A sudden burst of giggling from a couple of leggy redheads tottering up the avenue seemed to give the lie to a community living in morbid fear, but the old boy probably needed police reassurance.
‘We’re following a number of leads, sir,’ she trotted out the usual line in her best police voice. ‘I’m confident it’s just a question of time before we make an arrest.’
‘Yes, well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ he sneered. She opened her mouth but didn’t get a chance to pick him up on anything.
‘Everything all right, gramps?’ One of the women called. Bev cut a glance over the old boy’s rounded shoulder. Up a little closer, they looked late-teens rather than twenties, and with the same bone structure and green eyes, they probably stemmed from the same gene pool.
‘Fine, thanks, love,’ he waved. ‘Door’s open. Go and pop the kettle on. I’ll be there in a minute.’
Bev watched them sail in, nattering away together. Grandkids? Nieces? Mac had mentioned something about the bloke having family living nearby.
‘Pretty girls.’ She smiled. ‘Are they—?’
‘Sorry, love, I’m too busy to stand here gassing.’ Clutching the frame he turned away, muttering loud enough for her to hear. ‘Let’s hope your confidence isn’t misplaced.’ Cheeky sod. Mind, he had a point.
Bev made her way round the back of 47, intending to get in via the window that Stacey’s neighbour, Joan, had watched a youth clamber through. Hands on hips, she looked up, down, then up again, gauging the drop. From ground level it looked a damn sight higher than she’d anticipated. And when given a shake the drainpipe had a lot more give than she’d like. No sense rushing it. She sniffed and glanced round, hoping to spot a handy ladder. Oh, look, there’s one. Not. No harm trying the back door first, just in case. Nah. Should’ve known. Maybe a bit more wellie would do it. Bracing herself, she gave the wood one almighty shove. Eureka.
With one mighty bound Super-cop was in … and pulled up pretty sharpish, fighting the urge to gag. The kitchen stank like something had crept there to die. The remains of a rat quietly decomposing in the corner confirmed her olfactory suspicions but did little to settle her alimentary qualms. Apart from gently rubbing her shoulder she stood still, darting wary glances while she got her bearings. Whatever went on in here, cooking wasn’t high on the agenda. Tricky, without a stove. Let alone work surfaces. Apart from a sink, the space looked like the galley on the Mary Rose.
No wonder Khalid had found the place hard to rent out – unless he wasn’t actively seeking tenants, not the regular sort anyway. She glanced up at the ceiling: by her reckoning the room above was, to quote Joan Murdoch, where ‘all sorts’ had been going on. Keeping eyes peeled and ears pricked, Bev made her way upstairs. Creature comforts didn’t run to lino let alone carpet, and a wooden handrail hung off the wall in sympathy with a peeling strip of Anaglypta.
She poked her head into a couple of all-expense-spared bedrooms before arriving at the one that faced Joan’s. Inside was more of the same Mother Hubbard school of interior design: three stripped double mattresses occupying most of the bare floorboards, not so much as a net at the window. Unless the bloody great cobweb counted. She heard a fly buzzing in the vicinity and didn’t much fancy its chances. Didn’t fancy all the dust and grime lying round, either. Nah, as far as accommodation went, Khalid Towers wasn’t much cop. Certainly wouldn’t feature on that telly show she loved, where B&Bs were rated on cleanliness and comfort. Rival landlords went round with magnifying glasses, seeking out stray pubic hairs and toenail clippings. She frowned, trying to remember what the programme was called. Ought to know, it was one of her guilty pleasures on a Sunday afternoon slumped in front of the box with a family bag of Revels. God, she knew how to live the high life.
Why not just get on with it? Smoothing out a wrinkle in one of the gloves, she swept her glance round the room, figuring out where to start. Given the lack of fixtures, fittings and furniture it was a no-brainer. She’d have to shift the mattresses. Hoped it wouldn’t be a case of just going through the motions.
Five minutes later she wished going through the motions was as easy as it sounded. Manhandling bulky stinky double mattresses was no picnic on your own. Twice, she’d had to stop and catch her breath. Wiping sweat off her brow with a forearm, she scowled at the first two, which now sagged drunkenly against a wall having revealed bugger all.
Girding mental loins, she squatted, grabbed hold of the last mattress and hauled it upright. ‘It’d better be third time lucky or else …’
‘Or else what?’ Rasping voice in her ear, waft of hot rank breath in her nostril. ‘Move a muscle and you’re dead. Got it, sister?’
She’d frozen already, every sense belatedly on high alert. Knew it was no idle threat. Not with the cold steel of a blade at her neck, a body pressed hard against hers. Adrenalin fizzed in her veins as her heart rate soared, thoughts raced. Had she been followed? Had he crept up the stairs, waited till her back was turned before making his move? Like it mattered. More to the point was how she got out of this mess.
‘I ain’t your sis—’
‘Shut it – sister.’ She winced when a knee rammed into her lower spine. ‘Poking round in other people’s property. Against the law, innit? What you expect?’ You tell me. And what the fuck was he doing here? Opportunistic chancer, or a pal of Khalid? A connection with Operation Lynx? Maybe he’d been keeping an eye on the place and had already stripped it of incriminating evidence. She wished to God she could catch a glimpse, get a sense of his size, of what she was up against. She’d have taken her chances anyway by now and lamped him one – were it not for the knife resting on her jugular.
‘You tell me, bro.’ She gasped as the blade bit into delicate skin, flinched as he traced it along her jaw line, gritted her teeth when warm blood trickled down the side of her neck. He’d pay for this if it was the last thing she did. ’Cause, boy, was she spoiling for a fight.
‘I’ll do better than that, babe. I’m gonna show you. You’ve got a big treat coming.’ Ears pricked, she tried working out what the fumbling was all about, the rustling noise, heavy breathing. What the frigging hell was he doing back there?
‘Nearly ready, you gonna keep still and shut the fuck up?’
No can do on both counts. Her arms quivered under the mattress’s weight, legs threatened to buckle. She’d seriously no idea how much longer she could hold the stance. Then her blood ran cold, the pulse pounded in her ears. She’d heard the unmistakable sound of a zip. Knew what the bastard intended.
‘Now you gonna be a good girl while I fuck your brains out, or am I gonna have to kill you first?’
Never. Unless the slimeball was into necrophilia. She’d die rather than go through that again. The last time a guy tried raping her she’d bitten off a chunk of his face, then watched him bleed out from a stab wound. It had happened six years back and she still had the odd panic attack, nightmare. Even so, she’d not hesitate to do it again, and the stakes were much higher now. She’d not just be fighting for her own life; her baby’s was at risk, too. How could she have been so stupid, so selfish, so short-sighted? With everything to lose – she’d best make damn sure she won.
Feeling icily calm, she took a deep breath, shied swiftly to the right, spun on her heels and landed a sucker punch that knocked him sideways.
‘Bitch,’ he snarled through a mouth short on teeth. Early-twenties, she guessed, five-six-ish, skinny legs, tight black jeans ripped at the knee.
‘Sticks and stones, arsehole.’ The ginger Mohican – an eighties’ throwback – put her in mind of Vyvyan in The Young Ones. He’d been denser than thick fog; Ginger didn’t look big in the brain department either.
Glaring at her, he rubbed his temple, appeared dazed, almost groggy, before taking a wild swing her way with the knife.
The karate chop to his radius disarmed him in both senses. She watched fear and confusion flash across the puny little git’s pock-marked face as his weapon clattered to the
floor. Flicking nervy glances between Bev and the blade, he rocked on the balls of his feet, probably weighing up whether to leg it, cut his losses or have another go. If he had any sense he’d give up pronto. Now she’d had a good look at him, Bev reckoned she’d been in more fist fights than he’d had packed lunches.
‘I’ll stick you in a minute, bint.’
‘Try it.’ Ducking and diving, she feigned more blows to his face. ‘What you waiting for?’
He curled a lip. ‘Nah, on second thoughts I’ll pass.’
‘Oh?’ Shame. She could’ve knocked seven shades out of him, then pleaded self-defence.
‘Take a look in the mirror, slag. I ain’t that desperate.’
‘Laters, big man.’ Dropping the boxing stance, she held his gaze. ‘First you and me are gonna take a little trip to the station.’
The gormless expression was priceless. ‘You’re a cop?’
‘Nah. Train driver. ’Course I am, Einstein, and you’re nicked.’
‘Balls I am.’ The sudden lurch caught her on the hop. Two palms whacked hard into her chest, knocked her off-balance. She staggered backwards, and tried to break the fall. Failed. Hit her head on the wall going down. Last thing she saw before blacking out – Ginger grabbing the knife; last thing she heard – a scream.
33
Bev came round with a whimper rather than a bang. Make that more of a groan. How long had she been unconscious? Seconds? Minutes? Warily she opened her eyes, cut cautious glances both ways. No flashing white lights, no black dots, no villain. Promising start.
Tentatively she sat up straight, placed her hands on her thighs and held the pose while testing the diagnostic waters. Dizzy? No. Nauseous? Nada. Seeing double? Nyet. She traced exploratory fingertips round her neck. Nah, bleeding had stopped, flesh wound most likely. She used the same fingers to gently probe an already burgeoning bump at the back of her head. Sore? Hell, yeah. Hopefully Ginger’s nut was infinitely more painful. She peeled off a glove, glanced at her knuckles. Yeah, he’d be sporting a bruise and hopefully have shed a few skin cells.
She’d check in at the doc’s soonest, but right now she could only pray to God the baby had come to no harm. In future she needed to sort out her priorities.
Frowning, she turned her head towards the window. The fly buzzing round earlier had just entered enemy airspace and was about to meet a sticky end. As for Ginger’s state of health, legging it had probably been his best option. When it came to rapists, Bev, like the spider, took no prisoners. Not that the prat would get far; he had his just desserts coming, and doubtless the courts would dish out justice too. A perp who messed with a cop, let alone cut one, crossed the thin blue line. Every officer in the city would shortly be going the extra mile to run him in.
Right. Shift it then, woman. Ouching away, she hauled herself to her feet. Sooner she got to the motor, sooner she could furnish a detailed description to Control. With her trained observer skills plus an ace memory, it’d be no sweat for Bev. Filling in the charge sheet might be more of a stretch. It’d take bags of room to fit in the offences: threatening behaviour, possession of an offensive weapon, wounding, evading arrest, assault and attempted rape of a police officer. Mentally reeling off a few extras, she took a quick glance round before making a sharp exit.
Sharp exit. She stilled. Suddenly recalled seeing the little gobshite snatch back his blade before fleeing. And the scream. Bloody hell. She’d heard a scream. What if he’d run into someone? What if she’d left it too late?
Cursing under her breath, she flung open the door, tore along the landing. Braked hard at the top of the stairs, widened her eyes. Dear God, no. She gasped, slapped a hand to her mouth. Not just someone. A woman in police uniform, lying curled on the grubby tiles in the hall. A woman Bev knew. She recognized the generous curves, the mousy hair that needed a good cut. Clocked the glint from a recently-acquired engagement ring and blood seeping from a wound, God knew where on Stacey Hardy’s body.
34
‘Ever pull a stunt like that again, I swear I’ll kill you myself.’ Still feeling wobbly, Bev tried making light of her fears. For the umpteenth time she failed. She couldn’t blank the image in her head: back then, Stacey Hardy lying in the hallway dying or dead, for all Bev knew. Now they both sat at Stacey’s kitchen table nursing mugs of tea and in Stacey’s case a glass of something stronger. Bev kept cutting covert glances Stacey’s way just to make sure she really was okay. A sullen-faced Mac leaned against the sink, arms crossed on paunch, darting daggers. He’d hared it here so fast he’d been booked for speeding. It wasn’t his only gripe.
‘Good tip, Bev,’ – Stacey tilted her glass – ‘I’ll try and remember that in future.’
‘Honest to God,’ Bev said, ‘I was dead scared. Thought you were a goner.’
‘Looks like it, don’t it?’ Smiling, she showed off her bandaged left arm. ‘Told you there’s nowt wrong, quit worrying.’
She’d told them more than that. Detailed how she’d come to be at 47. Stacey hadn’t long arrived home from the nick when Joan rang and reported seeing an intruder – a woman, she thought – poking around upstairs. Stacey had dashed across, found the front door ajar. Went inside wielding a baton. She’d reached the stairs’ halfway mark when a guy barrelled past, screaming at her to shift it. Well, words to the same effect. He’d shoved Stacey aside with the hand holding the knife. Stacey had lost her balance and her footing, tumbled downstairs. Next thing she knew she was lying on the hall floor, with Bev, face white as a sheet, crouched alongside feeling her neck for a pulse.
‘The shock seeing you looming over me near enough brought on a heart attack.’ Stacey overdid the laugh. Probably trying to convince Bev she wasn’t about to expire. Because when it came to pallid complexions they were both neck and neck, and it’d take a photo finish to judge whose hands still shook the most.
‘Come on, Stace,’ – Bev swirled her mug – ‘if you’d croaked I’d never have forgiven myself.’
‘Neither would I,’ Mac skewered Bev with a glare.
‘Well I didn’t, did I?’ Stacey chipped in. ‘So stop dwelling. Like I said, it’ll take more than a scuzzy toerag to see me off. ’Sides, I was only stunned, couldn’t have been out of it for more than a few seconds.’
‘Seemed like an eternity to me, mate.’ Stacey was right on the timing, though. Any longer and Bev would’ve had no choice but to race to the car, grab her mobile, call an ambulance. Fact was, Stacey had come round almost immediately Bev reached her side, and she’d categorically vetoed a trip to A&E. Loathed hospitals, she said. Mac had first-aid qualifications coming out of his every orifice: he’d sort her. Bloody good job the gash hadn’t gone any deeper. Bev doubted Tyler’s doctoring skills ran to needle and thread.
‘You were lucky, an’ all,’ Mac said, pointing his can at Bev. ‘That neck wound could’ve been a lot nastier.’
Yeah, thank God her tetanus shots were up-to-date. ‘It’s just a nick, Mac.’ Not that she’d let him anywhere near it. She’d cleaned the cut herself, applied loads of Savlon and a lint dressing. Her hand strayed to it now, fingers picking at a loose strand.
‘I frigging hope they nail the bastard soon.’ Mac again.
‘’Course they will,’ Bev said. A puny guy with a ginger Mohican and a two-inch long brass skeleton dangling from an ear lobe. He’d not exactly blend in with the crowd. Not even the motley mix found in Moseley.
Stacey indicated the clock on the stove. ‘The APB went out an hour back.’
All points bulletin. Bev nodded. They’d sat in the Midget outside number 47 while she phoned in the incident to Control. She’d spoken to Forensics, too, giving them a head’s up about the possibility of lifting skin cells. And where they might have fallen. The conversation with Powell had been trickier. Failing to keep a senior officer fully briefed wasn’t an option, though. She’d kept the account short if not sweet. He’d stayed surprisingly calm throughout: established she wasn’t badly hurt, asked what procedures she’d pu
t in place, told her to report first thing to his office. She’d assumed that was it: career curtains. Neither had alluded to the wine-throwing incident. Just before hanging up, he’d said: ‘Collar’s a size 15, cotton, none of your cheap rubbish. Dove grey, pale blue, ivory – I ain’t fussy about colour.’ She’d almost told him to do one until he added, ‘After that we’ll say no more about it, okay?’
Seemed like a plan. When it came down to it, she couldn’t afford to lose the job. Not with a baby on the way.
‘Did you hear me?’ Mac sighed, opening another can.
‘Sorry, mate. Say again.’
‘I asked if you secured the premises.’
‘Nah. I left the doors wide open. Thought I’d throw a house party.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me. The pair of you need your heads examining.’ He’d already delivered the lecture: endangering lives, dodgy situations, going in with no back-up. The criticism was valid and she couldn’t blame Mac for being arsey. Realized it stemmed mostly from his concerns about Stacey. Bev might have taken the piss about their relationship in the past, but now she’d witnessed it at close quarters. They loved each other to bits, any fool could see that.
‘I mean, how stupid can you get, boss? Christ knows what you were thinking.’
‘Give it a rest, eh, mate?’ Slumping down in the chair, she crossed her ankles. ‘You know full well what I was thinking.’ That if she could establish the place had been used as a brothel it would point to Khalid’s link with the vice trade. And, for pimps engaged in all-out turf war, a motive for his killing. Not to mention evidence that might lead to arrests.
‘And what did you come up with?’ he sneered. ‘A cache of condoms? Sex aids? Suspenders? Signed cheques? Nah. Diddly squat.’
Struck by a thought, she tuned out, narrowed her eyes. Doors wide open. Stacey had entered through the front. Found it ajar. Did that mean her shit-for-brains attacker – or someone else, come to that – had a key? Been given a key, even. What if there was no evidence to find because it had been removed, destroyed, whatever? What if Khalid had a caretaker – she used the term loosely – who’d already cleaned out the place but still kept an eye on comings and goings? Or if whoever had bumped off Khalid decided to give the property the once-over? Of course, Ginger Nut could just have been a lone ranger gobshite and have naff all to do with the case. Take your sodding pick. Or none of the above. She blew her cheeks out on a sigh. Maybe she’d had one too many bumps to the head recently.
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