‘He’s in intensive care,’ Daz said. ‘Hanging on by a thread apparently.’
Thank God. ‘Powell know?’
‘Yep.’
‘Sit down, Daz. Give me what you’ve got.’
A police dog had tracked the scent to a back yard a couple of blocks from Canon Street. The handler found the guy slumped against a shed in a pool of blood. Still had the knife in his hand, apparently. Paramedics patched him up best they could, but he lost consciousness in the ambulance blue-lighting him to hospital.
‘Is he gonna make it? Dumb question. Ignore it, Daz. What’s his name?’
‘No ID on him.’
‘Phone?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
Course not, that’d make it too easy. ‘I’m still heading out there, Daz.’ Even if it was at a distance and through glass, she wanted to see his face. Needed to see his face.
‘Want me with you?’
‘Sure.’ Seeing as Powell had assigned Daz her temporary bagman, she might as well get used to his company.
Mac had initially headed home after leaving Highgate, but found himself driving straight past his Balsall Heath pad. Knew he was only delaying the inevitable. But strewth – he needed a diversion and a drink, in that order. Spending as little time in the poky bedsit as he usually did, he could kid himself that the fact it was little more than a roof over his head was no big deal. Empty days and lonely nights in soulless rooms loomed now and the lazy self-deception wasn’t working.
Like Mac.
Mouth tight, he shook his head, Sad, angry, pissed off. Sick leave? What a bloody joke. He’d not taken a day off sick in his life, felt in damn good nick for his age, as he’d told Powell loud and clear. Had it cut any ice? Had it hell. Mac suspected he’d been sent home ’cause Powell needed to be seen to be doing something, which meant he viewed Mac as a cross between a fall guy and a scapegoat. That he was wrong didn’t make it any easier.
Mac had been a copper since leaving school. Never considered any other pursuit – still entertained the vague notion that putting away the bad guys was a decent way for a good guy to earn a crust. Sure, it got him down now and then dealing with death, lives destroyed, witnessing the dark side of human nature, knowing the depraved depths to which villains sank. No sense getting worked up about it. Cops faced danger and potential violence more or less every shift. Case of kitchen and heat. If they couldn’t hack it, they’d not last long.
Like Mac’s marriage. A victim of unsocial hours, too many burned dinners, missed birthdays, family weddings, parents’ evenings: too late too many times, in more ways than one.
He rubbed a hand down his face. How he wished he’d spent more time with the kids. Mind, Luke and George were no longer nippers. At eighteen and sixteen, they were into girls and gigs rather than hopping on a train from Derby to spend a weekend with their old man. How many home visits had Mac had to cancel or cut short over the eight years since the divorce? Christ knew.
Enough of the misery memoir, Mac. He spotted a pub up the road where he could drown his sorrows. The Royal Oak, if he remembered right. Bit of a dive, with tacky carpets and tired décor, but it’d do. He pulled into the car park, cut the engine. He’d dropped in here for a pint and a pie after the Ray Pitt floorshow. Seemed an age since the mad git had jumped off the balcony. Mac snorted. Couldn’t stop thinking about the job even now. Little wonder given what else he had going for him.
He sat on a stool at the bar, ordered a pint of bitter, took a glance round. The only other customers were two old geezers playing dominoes at a table near the window. Doubtless the extra light on tap came in handy. Mac pocketed his change, sank a few mouthfuls. Okay, he earned a few bob beer money doing a bit of stand-up on the side. Not the black humour most cops bandied about at crime scenes. That’d have people running screaming for the exits. Nah. Mac’s comedy was light observational stuff, to raise a few laughs on a night down the boozer. For Mac it almost balanced out the stresses of the day job, too. The odd gig or open mic wouldn’t be enough to fill a gaping hole, though. And Bev was right: Mac was no Peter Kay.
Bev. He gave a wry smile. Could see her now, waving him off from the nick. She was a good kid. He’d do anything for her. Watched her back enough times. And she needed protecting, mostly from herself. If Powell was right and she had a mind to wreak revenge on Curran, it could only end in tears. He knew she’d cried an ocean already. Byford had meant the world to her and Curran was a despicable scrote, but …
Mac looked down, swirling the dregs. No matter what the motive, how strong the justification, cops who crossed the thin blue line were beyond the pale: reviled and ostracized by colleagues, crims, Joe and Joanna Public alike. As for a copper serving time, cons took no prisoners, so good luck with that. How could he stand by and let Bev risk all that?
‘Cheer up, pal, it might never happen.’
Mac glanced up to see the landlord, all tattoos and false teeth, beaming as he polished a glass.
‘How do you know, mate?’ What if it already had?
‘I hope the other guy came off worse, anyway.’
‘You what?’ Mac frowned, hadn’t a clue until the landlord indicated his temple.
He gave the bump a gentle stroke and threw the landlord a weak smile. ‘Yeah, right.’
The guy could be dead by now, for all Mac knew. Knew he’d stabbed him, though. Deliberate? Self-de-fence? Accidental? Even Mac couldn’t be sure, unless he was kidding himself. He’d certainly blurred the lines with Powell. He’d told it straight about the rugby tackle, but played down the extent of the scuffle and entirely omitted the fact he’d disarmed the perp. Without a doubt, Mac had been holding the knife at some point. He vaguely remembered the perp trying to grab it back. He might’ve stumbled, fallen on the blade. Or Mac might’ve lashed out in the heat of the moment. If he knew one way or the other, he’d definitely tell Powell. Probably. Christ, what a bloody mess.
Maybe he’d crossed the line already, while Bev still only had it in mind. He cringed when he stroked the bump again. He’d be buggered if he’d own up to going slap-bang into the wall after tripping over his own feet.
‘Want another, pal?’ the landlord said tilting his head at Mac’s glass.
‘Nah, you’re all right.’ He made to get off the stool, then: ‘Actually, mate, did a guy called Ray Pitt ever drink in here?’ The Oak was certainly in his neck of the woods.
‘Did he ever?’ The landlord smoothed a hand over his shiny pate. ‘Christ, the business nearly went bankrupt when he topped himself. I jest, pal, but not a lot.’ Apparently with the slates he’d had on the go Pitt could’ve taken up roofing. ‘I tell you, my takings took a bigger dive than he did.’
Mac gave a lopsided smile. This guy could give Al Murray a run for his money. ‘I heard he’d come into a bit of cash.’
‘News to me. He certainly didn’t flash any round here. Why’d you want to know?’
Mac told him he was a cop tying up a few loose ends into Pitt’s suicide. Like he’d meant to do over a week ago.
‘Want my opinion? Ray Pitt was never the same after the car smash.’
‘Car smash?’ He recalled Norm the nosy neighbour saying Pitt had hired a motor to take the kids away for a few days, but nothing about an RTA.
‘Couple months back.’ The landlord looked round like the walls had suddenly grown ears, then leaned an elbow on the bar. ‘He’s in his cups one night, starts telling me about a bit of business he’d done for some bloke, driving job. Well dodge if you ask me.’
‘Go on.’
‘He was supposed to ram a car off the road. Make it look like an accident. Some sort of insurance scam, he reckoned.’
‘And?’
‘All went tits up. Pitt found out later the other driver bought it.’
Mac frowned. ‘How come later?’
‘Didn’t hang round to find out, did he?’
A hit-and-run couple of months back. Mac ordered another half, slipped his notebook out of a pocket.
‘Tell me more.’
47
The ICU’s wide picture window framed the scene inside like a painting. Gazing through the glass, Bev felt like she could be studying a still life or watching a silent movie on pause. She knew that inside there’d be a cacophony of hums and whirrs, ticks and beeps keeping the patient alive. The noises wouldn’t be enough to wake the dead, though. So don’t snuff it, creep. Mind, the thin white bloke propped up on pillows already looked like a body double for a corpse.
‘What are his chances, doc?’ Bev cut a glance at the young red-haired woman standing alongside, clocked the name on her badge: Jessica Catlow.
The medico turned her mouth down, waggled a hand. ‘Eighty/twenty? If we get him through the next twenty-four hours the odds may improve, but …’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’ Bev gave a tight smile. ‘I get the picture.’ In more ways than one: she’d recognized the guy instantly as e-fit man. How had Pembers described the image when she’d seen it at the brief? That’s right. Like a negative.
Bev was in no doubt, though. She and Mac had definitely given chase to the right guy. The piece of shit who’d dissed her outside the school, the same piece of faecal matter who’d terrorized Raynes and whose voice had said it all and given the game away. It had taken a little while longer before Bev had been able to put a name to him, thanks to another telltale sign. Five minutes ago, she’d spotted dark roots at his hairline. The white blond shade was a dye job. Bearing in mind the build and bone structure, she’d pictured what he’d look like with long chestnut locks. Asked a passing nurse if he wore contact lenses. Oh, yes: blue, pale blue.
She’d stifled a snort, kicked herself for not seeing the likeness sooner. In the portrait at his parents’ home, Josh Manners had looked like a pale imitation of his brother; in the flesh he’d contrived to look even more pallid, but could do nothing to alter the genetic make-up.
‘Striking-looking guy, isn’t he?’
Bev clocked the doc’s admiring gaze reflected in the glass. The woman had to be mid-twenties, but with the smooth skin and tiny frame probably had problems buying wine gums without flashing ID.
‘Is he?’ Bev murmured.
Maybe he appealed to younger women. Aiden Manners had, and look where Shannon Henderson’s unhealthy infatuation had led. Bev pressed her hot forehead against the cool glass. Knowing she’d been on the right track from the start gave her no pleasure; if she’d followed the signs sooner, not let her thoughts be derailed, Josh Manners could be under lock and key now rather than intensive care. She’d beaten herself up big-time already.
‘You look whacked,’ the doctor said. ‘You okay?’
‘How long have you got?’ Bev aimed for a smile. ‘Nah, I’ll live. I’d best go find my bagman.’ She’d despatched Darren post haste to bring Powell up to speed. Doubtless the DI would be on the phone any minute to dish out a bollocking. She delved in her bag for a business card. ‘Can you get someone to give me a bell if his condition changes?’
‘Sure thing.’ She slipped the numbers in a pocket. ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’
Supposed? Bev raised an eyebrow, then a finger as her ringtone sounded. ‘I’d best take this.’ Bracing herself for a verbal pummelling, she answered the call. ‘Look, I’m sorry –’
‘You will be. When I get my hands on that lying double-crossing hack, her death’s going to make the slut’s final hours look like she passed peacefully in her sleep. Personally, I can hardly wait.’
‘Who the –?’ Glaring, Bev actually shook the phone as if it would force the bastard back on the line.
‘Problem?’ the doctor asked.
‘You could say that,’ Bev called striding towards the exit. How the hell could Josh Manners be the perp, if Shannon Henderson’s killer had just been on the line?
Shielding her eyes from the sun, Bev spotted Darren pacing up and down outside the main entrance. He had a mobile clamped to his ear and, judging by the lack of mouth movement, looked as if he was getting a good talking to. She felt a tad guilty for putting him in Powell’s firing line, but only a tad. Daz needed the practice. Bev reckoned she’d taken enough bullets for one day.
The young detective’s face lit up when he clocked her. ‘She’s here now, guv.’ Holding out the handset he lowered his voice, ‘DI wants a word.’ No shit. Voice even lower, Daz told her Powell was now pretty much in the picture, knew who the perp was and how Bev had come up with the name. ‘But that’s as far as I got, sarge.’
Not far enough, then. Bev covered the mouthpiece, asked him to find a vending machine and fetch a drink. ‘Anything long as it’s cold, Daz, ta, muchly. See you back at the car.’ At least the motor should still be in the shade and a fraction cooler. The hospital had been sweltering and out here it was melt degrees.
‘Morriss? I don’t believe this. Morriss, where the hell –?’
‘I’m here. Before you start, listen up a min–’
‘No. It’s high time you pinned back your ears, detective. We could’ve had that bastard behind bars days ago. How come you didn’t open your eyes a bit sooner? What the hell were you playing at?’
She felt like saying, Cluedo. Like she didn’t feel bad enough. Strolling back to the car, she said: ‘You were the one claimed I was barking up the wrong tree pursuing the Manners angle.’
‘Shame you didn’t pursue it a bit more, then, isn’t it? Besides, since when have you ever listened to anyone, Morriss? You’re a bloody law unto yourself.’
Mouth tight, she aimed a vicious kick at a stone. Missed that, too. What else could she have done? She’d interviewed the main players, tried several times to check out the brother. Sod it. She could argue her case, point out why it wasn’t as simple as it looked, but she’d just about had enough.
‘Know what? I’m sick of being your whipping boy, DI Powell.’ She had good reason to sound resigned. ‘If you think I’m not up to the job, sack me or quit shit-bagging. If not, I’ll do us all a favour and quit.’
Her almost unprecedented use of his rank would have shocked him witless; saying she’d jack it in seemed to have rendered him speechless as well.
Perched on the Astra’s bonnet now, Bev circled an ankle and started counting under her breath. The way she felt, she’d happily chuck in the badge and she’d be damned if she’d help extricate the blond from an impasse of his own making. She reached fifteen before he broke the silence.
‘Okay, Morriss,’ – clearing his throat – ‘I don’t think you’re up to the job, I know you are, so come on, stop messing about.’
‘Soft soap. That so works.’ She waved an arm at Daz who was wandering around looking like he’d forgotten where he’d parked.
‘Bev, don’t be like this. You and I both know you’re a bloody good cop. We all take our eye off the ball now and again. Forget I said anything, eh?’
‘Dunno.’ She sniffed.
‘Glad that’s settled.’
‘Not so fast, sunshine. There’s a few things you need to know first.’ Powell might have second thoughts once he’d heard about the call.
‘Go on, then.’
She gave a token smile as Darren approached wielding a can of Coke; winked when he mimed opening it for her.
‘Frigging hell, Daz.’ She shot off the bonnet smartish, brushed furiously at her skirt. ‘Thanks a bunch.’ The cotton was wet through, looked like she’d been caught short.
‘What’s the lad done now?’ Powell drawled.
‘Nothing. It’s okay.’ In the grand scheme of things. ‘Listen, I took a call ’bout ten minutes ago.’ Holding the can to her forehead, she related virtually verbatim what the guy had said. If Darren’s face was anything to go by, Powell would be slack-jawed too by now.
‘It’s a waste of time gabbing to me, Bev. Raynes needs a head’s-up.’
‘I’ve spoken to her. She’s fine.’ Called Raynes first. Natch.
She motioned Daz to open the motor, hoped he’d have better luck with that. He gave her a thumbs up. ‘
She’s got a mate with her at the mo,’ Bev said, slipping into the passenger seat. ‘But you might want to authorize a minder.’ She could almost hear him bean-counting, nodded when Daz turned an imaginary key. She masked a smile. Carry on with all this sign-language malarkey and they’d end up silent partners.
‘Jeez, Morriss.’ Powell gave a low whistle. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘Josh Manners isn’t the perp. Yeah.’ She’d wondered how long it would take Powell’s penny to drop. To be fair, she’d had a little more thinking time. ‘He’s in it up to his ear lobes, though. Has to be. Remember those stills from the crime scene? Coupled with what looks like a shadow in the corner?’
‘You’re thinking he was there as well?’
‘Looks that way, don’t it?’
‘Leave that bit with me.’ Powell told her he’d chase the video unit guys, with an anal rocket if need be. What he actually said was he’d administer a kick up the arse to what he called the Flash Squad, but hey, Bev was in no mood to split hairs.
‘This minder for Raynes then, DI Powell, what do you think?’ The rank was a gentle reminder how much he’d pissed her off.
‘Dunno, Bev.’ She heard a rasp on the line, reckoned he’d either taken up smoking or needed a shave. ‘What with the budget cuts and having to account for every penny.’
‘Sick leave paid, is it?’ That shut him up for a second or two as well.
‘Why?’
‘So Mac Tyler’s getting a whack for sitting round on his bum all day? Great way to spend taxpayers’ money, that. When he could be gainfully occupied keeping an eye on Raynes.’ Her mates would be there until midday tomorrow, then Mac could step into the breach.
‘Christ, talk about hard bargain.’ Powell gave a laboured sigh. ‘All right, you win. Give him a bell.’
‘Good call.’
She already had. Mac had a bit of breaking news, too.
48
‘Stone me, hit-and-runs aren’t exactly thick on the ground.’ Bev peered into the pot on the stove, stirred the contents vigorously, praying they’d soon start looking less like road kill.
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