Overkill

by Maureen Carter

  OVERKILL

  by Maureen Carter

  OVERKILL

  First published in 2018

  By Creative Content Ltd, Roxburghe House, 273-287 Regent Street, London, W1B 2HA.

  Copyright © 2018 Creative Content Ltd

  The moral right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published

  In view of the possibility of human error by the authors, editors or publishers of the material contained herein, neither Creative Content Ltd. nor any other party involved in the preparation of this material warrants that the information contained herein is in every respect accurate or complete and they are not responsible for any errors or omissions, or for the results obtained from the use of such material.

  The views expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinion or policy of Creative Content Ltd. or any employing organization unless specifically stated.

  Cover design by Daniel at HCT Creative

  Typesetting by Creative Content Ltd

  eISBN 9781908807403

  Praise for Maureen Carter’s witty, gritty Bev Morriss series:

  “British hard-boiled crime at its best.” - Deadly Pleasures Year’s Best Mysteries (USA)

  “Bev Morriss is a strong character inhabiting an energetic and compelling series of stories that would work well on TV. It’s only a matter of time, surely.” - Tangled Web

  “A strong narrative voice and easy to understand slang...” - Publishers Weekly (USA)

  “Carter writes like a longtime veteran, with snappy patter and stark narrative.” - David Pitt, Booklist (USA)

  “Carter has mastered the art of the crime thriller to ensure a page turner which will catch you out no matter how hard you try to second guess her.” - Diane Parkes, Birmingham Mail

  “[W]ritten in a no-nonsense pared down style which combined with an action filled plot leaves the reader gasping for breath and turning the pages...” - Karen Meek, Eurocrime

  “ ... a cracking story that zips along... “ - Sarah Rayne, author of Tower of Silence

  “Crime writing and crime fighting: Maureen Carter and her creation Bev Morriss are the Second City’s finest!” - Mark Billingham, author of the acclaimed Tom Thorne series

  “ If there was any justice in the world she’d be as famous as Ian Rankin!” - Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence

  Acknowledgements

  I am blessed to work with the hugely talented Ali Muirden and Lorelei King. As publisher-editors at Creative Content, they lead a team of professionals who are never less than supportive and inspirational. Thank you from the bottom of heart.

  Special mention to eagle-eyed copy editor Andrew Nash. And designer Daniel Raven-Clift who consistently creates some of the best and most striking covers in the business.

  Big thanks too, to my police, media and medical contacts for providing the facts I weave into the fiction.

  And finally, a massive thanks to the people who read my books and seem to love Bev almost as much as I do.

  For Sophie, who unwittingly provides me with one or two of Bev’s best lines.

  Contents

  Past

  Monday

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Extract from the Wolverhampton Echo

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Extract from the Wolverhampton Echo

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Tuesday

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Wednesday

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Thursday

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Friday

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Saturday

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Sunday

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Monday

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Epilogue

  Past

  Approaching midnight, and the heavens had reopened like there was no tomorrow. Dodging puddles, Clare dashed down an already slick pavement, clutching an increasingly soggy Sun newspaper as a makeshift umbrella. Not that the deluge dampened her high spirits. She almost felt like belting out a few bars of ‘It’s Raining Men’. Smiling coyly to herself, she thought, Make that just one man from now on. Her new fellow had only gone and splashed out on dinner at the posh Italian place.

  He was a proper boyfriend, not like the men she normally had dealings with. She could tell by the way he’d looked at her in the restaurant tonight, and by the fact he didn’t bang on about me, me, me all night. He asked lots of questions and actually listened to the answers. Unlike the others, he paid her compliments – not cash. She’d resolved never to sell herself short again.

  She was running late now, and dying for the loo, but she didn’t care – she’d had the time of her life. The teenager smiled openly when she caught the scent of his aftershave on her sleeve. Lime and a hint of spearmint. Hopefully she’d still be able to smell it in the morning. What’s more, she’d bet that right this minute he’d be standing exactly where she’d left him after they’d kissed goodnight. He really hadn’t wanted to let her go this time, and maybe she should’ve let him walk her all the way home – but, truth to tell, she didn’t particularly like anyone knowing her exact address. Clare reckoned if walls have ears, windows have eyes. And who she decided to see in her own time was no one’s business but her own.

  At the end of her mum’s road she turned, shielded her gaze and peered into the gloom. Yep. Still leaning against the wall, waiting and watching, keeping an eye out for her. She knew he’d not take off until she slipped out of sight. Clare waved, blew a kiss, rounded the corner and, after jettisoning the newspaper in a hedge, stepped up the pace. Her sudden spurt had nothing to do with being out alone after midnight. The girl’s middle name was streetwise but, boy, did she wish she’d not drunk that last pint of cider. Stifling a giggle, she broke into a gangly run, praying she’d make it back before the dam burst.

  Apart from damp clothes and drenched hair, a minute later she was home and dry. Home and dry. Nice one, CC. The thought amused her as she fumbled the key in the lock. Why the hell her mum couldn’t remember to leave a light on in the porch when she went to bed Clare would never know.

  Like she’d never know what shattere
d the back of her skull. Like she’d never know who stabbed her when she slumped to the ground. Like she had no idea that she’d die on her own doorstep in a pool of blood and human waste. She didn’t see the dark figure slink into the shadows. She was unaware when vermin started sniffing round her corpse in the early hours, just as she remained oblivious in the morning to the loud agonized screams of her mother – screams that were clearly not going to awaken the dead.

  Monday

  1

  ‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shower. It’s your favourite neighbourhood cop calling, boss.’ Mac Tyler, Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss’s junior partner, was on the phone sounding too chirpy even for an early avian.

  ‘In your dreams, Tyler.’ Barely stifling a groan, Bev cast one bleary eye on the clock and picked sleep from the other eye with her middle finger. ‘This had better be good.’

  ‘Dunno about that, boss. We’ve got a body. Uniform called it in.’

  What a great start to the working week. Christ, it was only just gone five: the lark hadn’t vacated the nest, let alone risen. Even the sun still had its nightcap on.

  ‘That’s decent of ’em. And?’ Despite the laboured sniff and casual drawl, Bev had already shot out of bed and was now haring down the landing heading for the bathroom. No response from her sidekick. ‘I’m not playing twenty questions here, mate.’ Sighing, she put the phone on speaker, parked it on the sill, then perched on the loo. Why not? It wasn’t like they were on Facetime. Still nothing from Mac’s end. ‘So do I get a clue, or what?’ Her narrowed eyes slowly widened. No wonder he couldn’t talk – he was chewing something.

  ‘You’re stuffing your face, aren’t you?’ Her bagman put away more grub than anyone she knew. Mac could give the Michelin Man a run for his money. Actually, no, scrub that. DC Lard Butt’s running days were pretty much behind him. Like a few other things. ‘Well?’ she snapped.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Yeah right. I’m not deaf, matey. I heard you chewing.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Did.’

  ‘Didn’t.’

  ‘Stop peeing around, constable. Give. Now.’ The C-word had the desired effect. Bev listened as she took a quiet leak. The account didn’t last long, details still being sketchy. The gist: anonymous tip, dead body, blood, Darwin Avenue, Moseley. The location was only a few blocks from where Bev now perched. The properties a mishmash of family homes, student digs and multi-occupancy rentals. She conjured a mental picture of three-storey red-brick Edwardian terraces, bay windows, tall hedges, front porches.

  ‘Where are you now, mate?’ she asked, swilling her hands under the tap. If he was coming from his pad in Balsall Heath, they might as well hook up at the scene. Even taking a gentle stroll, she’d get there first.

  ‘Parked in the next street to the locus. I’m about to wander round for a closer butcher’s.’

  Her hand stilled as she reached for a towel. How come he was so quick off the mark? Then the penny dropped. The crafty old goat must have been in Moseley already – having a cheeky sleepover, if Bev was any judge. She curved a mischievous lip. ‘So tell me, Romeo, how is the lovely Stace?’ Rumours of a fledgling relationship between Tyler and PC Stacey Hardy had done more rounds at Highgate nick than golfers at the British Open.

  ‘Sorry, sarge, gotta dash – and you know what they say?’

  ‘Do I?’ She knew she’d heard a sly smirk in his voice. ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘When you gotta go – you gotta go.’ Bat-eared Tyler strikes again.

  Talk about blush rising. She opened her mouth all fired up to tell him to piss off, then thought better of it. ‘I’ll catch you there. Ciao.’

  ‘Sure thing. Hey, boss! If I’m not around – just give us a tinkle.’

  ‘Piss right off, Tyler. Now.’ Going by the silent line, he’d anticipated her every word.

  Caught on the back foot, Bev skipped a shower, kissed goodbye to breakfast, left a note for best friend and current house mate Frankie Perlagio, then hit the ground running. Okay, running was pushing it. She suspected it was more a self-conscious, slightly gawky jog. Thank gawd it was only just beginning to get light and there were no witnesses. Well, apart from the old bloke approaching with a yappy Yorkie on a long lead. She gave both a wide berth and succeeded in scaring the poop out of a couple of magpies scrapping over a chip. Strewth, with all the wildlife around, she’d not be surprised to see David Attenborough pop up from the next bush.

  Instead, she clocked a line of blue-and-white police tape preventing access to Darwin Avenue. She slowed down a touch, hoping to catch her breath before anyone realized she’d lost it. Namely Little and Large, the two cop-lites – her term of affliction for community support officers – whose burly presence was adding considerable weight to the barrier’s ‘Do Not Cross’ injunction. Flashing her ID wasn’t strictly necessarily – they knew each other by sight.

  ‘You okay there, sarge?’ the older one asked, deadpan. Too deadpan, if you asked Bev. Still not sure if she had lung capacity to form words yet, she mustered a dignified nod before ducking under the tape and making towards the far end of the avenue, where the action appeared to be kicking off. Of course, the cordon might stop nosy buggers getting in, but folk who lived here had the dubious advantage of being a captive audience.

  She counted nine neighbours lined up opposite the locus like they had tickets in the stalls. Eyes narrowed, she made out a few more ghouls staring down from bedroom windows – the street-theatre equivalent of the dress circle. Though from what she could see, most of the audience was garbed in nighties or jimmies.

  Bev was dressed as per usual: entirely in blue. Her work wardrobe held every shade under the sun. The look meant no sartorial shilly-shallying in the mornings, leaving her mind free to concentrate on what really mattered. Like now. Still walking down the middle of the road, she registered unmarked police vehicles, a couple of cop cars, a white Forensics van, and a beat-up mud-splattered ropey old Range Rover which she happened to know belonged to the pathologist. Indeed, her favourite path man – the delectable Dr Joe King.

  She licked her top lip. Every cloud, Beverley. Every cloud.

  Then she glanced skywards. Yeah, okay. Not every cloud. But, boy, it would help if the rain held off now after peeing down in the night.

  Soon as the gawpers spotted another cop, a couple of Paxman-ettes started firing urgent questions.

  ‘What’s it all about then?’ Alfie. She didn’t share the thought.

  ‘How long’s the road gonna be closed? Some of us have work to go to.’

  ‘Hey, officer, I’m talking to you. I pay my taxes, y’know.’

  Bev very much doubted it but refused to rise to the bait, simply rolled mental eyes and wondered when numpties at crime scenes had ditched the idea of keeping a respectful silence. Oh yeah, silly me: anti-social media had everything to answer for; anyone and everyone with a camera phone was a budding Spielberg or Scorsese. Bev felt her stomach knot, hoped she wasn’t about to enter Tarantino territory.

  ‘Oy! Over ’ere, bab.’ Some tosser on her right wielded a selfie stick.

  Cutting a killer glance, she muttered a sotto voce, ‘Over my dead body, sunshine.’

  ‘I hope not, boss. One’s more than enough to cope with. Trust me.’

  Brow ploughed, Bev glanced round. Honest to God, she swore Mac Tyler had borrowed the bionic man’s ears. ‘Where’d you spring from?’

  At her side now, he held aloft a flat clear plastic bag. ‘Nipped back to the car for this.’ A white forensic suit. ‘You’ll need it.’

  She paused a second, ‘You been inside already, then?’

  ‘No need. Poor sod only made it far as the porch.’

  2

  Number 47 was the end-terrace on the left, and when Bev rounded the hedge and clapped eyes on a white tent, for a split second it brought back childhood memories of camping in the garden with Frankie, her best mate even back then. The reek of blood knocked the daft notion on the head
quickly enough. The chance of finding happy campers under the canvas was on a par with coming across a vegan-owned carvery.

  Drawing closer, Bev saw that the forensic tent had been erected so close to the porch it resembled some sort of flimsy extension. Flimsy or otherwise, she knew that it currently housed not just the body but the pathologist and a police photographer. Knew too the aims behind – and beneath – the tent’s presence: it was there to screen the victim from prying eyes, to keep off the elements and, more importantly, to contain and preserve crucial evidence.

  Too little, too late sprang to Bev’s mind.

  For a while, at least – depending on the time of death – the body had been lying across the open doorway of the glass-panelled porch. Which meant it had lain more or less alfresco and virtually in plain view. A sight that might easily be misconstrued as a drunk sleeping it off and ignored by passers-by. Or robbed by a chancer.

  Bev sniffed again: still eau de blood, this time laced with body waste. Even from a distance the stink was gut-churning. As if early pregnancy wasn’t already giving her internal workings enough to contend with. Standing next to Mac, she tapped a tetchy Doc Marten on the tarmac path, waiting for the path man’s okay to enter the tent. It was patently obvious space inside was at a premium. The lighting set-up in there revealed shadowy silhouettes shuffling around under the nylon. Looked to Bev like some sort of cheapskate son et lumière. And she was keen to play her part.

  Always fluent in Bev’s body language, Mac said, ‘Take it easy, boss. They’ll be out any time now.’

  Tracing a finger along her chin, she wondered just how long they’d been in there. And how come she seemed to have been the last to show up. Uniforms with clipboards were already knocking doors, and a search team kitted out in blue overalls waited on a green light. Rightly or wrongly, Bev felt her nose had been put out of joint, but had the nous to realize her beef wasn’t the most pressing priority. There’d be time enough later to pursue it, if need be.

  ‘Okay, Mac, run me through what we actually know.’