Death Wish

by Maureen Carter

  ‘It could explain why we’ve heard nowt.’ Office Manager Jack Hainsworth piped up from behind a monitor. Built like a brick khazi, the professional Yorkshireman had a PhD in blunt speaking and vowels flatter than an ironed pancake.

  For once, Bev didn’t disagree with the bloke, but in her book there were a million possible explanations. The victim could’ve left home to escape an abusive family. Could’ve been on the run from a kids’ home or a relationship that had turned sour. Snatched miles away by a stranger and dumped on the patch. A smackhead who’d taken a final fatal fix. There was even Doc King’s sleeping-rough theory to consider. Until they had something solid, it was all speculation.

  ‘For all we know,’ Mac said, ‘the girl might’ve had a job and wasn’t allowed the time off.’

  ‘She could’ve been landed here by aliens, come to that.’ Darren New chucked in his two penn’orth. Bev curved a lip. Big fan of the X-Files, Dazza. Despite his stunningly unhelpful contribution, the squad would be pleased to hear the young DC chipping in from the bench. Not long since some lowlife had beaten the shit out of Dazza, left him in a coma for days.

  ‘Aliens?’ Powell’s laugh sounded forced. ‘I doubt it, Daz. ET was always trying to phone home. Pity, though, ’cause it’d save us all a load of grief.’ The blond was clearly trying to curry lost favour with the troops. Trying a sight too hard. The quip went down like a lead coffin. He’d be best off standing them an Indian at the Raj Doot.

  ‘Yeah, okay, Pembers. You could be right about her parents being away. We can but hope the globetrotters get back soon as. Meanwhile we slog on with the plod work, plug away at the media and pray we get a break.’

  Amen to that. Bev reckoned they were all of a mind on that score. Currently they knew sod all. ‘For all we know’ had been voiced more often in the last half-hour than the speaking clock had told the time.

  They had zilch to go on: no ID had turned up, no bag, no phone, no purse. No witnesses. Nada. With the girl’s distinctive gold filling, dental records would almost certainly come into play at some stage. Problem was they needed a name before they could get a match. Despite popular opinion, there’s no handy national database for teeth, like for dabs and DNA.

  If only.

  As for clues on site, the time lapse meant they weren’t so much slender on the ground as non-existent. The grid would be extended first thing but Bev wouldn’t hold her breath. She reckoned passing chancers had nicked any personal stuff left lying around or the perp had stripped the body of anything and everything that could help identify it.

  Assuming there was a perp.

  ‘Bev?’

  Another Bev. He must be getting soft in his old age. She looked up from a doodle on her pad. ‘That’s me, gaffer.’

  ‘That line of enquiry about youths hanging round the school? Did you get anywhere with it?’

  ‘Not yet. Me and Mac’ll chase again first thing.’

  Powell dished out a few more tasks then hauled his ass off the desk. The squad took it as a cue. The swapping of banter and scraping back of chairs almost drowned out Bev’s ringtone. The display showed the path lab’s number. Rarely a good sign.

  ‘Doc?’ She hoped the voice sounded brighter than she felt. ‘Sorry,’ – frowning, she pressed a hand against her free ear to deaden the noise level – ‘say again.’

  A quick head’s up, he told her. Something everyone needed to know asap. The blood drained from her face as she listened.

  The call didn’t last long and eliminated all doubt. They were hunting a killer.

  And Powell had thrown nowhere near enough at the case.

  12

  Slumped on a sludge-coloured tacky placky banquette, Bev swirled tonic water round her mouth. Tonic. What a bloody joke. God, talk about needing a stiff drink.

  Two hours on and her gut still flipped for Europe every time she recalled the conversation with King. Exactly how the girl died was anyone’s guess, but what her body had been subjected to guaranteed that natural causes wouldn’t even come close. A visibly shaken Powell had reconvened the brief even as it was breaking up. The odd whinge died down the instant he opened his mouth. Within minutes, he’d launched a murder inquiry, now known as Operation Twilight. It would kick off at full force first thing. Operation Midnight might be a better title, Bev reckoned, given they were pretty much working in the dark.

  ‘Get you another, boss?’ Mac loomed over her.

  Lifting her gaze, she raised a nearly full glass. ‘I’m okay ta, mate.’

  Ordinarily she’d have gone straight back to Morriss Towers rather than join the lads for a jar. Somehow the thought of an empty house hadn’t really appealed. Wonder why? Sipping her drink, she watched Mac amble over to where Dazza, Hainsworth and a couple of support staff were propping up the bar. She glanced round but reckoned Powell must’ve had a better offer.

  The Station pub, just across the road from the nick, was popular with cops, one reason being the landlord’s love of live comedy. Bev had watched Mac do his stand-up routine here a couple of times. The Highgate contingent wasn’t gathered for the gags tonight, though. Doubtless they all had their own reasons for wanting a bit of company.

  Reasons. She snorted out loud. What conceivable reason could the killer have had in what passed for his mind? What sick twisted scumbag violated a young girl that way? Bev screwed her eyes tight in a bid to blank out the mental image. The razor that had shaved the victim’s head had also inflicted untold internal damage, and the bastard had left it inside her body.

  Fucking animal. Nah. The frigging foxes had a damn sight more respect – they wouldn’t have gone anywhere near her till she was dead.

  ‘It ain’t compulsory.’ Mac set a wine glass on her beer mat then sank down alongside her. ‘Look like you need one, Bev.’

  Pinot, her fave. ‘Shame it’s not a vat of gin, mate.’ She treated him to a weak smile. Wished to God she dared take a drop of the hard stuff, but in her current state even wine was off limits.

  ‘Looking on the bright side,’ Mac ran the back of a hand across his mouth, ‘we might get a steer in the morning, boss.’

  ‘Nosing round the school?’ She pointed to a fleck of froth he’d missed. ‘This is sod all to do with youths, Mac.’

  ‘Doh. I know that.’

  Course he did. He meant kids hanging round the site might have clocked something odd, someone suspicious. Not even realized its significance. Most cases relied on intel from locals, this one cried out for it.

  ‘What I’m saying,’ he tried again, ‘is it’s most likely the crime was committed inside. On the premises.’

  Away from prying eyes. ‘Copy that.’ Hallelujah if that was the case ’cause the place could be swimming with evidence. Okay, not swimming, but with the amount of blood spilled, no matter how much the perp thought he’d cleaned up, an FSI sweep would find traces.

  ‘Out of sight,’ Mac again, ‘Out of –’

  ‘Mind.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘And earshot, Mac. She had to have been well out of it.’ Imagine the screams.

  ‘He’d have her heavily sedated at least.’ Mac stared down at the pint in his hand. ‘Gagged, probably.’

  ‘And bound.’ While he …

  ‘I fucking hope she didn’t know what was happening, boss.’

  She cut him a glance, couldn’t remember the last time he’d come out with the F-word.

  They sat in silence for a minute both struggling with thoughts, images, barely aware of the ambient sound: laughs, shouts, Mick Jagger on the juke box yelling at some bird to get off his cloud. Ordinary folk enjoying a night out.

  While out there …

  ‘Why shave her, Mac? And why put her jeans back on?’ The perp had to have removed them or at least pulled them right down so he could …

  Christ, she couldn’t even complete mental sentences now.

  ‘Humiliation. Degradation?’ Mac shook his head. ‘You tell me.’

  She held his gaze. ‘I’ll tell you this mate. I’m gonna nail
the bastard.’

  ‘Good on yer, Bev. I’ll drink to that.’

  She clinked glasses with Mac and feeling pretty virtuous took a virtual sip of imaginary vino.

  13

  A little of what you fancy? Not according to Mr and Mrs Killjoy on Doctor Google. Bev’s laptop was living up to its name, nestling on her naked thighs as she chilled on the settee back at Barlow Street. She’d been browsing websites with one hand and picking at a plate of cheesy chips on a Wills and Kate tray beside her with the other. Good job Frankie was out on the razz or she’d be banging on about the stink. Mind, Bev wouldn’t be net surfing if there’d been a cat in hell’s chance of Frankie clocking what she was up to. She’d probably not be lolling round in just her knickers and a Clint Eastwood T-shirt, either.

  With the light from the monitor glowing in her eyes, Bev tapped the mouse. Page after page had confirmed what the world and its wife knew anyway. Bun in the oven equals booze-free zone. Alcohol was a no-no, out of bounds, banned, verboten, taboo. Well, it was this month. Next month’s findings might cut a girl a bit of slack. She could but hope.

  She sniffed, reached for a chip. At least they hadn’t been outlawed yet. She smothered it in mayo, chewed slowly. She could’ve murdered that Pinot. Did she mind having to forego a tipple or three for the duration?

  Course she did.

  A bit.

  The Pinot Grigio would have slipped down a treat, slightly softened sharp mental edges. She dipped another chip, licked mayo off her fingers before it dripped all over Dirty Harry. Bloody hell, it wasn’t as if she intended going on a six-month bender down the slippery slope to binge town or fancied drowning her porridge in Scotch every morning. Like hell. She friggin’ hated porridge. And Scotch. But that was beside the point …

  If she and this baby were gonna get along, it would be on Bev’s terms. Mother knows best and all that, so start as you mean to go on. And if that meant enjoying the occasional jolly juice or even a baccy, so be it. She smiled, felt better already. Knew she’d not actually touch a drop, or smoke a ciggie. Wouldn’t dream of it. Okay, she might dream …

  Enough already, girl. She shifted the tray to the coffee table, swung her legs up on the settee, settled back against the arm rest and typed four words in the search bar. The wine perusal had been a time-killing diversion – a side issue, not the main event. The serious research had got off the ground three weeks back, just now and then when there were a few minutes going spare. She’d amassed a shed-load of mental notes that wouldn’t be going down on paper any time soon, or at all. Risky enough leaving e-trails.

  Shoot. Eyes narrowed, she gave a low whistle. Seventy-two thousand hits in less than a second. Not bad. She scrolled through a bunch of entries. Not brill, either. Most focused on voluntary euthanasia, mercy killing, assisted dying. What she had in mind was neither voluntary, merciful, nor the teensiest bit helpful. Not to Paul Curran any road. Maybe if she refined the search? She deleted ‘assisted suicide’. Yeah: ‘lethal injection’ was better, much better.

  First method she’d sussed out online had been asphyxiation. Discounted it almost immediately. Seemed to Bev a pillow over Curran’s ugly mug was far too easy a way out. Besides which, the pressure left telltale marks, tiny red dots in the eyes, round the mouth; petecchial haemorrhage. You didn’t have to be a cop to know that every aided exit, as it were, involved risks. Christ, if she’d not jumped in when Richard had tried smothering Curran, Byford junior would be banged up by now. Bev, precisely because she was a cop, reckoned she could calculate the risk factor better than most people and had more chance of not getting caught.

  Time had moved on, though, and she was scared Richard might have another go if she didn’t act soon. The pact between them had been tacit but neither had been left in any doubt. With The Kinks keeping her company in the background, Bev spent the next half-hour or so knocking back Vimto and scarfing popcorn while she hit links and added potential ways and means to her mental file. Shit.

  Her bladder told her a pit stop was needed pronto. Shoving the laptop to one side, she curved a lip, took the stairs two at a time. Not getting caught short, she could manage. By force of habit, she flicked on the radio in the bathroom: Gloria Gaynor belting out I Will Survive, again. Bev rolled her eyes. She’d told Frankie a million times not to fiddle with the stations. Good tune, though. She added backing while she washed her hands, prancing in front of the mirror, took on the solo as she headed back downstairs, and entered the sitting room like some diva. Which could be why she hadn’t realized her housemate had put in an appearance.

  Mid-flow, Bev froze on the spot. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Unsmiling, Frankie held her gaze. The arctic tone made it crystal clear she was deadly serious. The statement had sod all to do with Bev standing there in not much more than the buff.

  Frankie flicked a glance to the laptop. ‘You doing A-level chemistry now or something?’

  Mama-sodding-mia. ‘A-level chem–?’ She laughed, tried brazening it out. ‘What you talking about?’

  Dark eyes flashing, Frankie tossed her head, setting off a slipstream of raven black hair. ‘Cyanide? Potassium chloride? Percu-whatever it’s called bromide? What the hell’s going on here, sister?’

  Bev sniffed. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Bollocks. That bullshit doesn’t wash with me.’

  ‘Tough.’ She tugged the T-shirt down an inch.

  ‘Are you gonna tell me or –’

  ‘Naff all to do with you, Perlagio.’ Toeing the carpet.

  ‘The hell it is.’ In a nanosecond Frankie was across the room and a hand’s width from Bev’s face. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you.’

  Slowly she lifted her head, met Frankie’s eye-line. ‘Quit with the shouting, then.’ Bev shot back. She couldn’t remember ever seeing Perlagio so fired up. Looked like she was having a hot flush. The stand-off lasted ten, twelve seconds before Frankie cleared her throat and took a long deep breath.

  ‘What are you planning, Bev?’ The ice was back in the voice. Bev had goosebumps, but that could have been down to the murderous glint in Frankie’s pupils.

  ‘Told you, I’m –’

  ‘Don’t lie,’ Frankie snapped. ‘I looked at your history.’

  Eyes narrowed, Bev snapped back: ‘How fucking dare you snoop on me, Perlagio?’

  ‘Where you gonna get hold of the stuff, Bev?’ Tight-lipped, she clamped her arms against her chest. ‘Well, come on. Which dodgy website? There’s a few in China. Or maybe try South Africa? Hey! Why not check if there’s a BOGOF going somewhere? You could take someone else out with you, then. Two birds with one friggin’ stone.’

  ‘You been drinking, mate?’ Bev studiously examined her nails, but not before she’d clocked tears welling in Frankie’s eyes. Talk about wrong end of the stick. Frankie had assumed suicide, not homicide. If it wasn’t so bloody serious, the mistake would be hilarious. Bev felt a right heel but wouldn’t be putting her best friend straight any time soon. Better by far that no one was in the know.

  ‘Is that how you plan on doing it, Bev? Necking some lethal concoction?’

  ‘Don’t talk daft, Frankie.’ She gave a laboured sigh. ‘Give it a rest, eh?’

  Another pause. They locked glares. Bev reckoned it could go either way, but Frankie reached out a tentative hand and said, ‘Please, Bev, don’t even think about it. I know how much you miss Bill, but’ – crying now – ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘Daft sod. Come here.’ Bev took Frankie in her arms, gently steered her to the settee, stroked her hair until the waterworks stopped. ‘Look, mate, I admit I was taking a look but honest, Frankie, I’ve knocked it on the head.’

  ‘Cross your heart?’

  ‘And hope to –’ Whoops. She grinned. ‘Deffo, mate. Believe me, I’m not going anywhere.’

  It was true, in a way. She’d decided the potassium chloride route was a non-starter. The amount she’d have to inject to kill the bastard would be t
oo big not to go undetected at a post mortem. Same reason she’d dismissed the idea of tampering with the feeding tube, introducing tasty new delights to his diet like botulism or warfarin. Either would do the trick, but if it was picked up by a medico, Bev could end up being the one doing the spell behind bars.

  Frankie straightened and looked Bev in the eye as she dashed away tears with the backs of both hands. ‘Promise me again you won’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘Hand on heart, mate,’ inadvertently slapping Clint across the face, ‘I’ve no intention of doing away with myself. As for not doing anything stupid,’ she added a wink, ‘that’d be a whole new ball game.’

  Bev’s smile had little to do with the gag. More the fact that the best way to waste Curran had just dawned on her.

  Stupid didn’t come into it – she reckoned it was foolproof.

  During the early hours, another thought dawned on Bev. Sleep was but a dream, what with images from the crime scene playing on a loop in her head. With all her tossing and turning, the duvet slipped onto the carpet. God knew why, but seeing it lying there in the semi-dark put Bev in mind of Jane Doe and her makeshift shroud. The filthy torn sacking stacked in a corner of the forensic tent.

  The sight had rung a faint bell back then but Bev had been unable to pin it down. She realized now she’d come across a body hidden in sacking before. No. Not come across, read about. The details were in Byford’s baby Fay case notes, now part of a file Bev kept secreted in a desk drawer at Highgate.

  Not that they weren’t imprinted on her brain as well. Sighing, she rolled onto her back, stared at – but didn’t see – the ceiling. A young Byford carrying a baby’s tiny body glided across her mind’s eye. The big man, then a sergeant, had discovered Fay’s mummified corpse stuffed inside sacking on a building site. Bev knew the image had haunted him for the rest of his life. Ditto the fact it was the only unsolved murder he ever worked. Bev’s silent vow after his death had been to try and finish the job for him, hoping it meant he’d be able to rest in peace.