‘Yeah, yeah. Stacey says the woman’s daughter is in bits. Thinks a touch of the famous Morriss empathy would work magic.’
‘She’d be better off with a wand.’ Bev sniffed. Or a tube of superglue. And what was with the Stacey? Since when had a lowly woodentop’s opinion counted for anything? Especially a woman’s, and especially in Powell’s eyes. Which, Bev noted, were looking decidedly shifty.
‘Come on, Morriss, it won’t take more than an hour or so. ’Specially if you have Tyler in tow. Plus,’ – he tapped the side of his nose – ‘it be a case of birds three, stone one.’
Football result? She spread empty palms. ‘Help me out here.’
He shook his head like she was the one being clear as mud under wraps. Stacey had approached him a couple of times recently, he told her, asking about the chances of getting into CID.
Stacey again. How jolly pally. ‘And this is to do with me because?
‘Christ, Morriss, are you being deliberately obtuse? I need a steer. Can she think on her feet? Is she likely to fit in? You know what I’m after.’
Hot diggity dog. Eyes mentally narrowed, she stretched the word ‘right’ into two syllables. Saw it now. She’d bet a pound to a halfpenny Powell was sniffing round Hardy.
‘And no,’ – he raised a knowing eyebrow – ‘I don’t fancy her, Morriss.’
Well, well, wonders will never cease. Even Powell could show a flash of acuity now and then. She gave a resigned sigh. No point arguing the toss. He clearly wanted Bev to show her face at the scene.
She turned at the door. ‘You said, “three”.’
‘Three?’ Blank look. Empty head.
‘Three birds, one –’
‘Oh, yeah. The daughter told Stacey you met her mother a while back.’ I did? ‘The husband had some sort of accident and you dealt with it, quote, professionally and sensitively.’
‘Nothing new there, then.’ She winked.
‘Nobody likes a smart arse.’
‘What’s the mother’s name again?’
‘Don’t you ever listen, Morriss?’ Tutting, he shuffled a few papers round his desk.
She tilted her head towards the floor. ‘That it?’ Tapping a foot she waited while he retrieved a note from just under the desk then watched him struggle to decipher his own scrawl.
‘Cash.’ Pleased as punch, he cut her a glance. ‘Hilary Cash. Addison Road.’
‘Number twelve.’ She murmured. It was coming back to her now.
8
The redbrick Edwardian villa’s kitchen had the same rustic lived-in look that Bev recalled from her previous visit. Once again it put her in mind of a favourite pair of elderly shoes: slightly scuffed and squashy-heeled but comfy and well-loved. Thankfully the smell was a lot less whiffy. Think beeswax and basil with a hint of mint. The large high-ceilinged room was cluttered with personal stuff: photos, postcards, knick-knacks; pens, Post-It notes, paperbacks were propped or lay on just about every surface.
Bev sat on a bench at an old farmhouse table, taking it all in while she waited again for the young woman sitting close by to regain her composure. Sally Cash needed a little time.
In the space of a few months, she’d gone from being the only child of doting parents to a bewildered if not shell-shocked orphan.
‘I still can’t believe it, let alone comprehend it. I keep asking, why? Why didn’t she call? Why not talk to me?’ Her red-rimmed light blue eyes scrutinized Bev’s as if the answers were hidden there. Bev had none to give, doubted there were any to find, though Mac was taking a shufti on the off-chance.
What facts Bev did know she’d learned mostly from the horse’s mouth. Sally told her she’d stayed at a friend’s overnight, then popped home to pick up her mum for a lunch date, discovered her body lying on the bathroom floor. The doc who’d pronounced death had been leaving just as Bev arrived. The cause apparently looked straightforward but, as with any sudden exit, there would need to be a post mortem.
‘I just can’t believe she’d do something like that.’ Sally snatched another tissue from the box and blew her nose. ‘Why, sergeant? Why would she?’
Shit happens, love is what Bev wanted to say, made do instead with a hopefully simpatico: ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you there, Miss Cash.’ She rarely dispensed platitudes, and wouldn’t dream of dishing any out now. As Bev recalled from her meeting with Hilary Cash, the woman hadn’t gone in for minced words and Sally struck Bev as a chip off the maternal block. She doubted her daughter would take kindly to faked sorrow or forced sympathy. Bev sensed a steely strength beneath the young woman’s currently wobbly emotions.
Tears had washed away all but a smudge or two of her make-up, but the fine bones, near-flawless skin and glossy blonde ponytail made Bev think beautician rather than the librarian she knew Sally to be. Sitting straight-backed and cross-legged on a Carver chair, the young woman dropped her gaze to stare at her hands, neatly plaited in her lap. Her ivory linen shift dress was a tad creased but showed off a light tan and flattered her slender frame.
‘The thing is, Miss Cash, we may never know.’
That was the God-awful truth when someone topped themselves. Their legacy, as Bev saw it, was a bunch of endless, futile, what-ifs and if-onlys.
‘Maybe it was accidental?’ Eyes brimming, Sally lifted her head, hope in her voice. Had she even been listening? There was a sudden clatter of crockery breaking.
‘Shit.’ The expletive came from Stacey Hardy who’d dropped a cup in the sink. She raised a palm. ‘Sorry. I’ll replace it.’
Bev welcomed the rescue from Sally’s wildly optimistic but dumb question. The respite didn’t last long.
‘Well, could it? What do you think?’ Sally asked hopefully.
Bev thought the odds of Hilary Cash’s death being anything other than deliberate were shorter than Elvis finding Lord Lucan shacked up with the Loch Ness monster.
She took a deep breath. ‘The note seems clear enough, Miss Cash.’ Alongside the empty blister packs found in the bedroom. The paracetamol alone would almost certainly have proved lethal; combined with the ibuprofen and codeine, the cocktail was already deadly and then some. Mrs Cash had not gone in for half measures.
‘I’m sorry but it just doesn’t make sense.’ A toss of her head sent the ponytail flying. ‘Mum had everything to live for.’
Did she? Bev let the silence hang a while to let Sally think it through. Hardy observed proceedings from a low-profile stance leaning against the fridge.
‘What about your dad dying?’ Bev suggested gently. ‘I know it came as a blow –’
‘No, no.’ She lifted slender arms to tighten the top knot. ‘I could tell she was getting over it. Mum saw it in some ways as a blessing, given the extent of his injuries.’
Bev, as investigating officer, had viewed the photos and knew it wasn’t a pleasant sight. Thomas Cash had fallen from the top of a ladder while clearing mud and gunge from roof guttering at the back of the property. Sally had gone trotting into the garden to tell her dad dinner was on the table and found him spread-eagled on the patio. The bones, even the skull fracture, would have mended in time, according to the A&E registrar, but the resulting brain damage was catastrophic and irreversible. He died from it that night.
Detectives had only been called in because Mrs Cash started slinging accusations around about the bloke next door. She reckoned he’d played a part in her husband’s death because of a long-running dispute between the two men. Given that when Mr Cash fell the neighbour had been cheering from the stands at a Blues v Chelsea game – and was even caught on camera – the suspicions proved groundless.
As Bev well knew and sometimes unfortunately let slip, shit – like accidents – happened.
‘We can never really be sure what’s going on in other people’s minds,’ she said, taking a mug from Hardy. ‘Ta.’ Hardy had an ace poker face: straight as a die.
‘You’re wrong, sergeant.’ Sally reached for hers on automatic pilot. ‘She wasn’t just my m
um, she was my best friend. We talked all the time; she would have said something. Besides, she had everything to live for, she’d made lots of plans.’ Bev listened as Sally reeled off a list of voluntary work Mrs Cash had recently taken on. Stints in the British Heart Foundation shop, one morning a week at a local primary school, sessions with the talking newspaper for the blind team over in Selly Oak. Looking ahead, she’d booked a trip to Venice for later in the year and had enrolled in Italian evening classes.
‘Can you honestly tell me,’ Sally asked Bev, ‘that sounds like a woman who thought ending it all was the only way out?’
Second-guessing people’s motives and mindsets was a normal part of a cop’s job description. It was also a mug’s game. Years back, Bev had known a bloke who during the darkest of black dog days wore bright red ties and sweaters – literally pulling the wool over his eyes, and – figuratively speaking – the eyes of everyone who knew him. When he couldn’t hack it any more, he’d jumped in front of an inter-city express at Birmingham’s New Street station.
As for Sally, Bev reckoned it was simply a case of her being in denial.
‘We have to look at the evidence, Miss Cash.’ Like the note lying between them on the table.
I see only one way out, darling Sally. I welcome the dying of the light. Dad and I will look down on you together. Try to forgive me.
Bev cut it a glance before re-establishing eye contact. ‘I know it’s hard for you’ – she moved the tissues nearer – ‘but, as I say, the note seems to make sense.’
‘Not to me it doesn’t. “I see only one way out”? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ She blew her nose again. ‘It’s not worth the paper it’s written on.’
But it was written and in her mother’s hand. Even without Sally’s say-so, Bev could see it for herself from to-do lists posted on one of the pin boards.
‘You know, thinking on, I might be mistaken.’ Fingers trembling, Sally picked up the single sheet again. ‘The writing’s smaller than mum’s and look, it’s all spidery and shaky, and … and …’
Bev gently took it from her, placed it back on the table. ‘She’d have been drowsy, Sally. Drifting in and out of consciousness.’
Gaze still fixed on the note she said, ‘But nineteen words, sergeant. Nineteen words …’
‘I know.’ Bev nodded. It wasn’t a lot to leave behind for a loving daughter. But someone hell bent on suicide wouldn’t have been thinking straight. Even if Mrs Cash had intended elaborating, she probably hadn’t had time before the effect of the drugs kicked in.
‘Boss.’ Mac stood in the doorway, mouth turned down, empty palms on show.
She mouthed, ‘Two mins, mate.’ Watched as he retreated to wait in the motor.
Sally probably hadn’t even noticed. ‘“I see only one way out.” It’s so melodramatic. Not the sort of thing mum would usually say, let alone write.’
Bev stifled a sigh. Patently Sally was trying to convince herself the note was either forged or her mother’s hand had been forced. That she’d scrawled it under duress, rather than under the influence of enough painkillers to fell a bull elephant.
Leaning forward, Bev softened her voice. ‘So what are you saying, Miss Cash?’
She said nothing for a good five seconds, then exclaimed: ‘Christ, I don’t know. I just can’t help feeling it’s all my fault. If I’d been here last night, she’d still …’ Sobbing, she dropped her head in her hands. The words were muffled, the message clear: her mum would still be alive.
Poor kid. Losing both parents had given her a heavy cross to bear and now she carried around a misplaced load of guilt as well. Seemed to Bev, Sally was also trying to find some sort of scapegoat rather than face the reality: that the mother she adored had chosen death over life and, in effect, over her daughter.
‘That your phone, sarge?’ Hardy asked.
Frowning, Bev slipped the handset from her pocket. Stacey-bat-ears-Hardy. Bev hadn’t heard a thing. The text was typical Powell: Body. Stirchley. Ass over. Now.
Please. Ignorant git.
‘I’ll stay on until Sally’s friend arrives, sarge.’ Hardy must’ve read Bev’s face. Not difficult given Mac reckoned it was an open book, with diagrams.
She flashed a grateful smile, placed her business card on the table, then laid a hand on Sally’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Cash. Call me any time.’
At the door she glanced back, saw Sally had both arms clutched round her waist and was bent double, gently rocking. Hardy knelt at her side, whispering words that wouldn’t cut it, let alone give comfort.
As Bev made her way back to the car, a tune kept playing in her head. She knew it from a TV series she’d loved watching as a teenager. Mash was probably still a brilliant show, but right now she reckoned its theme song was a pile of shit.
Suicide is painless.
Yeah. Course it is.
9
Mac was in full Gene Hunt mode – had the motor all fired up ready to take off. Not that the Astra had the pulling power of a Quattro. Mind, Bev mused while opening the door, what with the expanding paunch and bald spot, Mac’s scoring prowess wasn’t up to much, either. The guy needed a new squeeze. Maybe she should play Cupid, sharpen her arrows?
‘Powell’s at the crime scene waiting for you to show your face.’ The outburst came while she still had one leg out of the car. ‘I’ve had him on the blower twice going ape-shit.’ Mac’s finger tapped a testy finger on the wheel as he watched her clip in the belt. ‘In your own time, eh?’
What’s the big rush? The DI was perfectly capable of running a crime scene. Best hit the gas.
‘Hold it a min, matey.’ Her strap was caught in the door.
‘Blimey, sarge, can you go any slower?’
‘Christ’s sake, Tyler, we’re off to view a body. Unless it’s Lazarus it ain’t going nowhere.’
‘Hilarious.’ Scowling, Mac put his foot down in more ways than one, told her to listen up for once. Weaving through traffic, he told her the corpse had been uncovered in the grounds of a derelict school. Diggers and bulldozers had been sent in that morning to start clearing the site for a Tesco Express development, otherwise the victim might have lain undiscovered even longer. ‘Looks like a kid, boss. Teenager most like.’
‘Boy? Girl?’
‘Difficult to tell.’
She swallowed hard. ‘OK. Hit the gas.’
Within only a couple of minutes, they’d crawled to a halt. Frowning, Bev glanced up from her phone to suss out the delay. A massive great ASDA delivery lorry was skewed across nigh on all four lanes of the main drag through Kings Heath. Reversing into a side road was clearly not in the driver’s comfort zone. Pig’s ear? Make that half-a-dozen. The horn cacophony from the captive audience wouldn’t be helping.
‘Hit the nah-nahs, mate,’ Bev drawled.
‘I was just about to, thanks, Miss.’ Even with the flashing blues and fuck-out-the-way twos Mac had to mount the car on the pavement, came close to clipping his wing mirror on the wall of a pub.
She turned her head to gawp through the back window. Tight or what? Certainly wasn’t the sort of squeeze she’d had in mind for the guy. Handled it well, though. ‘Nice driving, mate.’ Not everyone appreciated the manoeuvre: a couple of slack-jawed pensioners clinging to tartan shopping trolleys stared hollow-eyed as Bev waved an apology.
She heard him mutter something about Clarkson eating his heart out. Considered cracking a line about Clarkson’s preference for steak, but by now had her head down again scrolling through emails and messages. Majority were work-related, nothing that couldn’t wait. Her eyes lit up momentarily when she spotted the name Byford in the in-box. The wrong one, of course. Junior could hang fire. Ditto Oz. As for her mum, Emmy had only recently mastered texting and, boy, did Bev know it. She curved a lip, remembering how she’d jokingly threatened to confiscate her mum’s phone. She’d made Emmy promise not to blitz banalities. Talk about trivial pursuit.
Her fond smile faded.
At least her mum was still around bothering her, unlike Sally Cash’s.
‘Shame,’ Mac said, apropos of God knew what. ‘Nice girl back there.’ Bev cut him a look of unfeigned horror. Had he suddenly turned mind-reader? Given what went on in hers, she bloody well hoped not.
‘Go on.’
‘Finding her ma like that. Shit thing to have to live with, isn’t it?’
She gave a mental sigh of relief: not Mystic Mac then. Sounding board session. She wondered what other observations he might have up his sleeve. Most cops ran interview post mortems, soon as. Same with chewing over theories, bouncing thoughts – amazing what ideas can jump out. Two heads and all that.
‘Can’t argue with you there, mate.’ Bev slipped the phone in her pocket, making mental notes who to get back to. ‘Right pisser.’
‘Bloody nightmare.’
The in-car silence suggested Mac was tussling with a few unwanted images as well as the traffic. Every cop Bev knew had a black back catalogue. No point dwelling, though. Not when unwitting flashbacks took up temporary residence often enough as it was.
She scrabbled in her bag for the remains of a Lion bar she knew was in there somewhere. Given it was getting on for one o’clock, looked like lunch would go by the board, and she’d already polished off her last ginger biscuit.
‘So what happened while I was mooching round, boss?’
As she delicately de-fluffed the chocolate with her fingers, Bev brought him up to speed on the exchanges he’d missed, majoring on Sally’s conviction her mother hadn’t killed herself and her doubts about who’d written the note.
He shrugged. ‘Wishful thinking, innit.’
‘Wanna bit?’ She held out a minuscule chunk. Greedy sod took it an’ all. Stifling a sigh, she said: ‘I actually think Sally would find the death easier to cope with if her mum had been bumped off.’
‘Pinning the blame elsewhere’s a non-starter, boss.’ He’d searched the house top to bottom as per Bev’s instructions. Nothing suspicious: no sign of forced entry, nothing looked tampered with, nothing obviously taken.
Death Wish Page 4