Death Wish

by Maureen Carter

  ‘Pass us the meat tin, ma. Ta.’ Bev stood at the sink, up to her elbows in soapy water. She blew a surreptitious bubble off her nose; she’d already been told off for using too much Fairy.

  Emmy stood alongside, wielding one of her William and Kate teacloths.

  ‘How did Sadie seem to you, love?’

  Uh-oh. Her hand stilled a second. Here it comes. She’d suspected Sadie was at the root of her mum’s uncharacteristic distraction. Emmy couldn’t have posed the question more casually if she’d tried. And Bev knew casual couldn’t be further from how her mum felt. Emmy had dropped the odd hint to Bev over the phone. Sadie wandering off again, getting lost, losing her drift, forgetting people’s names. Bev never made light of it; she shared some of her mum’s deep concerns. Even more so now. After her first visit home in weeks, she’d been taken aback by her gran’s growing physical and mental frailties.

  She chucked the green sponge in the water, and turned to look at her mum. Emmy’s heart-shaped face had a few more wrinkles than Bev’s, her dark hair a tad finer, with more grey strands. Apart from that, Bev could be looking in a mirror twenty years down the line.

  ‘It’s not good, is it, mum?’

  ‘Believe it or not’ – Emmy bit her lip – ‘that was her doing her best ’cause you’re here, Bev.’

  ‘Come on.’ She gently prised the cloth from her mum’s hand, steered her to a kitchen chair. ‘Shall I break open the Baileys?’

  Emmy nodded, tried a smile. Bev headed for the fridge.

  ‘There you go.’ She placed a glass on the table, shifted her seat closer. ‘Now, what’s the doc have to say?’

  She sighed. ‘He gives her pills for her blood pressure and that, but … there’s no cure for getting old, Bev.’ Neither mentioned whether the hit-and-run accident a few weeks back had impacted on Sadie’s deteriorating mental state. Nor that she’d never really been the same since a vicious beating some years ago. The bastard had knocked the spark out of her, somehow. When Bev had collared the guy, she’d very near killed him.

  ‘How bad have you seen her, mum?’

  She dropped her head, kneaded her hands in her lap. ‘She gets cross, lashes out sometimes. I don’t blame her, really. Must be so frustrating. She knows her memory’s going, knows she can’t hold the thread of a conversation, can’t dress herself properly in the mornings. Thing is, Bev, she’s frightened to death knowing it’ll only get worse.’

  Bev swallowed the lump in her throat. Couldn’t remember a time her gran hadn’t been there batting on her side. She loved the old dear to bits and knew that for proud feisty Sadie being aware what was happening to her would be the worst thing of all.

  She stroked her mum’s shoulder. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Emmy lifted her head, held Bev’s gaze. ‘What worries me most, love, is what she wants me to do for her.’

  Bev stiffened, heard an alarm go off in her head. ‘How’d you mean?’ Like she hadn’t already worked it out. Besides she could see the answer in Emmy’s eyes, saw her own shocked face reflected there.

  ‘She’s always going on about it, Bev. Telling me she’s tired of life. Saying she’s a burden to everyone. Wanting me to help her die. Talking about a pillow over –’

  ‘No way.’ Bev shot to her feet, toppling back the chair. ‘Jesus Christ. How can you even think about it? Kill Sadie? You must be mad.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, love, calm down.’ Her mum’s pained expression brought tears to Bev’s eyes. ‘You know me better than that. Even if it wasn’t against the law, I’d never even consider it. Honestly, the very idea …’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry. It’s just –’

  ‘There’s no need to explain, love, I know you mean well.’

  Mean well? You don’t know me at all, mum. Sitting in the Midget outside Emmy’s house, Bev dashed scalding tears away with the heels of both hands. Still couldn’t focus properly. Tutting, she angled the driving mirror so she could wipe her eyes properly. Yeah, face just like her mum’s, and that’s where the resemblance ended. She curled a lip, manoeuvred the mirror back in place.

  Hypocritical cow. She flicked on the ignition, put her foot down. Towering over Emmy, bellowing at her? Kill Sadie? You must be mad? What did that make Bev? She’d not just contemplating killing, her bag concealed the means. Did that make her insane, too? She whacked a palm against the wheel. Curran frigging deserved to die. Bev was mad all right: fucking hopping.

  Calm down, for Christ’s sake. The cases bore no comparison. She’d every right to take the bastard out. Who made you executioner? Curran’s a psycho. You’re a cop. He’s a scumbag. You’re no better.

  Jesus wept. Any more voices in her head and she really would go doolal –

  Shoot. The voice. On the recording. She jammed on the anchors, grabbed her bag, delved inside for the phone. Bev was ninety-nine per cent sure she knew where she’d heard it before. No need to listen again, just wanted confirmation. She hit a number, tapped an imaginary drum on her thigh. ‘It’s your lucky night. Get your coat, you’ve pulled.’

  39

  ‘You’re lucky I was around, young lady.’ Mac wiped his brow with the back of a hand. ‘I could’ve been on a hot date, y’know.’

  ‘Hold on.’ Finger raised Bev made heavy weather of leaning to the side, scanning the sky. ‘Nope, can’t see any.’

  ‘Boss, if you use the flying squad line again – I swear I’m off.’

  She sniffed. Quite liked it herself. Pigs in planes. ‘Saying I’m getting predictable?’

  ‘Getting?’

  ‘Aw, don’t be like that, mate. Besides, you only just got here.’ She already had the drinks lined up. A gin and tonic without the gin for her, a pint of bitter for Mac; table tucked away in a shady corner of The Prince’s beer garden. Eau de pansies and petunias. Done a spot of people-watching while she killed time. With only half-a-dozen hipster sorts around it hadn’t taken long. Not long enough to stop the tiniest mental worm of doubt niggling away at her. If she was wrong about the voice they were back where they began: up clueless creek without a christening spoon.

  That’s where the creep saw them anyway, wasn’t it? Since when’s the filth known anything about anything? She’d make damn sure the twat’s words came back to haunt him.

  ‘Why’ve you dragged me away from the ironing, then?’ Mac sprawled in the seat alongside, legs spread, arms folded on his paunch. He’d gone for the rumpled lumberjack look. Just for a change.

  Bev gave a lopsided smile, just stopped herself from cracking a line about a pressing inquiry. Reckoned if Mac even owned an iron, he’d been sold a pup.

  ‘If we’re sitting comfortably …’ She hunched forward a tad.

  Mac was sitting a damn sight straighter by the time she finished. She’d brought him up to speed on the meet with Raynes, the photos now with forensics, the perp’s demands and threats.

  ‘Guy sounds off his rocker.’ He drained his glass, smacked his lips.

  ‘Prob’ly mad as a box of loopy frogs.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘But I can assure you he don’t sound it.’

  A slow smile spread across her sidekick’s face. ‘She didn’t, did she?’

  ‘Oh, she did.’ Bev handed over Rayne’s phone. Fingers crossed under the table, she sipped her drink, watching while he listened. The glint in his eye told her he’d got there a darn sight quicker than she had.

  ‘It’s the cocky twat from outside the school.’

  ‘Ten out of ten, sir. Put it there.’ They smacked palms in a high-five. ‘Fact I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  The snarky git had taken pop after pop at cops generally, Bev specifically. Sour Boy, she’d dubbed him. He’d be even sourer if they were on the money. Rein it in, Bev. They didn’t have a real name yet, let alone any idea where he lived. She narrowed her eyes. Could picture him now: tall, lithe, ice-blue pupils, white blond crew-cut. She’d get the description circulated straight away. Then, first thing, she and Mac could work with the e-fit t
eam, get a visual out there.

  ‘No wonder he knew so much about the bloody inquiry, Mac. All that banging on about a killer being out there, a psycho on the loose. Educated guess? Yeah, self-bleeding-taught.’ She laughed, cut him a glance. Staring at his glass, he’d not cracked so much as a thin smile.

  ‘You okay, mate?’

  ‘He was stood pretty close to the dosser, Bev.’

  She nodded. ‘Pole position.’ Probably why he’d been in the vicinity in the first place, tracking down an eyewitness to eliminate, exterminate. He’d struck even luckier with the free floor show courtesy of the police. ‘Come on, Mac, we’re onto the little shit now.’

  ‘You told me to get his details and … ’

  You couldn’t get your fat arse over the fence. In Mac’s shoes she’d feel equally bad, if not worse. ‘Not down to you, mate. He gave both of us the slip.’

  He shook his head. ‘I could’ve had him, Bev, done us all a favour.’

  ‘Daft sod. If you’d collared him, he’d only have fed you a pack of lies. Anyway, back then we didn’t know what we know now. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mac.’

  ‘Cheers and all that, but –’

  ‘No buts. Besides, that’s my job, innit? Being hard on you.’ Winking, she shoved her glass across the table. ‘Mind, if you’re still talking favours …’

  40

  ‘Shame they never look like homicidal whackos.’ Powell tilted his head at one of the latest additions to the whiteboard – a hot-off-the-press e-fit, a Morriss–Tyler collaboration completed to debut at the early brief. Bev would beg to differ with the DI’s observation. She’d seen e-mugs on Crimewatch gross enough to keep Quasimodo awake at night. She knew where he was coming from, though: if perps all looked as ugly as sin on a bad hair day, it’d make the job a piece of cake.

  ‘The reverse in this case. He’s quite the looker, isn’t he?’ Powell said, straightening his tie.

  Bev stifled a sigh. ‘More to the point, gaffer, it’s not a bad likeness.’ Leaning against the wall, arms folded, she ran her gaze over the eight or so detectives gathered near the front. Gratifyingly, they appeared too busy taking in the e-fit to pay too much attention to Powell’s witterings. Or they found it more palatable to focus on than the perp’s sequence of post-mortem stills Blu-tacked alongside. Bev had asked for copies to be run off, ditto the recording on Rayne’s phone. The guy’s voice and e-fit forged the best lead since the inquiry kicked off. The sick photos stressed how crucial it was to get the monster behind bars.

  Sipping coffee, Bev glanced back at the board, where sunlight streaming through a window fell across the creep’s face. With the Nordic colouring, icy stare and chiselled features, she could well imagine their prime suspect playing the baddie in some Scandi-noir crime series. Maybe she should go all gloomy and channel her inner Sarah Lund, borrow one of the Swede’s sweaters. It’d be just the job in the current temperatures.

  ‘It’s almost like a negative.’ Pembers tapped a pen against her teeth. ‘Certainly a bloke with an individual look.’

  ‘He’s like a young David Bowie crossed with that tall bird from Kill Bill.’ Darren New added a sage nod to his awesome insight.

  Bev shot him an old-fashioned look. Trust Dazza. The guy cracked more off-the-wall comments than Humpty Dumpty.

  ‘If he’s that striking we’ll have him banged up by lunchtime, no probs.’ Powell sniffed. ‘Any volunteers to man the lifeboats?’

  Snarky sod. Okay, they’d not had a flood of calls from punters yet. What did he expect? A bloody miracle? The news bureau hadn’t long issued the fresh media appeal. The wording had taken a wee while, too. They’d eventually gone with the trusty formula: police inquiries, man sought. ‘Deranged killer; don’t touch with a ten-yard rusty bargepole’ might be construed as a tad non-PC. Especially by the courts. Given the squad still had to gather solid evidence.

  ‘Come on, gaffer, give it a chance, eh?’ Just ’cause you didn’t come up with the break. Ungrateful sod.

  ‘Keep your wig on, Morriss. It was only a joke.’

  She balled her fists. Excuse me while I split my sides.

  ‘Not one of your best, guv.’ Mac didn’t look enamoured either.

  Powell perched on the edge of a desk, started rolling a shirt sleeve. ‘Fact is, even with the photos and the recording there’s still a hell of a long way to go. The bastard’s out there and soon as he realizes the bird’s flown he’ll smell a rat, presume she’s blabbed, and he’ll make himself scarce. Okay, scarcer.’

  Bev frowned. The English translation took a second or two. She thought the moot points amounted to: not being able to contact Raynes would set the perp’s alarm bells ringing; they needed to nab him before he did a runner.

  ‘Mac, can you get the blind, mate?’ Powell said, squinting. ‘How safe’s this place where the hack’s holed up, Morriss?’

  ‘Don’t see how he could be onto it, gaffer.’ The reporter swore she’d not been followed from Birmingham. Bev knew they’d not had a tail on the drive to the cottage. She’d kept a few cars behind with her eyes peeled, then taken a good look round the property, inside and out. ‘There’s a state-of-the-art alarm system, CCTV cameras front and back. She’s not stupid. And I’ve got her phone.’

  Powell muttered something about matter and opinion, then started to ask Bev if she’d heard a peep from the perp. Started to ask because her look of incredulity soon shut him up.

  ‘If anything,’ she said, ‘I think it’s more likely we’ll get a bite at her Edgbaston pad.’ She’d persuaded Powell to sanction surveillance on the grounds the perp might well pay a return visit. Christ knew how he’d react when he discovered an empty nest. Empty apart from a pair of fledgling detectives.

  ‘Sooner the better,’ Powell said. ‘It’s costing enough.’ Hand in pocket he walked back to the board, stood right in front obscuring everyone’s view. ‘I just wish I could see the connection.’

  Bev shuffled six inches along the wall. Don’t we all?

  ‘Given the motive he must’ve known Aiden Manners really well, guv.’ Darren threw in a knowing nod.

  ‘Ta, Daz. I think we can take that as read,’ Powell murmured.

  ‘Unlike Raynes’ story,’ Bev said. ‘God knows what he’ll do when he realizes it ain’t gonna happen.’

  ‘God knowing’s a fat lot of good.’ Powell sniffed. ‘We need to talk to anyone who was – is – close to Manners. You’ve spoken to the parents, Morriss, what about the missus?’

  ‘She’s lined up for later this morning, gaffer.’ Bev lobbed her cup into the nearest bin. ‘I’ll ask about the brother while I’m there. Bit of a black sheep, apparently. Maybe she’ll shed some light.’

  ‘Raynes never spoke to him, did she?’

  ‘I think she might’ve recognized the voice if she had, don’t you?’

  ‘You being sarky?’

  ‘Me?’ As if.

  He didn’t look convinced but changed tack anyway, started dishing out tasks: trace and question Manners’ friends, relatives, ex-colleagues; complete checks on the names supplied yesterday by Raynes; and given the guy had been seen near the school, detectives were to street-canvass and knock doors in Stirchley again, this time round armed with the e-fit. The latter prompted an expression of unbounded joy from one of the DCs landed with it. Everyone in the room knew that by now the perp could be anywhere.

  ‘You can wipe that look off your face soon as you like,’ Powell said. ‘The e-fit’s a strong lead, could jog a few memories. Should’ve said: Bev, Mac, well done both. Good work.’

  A thanks from the blond? Wonders cease never.

  ‘Right.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Before we get cracking, I think you should have a listen to the bastard’s dulcet tones.’ Powell had already had the pleasure when Bev had dropped by his office earlier.

  ‘Good idea, sir, but then’ – Pembers picked a hair off her skirt – ‘can we come up with a better name? I’m sick of hearing the word “bastard”.’

 
; ‘Well, hush my mouth.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Mac said. ‘It’s getting tired.’

  ‘Do we have any suggestions, ma’am?’ Powell asked.

  Darren jumped in with, ‘How about The Joker?’

  Powell curled a lip.

  ‘Raynes calls him “the creep”,’ Bev offered.

  ‘That’ll do. So relieved it’s sorted.’ Powell nodded at her. ‘Play it again, Sam.’

  Bev clocked the looks of concentration and contempt as the squad listened to the creep’s taunts and threats. Having heard it so often herself, she half tuned out. No doubt about it, though, Bev reckoned voices said, no pun intended, a lot about their owners. Tone, delivery, accent could be as distinctive as fingerprints. Vocal dabs. Her lip twitched, not that the notion was so outlandish. She recalled a few cases where crims had been collared by voice recognition. Talked their way into a sentence, you could say. In fact, if all else failed today, she’d try and persuade the radio and telly people to give the creep’s voice an airing on the news.

  ‘Did you hear that, Morriss?’

  She glanced up at Powell. Could see by his face she’d missed something.

  ‘Tell her, Daz.’

  ‘I know the voice, sarge. I’ve spoken to the guy.’

  41

  It soon transpired Darren had been talked at rather than conversed with. The creep had had the brass neck to call the police hotline after Lorraine Henderson’s televised appeal, hung up before Darren had chance to get a word in edgeways or otherwise. It had taken Dazza only minutes to rustle up the recording. Comparing the voices had left no doubt. Comparisons are odious? Too right. The obnoxious git had fed them duff gen, pointed them well and not truly in the wrong direction. It led to Daz and another DC wasting hours trawling through CCTV looking for Shannon Henderson arguing with some fictitious bloke. They’d probably have had more luck spotting her with the invisible man.