Overkill

by Maureen Carter

  ‘I don’t want you thinking badly of me. I’m not a nosy parker or anything.’

  Bev’s curled lip and tapping foot spoke volumes to Mac. He cut her a glare as he swept past then squatted at the widow’s feet. ‘’Course you’re not, Joan. We don’t think that for a minute.’

  Bev felt like throwing her hands in the air. The old dear could have webcams set up in every room across the way for all she cared. She just wanted Joan to stop being so bloody precious and get on with the tale. Come back Mae West – all is forgiven.

  ‘I was just teasing earlier.’ She held Mac’s gaze. ‘Having a laugh.’

  ‘I know that, love.’ Smiling, he reached for her hand. ‘But we really need you to tell us what was going on.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, son, but not with her standing there, I won’t.’

  Bev waited in the motor swigging tepid water from a plastic bottle and licking non-existent wounds. What a frigging waste of time: the big build-up had led to the downward spiral of a drenched squib onto a bed of dashed hopes. Bloody marvellous.

  And Bev kidded herself if she imagined her foul mood was entirely down to Mrs Murdoch’s prevarication. The main factor – if she’d ever admit it – was guilt at the way she’d treated the old dear. It sure wasn’t Joan’s fault she reminded Bev of her gran, Sadie. Or how Sadie used to be, before Alzheimer’s had kicked in. Bev could barely bring herself to go visit Sadie nowadays. It was Bev’s fault, her failing – and she’d taken everything out on poor old Joan. What’s more, she couldn’t even see what she’d done, let alone own up to it.

  She still had one on her when Mac emerged from the house clutching a packet of biscuits. Bev gave a derisive snort. Hoped their prime witness – she used the term exceedingly loosely – had given away considerably more than pink wafers. She slung the empty bottle on the back floor and fired up the engine.

  ‘How’d you get on, son?’ Out of the corner of her eye, she clocked Mac flex a pissed-off jaw. Tough tees. Mouth tight, she put the car in gear and her foot on the gas. ‘I’m still waiting.’

  He made her hang on a tad longer while he took a deep breath or two. ‘The night before the murder,’ he said, ‘four or five kids entered the house. Made their way up to the back bedroom and not long after started indulging in what she described as a bit of “how’s your father”.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Usual way, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Ho-fucking-ho. How’d they get in?’

  ‘How about letting me finish?’ Mac shouted. Rare, that.

  Apart from tapping the wheel, she drove through the rush hour in silence, listening intently while he brought her up to speed. According to Joan, she’d watched a group of kids scale the fence at the bottom of the garden. One had shimmied up a drainpipe, slipped through a quarter-light in the bathroom, then opened the back door for the others to get in. Far as the Neighbourhood Watch queen could recall, the show started around eleven o’clock. Upstairs the youngsters began fooling about, swigging booze from cans and bottles they’d brought along. Joan reckoned they’d already been several sheets to the wind; one looked so paralytic he’d needed propping up. From what she’d told Mac, though, the descriptions weren’t up to much: a bunch of kids wearing hoodies, dark jeans and trainers. She couldn’t even be sure of the girl–boy ratio: to a woman her age, youths all looked the same these days.

  Squinting, Bev tugged down the sun visor. ‘How’d she see what they were up to, then?

  ‘They lit candles.’

  ‘How romantic,’ she murmured. Waiting for a green on the Moseley Road, she weighed up what the old girl had given them to work with. So far it seemed little more than a pile of steaming poop – apart from one solid fact. Assuming Joan hadn’t dreamt – or dreamt up – the whole shebang, the kids had been in the vicinity the night before the victim was stiffed – and, more than that, within spitting distance of the porch where it happened. Question on Bev’s mind was whether the house was one of their regular haunts.

  ‘If you think about it’ – Mac’s delivery suggested she hadn’t – ‘it means they came prepared. Knew the property was empty. Knew they could gain access through the bathroom window. Clearly not the first time they’d used the place. Joan confirmed as much – say’s she’s seen comings and goings over there several times before.’

  ‘That Joan-speak for shagging, is it?’ Bev curled a lip. The old lady made it sound like a knocking shop.

  ‘Yeah, well, she looked away when all that kicked off.’

  ‘’Course she did.’

  ‘Crying out loud, Bev, what’s got into you? Why’d she want to witness that kind of thing? She’s an old woman, easily shocked.’

  ‘Did you clock her reading matter?’

  ‘Far as I’m concerned she could be halfway through the Kama Sutra. Makes no difference – it doesn’t invalidate what she says. Cut her some slack – she did her best for us.’

  ‘Yeah, well it’s no cigar.’ Inevitably they’d need to go through the motions and appeal for the kids to come forward. They’d not made themselves known to the cops so far. Would they hold any insider knowledge anyway?

  Picturing the streets round there, she supposed it might be worth checking the offies and eight-till-lates. There was an outside chance a group of under-aged youths buying booze had been captured on camera. Assuming they went in together and assuming they were under-aged. Long shot? As long as they come. Besides, it wasn’t like they’d been there the night of the murder.

  ‘She could’ve just kept her trap shut, you know,’ Mac said.

  ‘Shame she didn’t. Might’ve saved us all a load of trouble.’

  ‘Pull over.’

  ‘What?’ Frowning, she cut him a glance.

  ‘Now.’

  The arctic tone conveyed a lot more than his words. After checking the traffic, she mounted two wheels on the kerb outside a row of shops, sat back, arms crossed, stared ahead.

  ‘She was trying to help. You were out of order treating her like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb-ass with me.’ Her casual shrug wasn’t the best move. She sensed his critical gaze giving her the once-over. And finding her wanting.

  ‘So the great Bev Morriss, the nick’s best communicator, more listening skills than a counsellors’ conference, empathy pouring out of every orifice. And you can’t even play nice with an old lady. That how you talk to your gran, is it?’

  Raw nerve; Achilles’ heel. ‘Leave my gran out of it, buster,’ she snapped.

  ‘Who’ll you gob off at next?’ How many more people you gonna alienate?’

  ‘Finished?’

  ‘What’d she do that pissed you off so royally?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘Really?’ He snorted. ‘Well, I’d hate to be around when someone really gets stuck up your nose.’

  ‘You just did.’ She turned the key, revved the engine. ‘Door’s there, mate. Go fuck yourself.’

  20

  Bev drove back to the nick with Mac’s censure echoing in her head. Eyes still smarting, she parked the motor in the first available space, grabbed her bits, then slammed the door hard enough to flake the paint. Blinking furiously and keeping her head down, she strode across the tarmac. That how you talk to your gran? No, it’s bloody not, mate. She’d not set eyes on Sadie for weeks, let alone passed the time of day.

  ‘All right, sarge?’ Slipping one arm into his beat-up leather jacket, Darren New held the door open for her.

  Like shit on a heel, as you ask. ‘Hunky, ta,’ she said, sailing past. ‘You off out?’

  ‘God, you’re sharp. Yeah, Pembers asked me to check out the place where Hayes works.’

  ‘Tiffany’s, isn’t it? Have fun.’ Waggling her fingers she was already halfway up the stairs.

  ‘Oh, and sarge,’ – shouting after her – ‘the DI’s looking for you.’

  As good a reason as any for not showing her face, then. Given she was due to run the late brief, she was
well glad she’d taken a detour to the loo. A glance in the mirror showed twin trails of caked mascara, not to mention the hot-flush look. Bloody cry baby. She rubbed at the stains with a damp tissue, then sluiced her face with cold water, mopped up with a paper towel.

  Checking the repairs in the mirror, she told herself to get a grip. Mac’s jibe about Sadie had finally opened her eyes. Deep inside she knew she had to face what was happening. Couldn’t go on using the job as an excuse whenever her mum phoned. Sorry, ma, it’s the long hours, weird shifts, weekend working – y’know what it’s like. Tosh bollocks. She managed to find time to go visit Byford’s grave. No problem there, eh. But when it came to her own flesh and blood.

  Sighing, she watched her fringe lift in the glass. Fact was she still loved her gran to bits, but hated herself for not being able to handle Sadie’s deteriorating health, and loathed that her effing finer feelings meant her mum had to cope on her own.

  Bev pinched the bridge of her nose. While she was piling on the angst, she might just as well admit why she’d had a go at Joan. The old dear had reminded her how her lovely gran used to be before her mind – and body – started wandering. Her conscience had been well and truly pricked. Then Mac came along and added to her guilt trip. No wonder she’d given him both barrels.

  Nice one, Bev.

  She walked out of the loos wondering who she should say sorry to first: Joan, Sadie, her mum, Mac.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you, Morriss. Where the hell have you been? And don’t say the khazi.’

  Shit timing. ‘Okay, I won’t. What you want?’

  ‘You in my office now. And you can start with an apology.’

  ‘If he makes it official, you’re in deep shite, sergeant.’ Powell lounged back in his executive chair, fingers steepled. Steam rose from a cup of coffee on his desk; Bev hadn’t been offered one. Mac had been on the phone to the DI, threatening to sling in a complaint. He’d yet to arrive at the nick. She’d shown him the door less than half a mile away. Mind, he was a slow walker.

  Bev sat in a hard chair opposite, smoothing a non-existent crease in her skirt. ‘I was out of order, gaffer. I know that.’ Knew it even before Powell had read out her list of perceived failings: badgering a witness, inability to listen, unwilling to take on board other people’s opinions, undermining colleagues, bolshie. She was only surprised Mac hadn’t included the fact that she’d told him to fuck off.

  ‘Apart from anything else, Morriss, it ain’t clever to turf your bagman out of a police motor, let alone screech “Go fuck yourself” after him.’

  She frowned. Only recalled telling him to eff off. Either way she didn’t do, screech. Still, best not split hairs at this juncture. Not going by the stony look on Powell’s face. Genuinely contrite, she raised a palm. ‘I was wrong, gaffer. I’m really sorry. What more can I say?’

  ‘Maybe engage your brain in future before letting verbal rip.’ He eyed her over the rim of the cup as he took a drink. Bev looked away, remembering the days when she and Byford would share the occasional snifter or two at the end of a hard shift. Yeah, well, that wasn’t gonna happen again.

  ‘Either way,’ Powell said, ‘you’ve ground to make up. It takes a lot to get Tyler riled.’

  ‘Will do.’ She’d take him out for a bite and a beer barrel. She made to rise. ‘Ta, gaffer.’

  His finger pointed her down. ‘I’m not finished.’ Mac wasn’t the only cop she’d hacked off. Chad Wallace had gone bleating to Powell as well. Poor little snowflake felt belittled by the way she’d spoken to him, hadn’t appreciated being called ‘sunshine’; only been doing his job, yadda-yadda.

  ‘Aw, come on. He’s a cop. Heat, kitchen, police canteen and all that.’

  ‘I told him to get over himself. ’Course I did. But even so, why not rein it in a bit, Morriss? Everyone needs a bit of positive rope. Try majoring on carrots instead of sticks.’

  Like when she was a newbie the nick’s Neanderthals had never set out to make her life a misery? She’d have eaten her own sick rather than whinge to anyone about it. Mind, whatever she said now she was on a hiding to nothing. Put up or shut up. ‘Fair enough, gaffer. I’ll give it a whirl. Done now?’

  He shook his head. ‘Everyone knows you’re a stroppy mare, Morriss, but there’s only so many lines you can cross. If the pressure’s getting—’

  ‘Pressure? What pressure?’ Even to Bev’s ears her forced laughter sounded exactly that.

  ‘Bollocks. No one’s immune and you’ve had more than anyone’s fair share lately. Look’ – waiting until she met his gaze – ‘I know how close you and Byford—’

  ‘No. You don’t. End of.’ A professional bollocking was one thing, but intruding on personal territory – no one goes there. Even the mention of Byford’s name had left her in danger of tearing up.

  ‘Hear me out,’ he said, leaning across the desk. ‘You’ve not done grieving yet. The case we’re working is stalled, you’re putting in for promotion.’ Wait till you find out I’m pregnant, mate. ‘Maybe it’s too much, maybe something has to give. Why not go gentle on yourself, Bev?’ His voice was way too soft for her.

  ‘You telling me to pull the application?’

  ‘I’m telling you to think about it.’

  ‘Okay. Can I go now?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He sat back with a sigh, tugged his bottom lip a few times. ‘How’d you feel about counselling?

  ‘I ain’t looking for a new career. Besides, according to you I’m crap with people.’

  ‘Oh, woe is bloody me.’ He twirled a pen between his fingers. ‘I don’t want to issue a written warning, but if I have to …’ His shrug left her in no doubt. Mind, he looked more disappointed than daggers drawn, and somehow that made things worse. If she didn’t get out of here soon, she’d start blarting again.

  ‘I’m only telling you ’cause I care. You know that, don’t you?’

  She nodded, tight-mouthed, made a play of checking her watch. ‘The brief’s about to kick off. I don’t want to be late. That’s if you still want me taking it.’

  ‘Go, then.’ Sighing hard, Powell flapped her away, called her as she reached the door. ‘I don’t like kicking anyone when they’re down. The squad needs you, Bev, but nobody’s indispensable. Bear it in mind, eh?’

  Bright and breezy, sporting a beatific smile? Slump-shouldered penitence, with a face like a slapped bum? Take your eeny-meeny. Dithering outside the briefing room, sweaty palm on door, Bev felt pretty antsy. She could tell by the racket that the squad had already gathered. Like the sweat pooling and cooling at the base of her spine. The jitters weren’t helped by a sudden vision of circling vultures. The chance no one had picked up a sniff about her current glittering career was on a par with the Duke of York stumping up for a round in The Prince. And what was the betting that the loud guffaw – Hainsworth’s? – was at her expense? Would walking in now be the most difficult thing she’d done professionally? Nowhere near. Still, it wouldn’t be the easiest stroll along the boardwalk, either.

  Deep breath, wipe hands on skirt, lick lips, brace girded loins and stop being a wuss. Okay, let’s do this. Quivering inside, she threw open the door and strode to the front calling out, ‘Evenin’ all.’

  Apart from a mumbled ‘sarge’ or two, the noise died down pretty quickly. Either the hubbub had been about her or the hush was ingrained respect for the rank. Whatever. It was a bit late now to regret eschewing a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People. After slinging a comfort-blanket file on the nearest table, Bev positioned herself by the side of the murder board, swinging a water bottle in her hand. She prayed to God her legs would quit trembling any time soon. A quick visual roll-call, registered the usual suspects, plus – given it was a small team anyway – notable AWOLs. Darren New’s whereabouts she knew. But no Tyler, no Wallace. Fancy that. Convenient absence or post-snitch guilt kicking in? She couldn’t imagine either of them being in an all-fired rush to face her. Her feelings were ditto about confronting them, but at least
she had the balls to show up.

  ‘Right-oh. I’ll kick off, then we can toss a few ideas around.’ Rolling mental sleeves, she added a sweetener. ‘Sooner we’re done, sooner we can get off.’ She delivered an off-the-cuff nifty up-sum on the state of play. Saw a couple of DCs taking notes. As a matter of course it was every detective’s duty to keep on top of ongoing inquiries and incoming reports. Still, it never did any harm to ram home a few points. Like the multiple stab wounds and four tiny puncture holes on a still unidentified body. Or the fact it was only thanks to a second tip-off from the same dodgy source that they’d found a knife and a syringe ditched within spitting distance of the crime scene. The mystery voice had been aired a few times on the local news, but far as she knew it hadn’t prompted any calls to the police hotline.

  ‘Anyone heard differently?’ She ran her gaze over the squad but was met with blank faces, shaking heads. At least they looked her in the eye. She dry-swallowed. All the gabbing had given her a thirst, but she didn’t dare take a drink in case a trembling hand gave away her current fragile state. ‘Can one of you have a word with the news desk? Just in case.’

  ‘I thought Chad was working that line? Di’nt you task him?’ Jack Hainsworth, professional Yorkshire man, stared coolly at Bev from his habitual stance propped against a side wall, brawny crossed arms resting on man boobs. As Office Manager, he more than any of the squad kept close tabs on an inquiry’s every aspect, every lead. He rarely ‘thought’ anything, being so flaming cocksure about everything. There’d never been any love lost between him and Bev: zilch there in the first place. Macho-man Hainsworth had a problem with females, particularly women cops, specifically her.

  She knew his sneaky game, had no intention of playing, tossed out a casual, ‘It needs doing pronto and he’s not around.’

  He muttered something. Bev narrowed her eyes, had he said ‘Funny, that’? Frigging clown. Any other time she’d have risen to the bait, bitten back harder, but that would only give him ammo. ‘Thanks, Jack.’