She’d not say no to a bit of peace and rest herself right now. Stifling a groan she retrieved the duvet, tried lying on her side again. Of course all this Fay-related brain activity had sod all to do with Operation Twilight, but the sacking had reminded her of the potential new lead in her covert hunt for Fay’s killer. The tip had come courtesy of an old-school cop, name of Charlie Silver, who’d worked with the guv back in the day. Charlie had offered to lend a hand when he got back from his hols, do a bit of legwork on the case. Shame he’d decided to stay on in Spain for at least another week.
Giving a jaw-breaking yawn, Bev hauled the duvet over her head, curved a lip under the covers. But, hey, with Charlie’s input on the Fay front, she reckoned they could forget silver and go for gold.
14
The hack was going for the jugular. Given it was 9.15 am and Bev had been on the point of leaving the office, she rued turning back to take the call. The reporter had a story – for that read, hatchet job – and she wanted it stood up. Sod those pesky get-in-the-way-facts.
‘Look, love –’ Bev interrupted.
‘Please, officer, the name is Summer –’
‘Okay. Listen up, Ms Summer –’
‘Ms Raynes, actually.’
Summer Rains? ‘Right.’ Seriously close to a fit of the giggles, Bev bit down on her lip. She’d bet the woman just loved her parents’ cracking sense of humour. Whatevs. She wiped the metaphorical smile off her face. Though the moniker meant nothing to her, Bev had an inkling who owned it: the tall blonde with the horsey face who’d been grandstanding at Trafalgar Road when Ray Pitt took an unscheduled dive off his balcony. The clue was in the hack’s hooray voice, not to mention the distant jangle of bangles.
‘It’s with a “y” and don’t bother, sergeant,’ – laboured sigh – ‘I’ve heard them all before.’
I doubt it. ‘Good. You can cut to the chase, then, can’t you, love? Chop-chop.’
The workload was piling up and she already had a bunch of stuff to get through. Rendezvousing with Mac and heading out to Stirchley headed the list. Powell wanted her back around lunchtime to sit in on a news conference, and the new gaffer Jessica Truss – Byford’s replacement – had summoned her to a one-to-one meet late afternoon. Christ knew what that was about.
Phone clamped to her ear, Bev strolled to the window to scan the car park below. Yep. She could just make out Mac’s bulk behind the wheel of the Astra. He’d be sitting on the horn if she didn’t show soon.
‘Fine. I’ll fire away. Do you consider your abusive remarks pushed Ray Pitt over the edge? I’d like a comment, please.’
So that’s where she’s coming from. Bev rolled her eyes. Raynes’ preamble had touched on her own idiosyncratic recollections of the exchanges Bev had shared with Pitt before he parted company with the balcony. Raynes had just ratcheted up the one-sided conversation several gears. And if the now risible accusation appeared in print, Bev’s ‘You fucking arsehole git!’ could come back to bite her in the bum. Not that it was ever gonna happen.
Sighing, she took a perch on the sill. ‘Nothing pushed Mr Pitt over the edge, Ms Raynes. He either jumped or was the victim of a tragic accident. You were there. You saw it.’
‘Indeed I did. Quite dreadful. Given his state of mind, were you right to threaten him?’
‘Threaten?’ She cleared the helium out of her throat. ‘Did you say threaten?’
‘Yes.’ Silence. A heartbeat or two, then Bev heard papers being riffled. Reckoned the reporter was staging the sound effects. ‘I took a note and I quote: “Come down here and I’ll have you for that, you –”’
Bloody wankpot. Okay, the invitation could’ve been worded better, but: ‘For crying out loud. He chucked a missile that had just whacked me on the head.’
‘Even so, goading a man clearly under pressure hardly corresponds with the Force mission statement, does it? “Preventing crime, protecting the public”, and … remind me … how does it go?
‘Helping those in need. What’s your game, Ms Raynes?’ Bev circled an ankle, aware she needed to watch her step here. The woman wasn’t dense, must know the claims hadn’t got a leg to stand on; they were a pile of doo-doo. The conniving git would also be well aware that if she slanted a story along those lines, Bev would end up in the ordure.
Sounds drifted in through the open window: papping horn, running footsteps, ‘Good Vibrations’ whistled badly. Inside, the silence stretched, then: ‘I’ve heard a rumour.’ Raynes’ drawl had disappeared, the volume had dropped; the tone was now a knowing conspiratorial crossed with barely contained excitement. Put Bev in mind of little kids playing: ‘Show me yours first.’ Except Raynes was a big girl now.
‘Oh yeah.’ Bev said warily.
‘The body at the school?’
She stood smartish, eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Come on, DS Morriss, you can tell me.’
It took Bev all her time not to tell the oily bint to fuck right off. ‘Tell you what exactly?’
She paused. ‘About the razor.’
Shit-a-brick shithouse. Senses on full alert now, Bev gave another dead casual sniff. ‘What razor?’
Obviously the police news release hadn’t alluded to it in any way. They’d have had every nut job on the patch ringing in with duff info or false confessions. The fact Raynes had picked up a whisper was bad news, the consequences could be far worse. Question was, just how much detail was the reporter privy to?
Raynes dropped the forced laughter. ‘Nice try, detective. But you know full well what I’m getting at.’
Bev knew she wasn’t saying a word. She kept an eye on her watch, wondered how long it would take Raynes to break the silence. Eleven seconds.
‘Listen, Bev, I’m sure we can come to some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement.’
Bev clocked seven seconds this time.
‘After all, I guess it’s possible I might have … misheard? The other day? In Small Heath?’
Un-bloody-believable. Bev shook her head. The hack was playing the back-scratch card, as in: Give me what I want and I’ll spike the Pitt story. The unspoken agenda being: Or else …
Bev had another word for what Raynes was up to. Tracing an eyebrow with a finger, she said, ‘Who’s your editor, pet?’
‘Sorry?’ Sounded gormless. Bev bet the face went with it.
‘Name, number, now. Give.’
‘Whatever for?’ Raynes sounded alarmed.
‘So I know where to slap in the official complaint.’
‘On what possible grounds?’ Nervy laugh.
‘Let’s tick ’em off, shall we? Inducement. Blackmail. Bribery. Corruption. Threatening a police officer. Shall I go on?’
‘But –’
‘But nothing, Ms Raynes. And that’s what I advise you to do with your so-called scoop. Nothing. As in: en, oh, tee, aitch, eye –’
‘All right, all right. You’ve made your point.’ She said tetchily.
‘Glad to hear it.’ And without spelling everything out.
Bev frowned at another blast from below. Mac was certainly giving the horn some welly. ‘Oh and, love, so’s you know,’ – grabbing her bag – ‘our little chat’s on tape.’
Ouch. The bloody woman had hung up on her. Temper, temper, love.
Dashing across the car park, Bev just hoped her victory wouldn’t be short-lived. Having the last word was all very well, but she’d not like to predict how long the enforced embargo might last.
15
‘So basically, boss, you rained on her parade.’
Bev shook her head, tutting and brushing toast crumbs off her linen trousers: navy. ‘It ain’t that funny, Tyler.’
He sniggered again so she cut him her best school-ma’am glance. A couple of seconds later, she sniffed, added: ‘Besides, it was more like pissed on.’
‘That’s my girl.’
‘Keep your eyes on the road, mate.’
They were only a stone’s throw from Saint Jude’s now and Bev a
lmost wished she’d not spent a good part of the journey bringing Mac up to speed. She’d expected sage input, not schoolboy joshing, because the fact Raynes knew about the razor was sure as hell nothing to laugh about. Clearly the hack hadn’t been on a fishing trip. Well, not entirely. Someone must’ve tipped her the wink and the likeliest candidate had to be a cop. It looked as if Highgate had sprung a leak. And it needed plugging, pronto.
‘For what it’s worth I think you’re spot on, boss,’ he said flicking the wipers to clear dust from the screen. ‘Last thing Powell needs is a mole.’
‘Copy that.’ She’d passed on the gist to the DI in a quick call. Ballistic barely covered his reaction. Right now a DC would be tracking down which rag Raynes worked for. Powell had questions to pose, cards to mark.
Observing the passing delights of Stirchley, Bev tapped her lips. They could only hope whoever fed the line to the reporter wasn’t au fait with the full story. Everyone involved in searching the school grounds had known to look out for a razor. Considerably fewer had been updated once its whereabouts had been discovered. Or what damage it had done. The info released at the early brief had been on the need-to-know principle; even some squad members were still in the dark. Which meant the reporter might well be oblivious to the more graphic angles. To an extent, Acid Rain had been out with her fishing rod – not to mention flying a bloody big kite.
Bev sighed. She hoped to God the sensitive detail didn’t find its way into the public domain via Raynes’ purple hazy prose. Nor any route, come to that. Copycat crime was one of a cop’s biggest fears.
‘Keeping your eyes peeled, boss?’ Mac was cruising now on the lookout for a space to leave the Astra. Bev reckoned they’d be lucky. Local traffic was bad enough: transit vans, goods vehicles, delivery lorries, residents’ cars. Boosted by the panoply of vehicles that serviced a major incident inquiry, parking had been snapped up.
Bev suddenly spotted a car pulling out of a space ahead.
‘He’s just leaving, look.’ Eyes narrowed, she reckoned it might even be a woman. A dog collar didn’t signify gender these days.
‘On it.’ Praise the Lord.
While Mac practised his parking, Bev scrabbled in her bag, patted her pockets, checked the floor. ‘Seen my shades?’
‘In there.’ He nodded towards the glove compartment. ‘While I was waiting I cleaned up your mess.’
‘What you want? A medal?’
‘A ta’d do,’ he murmured, locking the car. Watching her stride ahead, Mac gave a wry smile. Not that it lasted long.
When she got to the police tape, she glanced back. ‘Don’t hang round, Tyler. We ain’t got all day.’
Police activity attracted rubberneckers like iron filings to magnets. Hence the ‘all human life is there’ melee peering through, and in some cases clinging to, the rusting school railings. Wrinklies with bulging shopping bags, a bleary-eyed wino clutching a can of Strong Brew, skiving schoolkids, mums with babies in buggies and toddlers in tow, and a gang of half-a-dozen youths who’d be better employed looking for work rather than hurling abuse at cops pursuing their enquiries. Mind, a few of the yobs had probably been pursued by the law in the past, non-occupational hazard and all that.
‘I hope somebody’s questioning that lot, boss.’ Mac blew his nose. Bev put the sneeze down to brick dust from the site rather than a summer cold.
‘It’s in hand, look.’ She’d already clocked Stacey Hardy and two other clipboard-carrying uniforms passing along the line. If nothing else they’d take down names, addresses, numbers. No guarantee they’d be pukka, of course.
‘Ay, wanna see my partickerlers, bab?’ A spotty Herbert a few feet away from Bev pointed two mucky fingers at his crotch. ‘Show yer any time. Only cost yer a please.’
Please open your flies, fuckwit. She’d nick him in a heartbeat on the grounds of shit wit, let alone lewd conduct.
‘I’d need a magnifier. Run along, little man.’ Flapping a dismissive hand.
Most of his mates fell about whooping and laughing. But the dopey look on Herbie’s face suggested magnifiers hadn’t hit his radar. A tall lithe youth standing close by had a scowl on his face that could curdle cheese.
‘Think you’re clever, don’t you?’ Sour Boy’s voice dripped contempt and something else Bev was hard pushed to define. Enough confrontation in it, though, to make her stop and lock glares. His pale irises were a colour she’d not seen before. Ice blue, she thought they called it. She’d go with arctic. Either way, she wasn’t over keen, definitely not warming to him.
‘Your point being?’ The close-cropped white blond hair did nothing for him. Or Bev. On closer inspection, it looked as if she’d jumped the gun lumping him in with Herbie’s cronies. Sour Boy was in a different class. The sharp gear, rounded vowels and smug superiority were clearly a cut above.
‘There’s a killer out there. Why waste time swapping smart-arse remarks with morons?’
That didn’t go down too well with Herbie. Nor Bev. She moved in, deliberately too close. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Who made you my mother?’
‘I asked you a question.’
‘Ditto, detective.’ Not cocky – confident, effortlessly so.
‘Your attitude stinks.’
‘And yours doesn’t?’ He sneered.
Her fists were tight balls. She thanked God the railings stood between them, especially with an audience watching her every move. She heard Mac’s murmured, ‘Leave it, boss.’ Knew the advice was sound but ignored it. The arrogant little shit’s casual condescension had got her fired up.
‘What exactly is your problem?’ she challenged.
‘My problem? I think you’ll find it’s down to your lot’s failings that a psycho’s on the loose.’
‘Psycho?’ Her voice rose in faked incredulity. She had to hike the volume even more to drown out gawpers’ gasps. ‘How’d you work that one out?’
Had he plucked the label out of the blue or did he know something he shouldn’t and the cops had yet to prove? She sensed Mac’s antenna twitch, too.
‘It’s hardly rocket science. Look at that.’ The guy nodded over her shoulder. ‘The site’s crawling with police, there’s a massive search on, plain clothes are knocking on doors; anyone with a pulse is being questioned. If you’re only investigating a bog-standard murder, there’s no way you’d be out in such numbers. Your bosses couldn’t afford it, for one thing.’ Slipping a hand in his pocket, he actually had the brass neck to jingle loose coins.
She itched to slap the smirk off his face. Fact was the sanctimonious little git was bang on the money. Police budget cuts in the region over recent years meant the force had lost hundreds of jobs and seen nigh on thirty stations close. Cash-strapped wasn’t in it. Right now, the financial debate held no interest for Bev, not given what else he’d come out with.
‘Who said anything about murder?’
‘I’m taking an educated guess.’ The shrug barely lifted a shoulder. ‘Are you telling me I’m wrong?’
No, but: ‘Why the interest, Mr –?’
‘Not against the law is it?’
‘You tell me.’ The mutual stare turned into an ocular pissing contest. No way would she break eye contact first. Famous last words and all that. Someone yelled her name. Turning round, she saw one of the search team with a hand in the air. From this distance she’d no chance of making out what he’d found. Going by the grim face, she’d bet her pension it wasn’t buried gold.
‘Get his details, Mac.’ Hiking her bag, she strode off without a backward glance.
16
‘I thought it was rope at first, sarge.’
Bev nodded. Her initial impression tallied with Sergeant Roy Preston’s. A hank of rope that had been dragged through the proverbial hedge. Actually, make that a bank of weeds. Some of the strands had dirt and brittle leaves trapped inside; one had worked a tad loose. It took a sharp eye to spot the bent hair grip nestling among the braids. Once she clocked it, Bev tried p
icturing the plait uncoiled, estimated its length at around forty-five, fifty centimetres, meaning it would reach down to the waist, give or take. She reckoned the hair would be a lighter shade when washed, more dark blonde than ash brown.
‘Did you move it, Roy?’ Ray-Bans parked on top of her head, she lifted her gaze to meet Preston’s. When they were both standing, the uniformed sergeant was a foot taller; with Bev squatting, he towered over her like some sort of BFG in blue overalls. Preston’s normally florid complexion had deepened a shade, but that was probably down to the heat.
‘Just an inch or two,’ he said, ‘and only with this.’ Shaking the stick in his hand.
She nodded, didn’t blame him. He’d had to delve into tangles of thigh-high cobweb-laced nettles before seeing, as it were, the wood for the trees. Beaten down, the nettles now lay wilting on the parched earth, other greenery still sprouted alongside the bike sheds. But Bev wasn’t big on botany.
‘Daft question, Roy, but d’you think it might’ve been left deliberately?’
‘You said it, Bev.’ Daft question.
She sniffed. Yeah, okay. One of her daftest. Besides, why the hell would the killer lop off the girl’s hair if he didn’t intend keeping it as some sort of trophy? Unless …
‘I guess he could’ve dropped it there?’ Roy said, offering her a hand up. ‘Probably didn’t fancy getting stung to buggery.’
‘Maybe.’ Brushing dirt off her trousers. As it happened, she very much doubted a guy who’d just horrifically mutilated a girl would give a monkey’s about incurring a few stings.
‘Plenty of dock around, though, look.’ Roy tilted his head at a bunch of leaves. ‘Nature’s antidote.’
Thank you Alan Titchmarsh. Sod dock leaves. Give Bev a courtroom dock any day, and the bastard being led away in handcuffs to start a life sentence. Checking again the position of the school, and the proximity of the road and houses she said, ‘I can’t see it, somehow.’
The bike shed was pretty much out in the open. Surely the perp wouldn’t risk being spotted ferreting round the flora in what was almost certainly the dead of night? Nah, the top priority would be neck-saving, as in not getting collared – he’d have beaten a hasty retreat.
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