Man up, for Christ’s sake. She sniffed. ‘Rather, woman up, any day.’ And stop talking to yourself.
She tore off a few sheets of toilet paper, wiped the tears, gave her nose a gargantuan blow, and jumped to her feet ready to tackle the reporter: Summer time. And the living ain’t easy. The dying wasn’t a bundle of fun, either.
As Bev emerged from the cubicle, Jessica Truss unfolded her arms and peeled herself off the wall. ‘Just in case you were wondering, your news won’t go any further, Beverley. Not until you’re ready. You have my word on that.’
Ready? Who says –? Truss slipped out the door while Bev was still picking her jaw up off the floor.
22
Late brief. Highgate. Bev sat at the front jotting down figures, making mental notes. To her way of thinking, if Operation Twilight was a bank account, it’d be in deep red shit. The balance between perp and squad definitely not healthy. And her calculations didn’t even cover the bodies in the mortuary.
In the debit column, the girl’s family hadn’t come forward, the dosser had no ID on him, leads weren’t living up to their name, and the inquiry had less quality intelligence than a school for cut-price spies. On the plus side, and she used the term loosely, at least there were only two murder victims.
Except Powell seemed to think they were now living on borrowed time as far as the body count went.
Standing centre-stage, hand dug deep in trouser pocket, he’d just expressed concern there could be more victims; had actually trotted out the dreaded cliché, serial killer. His thinking was based on the timescale between the deaths and close proximity of the crime scenes. Bev didn’t buy it, but if his aim had been to sharpen the squad’s attitude, in the main it had worked. She sensed the frisson rise, heard shuffling and rustling as some detectives sat straighter and others leaned forward in their chairs, all keen-eyed focus on Powell.
Bev’s gaze strayed to the whiteboards off to the left. Her grimace was the facial equivalent of a knee-jerk reaction. The pics didn’t get any easier to stomach. What most concerned her was the gratuitous violence: the vaginal mutilation, the gouging out of a victim’s eyes. The savagery smacked of a taste for blood, but a killer didn’t have to fit the serial profile for his gory appetite to grow.
‘Are you listening, Morriss?’
‘All ears me, gaffer.’ She glanced up, wondering how long he’d been hovering. ‘I was just thinking.’
‘Makes a change. Joke.’ He jingled a few coins in his pocket. ‘Are we gonna share, then?’
‘I’m wondering whether he gets off on it.’
‘You think it’s a sex thing?’
‘Not what I’m saying.’ Nor the pathologist. As far as he could tell, the girl hadn’t been violated that way and the dosser certainly hadn’t. ‘The blood lust. It’s like he revels in it yet …’
‘What?’ Several gazes followed hers to colour stills.
‘There’s a hell of a lot of hate going on there, as well.’ The frenzied attack on Jane Doe bore out what she said. To inflict that much damage, surely he must have known the girl personally, if not intimately?
‘Crime of passion, maybe?’ Pembers piped up next to Bev. ‘They say there’s a fine line between love and hate.’
‘Nah,’ Powell drawled. ‘My money’s still on a psycho. The old red mist. Love it, don’t they? The power, the control, the buzz. And they never show remorse. Known facts.’
Bev tightened her lips, just about managed to refrain from shooting him an industrial eye-roll. Who the heck were all these ‘they’? Powell had clearly taken the Ladybird guide to serial killers to heart. The one-size-fits-all and sod-the-facts school of policing. Jack the Ripper had a shed-load to answer for. The myths and misconceptions had started back then and been perpetuated ever since. Thanks to the media and the movies, every serial killer was a psycho and every psycho a Harold Shipman. In the public’s lurid imagination, they’d all been dropped on the head when they were nippers, they all pulled the wings off flies, drowned kittens and bit the heads off vampire bats, and it went without saying – natch – without exception they were sexually deviant dysfunctional loners. Course they were.
‘It’s a hell of a stretch, gaffer.’ Mac observed from his windowsill perch. ‘Strikes me the dosser got wasted ’cause he’d seen too much. The perp was only covering his tracks.’
‘Only?’ Powell sneered. ‘Great comfort that’ll be to the poor sod’s nearest and dearest. Assuming he had any. And we ever trace them.’
Bev flapped a hand. ‘You know what Mac’s getting at. It doesn’t necessarily figure the guy’s a multiple offender.’
‘Yeah? Well my gut instinct’s telling me he’ll strike again,’ Powell said. How come he slagged off Bev’s abdominal insights as feminine intuition? She let it go. Lucky. ’Cause he’d moved on already.
‘We all know the score with these nut jobs,’ Powell continued. ‘They get cocky, make mistakes. They feed off the notoriety, the media coverage, but deep down they want to get collared.’
‘Nailing him should be a doddle then,’ Pembers murmured.
Bev might’ve cracked a smile, but they were in danger of getting sidetracked here. Powell was parroting more serial-killer crap. The attention-seeking-insane-evil-genius-dying-to-get-caught bit. Frigging tosh. Fact was the Dennis Nilsens of this world generally blended into society, had loving wives, bright kids, held down decent jobs, and often had a different motive every time they committed a crime. Top, middle and bottom line? They kill because they want to.
If she was on the right track, their perp didn’t fit the kill bill. Bev was pretty convinced he’d known the girl and for whatever twisted reason wanted her dead. The dosser, poor bugger, was collateral damage.
Which meant Powell banging on about the likes of Hannibal Lecter amounted to nothing more than a row of Fava beans. Course she could be wrong. Nah. The man was a tit.
‘What was that, Morriss?’
‘Talking to myself, gaffer.’ She frowned. Unless it had come out aloud.
‘Well, try voicing a few thoughts as to how we’re gonna nab the bastard before the tally rises even further.’ He loosened his tie an inch or two, ran his gaze over the troops. ‘And don’t hold back. It goes for all you lot.’
Bev slipped her phone out of a pocket as she half listened to the free-for-all going on around her. Unless someone came up with a cracker, she’d chuck in her two penn’orth about Raynes towards the end. With Powell otherwise occupied, she skimmed a few messages. A text from Byford junior. Did she fancy a bite to eat later? Best say yes. If only to find out what he was doing back in Birmingham. Similar invite from Oz. Too late, mate. Boy, was she Miss Popular tonight. Hello Stranger. She smiled. That was mum-speak for where the hell have you been, our Bev? If that was Emmy’s stick, the carrot was an offer of a Sunday roast. Why the heck did everyone seem to want to feed her?
Powell’s Italian loafer appeared in her eye-line. She lifted her gaze to find the rest of him attached. ‘Gaffer?’
‘Multi-tasking, are we, Morriss?’
‘Sure am. Checking to see if Summer Raynes has been in touch.’ She still thought their best chance of a break lay with the reporter, even more so after the interview earlier. It seemed likely to Bev that Raynes had come across her secret admirer in some sort of capacity on a previous news story. She covered a lot of crime and, let’s face it, the perp was no model citizen.
‘And has she?’
Bev slipped the phone back in her pocket. ‘Early days.’ No one likely had come to the fore while Raynes was being interviewed in IR1, but she’d gone away keen to check recent notebooks and trawl her contacts’ list. If anything pinged even the vaguest bell, Bev would be the second to know. And if the guy rang again, Raynes would hit the record button. ‘She’s got to be our best bet of getting to him, gaffer.’
‘Yeah, well I won’t hold my breath.’ Powell slipped an arm into his sleeve and shrugged on his jacket. ‘She could be in on it, for all we know.’
Tosser. She didn’t trust herself to speak: her face must’ve said it all.
‘Look, Morriss, we know he’s manipulating her – it’s what these scrotes do – but it could just as easily be a two-way thing.’ He held up a finger. ‘One, she gets the inside track. Two,’ – raising the next digit – ‘chummy gets the media exposure.’
Two fingers. Bev couldn’t put it better herself. She gave a sage nod. ‘That must be why everything he tells her is all over the papers.’
Powell sniffed. ‘Ever heard of waiting for the punch line?’
Purlease. The blond wouldn’t be coming out with such rot if he’d seen the state of the woman when she left the nick. Shit-scared wasn’t in it. If Bev was Raynes, she’d be stocking up on brown trousers. Like Powell had been bulk buying at the bollocks shop. Despite his blithe assumptions, they didn’t know anything. Okay, initially the reporter might have believed there was something in it for her; that she and the perp could do business together. But if Bev was any judge, since the perp’s last eye-opening offering Raynes was under no illusion.
Why else had she asked for a police guard? Not that Powell had sanctioned it. He’d liaised with uniform to see if patrols could be stepped up round her pad in Edgbaston, but that was as far as he’d go. What with high costs and budget cuts, there wasn’t enough cash in the coffers. Given how the inquiry was already deep in the red, Bev couldn’t help but think about false economies.
Money’s too tight to mention? Didn’t stop Bev humming it as she left the briefing room.
Striding down the corridor ten minutes later, Bev still had the tune playing in her head. She wasn’t the only cop with money in mind. ‘Hey sarge, got any change on you?’
Bev glanced round and saw Stacey Hardy crouched by the vending machine.
‘Bugger’s eaten my last fifty pee.’ Stacey pulled a hard-done-by face.
Bev smiled. She’d been about to make a sharp exit but retraced her steps. She’d wanted to grab a word with Stacey at some point anyway. ‘Have you tried talking nicely to it, Stace?’
‘If calling it a chunk of shit counts.’
‘Nah. That just hurts its feelings. You have to be gentle. Look and learn.’ Bev glanced round before landing an almighty kick, watched an avalanche of coins spew forth. ‘Ker-ching.’
‘Who’d a thought it? I’d no idea it doubled as a one-armed bandit.’ Stacey laughed as she gathered small change off the floor.
‘Certainly robbed me blind a few times.’
‘What shall I do with this lot?’ She held out a palm full of copper.
‘Police benevolent fund. Or lottery tickets. We might be on a roll.’ Masking a wince, she casually shifted her weight to the foot that didn’t throb. ‘Meant to say earlier, Stace. That address you gave Mac? It was a real heads-up. Body was still warm when we got there. Well done, mate.’
She turned her mouth down. ‘Poor old boy was no less dead, sarge.’ Bev watched her feed in the needful, press a button. Surely she wasn’t blaming herself in some way?
‘None of us could’ve done anything to prevent it, Stace.’
‘Yeah, I know. Way he was going he’d probably have drunk himself to death before much longer any road.’ She blew on a steaming cup of Bovril. ‘Enough to make you turn teetotal, innit?’
‘That stuff is.’ Bev stepped back from the fumes.
‘Won’t kill you, though. Not like booze. Lethal, innit? You heading out? I’ll walk down with you.’
‘Sure.’ Maybe Stace wanted to get something else off her chest. Bev vaguely recalled Mac telling her about Stacey’s call-out to some old lush who’d died of alcohol poisoning. ‘Thing is, Stace, some people just don’t have a booze-brake. A little of what you fancy ain’t gonna do anyone any harm.’
‘You reckon? We had a call-out the other day. This woman rarely touched the stuff – downs her body weight in gin. Dead as a dodo.’
Bev held the door open. ‘Deliberate?’
‘Deffo. Left a note. Lost her old man in a road accident. Reckoned her, quote, “dearest wish” was to be reunited with him.’
‘She got a name?’
‘Margot Langley. Lived in a swanky pad in Streetsbrook Road.’
Not exactly on skid row then. ‘Kids?’
‘Yeah, grown-up son. Leaving him behind couldn’t have bothered her much. But you should’ve seen him, sarge. Second he laid eyes on her, I thought his heart was gonna give out. Sweating, trembling, gasping for breath. Tell the truth I thought the performance was well over the top.’
‘Necrophobia.’
The cup stilled on its way to her mouth. ‘Yer what?’
‘Necrophobia. Fear of corpses.’ Amazing what you pick up from Uni Challenge. She hiked her bag, trying not to look too smug. ‘Bloody good job we’re immune.’
‘Shame these people don’t consider the fall-out though, sarge. Like that woman in Kings Heath the other day. Hilary Cash. Remember the daughter? She was in pieces an’ all.’
‘Her mother was a widow too, wasn’t she?’
‘Yeah and the second suicide I’ve copped in a week. I keep thinking about that old saying. Everything –’
‘Don’t go there, Stace.’ Smiling, she raised a palm. ‘Old wives’ tale. Only one thing comes in threes these days and that’s the number 50 bus.’
23
‘Sure you don’t want a drink?’ Richard Byford, dapper in charcoal chinos, tight black T, topped up his glass. By Bev’s reckoning it was the third large Merlot in thirty-four minutes. Not that she was keeping tabs or anything.
‘I’ll stick with this, ta.’ Tap water. Dropping her gaze, she asked casually. ‘How’d you get here?’ Here being seated across an alfresco table at Café Rouge in town. Balmy evening, pearly light; eau de garlic and naan bread wafting in the air. Très multicultural chic. Even the blokes on a leaving-do inside the place belting out ‘My Way’ added a certain je ne sais quoi. If you liked that kind of off-key thing.
‘I didn’t drive, if that’s what’s worrying you. Officer.’ The mock salute signalled he wasn’t too far gone to catch her drift. He’d used the car to get down from Cumbria, he said, caught a train from Four Oaks into New Street.
Like she gave a flying fig about his modes of transport. Not when she was transfixed by the guy’s uncanny likeness to his father. Every feature, every gesture, even the voice reminded her how much she’d lost, how much it still hurt. She forced a smile. ‘I’ll leave the breathalyser in my bag then, shall I?’ Like the hypodermic carefully wrapped and nestling in the folds of an inside pocket.
‘You do that.’ Christ, he’d even inherited the wink.
Caught at certain angles, junior’s resemblance to the big man took her breath away. Like now, watching him make inroads into apple pie and ice cream like a kid on a day out. Sipping her drink, she sneaked more glances, mentally ticking the Byford boxes: square jaw, jutting cheekbones, sable hair just a tad too long, the George Clooney smile lighting up dark chocolate eyes; irises so deep you could drown …
Feck’s sake, put a sock in it. She sounded like some love-struck teenager who read too much Jilly Cooper.
‘Fancy some?’
Some what? Looking back she was relieved to see a tart-laden spoon on offer. She shook her head. ‘Like I say, I’m stuffed.’ After a plate of pasta with fries on the side, she’d eschewed pudding.
He held her gaze a beat too long. ‘Sure you don’t fancy a taste?’
‘Nah. I lied.’
If she’d not been eyeing him so closely she might have missed the teeniest testy tightening of his lips. Didn’t share the entire gene pool with his dad, then: the big man would’ve thrown her the ghost of a smile.
‘Habit of yours, is it?’ Dead casual.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Too deep for me that, Richard.’ Like hell. She knew exactly where he was coming from. It was a not-so-subtle dig several steps up from the superficial chit-chat he’d spouted so far: weather, Wordsworth, M6 jams, housing market, cost of petrol. He wasn�
��t the only one mincing words. They were both guilty of skirting the big issue, using small talk as a diversion – not so much from the elephant in the room as the bull elephant copulating with a couple of cows on the coffee table.
‘Too deep? With your ace detective skills?’ He raised both brows. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
Enough already. Bull. Horns. Take. Shake. ‘Cut the crap. What you back here for, Richard?’
Slight pause. ‘I told you.’
‘Sure you did.’ She didn’t buy the line about showing prospective buyers round his dad’s place. Why take time off from the teaching job, travel down from the Lake District, and do the estate agents’ work for them? Okay. Fine. She’d checked. Who was selling. Asking price. Viewing hours.
Still staring at her, he pushed the empty plate to one side, hunched forward a fraction.
Get on with it, then. Stop staring.
‘You said you’d take care of it, Bev.’
Well, that told her. He’d thrown her exact words back in her face, but to hear him talk you’d think he meant collecting dry cleaning, settling the paper bill, or sorting the recycling.
Not taking out the murdering lowlife bastard who’d gunned down his dad.
Sodding hell. She tapped a finger on the table. Right now she’d kill for a smoke. And a Pinot or four. No one hated Curran’s guts more than she did, but Richard came a close second. So close she’d caught him looming over the bastard’s bedside a few weeks back, rearranging his face with a pillow. She’d intervened to prevent junior imposing a death sentence that guaranteed he’d go down for life. Plus he was encroaching on her territory.
‘Well?’ Another pause. ‘I’m waiting,’ he prompted.
Waiting for an answer or action? ‘I meant what I said.’
‘So will I be hanging out the bunting any time soon?’
Leaning in closer, she lowered her voice. ‘If I recall, I also said … “when the time comes”.’
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