Sadie stroked her head, whispered, “I’m fine, Bev. Don’t fret. Everything’ll be OK.”
“Yes, gran, it will,” she breathed. Because I’m gonna fucking kill the bastard.
It took an age to coax Sadie upstairs. And a promise they’d stay with her until she fell asleep. Oz’s offer of a policeman’s lift finally swung it; he carried her as gently as if she were spun sugar. There were no broken bones; the doctor had confirmed that. But a crushed spirit? Sadie looked old and frail. The remaining hair, too short to pin up, looked like a badly fitting bathing cap.
Bev closed the door and perched on the edge of Sadie’s bed. Her mum sat in a chair opposite. The silence didn’t last long. Some victims of violence withdraw, can’t think about it, let alone talk. Sadie could. Bev fought for calm as she listened to the story. She glanced down, wondering why her palms were stinging, noted absently her nails had broken the skin. It was nothing compared to the red rawness round Sadie’s wrists, and it hurt just to look at the bruises on her gran’s face. Sadie was trying to play it down but when she thought no one was looking there was absolute terror in her eyes.
The intruder had appeared out of nowhere. Her gran had been dozing in front of the TV. “I thought I was dreaming, Bev. A masked man in front of me like that.” The rope and gag were real. She’d screamed once before he smacked her in the mouth. Unwittingly, the old woman lifted a hand, stroked the swelling on the side of her face.
“No one’s ever laid so much as a finger on me, Bev. Not once. Not even when I was at school.”
Bev closed her eyes, had to swallow a couple of times. “No one’ll ever hurt you again, gran.” Not if I can help it.
Emmy passed Sadie a tissue. Bev waited while her gran wiped her eyes. “Did he speak at all, gran? Can you remember anything about his voice?”
She put a shaking hand to her forehead. “I’m just trying to think –”
It hurt to see Sadie so confused. The old woman was normally bright as a box of buttons. Emmy wasn’t thinking straight either. “I should never have gone out.”
While Sadie was being attacked, Emmy had been playing the Good Samaritan, ministering to strangers.
Bev shook her head. “Don’t go there, mum. It’s not your fault.” Nor mine. She’d changed her tune on that score. The untold damage here was down to a piece of low-life scum masquerading as a worthless shit.
“Bitch.” Sadie never swore.
Bev widened her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“That’s what he said. When he heard the knocking. He called me a bitch.”
Thank God for neighbours, thought Bev. The husband of the Crime Lovers’ Book Club hostess was pint-sized and hen-pecked, but had a bruiser’s baritone and strict instructions from his wife: Sadie Morriss had left her glasses after the meeting and he was to return them. He’d been hammering away a full five minutes before he finally gave up and shoved the specs through the letterbox. By then the attacker had taken flight.
“He was scared, though,” Sadie said. “I could see it in his eyes. He went as white as this sheet.”
Not scared enough. He’d already used Sadie as a punch bag and hacked off her hair, and before leaving he whacked her in the mouth again. Bev shuddered. She’d speak to the neighbour later. He’d probably saved Sadie’s life. Broken glasses, cracked dentures, the kitchen scissors the bastard had nicked, they could be replaced. Her gran was a one-off.
“I kept thinking he’d come back,” Sadie’s voice quavered. “That was worst of all.”
She’d had three hours of fear while bound, gagged and tied to a chair. Sadie closed her eyes. Bev dreaded to think what was going on behind them.
She stroked the old woman’s hand. “Try and get some sleep, gran. I’m just nipping downstairs to have a word with the guys.” To see if Oz and crime scenes had come up with anything to point them in the right direction. And if the signpost was marked Sophia Carrington, Iris Collins, et al. Coincidences happened. But this close to home? Bev didn’t think so.
Her hand was on the door when the thought struck. She stood stock-still, narrowed her eyes. She must have misheard. “Gran?” She turned round slowly. “The man’s face. You said it went as white as a sheet.”
Sadie nodded. “That’s right.”
Bev fought to keep the fear out of her voice. “So the mask? He’d taken it off, had he, gran?”
Sadie didn’t pick up on it. She even had a stab at a joke. “Yes, dunno why he bothered. He was no oil painting, if you know what I mean.”
Bev walked slowly back to the bed. He’d let Sadie see his face, didn’t care if she could describe him. That meant two things: Sadie was now a prime witness. And she was lucky to be alive.
22
It was mid-morning, Highgate. Byford, perched on the edge of a desk at the front, was taking the briefing. “At least we know what we’re dealing with.” He looked round. “The attack on Sadie Morriss was no coincidence.”
Bev ignored concerned glances from members of the squad, concentrated on harsh reality. SOCOs had found eight daffodils at the back of her mum’s house. They’d been scattered at random, almost certainly dropped by the attacker as he fled. The thug had clearly intended to say it with flowers. Add the floral message to the initial description provided by Sadie, and every officer at the briefing shared the guv’s conclusion: Operation Streetwise had claimed another victim.
“Bastards.” Darren New voiced what everyone was thinking. Targeting a cop’s family was like shoving two fingers up at the police. The attack on Sadie was an act of defiance. Or revenge. Probably both. The arrest of Robert Lewis and Kevin Fraser must have pissed the gang off no end. Another bout of mindless violence was a way of saying up yours. These and other theories had been floating around for the last half-hour. Bev had listened without comment. The why was for later, right now she wanted a who.
She clasped her hands in her lap. She’d had three hours’ sleep and been first in. It was her way of showing it was business as usual. Except it wasn’t. The case had a renewed urgency. And a possible lead. She nodded at the murder board. “We need a name to go with that.”
Heads turned. In the early hours, they’d compiled an artist’s impression of Sadie’s attacker. It stared back now, and hopefully would soon be splashed across a few front pages. Bev shuddered. Helping to elicit details from Sadie had made her blood run cold: late-teens-early-twenties, pasty complexion, facial piercings and dark spiky hair. Déjà vu or what? Tom Marlow had painted an identical picture.
Byford rose, took a closer look. “Someone must know who he is.”
Bev sighed, shook her head. The Shrek boys certainly hadn’t provided any pointers. They were still banged up and buttoned down. Oz had called in first thing from the prison. They’d been asked to look at the latest likeness and, according to Oz, neither had narrowed an eye, let alone opened a mouth. As performing monkeys went, they’d perfected non-speaking roles. Who was the trainer? That was the big question. And how many others were in the act? Six weeks down the line and they still didn’t know for sure the size of the gang.
Bev glanced across at the sound of paper rustling. DI Shields was leafing through sheaves of printouts. “We’ve had that description before.” Her finger paused halfway down a page. “A witness called Tom Marlow phoned in early last week. We need to speak to him again.”
Bev stifled a yawn. “It’s under control. I’m waiting for him to get back to me.” She wanted to check out a couple of things Sadie had mentioned. It might even be worth getting the two of them together, see if it sparked any thoughts.
Shields nodded, said nothing. Bit like the note she’d left on Bev’s desk: Dolly Machin. NFA. No further action. SFA as far as thanks or even an acknowledgement went. She’d saved Shields from a load of grief. Dolly Machin’s diabetes had killed her, not the scum they were after. Talk about ego on face.
Byford indicated the image on the murder board. “Is it possible you’ve seen him before, Bev?”
She shrugged. Ev
ery street, every day. It was uniform for a lot of youths. Appalling thought though it was, the attacker had found out where she lived, probably tailed her back, and DS Morriss, shit-hot detective, had failed to notice. Logic told her he had to be the same figure she’d seen lurking in the shadows the other night: a figure she’d dismissed so casually. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t taken it more seriously.
“There’s no point beating yourself up.” She widened her eyes. How did the guv do that? “You did everything right, given what you had to go on.”
She’d be doing a hell of a lot more now. Sadie had been assigned more minders than a royal crèche. The old woman had been targeted because of who she was. Bev was finding that difficult to deal with.
23
“I need a quote, love.”
You need castration. Bev’s red ballpoint had already scored through several sheets of paper, in the process of eviscerating a pen portrait of Matt Snow. Luckily for the Evening News reporter, he was at the end of a phone.
“No comment.” Her voice was surprisingly calm as she added a rather artistic cluster of weeping pustules round his mouth. Eat your heart out, Tracey Emin.
“Ah, come on, love, it needs a bit of human interest.”
Human interest? Sadie getting smacked around? Bev concentrated on the addition of warts round his genitalia. “It’s still no comment.”
It begged the question, though: who had opened their big mouth? She glanced round, hoping it was no one here. The squad knew the score. A bland media release had been agreed. It carried bald facts: no name, no address, certainly no connection to Bev. Apart from respecting Sadie’s insistence on no publicity, no one at Highgate wanted the finer points broadcast, literally or metaphorically. The idea was to get a steer on the attacker, not lead the media pack to the Morrisses’ front door.
“As I understand it, the latest victim’s related to you. And the assault took place in your mother’s house. Is that right?”
“Which part of ‘no comment’ is difficult for you, Mr Snow?”
He paused, probably revising tactics. “She must be quite a woman, your granny.”
Bev rolled her eyes. The little shit had the bones anyway. He was after the flesh. As for the matey chat approach, it had to be the oldest trick in the journalist’s book. Bev was on a different page and definitely not playing. Didn’t stop Snow, though. Guy must be playing with himself.
“Fighting back like that. An old woman taking on a vicious thug.” The voice was an embossed invitation to comment. It provoked only a deep sigh. Bev knew Snow was making it up as he went along, flying kites. She made a few strokes with the pen; his neck looked good with a noose.
“Bet you’d like to get your hands on him, wouldn’t you, love?”
She snapped. “I’d like to get my hands on the fantasist who’s feeding you this crap.”
“It’s not true, then?”
It was a lose-lose scenario. She cut her losses and broke the connection. The phone rang within seconds.
“Hey, love, I s’pose a piccie’s out of the question?” Snow’s snivelling persistence almost made her relent; she could always furnish him with his own portrait, warts and all. She settled for another grand slam instead.
Boy. Did this guy never give up? She snatched at the receiver. “Back off, Snowie.”
“Nice one, my friend.”
Frankie. Just the voice made Bev smile. “Sorry, mate. I’m really up against it.” What with the poor man’s Paxo and other assorted time-wasters, her list of things-to-do had fewer ticks than a bald sheep.
“Wow!” Frankie enthused. “Lucky you. And they pay you as well?”
The smile broadened. “Only when I’m good.”
“Bev, my friend, you’re so damn good I’m going to whisk you away for a treat. Café Rouge. Half an hour.”
“Babe, I’d love to –”
“That’s a no, isn’t it?”
“Sorry.” There was a shedload to get through. The early media coverage had prompted a stack of calls that needed monitoring and prioritising, same with the material coming back from house-to-house. And she was waiting on Tom Marlow. He could ring any time. “I would if –”
“Say no more. I suppose you’re dumping your old friends now you’re famous.” There was an arch quality to the voice that could span a canal.
Bev laughed. “What are you going on about?” If anyone made it on to I’m a Celebrity it’d be Frankie. The girl had already turned down a load of modelling agencies, though she’d kill for a recording contract. Think Aretha Franklin meets Nina Simone. Only Italian.
With mock awe dripping from every fractured syllable, Frankie added, “Could I possibly make an appointment? Would you have a five-minute window between Trisha and Parkinson?”
“Have you stopped taking the tablets?” The bemusement was genuine. She hadn’t a clue where Frankie was going with this.
“You are so easy to wind up, my friend.” She dropped the banter, adopted business-like. “I clocked you on the telly news. Actually, I’d’ve missed you if I’d blinked.”
“When was that, then?
“They were interviewing some woman outside the nick about that murder in Kings Heath? And there’s my mate Bevvie striding past, looking all serious and important. How come you don’t get to do the exciting stuff?”
Some woman? That was the DI doing her media appeal. “That was Shields, Frankie.”
“The woman I’m gonna send the boys round to sort?”Frankie laughed.
“What did you think of her?” Bev asked.
“The boss lady? Didn’t really notice. Not once I’d spotted my best mate.”
“Bull.” Knowing Frankie, she’d have been glued to the screen with a points card.
“Come on, Frankie,” Bev urged.
The pause had been dramatic. “Never trust a woman with skinny lips and shifty eyes. Guaranteed to be a pain in the arse.” Head. Nail. On. Bev grinned; that was so what she wanted to hear. “Whereas you, darling,” Frankie continued, “looked a million dollars.”
Talk about flannel. Pass the butter. “Thought you only caught a glimpse?”
“Must be your very presence, Bev. Your charisma, your –”
“Hold on a min, Frankie.”
The girl had loosened a thought or two; Bev needed to tie them. One was a shot so long you couldn’t see the end. Or perhaps you could.
Bev had been in frame the other day, caught unwittingly on a wide-angle. It must happen all the time. Had it happened in Cable Street? Was it possible the BBC crew had filmed more than Marty’s ugly mug? Cameras attracted ghouls like moths to a light show. At the very least, the footage could reveal potential witnesses; people who’d been around but hadn’t come forward.
“You’re a genius, Frankie. Have I ever told you I love you?”
“Not unless you want to get arrested.”
The chance of capturing the perp on tape was infinitesimal, Bev knew. Even so, killers were cocky. Some killers were so damn cocky they cried out to be caught.
*
Bev found Oz in the canteen. An empty plate, apart from a few smears of ketchup, suggested a full stomach. Going by the papers spread across the table, he was now digesting more than a policeman’s lunch.
“What you up to?” She perched on the seat opposite, wondering why he’d swept the papers up and turned them face down on the formica.
“Nothing important.” He sounded casual but there was no eye contact. She didn’t pursue it.
“Good. I have. Got something important.” Well, potentially. She’d stopped to make one phone call after the chat with Frankie. It should be set up by now. “If you’ve finished –” her nod took in plate and papers – “we can push off.”
Oz rose, slipped into his jacket. “Where’re we going?”
“I’m taking you to the pictures.”
There was no popcorn and definitely no adverts. Bev and Oz were in an edit suite at the BBC’s new canal-side studios in the city centre. The
Beeb had only just moved into the Mailbox from its old premises at Pebble Mill. And it wasn’t the only occupant. In a previous life the Mailbox had been the Royal Mail’s main sorting office. Now it boasted prestige business names, exclusive bars and restaurants, luxury hotels and posh shops. Not so much upmarket as celestial.
In edit suite six, the ginger ponytail pushing the buttons was an old mate, Steve Rock. The hair, like the flashy earring, was a recent affectation. Bev didn’t care if he was into leopard-print thongs as long as he could still do things with video.
“This what you’re after?” Steve nodded at the left-hand monitor where the news footage from Cable Street was running: Marty Skelton’s impromptu and decidedly unofficial press conference. “Christ. That bloke’s ugly.” Coming from Steve, that was harsh.
“It’s not pretty boy I’m interested in.” She rolled the chair forward, hunched over the control desk. Marty was centre frame, shooting off like it was soapbox corner. Thank God for volume control. The soft hum of technology from a bank of classy-looking kit was just about the only sound in the booth; a full-scale orchestra wouldn’t have distracted Bev as the action moved on. There were exteriors of Marty Towers: yawn; a wobbly-vision pan across the railings at the back: boring; a piece-to-camera from the boy wonder. The end shot was a bunch of daffodils, all moody and soft-focus. It had obviously been planted, but not by Monty Don or any other gardener. Journalistic licence, it was known in the trade.
“Is that it?” Bev slumped in the chair, arms folded.
“What do you want? Tom Cruise?”
She rolled her eyes. It was a good-natured tease but the timing was bad.
“That’s just the rushes, isn’t it?” Oz asked.
Bev stared, not quite open-mouthed. Steve’s features clouded over, his thunder stolen. “Not just a pretty face, are you?” He turned, missing a face even Mrs Khan wouldn’t describe as pretty. Seconds later the editor was inserting a tape into a player.
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