Death Wish

by Maureen Carter

  ‘Not still brooding on the journo, are you?’ Oz asked, lifting his jacket off the back of the chair.

  She glanced up, mouth open. How the hell did he know she had Raynes on the brain? Okay, they’d discussed her, but not for long and only among a bunch of other cases. When cops hook up it’s what they do. Occupational hazard. Only another toiler in the crime yard gets the pressure, the commitment, the obsession. Course it might just be ’cause cops don’t have much else occupying the grey cells.

  ‘For your info, sunshine, I don’t do brood.’ If a voice could flounce, hers had just waltzed off down Temple Street into the sunset.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ He did the chivalry thing with her chair. ‘And the Pope’s a Mormon.’

  ‘Up yours, Khan.’

  ‘Fancy grabbing a cocktail?’ He twitched a lip.

  She sniffed. It’d have to be non-alcoholic but, ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Between the Sheets?’

  ‘Don’t push it, mate.’

  Bev found the bar stool a challenge. Mind, without the heels she’d have had even more trouble mounting it. With the swivel stick, bent straw, paper parasol and enough fruit to make a salad, the virgin piña colada also tested her dexterity. Yummy, though. Lip-smacking, in fact. Even without the white rum. She waited for Oz to try his Manhattan, then: ‘So how’d you divine I was thinking about the hack?’

  ‘Divine?’

  ‘Posh for suss out. Don’t change the subject.’

  He shrugged. ‘She sounds like she shares some of your traits: stubborn, bloody-minded, always wants the last word.’

  The glass didn’t make it to her mouth. ‘You tired of life, mate?’ Shit. Drink down the frock. Oz made to mop up the spill with a tissue.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of cleaning up my own mess, thank you.’

  ‘Clearly,’ he murmured.

  She glanced down. Got his point. It looked as if she’d developed a leak. ‘I happened to be wondering why she’s messing me around. If she’s nothing to worry about, why go out of her way to avoid me?’

  ‘Could be she’s scared.’

  ‘Bollocks, I’m not –’

  ‘It’s not all about you. What if the tip-off bloke’s threatened her again?’

  ‘Keep up, Khan. That’s why she’s meant to keep me posted.’ She narrowed her eyes. Unless the bastard’s upped the ante.

  ‘With me now?’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Imagine having someone after her who’s even scarier than you.’

  ‘Ho, ho, ho. ’Scuse me while I wet myself.’ He forbore to make the obvious remark, but she caught the ghost of a smirk. He had made another good point, though. Raynes was in for an early-morning alarm call. Bev would be leaning on the doorbell first thing and this time she’d not take any shit.

  Head down, Oz swirled the dregs of his drink round the glass. ‘I hear you put the wind up Frankie the other day.’

  ‘Sorry?’ She stared at his profile. Hadn’t a clue where he was coming from. Picking a precarious path through a verbal minefield, going by the long pause and lack of eye contact.

  ‘Caught you swotting up, didn’t she?’ His forced laugh didn’t fool her for a split second. ‘Not thinking of dropping something in her tea, I hope.’

  I am now. Still staring, she tightened her lips. So Frankie had snitched, had she? Told him about Bev searching lethal poisons on the web. Bloody great. While she’d been in the bedroom getting ready, the pair of them must’ve been in cahoots downstairs. A so-called best mate and a one-time lover talking about her behind her back. And Khan still hadn’t got the guts to look her in the eye.

  She could barely get the words out through a snarl. ‘I presume she also told you I’d knocked the idea on the head?’

  ‘I didn’t believe it for a heartbeat, Bev.’ At last he met her gaze, held it almost too long. ‘I know you wouldn’t kill yourself.’

  She stiffened. Course he did. Oz had a damn sight more nous than Frankie. That’s what frightened her. ‘Damn right.’ She slammed her glass down on the bar. ‘I’m off. Early shout and all that.’

  ‘Before you go, tell me,’ – his hand on her arm spoke volumes, but didn’t stop him spelling it out – ‘how is Paul Curran these days?’

  Know-all Khanie banging on about Bev always having to have last word, huh? Not tonight, Joseph. Not unless muttering to herself counted, when she’d stomped out leaving him high and not so dry on the bar stool. Guy had a bloody nerve. Should never have touched her – knew she hated it – let alone issued a veiled threat. Veiled? Yeah, veiled as an exhibitionist in a nudist colony.

  She sniffed, wiped an arm under her nose. There’d only been a few dregs left in the glass, anyway. His shirt could easy go in the wash. Yeah, okay, she knew it was childish. So what? She cut a glance at her new dress lying in a crumpled heap in the corner. Never had liked it, anyway.

  Bev sat in the opposite corner, hugging her knees. Talk about back against the wall. What with Richard Byford badgering her to do away with Curran soon as she liked and Khan making it bloody obvious he was on to her not-so-subtle end-game, she could live without the pressure. Had more than enough on her own account, thanks. No doubt Powell would be piling it on, too, come Monday. She’d checked in with the squad room: Operation Twilight? Not so much as a chink showing. All those doors knocked, statements taken, calls followed up … nada. She shook her head. It made no sense. Someone, somewhere must’ve seen something dodge.

  Sod it. She hauled herself up off the floor, pulled her nightie out of her knickers. Without a few zeds, she’d be good for nothing in the morning.

  As for Frankie and her litmus lie-test, what a bee-atch. Out to prove Bev wasn’t beyond stretching the truth when it suited her, wasn’t she? Yeah, well, the artful lodger’s rent would be taking a hike tomorrow. Mount Snowdon should do the trick.

  37

  The Lickey Hills? Bev rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and squinted at her phone again. The Lickey sodding Hills. Right first time. Why on earth had Summer Raynes texted asking for a meet in the great outdoors? Still propped on one elbow, Bev glanced at the time: 07.35. Seeing how she’d missed the message when it came in at six, she’d less than half an hour to get there for eight. Bang went the lie-in. Flinging off the sheet and muttering expletives, she dashed to the bathroom. Talk about no peace for the wicked. Lickey was a good fifteen minutes’ drive. A quick pit sniff confirmed the dire need for a shower first. Question was, could she shave a few seconds off her own world record?

  Give the girl a gong. Five minutes before eight and the hills were alive with the sound of music. Put another way, Bev was behind the wheel of the Midget helping Bruce Springsteen belt out Born To Run. Springsteen might be sweating it out on the streets, but even with the window open Bev was near melting point in the motor. At this rate she’d soon need a dip in Lickey’s lake. Mind, if the mercury carried on rising, she’d have the roof down on the way back. Couldn’t see the assignation with Mata Hari Raynes going on for hours.

  Frowning, she stopped tapping and singing for a beat or two. What the hell’s a suicide rap, Brucie? Heyho. She shrugged. If the maestro wanted to write lyrics about death traps and suicide raps that was fine by her. In Bev’s book, the Bruce-ster could do no wrong. Unlike Oz mouthie Khan. She curled a lip, recalling how brilliantly the night before had gone.

  Mind, he’d probably hit the nail smack on with his observation about Raynes’ behaviour. Looked even likelier now that she’d been scared. Running scared. Why else the current cloak and skulduggery dagger? Meeting ten miles outside the city at an ungodly hour on a Sunday? Ungodly to Bev, whose lie-ins were rarer than blue moons.

  Her thinking about Glasgow had been right, though. The invite proved the text had been a load of bollocks. Raynes had no more been on assignment up north than Bev had been sunning it on Pluto. Hopefully it meant the bastard had put the frighteners on her again, ratcheted up the threats a notch or three. Bev could see no other reason for the hack’s sudden backtrack. She gave a lopsid
ed smile. About time there was a bit of good news in the offing. Made quite a change. Fair enough, it might not be music to Raynes’ ears, but the crim getting in touch again had to be welcome given it could furnish the squad with a lead.

  Lickey Hills Country Park welcomed the world and his wife’s aunt, according to the road signs. Not that many visitors looked to be around yet. She clocked a bunch of dog walkers, the odd jogger, a few guys with binoculars slung round their neck, probably here for the bird-watching. Probably the feathered variety. She followed the arrows for the visitor centre, parked up in the shade.

  ‘Thanks Brucie, my man,’ – flicking the ignition – ‘we’ll let you know.’ Walking to the caff she glanced at some admittedly spectacular views. On a clear day you could make out landmarks in Birmingham’s skyline: high-rise blocks, uni clock tower, post office tower. Though God knew why you’d want to, with five-hundred-plus acres of flora and fauna at your feet to explore.

  Smiling, she remembered times coming here as a kid, piling in the old Morris Minor with her mum and dad. Real treat in those days. Loads of city families still flocked here of a weekend. Bev licked her lips. Should be in for another treat now. ‘Sod it.’

  The bloody caff was closed, didn’t open for another hour. She’d been dying for a cuppa and a bacon roll. Never mind, the rendezvous was supposed to be inside. She’d best let Raynes know, head her off at the pass as it were. She was delving in her bag when a message alert beeped. Talk of the she-devil. ‘I’m in the black Peugeot.’

  Glancing up, Bev saw headlights flash. She rolled mental eyes. Forget Mata Hari, the reporter couldn’t look more conspicuously incognito if she had ‘spy’ tattooed across her forehead. Black sunglasses hid most of her face, the hair was covered by a black scarf tied under the chin. The drama queen’s body language screamed shifty.

  Bev slid into the passenger seat. ‘You might want to think again about undercover work, love.’

  ‘I’m taking a big enough risk as it is, so quit the dumbass remarks now.’ The clipped voice and sharp tone shocked Bev into unaccustomed silence. She turned her head for a close-up on the reporter, noted the ashen complexion, the puffy eyes behind the dark lenses, the tremor in the hand clutching a Jiffy bag in her lap.

  ‘I had to get out of the house, had to make sure no one was following me. If he finds out I’ve talked to you …’ He’d rip her tongue out, she said.

  Bev swallowed. ‘You’ve still no idea who he is?’

  ‘I wish.’ She twisted the cap on a bottle of Evian, took a few glugs.

  ‘What’s he want from you?’ The creep, as she called him, wanted The Sun to publish the inside story on Shannon Henderson. He wanted her to write up every detail he’d provided: shaven head, the razor, knife, extent of injuries, state of body.

  Bev frowned. ‘Why’s he so keen? Did he say?’

  She shook her head. ‘I tried putting him off, said the editor wouldn’t buy it without proof.’

  ‘And?’

  She handed Bev the Jiffy bag. Holy shit. No wonder Raynes’ nerves were frazzled.

  ‘I know I should’ve called you straight away, but I was … ’

  ‘Terrified, yeah I can see that.’ Like she saw images so vile they made her want a sick bag.

  Raynes pointed out the shadow on one of the stills. ‘I thought one of your people could maybe –’

  ‘I’ll get this lot to the techies soon as. No worries.’ She’d already spotted the oddity, already decided to drop the photos off on the way to her mum’s.

  ‘No worries?’ Raynes snorted. ‘You are joking? The guy’s a sadistic nut job. He’ll stop at nothing till he gets what he wants.’

  Bev turned her mouth down, unconvinced they knew exactly what that was. ‘Have you written a story?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s not filed, though. There’s no way Jack’ll let it through.’

  ‘Your editor?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Presumably why the reporter had run to Bev rather than risk face the creep’s increasing wrath. ‘The latest call you got, can you remember exactly what he said?’

  ‘Hear it yourself.’ She reached for her phone on the dash. What? Bev stifled a sigh. Why not save the best till last, oh wait …

  ‘It’s cued.’ She took a few more sips of water.

  The voice bordered on an almost amiable drawl. Youngish guy, confident he held the winning deck. She listened again, this time with her eyes closed, mentally repeating key lines.

  ‘Since when’s the filth know anything about anything?’

  ‘I know everything about you, Summer.’

  ‘Forget no name, no pack drill. I want the lot. I really do hope you’re clear on that.’

  ‘Stone me.’ Bev felt a tingle in her palms, reckoned she’d been on the right track all along: if he knew so much about Raynes, it had to be through her work and there could only be one story.

  ‘What is it?’

  Turning in the seat to face Raynes, she said, ‘Three years back you interviewed a teacher falsely accused of rape by one of the kids he taught.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Bloke called Aiden Manners.’ Bev could almost see the reporter flick through mental files.

  ‘I recall vague –’ Vague wasn’t good enough.

  ‘Guy worked at a school in Worcester,’ Bev prompted. ‘Wanted the law changed. Equal footing far as identifying accusers in court goes.’

  Raynes’ eyes widened a tad. ‘That’s right, it’s coming –’

  ‘Did he tell you who the girl was?’

  ‘He told me a lot of things. Not her name, though. Wasn’t like I didn’t press him, but I couldn’t have used it anyway. Wait a minute … Are you saying the girl who accused him is Shannon Henderson?’

  ‘Was.’

  She laid a hand on her cheek. ‘So Manners is the killer? The creep?’

  ‘Difficult, that. He’s dead. Hanged himself months ago.’ Bev frowned, tried thinking it through. The Henderson–Manners connection had to be linked to Twilight. She just couldn’t see the join yet.

  ‘Who else did you interview about the case?’

  She turned her mouth down. ‘Mother, father, wife, couple of cops.’

  ‘What about the brother?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t on the scene. I got the impression there wasn’t much love lost.’ Bev’s raised eyebrow asked for more. ‘Manners’ wife told me the brother was gay.’ She shrugged. ‘I know, big deal. But apparently his mother didn’t approve.’

  Bigoted old bag. Bev stifled a snort. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘So any ideas, then?’

  ‘When the case collapsed Manners wanted nothing more than for Shannon to be named and shamed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think the killer’s helping his wish come true.’

  Not just for the latest story to appear in print, but the back story. Name, pack drill, the lot. Full exposure, like Manners had been subjected to in court.

  Bev was pretty sure of something else, too. She had an idea she’d heard the voice on the recording before.

  38

  Forget no name, no pack drill …

  Bev couldn’t get the damn words out of her head. Shame the face that went with the voice, let alone the name, eluded her. She’d well and truly wracked her brain, but just couldn’t bring it to mind. She was en route to her mum’s now and the damn thing still bugged her. On the other hand, listening to the recording again – as many times as it took – would be no problem. She cut a glance at the passenger seat. Her bag lay there, the reporter’s phone safely tucked inside. Raynes hadn’t exactly been pleased to see it go, but brightened a tad when Bev pointed out who’d be the lucky recipient from now on of any contact from the creep. Raynes was organizing a Pay As You Go to tide her over. She’d get the number to Bev, soon as.

  Bev glanced at her watch. Shoot. Track. Time. Lost. Sorry, mum. She’d been guilty too of underestimating Raynes’ skills on the furtive front. The reporter already had her own safe house sort
ed. Saved the cops having to shell out. Powell had sounded delighted when Bev put him in the picture via a quick call. Any road, for the foreseeable Raynes was installed at a friend’s cottage in Lickey. Near Beacon Hill which, if Bev recalled right, the Cadbury brothers had gifted years back to the city council. She hoped Raynes would have a sweet stay. Poor bloody woman needed a break.

  They’d repaired to the caff soon as it opened and she’d grilled the reporter for another forty-five minutes. She, and the squad room, now had details on everyone Raynes had even looked at, never mind spoken to, while working on the Manners’ story. Bev’s notebook had accrued a few crumbs and a grease spot but, hey, it was worth it. Not that Emmy would thank her for blunting her appetite.

  The photos had certainly whetted forensics’ appetite when Bev dropped them off. They’d have first dibs before handing them on to the video unit buffs. Doubtless forensics would lift a ton of prints and DNA. And if any of it belonged to the creep she’d eat her hat. Not that she owned so much as a hair net, but Bev knew what she meant. She wished to God she had a similar grasp on the perp’s intentions. She shuddered at the thought of him creeping back to take pictures of Shannon’s corpse. In the shame stakes, he’d extracted a damn sight more than a pound of flesh. He’d violated and humiliated Shannon post- and probably pre-mortem.

  Bev’s grip on the wheel tightened. She just hoped that by sharing the photos the bastard had shot himself in the foot. Because if the techies’ magic worked, it could well be he’d captured rather more than he’d envisaged.

  A box of Black Magic and a bottle of Baileys just about smoothed Emmy’s ruffled feathers. Bev’s mum knew the job meant erratic hours, missed mealtimes; she rarely moaned about anything but had struggled to hide her initial disappointment. Bev’s raving over the roast pork and spotted dick had done the trick, though they’d both had their work cut out keeping Bev’s gran awake at the table. Sadie was now slumped in her favourite seat, sleeping it off in front of the telly. Bev smiled, picturing her in there. Her tiny frame dwarfed by the chair, the snow-white hair, rosy cheeks. Her snores nearly drowning out Songs of Praise on the telly.