Overkill

by Maureen Carter

  ‘For?’

  ‘Offering. The editor’s a bloke called Brian Cain. Keep me posted, yeah?’ She caught the ghost of a smile on Carol Pemberton’s face. Just wished her heart rate would slow a tad. She wrapped up the summary by relating Joan Murdoch’s testimony about seeing four or five apparent minors pissed as flatulent newts enter the murder house the night before the killing. ‘Could be something or nothing, but someone needs to check it out.’ Don’t all rush at once.

  ‘I can go round the local offies first thing if you like, sarge.’ Sumitra Gosh sat up straight and tightened her ponytail: blue-black, waist-length; glistened like ink. ‘May as well knock a few doors at the same time.’

  ‘Appreciate it – ta, Goshi.’ What a star. Bev felt herself just about start to chill. Mind, they were in sight of the finishing post.

  ‘Okay, folks, anything new? Anything I need to know?’ More shaking heads, shifty looks. And a total lack of oomph. Partly the case, Bev reckoned. Cops were only human, and though she hoped never to write off anyone’s murder as bog-standard, the fact remained some killings were more exciting, challenging, stimulating, fascinating, enthralling – you name it – to work than others. In similar vein, some victims hit the public imagination – and the media’s – with a bang not a whimper. Crimes against the very young, the very old or the drop-dead gorgeous were always going to grab the lion’s share of page leads, picture spreads and column inches. Bev glanced at the visuals on the board and grimaced yet again. In this instance, even if the media wanted a pic the cops couldn’t provide one they could use.

  Turning back, she saw Carol Pemberton tapping a pen against her teeth. Knew the semaphore. ‘Something on your mind, Caz?’

  ‘Sort of.’ She tucked the pen behind her ear. ‘I keep thinking about the cash in Sam Hayes’s wallet.’

  Bev nodded. Cash he claimed to know nothing about. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Say he’s lying and the money’s his, how’d he come by it and why carry round a sum like that?’ Looked to Bev like Caz had already worked on the answers.

  ‘Mebbe he’d just been paid,’ Hainsworth drawled.

  ‘Yeah? But for what?’ Caz’s lip showed the faintest curl. Mind, she’d had run-ins with the snide git before. ‘Hardly anyone gets paid cash in hand these days,’ she added. ‘Not if the job’s legit.’

  Backhanders, black economy, street girls – Bev could probably come up with a few more. ‘What’s your thinking, Caz?’

  ‘Your mate Dougie on the drug squad told me Hayes could be dabbling again.’

  Eyes narrowed, Bev pictured the four tiny puncture marks in John Doe’s neck, recalled how traces of heroin had been found in his body. They knew Hayes had a police caution for possessing cannabis. Was it too big a stretch to see him dishing out free smack? Charlie maybe? MDMA? Free? What a joke. The vic’d paid top dollar.

  Pensive, Bev took a sip of water, then: ‘When you say “dabbling”, Caz?’

  Apparently Tiffany’s was already on the drug squad’s radar. Undercover cops had visited the place a few times, reported back that the nightclub was rife with dealers and druggies, anyone connected with the place was suss. And Hayes worked there as a bouncer. Punters had even called the cops to complain about needles lying around and more shooting-up going on in the lavs than in the OK Corral. So much so that come Saturday night Dougie and a posse of the West Midlands finest would be staging a raid there.

  Bev wiped a hand across her mouth. Cottoned on now why Darren New had been asked to drop by the place. ‘Dazza took a spade with him, yeah?’ And would be doing his best to uncover anything that could mark Hayes’s card.

  ‘Who knows what he might dig up, sarge?’ Carol raised an eyebrow.

  Bev matched it with a thumbs-up. Pay-dirt would be good. It’d probably screw her theory about the perp planting the wallet to pin the murder on Hayes but, hey, she could live with that.

  Unlike the hapless sod who’d been bumped off. As for Hayes, it was probably time she paid him a visit.

  ‘Okay, gals and guys, if that’s it?’ She clocked nodding heads, forced a smile and saluted thanks all round. As the troops filed out she turned to study the board again. Shook her head at the sight. The killer hadn’t just taken a life: by obliterating the vic’s features, he’d stolen his identity, too. Bev traced a finger under her eyes. Least she could do was to try and give the poor bloke back his name.

  She dropped her head in her hands and stood silently sobbing. If anyone had been watching they might have thought the tears were exclusively for John Doe. Mike Powell, who’d just popped his head round the door, read it differently. Reckoned Bev taking a bollocking couldn’t have been easy, and taking the brief even harder. He almost ventured in, but was well aware how much she hated shows of sympathy. She’d probably bite his bloody head off. Retreating soundlessly, he hoped his dressing-down would do her good. That had been the general idea. From time to time, everyone needed a wake-up call.

  ‘That you, Bev? Sorry it’s so late.’ A man’s voice on the phone Bev couldn’t for a minute place. Hardly surprising considering she was surfacing from a deep sleep and still trying to get her bearings. Being an ace detective, she deduced pretty damn fast from her horizontal position on the settee that at some stage during the evening she’d nodded off. Blurry-eyed and stifling a yawn, she swung her legs over the side and very nearly trod on the laptop. Oh, yeah, that’s right. It was coming back to her now: she’d been doing a spot of homework before dropping off. The laptop must’ve taken her lead. Mind, it still looked in doze mode.

  ‘You there, bab?’

  The Black Country ‘bab’ gave the game and name away. ‘Sure am, Charlie.’ She put a smile in her voice. ‘You back from your hols, then?’

  Charlie Silver, retired cop, now moonlighting for Bev on a bit of unfinished police business. She’d recruited him a few weeks back to help her with a case so cold it was frozen solid. A case that was extremely close to her heart and one that had been even closer to the guv’s.

  Six-month-old Fay Doolan had died at the hands of a monster long before Bev even joined the force. The killing had been a young DC Bill Byford’s first murder inquiry, and the only one he’d worked that remained unsolved. Over the years – in his own time – he’d reread statements, retraced leads, re-interviewed witnesses. Every year, he visited Fay’s grave on her birthday to leave flowers. The case had haunted the guv to his dying day, and Bev had made him a pledge – albeit posthumously – to carry on where he’d left off. She was acting very much off her own bat and on the QT. Which is where ex-DC Silver came in.

  ‘I fly back tomorrow, Bev,’ he said. ‘Just thought I’d touch base, see if anything’s moved while I’ve been away.’

  Sunning himself in Spain, no less. Curving a lip, she glanced at the fireplace where she’d propped his cheesy postcard showing a donkey sporting shades and a straw hat.

  ‘I wish, Charlie. The day job’s keeping me busy – you know how it goes.’ He should do, he’d been a copper long enough; worked alongside Byford back in the day, including on the Baby Fay inquiry. The old boy had already promised to sort out a load of cuttings and police notebooks he’d stowed away in the loft, as well as pursuing a few possible leads on his return.

  ‘No worries. I’ll crack on soon as I’m home. I think I know where I might find George Mellor, an’ all.’

  ‘Wow. That’s great, Charlie.’ He’d told Bev at their first meeting how he’d always reckoned Byford had harboured suspicions about a senior officer being involved in the baby’s death. Mellor was a DCI who’d apparently left the Midlands under a cloud, a few months after Byford found Fay’s near-mummified body dumped on a building site.

  On her feet now, Bev started pacing the carpet. ‘Where’d you think he is, then?’

  ‘Let me check it out first, bab. Wouldn’t do to raise our hopes too high, would it?’

  ‘Got that right.’ She heard a click and a wheezy breath. Pictured him sampling the duty-free fags. A forty-a-day habit h
ad already given his thin white moustache a sepia tinge. Gawd knows what it had done to his lungs. Mind, for the first time in a while Bev craved a nicotine hit. And a stiff drink or three. Not that she’d succumb. Before drifting off she’d been browsing the web, cramming up on the early stages of pregnancy, clicked on images inside the womb and much to her great surprise felt her first maternal flutterings. Of course it could have been a touch of indigestion. Either way, she’d finally picked up the phone to her mum – one of several calls she’d made since getting home. What with all the gassing and texts, she’d had a right busy night. No wonder she’d conked out.

  ‘Anyway, keep me posted, Bev. Bu-anna notcha, me amigo.’

  ‘Roger that.’ She heard him chuckle and, smiling herself, ended the call and pocketed her phone. She’d not be surprised if the old boy didn’t turn up with a pressie for her. Pair of castanets, maybe? A flamenco fan? Stick of chorizo? Nah. Snorting to herself, she switched off the light. Knowing her luck, it’d be a soft toy, a cheap tacky over-stuffed bull.

  Laughing, she headed upstairs. No problemo. She could always leave it on Powell’s desk.

  A gift from a secret admirer.

  She still had a smile on her face when she slipped into her Wonder Woman nightie – a present from Frankie – who else? Mind, given the tenor of his texts that night, Byford junior must think Bev was pretty hot too. She shivered. Just thinking about them gave her goose bumps. In bed now, she reached for her phone. She might just have to read them again.

  Yeah, why not?

  Thursday

  21

  Ivy Gold’s podgy hand trembled slightly as it hovered over the landline. Should she? Shouldn’t she? She’d slept fitfully last night, weighing the pros and cons. Knowing the Old Bill, they’d probably fob her off anyway, tell her it was far too soon to go fretting. She ran her fingers down the side of her face. Maybe she’d have another smoke while she mulled it over again.

  Squinting, she lit an Embassy, then flopped into a squishy armchair that just about accommodated her ample frame. Picking a fleck of tobacco from her tongue, she wondered why she wasn’t as thin as a rake on the Atkins diet given the number of ciggies she got through in a day. Not that she was interested in losing weight – she liked the taste and a quick puff usually calmed her down. Mind, normally it wasn’t in her nature to fret. Not until just recently, at any rate.

  She dabbed at a tear with a crumpled tissue, blamed drifting smoke for making her eyes water. Didn’t fool herself though. Her pillow had been damp when she’d woken this morning. Staring into the far distance, she took another deep drag. It wasn’t like she and her grandson lived in each other’s pockets any more, and after all it hadn’t been that long since they’d talked on the phone. On the other hand, he always made a fuss on her birthday and he’d promised, as always, a smashing present and a slap-up meal, but he’d failed to turn up on the day and she’d heard not so much as a peep since. Not even a card in the post, and that was a first.

  An inch of ash dropped onto the vast slope of her chest. Tutting, she brushed it off. She’d hoover later, when she had less important things to think about. She’d tried his mobile, of course, but it seemed to be switched off. She didn’t really know his friends, so there was no one she could ask where he might be, and his absence niggled away like a maggot burrowing under the skin.

  Her glance fell on his photograph, one of several dotted around the small, scruffy room. Seeing his face prompted an involuntary smile that dimpled her round cheeks and lit dull grey eyes. She didn’t generally approve of long hair on a man, but it suited Tommy’s almost effeminate features perfectly. He was a lovely-looking boy. She’d brought him up more or less single-handed after his pa died and his ma did a flit, so naturally they were close. Where was he? What was he up to? And why couldn’t she shake off a feeling that something bad had happened?

  Ivy shook her head. No good sitting here moping. It wouldn’t butter any parsnips. She took a final drag, ground the cigarette into a chipped saucer and grabbed the phone before she had second thoughts.

  ‘Would you mind having a look at this, DS Morriss? The name’s just shown up on the system.’ Bev lifted her gaze from the screen and saw Chad Wallace standing in front of the desk holding a print-out. Given he’d virtually ignored her at the early brief and gone out of his way to avoid her ever since, she assumed he badly needed a second opinion and as she was the most senior officer in the squad room right now he’d no choice but to approach her.

  ‘A misper?’ she asked, taking it from him. ‘Where’s it from?’

  ‘Wolverhampton police. I keep an eye out for new reports, check all day, off and on.’

  She nodded as she scanned the info: Thomas James Gold. Twenty-nine-years old, five-feet-eight, sixty-five kilos, dark brown shoulder-length hair. Last seen ten days ago.

  ‘It’s the closest yet to our John Doe, sarge.’ The newbie could barely keep his feet still or hide the excitement in his voice. Though after spending three days trawling through CCTV, a lost-tortoise report would probably get his juices flowing.

  ‘Similar age, build, hair colour.’ Bev met his keen gaze. ‘Looks promising, Chad. We’ll need more detail, though. Can you—?’

  ‘I already spoke to a cop there. The guy was reported missing by his grandmother. A Mrs Ivy Gold. She called it in this morning. Lives over that way.’

  ‘Great. Did you get—?’

  ‘The address?’ He flashed his notebook. ‘Sure did.’

  ‘Nice work, detective.’ She smiled, reckoned he’d earned a badge to go with the Brownie point. ‘I’ll get out there now. See what else she might have to say.’ Bev reached down for her bag, scooted back the chair. Iron, strike, and all that.

  Wallace dropped his gaze. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any …?’

  Chance of tagging along. Why not? He’d done the donkey-work. Mac had a scheduled day off. DCs New and Pemberton were chasing what might turn out to be leads from last night, and Goshi was on a tour of Moseley’s booze shops.

  ‘Your driving any cop, Chad?’

  He nodded, bright-eyed, raring to go. ‘I’d say it’s damn fine, sarge.’

  Sniffing, she tossed him the keys. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

  Like a person’s taste in books and music, Bev always thought the way someone handled a motor was pretty enlightening. In fact she’d recently instituted the Morriss School of Driving classification system. It was her creation so she got to say who belonged where, and every driver she’d ever come across fitted into one of eight categories: cautious, calm, cool, competent, confident, cocky, classy and crazy as a box full of batshit frogs.

  Seemples. Yeah, right. After studying Wallace’s wheel skills, she’d rapidly formulated another class: call a cab – quick.

  Erratic she could live with. This trip could go either way. One minute the newbie made Lewis Hamilton look like an L-driver, the next his leather loafer appeared lodged on the brake. Bev’s knuckles were white as bleached sheets, her eyes doing serviceable dinner plates. When they weren’t screwed tight. Take lights, for instance. Wolverhampton New Road had enough sets to rival Blackpool, and she was beginning to suspect Wallace was colour blind. If he jumped one more red, she swore she’d start calling him Skippy.

  She risked a quick glance his way, clocked the hunched shoulders, hands gripped round the wheel like they’d been welded there. If she was going to give him the benefit of the doubt, she supposed grudgingly the mega-ants-in-pants could be down to her riding shotgun. Their professional relationship hadn’t exactly got off to a smooth start. Mind, neither had the car so far.

  ‘So how’m I doing?’ He flicked a quick glance followed by a swift double-take. ‘You okay, sarge? Want me to pull over?’

  She flapped a hand. ‘Nah, you’re fine.’ They’d be there in a couple of miles. No point prolonging the agony. She tried really hard not to look at the road, anticipate the dangers, grab hold of the wheel. Talk about relief when her phone rang.

 
‘Rich,’ she gushed. ‘How you doing?’ Gawd, she sounded brighter than a bright thing from bright land on a dazzle-day. Mind, even the slightest distraction from Wallace’s kamikaze road skills would have been given a warm Morriss welcome and the thumbs-up. Not that she thought of Junior as a mere traffic diversion. Far from it. As a younger version of his dad, he was far too engaging for that.

  ‘I’m good, thanks. Glad I got hold of you, actually, because …’

  She frowned. Looked at the screen. Where’d he gone?

  ‘Sorry … bad line. Anyway, as I was saying, now I’ve got hold of you …’

  I wish. No, you don’t, Beverley. Yes, I do. Crying out loud, had Miss Coolio been to the hot-flush shop all of a sudden?

  ‘I’ll be in Birmingham on …’ That voice. She’d forgotten how like his dad he sounded. Smiling, she closed her eyes and … Crikey. Maybe he was a distraction after all.

  ‘So if that’s okay with you …’

  Anything. What? ‘Sorry Rich, say again.’

  ‘I’ll give you a call to …’

  What? ‘Hang on a—’ He’d gone again, and shaking the phone didn’t bring him back even though she tried. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Not to worry, sarge. We’re almost there anyway.’ Chad smiled. ‘And all in one piece so far.’

  Bev narrowed her eyes. Was Funny Boy pulling her leg?

  22

  Whoever christened the Walsall council estate Green Fields must’ve been having a laugh. Presumably some lofty town planner with a rarefied sense of humour, rare as in sighting a tuft of grass or any hint of verdure in the vicinity. The area was high-rise, low-rent tower blocks and squat semis; grey concrete running with rust stains, and pebble-dash frontages coated in grime. The only things sprouting on Green Fields were satellite dishes and defunct white goods doubling as herbaceous borders.

  Bev shook her head in bemusement as pastoral delights flashed past: Daffodil Way, Rowan Avenue, Meadow Rise, Sycamore Row, Foxglove Drive. Bloomin’ twaddle. She stifled a snort. But whatever medication that town planner had been on, she’d take it quick as a shot.