Maintaining the eye contact, Mac leaned even further forward, his hands still casually crossed between his thighs. Trust me, I’m on your side, the tactic said. Bev played it often enough.
‘Earlier, Lorraine, you told us you couldn’t understand why anyone would harm Shannon. Are you sure about that?’
‘Absolutely. She got on with everybody.’ Patently not and the answer sounded pat to Bev.
‘Think about it, Lorraine.’ He left a long pause, then: ‘That’s not quite true, is it?’
She stiffened, narrowed her eyes. ‘Surely you’re not raking up all that old stuff again?’
‘Stuff?’
‘You know what I mean. The court case.’ She shot up like she was on oiled springs. ‘That … that … teacher …’
‘Aiden Manners.’ Bev helped her out.
‘Yeah, that one.’ Arms folded, she paced the pink carpet. ‘I don’t care what anyone says, he led her on. She was ill at the time, vulnerable. Just lost her dad. Loved Barry to bits, she did.’
Bev reckoned she’d left Manners pretty much in pieces too. She traced an eyebrow with her finger. Wondered who Lorraine was trying to kid. Probably herself. She knew better than anyone how Shannon had lied through her gold filling.
‘That’s not how the judge saw it though, Lorraine.’ Mac kept the same soft conversational tone. He could have spelled out the judge’s views for her: described Shannon as a spiteful fantasist, if Bev recalled right.
‘Yeah, well. It’s all in the past now.’
‘And there’s never been any comeback?’ Nice one, Mac.
She halted in front of the fire, arms still folded. ‘Course not. Why would there be?’
Ask her why they left Worcester, mate. She’d bet her pension the locals there knew Shannon was the anonymous accuser. It’d be common knowledge round the school for one thing.
‘Why did you move house so soon after the case, Lorraine?’ Well said, that man.
Bev saw in her eyes she was about to lie. The woman opened her mouth, then must’ve had second thoughts. She walked back to the chair, sank down, sighing heavily.
‘We got threats. Poison pen letters, dog poo through the letterbox. “Slag” daubed in red paint all over the walls. I’d have brazened it out. It would’ve died down eventually, but Shannon …’
Had taken to self-harming. Lorraine had friends in Birmingham. They needed a fresh start. End of. They’d put it all behind them and nothing had happened since to make her believe they hadn’t achieved one.
Except it had.
‘What you reckon then, boss?’ Mac handed over a foot-long Subway – Italian BMT, warm herby bread. Bev closed her eyes, breathed in the smells. Yummo. Heaven on a paper napkin. Mac had nipped in for the nosh while she waited outside in the motor. Seemed like a good idea, given it was parked on double yellows. The traffic wardens in Moseley buzzed round on mopeds, like heat-seeking missiles.
‘Well, Mac,’ she said, unwrapping the goodies, ‘I reckon if there’s a job going on the Today programme, you’ll be a shoo-in.’ Lip curved, she shot him a glance. Aw. He was tickled pink. Tyler with a blush on had to be a first. ‘No shit, mate, you did good getting her to talk.’
‘Kind as it is of you to map out my next career move, boss, question I had in mind was: given what Lorraine came out with – what’s your take now on revenge as the motive?’
Mouth turned down, she broke off six inches of sub; the rest could go behind her ear for later. ‘They say it’s best eaten cold, don’t they?’
‘Or served.’ He bit into his bacon-and-cheese melt.
‘Deff worth exploring, Mac.’ She’d a mind to have a word with Aiden Manners’ mum, and not on the phone.
She chewed over a few thoughts as they ate. Three years since the trial was dropped and the toxic fall-out after might have naff all to do with the current case, but it definitely needed checking. It wasn’t like they had leads going spare. Mac had coaxed several potential lines of inquiry from Lorraine: verbal threats, menacing phone calls, heavy breathers. He’d also cajoled her into going on camera to do a witness appeal. That had certainly taken more than a little sweet-talking. The prospect horrified the woman initially, but Mac promised he’d be there holding her metaphorical hand at the news conference. All they needed now was Powell getting back with a time. Mind, she’d not say no to the killer coming forward.
‘Nah, as I say, you did real well, Mac. Woman’s a right ditz if you ask me.’
‘Just needed gentle handling, Bev. She’s not a bad person.’
About to take a bite, instead she turned her head, mouth still open. ‘I never said she was.’
His single shoulder shrug said she didn’t have to.
‘Hey, come on, matey’ – jabbing the bread at him – ‘say what you mean.’
‘You know as well as I do.’ She’d made it clear from the get-go, he said.
‘What?’
‘You don’t like her.’
‘Bollocks.’ She turned a childish back, carried on eating in silence, apart from Mac masticating. Okay, he’d hit a nerve. She’d never gone a bundle on girly girls and ‘Shucks, poor little me’ types. Pain in the butt, the lot of them. But since when did a half-decent cop wear her antipathy on her sleeve? What right did she have to take exception to Lorraine swanning off to Spain? Shannon was old enough to be left to her own devices. It was hardly her mother’s fault she’d been butchered like a piece of meat. But there was more to it than that. Bev sighed. Being honest, she sensed she’d deliberately distanced herself on the grounds she didn’t want to get too close to yet another person’s pain, like it was contagious. She needed to get over it pretty quick. The job was no picnic.
‘Thought you were saving half for later, boss.’
Shit. She’d scarfed nearly a foot of carbs. And Mac thought it was hilarious. ‘Yeah, well,’ she blustered, ‘if you’d got me some crisps to go with it, I wouldn’t have had to eat the lot.’
‘Oo-er, slap my wrist. Didn’t realize it was my fault.’
‘Yeah, and you could have said a bit sooner, an’ all.’ Frowning, she turned to find out what the weird gurgling sound was: Tyler was trying so hard not to laugh he looked like he was having a stroke. ‘Nothing’s that funny, mate.’ Though she felt her lip twitch.
He shook his head. ‘Honest, boss, if you could hear yourself sometimes …’ Then he couldn’t stem it any longer. Nor could she. He laughed so much he had trouble spitting out the words. ‘Bloody typical. You pig out up there on your high horse and it’s me gets it in the neck. Talk about fair cop.’
‘Yeah, but you still love me, dontcha?’
‘Bloody hell, Bev’ – wiping tears – ‘it’s a good job I do, or …’
‘Don’t get any ideas though – I’m not marrying you or nothing.’
‘Daft sod.’ Flicking the ignition. ‘You might want to …’ He ran a finger over his lips.
She peered in the mirror. Mayo. ‘Ta, mate.’ The in-car silence was easy this time. Bev checked her phone for updates while Mac negotiated traffic on the Moseley Road. They were almost back at Highgate when he spoke. ‘You know you said the Today programme?’
She masked a smile. He was after another compliment. ‘That I did.’
‘I’d have thought Newsnight, myself.’
Bless. If ever a guy had a face for radio. She winked. ‘Good luck with that, mate.’
31
Lorraine Henderson’s gaunt face virtually filled the screen. Even with the tan, the close-up highlighted every line, every wrinkle, every open pore and imperfection. The image was being beamed into hundreds and thousands of homes, pubs and other premises across the Midlands.
Viewers saw a tiny woman, bookended by two cops, seated behind a highly polished ebony desk, hand shaking slightly as she read from a prepared script.
‘Please, please come forward with information. However insignificant you think it is, it could help catch my daughter’s killer.’
The picture cut to a sm
iling Shannon with long blonde hair curtaining a heart-shaped face.
‘She was beautiful. Just starting out in life. Kind and loving.’
A pause, then the voice, still cracking, continued.
’I miss her more than I can say and the monster who killed her is out there now. Please, please, the police need your help – and so do I. Please pick up the phone.’
‘“Kind and loving?” I must’ve missed that bit.’ The man laughed, hit the pause button, capturing Lorraine Henderson full-screen, mouth skewed, eyes closed. He walked nearer the TV, knelt to study the freeze frame. ‘Not ready for your close-up there, are you, Loz, pet?’
Knock-out compared with her daughter, though. He curled a lip. The resemblance wasn’t striking, but he could just about see it in the bone structure. Like mother like bitch. Not that Little Miss Baldy would have won many beauty contests last time he’d seen her. She’d begged for help, too. Just like her brain-dead mother. He’d not felt particularly charitable then. Nor now.
‘Know something, Loz, pet? If you were on fire, I wouldn’t waste a piss on you.’
Spit was another matter, though. He rolled saliva round his mouth ready to aim, but heard a noise, glanced round. Footsteps on the stairs getting louder. Best not share the view, it was enough to put people off their dinner. He switched channels, wandered back to the sofa, picked up his phone. He’d think about calling the police, giving them a pointer.
Didn’t have to be in the right direction.
‘We might have a break, gaffer.’ Bev had popped her head round Powell’s door. It was getting on for half-seven, but she’d stayed after the brief to help answer the anticipated flood of calls.
He glanced over the top of his monitor. ‘Go on.’
‘Daz spoke to some bloke who watched the appeal who reckons he saw Shannon in Stirchley High Street. With a feller. ’Bout three weeks ago.’
‘And?’
‘They were rowing outside an offie. Lots of effing and blinding.’
‘Bloke have a name?’
‘Nah, got cut off. No number either.’ Daz had got it on tape, though.
‘Description?’
‘Nowt to write home about. Tall, thin, long dark hair, Birmingham accent.’
‘Sounds as much use as a chocolate candle.’
She shrugged. Beggars. Choosers. ‘I guess it’s worth checking the CCTV? There’s a few cameras out there.’ The blond looked happy as a sand boy in a snowstorm.
‘Maybe.’ He chewed his lip. ‘Know the trouble with this case, Morriss? It’s all bloody guesswork. Like this thing with Manners you keep banging on about.’
Banging on? She’d mentioned the guy three, maybe four, times. ‘What harm’s a word with his old lady gonna do?’ The DI looked dubious, even though he knew she’d booked a visit tomorrow. Saturday, too. Her supposed day off. ‘Come on, gaffer.’
‘Yeah, well don’t be out there long.’ Flapping a hand, he looked down at his screen. ‘And, Morriss, if you get a better offer …’ He glanced up, but she’d gone before he could change his mind.
‘You off, sarge?’
Bev turned to find Stacey Hardy tailing her down the back stairs. Half-eight on a Friday night: Bev toting bag, jacket, keys, phone, and heading to the car park with a smile on her face.
‘Shoulda been a detective you, Stace.’ Whoops. She could kiss goodbye to that job in the diplomatic corps. ‘Sorry, mate. Just slipped out. No offence.’
‘Yeah, well, none taken. Should have known it was a bit SBO.’
‘SBO?’
‘School of the bleeding obvious. I just wanted a quick word, if you have the time, like?’
Why not? It wasn’t as if the bloke off Poldark was waiting to welcome her home, draped in a tea towel. Besides, she owed Stacey a drink. ‘What’s your tipple, Stace?’
Ten minutes later they were seated at a corner table in The Station pub. Stacey had a pint of bitter shandy in front of her; Bev gin and tonic without the gin.
‘Cheers, mate.’ Chinking glasses. ‘This word, then. Wouldn’t be anything to do with suicide, would it?’
‘You’re bang on, sarge.’ The smile lit up Stacey’s face. Bev reckoned she’d be a stunner if she dropped the weight, including the chippy on her shoulder.
‘Bev, okay? This isn’t the station.’ Okay, it was, if she was being pedantic.
‘Bev it is.’ She’d taken a call from a lawyer, she said, friend of Hilary Cash. ‘You remember her?’
‘Come on, matey.’ Rolling her eyes. ‘I ain’t in my dotage yet, y’know.’ Hilary Cash: mother of Sally, widow of Thomas, nice little pad in Kings Heath, popped enough painkilling clogs to down a morbidly obese hippo.
‘Yeah, but you must have a load on your mind, what with being a detective and all.’ Winking, she reached for her glass, knocked back a good half. ‘Any road, this lawyer reckons there’s no way on God’s green earth that Hilary Cash would do herself in.’
Bev swirled a sip of tonic round her mouth, then: ‘That’s more or less what the daughter told us.’
‘Exactly. That her mum had lots to live for.’
‘So how come this legal didn’t get in touch before?’ She’d been on some course, Stacey said. Phoned the minute she got back. Bev took another sip. Asked Stacey how the brief could be so sure Hilary wouldn’t end it all. The women had been mates for years, apparently, and the lawyer knew Hilary’s take on most issues. She saw suicide as self-murder, a mortal sin before God if not the state. And more than that …
‘She had a new fella.’ Stacey sniffed.
Bev closed her mouth quick before a bus came along. ‘You are joking?’
‘Nope. She’d booked to go to Italy with him later this year, and Miriam reckons wedding bells might have been in the air.’
‘Miriam?’
‘The lawyer.’
‘How’d you leave it with her?’
‘To be honest, sarge, I was hoping you might have a word.’ She reached in a pocket for a slip of paper.
‘Walking dictionary me, Stace. ’ Smiling, Bev tapped the number into her phone. ‘I’ll see if I can fit her in tomorrow.’
‘Would that be in the flesh, like?’
‘Always best. Why’d you ask?’ Bev masked a smile. As if she didn’t know.
‘Any chance of me tagging along?’
Why not? She wanted to be a detective, didn’t she?
32
John Lewis. Copper. No cheap shit. Last one cost seventy-five quid.
The note wasn’t signed, but given Bev found it propped against the toaster, the clever dick’s money was on Frankie. And also clearly about to go on a replacement pan. Perlagio must’ve had a nose in the bin, tracking down the scent of burnt milk. As for copper? Bev sniffed. At that price she’d have expected gold-plated platinum. Might try and fit in a trip to town, though. Needed a new frock. Had a few matters to address first.
She popped a couple of slices of bread in to toast, glanced at her watch. Was eight on a Saturday too early? Nah. Good journos didn’t keep office hours. Was Summer Raynes any cop at the job though? She’d not exactly been hot on picking up recent calls, responding to voice mails. Bev had left two so far. Sounded like she’d be leaving another. Yep.
Bev Morriss here. I need a word. Get back to me pronto or I’ll be round tonight.
Third time lucky? It’d better be. If Raynes was deliberately avoiding her, there’d be hell to pay.
Summer Raynes knew she was out of her depth and then some. Slumped against a wall in the kitchen she stared at the mobile in her hand, willing it to stop ringing. She knew Bev Morriss’ number well by now, had never come across anything like the image clutched in her other hand. Reluctantly she cut it another glance, the last of a sequence of six increasingly stomach-churning photographs.
What sort of sick fuck recorded stages of a body’s decomposition? It was like some insane twist on the old TV series, Look at Life. But Look at Death? You’d have to be seriously perverted to view it, never mind fi
lm it. Poor Shannon Henderson. Her body certainly hadn’t been left to rest in peace.
Raynes slipped her phone in her pocket and retrieved the first colour still from the floor where it lay with the others. She contrasted the girl’s image with the one shown on the telly last night to accompany the mother’s witness appeal. The blonde teenager, though obviously terrified, was recognisable. By the final picture the mother would have struggled to identify her own offspring. God forbid she ever had to. A ravaged corpse bloated and black and the head cruelly shaven to virtual baldness.
Raynes gagged again as both prints fell from her trembling fingers. Rising, she stumbled to the sink, poured water into a tall glass, stared through the open window as she drank. Blackbirds and birdsong. Sunlight and roses. A neighbour in a nightie pegged out washing while two toddlers raced round her feet. Such innocence. So incongruous compared with the film noir running in her head.
I’ll get the pictures to you in a jiffy, he’d said. And the bastard had been true to his word. When she’d come down that morning, the Jiffy bag had been lying on the hall floor. Personal delivery. Shivering despite the heat, she tightened the belt on her dressing gown.
With each image she’d seen, the depths of his depravity had dawned more. Clearly the killer had returned several times to view the corpse and get the sequence of shots. What compelled him to keep going back? Did rotting flesh provide his sick mind with some sort of weird gratification? The condition had a name. Necrophilia: an unhealthy obsession with and attraction to dead bodies.
Raynes pressed the cold glass against her flushed cheek. Bodies per se or just Shannon Henderson’s? And drawn by attraction or revulsion? Desire or death wish? In his twisted mind, did he love the girl so much he couldn’t bear to let her go or hate her so much he needed to check she’d never be coming back?
More to the point, what the fuck was she going to do about it? Grimacing, she turned her head; certainly couldn’t leave the bloody things there. Sighing, she gathered the prints off the floor. She’d already forced herself to examine the least horrific, hoping to find clues to where they’d been taken. The close-ups had revealed nothing useful. Well, not to an untrained eye. As she stuffed them back in the bag, her glance fell on something odd left of frame in the one on top. Lifting it closer, she narrowed her eyes, felt a knot in her stomach. Surely not? The silhouette’s shape and positioning suggested a third person had been on set. Did the lens-man have an assistant or a director calling the shots?
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