‘I’m waiting, Tyler. Don’t milk it.’ Sipping coffee, she stood in front of her office window gazing down on the car park. She’d breakfasted late – or brunched early – in the canteen, downing poached egg on whole-meal toast while drooling over Sergeant Vince Hanlon’s full Monty fry-up. Still, it was a start – baby steps, and all that.
‘One of the lads on the search team’s turned up a knife,’ Mac said. Small. Serrated edge. Black handle. Blood-stained. Stashed in a wheelie bin.
Eyes narrowed, she wandered back to her desk. ‘Go on.’
‘Bin’s outside a house just up the road from number 47. Knife was wrapped in newspaper under a load of peelings and tea leaves.’
‘Big on re-cycling then,’ she quipped, giving the discovery some thought. Dried blood often resembled rust, and the owner might just have needed a new knife and chucked the old one.
‘Before you ask,’ Mac said, ‘I’ve spoken to the bloke who lives there. Name’s Cyril Ogden. Swears he’s never set eyes on it before.’
She sniffed. She’d been a cop long enough to query every person’s every syllable. Took no prisoners on the falsehood front. ‘He would say that, wouldn’t he?’
‘He’s a widower, eighty-five. Gets about on a Zimmer, so even if his memory’s shot, I can’t see him being handy with a knife, boss.’
‘Live on his own, does he?’
‘Yep. There’s a daughter and a couple of grandkids in Kings Heath. One or other of them pops round to see how he’s doing coupla times a week.’
Back-burner job, then. ‘I thought the bins round there had already been searched.’
‘They had. Hold on a min, boss, one of the guys wants a word.’
Bev frowned. So why had uniform gone through them again? Luck or judgement? When Mac came back on the line she asked him the same question.
‘Neither. It was a tip-off. Someone rang it in this morning. Anonymous caller.’
She blew her cheeks out on a sigh. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘This might do it for you, then. They’ve just come across a syringe.’
‘In the same bin?’
‘Nah. In a hedge round the corner. By the way, boss, how’d the PM go?’
She pictured four tiny puncture marks in the victim’s neck. ‘Funny you should say that, Mac.’
‘Come on, Vinnie, you must have an idea.’ Bev leaned her elbows on the desk in front reception, trying to extract blood group AB negative from a block of granite – in other words, info from veteran sergeant Vince Hanlon.
It had taken her twenty minutes to bring Tyler up to speed on King’s findings, liaise with the drug squad again, and to track down who’d spoken to the anonymous caller. Vince had been the lucky boy who’d picked up the phone.
Stood to reason, when she thought about it. If the tip-off had come in on a triple-nine or a hotline number, it would’ve been recorded automatically. She’d bet her pension whoever dialled had known that and had made bloody sure they went for a line where they wouldn’t leave a voice-print. And they’d timed it brilliantly: Vince wasn’t being deliberately obtuse.
‘Sorry, Bev, it was bloody bedlam in here when I took the call.’ Queue a mile long, drunks, dossers, domestics having a ding-dong. So much so he’d not even been able to tell whether the voice had been male or female. She’d be surprised if it hadn’t been disguised, anyway. Had the distinct impression by now that he or she was playing the squad like a string quartet. Stifling a sigh, Bev nicked a humbug from Vince’s stash.
‘Can you remember exactly what was said, Vinnie?’
He should have made a verbatim record, no doubt about that. If anyone knew procedures, the desk sergeant did, and he was normally punctilious about sticking to them. Mind, he looked mortified enough right now, without Bev rubbing it in. She watched as he ran a meaty palm over his shiny pate. With the wide girth and tonsure of wispy off-white hair, he always put Bev in mind of Robin Hood’s merry mate, Friar Tuck. Not that Vince appeared ecstatic at the moment. Neither did she, come to that.
‘Something about us needing to search a bin in Darwin Avenue. Being honest, Bev, I barely had time to take it in, let alone take it down. Whoever was on the line didn’t hang around, I can tell you that.’
‘I bet.’
‘As I say, at first I thought they were having a laugh. It was only when Darwin Avenue rang a bell I realized they were pukka. And by then … they’d buggered off.’
She nodded. Ought to be grateful he’d recognized the name of the road or he might not have bothered alerting Uniform.
‘If you heard the voice again, Vince, reckon you’d—’
‘Do me a favour, Bev. ’Course I would.’
Driving back to the murder scene Bev ticked a few mental boxes, mostly tasks she’d hastily assigned before leaving the nick to hook up with Mac. She’d got Chad Wallace chasing the first tip-off, the one reporting the body in the porch, the same one Bev currently hoped like crazy had been recorded. If it struck a vocal chord with Vinnie, it’d be sweet music to her ears. Next she’d handed over her drug squad contact details to Carol, so she could pick up the pharmaceutical baton. Carol was also still digging into Ward’s and Hayes’s backgrounds.
Sumitra Gosh had drawn a blank with queries at car-hire and taxi firms. Oddly enough, none of the drivers could recall any mad axe murderers stalking the streets of Moseley on the night in question. Goshi was now contacting Khalid’s former tenants. And last but not least, Bev had asked Hainsworth to keep her in the loop if anything came in she needed to know.
Four boxes well and truly ticked. Well done, that girl. Her smug smile turned into a pensive frown. And four tiny needle holes in the victim’s neck; four knives used in the attack. What was that all about? Waiting at a red light on the Alcester Road, she drummed the wheel with her fingers. Bloody weird modus operandi, to her way of thinking. On the off-chance. though, she’d actioned Darren to cross-check with other forces, see whether they had anything vaguely similar on the books.
Another tick on the jobs done front. Shame she couldn’t do equally well on the personal. Sighing, she hit the wipers. Blimey. The screen was filthy – no wonder she’d been squinting a gnat’s lately. If only it was as easy to see her way clear to visiting her mum now and again. She’d not even replied to Emmy’s last few messages. Mind, the latest had been a rather terse text asking Bev when she’d emigrated.
As for Richard Byford’s invite to spend a long weekend with him in The Lakes, she’d emailed a limp line back about being no good at swimming but ta all the same.
She gave a wan smile, then reached across the seat for a bottle of water, wedged it between her thighs while she tried to unscrew the cap. Her Cumbrian cop-out had nothing to do with not fancying Byford junior or not wanting to get to know him better. Fact was she wanted it too much for her own good. Fancied him rotten, but. What if he didn’t feel as strongly? Okay, they texted a fair bit and talked on the phone, but she could be reading too much into it. She sure wouldn’t want to end up with a face full of scrambled egg.
Grimacing, she twisted the cap – again to no avail.
Bev suspected that whatever Richard felt personally towards her, he’d continue his pursuit. Knowing she was carrying his dad’s baby, he took what you might call a paternal interest in her wellbeing. Which was weird, considering Junior and the kid would be step-siblings. Nice and straightforward, eh? Relatively speaking. Bev snorted. Even she could barely get her head round the ramifications. On the other hand, her best mate Frankie, the only other living soul who knew both about the baby and the finer familial points at issue, had taken the news in her customarily long-limbed stride. Knowing the Italian, Bev wouldn’t be surprised if she’d started stockpiling bootees and knitting nappies.
Bloody hell, what do they use on these caps – superglue?
Shoot. She must remember to return Frankie’s call. She’d not even listened to the Italian’s voicemail. And she’d still not opened the bloody bottle. Damn good job she wasn�
�t dying of thirst.
Once more with feeling, matey. Tightening her grip, she tried again. Face screwed, she gave the cap an almighty twist. The simultaneous squeeze on her thighs was inadvertent; the result inevitable. With water dripping down her cheeks and soaking into her clothes, she uttered a relatively restrained: ‘Jesus H. Christmas, that’s cold.’
17
Bev spotted Mac the instant she motored into Darwin Avenue. And vice versa. He threw an enthusiastic arm in the air then hovered around while she reversed into a mega-tight space. He had the door open almost before she cut the engine.
‘Nice one, boss.’ Tentative smile. ‘Everything okay?’
She slipped past him with a clipped, ‘Perfectly, thank you.’
‘Good-oh.’ He sounded so sheepish her resolve to show him the ice-cold shoulder had already started to melt. As for Bev giving anyone the silent treatment, it was never going to happen. Besides, they were on the job and, despite what some of the nick’s macho-men thought, she knew she was a pro through and through.
‘I thought there might be some sort of panic on,’ Mac said, struggling to keep pace.
‘Thought wrong, didn’t you?’
‘Traffic bad, was it?’
She cut him a glance. ‘Saying I’m late, Tyler?’ She’d no problem giving him a hard time, though – he wasn’t getting away with it that easy.
‘As if,’ he said, ‘you reckoned you’d be here sooner, that’s all.’
Too right, but that was before taking into account the unsolicited shower. Even her knickers had taken a soaking. If she’d not nipped home for a fresh set of clothes, she’d never have heard the last of it from the piss-takers.
As for meaningless chit-chat, enough already. ‘Results back yet, Tyler?’ On the knife and the syringe. A full set of prints on both would make her week.
‘Checks are being run as we speak.’ Sounded even more breathless now. ‘Can you not slow down a bit, boss?’
Striding on, she scanned the street ahead, clocked a brace of mums pushing buggies two abreast along the opposite pavement, an old guy waiting for his pooch to stop cocking its leg up a lamp post, and a postie wearing shorts shoving mail through a letterbox. The police action looked to be happening further on, where a uniform in blue overalls was parting greenery with a stick. Another crouched alongside, probably fingertipping the undergrowth for fall-out.
‘Exercise is good for you, Tyler,’ she said, airily adding a sotto voce, ‘Thought you’d know that – being so health-conscious.’
‘Come on, just tell me what the problem is.’
‘Problem? What problem?’ She returned the passing postman’s smile and mock salute.
‘Look, is this about what Stacey said last night?’ Well, he’d raised the subject.
‘Damn right it is, matey.’ Pulling up sharp, she prodded his barrel chest. ‘How’d you like it if I went round telling everyone your personal business?’
‘Aw, boss. It’s true, then? You are?’ Beaming smile, eyes shining, he very nearly gave her arm a playful nudge. ‘I’m well happy for you. Mind, you’re really gonna have to start looking after yourself now. I’m gonna make sure—’
‘Hold it right there, Tyler.’ Palm raised, she took a step towards him, lowered her voice. ‘Last thing I want is any fuss, got that?’ It was just one of the reasons she didn’t want the kitten let out of the bag at work. Every Tom, Dick and Harriet gossiping about her, casting her funny looks, dishing out advice. More than that. What if something went wrong? She didn’t think she could bear the pain of losing another baby. Certainly couldn’t cope with work mates’ sympathy and empty platitudes. No, she’d carry on burying her head in the Gobi until, well, until …
‘Wanting the best for someone isn’t fussing, Bev.’
‘Thanks, dad. And don’t change the subject. Christ, when I mentioned Stace and you the other day, you ordered me to back off. Don’t push it, you said. Or else.’
He toed the pavement with his boot. ‘Yeah, well – I hadn’t asked her then.’
‘So? You’ve got a bloody great nerve discussing my private life behind my back with another living soul, let alone another cop, so just—’ She froze, mouth gaping. Asked her what? Nah, couldn’t be. Taking a step closer, she lowered the volume. ‘Asked her what?’
‘We’re gonna give it a go,’ he mumbled, still finding the ground fascinating.
‘A “go”? What at – Ludo? Monopoly?’
‘I asked her to marry me. Last night.’
Taken aback, she snapped, ‘Feck’s sake, you’ve only known the woman five minutes.’
Head up, he snapped right back. ‘Oh yeah? And how would you know?’
Wind out of sails. Seeing the hurt and anger in his eyes, she silently ceded his point. She wasn’t his mother or his minder. Nor, when it came down to it, much of a mate. She knew full well he lived alone, had no family close by, rarely saw his two boys, yet she hardly ever suggested meeting up out of work.
‘Sorry, Mac.’ She gave him a warm smile, laid a hand on his arm. ‘No offence meant.’
A curt nod came with a muted, ‘None taken.’
‘Good. Glad that’s sorted.’ Air cleared, they carried on walking. ‘Anyway, it’s banging news. Congratulations, mate. I’m well chuffed for the pair of you.’ Or might be, when she got over the shock.
‘Ta, boss. Yeah, we’ve been knocking round together for a while now. We’ll be setting a date pretty soon. Neither of us wants to mess about.’
‘Don’t blame you, dude. It’s not like you’re getting any younger, is it?’ Whoops. Cringe-face time. She sensed his gaze on her, could only hope he’d not heard properly.
‘You know when I said “None taken”?’
‘’Course I do, Mac.’ Gush, gush.
‘Yeah, well I was lying.’
She gave it a second or two, then: ‘Guess I won’t be on the bridesmaid list, then.’
‘You’ll be lucky if you make the guest list.’
‘DS Morriss, this is your lucky day. Guess what?’
Bev narrowed her eyes, couldn’t quite place the voice on her phone. Apart from it being way too matey for her liking. She’d interrupted a pretty pressing discussion to take the call, was in no way disposed towards playing kid’s games. Roy Lancing, the uniformed sergeant to whom she’d been talking, had no time to mess around either.
‘Who is this?’ she asking, rolling ‘Why me?’ eyes at Lancing, who stood alongside, stroking a neat silver goatee.
‘DC Wallace, Chad.’ Might’ve bloody known. ‘You wanted me to chase—’
‘I know what I wanted.’ The recording reporting the stiff in the porch. ‘And?’
Watching Lancing shuffle his feet, she listened to a rambling self-aggrandizing account from the newbie of how he’d managed to locate the tape and then had to ferret out Vince from the canteen so he could play it to him and get the desk sergeant’s verdict. Wallace made it sound like he’d tracked down the Holy Grail and handed it over on a platinum platter to Julian Assange.
What the hell was he waiting for now? A clap on the back or a gold star?
‘Sharing or what?’ she asked, making sure her laboured sigh was audible down the line. A tad less cockily, he told her that Vince had asked to hear the recording several times and was ninety-nine percent certain the voice was the same as the one on the phone that morning.
She flashed a smile. If Vince was happy … it sounded good to Bev.
‘I thought I’d let you know immediately, ma’am.’
‘Yeah, ta,’ she murmured, working on the ramifications.
‘So now what?’
She raised an eyebrow. Borderline snide? She’d bestow the benefit of the doubt. Once. ‘Organize a copy of the recording, then get onto the local radio people and talk nicely to them.’ She wanted the voice aired on news bulletins, but couldn’t force the editor to comply. ‘Our mystery tip-off merchant needs to take a public bow.’
‘How’s that work?’ Wallace asked. ‘Sur
ely if they wanted to come forward they’d have left a name in the first place?’
Sarky git. And if he couldn’t see the reason, she had no time to spell it out. Lancing looked to be chomping at the proverbial bit.
‘Do as you’re told, eh? And it’s “sarge” to you, sunshine.’
‘I only—’
‘Tell someone who gives a fart.’ She slipped the phone in her pocket. ‘Sorry about that, Roy.’
‘No worries. Who’s in the firing line then, Bev?’
‘Just some newbie trying to big himself up.’
‘I’m glad it wasn’t me,’ he said, scratching the back of his neck. ‘Anyway, these results – it’s a real pain, isn’t it?’
‘You ain’t wrong there.’ Lancing had already told her the gist: no prints, DNA, hairs or fibres on the knife; a partial, probable thumb-print smudge on the syringe, barely worth running through the national databases. It had been checked out, though – and, big surprise, nothing doing.
‘Makes you wonder why he bothered hiding the knife in the first place,’ Bev mused, as they walked in step back up the avenue. Gazing round, she half expected to see Mac, who’d offered to take on the outstanding door-knocks. Hopefully he’d got his feet under the table somewhere.
‘Yeah, I know where you’re coming from, there. As I say, it hadn’t just been wiped – it’s cleaner than a sterilized scalpel.’
‘Think they got lax with the syringe?’ She kicked a stone out of the way.
‘Either that or knew they were safe.’ The stone impeded Lancing’s path now. He took aim with his right foot and they watched it skitter into the gutter.
‘Shot.’ She sniffed. Can’t win ’em all. His theory about the partial print could be spot on as well. If dabs and DNA weren’t already in the system, a crim could leave a full set of handprints, shed copious skin cells and spit blood on every surface. It wouldn’t help one jot ’cause the PCN, IDENT1 and the NDNAD would still show up sweet FA.
‘But why’d they go to so much effort making sure the knife was stain-free?’ she asked.
Lancing shrugged. ‘Playing safe, maybe?’ She cut him a glance: late-forties, small but perfectly formed, good head of greying hair, patrician features, sounded like a BBC newsreader back in the dinner-jacket days. Bev reckoned if the police work dried up, he could branch out into telly. She could just see him presenting true-crime docos. Long as he passed the exams for sonorous delivery and hand-wringing. Failing that, he could try footie for a living.
Overkill Page 7