Overkill

by Maureen Carter

  Bev remembered a time when every street corner – almost every lamp post – round these parts had a working girl on attachment touting for business. Some folk would have you believe a vigorous campaign by irate residents solved the problem. Did it hell. Pimps simply moved their goods further afield to urban pastures new.

  Otherwise known as Edgbaston.

  Grimacing, she took another nibble. Talk about tasteless pap. She almost wished she’d gone down the bacon-butty route. Quick glance at Mac suggested he was in foodie seventh heaven. Bev looked out the window again, still musing on the vice trade. ’Course it had diversified a hell of a lot since her undercover spell with Val and her mates. Nowadays girls were chosen online, like sweeties. Prick and sodding mix. On top of that, vulnerable women were being ferried over more and more from abroad: trafficked in effect into a life of slavery. The game still went on in saunas and massage parlours, and as for brothels, they’d latterly branched out into the pop-up business: short-let sex dens, holiday fuck-flats; Airbnb. Lip curled, Bev shook her head: bed-and-blowjob.

  The one big constant? Pimps. Low-life scumbags who made bottom-feeders look like fairy godfathers. Would it bother her if the current case turned out to be pimps taking out the opposition? She was a cop. ’Course it would. Wouldn’t it?

  ‘You’ve still not answered the question, boss.’

  What question? Frowning she turned back to see him mopping round his plate with a chunk of bread. ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Whether Powell’s on the right lines about Khalid being our man.’

  She gave a ‘who knows’ shrug, ditched the half-eaten bap. It sure looked as if the landlord had gone AWOL. Still no hide or hair of him at the Cheapside office, similar no-show at his pad just round the corner from the caff. Neighbours said they hadn’t seen him in a while, nor spotted any suspicious activity around the house. Equally clueless were a handful of Khalid’s tenants whom Bev and Mac had visited on the off-chance. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, mate.’

  ‘The press might flush him out, I s’pose. Finished with that?’ he said casting a covetous eye at her leftovers.

  ‘Be my guest.’ Greedy sod. ‘As for the press,’ she said, ‘have to wait and see, won’t we?’ Down to the media what they did with the material. They’d been issued with Khalid’s pic, plus a skimpy news-release asking him or anyone who knew his whereabouts to contact the police. Tad wishy-washy, but if Khalid was innocent as the proverbial, the cops didn’t want to scare him off or risk him taking action because of a release that had overstepped the legal mark. On the other hand, if he’d killed twice he’d be pretty bloody dense to come rushing forward, whatever the release said. Which was why the image had been widely circulated to police forces all over the shop: bobbies, patrol officers, cop-lites would all have their eyes peeled looking for him. Back at the nick, squad detectives were checking Khalid’s online profile and social media presence. Putting calls in to anyone who knew him. The guy couldn’t have just gone up in a puff of smoke.

  ‘Y’know, boss.’ Mac leaned back, patting his paunch. ‘Likelihood is he was there.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Where’s “there” exactly, Mac?’

  ‘I’m not with you. How’d you mean?’

  ‘Look,’ she said drawing a rudimentary map on a flimsy paper napkin. ‘The licence was found here, right on the edge of the site. Body in half-dug grave here. Ditched or accidentally dropped, the licence was a hell of a distance from the action.’

  ‘Maybe he was scouting for another exit?’

  ‘Have you seen the fence?’ She lowered the volume. ‘He’d have needed a helicopter or a jump-jet Harrier.’ And the wire hadn’t been cut, she’d checked.

  Mac turned his mouth down. ‘He could’ve heard someone on the street, needed to make himself scarce, used the trees for cover till the coast was clear.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ She balled the napkin, slung it on the table. ‘You’re talking ifs and maybes, possibles and coulds.’ Mind, she’d no proof positive to substantiate her theory that the licence had been planted. It could just as easily have dropped out of Khalid’s or whoever’s back pocket. Still didn’t explain why whoever it was had been stationed so far from the body, though. Might just have been a voyeur, she supposed. Or an accomplice to the main player? Getaway driver, perhaps. Minder? Stool pigeon? Someone on lookout duty? But how much of a panoramic view would anyone have from the copse? Questions, questions, more bloody questions. Christ, her head was spinning.

  ‘Come on, mate. Shake a leg.’ Scraping back the chair, she reached for her bag. ‘Let’s get back to the site – see if we can find a few answers.’

  ‘What about taking another look at his pad, while we’re here?’

  Eeny, meeny, miny. ‘Nah. Later’ll do.’

  ‘I get the impression you don’t really see him as the perp. That right, boss?’ Mac said, holding the door for her.

  ‘Search me. Just seems finding the licence there was a tad too convenient.’ She clocked Mac curve his lip. ‘Don’t say it, Tyler.’

  He gave her a cheeky wink as she passed. ‘Pollard certainly found it convenient.’

  Yeah, okay, she’d asked for that. Shame it didn’t occur to her outside on the street to ask about the burning smell in the air.

  31

  ‘Christ’s sake, Morriss, quit feeling sorry for yourself. It’s not all about you, so why act the martyr, eh?’ Powell sank a few inches of lager, then wiped a hand across his mouth. Bev kept schtum but swore she’d deck him if he so much as alluded en passant to Joan of Arc.

  ‘He’s right, boss,’ Mac said reaching for his beer. ‘If you’re to blame, I am as well.’

  She tightened her grip round a can of Diet Coke. For the first time in a while, she could’ve murdered a pukka drink. Preferably a gallon of Grigio. Against her better judgement she’d taken up Powell’s offer of a swift jar following a bruising few hours at work. After ten minutes of what amounted to an unsolicited pep talk in the pub, she wished she’d just taken herself home.

  But wished even more she’d agreed with Mac they check Khalid’s pad again. For a second or two she closed her eyes. If only on leaving the caff, they’d just driven round the corner, spotted the fire engines …

  They’d hot-footed it back soon enough once the news broke. She sniffed her sleeve. Her gear, hair, skin still stank of smoke. No surprise given how long they’d stayed at the scene. The forensic guys were still out there, house-to-house inquiries ongoing as well. The investigation had now been lumped together with the Hobbs killing and the stiff at the building site. Operation Lynx, it had been dubbed. She’d heard it initially as links. Shame they’d yet to find any firm ones.

  ‘Besides, Morriss,’ Powell sneered, ‘it had already taken hold, so short of suddenly gaining super-powers and asbestos flesh, what the hell could you have done anyway?’ Thank God he’d moved on from trying to gee her up. Sarky pops were more Powell’s style.

  She shrugged. ‘Bridge. Water. What’s it matter?’ Not now it was purely academic. Khalid had copped it in a house fire. End of. Nah, don’t sanitize it, the guy had been burned alive by a sadist.

  ‘Precisely,’ Powell again, ‘we’re doing everything we can to find the fucker, so get over yourself.’

  She stifled a snort. Easier said than done. Mind, The Blond’s blunt manner was a damn sight easier to handle than Mac’s soft words. They’d joined forces on the be-nice-to-Morriss-’cause-she-feels-like-shite front. Neither could persuade her she couldn’t have done more. For crying out loud, she’d done naff all. Apart from sit back, relax and blithely watch two fire engines flash past. She’d even smelled the smoke and thought nothing of it. And yet she’d already harboured suspicions that Khalid could be a victim. Why, oh why, hadn’t she made the connection? And begging an equally big poser, just whose body had been dumped at the building site? They weren’t even back at square one as far as an ID went. And the squad now had three major inquiries, three murder boards, on the go. Three men wasted in the s
pace of five days: no witnesses, no suspects. Bev shook her head. It just didn’t add up.

  ‘I’m getting a round in.’ Powell pushed his chair back. ‘Before the excitement kills me.’

  Mac waited a while, then, ‘You’re way too hard on yourself, Bev.’

  ‘Says who?’ She shuffled out of reach, just in case he tried any touchy-feely stuff.

  ‘Says me. The gaffer’s right. There’s no cause to—’

  She silenced him with a glower. ‘While we stood dithering around outside whinging about the bloke buggering off, he could’ve been in there with the killer’s hands wrapped round his windpipe.’

  ‘What? So you think we should’ve concocted some spurious excuse to break in, check the place?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ Wouldn’t be the first time a cop without a warrant had smelled a phantom gas leak, or heard a non-existent cry for help. ‘And while we’re at it, if I could’ve been arsed when you suggested going back, he might still be alive.’

  ‘Bollocks. You heard what Jimmy Pears said.’ Pears was senior fire officer at the incident. One of his men had found Khalid’s charred remains. Thinking was he’d been hog-tied, dumped in an empty bath, doused in petrol and set alight by way of a tossed match. What a way to die. At least she’d been right about one thing: he’d not gone up in a puff of smoke – poor bastard had burned to a crisp.

  She swallowed hard. And again. According to Pears, more fires had been set downstairs. Early findings pointed to the perp torching all the soft furnishings, presumably to generate the billowing black smoke that had hampered the firefighting operation.

  Bev traced her index finger in a pool of spilled beer. ‘If we’d been there, I could’ve told Jimmy there was a chance someone was inside.’

  ‘They searched as soon as it was safe, boss. It’s a matter of course with any property fire. You know that.’

  She shrugged again. Also knew how piss-awful she felt. Feared her failure to make the right call, do the right thing by Khalid, had led to his death. Her head told her she was overreacting, being illogical. Her heart had yet to catch up. She had a sneaking suspicion she’d been slow off the mark because she’d pretty much written off Khalid as a worthless pimp. And on what grounds? All they really knew about the guy was that he lived alone and owned a bit of property. Short lets, in the main.

  She narrowed her eyes. Short lets? Fuck-flats, bed-and-blowjobs, bedsits and bonks? Had Darwin Avenue been given a new lease of life as a brothel? Right. In the morning she’d go through the place with an even finer toothcomb. Incriminating evidence just might have been overlooked on the first sweep. Sod that. No sense waiting. It was on her way home, might just as well drop by. It could save a load of hassle in the long run. As it stood, she’d not a shred of evidence to offer Powell, so he’d only shoot her down in … Nah, there had to be a better way of putting it than ‘flames’. Distracted, she licked her beery finger. Eugh.

  ‘You’re not, are you, boss?’

  ‘Not what?’ she snapped. Trail of thought broken.

  ‘Listening.’ He gave a lop-sided smile.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Say again.’

  ‘I said I’d love to know what’s going on in that head of yours.’

  ‘Trust me – you so wouldn’t. I wish I didn’t have—’

  ‘Not still bleating on, are you, Morriss?’ Powell banged a glass on the table. ‘Get that down your neck. Drop o’ wine’ll soon sort you.’

  She gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘How many times you need telling, gaffer?’ Registered his gormless expression and realized yet another reminder was needed. ‘The wagon? I’m on it. Remember?’

  ‘Bugger the diet for once. Ah.’ Holding her glare, he sank slowly onto his seat. ‘You’re not on a diet, are you?’

  Lips pursed, she drummed the table.

  ‘’Course not.’ – Powell sounding all breezy – ‘Christ, it’s not like you’re a chubster. Few extra pounds never hurt no one.’

  If he didn’t button it, they’d prove fatal any time soon. And if her lips got any tighter, they’d split. She glanced at Mac, who appeared to find his nails curiously fascinating and just a touch amusing.

  ‘Cheer up, petal.’ Powell tilted his glass. Bev’s can crumpled under pressure. The DI was skating on ice, had no idea just how thin the layer was. ‘Anyway, Morriss, it’s a fallacy, y’know.’ Casual drawl.

  ‘What is?’ Clipped query.

  ‘That you can’t booze on antibiotics.’

  ‘I’m not on sodding …’ Glancing at the audience, she lowered her volume. ‘Let’s just drop it, eh?’

  ‘Okay, but why so prickly?’ Smiling, he winked at Mac. ‘What you think? Reckon her hormones are playing up?’

  ‘If I were you,’ Mac muttered, ‘I wouldn’t go there.’

  ‘Go where?’ Powell’s blank expression appeared the real deal. ‘Not my fault if it’s her time of the—’ His jaw gaped open. Then the light began to filter through. ‘Christ, you’re not …?’

  Frigging knew she should have gone home. She rose, reached down for her bag. ‘I’m off, before I say something you’ll regret.’

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You’re preggers?’ Powell stared at her, shaking his head.

  Least said soonest … And Bev didn’t have so much as a syllable to add.

  ‘Well done, Morriss. Timing couldn’t be any better if you tried. Christ almighty, what a bloody stupid thing to go and do.’

  Even Mac gasped at Powell’s crass insensitivity.

  Cheeks flushed, fists tight. Bev had to fight not to deck him one. Sod that for a game of soldiers. Throwing caution and maybe her career to the wind, she lifted the glass and hurled the wine in his face. The pub’s clientele gawped in pin-drop silence as an equally speechless Bev strode out, head held high. True what they say: actions speak louder than words.

  ‘I’m saying nothing, guv.’ Mac leaned to one side, pulled a crumpled hankie from his jeans pocket and passed it over.

  ‘Very wise.’

  ‘But personally, I think you asked for that.’

  32

  Stupid? Stupid? The bloody airhead himbo had the nerve to call her stupid? Deep breath, Beverley. Deep breath. She whacked a palm against the steering wheel.

  ‘Sorry, babe.’ Giving the leather trim a tender stroke. What harm had the trusty Midget ever done her? Unlike the toxic Blond’s verbal Exocet. Snorting, she pictured Powell’s face when the wine hit. Shocked didn’t come close, made a rabbit caught in the headlights appear footloose and fancy free, but a second or two later … Christ, if looks could kill she’d currently be worm food. She scowled. Probably end up as dole fodder, anyway. Or maybe she’d get in first and throw in the badge along with the towel. Towel. Nice one. She gave a brittle laugh. The Blond could certainly have done with a towel or two back in the pub. Not to mention a new shirt. Prat should count himself lucky – it could’ve been Merlot she chucked.

  And he’d bloody well asked for it. Couldn’t have timed it better if you’d tried. What a bloody stupid thing to go and do.

  What did the idiot man have in mind? That she’d used a stopwatch and a turkey baster? Blinking away tears of fury, she turned the motor into Darwin Avenue, pulled up outside the house and sank her head in her hands, groaning. What if Powell had only voiced what everyone else would think anyway? Bev Morriss, up duff creek without so much as a matchstick.

  Yeah, well, let them. She checked her face in the mirror, dashed the heel of a hand across a damp cheek. I don’t give a flying—

  Who the hell did she think she was she kidding?

  Mind, The Blond wouldn’t have dared cross a line like that if the guv had been around. But then … if Byford was still …

  She shook her head. Enough already. If she went there, she’d have a complete meltdown. So woman up, eh? Eyes wiped, nose blown, she shoved her bag out of sight in the foot-well. While she still had a job, she might as well get on and do it.

  Standing mid-pavement, Bev pulled latex gloves from her poc
ket as she sized up Khalid’s Darwin Avenue rental. Highgate exhibits held a set of keys, but she’d had zero desire to risk bumping into any of the nick’s ape-men. A quick call to the squad room had refreshed her memory about the evidence Forensics had recovered here: blood samples, fibres, hair – mostly Gold’s; the rest still waiting for a match. Not a lot to write home about in terms of establishing whether the place had doubled up as a sex den, but she’d search for different things and spread the net wider than the porch.

  ‘Do you need any help, young lady?’

  A tad startled, she turned her head and saw an old man hunched over a Zimmer frame, standing a few doors down. What with the bald head, the wrinkly skin and the angle of his skinny neck, he put her in mind of a tortoise on its hind legs.

  ‘Nah, I’m fine, ta.’ She raised a palm. Thinking on, Zimmer Man must be the chap Mac had spoken to, whose wheelie bin had been used as a dumping ground. Cyril, was it? Cyril Ogden?

  ‘What are you hanging around for, then?’

  Save me from neighbourhood nosy buggers. Stifling a sigh, she made her way over to him. Had no intention of broadcasting her plans to granddad or anyone else.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about, sir.’ Smiling, she showed her ID. ‘I’m about to take another look at number 47.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said, squinting at the card with rheumy grey eyes. ‘Ask me, it’s about time you caught the bugger.’

  Ask me, you’re not wrong. ‘We’re doing our best, sir.’ Now tootle off home like a good boy.

  ‘That’s not a great deal of comfort,’ he said raking ridged nails through off-white stubble. ‘There’s a killer at large and believe you me, folk round here don’t feel safe in their own beds.’