‘I’m not big on patience, Bev.’ Holding her gaze, he reached for the bottle.
‘And you think that’ll help.’ He’d been pissed as a wheel at a wheel wedding when he’d tried wasting Curran. She’d had to whisk him back to her place, pour black coffee down his throat, issue strong words. Quite the kitchen-sink drama. They’d reached an understanding: Richard would back off; she’d find a way out. An early way out for Curran. The agreement had been tacit, not explicit. She hadn’t decided how to put Curran out of her misery back then.
‘Probably not.’ He drained the glass anyway. ‘God, I want him dead so much, Bev.’
The stains round his mouth looked like badly applied lipstick. The colour didn’t suit him. The smile didn’t reach the bags under his eyes. Now she came to think of it, he had a receding chin. And hairline. And he needed a shave. She sniffed. Maybe he wasn’t a patch on his dad after all. Or maybe she was looking for excuses to keep her distance. Either way, Richard needed to keep his – as far away from the Sunrise Nursing Home as she could get him to go.
‘Leave it to me, okay, Rich?’
‘Easy words, Bev.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Okay, when?’
She gave a laboured sigh. ‘I told you, when the time’s –’
‘For crying out loud, the clock’s ticking. Tick, tock, tick, tock.’
Hickory-effing-dock. She was about to rip into him for being such a bloody drama queen when she saw tears welling in his eyes. It should’ve struck her before. He didn’t just share her loathing of Curran. He’d loved his father with a passion, too. Laying her hand on his, she softened her tone. ‘Listen up. I want to hear you swear on your dad’s grave you’ll go home, get back to the Lakes. Trust me on this, Richard. I’ll sort it.’
Maybe he saw something in her eye, heard it in her voice. ‘What will you do?’
‘You’ll know when it’s over.’
The eye contact was unflinching; the latest pause the lengthiest. Took around ten seconds for him to give the briefest nod and say he’d leave first thing.
Business concluded, bill paid, ten minutes later they stood ready to part by the Bullring’s famous bull. Bev reckoned the bronze statue didn’t look the same without a tourist matador on its back posing for a pic. O-bloody-lé.
‘Good to see ya, Rich.’ She hiked her bag. ‘Safe journey.’
He made a grab for her hand. ‘Walk me to the station?’
‘Nah.’ Rising on tiptoe, she pecked his cheek. ‘You’re a big boy now.’
He laughed. ‘Dad was right about you, y’know.’
‘Oh?’ Tell me, tell me.
‘I guess it was meant as a compliment.’ Smiling, he ran his thumb along her jaw line. ‘He reckoned you always did things your way.’
‘Still do, mate.’ She tapped her temple, turned and walked away.
24
‘I’ve just had a woman on the line, sarge.’
‘What you do in your own time, Vinnie …’ Phone nestling under chin, Bev curved a lip as she buttered a slice of toast at her desk. Early birds cannot live by worm alone, especially when they’d worked up a healthy appetite. DS Smug Pants had skimmed overnight reports, completed outstanding admin, checked Summer Raynes was still in the land of the living, taken a quick call from Nina Night Nurse, and found time to nip up to the canteen. Not bad going considering the little hand was still shy of eight.
‘Yeah, well. I couldn’t get much out of her, Bev.’
‘Shoulda tried a crowbar.’ She licked a trail of butter running down her wrist.
‘Very droll.’
‘Old ones are always the best, mate.’ Like Vince Hanlon, desk sergeant with thirty years service under his belt and a paunch you could picnic on. Big and brawny, his pate was bald bar a slipped halo of fluffy grey hair. He put her in mind of Friar Tuck with a steroid habit.
‘I’ve got her number. Will you have a word with her, Bev?’
She cut a rueful glance at her rapidly cooling breakfast. ‘S’pose. As it’s you. Any idea what the prob is?’
‘Not entirely sure, but from what I could make out she’s just back from holiday and her daughter’s not home.’
A mother reporting a missing girl? Bev’s antennae twitched. ‘She got a name, Vinnie?’
‘Henderson. Lorraine. Daughter’s called Shannon.’
Shannon Henderson? Where’d she heard the name before? Shoving the toast to one side, she snatched up a pen. ‘Any time you like, Vinnie.’
Could rush-hour traffic get any noisier?
‘Bristol, did you say, Morriss?’
Frowning, Bev clamped the handset tighter to her ear. ‘No, gaffer, Bourneville. It’s where the family live.’
Lorraine Henderson had barely been able to string two words together on the phone. Bev knew a face-to-face would be more productive and, if her instinct was on the money, getting out there now would be a damn sight quicker in the long run. As she’d tried telling Powell, she had an inkling the daughter might have paid big time for shooting her mouth off. Either way they needed to get the mother talking, soon as.
‘Are you saying this Shannon bird’s got form?’ Powell sounded a tad sceptical; probably thought Bev would do anything to avoid the early brief. Her and Mac both. She’d collared him in the car park before he even set foot in the nick. Mac was doing the driving honours, while Bev did some homework on the phone.
‘I’m saying if it’s who I think it is she made a false accusation a few years ago that landed a guy in court.’ Her English teacher, to be precise. Aiden Manners.
The case had been West Mercia’s baby. Bev was still matey with one of the detectives who’d been on the inquiry. She’d messaged Tel the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question and was waiting for an answer. Tel and his mates had been well hacked off when the trial collapsed, called the girl all the names under the sun – including, if Bev recalled rightly, Shannon Henderson.
‘And you’re thinking this guy’s waited till now for payback?’ Powell sniffed. ‘Sounds pretty unlikely to me.’
‘You may well be right, gaffer.’ Always a first time. ‘Won’t know till we’ve checked, will we?’
What Bev did know was that the Shannon she had in mind had a habit of telling fairy stories. Little Miss Anonymous in the media had got off lightly considering she’d spun a web of lies. Unlike the guy she’d vilified. Apart from having his reputation shredded, Aiden Manners had very nearly lost his liberty before the truth – and fantasies – came to light. Bev had refreshed her memory en route via a few online news reports.
‘All right, Morriss,’ Powell sounded grudging, to say the least, ‘just don’t take all day, I want –’
‘Oh and if it’s okay with you, I’ve asked Pembers to try and trace Manners so I can have a word.’ If nothing else, the guy could be eliminated from inquiries.
‘Have you now? And what –’
‘Gotta fly, gaffer. Sorry.’ Apart from the fact they’d just pulled up outside the Hendersons’ place, the email she’d been waiting on had pinged in. Her eyes lit up as she read.
Well remembered. Accuser’s name was Shannon Henderson. She and her mother left Worcester after the case was thrown out. Don’t forget you owe me a drink!!
It was the least she could do. Lip curved, she typed, ‘Cheers mate. Here you go.’ Inserted a virtual pint and hit send.
25
‘Reckon only chocoholics are allowed to live round here, boss?’ Mac winked as he rang the bell on a front door so glossy they could see their reflections in the dark wood.
‘Gotta stand more chance than alcoholics, mate,’ Bev drawled. Bournville was big on community, low on crime – it didn’t have a single boozer. The Cadbury brothers had banned watering holes way back. The temperance Quaker boys sure didn’t want their workers getting wasted. Glancing round now, Bev reckoned the place could still grace a chocolate box: clean streets, neat lawns, cosy cottages, village green. All it needed was a pond with a few ducks.
‘Press again, Mac.’ Her sniff picked up a hint of chocolate in the air. No surprise given they stood down-wind of the factory where the stuff was churned out.
‘Hold on, I’m on my way.’ A stick-thin woman – late-forties-early-fifties, short blonde hair, mahogany tan – opened the door. Bev had never seen a face fall so fast or so far. It was like internal scaffolding had collapsed.
‘Mrs Lorraine Henderson?’ She showed her ID card but doubted the woman bothered reading it. Her eyes were puffy behind huge dark sunglasses and her colour couldn’t mask the fact she looked sick as a dog.
‘I was hoping you’d be someone else.’ No shit? While Bev ran through the intros, the woman fiddled with a silver loop earring big enough to double as a bracelet. Maybe she’d lost the other. Certainly lost her tongue.
‘Go in, shall we?’ Bev tendered a smile.
It wasn’t returned. Mrs Henderson turned on her heels – gold strappy numbers – and tottered down the hall. Three bulging suitcases lined up along one wall sported ‘I ♥ Torremolinos’ stickers. The Costa del Sol in July. Bev raised an eyebrow. No wonder the woman looked as if she’d been dipped in Ronseal.
‘Have a seat.’ She waved in the general direction of a pine table complete with matching benches. ‘I was just making coffee.’ For herself.
Taking a pew, Bev took a closer look at their hostess with the leastest. From the back, she’d easily pass as a teenager. The short white A-line dress swamped her tiny frame and without the heels she’d stand less than five feet tall. What with the feathery hair and pointy features, she put Bev in mind of a superannuated pixie.
She let half a minute or so elapse, then: ‘When did you arrive home, Mrs Henderson?’
‘Three hours ago.’
Six-ish, then.
‘And you were away how long?’
‘Two and a half weeks.’
Bev turned her mouth down. That sure explained the coating of dust everywhere. Tapping her fingers on the table, she stifled a sigh. How long did it take to fix a cup of sodding Nescaff?
‘Lived here long?’ she asked casually.
Mrs Henderson cut a glance over a bony shoulder. ‘My daughter’s missing and that’s all you ask?’
‘Just making small talk till you’re ready, Mrs Henderson. So how long?’
‘If you must know, three years.’ Bev and Mac exchanged glances. Timing fitted with a move from Worcester.
Still with her back turned, the woman delved into yet another cupboard. Mac looked as if he was about to speak but Bev shook her head, mouthed Leave it. Whether Lorraine Henderson liked it or not, she’d couldn’t faff around forever. Bev wanted her focused and she wanted eye contact. Assuming the shades weren’t surgically attached.
While they waited, she gave the kitchen another quick gander. Found the pink gingham and polka dots décor a tad girly. As for the straw donkey on top of the fridge, she wouldn’t give it house room, nor the fairy lights draped round a Welsh dresser. She still couldn’t work out what the pong was but, judging by the open windows and door, Mrs Henderson had been trying to air the place. Still a way to go on that score.
Hoo-bloody-rah. The not-so-happy wanderer returned now faced them, clutching her caffeine fix, and the glasses had been parked on the side.
‘Come and sit down, Mrs Henderson.’
Glaring at Bev with bloodshot eyes she slid into the bench opposite. ‘You should be out there looking for my daughter. Not sitting here asking stupid questions.’
Prickly? Defensive? Scared? ‘First things first. I take it you expected to find Shannon here?’
‘Of course I did. This is her home.’ She sounded Zen-like compared with how she’d been on the phone, but the hand holding the mug shook so much half the contents sloshed over the sides and pooled on the table.
Mac was on his feet in a flash. ‘Stay where you are, I’ll sort that.’
She returned his smile. ‘Thank you.’ Seemed less icy with Mac. Or maybe she liked men more than women. Interesting, that.
Bev waited until he was alongside again, pen poised. ‘Is there anywhere you think Shannon could be?’ she asked. ‘A friend’s house, perhaps?’
The earring caught the light when she shook her head. ‘No way. She knew I was getting back today.’
‘When did you last talk to Shannon?’
She dropped her gaze. ‘Can’t recall exactly.’ The tan had taken on a pinkish tinge.
‘But some time while you were away?’
‘Probably. Yeah, I think so.’ No, then. The hand-wringing going on in her lap looked painful. Bev backed off. No sense pushing it when the woman felt bad enough. Not when Bev was pretty sure she’d feel a hell of a lot worse before much longer. She kept her voice calm and casual, aimed at coaxing out as much as possible before venturing onto trickier ground.
‘Tell me about Shannon. How old is she? What does she do?’
‘Just eighteen.’ A fond smile softened her pointy features. ‘She’s off to uni in the Autumn. Coventry. Doing English.’
‘And until then?’
Shannon worked part-time in a coffee bar, she told them. Keen to earn cash for when she started student life. Mrs Henderson hadn’t called the place yet, it didn’t open till 10. Mac took down details. Bev moved on to ask about Shannon’s friends, interests, where she liked to go. The woman reeled off a few names, numbers, places, but her stress levels were visibly rising. Knife-edge canyon.
And then she slipped. Lurching forward she grabbed Bev’s wrist, held it in a vice-like grip.
‘Get out there and find her, for Christ’s sake. She could be anywhere. What if she’s been in an accident? What if someone’s holding her prisoner?’
Thoughts racing, Bev stared at Mrs Henderson’s hand. Pretty much convinced the woman’s daughter was dead, she was struggling for what to say, how to broach it.
‘This isn’t helping anyone, Mrs Henderson.’ Mac came to the rescue. Speaking softly he said: ‘Sit down, take a deep breath. Would you like some water?’
She shook her head, lowered herself back on the bench. ‘I’ll be fine, thanks. It’s just I know my girl so well. This just isn’t like her. Something’s wrong. I’m certain of it.’
‘Why do you say that, Mrs Henderson?’ Bev asked.
A fortnight’s post piled up on the mat, a fridge full of food that hadn’t been touched, a feeling of dread she couldn’t shake.
‘Do you have a recent photograph of her?’
‘Of course. Wait there.’ She rushed out as if the place was on fire.
Mac slipped his phone out of a pocket ready to call the caff. ‘Not looking good, is it, boss?’
But considerably better than a minute or so later when Mrs Henderson handed Bev a photo. The girl had an Alice in Wonderland look about her. Delicate features, pale skin, blonde hair falling to the waist. Shannon’s wide smile was all her own, though – and it revealed a glint of gold.
26
‘How’d she take it?’ Powell was on the phone.
‘How’d you think she took it?’ Bev was bloody shattered, and she’d only had to break the news. Not have her life shattered by hearing it. That shit task went with a cop’s territory and never got any easier, but in a not-yet-cut-and-dried case like this it had been a nightmare. Screaming and crying, veering between denial and despair, a hyperventilating Mrs Henderson had suffered a full-blown panic attack before throwing up in the sink. Bev had helped her upstairs so she could shower, change, try and calm down before the next round of questioning.
Even now they were waiting on confirmation from DNA and dental records, but given the circumstantial evidence the odds of the body in the mortuary being anyone other than Shannon were negligible to non-existent. Staff at the coffee bar had caught neither sight nor sound of the girl for two weeks, which only added to Bev’s conviction that they now had Jane Doe’s identity.
‘How much did you tell her?’ Powell again.
‘Enough.’ She’d kept back the graphic detail. Soul-destroying en
ough informing a mother with a missing daughter that she’d likely never see her again. Revealing Shannon had been murdered, never mind violated, would be information overload at this stage. Lorraine Henderson would have to learn the facts eventually, but it could hang fire a while.
Right now, Bev stood in the girl’s bedroom, gazing out the window at a couple of magpies playing tug-of-war with what was probably a pretty pissed-off worm. Her deep sigh steamed up the glass.
‘It’s a shit job, Morriss. Shouldn’t let it get to you.’
‘Hunky, me, mate.’ Or would be if her search threw up even the tiniest lead. So far, she’d found nada. Maybe Mac was having better luck downstairs.
‘Course you are.’ She heard one of the DI’s sniffs. They were almost as telling as Bev’s range of snorts. ‘Anyway, Morriss, what’s she have to say about Manners and the pack of porkies?’
‘Give us a chance, gaffer.’ Mrs Henderson had barely taken in Shannon’s death. As for the outside chance the girl had brought it on herself, God knew how that would go down. Ouch. Bev winced. Poor bloody worm. Both birds were scoffing the spoils. She turned her back, perched on the sill.
‘Soon as you like, Morriss. I’m beginning to think you might be onto something.’ He’d been taking a look at the case, he said. Had dipped into some of the news stories online. By the tap-tap sounds in Bev’s ear he still was. ‘The girl really had it in for him, didn’t she? Crying rape could’ve got him sent down for years.’ Multiple rape, actually. She’d had her claws out big-time.
‘Yeah,’ Bev said, ‘and we all know what they say about mud.’ Similar to smoke and fire.
‘If you ask me, it should never have gone to court.’
‘Can’t argue with you there.’
It emerged during the trial Shannon had told five different versions of a story that was pure fantasy anyway. Not only that but the prosecution’s physical evidence was dodgy, love letters purportedly from Manners turned out to be fakes, and Shannon’s claims he’d forced her to have an abortion were risible. The whole bloody shebang had been a farce and certainly not West Mercia’s finest hour – half the time it took the jury to clear Manners on all counts.
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