‘Good luck with that,’ he said. He’d tried it, he told her. Didn’t work.
Shit. That bad. She curled a lip. ‘Did you, then?’
‘What?’
‘Throw up?’
Yeah, he said. But managed to get out the house before doing any harm.
More harm. Sounded to her like it had been inflicted long before he set foot in the place.
‘Holy shit,’ Bev murmured to herself. She’d barely lasted twenty minutes in the scuzzy back room. The squalor was appalling even for a squat. Bare walls, collapsed ceiling tiles, cardboard window. The dive’s des. res. delights encompassed a dead cat, mouse droppings, rotting food, fag butts. Forensics and police photographers were already falling over each other in the cramped space, so when the pathologist turned up she made a sharp exit, carefully picked her way out across a carpet of crushed booze cans and used needles. Even more carefully picked one up and stowed it safely into her bag. She doubted anyone would miss a second-hand syringe.
Emerging blinking into the sunlight, she took a gulp or two of fresh air before clocking her bag man perched on the lip of the Astra’s boot, swigging Highland Spring. Without a word he handed her the bottle; without so much as a quick wipe she drained the contents, slung the bottle in the boot.
Mac’s miffed look went over her head. By now she was clinging onto his arm, trying to kick off a leg of the bunny suit. She didn’t even register a couple of passing kids pissing themselves at the free floorshow. Lucky, that.
Suit now balled up and lying next to the bottle, Bev held Mac’s gaze. ‘Just when you think you’ve seen it all, eh, mate?’
Trussed up with wire, the victim had been left lying curled in the foetal position on beer cans and bare floorboards. His wrists were bound and the grubby hands with chipped black nails were clasped as if in prayer. Much good that had done him. The dosser had worn a hole in the sole of one his trainers and the sight of the dirty flesh had brought a tear to Bev’s eye. They’d been smarting anyway, but more from blind fury at what had been done to the body.
As well as the blade still plunged into the side of his neck, his eyes had been gouged out. Recalling the raw bloody sockets, Bev shuddered all over again, knew it was an image she’d not forget in a hurry. Clearly the mutilation had been executed post mortem or there’d have been enough blood swilling round to paddle in. The fact he’d have felt no pain did nothing to mitigate the appalling act. The perp certainly hadn’t had the old boy’s best interests at heart. A stony-faced Mac slammed the boot. ‘Mindless, if you ask me, boss. Bloody barbaric.’
She nodded towards the patch of wasteland opposite: might as well have a snoop while they waited on Doc King. ‘Barbaric, yeah. Not sure I’m with you on the mindless bit, mate.’ Far from a random attack or a fatal spat between warring wino pissheads, it looked increasingly to her like the dosser had been targeted, the murder no coincidence, the removal of the eyes a pointed warning.
‘Go on.’
‘Let’s assume the old boy was a rough sleeper at Saint Jude’s.’ Bev paused to see if he’d pick up the cue. He didn’t. Okay. ‘And let’s say’ – prompt two – ‘he was in the audience the night the girl was brutalized.’
Mac’s slow mirthless smile showed the penny had dropped. ‘See no evil.’
‘Precisely. It’s a warning to his dosser mates.’ Keep your trap shut or else.
‘Watch your step, boss.’ He pointed out a still steaming turd just up ahead.
‘Seen it, ta.’ It wasn’t the only thing that had been dumped. They’d already had a nose at a soiled mattress, a two-seater settee with the stuffing spilling out, and a fridge with its door hanging off. Christ knew where all the crap came from – there wasn’t an occupied house in sight.
‘I reckon the eye thing could be a message to us as well, boss. As in, he knows we’re onto him but doesn’t give a toss.’
‘Bastard thinks he’s so far ahead, he’s out of sight.’ She snorted. Mind, come to think of it, he bloody was. Like reporter Raynes, the leader of the hack pack. Was her pole position down to his tip-offs? Had he fed her the latest titbit? Bev dug her phone out of a pocket. Powell or Pembers should be enjoying the dubious pleasure of Ms Raynes’ company by now.
‘Seen that, boss?’ Mac pointed.
She followed his gaze to where a scruffy mutt was cocking its leg up a supermarket trolley. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
‘Not the dog.’
She whipped off the shades for a clearer look. No way? Yep way. ‘Fuck use are the wheels to anybody?’ Some wanker had only gone and nicked them.
‘Not the wheels. Look again, boss, there’s something in the trolley.’
A ball? Eyes narrowed, she took off after Mac. No, two balls. Small, shiny and red.
And the dog was going ape-shit.
19
Summer Raynes had a face like a wet weekend in Warley. In fact DC Carol Pemberton was beginning to wonder if the woman even knew what ‘sunny disposition’ meant. They’d sat across a desk from each other for fifteen minutes and Carol’s questions had elicited little more than monosyllabic grunts and a series of scowls. Of course the verbal constipation could be down to the forty-five minutes Raynes had been kept hanging around. The detective had the distinct impression accommodating other people’s wishes didn’t figure on the reporter’s list, not when her own occupied the top spot. Or perhaps she was just more accustomed to dishing out the questions.
‘Would you like tea or anything?’ Carol’s bright smile seemed to piss her off even more. Just as well cops were big on body language. Folded arms, cocked head and supercilious simper generally stood for: Are you having a laugh? Fact was Raynes’ antics left Carol a million miles from feeling even vaguely amused. She couldn’t get the damage wrought on Jane Doe’s body out of her head, impossible when you’d just seen the stills. Catching the nutter responsible took a damn sight more priority than massaging some bolshie posh prat’s ego.
‘I’ll ask again: are you absolutely sure you’ve never heard the man’s voice before?’
The laboured sigh was followed by three actual words: ‘Read. My. Lips.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll see you out.’ Pembers picked up a file, scraped back the chair.
‘But … I … thought …’ Whatever her notion, she wasn’t sharing, but Carol reckoned Raynes looked genuinely alarmed. Her eyes had widened momentarily and the hand sweeping back her mane of blonde hair had a slight tremor. Was she scared? And if so, why and of whom?
Nothing like testing troubled waters. Still standing, Carol asked, ‘Do you have even the slightest idea who made the calls, Ms Raynes?’
The sound of silence broken by the tinkle of a wrist full of bangles. The tremor had turned into full-blown trembling. The reporter kept schtum.
‘Well?’
‘How many times do you need tell –?’
‘Okay. Let’s go.’ She tucked the file under an elbow, strode across the room.
‘Where? Why?’
‘I can’t afford to waste any more time.’ Especially mine.
She’d had to break off from following up punters’ calls on the missing girl inquiry for this stonewalling masterclass. There was a shed-load more tasks to get through and the interview hadn’t so much come to a halt as never got off the ground. Besides, if Carol was honest, she wasn’t convinced Bev’s suspicion that the perp was behind the tips rang true. She saw no good reason why he’d single out Raynes. It wasn’t like she’d hit the big time or anything. On the other hand, why was the reporter still sitting there?
Carol turned at the door. ‘Something keeping you?’
The reporter opened her mouth to speak, closed it, opened it, dropped her head.
Carol softened her voice. ‘Look, Ms Raynes, I can’t help you if –’
‘While I was waiting – I got another call.’
The words sent a familiar tingle down the detective’s spine. She walked back, dragged a chair round so they could sit closer. ‘Tell me.’
Another comedy perp who thought he was a bloody butcher. ‘That’s not going to happen, Ms Raynes.’ Carol wanted to ask how he was aware Raynes had spoken to the cops before, but even more pressing she wanted to know what else he’d said.
The reporter shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
Carol masked mega impatience, gently prompted with: ‘You sure about that?’
‘He didn’t have to.’ She swallowed. ‘He sent a picture.’
She held out a palm for the reporter’s phone. ‘Show me.’
‘It’s not a pretty sight, officer.’ Come on, come on. Raynes’ hands shook so much it took her an age to bring up the image.
Christ on a skateboard. ‘Shit.’ Carol’s tingle had turned into an ice cube. ‘I see what you mean.’
She so wanted to believe the eyeballs were made of glass but they looked all too human; besides, glass didn’t bleed. Carol barely felt Raynes’ tap on her arm.
‘Is that your ringtone?’
Still frowning, Carol reached into a pocket for her phone, registered the caller’s number.
‘Sarge, I was about to give you a bell. Something here you need to see.’
20
Bev stared at the eyes in the flesh, as it were, while listening to Pembers describe the screen version. She and Mac had been lucky the dog hadn’t high-tailed off with what it probably saw as a meatball. Imagine if the media had got wind of that. She could see the headline now: Cops take their eye off the ball. Cops seek dog with one eye. Cops’ balls-up. Perish the bloody thought. Fortunately the mutt hadn’t managed to make a meal of it, but talk about a dog with a bone. They’d had to chuck chunks of wood at the bloody thing to drive it away. Now Bev was standing guard over the evidence, waiting for one of the forensics team to get over from the squat. Mac had moseyed off to try and find a bite to eat. She’d put in an order for ginger biscuits.
‘I thought it might come as a bit more of a shock, sarge.’ Pembers said.
‘Yeah, well it’s like this …’ Relating her end of the story, Bev paced round the trolley, keeping a close … watch on the surroundings. After a mental cringe, she swore to herself the first cop to crack an eye gag would get it in the … goolies. Thinking of which. ‘Has Powell put in an appearance yet?’ Her calls were still going through to his voice mail.
‘I think he’s in with the guv. Want me to check?’
‘Nah. No worries.’ She’d prefer Pembers not to address Truss as ‘guv’, though. There was only one governor to her way of thinking, and Byford’s size twelves were too big for anyone to fill. ‘Can I have a word with Raynes?’
‘She wanted to stretch her legs, have a change of scenery. I left her having a cuppa with Darren up in the canteen.’
Christ. Raynes would devour Dazza before breakfast. ‘Okay. Make sure she –’ Bev widened her eyes. Truss. Shit. She checked her watch. If Mac didn’t get a move on, she’d be cutting it fine to make it back for the boss’s meet.
‘Make sure she what, sarge?’
‘Doesn’t disappear.’
‘Fat chance. If you ask me she’s shit-scared.’
‘If you ask me,’ Bev cut a glance at the eyes, ‘she needs to be.’
21
Bev smoothed both hands through her bob, licked her lips, checked her flies, ran a Doc Martens down the back of a trouser leg, hopped on the other foot so she could sort of shine the other shoe. She breath-checked into a hand cupped round her mouth, sniffed one pit, then the other. Dither? Bev? Course not. It wasn’t like Detective Superintendent Jessica Truss made her antsy or anything.
‘Right,’ she murmured. ‘Deep breath. Tap the door.’
Only it opened first. ‘Were you planning to stand there long, Beverley?’
‘Yes. No. I … er … I …’ Am a blithering idiot who can’t even busk it? How come Truss had the uncanny ability to put her on the back foot? Let alone see through two inches of wood? The boss must’ve read Bev’s face.
‘Not difficult, detective.’ Her eyebrow rose in a perfect arch. ‘I expected you five minutes ago. And perhaps if you make less noise, next time?’ Truss twitched a lip. Bev suspected she was taking the piss. Scrub that. Knew she was.
‘Sorry I’m late, I –’
She raised a palm. ‘You’re here now.’
Truss semi-sashayed back to the desk, leaving Bev to close the door and trail in her wake. The boss wore one of her signature skirt-suits: ivory-shade, knee-length, tight but definitely not tarty. Bev reckoned she chose gear to go with her colouring: blonde chignon, caramel eyes, porcelain skin. An immaculately groomed, classy, career cop. No wonder Bev felt a tad on the gauche side. Truss put her in mind of a cross between Dana Scully and Catherine Deneuve.
‘You wanted to see me, ma’am?’ She clocked what looked like dog hairs on her trousers, subtly brushed them off.
Legs crossed and fingers steepled, Truss leaned back in what Bev struggled not to think of as Byford’s chair. ‘Tell me the latest on Operation Twilight first.’
First? She put that on the back boiler, wondering what else Truss had in mind. Bev’s summing-up was brief, concise and covered every significant aspect. Even though she said so herself.
‘I take it you see the reporter as holding key information?’ Truss had zoned straight in on the nail head.
‘Yeah, and I don’t think she even knows it herself.’ Which was why she’d be interviewing Raynes after Truss got whatever it was off her chest.
‘Excellent. I knew you were perfectly capable of doing it.’ Truss gave a lopsided smile. Doing what? ‘You can be professional, intelligent, eloquent, incisive and focused.’ Bev shuffled in the seat trying not to look too chuffed. More, more. ‘That is … when you want to be. You don’t have to act the clown all the time, Beverley.’
Cheeky git. She opened her mouth to remonstrate but Truss flapped a hand. ‘Let me finish.’
By the time Truss had wrapped up, Bev was nigh on speechless. Dizzy too from watching her pace up and down as she spouted. Gist was, Bev was in danger of coasting. Truss and Powell both felt it was time she considered the future, put her career first. She wasn’t getting any younger. Thanks for that. An inspector’s job was coming up: they both wanted her to apply for it.
Like she didn’t know about the post? Oz Khan had already told her he was sniffing round it.
‘So what do you think?’ Truss asked.
Silently fuming, Bev stared at her hands. Apart from the fact she didn’t appreciate Truss and Powell mapping out her life without so much as a by-your-leave, it wasn’t just her own life Bev had to consider now. ‘Love to, ma’am.’ She cut her a glance. ‘But the timing’s all wrong.’
‘Is it ever perfect?’ Truss perched on the desk corner, waited for eye contact again. ‘Look, Beverley, when I put in for inspector, I had two children under five and I was four months pregnant with the third.’ She laughed. ‘Now that’s what you call bad timing.’
Hot flush alert. She knew the shock would be written all over her face. How could Truss find it amusing? More to the point, how the fucking hell did she know? Just not possible. Small talk is all. She couldn’t know, could she?
Truss lost the smile. ‘You are, aren’t you? Oh, boy. Me and my big mouth.’
Great. Bev had given it away without even opening her lips.
‘I’d no idea. Absolutely none.’ Shaking her head she slid off the desk, walked back to the chair, leaned forward this time. ‘I still don’t see it as a problem, Bev.’
She sniffed. Truss wouldn’t. Hitched to some banker, both sets of parents probably rolling in it. Not to mention a Detective Super’s wodge. She stared at a framed photo on the desk showing Team Truss posing all smiles in front of the family pile. It looked to Bev like the sort of place the hoi polloi bought tickets to go round and gawp.
‘I take it you do? Truss asked.
Bev shrugged.
‘You can ask.’ She sat on her hands, still felt the shockwave.
‘Okay. Just so you know, you have my full support. If you do go for promotion, I’ll help in any way I can.’
‘Thanks. Is that it?’ She knew her eyes were filling up.
‘Don’t rule it out yet, Bev. Think about it, yeah?’
‘Can I go now?’ Before the full waterworks.
‘After I’ve run something past you.’ She pushed a box of Kleenex across the desk. ‘Quite a few of the men have suggested holding a memorial service for Bill Byford. I think it’s an excellent idea. He was much loved, still missed. I’d like you to help me arrange it.’
Stick your tissues, lady. Swallowing a lump the size of Gibraltar, Bev felt the first hot tear course down her cheek. ‘I’m not big on religion, ma’am. I’d rather remember the guv in my own way.’
‘Of course. That’s fine.’ She looked as if she was about to say something else. Must’ve realized she’d said enough. ‘Okay, that’s all, thanks.’
‘Oh and, Bev.’
Make your mind up. Hand still on the door she turned her head.
‘Let me know if you get anything out of the reporter, and please think about what I’ve said. Oh, and’ – tentative smile – ‘congratulations.’
Congratu-frigging-lations? Bev slammed the toilet seat down, plonked her butt on the plastic, and leaned back against the tiles, hugging both arms round her knees. The goss would be doing the rounds in the nick before the loo had even finished flushing. She groaned out loud at the thought of all the smart-arse remarks and pointed looks; people buttoning it soon as she entered a room. Jessica Truss? More like bloody Judas. Okay, okay, Bev knew she’d worked herself up into a right state: that didn’t stop her feeling like she’d been trapped into letting the baby cat out of the bag. The new boss hadn’t just put Bev on the back foot, she’d caught her on the hop, too.
Powell had been in on the bloody conspiracy, too; the pair of them carving up her future like she’d no say in the matter. No wonder he looked so bloody sheepish last time she set eyes on him. Baa-effing-baa. Eyes? She closed hers briefly. Recalled the dosser’s bloody sockets. And she thought she’d been hard done by?
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