‘You ain’t hitting on me are you, Stace?’
‘Nah. Not my type. Soz. Don’t have you down as a misery guts, either, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just when you laugh, you look dead—’ She cocked her head to give Bev a squinty-eyed once-over.
‘Go on, then.’ Gorgeous? Sexy?
‘Different.’
‘Different?’ she squeaked.
‘Okay, striking.’
‘Strike you in a minute, petal.’ Laughing, they clinked glasses. Bev remembered an old flame once observing she could be Keira Knightley’s big sister on a bad day. She seemed to recall lamping him one. Not that Stacey would win many beauty pageants: mid-forties, verging on frumpy; mousy hair in need of a decent cut, and a face that could do with a bit of slap. Apart from that … Bev snorted. Like she gave a bugger about Stacey’s looks – or anyone’s come to that.
‘True, though, sarge. With those baby-blue-eyes of yours, once seen …’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ She flapped a hand. ‘And the name’s Bev.’ While they were off duty, anyway. Though thinking on, they’d mostly talked shop up to now, majoring on the Moseley murder inquiry. Stacey had been all ears – not surprising given she lived so close to the crime scene.
Sipping her drink, Bev reccied the rest of the pub’s clientele. Not another cop in sight, which was why she’d mooted meeting at The Fighting Cocks rather than the squad’s usual haunt at The Prince. Nosy dicks were the last thing she needed in the vicinity when she started pumping Stacey.
‘Why’d you want to know, anyway?’ Stacey asked.
Bev gawped. The grilling hadn’t started yet; surely her little game wasn’t up already. ‘Sorry?’
‘Gromit’s full name.’ Phew. ‘Don’t tell me … let me guess … you’re keen to get inside his pants, aren’t you?’ Stacey’s eyebrow was arched high enough to drive a bus under.
‘My secret is out.’ Bev gave a solemn nod. ‘How’d you do it, babe?’
‘They don’t call me Sherlock for nothing, y’know. Great detective, me.’ Her easy delivery didn’t quite conceal the hard edge. Bev didn’t blame the woman for feeling racked off. She was well aware how galling it was when someone pipped you to a badly-wanted post. Powell had done the deed to Bev years back when he made DI.
‘It’ll happen, Stace.’ She held her gaze, serious for once. ‘Bide your time. You’ll see.’
‘Yeah, sure. Soon as I grow balls and graduate in boot-licking.’
‘Arse-licking. And make it a Masters,’ Bev muttered. ‘Nah, come on. It ain’t so bad. All you need do is learn how to play the game, toe the line, brown-nose the bosses a bit, curb the lip and—’
Stacey’s snort staunched Bev’s flow. ‘Curb the …? Coming from you that’s bleedin’ hilarious.’ She took a sip of scotch, nearly choked.
Bev patted her on the back a few times. ‘It ain’t that funny.’
‘Oh, it is.’ Cheeky mare. ‘So when was the last time you held back, Bev? I bet you don’t even know what kowtowing is.’
‘Fair point.’
‘Christ, next thing you’ll be telling me to shag one of the brass.’
Bev stiffened, looked away, mouth tight. Raw nerve shattered. Fact was Bev had slept with a senior officer. Nothing to do with a leg-up. She’d adored Bill Byford. The Detective Superintendent had been way more to her than a boss: brilliant cop, generous mentor, all-round decent bloke. He’d believed in Bev, cut her slack, watched her back, fought her corner. Without him behind her, she’d never have lasted as a stroppy female in a still macho-dominated police force. Byford had been the only senior detective she’d ever called ‘guv’. Ever would.
Trying to get rid of the lump in her throat, she swallowed hard. They’d made love only twice: the next night a killer had blasted a bullet in the guv’s face. She’d held him and watched as he bled out in her arms. And she missed the very bones of him. Why else did she visit his grave more often nowadays than her mum’s house?
So yeah, Stacey was dead right: there’d not been a bunch to laugh about of late.
Sensing she’d put her size eights in it, Stacey stood and grabbed the glasses. ‘Come on, sarge, my shout. What you having?’
Welling up, Bev rummaged round in her bag for a tissue. ‘Diet coke. Actually, no, make it a tomato juice.’
‘I’ll get a few nibbles an’ all. Shame you can’t have a proper drink.’
She nodded, blew her nose, then stared unseeing into the middle distance. In her head, she pictured Byford with his George Clooney smile, heard his tender voice, remembered how she’d stayed awake for hours one night just to watch him sleep. He’d … Hold on a tick. She’d just registered what Stacey had said. Shame you can’t have a proper drink? How come …? Far as Bev was aware, only one person at work definitely knew she was having a baby: Jessica Truss, the new Super. And that had been a lucky guess on her part. Bev was a hundred per cent sure no one knew Byford was the father, apart from Byford’s son, Richard and her best mate, Frankie.
‘Okay, sarge?’
Bev glanced up. Stacey stood at the table, drinks in both hands and a guileless look on her face again. Either the woman was a better detective than Bev gave her credit for, or the secret was common currency round the nick.
‘Peachy, me, babe,’ she said, taking the coke.
‘Good. ’Cause you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Nah. Dunno what you’re talking about.’ Except – in a manner of speaking – that was exactly what she had been seeing.
Glad it worked so well, Bev. You really nailed it there. Had her eating out of your hand by the end of the night. Good on you, girl.
‘Shut the fuck up.’ Bev yelled into the bathroom mirror, gave herself a good glaring at. Little Miss Surly meets Little Miss Pissed Off. Why, oh why, had she opened her heart to Stacey Hardy? Bev hated anyone touching her, let alone getting close emotionally. ‘Keep everyone at arm’s length’ was the Morriss mantra. Yet she’d shared secrets and fears with a woman she barely knew. Boy, she hoped her instincts about Stacey being trustworthy and discreet were on the button. As for a quid pro quo, she’d hardly elicited a nod and a wink about the nature of Mac’s and Stacey’s relationship. As far as Bev knew, it could be a casual fling or time she started crocheting a wedding hat.
‘You’re so losing your touch, mate,’ she muttered, squirting a glob of Colgate on her toothbrush.
As for Tyler, he was gonna be dead meat on toast. Spit. All that pussy-footing around and giving her bananas. Of course he’d known about the pregnancy, and he’d clearly spilled the beans to Stacey. Stood to reason, didn’t it? Rinse. As her bagman, he was in pole position to observe and interpret the signs. Brush. He knew she was off the booze, had watched her eat her own body weight in ginger biscuits, and had listened as she’d droned on about her – in inverted commas – dicky tummy. Tyler had put two and two together and come up with … yeah, okay, four. And he’d gone gabbing to Stacey. Rinse. Spit. Sluice sink.
She glanced in the mirror, dabbed a spot of toothpaste off her top lip. To be fair, he’d apparently told her not to spread it around. Actually used the term ‘mum’s the word’, according to Stacey. Bev snorted. No wonder he did stand-up comedy in his spare time; he sure couldn’t afford to give up the day job. Yeah, well tomorrow she’d really give him something to laugh about. Shame Frankie was out on the tiles tonight, she could’ve asked for her take on it.
In bed later, staring at the ceiling, Bev reflected on what had led her to confide in a comparative stranger. Weak moment? Low ebb? Byford blues? She frowned. So why not talk to her mum? Too close to home. She knew Emmy would foist well-meaning advice and opinions, smother her with sympathy. Whereas Stacey, like Bev, shot from the lip. Stacey wouldn’t pull a punch if it smacked her in the face. And Bev needed to hear home truths, not homilies.
She gave a lopsided smile. What had Stacey come out with earlier? ‘Timing could’ve been better, sarge.’
The smile faded when she recalled Stacey’s fol
low-up. ‘Still, better late than never, eh?’
‘Sure thing, Stace.’ Sighing she reached for the framed pic on the bedside table, her favourite shot of Byford. Except when it’s already too late.
Bev pressed warm lips against cold glass. ‘Night, guv. Sleep tight.’
Tuesday
15
‘Sleep okay, did we?’ Scalpel in hand, glint in eye, the pathologist glanced up from the body on the slab. Bev stifled a yawn as she closed the door with her bum, fully aware that the sarcasm in King’s query could be cut with a knife.
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Joe King. Correct. Clever girl.’
Shame she didn’t feel it, then. Mind, if the doc was toying with the idea of a comedy career, like Mac, he’d be best off sticking with the day job.
‘Nice one,’ she lied, forcing a rueful smile. ‘Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bugger.’ Another porkie. She felt guilty enough about missing the start without spinning yarns to cover her back. Truth was she’d overslept. And despite telling herself she never overslept, she had now. Actually, if she was being completely honest, a tardy beginning to Bev’s day wasn’t unheard of. Probably why she’d set an extra alarm, but even the Star Wars theme tune blaring out from her phone had failed to rouse her. Then again, she’d not drifted off until after four, and when sleep had finally come, a recurring nightmare had lived up to its name.
‘No worries,’ King said, ‘but with the backlog out there’ – jabbing a gloved thumb over his shoulder – ‘I had to plough on.’
‘Fine by me. How’s it going?’ Steeling herself, Bev approached the metal table and tried ignoring the clinical-faecal stench combo. Normally by now she’d have a bit of Vick nestling under both nostrils, but in the rush to get to the morgue she’d left the jar sitting in the car. Still, by the look of things King was nearly done.
‘Just a bit of tidying to do – I’ll be with you in a tick.’
She raised a thumb. Her timing had been pretty spot on after all. Darn sight prettier than what lay before her. Even cleaned up, the body was enough to turn an empty stomach. In addition to the patchwork of damson and purple bruises she was already familiar with, hundreds of jagged black stitches now bound the Y-incision that had been cut into the chest and down to the groin. No disrespect, but it looked to Bev as if a shit tattooist had been let loose with a blunt needle. Swallowing hard, she prayed to God that when the time came she could forego this particular indignity.
After five minutes of her fidgeting and his finishing up, King finally placed a pair of surgical scissors in a tray alongside the rest of the instruments and lowered his surgical mask.
‘Apart from the obvious, the guy was in good nick health-wise.’
‘Any distinguishing features?’ Inkings, birthmarks, broken bones – anything that’d help identification.
‘Nothing on that score.’ He shook his head. ‘As to the rest, I’ll a get a full report to you soon as, but I’m betting you wouldn’t say no to the edited highlights now?’
‘All ears, me, doc.’
The final tally on the stab wounds, he told her, was sixteen. One had punctured the left ventricle and King was ninety-nine percent certain that had been the killer blow. He revised his estimate on the number of knives used: now reckoned four.
Four? She gave a low whistle, gazed down at the corpse again. No half measures there, then. Whoever stabbed the poor sod sure wanted him dead.
‘… easy to miss.’
Bev looked up, frowning. She’d only caught the last bit. ‘Sorry, come again.’
‘The puncture wounds.’ He nodded towards the side of the guy’s neck. ‘Take a look.’
She moved in closer, still couldn’t see anything. ‘Help me out here, doc.’
‘There.’ Pointing this time, he added, ‘You can see why I didn’t notice them initially.’
Bev nodded. Two tiny holes just under the right lobe. No, four. ‘Syringe?’
‘Yep.’
Thoughts racing, she glanced at the inner arms, thighs, elbows, the usual sites for track marks.
‘There’s no more, Bev. Believe me, I’ve searched.’
‘Probably not a user then,’ she mused.
‘I can’t see anyone shooting up there anyway.’
‘So’ – holding King’s gaze – ‘either he had a nasty accident while he was doing a spot of darning … ?’
‘Or someone injected him.’
She nodded. Knew what her money was on.
‘It don’t make sense, woman. Why the hell would the perp inject the guy, and what with?’ A tetchy Powell, sounding as if the killer’s predilection for making a point was Bev’s fault. She’d caught up with The Blond in the squad room, where he’d been talking to a few of the guys – Jack Hainsworth, Chad Wallace, Darren New, all seated behind desks. Sumitra Gosh had a phone clamped under her chin. It was Tyler Bev had actually been on the lookout for, but Blabbermouth appeared to have gone AWOL. Funny, that. Though thinking on, he’d been aware of her date with Dr Death this morning, so he’d obviously found something to keep him busy.
‘You tell me,’ she said holding out an empty palm. To her way of thinking, too, King’s discovery hadn’t exactly added up.
Why would the perp stick a syringe full of goodness knows what into a guy who’d already taken his last breath? Assuming the syringe had contained something, of course. And that the victim hadn’t still been alive when the deed was done.
‘What’s the lab say?’ Powell snapped, shoving a hand in his pocket. Maybe he was feeling the heat of a case crawling nowhere. The sweat beads oozing above his top lip could be unrelated to the fact that he was standing in a shaft of sunlight streaming through the window. DI Vain would soon shift his butt if he realized how the sunshine showed his crows’ feet and grey hairs.
Heat or stress? Either way Bev didn’t care, she treated him to a cool Morriss stare. ‘They’re pushing the tests through. Obs.’
The squad needed tox results asap, preferably yesterday. Until the murder team knew the score, they were at a loss knowing what sort of a lead they had. Early blood samples taken at the crime scene had already been looked at, and initial findings should be back any time. But samples harvested by King this morning – more blood, urine, tissue, ocular fluid – needed extensive analysis, and a full report wouldn’t be available for two or three weeks.
‘What’s your thinking, Morriss?’ Powell perched on the edge of a desk, arms folded.
She’d mulled over a few theories on the drive back. Without a smidgeon of evidence she was reluctant to share, but Powell was clearly in no mood to wait. Best speculation she could come up with was that the victim had been a dealer who’d sold a batch of contaminated drugs, the killer a mate or family member of someone who’d died after taking the stuff.
‘Is that it?’ Powell lifted a lip.
‘Take it or leave it, gaffer.’ She’d also considered the idea the killer could be a junkie, hyped up, hard up and desperate for a fix, who’d attacked his supplier, in other words their still unnamed stiff.
‘Might be nothing in it, sir,’ Wallace offered. Bev cut the newbie a withering glance. As he leaned back in the chair, hands casually crossed round the back of his head, it certainly looked as though he had his feet under the table.
‘You deaf, lad? That’s more or less what I said.’
Blink and you’d miss it, but Gromit’s jaw had definitely tightened a tad.
‘I meant nothing in the syringe, sir. Injecting air into someone can be fatal.’
Bev toed the floor, felt her colour rise. Wallace was dead right. She’d intended wasting Byford’s killer that way. Paul Curran, shot in the head by a police marksman, had lain mouldering for months in a private nursing home in a so-called vegetative state. Bev used to drop by – empty syringe stowed in her bag – all set to take him out. And not for a breath of fresh air. As a cop, contemplating murder hadn’t been her finest hour.
Glancing up, she saw Powell, hands on h
ips, looming over Wallace’s desk. ‘I think it’s safe to surmise, detective, that with a shattered skull, a face beaten to pulp and a heart used as a pin-cushion, the victim had already shuffled off his mortal coil. He was well and truly deceased, dead as a decomposed dodo pushing up daisies.’
Bev’s lip twitched. She pictured Powell breaking out into a silly walk with a posthumous parrot on his shoulder. Instead, he leaned across the desk and added, ‘So do tell, lad, why’d you think the killer needed to stick him with a lethal needle as well?’
A startled Wallace sat up straight, did that goldfish thing with his mouth a few times, and with the same vocal result. Bev almost felt sorry for him. Almost. On the other hand, it made a change for somebody else to be getting it in the neck from Powell.
‘Er, gaffer,’ she intervened, partly to put Wallace out of his misery, partly because she’d just read a new text on her phone. ‘Might be an idea to liaise with the drug squad.’ Mind, there was so much stuff on the streets these days, Bev always thought of it as the crack squad.
Powell stopped taunting Wallace, turned to face Bev. ‘Because?’
‘The victim’s blood shows traces of heroin.’
16
‘We might have a break, boss.’ Mac on the phone, traffic hum in the background.
‘Where are you, Tyler?’ Bev snapped.
‘Out at Moseley.’
She raised an eyebrow. So he’d gone straight to the crime scene, had he? Probably hoping for a development he could pass on to impress her. It had better be good, given the ground DC Big Gob needed to make up.
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