‘I don’t want to go over old ground. I’m pretty much up to speed with where the investigation stands. Though, Bev, I’ve not yet seen your incident report from last night.’
Bev glanced up from her notebook. ‘Not quite finished it, ma’am.’ Indeed, only just started it.
‘Perhaps you could have it on my desk in half an hour.’ Her delivery made it clear that ‘Perhaps’ was not an option. ‘Right, folks, let’s focus on the most promising lead. In my view that has to be the victims’ possible, and in one instance definite, link to the vice trade and to what appears to be an escalating turf war in the city.’
She made her way to the murder board. ‘We have good reason to believe that this man’ – Tommy Gold aka Dean Hobbs – ‘was on the payroll of at least one leading pimp. Namely Marty Cox.’ Pointing to the crime boss’s ugly mugshot. ‘We’ve failed to track Cox down so far. Efforts must be increased. I see this as needing urgent action.’
Bev stifled a sigh. Natch.
‘Equally pressing,’ Truss added, ‘is getting a definite ID for the second victim.’ The body dumped on the building site. ‘Initially thought to be that of property investor Karim Khalid,’ – pointing out his image – ‘but there’s now an element of doubt. Until we have a name and background for the man, there’s nothing to support the theory that he had links with prostitution. Again, there’s no concrete evidence that Khalid kept brothels. If we can’t prove these suppositions, then we’re probably barking up the wrong motive tree and we need to rethink.’
No shit.
‘I’m sure you don’t need telling that if the inquiry’s on the right track and pimps are waging war, the body count could rise.’
No shit times two. Bev had feared the same prospect since the second killing. Seemed to her, the woman had done little else but voice other people’s ideas. She was about to speak up, but Truss had more to say.
‘We have to widen the net,’ she urged. ‘Draw up a list of known pimps and anyone even vaguely suspected of running working girls.’
Wish I’d thought of that. Bev started doodling as Truss continued pushing home obvious points. Like they needed to try and extract more intelligence from the volunteers at SWAT. No way, really? Bev had already lined up another meet with the woman who ran the place. Mind, she had to hand it to Truss, the woman had formed an impressive overview on a complex operation. Just hadn’t displayed a huge amount of original thinking.
Perched on the edge of a desk now, Truss continued. ‘Given the surprising lack of suspects, I feel we need to take another look at our people of interest.’ Here we go again. ‘You drew up that list, didn’t you Bev?’
‘That’s right, ma’am.’
The so-called gang of four. Of whom, just two remained: Oliver Ward and Sam Hayes, or Dog Dude and Wallet Man, as Bev thought of them. Re-interviewing both guys had been near the top of her priorities anyway. Mentally, she’d already shared out the task. No prizes for guessing which of them would be landing, so to speak, in Carol Pemberton’s lap. Carol was more than welcome to Oliver Ward. Bev had no intention of running into Tyson again. Not with a slobbered-on skirt that still needed taking to the dry cleaners. She had it in mind to tackle Hayes later today, once she’d sorted a few things and inveigled Mac into attending Khalid’s post mortem.
‘I’ll leave you to allocate tasks then, Bev.’ Truss took a few questions, then checked her watch. ‘Hate to say it, but I’m running late. Has anyone anything to add?’
Bev glanced round: apparently not.
On her feet again, Truss said, ‘One thing before I go.’ She paused, making sure whatever it was would sink in. ‘The pressure we’re under already in trying to prove these three murders are linked will be a walk in the park compared with what it will be once the media start putting two and two together.’
Bev awarded this observation ten out of ten. Knew the press would come up with a load of lurid serial-killer headlines. The hack pack loved nothing more than sinking its collective teeth into a lead story with legs.
38
‘You seemed subdued in there, boss.’ Mac cut Bev a glance as they walked in step along the corridor. ‘Everything okay, is it?’
The only thing getting her down was the prospect of attending yet another bloody post mortem. He certainly didn’t need to know that. Neither did he need to know that the main reason she’d been quiet in the brief was because she’d spent most of the time covertly finishing the report for Truss.
‘Yeah, don’t worry ’bout me, Mac – I’m fine.’ Her pitiful sigh came from the depths.
‘Don’t sound it.’
‘Nah, it’s just …’ Another sigh sound effect.
‘What?’
‘You know me,’ – tight smile – ‘I don’t like to complain …’
‘Come on, boss. You can tell me.’
Halting outside her office, she turned to face him, ‘Just between thee and me?’
‘’Course.’ Fervent nod from Mac.
‘I feel like shite. Dodgy tum, sore neck, head feels like it’s about to explode, and there’s so much on my plate I barely know where to start. And before doing a thing, I’ve got just ten minutes to write a report and get it on Truss’s desk.’
‘Christ, Bev, go home. You were attacked last night: by rights you shouldn’t even be here. No one’ll think any the worse of you.’
‘Nah, can’t let people down, Mac.’ A Morriss martyr sigh this time. ‘I’ll just soldier on best I can.’
‘Shoot, boss. Is there anything I can do to lighten the load?’
‘Actually, mate, there is one thing …’
‘Yeah, thought there might be. Wouldn’t by any chance involve a trip to the morgue, would it?’
She frowned. ‘How—?’
‘You said it, boss. I know you too well. No worries, I’ll go anyway. I need the practice.’ He gave a mock salute and ambled off towards the fire doors.
‘Don’t get ideas above your station, mate,’ she called with a smile. Anyone would think he’d be performing the bloody thing, not just watching.
Bev didn’t have a ring-side seat, just a small round peep-hole set in a cell door. She’d made the quick detour to the custody suite after handing Truss her incident report. Least said about that exchange, the better. Most of the squad was currently on pimp-watch, but Bev intended heading out to Sam Hayes’s pad in Stirchley. She’d also fit in a quick detour to the doc en route, but before all that she’d not been able to resist taking a butcher’s at the toerag who’d attacked her last night. Standing on tiptoe, she had a bird’s-eye view.
Ricky Finch was a damn sight less cocky this morning. Having eschewed the single bed, he sat on the floor, slight frame slumped against the wall, hands clasped round knobbly white knees that poked through the rips in his jeans. He stared ahead listlessly, mouth moving in what might have been a prayer, but more likely he was muttering a string of obscenities. As to an appeal for divine intervention? Good luck with that. Bev didn’t buy the guff about God and falling sparrows. Besides, for all she cared Finch could drop off his perch. The way his Mohican flopped into greasy ginger strands, he looked pretty crestfallen anyway. She zoomed in on his left temple, where she’d landed a right hook. Yeah. Slight swelling, broken skin. Bull’s eye, Bev. Didn’t explain the right eye’s aubergine shiner, though, or the dried blood under his nostrils. She sniffed. Must’ve happened when he took the fall while evading arrest.
What a shame. Even bigger shame she’d not be allowed in on the interview.
‘Little twat’s not talking.’
Eyes wide, she shot round. ‘Bloody hell, gaffer, you didn’t half make me jump.’
He shrugged, took her place at the viewer. ‘I fancied first crack at him, but the bastard barely opened his mouth.’
‘Finch the “unexpected issue”, was he?’ Bev clocked Powell’s blank look, realised he needed enlightening. ‘It’s the reason Truss gave for you failing to show your face at the brief.’
‘That’s
one way of putting it.’ Powell sniffed. ‘Mind, “right bastard” would cover it, too.’
‘Literally?’
Powell curled a lip. ‘We didn’t get as far as discussing his parentage. When I say he barely opened his mouth …’
‘“No comment” all the way, I take it?’
‘Nowhere near that chatty, Morriss. Didn’t spout a word, the little shit.’
Worst kind of interviewees in the world. Frustrating, infuriating. Made you want to punch their lights out. Bev clocked the set of Powell’s jaw, had already registered the tight fists. She frowned. Had he taken a crack in more ways than one? There’d hardly been time to process Finch yet, let alone set up a formal interview. She itched to ask Powell whether he’d taken a swing at the guy. But, not sure she wanted to hear the answer, she plumped for the softer option instead. ‘So when he did open his mouth …?’
‘Gobbed me right in the eye.’
‘Shit.’ She winced. He’d probably answered both questions anyway.
‘Charlie. It’s Bev. I can talk now.’ She’d been in with the doc when Charlie rang ten minutes ago. Walking down the pavement, heading for her motor now, she had a spring in her step and a smile on her face.
‘Ta for getting back, bab.’
‘No probs.’ Especially if he had something for her. There were no worries on the medical front, either. She’d left the surgery with reassurance, an ante-natal appointment and a load of bumph about babies. ‘Got some news, then?’
‘Yeah. But it ain’t good.’
Her hand stilled as she went to unlock the motor. ‘Go on.’
‘We’ll be getting’ nowt outta George Mellor.’
She frowned. ‘Just let me get in the car, Charlie.’ The traffic noise made it difficult to hear, and even then she had to decipher a near-impenetrable Black Country brogue. Presumably he meant Mellor had gone to ground literally or had zilch to say for himself. Whatever, Charlie certainly hadn’t wasted any time tracking the ex-DCI down. ‘Okay, I’m in. Fire away.’
‘He died a while back. Heart gave out, by all accounts.’ Bev felt hers sink. ‘I can give you his missus’ number if you want, bab.’
‘Nah, you’re all right.’ Charlie had been an old-school cop, would know how to handle an interview. She could see no point going over the same ground with the widow.
‘I’ll carry on digging, Bev, but with Mellor gone, d’you think we might have reached the end of the road?’
More like a dead end. But, no. If Mellor had been involved in baby Fay’s death, why the hell should he get away with it? Besides, they needed evidence either way – innocent before proven guilty, and all that. And if Mellor wasn’t culpable, there had to be other leads they could follow.
‘Can I still have a look at your old notebooks, Charlie?’
‘’Course you can, bab. Any time.’
‘Cheers. I’ll be in touch asap.’ Pensive, she flicked the newly-acquired pine air freshener that dangled from the driving mirror. The diddy tree’s fake snow and felt baubles added quite the festive look. Not that Bev thought Christmas had come early.
39
By the time she reached Sam Hayes’s pad in Stirchley, Bev was running a wee bit late. After banging the door for nigh on five minutes she was ready to give up the ghost, then heard a male voice that sounded dead tetchy.
‘Who’s there? I ain’t dressed.’
Tough. Right now Bev didn’t give a flying fig biscuit if Hayes was in his birthday suit. ‘Mr Hayes? Sam Hayes? I need a few words. Inside.’ She’d already drawn an audience: two old blokes and a three-legged dog. Answered to Gladys.
‘You being?’
‘Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss. West Midlands police.’
‘Let’s see your ID.’
She lifted a corner of her mouth. Doh. ‘Open the door, then.’
‘Nah, shove it through.’ Tetchy? Edgy? Arsey?
‘No can do.’ Like she’d let it out of her sight. ‘More than my job’s worth.’ Forcing a matey laugh.
‘And I’d care why?’
No more Miss Nice Gal. ‘You’ll care soon enough, sonny, when I come back mob-handed with a warrant. Tear the place apart looking for—’
‘Okay, okay.’ The door gaped open. ‘Don’t just stand there.’ Still no sign of Hayes.
‘Aren’t you a tad old for kids’ games?’ she drawled, catching a glimpse of the guy out of the corner of her eye as she stepped straight into a poky room that stank of booze and weed. Not the common and garden variety. She turned, watched while he closed the door and slipped a bolt. Waited for him to meet her gaze. Early thirties? Blondish, five-six or so, beer gut. Three-inch scar down the sallow left cheek.
‘Yeah,’ she observed, ‘definitely pushing it for a round of hide and seek.’
‘Lost me there, love.’
‘Hiding behind the door?’ She sneered. ‘What’s that all about?’
He dropped his head, dug both hands into skin-tight pale blue jeans. Had a denim shirt on too, open at the neck. Lying toad. So much for being in the buff. Given he wouldn’t even make eye contact, let alone talk, he certainly wasn’t playing ball.
May as well run with the theme. ‘Used to hate the game, me,’ she said, scoping out the dive while he studied the floor. ‘Always having to be the one looking for my mates.’ She clocked a lump of hash on top of the tiled grate. Leverage, as it’s known in the trade. ‘Still, I guess it paid off in the end, eh? What with me making a living finding villains.’
‘Big deal, love,’ he muttered, still staring at the manky beige carpet, which was covered in fag ash.
‘Drop the “love”, Hayes. It’s Sergeant Morriss to you.’ She glanced round, looking for a perch, preferably one that wouldn’t necessitate a change of gear later. Nah, a chair arm would have to do. After plonking her butt right on the edge, she asked: ‘You sealed any deals lately?’
‘No.’ He sauntered to a flimsy coffee table, grabbed fags and a lighter before flopping onto a fake-leather settee and resting his head back.
Bev took a few ostentatious sniffs. ‘Is it just me or is there a funny smell in here?’
‘That’d be the bacon. Y’know,’ – cutting her a glance – ‘pig meat?’ If she had a penny for every time some joker had cracked that gag, she’d be laughing all the way to Coutts.
‘You should be on telly, you.’ She sniffed again. ‘Crimewatch.’
She watched him spark up, take a long deep drag, release smoke trails through flared nostrils. She saw it as a casual exercise in damage limitation, because if she wasn’t mistaken her last dig had put the wind up him.
‘What you so scared of, Hayes?’
‘Scared? How’d you work that one out, Shylock?’
‘Sherlock.’
‘Close.’ Too close – he reeked of booze-infused body odour laced with fear. Whether there was more to the guy’s jitters than the fact that his allegedly stolen wallet had turned up inside 47 Darwin Avenue remained to be seen. Bev sure didn’t think a bit of dope lying around could explain his current alarm.
‘Okay, here goes,’ she said, ‘you’re shaking like an aspen in full leaf, you’re too frit to show your face at the door, a door you clearly keep bolted, your nails are down to the knuckles, and you look as if you’re about to shit yourself. How’m I doing so far?’
‘Doing my head in, that’s what you’re doing.’
‘Mind, I can’t blame you’ – pointedly circling an ankle – ‘if I was in your shoes, I’d be evacuating the bowels big-time, too.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I ask the questions. How come your wallet ended up in Darwin Avenue?’
The baccy stalled midway to his mouth. ‘Fuck knows.’
‘Name Tommy Gold mean anything to you?’
Barely perceptible shake of the head.
‘What about Dean Hobbs?’
‘Yeah, ’course.’
Eureka. A link at last. ‘How?’
‘Murdered, wasn’t he? It’s been all over
the web.’ Smart-arse nodded at his smartphone. Not that smart, though. If he’d read the small print, he would’ve seen Gold’s name too.
‘Come across a Ricky Finch?’ Might as well throw it in.
‘Nope. Next.’ Sighing, he dropped the fag in a wine bottle crammed with nub ends and ash.
‘Oliver Ward?’
Slight hesitation, then, ‘Nope.’
‘Marty Cox?’
‘Nope.’
She’d swear he was lying. ‘Sure about that?’
‘Straight up.’ His smile couldn’t be any wider if he tried. Or more fake. ‘Cross my heart and hope to …’
‘Karim Khalid’s dead.’
‘What?’ He shot bolt upright. ‘When?’ What little colour there was drained from his face.
‘Yesterday, maybe.’ She shrugged. ‘Could’ve been a week or so earlier.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘See, the thing is,’ Bev said, ‘two men have bought it since Hobbs was butchered. ’Course, it’s a big problem getting IDs when the bodies – well, the faces – are beaten to pulp. Then there’s decomposition to take into account. I’m sure you can imagine what that does to a body.’
Going by the haunted look in his eyes, Hayes had a vivid imagination.
‘Must be tough losing a mate.’ Bev softened her voice, ‘Knew Khalid well, did you?’
He gave a distracted nod. ‘Yeah, s’pose.’
Gotcha. She jumped to her feet. ‘Get your coat.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re nicked.’
‘For?’
‘We’ll kick off with obstructing the police in their inquiries, then see where it goes.’
Lying bastard had told Carol Pemberton he’d never heard of Karim Khalid. Bev would lay bets it was the tip of a mendacity iceberg.
Overkill Page 19