Katie Granger, who was in the same class as Clare when they attended Hill Crest Academy, bears a striking resemblance to the dead girl. Kelly, who is also a neighbour of the dead girl, told the Echo, ‘Clare was my best friend and I’ll do anything to help the police find her killer. Prison’s too good for men like him.’
Detective Inspector Pete Naylor, who is leading the murder hunt, said, ‘Somebody out there must know who’s responsible for Clare’s death. The killer is some-body’s son, maybe somebody’s husband, somebody’s father or brother. I’d ask anyone with information or who harbours suspicions, however insignificant or slight they think those suspicions may be, to contact the police.’
When asked if he feared the killer could strike again, DI Naylor refused to comment.
Clare’s mother, Mrs Eve Cooper, did not attend today’s reconstruction and has been too distressed to talk to the media.
9
Bev’s stomach churned as she ran her gaze over what was actually a meagre gathering of newshounds and snappers. Hand over mouth, she subtly swallowed a burp, blamed it on Mac’s bloody banana. Hoped like crazy it wasn’t a return of morning sickness. Though in her case, make that morning, noon and night malaise. Gawd, she prayed not. Could live without the constant reminder. For a variety of reasons, she deliberately dwelt as little as possible on her – inverted commas – condition. But even Bev knew that being in a state of denial wouldn’t work for much longer. Besides, another month or so and it would be patently obvious to everyone. Mental note: make appointment with doc. Right now – get on with the job.
The pack certainly didn’t appear in any hurry to get its nose down. Most of them lolled in chairs, calling out fatuous remarks to mates about last night’s telly. Glancing round, Bev didn’t recognize a single face. Gone were the days when the likes of Matt Snow sat bolt upright on the front row, sharp as a tack and dogged as a terrier in a boneyard. ‘Tintin’, as she called him owing to his tufty hair, had been The Mail’s crime correspondent for God knows how many years, crossed words with Bev for most of them. Mind, better the devil … At least she knew Snowy. And that he’d sell his granny’s soul for a decent tale.
This bunch looked more like work-experience kids or trainee middle-management nerds. Either newspapers had a fast staff turnover these days, or editors held their star turns in reserve for the biggies. As for the broadcasters, it didn’t look as if they’d bothered sending anyone at all. It’d be a different story if the victim was a child or a young woman. The media would be over it like flies on fresh shit.
Even Bev had to admit that, as headlines go, ‘Man found dead in Moseley’ didn’t really cut it. It’d struggle to grab attention, let alone throats. Stifling a sigh, she reached for the news release, failing to see how she could inject it with even a modicum of buzz. Might as well be staring at a blank page. Fact was, since Pembers’ shock revelation that Sam Hayes wasn’t dead and Darren’s failure so far, to track down Oliver Ward, Bev didn’t even have the victim’s name to feed to the newshounds.
‘How’d it go then, Morriss?’ Smirk seeping across his bland features, DI Powell stood ahead of Bev in the queue, smoothing a silk tie down his waistband. Why the hell he always rabbited on as if she had a Masters in mind-reading she’d never know. Presumably he meant the news conference, given it had just wrapped.
‘Should’ve been there, gaffer. You missed a blinder.’
The smirk morphed into a cartoon frown. ‘You winding me up?’
‘Waste of bloody time, wasn’t it?’ Hacks taking cop-pops, whinging on about having better things to do, yadda-yadda. Her revelation that a Rolex had been found at the scene and an appeal for the owner to come forward had gone down like a lead proverbial in a concrete coffin. She’d be surprised if the story made a filler on an inside page, let alone hit the front. Shame, because the cops could do with a leg-up in the coverage stakes.
‘Gonna stand there gassing all day?’ Cath, the well-upholstered sixty-something woman behind the counter, gave a pantomime-dame wink. For a sec, Bev feared a false eyelash was about to crash-land in the soup.
‘Usual for me, Cath,’ Powell said, rocking on his heels.
‘You should live a little, Mr P.’ – dolloping out sausage, chips and beans – ‘push the boat out time to time.’ Another wink and the lash drooped a gnat’s further. It looked to Bev like a caterpillar that’d had one too many.
‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Chuck in an egg.’
Boat? More like pushbike. Bev sniffed. Each to their own. She’d had it in mind to order hot food, something nourishing for a change, but glanced at Cath and opted for a cuppa tea and a trip to the vending machine. No sense risking it: not now the lash had gone AWOL.
‘Nah, I’d have been best off staying out at Moseley, gaffer.’
‘Come again?’ A nonplussed Powell picked up his tray.
‘The news conference. As much use as a chocolate match.’
‘Bollocks. You’ve just not got the knack.’ Media tart Powell strikes again.
Bev opened her mouth to tell him where to go, but he’d already buggered off. Drink in hand, she tailed him to a table by the window. ‘That is well out of order.’
‘Dealing with hacks is a piece of piss, Morriss,’ he said, tucking a napkin round his collar. ‘All you need’s a gentle touch and a smooth tongue. You should try sweet-talking them.’
‘I could’ve spouted honey-coated molasses and it’d still’ve been a waste of breath. They’re not stupid, y’know. They were after something they can use like – oh, let me think – a news story.’
‘Don’t be so sarky, Morriss. You’re a detective, aren’t you?’ Powell jabbed his fork towards the swing doors. ‘Get out there and detect.’
Bev spun round and made a sharp exit. She could’ve mentioned the lash lurking under one of his chips, but sod him. Doubtless Sherlock would detect it for himself soon enough.
10
‘Hayes reckons his wallet went missing in The Lost and Found, sarge.’ Carol Pemberton. She must’ve taken Bev’s deafening silence on the line to mean she’d never heard of the place. ‘It’s that pub at the top of Bennetts Hill?’ Carol prompted. ‘Just off New Street?’
‘Yeah, sorry. Someone just barged in.’ Glaring at Mac, Bev pointed her pen at an empty chair. ‘Carry on, Caz,’ she said, picturing the one-time bank’s impressive once-white edifice: inside all high ceilings, dark wood panelling, and some of the walls papered in book spines to resemble a posh library in a private dining club. Seemed the real deal till a closer look revealed the joins.
‘He says it was the last pub he went in,’ Carol said, ‘thinks around ten-thirty. He remembers buying a few rounds and a mate giving him a lift home.’
‘Out on the razzle?’ Bev asked, tucking the pen behind an ear.
‘That’s what he says. Mind, he’s paying for it now.’ According to Caz, Sam Hayes had made death warmed up look like a fitness freak on a health kick. He’d sat slumped on a settee, head in hands, shaking all over and reeking of stale sweat. ‘I tell you, sarge, the alcohol fumes alone were enough to get you pissed.’
Bev pursed her lips. She’d been on the enforced wagon for weeks. Maybe she’d nip over to Ward’s, test out Pembers’ theory. ‘Any security cameras in the pub, Caz?’ Preferably showing a dodgy Fagin lookalike trousering the wallet and placing a conspiratorial finger to his lips.
‘Sure are,’ Carol said. She’d already had a word with the manager and the tapes should be ready to pick up any time.
‘Good on ya. You heading back now?’
‘Thought I might check out Ward’s mate. Bloke called Jason Vance. Lives in Balsall Heath.’ She’d more or less pass the house anyway.
‘Sounds like a plan. What about the name Oliver Ward? Did it mean anything to Hayes?’
‘Zilch. Ditto the landlord’s name.’
‘And you reckon Hayes is on the level?’
Definite pause, then: ‘Dunno, sarge. I asked why he’d been carrying round so muc
h cash.’
‘And?’
‘Here’s the thing: I know he was pissed and everything, but Hayes reckons he only had a few quid and a bit of loose change on him. Far as the cash in the wallet goes, he denies all knowledge.’
‘Pity it’s not finders keepers.’ Mac’s wistful verdict after Bev filled him in on Pemberton’s side of the conversation.
‘And you’d have a say in the matter why?’ She snorted. ‘I found it, mate.’
‘Bollocks. We both did.’ They locked glares, then exchanged rueful grins. Another thing she liked about Mac, he very rarely bore a grudge – her fatso dig was forgotten water under the bridge now.
‘Whatevs.’ She sighed. ‘Academic, innit?’ Neither had a crooked bone in their body. Though judging by Mac’s less than patrician nose …
‘Shame though,’ he added, studying his nails. ‘A bit of extra cash’d come in handy.’
‘For?’ She raised a speculative eyebrow. Rhinoplasty? Sartorial make-over? She’d not bet on either. Maybe a move up in the world? A place of his own. The poky bedsit he rented in Balsall Heath was Grotsville UK. Depressed Bev just thinking about it. Eyes creased, she had a sudden thought. Suppose the gossip about him and Stacey cosying-up together was pukka? The lovebirds would need a nest, wouldn’t they?
‘Well?’ she cajoled. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
Mac backed up a casual sniff with a noncommittal shrug.
‘Suit yourself.’ She’d get it out of him eventually. ‘I guess the bigger question is …’ – waiting until he met her gaze – ‘… if the dosh ain’t Hayes’s, whose is it? And what the hell was it doing in his wallet?’
‘That’s two.’
‘Who’s counting?’ She sniffed, picturing the lolly currently languishing inside an evidence bag in the lab. Doubtless it’d hold more prints and DNA then you could shake a fist at, and none of it any use without a match on the database. Mac took his time mulling it over. Impatient, Bev offered a thought of her own. ‘’Course he could be lying through his teeth,’ she said, retrieving the pen from behind her ear.
‘You could be right. If it’s the proceeds of crime, he’s hardly gonna put his hand up to it, is he?’
Lips pursed, Bev started doodling pound signs. ‘Dirty money? Maybe he’s into laundering.’
‘What? Crime sheets?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Naff off. Y’know what I mean.’ Hayes could be up to all manner of dodgy tricks, shady deals. Hopefully Carol Pemberton’s inquiries would throw a little light on a lead or two. And if it did, the cops would be on his case pretty damn quick.
She ditched the pen, reached for an energy drink and tugged on the ring pull.
‘Er … sarge?’ Mac tilted his head at the can. ‘What’s that?’
‘What’s it look like?’
‘It looks suspiciously like lunch.’
‘Nah, pudding.’ Lunch was a Mars bar and two packets of prawn cocktail crisps.
‘Aw, boss.’ If she’d committed a heinous offence, he couldn’t have looked more disappointed – or disapproving. ‘Them things are crammed full of sugar, caffeine, carbs, chemicals.’
She shrugged. ‘Your point being?’
‘What did we say earlier? You can’t carry on skipping meals, eating loads of junk and drinking crap like that.’
‘Says you. We’re not living in a police state yet, Tyler. Nanny one, maybe.’ She flashed a cheeky grin.
He didn’t respond. ‘You could at least try considering your health a bit more, Bev.’
She didn’t need anyone telling her that. Still bristling, she held his gaze, wondered again if his sudden concern was down to the fact he suspected she was pregnant. ‘Why the lecture, Mac? What’s the state of my health got to do with you, anyway?’
Looking well shifty, he shuffled in the seat. ‘Someone has to look out for your—’
‘No, they don’t,’ she yelled, banging the can on the desk. ‘I’m a big girl now.’
‘Yeah,’ he drawled, folding his arms on top of his belly. ‘I can see that.’
She’d grabbed a handful of tissues and was busy mopping up the overspill. Delaying tactics, as much as anything, while she tried weighing up whether she wanted to come clean on the baby front. She’d already resolved that from now on she’d get serious about cleaning up her dietary act, but she’d be damned if she’d let Nanny McPhee-Tyler badger her. Sodden tissues jettisoned in the bin, she sat back. Discretion, valour, conscience, coward. Not yet ready to give the subject an airing, she opened another.
‘What you doing here, anyway?’ He’d come barging in like a bull whale. Bev had been catching up on paperwork, putting in calls to chivvy Forensics and the path man, and printing off a list of previous tenants at Darwin Avenue. Karim Khalid had been as good as his word and emailed the info.
Recognizing the diversionary tactic, Mac shook his head, gave a heavy sigh. ‘Okay, boss, have it your way.’
‘And the answer to my question is?’ According to Mac, Darren New had been keen to let her know he’d spoken to the registered owner of the Rolex, Oliver Ward.
‘If he’s that keen to tell me, why are you here?’ Darren had apparently gone tearing off to some hospital appointment. Figured. A vicious beating a few years back had put him in a coma for weeks, so he still needed regular medical checks.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘so what did Ward have to say for himself?’
‘Told Daz he lost the watch months ago. Tried lodging a claim but the insurance people wouldn’t buy it.’
‘Where’s the guy live?’
‘Solihull, I think Daz said.’ He consulted his trusty notebook. ‘Yeah. Arden Way, off the Stratford Road.’
To go or not to go, that is the … Bev gave it some thought. ‘How’s about we imbibe a bit of culture?’ Like he had a choice. She rolled back the chair, reached down for her bag, then glanced up. ‘Come on, then – what you waiting for? Lead on, MacDuff.’
‘Duff?’
‘You heard.’
11
Mac had put his foot down and insisted they stop off en route so he could grab a takeaway. Apparently he’d not had time to get lunch. God knew what he’d been doing instead. Whatever he’d been up to then – right now the bloody hypocrite was ploughing his way through a Big Mac and a bucket of fries. He’d had the damn nerve to get Bev another banana. Adding olfactory injury to barbed insult, his meal-on-wheels was stinking out the car.
Acting as chauffeur so Mac could get his fast-food fix, Bev flapped a hand. ‘Open your window, will you?’ Hers was already down far as it would go.
‘How come you didn’t make it to the canteen, anyway?’ she carped. A quick glance caught him with his mouth wrapped round the bun. She tapped a finger against the wheel until he swallowed.
‘Had a bit of business.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Not that she was fishing or anything. She cut another glance, saw him mid-chew again. Knowing Mac, it was a tactical manoeuvre aimed at stopping her sticking her nose in. ‘What sort of business?’
‘Give it a rest, eh, boss?’ He ran the back of a hand across his lips.
She flashed him a smile. ‘Sorry, mate. Say no more.’ Not that he’d uttered a word worth a bean yet. Humming softly, she concentrated on driving, moving on. Mind, knowing these parts better than the back of her hand, she could easy put the car on autopilot. Had anyone ever actually studied the back of their hand? She shrugged. Stupid saying, anyway.
Clocking a sign welcoming them to Solihull, she stifled a snort. Bev always suspected that the prominent addition of ‘Metropolitan Borough’ was designed to distance the place from Birmingham – in more than just mileage terms. City and suburb used to be in Warwickshire, but boundary changes in the seventies had put paid to that. Now both were lumped together in the West Midlands, but ask anyone who hailed from Solihull whether the place was part of Brum and … well … just don’t go there.
‘You and Stace looking to set up round here, then?’ she asked, dead casual.
&nbs
p; ‘Nah, we both fancy Mose—’ He buttoned it too late. Magnanimous in victory, Bev didn’t say a word. Why bother, when a smug beam sufficed.
‘Okay, clever dick. You win. Just don’t go blabbing it around, yeah? It’s our business – nothing to do with anyone else.’
‘Come on, mate, what you take me for? Your secret’s safe with me. Cross my heart and hope to die.’ She couldn’t sound any graver if she was officiating at a funeral. She waited a beat or two then, ‘Hey, Mac … what’s it worth?’ The silence lasted so long she thought for a second or five he’d not heard.
‘I’m telling you now, sarge: don’t push me.’
Fat chance sprang to mind, but something in his tone stopped her voicing the thought. A surreptitious glance revealed his rising colour, too. Blimey, had he fallen for Stace in a big way? Going by the granite-face, he’d not let anything else slip. Bev made a mental note to give Stace a bell. Yeah, about time they had a girls’ night out.
‘Honest, mate,’ she cajoled, ‘you can trust me. I’ll not breathe a word.’
His impassive features said: unmoved, unimpressed, unconvinced. He needed jollying along. ‘Just think, Mac, if you move to Moseley, we could be neighbours.’
‘Christ, I hope not.’ He softened the sting with a crooked smile.
‘Don’t kid yourself.’ She sniffed. ‘You’d be hard pushed to afford a pad there, let alone round here.’
People bandied words like ‘leafy’ and ‘la-di-da’ to describe Solihull. Bev reckoned its posh houses and flash 4x4s said it all anyway. And as for pronouncing it ‘Solly-hull’ as opposed to ‘So-lee-hull’ … Bad move. Offenders would be well and truly put in their place – and it wouldn’t be Solihull.
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