“That’s it. An incident. That’s all he said.”
“Nutter?”
“How should I know? He didn’t give a name. Needs checking out, Bev.”
The smell of bacon grilling wafted in from Emmy’s empire. “Vincie, mate, can’t you send a uniform?”
She heard the sound as he slapped his forehead. “Silly me. Now why didn’t I think of that? Come on, lass, do us a favour.” The uncharacteristic sarcasm continued. “It’ll have escaped your awesome powers of detection so far this morning, but we’ve got a factory fire in West Brom, a fatal in the city centre and Spiderman and Batman doing stand-up on a bridge over the M6.”
A fry-up was out of the question, then. “I’ll be a little while, Vince. Sure there’s no one else?”
“Lass, I’ve got a sick list here longer than the General’s.” She could picture him now: jowls a-quiver, grizzled head shaking, paunch straining at the buttons of his shirt. Big Vince was Yogi Bear on happy pills. “Anyway, Bev, far as the guv’s concerned, you’re already there. If you get my drift.”
The guv. Detective Superintendent Bill Byford. It took a second or two, owing to the mother of all hangovers but yes, the message was clear. Byford had been asking for her and Vince had done the decent thing: covered her back. Good old Vincie. She couldn’t afford to get on the wrong side of the guv. Byford was a member of a dying breed: a man-in-a-suit who had time for Bev. “Cheers, mate. I owe you.”
“It’s on the slate,” Vince said. “And there’s not a lot of room left.”
She did a quick calculation, simultaneously registering the smile in the sergeant’s voice: three-minute shower, forty-five seconds wardrobe, forego what little slap she occasionally bothered with. “Ready in five, Vince.” Shame about the bacon bap.
“Don’t fret about wheels,” Vince said. “I’ve sent madam a carriage.”
*
Detective Constable Ossama Khan was holding open the passenger door when madam emerged from the house, chin-length hair the colour of Guinness still damp from the shower. Seconds later, he spotted Bev’s mum chasing after her clutching a Barbie lunchbox. He couldn’t make out what was said during the handover but Bev’s face was a similar shade of pink by the time she got to the motor. Oz had the nous not to comment.
The flush couldn’t hide the fact that she was seriously hung over. Her eyes might still be the clearest blue this side of an Optrex ad, but the puffiness around them wasn’t doing her any favours. And the charcoal smudges beneath were a giveaway; the delicate skin under her eyes always darkened when she was tired. And emotional. He knew that, like he knew about the tiny rose tattoo on the small of her back, how she cried at soppy films and hated the crumbs when they ate croissants in bed.
“Morning, Sarge. I take it I’m driving?” He caught a whiff of mint on her breath as she brushed past and plonked herself into the passenger seat. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he muttered.
Apart from flared nostrils, he kept his face straight. Oz was well aware she’d been out getting hammered with the girls. Lucky girls. He’d barely seen her apart from work for three weeks; living with her mum was a hell of an effective contraceptive.
They drove in silence for a while. Not surprising. Bev was slumped in the seat, hand pressed against her forehead, eyes closed. Oz gave a wry smile. He understood now why she always wore blue for work. She reckoned it saved time in the mornings if everything you grabbed matched… after a fashion.
Today’s get-up was a bit pick-and-mix. He didn’t think much of the long navy jacket. He knew she thought it was slimming. Personally, he couldn’t see a problem. At five six and nine stone, she was hardly porky. At least she’d teamed the jacket with a skirt, which he watched ride up her thighs as she twisted and turned to reach for the lunchbox she’d slung on to the back seat.
“Breakfast,” she muttered through a mouthful.
Oz raised an eyebrow. The explanation was superfluous, given the smell of bacon and brown sauce. He lowered the window a couple of inches but only succeeded in adding rush-hour exhaust fumes to the odours already circulating round the car’s interior. He sighed, took a left and turned into Butler Street. It was a rat-run off Kings Heath High Street, although it was more like a gentle meander since the recent installation of traffic-calmers. Oz was keeping an eye peeled for the next turning and inadvertently shot over a sleeping policeman.
“Nice one, Oz. As if I’m not in danger of throwing up anyway.”
Given the inroads she was making on the sarnie, the argument didn’t hold a lot of weight, but at least the calorie intake had perked her up a touch.
“Feeling a bit brighter, are we, Sarge?”
“Is that another rhetorical question, officer?” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a half-smile, or was it a smirk? “Is there something amusing, Osama? Do share. Do lighten the load of this dull and dreary Monday morning with one of your merry little jests.”
He tapped an elegant index finger on the steering wheel. “You always do that when you feel guilty about something.”
She turned her body to face him; the skirt rose at least another inch. “Do what?”
“Talk posh. It’s classic Morriss distraction.”
So was the expanse of thigh. She left the hem where it was. “I didn’t realise you’d read psychology, Sigmund.” She knew damn well he hadn’t. He’d taken law, and though he didn’t brag about it, he’d come away with a First. Bev sometimes thought his track was so fast he’d make DI before her. Not that he had it easy at Highgate. Some of the station’s hard men gave him a hard time. The racism was less in-your-face than it used to be but it was still there. Oz ticked all the boxes: Asian, academic and in line for accelerated promotion.
He was also the tastiest bloke in the nick. Think Darcy without the pride and prickliness. “Go on,” she prompted.
“What?”
“Why am I feeling guilty?”
“Search me.”
She shook her head; not a wise move.
“Headache, Sarge?”
That was definitely a smirk. She ignored it. They were in an almost stationary line of traffic trying to get on to the High Street. Three or four youths had congregated near the junction, jostling passers-by, yelling obscenities. They were in uniform but not for school: hoodies, black denims and trainers the size of two-berth boats.
“Look at that,” Bev snarled. “Little sods. What use is an ASBO round here? Give kids like that an anti-social order, they think it’s an award, juvie equivalent of a knighthood.”
Oz saw her glance at the clock. “Don’t go there, Sarge. We haven’t got time.”
She cast a Morriss-glare at one of the youths as they drove past. It garnered a raised finger and a pierced tongue. Her mental note of dark hair, eyeliner and pasty skin was so vague it was barely worth making. And Cable Street was top of the list at the moment.
Oz couldn’t add much to what Vince had said: a punter had called with a tip-off. Said the place was crawling with cameras.
“They’re probably shooting Dalziel and Pascoe,” Bev said. “They do a lot of location stuff round Moseley.”
“Hey,” Oz grinned. “We could be extras.”
Bev ran a hand through her hair Hollywood-style. “Sorry, darlink. I only strip for my art.”
“Your what?” He lifted a hand to ward off attack. “That’s more like it. You looked like death warmed up back there.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I worry about you,” Oz persisted.
“So does my mum. Give it a rest.” She flashed a smile to take the sting from the words. Her relationship with Oz had its downside. She’d probably already opened up too much. Everyone knew her strengths; only Oz was aware of her weaknesses. Some of them.
Like the knock her confidence took during the Lucas inquiry. Two girls, one a teenage prostitute, had been killed. Bev had doggedly pursued the wrong man. Oz knew how badly it had affected her but only Bev knew how close she’d come to a disciplinary. Bev and the
guv.
“Cable Street,” she said. “Doesn’t Bony M live there?”
“Who?”
“Marty Skelton? Bony M?” The blank look revealed a gap in Oz’s musical education. “He’s a one-man scam factory. Surely you’ve come across him? Bow-legged? Sandy hair? Straggly moustache? Christ, Oz, he’s got his own mug at Highgate. The custody sergeants are thinking of charging him B and B.”
“Small bloke? Tattoos? Got a veg stall down the market?”
“Flowers, isn’t it?” She gave a one-shoulder shrug.“Whatever.”
A fine drizzle, barely enough to occupy the wipers, was falling desultorily as they turned into Cable Street. It was trellis territory with a smattering of pebbledash. A few houses had obviously been done up; others looked as if they’d been done over.
“There’s loads of places for sale down here,” Oz said.
Bev knew more about the current Birmingham property market than a chain of estate agents. She was after a place of her own. It didn’t have to be a dream house, just one that didn’t give her nightmares. “Prone to subsidence. Roads in a bad way. And no garaging.”
Oz was only half-listening; he was scanning a near-empty street. “No cameras, either. Reckon it was a duff call?”
A flash car was almost blocking the pavement a few houses down on the right. Bev nodded in its direction. “Let’s take a look.” A BBC logo came into sight as they drew alongside. Either the Beeb had an exclusive or everyone else had left. On the other hand, the anonymous caller may have been tight with the truth.
“It’s hardly crawling, is it?” Oz sounded peeved. “Where is everyone?”
“One way to find out.”
Knocking on number 12’s door wasn’t it. “Best try the back,” Bev said. “Hold on.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Did you hear that honk?”
“Honk?”
“Yeah, look.” She pointed up. “Wild geese.”
He managed half a smile. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
The rear of the property was accessed down a narrow side alley strewn with damp newspapers and dog shit. Mouldy vegetable peel and a rotting chicken carcass spilled from a black bin liner; even the air was rancid. Mean little gardens backed on to a narrow strip of communal land, with lethal-looking iron railings beyond it, bordering council allotments.
Distinguishing which residence was attracting the attention wasn’t difficult. Satellite dishes sprouted from just about every wall but only one back yard had a film crew. And it wasn’t shooting Gardener’s World; the meagre bit of scrubland belonging to number 12 didn’t even boast weeds. Unless you counted the two-legged variety.
“I might have known.” Bev held back, hand on hip. “What’s he up to now?”
Marty Skelton was having his fifteen minutes all right. Bev couldn’t begin to imagine what the interview was about. As far as she knew, Marty only had one area of expertise and it was the sort you didn’t broadcast.
She talked as she walked. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Marty Skelton. As I live and breathe.”
“Button it, sister. We’re recording.” The TV reporter didn’t even turn round, just shot out a hand to underline his message. Bev almost cuffed it.
“You’re not my brother. And you can be halfway through open-heart surgery. I don’t give a monkey’s. You’re this close to getting arrested. Buddy.”
Three heads turned. There was a finger and thumb and no discernible gap in between.
Bev glared at Marty. Was the sneaky little toe-rag going red under all those freckles? “What’s going on, Marty?”
“Inspector Morriss –”
Talk about toadying. Marty Skelton knew her rank as well as she did; she’d booked him enough times. She silenced him with a Morriss-glare. “Don’t call me –”
The reporter laid a smooth hand on her forearm; the nails were too long and not overly clean. She shook it off angrily but the newsman was more tenacious.
“You’re the police?” His voice held pleasure beyond his wildest imagining. Anyone’d think she was offering a blowjob. “Would you mind awfully, Inspector, if I just finish with Mr Skelton? Then perhaps we can just change shot… I’m dead keen on the daffodil angle –”
She’d have probably bopped him at that point but a heartfelt “Fucking hell!” from Oz demanded everyone’s attention. Oz had ventured further into the wasteland. Bev followed, compelled by the expression on his face as much as in his voice.
The sight was so unexpected, so surreal, she almost giggled. For a split second she was sure it was an early April Fool. But this was no joke, however sick. She tried to blank out everything else, concentrate only on what lay before her.
An old woman sprawled on a damp, foul-smelling mattress in a cruel parody of peaceful sleep. Bev put out a steadying hand. It was so still, so quiet she could hear the pulse whoosh in her ears. She concentrated again on the macabre tableau. The woman’s baggy pink knickers were round her twig-like ankles; one of her eyes was partially obscured by a blue beret that had probably been rammed on after the attack. The victim was filthy and scruffy and stank of human waste and booze.
But this was no death by natural causes. What sort of sick bastard rammed flowers down a dead woman’s throat? It was an indignity too far.
Bev clenched her fists, briefly closed her eyes. The daffodils were some sort of sick message; the killer hadn’t used them to choke his victim. The old lady hadn’t died from asphyxiation. There was too much blood for that, far too much. And anyway, the murder weapons were still in place.
2
Bev rose to her feet, brushing mud and bits of unidentified vegetation from her skirt. “You’re in shit so deep, Marty, you could be a turd.”
Marty shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shuffled his feet, gazed at the ground. The reporter broke what was becoming an uneasy silence. “What’s the problem, officer?”
Bev switched her glare to the tall twenty-something newsman. Either he’d had a perm or his hair had curled in the drizzle. It gave him a curiously old-fashioned look, as did the double-breasted suit. It was well-cut and probably expensive but far too big for him, like the air of authority that he assumed went with a loud voice and posh accent. Not that Bev was biased, of course. She just thought he was a dickhead.
“Where shall we start, sonny?” She made the points by ticking her fingers. “Tramping over a murder scene? Contaminating evidence? Obstructing an inquiry? Or perverting the course of justice?”
“That’s ridiculous. We haven’t touched a thing. Mr Skelton says –”
Bev flapped a hand, her glance now on Marty. “What does Mr Skelton say? Exactly?”
Marty was saying precisely nothing. This was rare coming from a man who could flog the fuzz off a bruised peach. While Marty stalled, Bev tried to work out a likely sequence of events. Her hangover was receding slightly but it was still like swimming in cobwebs. An old woman, a bag lady by the look of it, had been brutally murdered. That was non-negotiable. Plus the fact she’d ended up in Marty’s back yard.
“It’s down to you, Marty. You talk here or Highgate. I don’t care where.”
“Can I just grab a quick interview?” The newsman flashed a practised smile as he straightened his tie. “A few words from the police point of view? I’m sure you’ve done this sort of thing before.”
Bev swirled round, eyes flashing. This was taking the piss. “You just don’t get it, do you? A line’s been crossed here, sonny –”
He took a step nearer to Bev. “I’m not your sonny. And I don’t like being patronised.”
Bev installed herself in the middle of his personal space. She dropped her voice but the menace was unmistakeable: a trick she’d picked up from the guv. “A woman’s dead here, sonny.”
She could see flecks of loose skin in his eyebrows and a crumb of something caught between his front teeth. For a split second, she sensed an inner fury and thought he was going to go for her. But then, as quickly, the public face was back in place.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, officer.” He held out a hand. “I’m Richard Peck. BBC.”
Bev folded her arms, tapped a foot. “And you’re here doing what?”
Peck shrugged. “I’m trying to do my job. Surely you see this is a matter of public interest? If the killing’s linked to the other attacks people have a right to know –”
Oh, please. Not the right-to-know line. She glared at the man, enunciated each word slowly, precisely. “They have a right to the facts.”
“Talking of which. What about the flowers? Have daffodils featured in the other attacks?”
That thought hadn’t just crossed Bev’s mind, it was taking up residence. As she and every other cop in the city were aware, over the last month, three old women had been attacked and robbed. Though badly beaten, none had died. In each case, cash and jewellery had been taken. Bev knew a bunch of daffodils had been found at the home of one of the victims. There’d been no reason before now to give it significance. The media had already speculated endlessly about the incidents being linked but it was a possibility the guv didn’t go along with.
Peck went for another winning smile. “Look, if you won’t do an interview will you at least give me a statement? I can stick it in a piece-to-camera.”
“Is it just me or what?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “How often do you need telling? You shouldn’t be here and you certainly can’t use any of this stuff.”
Peck glanced at his watch. “The first piece went out on the eight o’clock. So I’d say you were wrong there. And the woman from Central was pushing the daffodil line a lot harder than me.”
Could it get any worse? Scenes-of-crime were going to have a collective coronary when they eventually arrived. Central TV had been and gone. God knew how many other media people had been milling around. How the hell had the press got here first?
She felt a hand on her elbow. It was Oz, who’d been on the phone to Highgate, rounding up the troops. He’d even located a couple of paracetemol. She slipped them distractedly into her pocket, her thoughts still on the media.
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