Overkill

by Maureen Carter

  ‘What’s this?’ he called out. ‘A picnic?’

  ‘I wish,’ Bev muttered. Give her a pork pie, sausage roll and Scotch egg any day. ‘Want some?’ she asked proffering the last mouthful of banana.

  ‘Nah. Wouldn’t want to deprive you, sarge.’

  Please do. ‘Get rid of this, will you, mate?’ She lobbed the peel at Mac who failed to catch it, then slid off the bonnet to get down to business. At five-six she stood a good eight inches shorter than the crime scene manager, and going by the glint in his toffee-coloured eyes he was ahead of her on the latest gen, too.

  ‘Come on, Chris,’ she said, rubbing her hands. ‘I can see you’re dying to share.’

  ‘There’s a wealth of pickings in there.’ He tilted his head towards the porch at number 47. ‘We’ve not been over the house yet, but the guys have already lifted blood samples, hairs, fibres, partials, treads. Loads of potential, Bev.’

  ‘Music to the ears, Mr B.’ No point getting carried away just yet. Most of what would shortly be with the lab likely stemmed from the victim. Even if the FSI guys found a stack of unknowns, the samples would stay that way until the cops could come up with a fingerprint or a blood match. She narrowed her eyes. Unless, they’d been left by someone whose dabs and DNA were already in the system. In which case, they’d have the inquiry shrink-wrapped by close of play. ’Course they would …

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard anything back on the landlord’s whereabouts?’ Chris held her gaze as he unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water.

  ‘Nah. I’m waiting on a call from Dazza.’ They needed the owner’s say-so before entering the premises. Not that Bev held high hopes of finding anything in there. But no stone unturned and all that. She noticed Baxter’s face fall a tad. Clearly he was keen to get in and on.

  ‘Hang fire, I’ll give him a quick bell.’ Before her hand even reached her phone, the ringtone started – Waterloo Sunset this week. She ignored Mac’s murmured, ‘Kinky.’ Clocked the caller ID and gave Baxter the thumbs up.

  ‘Talk of the devil, Dazza. I was about to give you a buzz.’

  ‘Great minds, eh, sarge?’

  ‘I’d not go that far, sunshine. Anyway, what you got?’

  The house was owned by a Karim Khalid, Darren said, part of a modest portfolio of buy-to-lets, mostly in south Birmingham. Apparently Mr Khalid had been deeply concerned that murder had been committed on one of his doorsteps. What’s more, he was keen to help the police in any way he could and, according to Darren, was hot-footing it over to Darwin Avenue as they spoke.

  ‘That’s big of him,’ Bev said. ‘Wouldn’t have anything to do with concern about the price of his property plummeting, would it?’ She heard a sharp intake of breath on the line.

  ‘That’s well harsh, sarge. How can you come out with a line like that when you’ve not even met the bloke?’

  Unlike Darren, Bev had dumped the rose-tinted specs years back, along with her trusting nature, a benefit-of-the-doubt mindset and a recording of ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’.

  ‘Spare me the lecture, eh? When you’ve been in this game as long as I have …’ He muttered something she only half caught. I’ll be playing it better? Never. He wouldn’t have the frigging nerve. ‘Come again, Dazza?’

  ‘I was just saying ta, sarge. One of the guys handed me a letter.’

  Yeah, right. Yesterday she wasn’t born. The cheeky sod could think on his feet, she’d give him that. And she’d give him a right royal rollicking if he had another dig like that. If she’d thought there’d be time she’d have administered it now, but she’d just glanced over her shoulder and it looked very much to Bev as if the absentee landlord was about to make his presence felt.

  5

  As he scurried along the pavement, his dark raincoat flapping open, the guy put Bev in mind of a giant crow on the lookout for grubs. The glossy hair – sleeked back and raven black – added to her fancy, as did the sharp features and beady eyes. Except birds generally don’t carry brollies or wear snazzy suits and silk ties. Keen gaze fully focused left, he appeared to be heading straight for the property until Bev stepped in his path.

  ‘Mr Khalid?’

  He nodded. ‘And you are?’

  Bev showed her warrant card, simultaneously running through verbal intros. ‘Thanks for getting here so quickly.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Giving a tight general-issue smile, he shook Bev’s hand in a cool firm grip. ‘Getting here promptly is the least I could do. What’s happened is awful. Truly awful. I just couldn’t believe it when your people called. I can still barely take it in. Do we know yet how the poor man died?’

  Bev raised a brow. We? I don’t think so, pal. She was invariably wary of unwavering and OTT eye contact. Anyone could hone up on The Big Book of Body Language: non-speak with forked tongue. Mind, she had to admit that up close the almond-shaped amber-coloured eyes were the most striking she’d seen in years. The flawless skin, pillow-lips and pearly- white teeth weren’t so shabby either. Her initial estimate had been that Khalid was middle-aged, but she’d now recalculated and put him late-thirties.

  Clearing her throat, she took a step back. ‘It must be a great shock for you, sir, but I’m sorry, I can’t disclose information of that kind at this stage of the inquiry.’ Assuming I had any to give.

  ‘Stupid of me.’ He made that ridiculous gesture of faux-slapping his forehead. ‘Of course you can’t. I don’t know what I was thinking. But look, how can I help? What do you need from me? Just say the word.’

  If the guy wasn’t for real, he sure knew how to fake it. Bev’s jury was out. She glanced at Mac, who couldn’t have looked more deadpan if he’d overdone the Botox.

  ‘So?’ Khalid prompted.

  She asked if he’d already been told where the body had been found, received a confirmatory nod, then said they were keen to establish whether the victim had just been passing or whether he had a specific reason for being at the house.

  The guy looked a tad nonplussed.

  ‘For instance’ – Bev held out a palm – ‘let’s say he was mates with someone who used to live here. Had it in mind to see if they were home.’

  ‘I’m with you,’ he said. ‘If he knew someone, they’d know him. You’ll want a list of previous tenants, then.’ He frowned. ‘The place has been empty for about six months, though. How far back would you like to check?’

  She turned her mouth down. ‘Five years or so?’

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll email a copy as soon as I get to the office,’ he said, digging a ring full of keys from his pocket. ‘And right now, I’m sure you want to take a look inside.’

  Quick on the uptake – and the feet. Bev had to lengthen her pace to catch up, head him off at the pass, well, privet. ‘You can’t go any further, Mr Khalid. It’s still a crime scene.’

  ‘Again, sorry. I should have realized.’ Sorting through the keys, he asked which she needed. ‘Front? Back? Not to worry.’ He handed over both. ‘And there’s no rush. Return them when you can.’

  ‘Shall I take those, DS Morriss?’ Baxter held out an expectant palm. He and Mac had caught up, too.

  ‘Sure thing.’ Made sense. Not much point in getting suited up again on what she felt sure would be little more than going through the motions. Besides, they had more important things to get on with, and she didn’t need Mac subtly tapping his watch to remind her.

  ‘If that’s it, officer?’ Khalid smiled. ‘May I go now?’

  ‘Can we just have a few details, sir?’ Mac reached for his notebook. ‘Numbers. Email. Address where we can find you? Just in case.’

  While they did the necessary, Bev wandered off to check her phone. Yadda-yadda-blah-blah. Nothing pressing apart from Pembers’ text: ‘News conference. Midday. The DI wants you to take it.’ She typed a line: ‘I know where I’d like to stick it.’ Smirked and hit Send.

  ‘Where the hell’s she gone?’ Baxter with his boxers in a twist?

  Bev turned back, fro
wning. ‘Here,’ she called retracing her steps. ‘What’s up?’ She needn’t have bothered asking. A second later her glance fell on Chris’s gloved palm, currently cradling a creased tan-coloured wallet. Even at a distance she could see stains on the leather. And smell the blood.

  6

  ‘Where’d you find it?’ Staring at the wallet, Bev clicked her fingers absent-mindedly at Mac. Suppressing a sigh, he passed her the latex gloves he already had to hand.

  ‘Mat in the hall,’ Baxter said. ‘I almost trod on it. Must’ve been shoved through the door.’

  ‘Makes a change from junk mail, I suppose,’ she murmured, slipping on the gloves. She took the wallet from Baxter, slowly turning it over to examine further. No handy initials embossed in the cracked leather. By the weight and look of it, though, the inside might hold a clue or two.

  ‘Blimey.’ She glanced at Mac, who was now as goggle-eyed as she was at the contents.

  ‘Well, they weren’t after cash, boss, that’s for sure.’

  Words. Took. Mouth. Of. ‘Damn right. There’s a shit ton here.’ Had to be forty or more notes in it. ‘How much d’you reckon?’

  ‘Your guess.’

  She prised open the internal compartment, glanced up again at Mac, who gave a low whistle as he met her gaze. ‘If they’re all fifties, mate, we’re looking at a coupla grand.’

  ‘At least,’ he said. ‘Why was he carrying so much dosh?’

  ‘Dealer?’ she mooted. Tad obvious, but drugs were a lucrative business round here.

  Mac turned his mouth down. ‘He was wearing a Rolex, don’t forget, so he’d not have been short of a bob or two.’

  She nodded. ‘More to the point, why didn’t the killer nick it?’

  Apart from mental cogs ticking all round, the only actual sounds were low-level traffic and the distant bark of a dog.

  ‘What if the victim put it through the door himself?’ Baxter came up with what he clearly considered a bright idea. Bev’s curled lip didn’t agree.

  ‘I see you’re not buying it, but say the guy suspected he was about to be mugged,’ – Baxter warmed to his theme – ‘he’d want to protect his wad, wouldn’t he? Posting it through the letterbox would put it out of harm’s way.’

  ‘Nothing harmless about the state of the body, Chris. Besides, the pathologist reckons he was set on from behind, knocked unconscious with a single blow. The poor sod probably didn’t have a clue he was in danger, let alone the presence of mind to offload his wallet.’

  ‘Yeah, but what if he did know he was being followed? He’d also know how much he had to lose. Maybe he saw getting shot of the cash temporarily as a pre-emptive strike. It’d give him breathing space to work out the best plan of action.’

  Bev took a calming breath. Then: ‘So he sees what he imagines is a mugger and decides to take time out to play postie? He’d have to have turned his back on the tail … making himself a sitting duck. And if you’re on the money, Chris, why didn’t the mugger, who’s now a killer by the way, retrieve this?’ Sneering, she waved the wallet round.

  ‘You tell me. You’re the detective.’

  ‘I s’pose someone or something could’ve spooked the bastard.’ She sounded grudging even to her ears.

  ‘Exactly – he probably had to leg it quick.’ Baxter came close to crowing as he folded his arms. ‘And who’s to say he didn’t intend coming back for it?’

  Could he be onto something? After her initial scathing scepticism, she tried thinking it through.

  ‘Hey, boss.’

  Bev cut a testy glance round. What the hell was Mac doing down there? ‘What you playing at, mate?’

  ‘This dropped out when you were waving the wallet around,’ he said, getting off his knees and passing her a laminated card. ‘Looks as if we might have an ID.’

  ‘Sam Hayes,’ Bev murmured.

  ‘Gym membership,’ Mac said. ‘Liked keeping trim, I assume.’

  Fighting fit. ‘Yeah, and fees at this place don’t come cheap, I can tell you.’ She’d briefly toyed once with the idea of joining The Elite. Then found out the cost. Several limbs.

  ‘I’ll let Pembers know,’ Bev said, reaching for her phone. DC Pemberton was chasing the Rolex lead and needed updating.

  ‘I’ll catch you guys later.’ Baxter gave a mock salute before turning on his heels.

  ‘Roger that,’ Bev called, then: ‘Caz? It’s your lucky day.’ Her bright smile faded as she listened. Carol had been on the point of calling anyway; she’d just found out whose name the watch was registered in.

  Just one snag. It wasn’t Sam Hayes.

  7

  According to records, the Rolex found at the crime scene belonged to a guy called Oliver Ward. A name was all they had so far, but being in possession of a solitary fact didn’t stop Mac from speculating. Glancing both ways before pulling the Astra onto the Alcester Road, he said, ‘Reckon this Ward bloke could be the perp, boss?’

  It was coming up to hack o’clock and they were heading back to Highgate nick for the news conference; near enough on time, for once. ‘I mean,’ Mac expanded, ‘the watch could just as easily have slipped off Ward’s wrist in the scuffle as the victim’s. What d’you think?’

  ‘Sorry, mate. I forgot the crystal ball,’ Bev snapped. ‘How the hell would I know?’ Ward or Hayes could’ve nicked the bloody thing, for all the solid info they had. She glimpsed Mac’s podgy fingers tighten round the wheel and raised a contrite palm. Balling him out wouldn’t get them anywhere. Hardly Mac’s fault that Carol’s revelation had thrown a set of spanners in the works.

  Besides, looked at differently the current situation wasn’t all bad news. Rather than no ID to go on, the squad now had two names to play with. Or rather Pembers and Darren did – they’d been landed with the job of finding out more about the men. The FOB task, Bev always called it: flesh on bones. Darren was working on Oliver Ward’s metaphorical skeleton, and Pembers was working on Sam Hayes.

  Bev cut Mac a quick glance. ‘Did you hear me? I said I’m sorry.’

  ‘’Course you are,’ he murmured scratching the back of his neck.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. You’re always throwing things back in people’s faces. Even more so these days. Anyone’d think you were the bloody oracle.’ Bev. Speechless. A first for everything. Mind, with her jaw on the floor, it was difficult to spit anything out.

  He glanced across, waved a placatory hand. ‘Don’t take it the wrong way, Bev. You should try listening more is all I’m saying.’

  ‘Try talking less shite then.’ Tightening her lips, she turned her head, stared through the passenger window. The Moseley Road in all its glory: a motley crew of characters, a mishmash of class and cultures: yobs, yummy-mummies; Methodist chapels, mosques; beanie hats, burqas; posh parts and poverty-stricken – and all human life in between. Bev loved the place.

  Not enough to distract her from Mac’s dig, though. The man had a nerve. What right did he have to give her advice? On what bloody grounds? She balled a fist. Thinking on, she had rather pooh-poohed Baxter’s postie theory earlier. Pretty much dismissed it out of hand. Was it because she’d not come up with the idea first? Christ, she hoped not. Powell pulled those sorts of tricks all the time. Memo to Morriss – BBG: brain before gob. Yeah, that’d sort it.

  She sat back in the seat, demure hands folded in lap, smug smile tugging at her lips. New leaf. New Bev.

  ‘After all,’ Mac said, ‘you’re not DI yet, y’know.’

  Eyes blazing, she whipped her head round. ‘Too effing right. I’m still your frigging boss, though. So button it, fatso.’

  8

  ‘What do you mean, he’s not dead?’ Bev’s raised eyebrows, not to mention vocals, drew curious glances from a pair of passing plods. She stood facing Carol Pemberton in the car park at the back of the nick. Carol was about to drive to Stirchley to interview in person the not-so stiff Sam Hayes. As for Mac, the instant he’d parked, he’d scarpered inside – still poi
ntedly humming ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’, the car’s sole soundtrack after her fatso gibe.

  Carol tucked a lock of glossy black hair behind her ear. ‘He’s very much alive, sarge. And kicking. Actually, make that hopping as in, livid.’

  ‘Figures.’ She’d not be feeling over the moon if some grease ball had lifted her wallet. ‘When did he realize it had gone?’

  ‘He was a bit vague on that score. Between you and me, I think he was out on the lash last night. When we spoke on the phone he sounded dead groggy.’

  ‘Could be worse.’ Way Bev saw it, dead groggy was a heck of a lot better than dead, period. ‘Did you ask where he’d been?’

  ‘Didn’t get the chance.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I woke him up. He needed the loo. And as I say, he wasn’t exactly firing on all four—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Dismissive hand flap.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Look, sarge, I’ll be there in twenty minutes and I reckon I’ll get more out of him face to face, so what’s your beef?’

  ‘The instant you have anything – let me know.’

  ‘Like I wouldn’t?’ she snapped.

  Taken aback, Bev murmured ‘Laters’ as she watched Carol stride towards a pool car. The woman’s uncharacteristic snipe had hit home. Far as work went, Carol was one of Bev’s few friends.

  Extract from the Wolverhampton Echo

  Friend retraces murder victim’s final steps

  A former school friend has taken part in a police reconstruction of murder victim Clare Cooper’s last known movements. It is now almost six weeks since Clare’s body was found by her mother on the doorstep of their home in the Morden Vale district of Wolverhampton. Clare (17) had been beaten to death. Since then, appeals for information have failed to lead the inquiry any further forward. Police hope the reconstruction with Katie Granger standing in for tragic Clare will prompt people with information to come forward.