‘I’m surprised it’s taken them this long, sir.’ Hacks no longer fed on tip-offs from little birdies with big mouths. News broke on social media these days and went global at the drop of a trilby. Progress? Bev wasn’t convinced. Far as she was concerned, bring back pigeon post, all is forgiven. She pictured all the wannabe Dimblebys and Fiona Bruce manqués feverishly tweeting hot scoops and desperately hoping to set the Twitter-sphere alight. Not that she was jaundiced. No sir, not one jot.
‘Any time’s too soon if you ask me.’ Patel shook his head. ‘When Pitt gets wind, I reckon he’ll be out on that balcony like a shot. And he won’t be spouting Shakespeare.’
No, Bev thought. He’d be playing to the gallery, acting the big I Am. Reality TV and rolling news sure had a lot to answer for.
‘Any chance of a statement?’ The shrill yell had come from a blonde hack waving her arm in the air. Bev and Patel locked glances then rolled eyes in sync. Let’s think. Snowball. Hell. Chances of. Survival? Versus the reporter’s peremptory request being granted? Snowball just about had the edge, Bev reckoned. The bling bangles round Blondie’s wrist glinted in the sunlight and jangled with her every gesticulation. All she needed was a few bells tied to her ankles and she could do a turn Morris dancing.
‘Keep it down, will you?’ Patel urged. ‘And stay back. All of you.’ He snapped orders to a couple of the nearest uniforms who strode scrum-wards.
‘It’s all right for you,’ Blondie whined. ‘Some of us have got deadlines to meet.’
What a piece of work. Talk about crass. ‘Will you kill her, or shall I?’ Bev’s lips barely moved but Patel heard loud and clear.
‘Tempting prospect, detective. We could plead justifiable homicide.’
‘Probably get a medal.’ They got awed gasps from the crowd instead – not that they were aimed at the cops’ banter.
‘Want a few words do you, love?’ A voice shouted.
Bev and Patel whipped their heads round to see what everyone had already spotted and most people were pointing to.
Pitt stood legs spread, arms folded across a tight Motörhead T-shirt. The idiot wasn’t on terra firma but atop the balcony’s rusting railing.
‘No worries, darlin’. I’ll give you a statement.’ A wide almost toothless grin spread slowly across his pasty face as he slowly lifted both arms over his shaved head. ‘How’s this for starters?’
Bev watched open-mouthed as he bent at the knees and leaned forward. Either he intended letting rip with a fart or diving off like a downmarket Tom Daley. Maybe it was the distraction of the rubberneckers’ renewed gasps, maybe he had second thoughts about the nosedive. Either way, when Pitt lifted his head, he overbalanced, lost his footing, arms flailing like a windmill in a force ten. She’d often heard witnesses describe scary incidents as seeming to unfold in slow-mo. Had no doubt now it was a load of bollocks.
Ray Pitt hit the ground with an almighty splat pretty much instantaneously. Except there was nothing pretty about it. The image of splayed limbs with bone sticking out would linger long in the memory bank. Bev felt tears prick her eyes.
The crowd had sure had its floor show, but as for the sound effects? She shuddered.
What a sick waste of a sad life.
Literally speaking Ray Pitt might not have made a splash, but with the media seeing – not just scenting – blood, his undoubtedly spectacular death would surely create a few waves.
5
Create waves? The fall-out from Pitt’s death quickly assumed tsunami-like proportions. It was coming up to seven in the evening now and Bev was at her desk at Highgate nick doing her share of paperwork on the incident. Social media had been saturated with it for hours; #pittstop had trended for a time on Twitter. The story was all over news websites and still second lead on national TV and radio bulletins. Hardly surprising, given how many hacks had been on site watching and capturing the live action. And dead, come to think of it. Had everything, didn’t it? High drama, human interest, lots of eyewitnesses, and the all-important moving pics.
Bev had yet to see footage that showed Pitt’s head actually smacking into the ground, but doubtless it’d be getting an airing somewhere on the net. As for press coverage, she’d bet a fair few rainforest trees would bite the dust before the story died a death.
It felt a tad tropical in here too, despite the open window and full-on fan. She gave a furtive glance round – God knows why – and undid a couple of buttons on her shirt so she could send a cooling draught down her cleavage. She wondered how Patel had been coping with the heat. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been batting away mic-thrusting reporters all keen to get to the grieving widow.
Sandra and the kids hadn’t been harmed physically, though watching Ray’s nosedive couldn’t have done much for their emotional wellbeing, let alone the bird’s-eye view of his crash-landing. Once Bev had liaised with social services and asked them to sort emergency accommodation for a few days, she’d left Patel to it. The death was accidental, so the case was more Uniform’s baby than CID’s.
Jimmy Patel, poor sod, would be drowning in paperwork for weeks.
‘Knock, knock.’
She glanced up from the screen. No one had actually tapped the door, but she’d know that deep disembodied Derbyshire accent anywhere.
‘Who’s there?’
‘P’lice.’
She twitched a lip. ‘Police who?’
‘P’lice. Quick. Let me in.’
She strolled to the door and opened it a fraction. ‘This had better be good, Ty–’
‘Shift out the way, boss.’
She did as bid, watched him scuttle to her desk ferrying a Starbucks’ cup in each hand and clutching brown paper bags under both elbows. As per, Tyler’s baggy blue jeans sagged under his bum and he could’ve borrowed the shirt from Michael-I’m-A-Lumberjack-Palin. He offloaded the goods, then turned and grinned like he was expecting a round of applause.
Bev stood, face straight, arms folded. ‘Changed nationality, have we, Tyler?’
The Mr Bean expression didn’t last long. ‘I’ve not turned Greek and they’re not gifts.’
Give the man his due, he wasn’t slow on the uptake. Sniffing, Bev strolled back to her desk and eyed the offerings. Definitely coffee and could she smell choccie? Her sidekick knew about her serious addiction to brownies. ‘Bribing the boss now, is it?’
He was about to take a sip but the cup stopped just short of his mouth. ‘Why’d I need to bribe you?’
‘Let’s think, take a sheet of A4.’ She ditched the pensive pout pretty quick when he told her she could start by putting her hand in her pocket.
‘You cheeky sod, Tyler.’
He nodded at the spread. ‘That lot cost me eight quid.’
‘So what, big boy? I didn’t ask –’
‘Listen up a min, eh?’ He waited until she met his gaze. ‘You need to take more care of yourself, Bev.’ Bev? Serious, then. ‘You’ve not eaten all day and you can’t afford to lose any more weight. Quite frankly you look well rough.’ He flopped into the chair opposite, taking his own considerable weight off his desert boots. ‘Nice bra by the way. Blue. Goes with the eyes.’
Cringe, shit cringe. ‘Well spotted, mate. You should be a detective.’ Acting ultra-casual, she fixed Mac with an insouciant gaze and took her time fastening the buttons. ‘I still didn’t ask you to get me anything.’
‘Fair enough. That lot’s on me but,’ jabbing a podgy finger in her airspace, ‘you still owe me a tenner from last Friday.’
She gave a simpering smile before snatching the nearest bag. Yep, chocolate brownie, oozing gooey yum. Heaven, or what? Through a mouth full of masticated cake, she mangled a question about whether it had been worth Mac staying on at Small Heath.
‘Come again?’ He looked as if she’d switched to spouting Urdu.
She had to chew a few more times before risking a swallow. ‘Small Heath? Did you get anything?’ Mac had suggested he have a nose round, told her he’d make his own w
ay back.
‘Ish.’ He chucked her a tissue, pointed to her mouth. ‘I spoke to a couple of neighbours.’
‘And?’ She did the needful.
‘One of them reckons Pitt had been flashing the cash recently.’
‘How’d that work?’ Ray Pitt certainly hadn’t. Not a stroke. Never done a day’s, Patel reckoned.
Mac shrugged. ‘Norman, the bloke next door, thinks he might have had a run of luck on the gee-gees.’ Apparently Pitt liked a flutter to the extent the bookies saw more child benefit than the little uns. A few months back, according to Norm the Nose, Pitt had started splashing out: new Xboxes for the kids, the latest smart-phones for him and Sandra; even hired a car for a few days, supposedly as a treat for the family.
Bev tapped a finger against her lips. ‘Did you check it out?’
‘Not yet.’ He would, though. He might nurture the shambolic-chic look but, as Bev well knew, he was a sight better organized than most of the squad. His diligence gene made a dog with a bone look dilatory. Underestimating Mac, as bad guys often discovered, came at a cost.
‘If he was so flush,’ Bev mused, ‘why play silly buggers on top of a balcony?’ Even if Pitt hadn’t intended topping himself, he’d sure risked the good of his health with the Tom Daley tribute act.
‘Maybe the cash ran out?’ Mac offered.
‘Well his luck certainly did.’ And the brownies. After polishing off a few crumbs lurking in the bag, she screwed the paper into a ball and lobbed it in the bin.
‘Still, you know what they say, boss?’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Money can’t buy happiness.’
‘You’re dead right there.’ She nodded sagely, lips pursed. ‘Come to think of it, best I hang on to that tenner. It’d be doing you a favour, mate.’
The bathroom mirror that night didn’t do Bev many favours. Never mind Mac’s smooth-talking, she reckoned her face had looked less rough after a forty-eight-hour bender. Clinging to the edge of the sink, she leaned in for a close-up. Yep. Morticia Addams after a session with a visually challenged make-up artist. She curled a lip. Not your best line, darlin’. Not even true. Pale and mysterious then? Nah. Weary, wan and washed out. As for the midnight blue eyes everyone told her were striking, they too seemed to have lost their clout.
Mind, she had just thrown up and that didn’t help in the glam department. She cut a glance down the pan, flushed the loo a third time, then sprayed round a few liberal squirts of Nina Ricci. Best friend, house mate and perfume buyer Frankie Perlagio wouldn’t mind. Perlagio was a nosy sod, but even her olfactory powers didn’t stretch all the way from The Hare and Hounds, where she had a gig.
Bev brushed her fingers through a fringe the colour of Guinness, then ran the cold tap, cupped her hands under the flow, and rinsed her mouth again.
Fact was, even if she’d not pigged out on brownies then polished off a bunch of cold shepherd’s pie, she might have puked. This sickness thing was nowhere near as bad as last time. Mind, she’d been scoffing ginger biscuits like there was no tomorrow. With a bit of luck she’d soon be blooming.
Frankie’s nagging had persuaded Bev to buy another pregnancy test. By chance she’d picked one that indicated a positive result with two thin blue lines. B and B: Bev and Byford. Even as she’d shed scalding tears, and battled a myriad thoughts and mixed emotions, she’d had to smile at the irony. As to how Richard, the big man’s son, would greet the news – not to mention her mum, her bosses and her work mates – she hadn’t a clue, and for the moment didn’t care. She’d not had long to work on her own reaction. She finally decided on the Ostrich with its head in the Gobi approach. No sense stressing.
‘Bed time, Beverley, come on.’ She blew the mirror a kiss, tugged the light pull and, still musing, padded barefoot down the landing. She knew better than most there were no guarantees in life. Eight years ago, she’d lost unborn twins when a mad woman on a case she was working plunged a blade into her belly. Oz Khan – her partner off and on the job – was the father and she’d not even told him she was pregnant. Back then she’d been ambivalent about having kids. Now it was a no-brainer: she desperately wanted Byford’s.
Lying back in bed, Bev’s fingers strayed automatically to the scar. She promised herself that this time there’d be no stepping into the line of fire, metaphorical or otherwise. For as long as possible, she’d keep mum at work and second time round, God willing, she’d keep the baby too.
Yawning, she turned on her side, snuggled under her Star Wars duvet. ‘No worries, kid.’
Just the odd twinge of complete and utter panic.
6
A man’s soft low voice in the woman’s ear roused her from a deep sleep. She couldn’t make out the words, but the voice sounded warm, friendly, reassuring … except she’d never heard it before...
Mother of God.
... a strange man was in her bedroom. Disoriented, alarmed, panic rising, she snapped open her eyes. Pitch black. And, oh God, she felt the weight of something pressing on her face. Frozen with fear, heart pounding, she could barely catch her breath. Knew she had to try and calm down, force herself to think.
A night terror? It wouldn’t be the first. She’d suffered the sleep disorder off and on for years: semi-conscious but unable to move a muscle let alone speak, sensations of overwhelming dread, diabolical hallucinations, convinced death was imminent. It was the only rational explan–
‘Did you not hear me, lady?’
She gasped. The terror was as real as the voice, louder now, and the disgusting waft of warm breath laced with garlic and alcohol. She’d not imagined the pressure on her face either; though not hard, she felt it increase a little. As far as she could tell, it was a pillow; the fabric felt soft and smelled of fabric conditioner. Eyes squeezed tightly, the woman started praying beneath her breath.
‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy –‘
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mrs Cash. Or don’t you believe me?’
He knew her name. How? She’d no idea who he was. He sounded young, though, much younger than her. She whimpered. If only she could make eye contact, talk to him, maybe forge some sort of rapport. Surely he’d be less likely to harm her if she could force him to see her as a real person. Hostages did it with their captors; kidnap victims, too, she’d seen it on the news. Focus for God’s sake, Hilary. Focus.
‘Like I told you, lady,’ – she felt a draught of cooler air – ‘I won’t hurt you. Trust me.’
Why didn’t he release her, then? What on earth did he want from her?
‘I’ll tell you how we’re going to play this, shall I?’ The pressure slackened just enough for her to nod. ‘Okay. I take the pillow away. You do what I say. I leave you in peace. Got it?’
She nodded once more. Thanked God.
‘I hope so, Mrs C. ’Cause I can’t make it any simpler.’
7
‘I can’t see your problem, Morriss.’
Bev could see Mike Powell’s: leaning at full tilt in the black leather chair, hands crossed on head, ankles similarly arrayed on desktop, the DI’s laid-back pose verged on the horizontal. By her reckoning, if the castors took a sudden turn for the worse, he’d flat-line in a heartbeat. Yep. Dead right. Startled by a backfiring motor in the car park, Powell’s subsequent jerk had led to a loss of precarious balance. Bev had caught the flash of shiny sock, same shade grey as the silk tie, go flying in the air.
‘Shit.’ Powell spluttered.
‘Whoopsie,’ she murmured. The pratfall came as no great surprise: the blond’s locomotion had never been as well co-ordinated as his wardrobe. Not that Bev had much room for sartorial swagger. Virtually every item of clothing she owned was a shade of blue. She’d chosen the colour early on in her career and stuck to it. The limited range cut dithering time in the morning.
As Powell hauled himself up, she clocked him give his rear end a covert rub before retaking his seat, ostensibly cool as a cucumber on ice.
‘Hurt anywhere?’ Must have a pain in the bum. Mind, it could’ve been eye-watering if the steaming mug of coffee had gone overboard as well. Apart from the health risk, a drenching would’ve damaged what looked to her like a brand-new suit: charcoal grey, razor-sharp creases down the pants, Armani most like.
Powell patted his still immaculate coiffure. ‘I’ll live.’
‘Try a dab of witch hazel. My mum swears by it for bruises.’
‘Thanks, nurse.’ He simpered. ‘Offering a dab hand, are we?’
In your dreams, babe. ‘Anyway. Much as I’d like to stand here yacking.’ She’d already made it halfway to the door.
‘Hey, you. We’re not finished yet.’ He stalled her exit.
Damn … She’d hoped Powell’s fall from grace would have derailed his train of thought. Not difficult, usually. Wrong kind of leaves on the mental line, low sun in the eyes, scattering of snow. You get the drift?
‘As I was saying …’ – beckoning her back – ‘I can’t see your problem.’
She shrugged. From what he’d told her, a woman had been found dead in Kings Heath. Uniform were out there, thought the cause might be dodgy. Wanted input from CID. Which was all well and good, natch. Though not, she ceded hastily, from the stiff’s point of view. But the fact was, even before the early brief when Powell had been dishing out tasks like playing cards, Bev had a bunch of stuff on today. And the DI knew that.
‘Can you not get someone else to –?’
‘I could,’ Powell said. ‘But you’re going. Get over it. Besides, you have a fan out there.’ A sip of scalding coffee made him wince. Good.
‘I have?’
‘Stacey Hardy? Constable.’
She frowned, trying to fit the name to a face. ‘Big girl? Gobby?’
‘Tell her you said that, shall I?’
Could I care less? Holding his gaze, she tapped a non-existent watch on her outstretched wrist. ‘Gosh, look at the time.’
Death Wish Page 3