Nice one, Beverley. A slow smile spread across her face.
‘Something tickled you?’
‘Yeah. But you had to be there.’ She chuckled at her own joke.
‘Glad it’s so funny, boss. You just missed the turning.’
Arden Way more than lived up to its classy location. Half-timbered faux-Tudor frontages, barley-stick chimneys, lions rampant guarding grandiose gateposts. Bev was more exercised about the number of properties with ‘Beware of the Dog’ signs. Big cats hewn from stone she could take in her stride; a stonking great flesh-and-blood Fido not so much. The only sign outside Ward’s house was a discreet name plate: Morton Place.
Locking the motor, she ran a closer gaze over the extremely detached gaff. It only needed another wing and a gift shop and Ward would be charging punters to look round. Clocking the lush verbiage as they walked up the drive, she reckoned he could probably open the grounds, too. Bev was no Monty Don, barely knew weeds from wisteria, but the layout alone would draw crowds at Chelsea. The maze might not be up there with Hampton Court’s, but it was still pretty impressive.
‘Wonder what line of business he’s in?’ Mac’s pondering ran along the same lines as hers.
‘Not coppering, that’s for sure.’ They’d find out soon enough – he’d told Darren he worked from home.
The nearer they got to the wide double doors, the larger their reflections grew in the glossy black paint. Gawd, they looked like a couple, as in item. Perish the thought. Mac reached for the shiny brass knocker – lion’s head, natch – but before he’d even got to grips with it, something slammed against the wood from inside.
‘What the feck?’ She stepped back smartish. A low growl gave the first clue, a subsequent blood-curdling howl the second. Her heart sank. ‘Bollocks. That’s all I need.’
‘It’s only a dog, boss. No big deal.’
‘Never? Really? There’s me thinking it’s a gerbil.’ To a borderline cynophobe like Bev, it sounded like the Hound of the Baskervilles. In a foul mood. With a splitting headache. Having a really shit day.
Mac shrugged. Hammered the door again. The deed didn’t go down at all well with the mutt.
‘Christ sake, Tyler,’ Bev shrieked, thumping his arm. ‘Don’t go riling the bloody thing.’ It wasn’t like their arrival would have gone unnoticed. Not with the canine equivalent of a town crier blaring it over a tannoy.
‘Watch it,’ he said, rubbing his arm. ‘That hurt.’
‘Good. It was meant to.’ She had to shout to make herself heard over the barking-mad hound.
‘Don’t be so flaming childish.’ Mac hollered too.
‘Stop being so bloody stupid, then. Why’d you have to go and—?’
‘Tell me … is this a private slanging match or can anyone join in?’
Bev and Mac both shot their heads round. A youngish bloke, dressed in russet cords, grubby white T-shirt and green Crocs, lounged against a tree, a palm resting on the handle of a spade. His weathered face wore a lazy grin and his accent sounded like something out of The Archers. Bev had him pegged as the gardener. She was quick like that. He’d better be, considering the touching little scene he’d just witnessed.
‘Sorry, we—’
‘Tyson,’ he yelled. ‘Shut up.’
Bev swallowed. Wondered idly if Tyson was a boxer. Certainly knew how to throw its weight around. Still, at least she could hear herself think now.
‘You were saying …?’ The guy lifted a languorous eyebrow.
‘Yeah.’ Bev blew a strand of hair from her face. ‘We’re here to have a word with Mr Ward. Oliver Ward.’
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Who wants to see him?’
She paused a fraction, taking in his amused air, lean frame, laid-back stance. The sable hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones combo gave him a head start in the looks department, as did the all-over tan. But, boy, did he know it. Unsmiling, she rattled off their names and ranks, added, ‘If you could let him know we’re waiting, I’d appreciate it.’
He peeled himself off the trunk and sauntered across the lawn towards them.
‘Can I tell him what it’s about?’
Shouldering her bag, she said, ‘I’d rather tell him myself, ta.’
Stopping just shy of her personal space, he said, ‘Fire away then, sergeant.’ No handshake, no smile, he pulled a bunch of keys from a trouser pocket. ‘Or shall we talk inside? I’m sure Tyson’s dying to say hello.’
12
The chat with Ward didn’t last long. When they left fifteen minutes later, Bev’s cheeks were still burning. The way she put her foot down, the tyres faced the same fate.
‘“Fire away.” Who’s he think he is?’ Darren New had told Ward earlier to expect a police visit, so the guy must’ve had an inkling who they were and what they were doing on his doorstep. ‘Effing smart-arse.’
‘He wasn’t that bad, boss. Let’s face it, as first impressions go we didn’t exactly cover ourselves in glory.’
‘So?’ Thwacking a palm against the wheel. ‘He could’ve said who he was from the get-go.’
‘It’s forty here, y’know,’ Mac said, edging his desert boot towards an imaginary brake.
‘I’m fully aware what the limit is. What I’d rather know is why Ward felt the need to go all round the houses?’
‘He came to the wicket when we went inside.’ Mac made a grab for the dash. ‘I swear I’ll book you myself if you don’t slow down. Christ, Bev, what’s your problem?’
She curled a lip but eased off on the gas. Letting Ward get under her skin was the problem. He’d rattled her cage big-time. The guy clearly didn’t like cops; he’d revelled in watching Bev squirm when the dog nosed her crotch. Tyson turned out to be a huge bull mastiff and her linen skirt still bore its slobber marks. She’d a damn good mind to send Ward the dry-cleaning bill. He knew full well she’d been shit-scared, yet still took his time shutting the damn animal out back. He’d left her and Mac in the so-called snug, cooling their heels – literally, seeing he’d told them to ditch their footwear. Bev failed to find anything snug about a vast room done up in wall-to-wall white, a dazzling pristine white including fixtures, fittings and loose furnishings. Christ, it had been like sitting in a bloody igloo.
‘So he did the needful, eh?’ She sniffed. ‘If you ask me, he couldn’t wait to get shot of us.’
Mac turned his mouth down. ‘Maybe he didn’t see the point of the visit.’
She stiffened. ‘Meaning?’
‘Far be it from me, but as priorities go, interviewing Ward in person wasn’t up there with achieving world peace.’
She tapped the gearstick, dropped her voice. ‘Saying I made the wrong call, Tyler?’
‘I can’t see why we needed to be there is all. The time could’ve been better spent. He had his watch nicked.’ Mac’s shrug said, So what? ‘It’s not like we learned stuff we couldn’t have picked up off the phone or the web. Hardly surprising he said our turning up like that was heavy-handed.’
‘That’s not what he said.’
‘Overkill, then – same diff.’
Overkill. She tightened her lips. The word was getting so old now. She still didn’t appreciate Ward’s cocky attitude. Or Mac questioning her judgement.
‘You know as well as me why we went.’ To try and suss out whether Ward had been telling fibs about the watch. Claiming the Rolex had been nicked could well have been a cover story to explain why it had rocked up at a crime scene, inches from a murder victim’s shattered skull.
‘You’ve seen the guy, heard what he had to say,’ Mac said.
‘Sure have.’ Ward worked in the import/export business, apparently. He’d inherited the house two years ago when his parents died in a car smash in Greece. Little Orphan Ollie had no wife, kids or siblings.
‘So what’s your thinking now?’ he asked.
She pictured Ward lording it on a white couch, legs crossed, fingers plaited on his lap. He’d listened to questions,
given what appeared to be considered responses, made just the right level of eye contact. She’d scrutinized his face while he talked, studied the body language. The non-verbal indicators appeared to add weight to his words.
‘Is he a lying toad?’ Bev said. ‘Dunno. Prob’ly not.’
‘Good. ’Cause I can’t see any reason he’d lie. Not exactly strapped for cash, is he?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Only folk with a bob or two are capable of telling the truth?’ Snorting, she cut him a glance. ‘That’s rich, that is.’
‘He’s a successful businessman living in a squillion quid house.’ Mac sighed his exasperation before posing another question. ‘So what are you saying, boss? That he nicked Hayes’s wallet, shoved a wodge of cash in it, bumped off the victim, then posted the wallet through the letterbox? Yeah, right. I see how that works.’
‘Do me a favour, mate. Button it.’ Bev couldn’t see it either. Not yet. But she’d spotted something that had sowed a tiny seed of doubt: if the Rolex really had been lifted back in December, why did Ward’s wrist sport a white strap line where the tan hadn’t taken?
Either he’d been telling the truth or he had learned how to play a blinder.
Bev put the thought on the back burner. Time might tell.
13
Perched on a desk edge centre-stage, Powell stared pointedly at his watch, tapping its face several times. ‘Near as damn it, twelve hours on, and are we a nose hair further forward?’ He lifted his gaze to eyeball the squad, paused a second or two, then: ‘Are we hell as like.’
Bev stifled a sigh. Am-dram-thank-you-ham. Observing the theatrics from a seat against the wall, she reckoned The Blond couldn’t look any happier if he’d lost a fiver and found five pence. Christ, he even made professional miserable-sod Office Manager Jack Hainsworth look like a little ray of sunshine. Mind, they weren’t the only pissed-off cops at the late brief. Inquiries hadn’t so much stalled as barely managed lift off. The fact they’d failed even to come up with the victim’s ID appeared to be Powell’s biggest gripe … among a bunch of others.
Bev turned her head to study the murder board, grimaced at the only image they had of the dead man. Literally a death shot. The blood and gore dominated a meagre display, the photo pinned there by Hainsworth to galvanize the troops more than anything else. It certainly didn’t provide a face to go with a name – they didn’t have so much as an initial yet. Come to think of it, the original tip-off had been anonymous. She wondered why, and whether the call had been recorded. Someone ought to chase it. She jotted a note on her pad.
‘I can’t understand why no one’s reported him missing.’ Powell slung his jacket over the back of the nearest chair, then loosened his tie. ‘You definitely checked mispers properly, did you lad?’
The squad’s latest recruit, Chad somebody or other, nodded, dead eager. ‘I certainly did, sir. Fine-tooth-combed every entry. Twice. Nothing fits the bill.’
Bev sniffed her disdain. If the line was meant to be funny, it didn’t draw any laughs. She suspected she wasn’t the only squad member who resented the guy’s fast-track presence on the team bench. Not to mention PC Stacey Hardy, who was desperate for a CID place. Older and with far wider experience than Chad-the-lad, Stacey had been seconded briefly to a case earlier in the summer and in Bev’s book had oozed initiative and work ethic. The newbie, on the other hand, struck her as an arse-licking tool.
‘If the worse comes to the worst,’ the creep added, ‘we could always go in for facial reconstruction.’ Powell blanched. Assuming he was au fait with the term, he’d be calculating the cost. ‘As you know, guv, forensic anthropology’s all the rage nowadays.’
Worse comes to the worst. All the rage. The tool was a walking talking cliché-machine. Bev shifted her chair a tad, all the better to size him up: mid-twenties, tall, trim, taut; fair-haired, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, bushy … enough already. The classy suit he had on wasn’t unlike Powell’s, the shade a similar grey to the gaffer’s garb, too. Imitation? Flattery? Sincere? Yep. Right first time: arse-licking tool.
Surely even Powell wasn’t so dense as not to see through the flannel?
‘Good thinking, Chad.’
When Mac caught her eye, his face was a picture. Bev felt her lip twitch. In danger of cracking up, she dropped her head, shoulders shaking.
‘Sorry, Morriss,’ Powell slipped a hand in his pocket. ‘Did I miss something?’
‘Nope. Not as far as I know, gaffer.’
‘Really? Only I assumed you and Tyler had the case cracked.’
‘I wish.’
‘Stop fannying around then.’ Rolling a shirt sleeve, he sauntered over to the murder board, stood with his back to the squad. ‘Just look at the state of the poor sod.’ Bev had no need. The image was in her head whether she wanted it there or not. And she so didn’t.
‘Un-bloody-believable.’ Powell again.
She scratched her forehead. Please don’t say overkill.
‘Talk about overkill.’ Oh, you did. Turning round, he cast his gaze over the gathering. ‘Multiple stab wounds, vicious beating, a kicking to boot … yet not a dicky bird of intel. You’d think a neighbour or two would’ve heard something. You sure nothing emerged from house-to-house, Morriss?’
‘Not worth following up it didn’t. There’s still a few places left to try, though.’ A couple of DCs would be out there first thing on mopping-up duties. Bev had the post mortem to look forward to. Lucky girl. Could barely contain her excitement. The early shout meant her hastily arranged night out with Stacey would be a tad truncated. And given that the only way Bev could handle a PM was on an empty stomach, she’d definitely be bypassing a hearty breakfast.
Newbie stuck a finger in the air. ‘How about calling cab companies, guv, see if anyone had a fare down that way last night?’
Bev had assigned the task hours ago. DC Sumitra Gosh had been beavering away at it most of the day. ‘Goshi, did you get anywhere with that?’ she asked.
‘Not yet, sarge.’
‘Big fat zeros all round, then,’ Powell said. ‘Great.’
Nothing like staying positive. He was on the money, though. Forensics hadn’t come up with a match on a single skin cell; the witness appeal had attracted one call, from a known fruit loop; the search team hadn’t uncovered so much as a plastic fork; and it was a no-no on the CCTV front. Mind, Chad-the-lad still had hours’ more footage to trawl through.
‘What about the guy whose wallet turned up at the crime scene?’ Powell had retaken his perch. ‘Full of cash he claims to know nothing about, that right, Pembers?’
Carol nodded. ‘Name’s Sam Hayes. Thirty-four. Flat in Stirchley. Bouncer at Tiffany’s on the Hagley Road.’
‘That nightclub next to TGI’s?’ Bev asked. Seemed to recall it had been done for letting in underage girls.
‘That’s the one.’
‘Has he got a record?’
‘Minor stuff.’ Carol consulted her notes again. ‘Speeding. Affray. Possession.’
‘Of?’ Powell asked.
‘Cannabis. Personal use. Sixty quid fine.’ She lifted her head. ‘That’s it. He was definitely where he said he was last night, though.’ One of the cameras at The Lost and Found had caught him slumped on a bench, looking off his face.
Bev tapped a pen against her teeth. ‘Weird, innit?’
‘What is?’
‘Say he’s on the level about the wallet.’ Eyes narrowed, she tried shaping a few thoughts. ‘What if it was lifted by the killer? Left at the scene to frame Hayes. Maybe he dumped the watch there, too – trying to fit up Ward at the same time.’ Two fall guys for the price of one.
‘For the murder?’ Powell folded his arms. ‘How’s that work? Hayes’ alibi checks out, a few more calls and he’ll likely be eliminated. They both look clean, come to that.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know …’ She raised a palm, pursued another sudden notion.
‘But?’
‘Okay, so say the wallet wasn’t left
there to stitch someone up, but to lead us down a blind alley. The checks all take time. In this case, waste time. Ours.’ She glanced round clocking blank faces, vacant looks. Surely someone could see it too.
‘With you.’ Mac gave a tight smile. ‘And while we’re sniffing around Hayes and Ward, the killer’s out there having a laugh.’
‘Dunno about that, but he’s certainly hampering the inquiry. Like that is.’ She nodded at the murder board. ‘Rendering the victim unrecognisable’s a sure-fire way to delay progress.’
‘I dunno, Morriss.’ Powell turned his mouth down. ‘They’re bloody great lengths for anyone to go.’
‘Reckon, gaffer?’ She shook her head, no longer regarded the attack as frenzied, out of control, random. ‘I’ll bet he had a damn good reason to take so much trouble. I think he targeted his prey, planned and premeditated the killing. Why? Because he knew the victim and had a personal axe to grind. And that means when we can put a name to the victim, we’ll be a gnat’s nearer to nailing the perp.’
14
The little creep’s surname was on the tip of Bev’s tongue. Clicking her fingers, she said, ‘Help me out here, Stace. Begins with a W. Williams? Wilson? Woolley. Went—’
‘Wallace. Chad Wallace.’ Stacey Hardy sniffed a tad disparagingly as she tipped half a bottle of ginger ale onto a finger of Famous Grouse. ‘The station wags call him Wally. Cheers!’ – giving a wry smile as she raised the glass – ‘I prefer Gromit myself.’
Bev grinned, tilted hers. ‘You saying he’s cheesy?’
‘Actually … I was thinking more along the lines, dumb animal.’
Bev laughed out loud. A right pick-me-up was Stacey. Better than a slimline tonic any day. Without a shot of Gordon’s the mixer tasted bland as buggery. Still, the booze-free regime wouldn’t last ad infinitum.
‘You should lighten up more often, sarge.’ A smiling Stacey slumped back against the bench, legs out in front, ankles crossed, fingers linked in ample lap. Her belly looked as big as Bev’s would in a few months’ time. Not that Stacey was carrying or anything – well, apart from the coupla surplus kilos. She was what blokes would be best off calling cuddly, assuming they didn’t want to talk with a lisp. As for Stacey’s unsolicited advice, Bev very nearly took offence at the miserable-git implication. The woman still wore a guileless smile, though, and she sure wasn’t known for mincing words. Bev took the observation at face value, made light of it.
Overkill Page 5