‘Playing something, Roy,’ she said. Unconvinced about the safe part. Bev had a feeling the perp was so ahead on points he was actually enjoying leading the cops a not so merry mazurka. One to which only he knew the steps.
Looking up the road, she clocked the wheelie bin still parked outside the old boy’s house. The only real link between the knife, the needle and the murder was the fact that the same person had tipped off the police. She’d suspected the perp, initially, but now had doubts whether he’d put in the calls himself. Though she’d bet a pound to a euro he knew who had. He’d probably coaxed or coerced a mate into making them, someone who owed him a favour and was happy to dick cops around with time-wasting diversions.
It signalled to Bev a perp who knew his way around criminal circles a hell of a lot better than sewing circles. Right now her hopes were pinned on a straight-laced member of the public recognizing the voice when it hit the airwaves, someone who owed the perp naff all and who’d willingly stick the needle in.
‘Thing is, Bev, we’d probably never have found the bloody things if someone hadn’t pointed us in the right direction.’
She nodded, lips pursed. Only too well aware. Except Bev saw the near-worthless evidence as the perp pointing them any which way but the right one.
18
‘This is the way to go nowadays, my friend.’ Frankie, in full brag mode, placed two deep bowls on the table and stood back gazing down. ‘Buon appetito.’
Bev stared forlornly at what was on offer and murmured, ‘Et tu, Frankie?’ Brute more like. She’d bet a pound to a penny that Perlagio – figuratively speaking – had cooked this little lot up with Mac. Smiling sweetly, Frankie swept aside both Bev’s comment and literary drift and took the seat opposite. ‘I think you’ll find the Italian is “e tu”.’
Bev rolled her eyes. Smarty pants. As always, her bestie looked a billion lira: olive skin, classic features framed by cascading pre-Raphaelite locks; elegant, sexy. A semi-pro session singer by day, chef’s whites on tonight Frankie was Katie Melua meets Nigella.
‘So what do you think?’ she asked, snapping open a linen napkin.
Bev managed to curl a lip while simultaneously wrinkling her nose. No mean feat that, and this was no meat feast. After a fruitless shift at work, Bev had been looking forward all afternoon to a Frankie dish du jour. She’d driven home happily conjuring up images of carbonara, seafood linguini, ravioli all’Amatriciana. Any culinary storm Frankie produced was fine by Bev. They all had lashings of sauce, were showered with parmesan shavings, and were usually served with a generous side of garlic bread.
‘What is it, mate?’ Bev glanced up from the latest offering, which looked like casts-offs from a colony of anaemic worms.
‘It’s good for you. That’s what it is,’ Frankie, still smiling, raised a glass of red wine – lucky her.
Bev’s heart sank. She’d win her bet: Frankie must have teamed up with Tyler. What with his bloody banana-fest and now this … this … whatever it was. ‘Ok...ay.’ She stretched the syllables while twirling a fork through a pile of pale slimy pale strands. ‘But what is it, exactly?’
‘I call it pasta surprise.’
Pasta its best, if you asked Bev.
‘Spiralized courgette,’ Frankie elaborated, ‘lightly steamed, a little seasoning. The spiral thing’s so on trend now – everybody’s doing it.’
‘That’d be the surprise, then.’ Bev murmured.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. It’s …’
Frankie raised an eyebrow. ‘I think the word you’re looking for is “delicious”.’
‘It’s … erm … difficult to describe,’ she struggled. The accompanying watery smile was wafer-thin. Like the nosh.
‘Crying out loud, Bev, you’ve not even tried it.’
‘Can’t see any meat here,’ Bev moaned toying with a few more strands. ‘Full of surprises, this.’
‘You ungrateful pig.’ The Italian flung down her napkin, stomped over to the other side of the kitchen.
‘Aw, come on, Frankie. Don’t be like that.’
Back turned, the Italian snatched a piece of kitchen towel, started dabbing at her eyes.
Flippin’ eck. She must’ve taken Bev’s foodie faux pas to heart. ‘Hey, I’m only joking,’ Bev cajoled. ‘It’s great. Look, I’m eating it now. Mmmm. Yum.’ Yuck. She twisted her mouth. Thank God Frankie’s back was still turned. Who’d live with a diva, eh?
Bev stifled a sigh, pushed the chair back and prepared to swallow some humble pie. It had to be better than the fake pasta. She placed a gentle hand on Frankie’s shoulder, softened her voice, ‘Come on, mate, my bad. I didn’t mean to hurt your—’
‘Mmmm. Yum,’ she spluttered as she turned round. ‘Classic.’
Bev stepped back, eyes narrowed. The bloody woman was nigh on peeing herself laughing.
‘What’s so funny, Perlagio?’
‘Your face.’ Frankie clung onto the side for support. ‘It’s cracking me up.’
‘The joke,’ Bev drawled, tapping a foot. ‘Like to share?’
‘Pasta surprise? As if.’ Bev gawped as Frankie scooped up the plates then off-loaded the contents into the bin. ‘It was supposed to be aversion therapy.’
‘As in putting me off food for life?’
‘As in getting you to eat better.’
‘By force-feeding me vegetable curly-wurlies?’ she sneered. ‘That’s gonna work a right treat. Talk about twisted logic.’
‘Don’t be obtuse. You don’t have to eat that sort of stuff all the time. How often have I told you?’ Smiling she picked up the oven gloves. ‘A little of what you fancy …’
An hour or so later Bev and Frankie were still sitting round the table chewing the cud, drinking tea, having a laugh. While Frankie had been enjoying her bit of fun earlier, their real dinner had been finishing off in the oven. The lasagne had been one of the Italian’s best. Salad instead of garlic bread, but hey. The one downside? Frankie had refused Bev seconds, dismissing a plaintive ‘But I’m eating for two’ with a brusque ‘Yeah, and one of you is the size of a walnut. Go figure.’
They’d moved on since then, and the way Bev felt now – easy-going, laid-back, chilled out – she’d forgive Frankie anything. Even colluding on the phone with Mac Tyler – something she still fervently denied. Bev would elicit the truth eventually – right now she was enjoying the downtime, the perfect antidote to the pressures of the job. They’d covered a lot of ground and for once Frankie had barely mentioned the pregnancy.
‘So, Bev,’ she said casually, ‘when you seeing the doc?’
Bev stiffened. Should’ve known it was too good to be true. Frankie had been on her case for weeks about making an appointment. ‘Tomorrow. First thing.’
‘Well done! That’s great. Want me to tag—’
‘That’s when I plan on phoning the surgery.’
Frankie shook her head slowly. ‘When are you going to get your act together, my friend?’
‘I told you, tomorrow morn—’
‘Not that. You know full well what I mean. You can’t go on forever pretending it’s not happening.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she flapped a hand. ’I’m not stupid.’
‘Could’ve fooled me.’
‘Naff off.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
They swapped smiles. An easy silence followed, which Frankie broke. ‘Y’know Bev, it’s not like you to bury your head in the sand. You’re always saying the more you know about an issue, the easier it is to tackle it.’
True, but in this instance it seemed so much less hassle not confronting it. If she didn’t think about it, invest in it, there’d be so much less to lose if anything went wrong. In truth, whatever the outcome, Bev was bricking it. Bring up a baby? On her own? And still be a kick-ass cop? How the hell did that work?
‘I know you’re scared.’ Frankie placed a hand on Bev’s. ‘But the fact you’re having a baby isn’t going to go away.’
�
�That right?’ It sure had last time or there’d be two nippers asleep upstairs.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but let go of the past, my friend. Trust me, you’ll make a great mom. I know that, too.’
‘Regular know-it-all, aren’t you, Perlagio?’ Despite the dig, Bev twitched a lip. ‘Anything you’re not privy to?’
‘Yeah.’ Frankie leaned forward, all eager. ‘How goes it with Byford junior? What’s the latest?’ Far as Frankie was concerned, Bev and Rich getting it together would be a match made in heaven, but would Byford senior – wherever his current location – give it his blessing?
‘Who says there is a latest?’ asked Bev, all nonchalant.
‘Aw, come on. It’s obvious you fancy him. And why not? He’s a lovely bloke. Definite husband material, I’d say.’
Bev snorted. That was rich: if things had worked out with his dad, Junior would be her step-son. Whatevs. It was time to head Frankie off at the pass with a verbal ambush. ‘Just like Mac, eh? Great news about him and Stace, isn’t it?’
‘Banging. He sounded well happy.’ Her smile faded. ‘Ah.’
Bev hadn’t breathed a word, so there was only one way Frankie could be in on the secret. Mac must’ve mentioned it on the phone while they were in cahoots about Bev. ‘“Ah” indeed.’ Bev echoed. ‘So?’
‘Yeah, okay. You win.’ Frankie slumped back in the chair arms crossed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘How sorry?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you want?’
Bev’s glance strayed to the leftovers cooling on the side.
‘I suppose you want it warmed up as well?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ She resisted a smirk. ‘Good call, Francesca.’
Wednesday
19
The next day an even better call came in mid-morning after an early brief that had been short and not memorably sweet. Powell’s acid remarks concerning lack of progress had rankled, but had also spurred Bev to take a closer look at the inquiry’s burgeoning paperwork in the hope of spotting something crucial that had failed to register initially. In most cops’ experience, breakthroughs rarely emerged via flashes of genius, stunning brainstorming sessions, Sherlock-style analysis or mediums crystal-ball-gazing. What generally paid off was dogged plod work, thinning shoe leather, bloody-minded persistence and attention to detail. Seldom because a copper happened to know a doughty old biddy with chronic insomnia whose curiosity would probably by now have killed a clowder of cats.
Of course, there were always exceptions. Cue the phone call.
‘Sarge? Stacey Hardy here. I might have something for you.’
Needing a break – in both senses – Bev smiled and reached for a banana; the damn things were definitely growing on her. ‘Okay, Stace, what you got?’
She listened, taking notes, crafting the odd doodle. The gist was this: Joan Murdoch, a widow in her eighties, lived in a three-storey red-brick terrace in a street running parallel to Darwin Avenue. A dodgy hip had clipped Joan’s metaphorical wings, but Stacey lived next door and kept an eye out for her, did the odd bit of shopping, and popped in now and again for a natter and a cup of tea. She knew the old dear didn’t go a bundle on watching telly, being far more fascinated by live action. In pursuit of which, Joan kept a pair of binoculars in the back bedroom. Not that she was into birdwatching. According to Stacey, Joan confined any twitching to her net curtains, and kept her observations largely nocturnal.
Chatting in The Cocks with Bev the other night had apparently set Stacey thinking, and this morning she’d dropped by Joan’s on the off-chance. According to Stacey, the old dear had spotted something the other night that had no connection with feathered friends.
‘What you reckon, sarge?’ she asked. ‘Worth a visit?’
‘Sooner the better, Stace.’ Bev took down the address then studied her doodle. A pair of sparrows. Lips pursed, she added a couple of bees.
Wild horses wouldn’t keep her away.
It was mid-afternoon before Bev finally took a perch in what Joan Murdoch coyly called the parlour. The delay had nothing to do with roaming stallions; Bev’s enforced chomping at the bit had been down to a doctor’s appointment the old dear had needed to keep, which had at least had the virtue of reminding Bev to phone the surgery and book one of her own, simultaneously getting Frankie off her back on the medical front. A double whammy win-win. Hoping to make it a triple, Bev now sat sipping tea the colour of creosote while watching Mac scarf Jammie Dodgers and pay court to Mrs Murdoch.
Stacey had suggested roping him in. Apparently Joan had a softer spot for the stronger sex, and would probably open up more easily if there was a man around. ‘She still loves a bit of flirting,’ was how Stacey put it, before leaving them to all to get on with it. Bev’s take while observing the tactile little scene? You can say that again.
She was keeping a low profile from a metaphorical back seat, while hoping Joan would shortly start to live up to her Miss Marple billing rather than playing the poor man – and woman’s – Mae West. A sludge-coloured armchair provided Bev with her vantage point on the cosy two-seater sofa opposite. Twice now she’d seen a pink-round-the-gills Mac gently lift a wandering hand from his chubby thigh and place it out of harm’s way.
Bev sniffed. Wait till she asks if you’ve got a gun in your pocket, dude.
Actually, Joan couldn’t look less like a pneumatic bottle-blonde femme fatale if she tried. Her wrinkly face, lilac rinse and tiny frame atop spindly legs could’ve come straight out of central casting’s doddery old dears’ box. The flashes of pink scalp were as much a visual cliché as the beige twinset, purple tweed skirt, Nora Batty tights and tartan pom-pom slippers. On the other hand, Joan’s eyes looked clear and Bev had yet to spot a pair of glasses lying around. Presumably she could get by without them, given she’d been knitting when they came in. A paperback down the side of her chair suggested she was into reading. That the book was Fifty Shades Darker suggested she was into all sorts of things.
Stacey’s warning that Joan might need warming up before getting down to the biz appeared groundless. Where Mac was concerned, seemed to Bev the old dear already had the hots. With head cocked and non-existent eyelashes a-flutter, Joan had fawned and flattered Mac and was now asking if she could have a peep at his truncheon. Bev bit her lip. Honest to God, outside of Carry On films she’d never heard so many double entendres.
Give Mac his due, he’d more or less held his own up to now, but the last remark had left him floundering a tad. He looked so out of his depth, Bev reckoned he could do with a lifebelt. She met his meaningful gaze with a nonchalant shrug that said ‘You’re on your own, mate.’ She’d found the scene vaguely amusing at first, but it was getting well old.
‘Where’d you keep it, dear?’ Joan prompted.
He palmed her off with some remark about the police only using batons nowadays.
‘What about showing me your handcuffs, then?’ The twinkle in Joan’s eye and all the nudge-nudge wink-wink stuff more or less convinced Bev the old woman was playing to the crowd. She’d bloody better be or the visit could turn into a complete waste of time.
Mac gave a wan smile. ‘Maybe later.’
‘I’ll hold you to that, dear.’ Frowning, she pointed a finger at his chest. ‘Look, crumbs everywhere.’ Tutting, she brushed them away with a hand. ‘That’s better. Now where were we?’
Bev swore if the old girl budged up any closer she’d be sitting in his lap. Mind, if Mac didn’t move up a gear into interview mode, he’d get a rollicking when they left. She cleared her throat a couple of times, as good a sign as any for her partner to look sharp. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
‘Reckon you can talk us through what you told Stacey now, Mrs Murdoch?’ Reaching for his cup and saucer, he treated her to his warmest smile.
‘’Course, but let me take you upstairs first.’
Mac almost dropped the cup.
‘What did I say?’ Joan sounded mock-offended and all-innocent. ‘
It’s just you’ll find it easier if I show you the set-up.’
Standing in front of a sash window, Bev ran her gaze over the house opposite. Joan’s boudoir looked out onto the back of Darwin Avenue, directly across from number 47. Mac now had use of the binoculars, but even so – talk about a room with a view. Upstairs Downstairs meets Hitchcock’s Rear Window. With no blinds or curtains. And at the moment, no action.
Still slightly out of puff after the exertion of the stairs, Joan perched on the edge of the bed, her tiny feet dangling over the side. ‘Like I said to Stacey, I thought I’d seen it all, but …’
Unsmiling, Bev said, ‘What exactly did you see, Mrs Murdoch?’
‘A group of them. Looked like kids … teenagers, I s’pose …’ Voice lowered, she dropped her head. ‘In the bedroom. Altogether. Having … you know … fun.’
Fun? Or fucking? The old dear seemed to have gone shy all of a sudden. Bev walked over and stood just in front of her. ‘Are you saying they were having sex?’
Her bony fingers picked at the cream candlewick bedspread. ‘Drinking, smoking, all sorts really.’
All sorts? What the hell were they doing? Snorting liquorice? ‘Can you be a bit more specific, Mrs Murdoch?’ Don’t clam up on us now, love. ‘In your own time, eh?’
She still couldn’t meet Bev’s gaze. ‘When they got down to … things … I stopped looking. Read my book.’
‘What things?’ It came out curter than she’d intended.
‘Sarge,’ Mac cautioned.
Bev stifled a sigh. ‘Look, you’re not in any kind of trouble, Mrs Murdoch.’ Especially not when she or the kids she’d snooped on could have info that would lead the cops out of their current cul-de-sac. ‘Please. Just tell us what you saw.’
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