Death Wish

by Maureen Carter

  ‘What a bloody cheek, eh?’ Bev glanced at Mac.

  ‘I know what I’d like to do to the lying little toerag.’ His grip on the wheel was pretty graphic. Ouch. Mind, he probably still felt sore the creep had slipped through their metaphorical fingers.

  ‘He’ll cock up sooner or later, Mac.’ It was often the way. A collar could be down to painstaking plod work, but in reality most crims were either dobbed in or chanced their arm once too often.

  Mac turned his mouth down. ‘You say that, but forensically he’s on the ball, boss.’

  ‘Yeah, and he could easy score an own goal.’ He had a point, though. The Jiffy bag and stills had come back clean; no DNA had been found on the body; they couldn’t get a trace on any of his calls. The smart-arse probably had a stockpile of Pay As You Gos at his disposal.

  Which reminded her. Had Raynes replied yet? She’d emailed the e-fit to the reporter’s new number a while back. Yep. ‘Sorry, don’t know him from Adam.’ Helpful. Bev scrolled down the rest of her messages, smiled at one from Emmy thanking her for the flowers. She’d felt so bad about stomping out on her mum yesterday she’d put in a call first thing to InterFlora. Given the number of peace offerings Bev needed to send she had the florist on speed dial. Not that Oz Khan would be getting one any time soon. She sniffed. He’d sent two messages now, neither of which she could be arsed to open. She still felt fired up about him sticking his nose in.

  She tucked the phone back in her bag, spotted a Mars bar lurking at the bottom. Don’t mind if I do.

  ‘Want a bit?’

  ‘Is the Pope a bachelor?’

  She rolled her eyes, dropped a generous chunk in his palm. ‘Best sharpen the act for your next gig, mate.’

  ‘You coming, then?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Deffo, and she’d inveigled Stacey into putting in an appearance. If Bev had any say in it, there’d be a new double act before the end of the show: Tyler and Hardy. Had a nice ring to it.

  Smiling, she turned to gaze through the window. All those trees and hedges, fields full of cows munching grass. How people lived in the sticks she’d never know. Emmy’s fault for force-feeding her a daily diet of The Archers when she was a kid. Aiden Manners’ ex-missus, Chloe, presumably liked the country life; she’d moved to Sale Green not long after the divorce.

  ‘Hey, boss, I meant to tell you … I saw your old flame in reception this morning.’

  She kept her head turned, thoughts racing. Oz? What the hell was he doing at the nick?

  ‘Yeah,’ Mac said, ‘chatting to Vince. Hey, boss, did you not –?’

  ‘Loud and clear, mate. I don’t want to know, right?’ Khan wouldn’t drop her in it, would he? Have a word with Powell on the QT? Warn him she needed watching? Nah, the pair had never been that pally. Crikey, Bev, talk about being paranoid.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Mac sniffed. ‘It was Powell he was after, anyway.’

  ‘Eyes, road, mind, job, savvy?’

  He muttered something, could’ve been ‘Charming’. Whatever. Who cared?

  Chloe Manners lived in a spick-and-span semi in a neat and tidy cul de sac. Lawns mown within an inch of their life, flawless flowerbeds, gleaming bay widows. The woman herself looked in need of a spruce-up. Word that sprang to Bev’s mind when she clapped eyes on her was frumpy, quickly followed by dumpy. Then dowdy. Then plain. Okay, ugly. Bev had yet to renew her membership of the sisterhood. She administered a sharp slap to a mental wrist, then immediately wondered how the hell Chloe had hooked Aiden Manners. Definitely punched above her avoirdupois. And his ex was more heavyweight than fly. Mac’s eyes bulged almost as much as the buttons on her frock, the sludge a shade duller than her wispy hair.

  ‘Come through. I just need to get something out of the oven.’

  Bev’s sniff caught several mouth-watering whiffs. Perhaps she’d snared him through his stomach. They trailed her into a light airy kitchen where a batch of scones cooled on a wire tray next to an almost full cafetière. Mac’s wistful gaze at the goodies certainly lent credence to the old wives’ tale about the way to a man’s heart.

  ‘Sit down do. I’m not sure how I can help but I’ll happily try.’ The smile didn’t suddenly transform the ugly duckling looks like it would if Chloe was in a slushy Mills and Boon. Her huge Deirdre Barlow specs magnified piggy eyes that looked like beige marbles, and the bone structure was undefined in a round face the colour of raw dough.

  ‘Good of you to spare us the time, Mrs Manners.’ Bev pulled out a bentwood chair and perched.

  ‘Chloe, please. Bear with me a min or this lot’ll burn. Help yourself to coffee.’

  ‘Two sugars, dash a milk, ta.’

  ‘That’ll be me playing mum, then?’ Mac murmured.

  Too right, mate. Masking a smile, she watched Chloe do the needful, then use the oven cloth to mop her brow. Cloth slung over the rail of the Aga, she leaned against a double sink, folded her arms and smiled again. ‘Right, I’m all yours.’

  ‘As you know,’ Bev said, ‘we’re keen to talk to people who were close to your former husband.’ She’d already outlined some of her thoughts on the phone, hoping to give Chloe time to gather a few of hers.

  ‘And you’re investigating the girl’s death?’ She reached along the marble work surface to retrieve her coffee.

  ‘Shannon Henderson. Our thinking’s that someone killed her for what she put Aiden through.’

  ‘It’s a bit fanciful, isn’t it?’ She took a sip while holding Bev’s gaze.

  Bev fed her a few facts. Some, not all, of what the killer had done to Shannon, how he wanted the full story exposed, that he’d threatened the life of a reporter who’d failed to meet his demand and who was now in hiding. ‘Anyone you know fit that picture?’

  Chloe widened her eyes. ‘God, no.’ It was a knee-jerk reaction, then she paused, clearly giving it some thought. ‘Aiden isn’t – wasn’t – one of those men who had close friends. Colleagues, sure, acquaintances, yes. But someone who felt that strongly? Who does?’

  ‘How about family members? Were they tight?’ Bev saw she’d touched a nerve, wished she could read people’s emotions.

  ‘He was extremely close to his mother.’ She nodded at the scones. ‘Do help yourself.’

  Bev cut Mac a look that said business before pigging-out. He took one anyway.

  ‘And his brother?’ she asked. ‘He lives abroad, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Josh is a sweetie. Wouldn’t harm a fly.’

  ‘I understand he’s gay.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘And you have a problem with that?’

  ‘Not me.’ Bev shook her head. ‘What about his mum? How’d she feel about it?’

  ‘Why not ask her?’ The One Fat Lady meets Mary Berry mask had definitely started to slip.

  Bev pulled an envelope from her bag. ‘I’d like to show you something.’ She placed the e-fit on the table.

  Chloe’s sigh said, if you must, but she chucked the coffee dregs into the sink, ambled over and picked up the image.

  ‘Take a close look.’ Bev kept her gaze on the woman’s face. ‘Recognize him?’

  ‘No.’ For a split second, her eyes seemed to say differently. ‘No idea. Sorry.’

  ‘Sure?’

  She looked again, handed it back. ‘Absolutely.’

  Bev wasn’t convinced. Even less convinced with Chloe’s negative verdict after she’d heard the recording of the perp’s voice.

  ‘I’d help if I could, but …’ She held out empty palms.

  ‘Any idea if Josh has a current partner?’

  ‘How on earth would I know? I’m not his keeper.’

  ‘What’s he do for a living?’

  ‘Which? Who? Sorry, you’re confusing me.’

  Bev narrowed her eyes. Must be easily confused, then. ‘Josh. What does he do?’

  She shrugged. ‘Something in advertising, I think.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been easy for you. What Shannon did.’

  ‘I pitied her more than a
nything.’

  Bev’s mug stilled in her hand. Pitied? A girl who’d wrecked her marriage, dragged her then husband’s good name through the mud and the gutter press?

  ‘I see you don’t believe me, but truth is she was just a kid. Crazy, mixed-up. Absolutely besotted with Aiden. Totally obsessed.’

  ‘Loads of schoolgirls have crushes, doesn’t mean they –’

  ‘I know, I know. She was wrong to lie. I guess she hated being rejected by a guy who just wasn’t interested.’

  ‘That’s well magnanimous.’

  She shrugged. ‘I bear no malice, if that’s what you’re getting at. It’s not as if she broke up our marriage or anything.’ She’d been on the point of leaving anyway, she said. Only stayed for the court case. He’d begged her, said he couldn’t get through it without her at his side. That was news to Bev.

  ‘Mind if I ask why you split?’

  ‘I don’t see its relevance, but his mother made things … difficult. Katharine and I never got on. Quite frankly, I’d just about had enough of being treated like shit. If he’d stood up to her it might have helped, but …’ She turned her mouth down.

  ‘Did you see much of Aiden after you left?’ Bev asked.

  She shook her head. ‘To be honest I’d already met someone else, fallen in love.’

  ‘And when you heard he’d taken his own life?’

  ‘Sad, naturally.’

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Not entirely.’ She bit her lip. ‘Aiden was always highly strung, often went in for the over-the-top gesture.’

  Given the circumstances, Bev could’ve come up with better phrases.

  42

  Bev spotted Stacey Hardy straight away, sitting at a table on the far side of the canteen. Wrinkling her nose at the post-lunch haze of curry and chips, she hoped the air would be a damn sight fresher by the window. Stacey was clearly well catered for, so Bev just grabbed a banana and bottled water en route, flopped into the opposite seat. ‘This’d better be good, Stace. Lot kicking off downstairs.’

  Actions were stacking up in the squad room. The e-fit had prompted a steady flow of calls, including recent sightings of the guy around the Stirchley area, plus a few names that had been left on the hotline were currently being checked out.

  ‘I need you to be the judge, sarge. A fresh pair of eyes. Take a look, see what you think.’ She handed over a brown envelope.

  Curiosity piqued, Bev took out three sheets of paper, leafed through them, glanced up. ‘Suicide notes.’

  ‘Copies, yeah.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just me, but does anything stand out?’

  Bev read each separately then laid them alongside each other across the table. Eyes narrowed, she reread each one.

  My darling boy

  I love you very much, but life without your father is hard. Indeed, latterly it’s more than I can bear. I’ve tried to cope and were it not for your unstinting love and support I’d never have made it this far. But I can go on no longer.

  I’m not afraid of dying, indeed I welcome it because I’ll see David again and, as you know, being reunited with him is my dearest wish.

  Goodbye in this world …

  Darling Sally

  I see only one way out. I welcome the dying of the light. Dad and I will look down on you together. Try to forgive me.

  Dearest Sebastian

  It’s easier this way. I welcome death and seeing darling Jane again. Try and understand.

  Don’t feel bad. Your loving father, Henry.

  ‘No.’ Bev looked up, held Stacey’s gaze. ‘It’s not just you, Stace. They don’t just want to die.’ They’d used the same key word.

  ‘They all seem to welcome it. Exactly.’ She nodded, eyes shining.

  Bev sat back. ‘You reckon the suicides were some kind of pact?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She shrugged. ‘I sure think there’s more to it than a form of words.’

  ‘Go on.’ She uncapped the bottle, took a few sips of water.

  ‘They all died within months of losing a loved one. And not only that, those earlier deaths were all written off as accidents, sarge.’

  Bev knew Margot Langley’s husband, David, had been killed in a hit-and-run; Hilary Cash’s other half, Tom, had come off a ladder. ‘What’s the old boy’s name, Stace?

  ‘Henry. Henry Gibbs. Missus was called Jane.’

  ‘And how’d she die?’

  ‘Fell down the stairs, allegedly.’

  Bev scratched the side of her chin. ‘You’re thinking they’re all dodge?’

  ‘The driver who knocked down David Langley has never been traced. Hilary Cash was convinced she saw someone fleeing the scene. As for Jane Gibbs, did she fall or –’

  ‘Was she pushed?’ Bev pursed her lips. Quick shove in the back, bob’s your dead uncle, or aunt. Easy as falling off the proverbial log. ‘Thing is, Stace, bereaved people are at their most vulnerable.’

  ‘I get that, sarge, but’ – hunching forward across the table – ‘saying for a minute the accidents were all staged, is it too big a leap to suspect the suicides might all –’

  ‘Be faked.’

  ‘I knew it wasn’t just me.’ Talk about excited. She’d be off the chair any minute.

  ‘Let’s not get carried away here, Stace.’ Could still be coincidental. ‘If there are patterns here, the victims – if that’s what they are – weren’t just plucked out of the air. Assuming they were bumped off and assuming we’re talking one killer, there must be other links.’

  Bev unpeeled the banana, bit off a chunk. Given the couples lived miles apart and to a certain extent across the class divide, Bev couldn’t see them mixing much professionally, let alone socially. What, if anything, joined them? She glanced at the suicide notes again: seeing Jane, seeing David, Dad and I. They all seemed to believe in the afterlife, being reunited with loved ones and all that guff.

  ‘Were they churchgoers, d’you know, Stace?’ God-botherers, as Bev called them.

  The look Stacey cast Bev said, how-the-hell-should-I-know? Bev shot back an equally vocal expression. ‘Sorry, sarge, I’ll check it out.’

  ‘You do that,’ Bev said scraping back the chair. She leaned forward, palms on table, in lecture mode: ‘I’ll tell you this, Stace, detective work means dogged persistence, a million leads and a million false starts, most of which will take you precisely nowhere.’

  ‘You’re right, sarge, ta. There are a few links, though.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘The dead couples’ kids: Andrew Langley, Sally Cash, Sebastian Gibbs. They’re all the same age, give or take. They’re all only children.’

  Bev frowned. ‘And they’re sole beneficiaries?’

  ‘That’s what I’m in the process of checking.’

  43

  ‘“Good work. Keep me posted.” I mean, what else could I say?’ Still cringing at her masterclass in condescension, Bev rolled her eyes. She’d just told Mac about the recent exchange with Stacey – and the fact that the constable had already been several steps ahead on the checking-out front. Talk about Bev feeling put in her place …

  ‘Bet she didn’t answer back,’ Mac said. ‘What with being busy sucking all them eggs.’

  ‘Yeah, go on, rub it in, why don’t you?’ Turning her head, she caught him twitch his lip. Maybe she should re-run his recent cock-up. Nah. It’d be well below the belt, beneath her to stoop that low. Besides, they might soon recoup their losses, or one particular absentee. They were en route to Stirchley, checking out a couple of sightings of the e-fit creep. Nearer they got to the main drag, the more Bev scrutinized passing faces. Not always a pretty sight in this neck of the suburbs.

  Mac opened the window, rested a sun-bronzed arm on the sill. ‘Think Stace is really onto something, boss?’

  ‘Dunno, mate. I mean we’d be talking carefully-calculated, minutely-planned, perfectly-executed, cold-blooded murder. And not one. Six.’ Without a criminal mastermind or two runnin
g the show, it virtually beggared belief. ‘It wouldn’t just be big, it’d be masseevo.’ The media would be over it like Ebola. Hollywood producers pitching to turn it into a movie: Kith and Kill, or Flesh and Bloodlust, or Generation Greed or … Focus, for feck’s sake.

  She scanned the passing surroundings again. Scorsese would sure need a more aesthetic backdrop than the mean streets of Stirchley. Redbrick terraces, cut-price offies, cheapo shops, family-run businesses (a few gone bust), cab firms, bookies and balti houses. Dusty greenery sprouted more profusely from crumbling mortar and rooftops than the parched patches of land. It all seemed a tad tired and run-down to Bev.

  ‘And you’re thinking they’re in it together?’

  ‘Sorry, mate?’ He’d lost her.

  ‘The three kids?’

  ‘Ah, that’s where it kinda falls down.’ Try as she might, she couldn’t envisage Sally Cash in a shoplifting ring, let alone mixed up in some sort of domestic hit squad. Bev hadn’t met the others – Sebastian and Andrew – but would try and remedy that soon as. ‘I can’t see how they’d have come across each other, let alone come up with a trick like this.’

  ‘What’s the gaffer say?’

  She shrugged. ‘He don’t know yet.’

  Mac paused a beat or two, then: ‘He won’t like it, boss. Being kept in the dark.’

  ‘Tough. I’ll tell him soon enough.’ She sensed her sidekick’s disapproval, but she’d not had chance to mention it to Powell. ‘Truth to tell, Mac, I’d prefer going in armed with a few facts. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘S’pose.’ He sniffed.

  She heard a tacit but. ‘But what?’

  ‘If Stace is doing all the running, seems a hell of a responsibility to put on her shoulders.’

  Cheeky git. They’re certainly broad enough. She opened her mouth to remonstrate, but come to think of it: ‘Fair point, mate. I’ll take any flak and if there’s any credit going, I’ll make damn sure she gets it. Besides, it won’t be for long. If we can just establish a tie that binds –’

  ‘You say they’re all around the same age?’