‘Even sparser when they’re fatal, boss,’ Mac said, topping up his glass.
Nothing was rarer in Bev’s book than her wearing a pinny and playing hostess, especially when it entailed cooking real food and everything. As for inviting Mac to Morriss Towers for a bite, that was a definite first. Spur-of-the-moment decision, as it happened. When he’d phoned half an hour back to fill in more of the story, she’d detected a note of wistfulness in his voice. Given the circs it could’ve been her imagination running wild, either way she’d told him he could pop round but he’d have to take pot luck. Mind, looking at the pot.
‘Three, since you ask,’ he said.
She cut a glance over her shoulder. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m miles away here.’ Out of her comfort zone creating something vaguely edible from bits in the fridge.
‘What we having?’ Mac drew in his legs, made to get up.
‘Stay where you are. Ratatouille Surprise.’ More like bloody miracle, given it lacked aubergine. And courgette. Still, the bacon, sausage and tuna added a certain je ne sais clue. ‘Anyway, you were talking fatals?’
‘Yeah, three.’ He spread his legs out again. ‘All within the last three months, all within a fifty-mile radius of the city centre.’
She turned her mouth down. ‘Want me to check the reports?’ Powell’s largesse didn’t extend to Mac resuming full duties and it didn’t give him access all areas. She was still working on that.
Silence from the back row. Frowning, she cut him another glance, found him staring down at his lap, looking as sheepish as a field full of Merino. ‘You already have, haven’t you?’
‘No,’ he said. Turned out, Stacey Hardy had obliged. He’d given her a bell on the off chance. ‘Thing is, boss, I remembered when we talked about the smash that killed David Langley.’
‘Yeah, right.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘And the other crashes – who died?’
‘Elderly woman in a Ka. Youth on a motorbike.’
Pensive, Bev strolled to the table, picked up his glass, very nearly took a sip of wine. Yuck. She didn’t even like red that much. She reached for her tonic water instead. ‘So Langley fits the profile better?’ For a hit, she meant.
‘I reckon. What we need is a steer on Ray Pitt’s mystery employer.’ Mac was working on that. He said he thought Pitt’s missus would probably be best bet for a lead. She and the kids had moved back to the Balsall Heath maisonette and he’d get over there first thing. The big question was, who’d rented the car? Pitt or the bloke who’d hired him? Assuming boss man didn’t already own a spare set of wheels.
‘Cherchez the mystery l’homme.’ Bev intoned, wielding the wooden spoon. ‘The main man’s still out there somewhere. Like in the Shannon Henderson case.’
She’d come out with a similar line at the late brief. As she’d told Mac, the gathering had been subdued, with the squad fully aware the guy they’d had pegged as the perp now lay in hospital in danger of pegging out. More than that, she’d heard a few rumblings among the troops along the line that Powell had hung Mac out to dry. Mac had flapped a dismissive hand at hearing that, but she reckoned he was secretly chuffed at the support.
‘You’re probably right, boss,’ he said, helping himself to a palm full of peanuts. ‘Josh Manners either orchestrated the killing or played second fiddle.’
Bev nodded, took another sip of tonic. Priority was to track down his partner and talk to his parents again. By the same token she’d already decided to head out in the a.m. and pay Chloe Manners another visit – pile on the pressure this time. Surely she’d recognized Josh from the e-fit? Bev hadn’t forgotten the look in the woman’s eye, nor her evasions during questioning. Easily confused? Or easily rattled?
‘Remember what Chloe said about Josh Manners, Mac? A sweetie who –’
‘Wouldn’t harm a fly.’ He chucked a nut in the air, missed his mouth by a mile.
‘Shot.’ She smiled, poured him another drink. ‘By the way, how is the bump?’ It was more a sly dig than a serious question.
Impassive, he held her gaze. ‘Probably worth it in the long run.’
Bev dropped the smile. The words didn’t mean a lot but the look in his eye was open to question. ‘Want to elaborate on that?’
He opened his mouth but closed it again. ‘Nope.’
‘You can talk to me, Mac, you know that?’
‘Course I do.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I know. Move on, shall we?’ He gave a lopsided smile, raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the chef.’
The change of tack was as subtle as a brick khazi. Still, if you can’t beat ’em … She clinked her glass against his. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘Eh, boss, is that meant to be happening?’ She turned to see what he was gawping at. Dashed to the cooker, spoon at the ready. Fuck a duck.
‘Yeah, it’s supposed to be well done,’ she drawled, scraping at the congealed mess.
‘Right.’ He gazed down over her shoulder. ‘That the surprise, is it?’
Bev clocked the twitch of his lip. ‘Fancy a Chinese?’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’
49
‘Why ask me? ’E never told me nothin’. Always kept his cards close, did Ray.’ Sandra Pitt had a toddler on her lap and a fag in her mouth that bobbed up and down, wafting smoke every time she spoke. Mac saw it as more smoke screen than signals. He watched an inch of ash drop from the baccy onto her scrawny chest. Knowing what she’d do next, he bit back his words. Yep. She batted it away and the fall-out landed all over the kiddie’s head and shoulders, adding another layer to what already looked like a bad case of dandruff.
Living with a chain-smoking mother who breakfasted on pot and Strong Brew couldn’t help in the healthy-living stakes. As for the stinking dive being the place from where the little lad’s dad had leapt to his death – proper nightmare territory. And that was without the fist-shaped holes in the walls, the suspicious dark stains on the bare floorboards, and the eye-watering odour of cat pee laced with weed.
Mac had only been here ten minutes and his lungs were screaming at him to get out. He’d told Sandra the barest minimum. That the cops needed to interview a man Ray might have done business with. He’d spent the rest of the time weighing up how best to get the maximum return. So far, diddly squat.
Wearing a mucky grey tracksuit, Sandra slouched opposite in a grubby armchair. Lank hair the colour of nicotine and skin like scored parchment, she made forty look like the new sixty. He’d listened to her drone on in a thick Birmingham accent, veering between snivelling self-pity and railing at a world she clearly thought owed her a living. She’d already tapped Mac up for a couple of quid for a non-existent water meter. Money talks? He was about to take a punt.
‘Well thanks for your time, Mrs Pitt, seeing as you can’t help I’d best let you get on with your … work.’ Hands on thighs he made to stand. ‘Shame, though, ’cause as I say if your husband did do a few jobs for this bloke – who knows? – there might have been a bob or two outstanding.’
‘Hold on a bit.’ The earth mother took the fag from her mouth, dropped it in a mug of cold tea. Lifted the lad off her lap, told him to go play. ‘What’s the rush? Sit down. I’d offer you a cuppa but there’s no milk. Or tea.’ He caught a glimpse of teeth when she smiled; no wonder she didn’t make a habit of it.
‘You’re all right, love.’ He’d rather drink piss.
‘The cash this bloke owes, then. How much?’
Mac bit back more words. Knew bad-mouthing her would get him nowhere. Sweet-talk would work better, he just wasn’t sure he could manage it. Avoiding a damp patch, he perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘I wish I could tell you, Mrs Pitt. Mind if I call you Sandra?’
‘Call me what you want, bab.’
‘I can see what with Ray no longer around … a bit of cash would do you and the little ones no harm. Thing is, without knowing where to find the bloke, we’re stymied.’ He spread empty palms.
Eyes creased against the
smoke, she lit another fag, fixed an assessing gaze on Mac’s face. He forced himself to maintain eye contact, even dredged up a rueful half-smile. Sandra Pitt might be a dope head but he had no doubt she was a damn sight smarter than she looked or that people gave her credit for. Streetwise, native cunning, call it what you want, he’d bet a month’s pay she was busy calculating what was in it for her if she came clean. The uncertainty was whether she held any dirty linen up her metaphorical sleeve.
‘’Bout three months back you’re talking, yeah?’ She picked a fleck of baccy from her tongue.
‘End of April. Driving job, we reckon.’
‘Let me think.’ She paused, lips theatrically pursed. ‘Y’know now you come to mention it … he did meet up with some bloke in the pub round about then.’
Thank God she’d invested some thought. ‘Can you narrow it down a bit, love?’
‘Yeah, in The Oak. A Friday night if I recall right.’ She took a deep drag, released the smoke through flared nostrils. ‘I can see ’em now, thick as thieves, huddled over by the bar.’ She’d been on the far side playing darts with a mate, apparently. ‘Ray were still on a high when we got home. Well, frisky, if you get my drift.’ She waggled a bushy eyebrow.
Mac thought he might throw up. ‘Funny how it’s come back all of a sudden.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he should’ve kept his trap shut.
‘What you saying?’ She jabbed her fag at him. ‘You calling me a liar?’
‘Course not, Sandra. I’ve every faith in you.’ Dropping her old man in the shit might be one thing, but she’d be keen to keep her distance if she was implicated in his dodgy deals as well.
‘I’ll tell ya why I remember,’ she said. ‘Know The Oak, do ya?’
‘That the one down the road?’
She waved the fag in answer. ‘You’ll be familiar with its usual punters, then? How many o’ them losers d’ya reckon have a Rollie hanging off their wrist?’ She sniffed. ‘Precisely. One-finger job, innit? And the watch definitely weren’t no rip-off, believe you me.’
Mac raised an eyebrow. And she’d clocked that from the other side of the room? Course she had.
‘Yeah, okay.’ Her shifty look spoke volumes. ‘I joined them for a swift half, if you must know. So wipe that look off your face, smart-arse.’
‘Hey, it’s a free world, Sandra.’ He raised a hand. ‘Catch his name by any chance?’
‘Can’t recall.’
‘Sure?’
‘Nah, it’s gone.’
Like her credibility and Mac’s patience. Stifling a sigh, he asked what the bloke looked like. Tall, dark, dapper, she said, wore a sharp suit, shiny shoes.
‘He had class, dead posh, he was. Yeah, you can always tell by the voice.’
Shame she couldn’t remember a word he’d said, in that case. Not that Mac didn’t ask. He spent another ten minutes pushing and probing while she dodged and dived. She almost seemed to enjoy the attention. His gut told him she was holding out but, short of thumbscrews, he had to admit defeat. Maybe she was in it up to her neck and the fear of recrimination outweighed even her avarice. Whatever. He needed to go home, shower, and get into some clothes that didn’t stink. Standing, he dug a hand in his pocket.
‘Is that it?’ she asked, peering through the smoke haze.
‘You and I both know this is a waste of time.’
‘Yeah? Well stop bullshitting me, then. You’ve done nothing but lie through your teeth since you set foot in the door.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We both know you’re talking bollocks. Just lay it on the line. Tell me why you’re after the bloke and I might see my way clear to giving you a hand.’
50
‘You again? What do you want?’ Not such a warm welcome this time. In fact Bev felt an arctic chill. Chloe Manners stood in the doorway, arms folded and making no effort to hide her distaste.
‘Well spotted,’ Bev said. ‘Must be great to have an eye for detail. Good memory for faces.’
‘You’ve lost me, sergeant, and quite frankly I have better ways to spend my day than listening to your inane riddles. If you’ll excuse me.’ She made to close the door, found a size-five Doc Martens blocking the jamb.
‘Try spending a bit of it on this first.’ Bev had the e-fit in her hand, foisted it through the gap.
‘I’ve already seen it and this really isn’t convenient, I have company. Please, just go.’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s about your highly convenient company. Look at it.’
‘You just won’t be told, will you?’ Without casting a glance, she sighed and walked back, inside leaving the door open. Bev followed her through to the kitchen again. No coffee or scones as sweeteners this time. She’d have refused anyway, reckoned she’d been fed a pack of lies last time.
‘I like being told the truth.’ Bev stood facing Chloe, tapping a toe on floor. ‘Why not tell me you knew it was Josh Manners?’
‘I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Bollocks.’ It had taken Bev a while to identify the guy, but she’d not had the dubious pleasure of knowing him. ‘He was your brother-in-law for years. How could you not have seen it?’
‘Okay, you’re right. I hope it makes you feel better. But he didn’t kill the girl, sergeant.’ She walked to the sink, poured a glass of water, stared through the window. Presented more than a cold shoulder.
Bev didn’t appreciate the view. ‘He’s sure in no fit state to hurt anyone now.’ Critical but stable was the hospital’s verdict last time she’d called. ‘He’s in intensive care.’ If she’d had the balls to face her, Bev might have broken the news more gently. ‘May or may not pull through.’
‘Yes, I’d heard,’ she said glancing back over her shoulder. And looking a darn sight more rattled than she sounded.
Bev frowned. ‘How come?’ She’d mentioned Josh’s whereabouts in a brief courtesy call to Summer Raynes, but far as she knew the only people who’d been officially informed were his parents. ‘Has his family been in touch?’
Chloe’s hand stilled as she made to refill the glass. ‘You could say that.’ Why the nervous giggle?
Bev itched to shake some life into her. ‘Regret it, do you? Not speaking up earlier? He’d be in far better nick now if you had.’ Probably be in police custody, but still. Why wouldn’t the bloody woman turn round?
‘You’re right again. I wish I had now. I thought I was protecting him.’
‘Protecting him from who?’
‘From whom, sergeant. And that would be me.’ Bev stiffened. Felt a sharp prod in the base of her spine. Then another. Wouldn’t mind betting they came from a man with a military bearing wielding a white stick. As stage props go it sure beat a false moustache in wrong-footing the audience. Richard Manners’ eyesight was probably better than Bev’s.
‘Look –’ she started.
‘Stay exactly where you are.’
Sod that. She made to turn round. ‘Look, Mr Manners, let’s –’
‘I said don’t move.’
‘Stop frigging prodding me then.’
‘Foul-mouthed wretch.’
Bev heard a whooshing sound, felt a sharp sting across her cheek. ‘How fucking dare you?’ She spun round, ready to grab the cane before the old boy could do any more damage, backed away just in time. The cane was no problem – it was the look of the knife in Manners’ other hand, not to mention the loathing etched into his face.
‘I find profanity offensive.’ He pointed the blade at a chair, ordered her to sit.
‘I’d rather not, thanks.’ Not till she knew how things stood. Or at least where Chloe fitted into this little drama. She’d no doubt she could take on Manners, but two against one?
‘Do as he says,’ Chloe said, still gazing through the window. ‘You’ll only make things worse.’
Thanks for the clarification. Bev took a seat, glanced round. ‘Well, this is cosy, isn’t it?’ Her scan took in a pair of scissors just out of reach on the side. ‘You pai
r in it together, are you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Manners sneered. ‘I was here to warn her not to open her mouth. And to say goodbye.’
Chloe turned at last, her face shining with tears. ‘You’re a pathetic bully.’
‘Sticks and stones, my dear.’ Like some sort of pantomime villain, Manners slapped his thigh with the palm, then sauntered just out of Bev’s line of vision.
She gave a casual shrug, furiously trying to think on her metaphorical feet. It looked as if she’d misjudged Chloe’s allegiance. As for Manners’ warning, she’d heard a similar threat voiced recently, couched in more graphic terms and aimed at a different target. ‘Or what,’ she took a shot not entirely in the dark, ‘she’d have her tongue ripped out?’
His brittle laugh bordered on a cackle. ‘Josh always has had quite a turn of phrase.’
‘I guess he learned from a master,’ Bev said. Schoolmaster. ‘Shame you didn’t teach him right from wrong.’
She heard the whoosh, recoiled too late; brought a hand up to her ear. Shit, that hurt.
‘What would you know? I taught my boy everything.’
Including how to kill? ‘And Shannon Henderson?’ Bev sniffed. ‘Did you teach her a lesson as well? Or was that Josh doing your bidding?’
‘If that girl hadn’t lied, Aiden would be alive today. She traduced his reputation, devastated his mother, brought dishonour on the entire family. She deserved to die.’
Bev snorted. ‘You’re telling me it was an honour killing?’
‘Of course. Why not?’ He spoke with absolute conviction. ‘I’d not expect someone like you to understand.’
She shook her head. He must be madder than he looked. Not that she could see the guy. It sounded like he was pacing behind her, still slapping his thigh with the cane. She reckoned she needed to act pretty soon. Now he’d confessed he’d have nothing to lose. ‘Nothing’s worth killing for,’ she said.
‘In your opinion. I believe in an eye for an eye.’
Closing hers briefly, Bev recalled the poor old dosser’s fate. Manners had taken a damn sight more than an eye. ‘You got your maths badly wrong in that case.’
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