “Come on, love. I need — ”
“Did you mean what you said earlier?” He hadn’t a clue what she was on about. “You said I must have been a looker before…”
“Look, love, I’m in a bit of a hurry—”
“Bugger off, then.”
He shook his head; didn’t like women swearing. God knew why he liked Bev so much. “Tell me where she is and I will.”
“She buggered off an’ all. Soon’s she got — ” She’d shut her mouth but couldn’t hide the look on her face.
“Got what?” Oz asked. What had Bev got? And where had she gone?
“It doesn’t matter.”
So why was Oz’s instinct telling him it did. He looked more closely at the girl. She’d been crying. The whites of her eyes weren’t, and tears had left salt trails on cheeks the colour of damsons. It would be weeks before the bruises faded.
“Okay. Have it your way.” He saluted her and this time made it to the door before turning. “Tell you something, though, Cass.”
She licked a finger turned another page.
“You’re still a looker in my book.”
He closed the door gently behind hi
m. He was halfway down the corridor before she called him back.
The man’s breath was on Bev’s neck. He’d shifted his foot; the pressure she felt now was from a hand. Which one? She desperately tried to recall which he favoured. It would determine the direction of the knife. That he had a blade she had no doubt. She could even describe it: small, sharp, serrated. She saw again the damage it had already inflicted.
She felt his fingers tightening. What was going on in his sick mind? Why hadn’t he stabbed her already? Knifed her in the back? It would be easy. No. Of course. She knew then. He was going to cut her. The way he’d cut Shell; the way he’d cut Louella. He’d go for her throat.
The pressure eased as he grabbed her hair to yank her head back. She jerked forward; the self-inflicted pain was preferable to a blade. Her hair was too short. He couldn’t get a grip. Bev’s reverse jerk was equally quick. Her head whacked into the side of his face. She heard a crack like a twig snapping.
She was on her knees now struggling to get to her feet. She was in agony. Her spine, her neck, her head all hurt like shit. There was dirt in her eyes. They stung like hell. She could hardly see. Had he dropped the knife? She hit out in the direction of his heavy breaths.
“Bitch.”
The hiss helped. She lashed out again. Then kicked. Her boot made contact. The scream could have come from either of them. Bev’s eyes were streaming. She dashed a hand across them, desperate to get some vision back, more desperate that the knife wasn’t heading her way. It took seconds for her to identify the noise. It couldn’t be. “Fuck.”
He was getting away. She caught a soft-focus glimpse of Brand heading for a line of trees, dragging one of his legs. It wasn’t the only thing she saw. The knife lay on the ground at her feet. So did the fist-sized rock she’d envisaged smashing into his skull. She’d never catch him. She could barely stand let alone give chase. She had no choice. She made a grab, aimed and threw. Then the pain, the dizziness overwhelmed her. The earth rushed towards her as she fell to the ground.
Oz was in the car spitting feathers. What the hell was she playing at? He’d been gagging to share Dan’s dirt with her, but oh no. According to Cassie, Bev would be in the park by now digging up videos crucial to the Lucas inquiry. He glanced at the dashboard clock. An hour she’d been gone. On her own. Without so much as a whisper. Teamwork, or what? He had a damn good mind to call it in.
He started the motor, still undecided whether to go to the park or back to the nick. Why had she left him out of the loop? It was out of character: those parts of her character he thought he knew. He had time for Bev, recognised her strengths, tolerated the odd fault. Morriss-the-Mouth some of the blokes called her. But Oz reckoned the smart-lip stuff was mostly a front, a distraction. She felt things deeply did Bev. He’d picked up on that straight away. He’d also recognised a sliver of ice inside a core of steel. She was her own woman; refused to be one of the lads; ploughed her own furrow.
He snorted. How apt. He could see her now digging away with her little spade. Of course, she’d covered her back: left a message on his mobile. For God’s sake, he was only down the corridor. She’d known precisely where he was.
He tapped an angry beat on the steering wheel, then the image shifted. Bev was still digging, head down, leant forward. Back not covered.
“Oh shit.”
He put his foot to the floor, told himself not to be stupid. Repeated it half a dozen times on the way. The killer wouldn’t be there. There was no reason for the killer to be there. He told himself that as well. By the time he arrived he almost believed it.
There were two bodies. Bev was on her side near the pond. A man was lying face down over by the trees. Oz was so out of depth, he felt he was drowning. He knew the procedures. There were systems in place. Call it in. Cordon it off. Don’t contaminate the scene. The books didn’t say anything about Bev being down. He ran through wet grass, sticky mud, stumbled, almost fell.
She was on her right side. Her face, hands, clothes were filthy. There were holes in her tights; one shoe had come off. She was very still. He lifted her hair to feel for a pulse, saw the livid bruising and blood on her neck.
“Bastard.” His voice was a whisper.
“Get your fucking hand off. It hurts.” So was hers.
“Bev.” He swallowed; couldn’t speak.
She tried to sit but waves of pain forced her back. She put a hand to her head. It hurt to open her eyes. “Bastard got away.” Her voice was a rasp. It hurt to talk. It hurt to open her mouth.
Oz’s was open in shock.
“Brand. He’s the killer.” She lifted a hand to her throat. “Call it in. Get an APB out.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What?”
“There’s a bod — ”
“What?”
“By the — ”
“Help me up. Now.”
“I’m calling an ambulance first. I’m not sure you should be moving at all.”
She was struggling to sit. She’d just spotted Brand, recalled what happened in the seconds before she’d lost consciousness.
“Sarge?” Oz laid a hand on her arm. She shook it off.
“Is he dead?”
“I’ve not — ”
“For Christ’s sake. Check it. Now.”
The waiting lasted a lifetime. If Brand was dead, she wasn’t sure how she’d live with that. He was a murderer, but if she’d killed him – what did that make her? Tentatively she tried standing. There were bumps and bruises. Nothing broken. She felt sick. It would pass. Oz was walking towards her. She examined his face, searching for clues.
She could wait no longer. “Is he dead?”
Oz shook his head. “No.”
She closed her eyes, mouthed her gratitude.
Oz was in front of her, regarding her closely. His face creased in concern. “He’s not dead. But, Bev. It’s not Brand.”
She felt the colour drain from her face. She didn’t believe it; forced herself to approach, to see for herself. Oz had applied cuffs and placed him in the recovery position. The face was partially obscured. The long dark hair had come adrift. The unwittingly comic effect of the wig was underlined by the swelling on the back of the head. It put Bev in mind of a shiny pink egg. She imagined the rock would be around somewhere.
She knelt. Maybe she needed a closer look; maybe she needed to confirm the snot rag was still alive.
He was. He shook hair out of his eyes and spat in her face. Charlie Hawes was a looker. Steve Bell bore little resemblance.
36
The soup was grey, greasy, gross. Of the day it said on the board. It didn’t specify which day. Not this one, Bev thought. This had been the longest day she could recall. It was ending in the canteen at Highgate because she was too depressed to face an empty house, too scared to be alone with her thoughts, too wired to switch off. Oz was opposite, forking an omelette round his plate. Bev’s throat wasn’t up to anything more solid than the consommé; her appetite wasn’t even up for that.
“Come on, Sarge. You’ve not tasted it.” He handed her a spoon.
Her smile was shaky, matched by the fingers she was trying to close round it. She slammed it down, watched crumbs jiggle on the plastic cloth. She was pissed off. Not with the cutlery. She leaned her elbows on the table, rested her head in her hands.
She shouldn’t be there by rights. She knew that. They’d wanted to keep her in the General overnight but she’d walked, desperate to be in on the preliminary interviews with Bell. Byford – a seething Byford – had refused. She couldn’t get it out of her head.
He had thrown not so much the book as the library. He hadn’t raised his voice; hadn’t had to. The thunderous look on his face was enough. She’d shown scant – make that no – regard for procedure. She’d kept colleagues in the dark and could have got herself killed. She’d endangered DC Khan, and potentially damaged the force.
Part of her had silently rebelled; the tirade was unfair. Bell was in a cell for Christ’
s sake. Then she recalled not only her time-wasting obsession with Hawes but her utter conviction that Brand was the killer. That led to a flashback in the park: caught between a rock and – for hard place, read knife. She’d come so close to the knife. It was a place she didn’t want to go.
Sure that Byford was going to kick her off the squad – perhaps all the way back to uniform – she’d kept quiet, glad when the storm eventually blew itself out and he’d told her to get out of his sight.
That was then. This was now. And Oz had recently emerged from one of the later interviews. They were by a radiator and she had a Blues scarf round her neck. She still had the shakes. She leaned forward, hands clamped in armpits.
“Talk me through it, then.”
He took a bite; couldn’t speak through rubbery egg. She knew his game: playing for time. She sighed. He actually felt sorry for her. She’d got it so wrong she could go on Mastermind. Name: Beverley Morriss. Specialist subject: cocking it up.
“Come on, Oz. I’m a big girl now.”
He laid his fork on the plate, took a sip of water. “Look, Sarge, anyone could’ve — ”
“Cut the crap, Oz. Anyone didn’t. Just me. It was me who made the mistakes. Jumped – no, make that leapt – to conclusions.”
She looked round, met the curious glances of a couple of plods three tables away. She gave a less than regal wave but at least used all her hand.
“You hadn’t seen the tapes,” Oz said. “You only had what Cassie gave you.”
Cassie had confirmed the boring old fart’s identity but knew nothing about Henry Brand’s co-star. Bev blamed herself. She should have pushed the girl harder; got a description, age, anything. No. She’d hared off to retrieve the videos – ignoring the bigger picture.
Unlike Oz. He, she’d since learned, had gently drawn out Charlie’s erstwhile minder Danny Glover. The man had coughed enough to put the pimp behind bars till he picked up his pension. Charlie was already in custody getting a taste for porridge. Living off immoral earnings was the least of his worries. Not when there was porn, blackmail, extortion, abduction, kidnap and attempted murder.
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