Overkill

by Maureen Carter

  Everyone knew about tangled webs and deception. Hayes might look nothing like Spider Man, but he struck Bev as a master weaver.

  40

  ‘I take it he’s ’fessed up already, Morriss?’

  Bev turned her head, saw Powell fast approaching across the canteen, ferrying a tray. ‘Nah, not yet.’ Besides, to what, precisely, would Sam Hayes confess? He held crucial knowledge about the killings, of that Bev was convinced, but whether he’d committed them, aided and abetted the actual perp, or was shit-scared of being next on the hit-list – well, the answer to that was up in the air.

  ‘What you doing here, then?’ Powell plonked the tray on the table. ‘Mind if I join you?’ Why the hell he bothered asking she’d never know. ‘And while we’re at it, why the moody window-gazing? I’m surprised you can afford the time.’

  ‘Allowed a coffee break, aren’t I?’ she snapped. Besides, there was nothing wrong in trying to see the bigger picture. Failing that, the sixth floor had great views. Christ, Powell was a cheeky sod. By the look of it he was about to indulge in a full blow-out. When Bev clocked the plate’s contents, though, her mouth gaped. Wonders cease never. He’d forsaken his staple diet of sausage, beans and chips and was about to tuck into rabbit food.

  ‘Goes without saying, Morriss. Less of the lip.’ Waving his fork in the air. ‘So come on, what’s your latest beef?

  ‘Who, actually,’ she said, shuffling out of low-flying-missile range. ‘Hayes is backtracking like there’s no tomorrow.’ Which, if one of her hypotheses was correct, there might not be.

  ‘About?’

  ‘Knowing Khalid. Lying toe-rag denies saying he did. Claims I tripped him up, deliberately confused him.’ Not that it would take much to addle the guy’s grey cells. ‘Told me to check with, quote, “the fit dark-haired cop”.’ Pembers, who else? Salad cream in hand, Powell looked up. ‘Give Pemberton a ring, then.’

  ‘Do me a favour, gaffer. I’m waiting for her to phone back.’ Hopefully Carol was otherwise engaged, talking to Oliver Ward over in Solihull. Either way, her lack of response was one of the reasons Bev had called the Hayes interview to a temporary halt.

  ‘Aw, shit,’ Powell tutted, ‘now look what you made me do.’

  She glanced at his plate and had to mask a serves-you-right smirk. The green salad had taken on a sickly yellow hue. ‘Dead fattening that stuff, y’know.’

  ‘Like I’d care?’ Regardless of the fall-out, he carried on stuffing his face and shooting his mouth. ‘Can’t see why you’re waiting on Pemberton, anyway.’ She bit back a reply. Of course, the delay was down to more than that. Bev had a feeling the search team at Hayes’s pad would uncover more than a lump of hash.

  ‘Take a look at her report, Morriss. It’ll all be in there.’

  Like she hadn’t. ‘Take the eggs out my mouth first, shall I?’

  ‘Yer what?’

  She shook her head. ‘Forget it.’ Carol’s contemporaneous notes couldn’t be clearer: Hayes denied any knowledge of both Oliver Ward and Karim Khalid. Said the names meant nothing to him. Quote: ‘Never heard of them, love.’

  Love? Yeah, right. Sipping her latte, Bev glanced through the window, clocked a skein of geese fly over in perfect V formation. She curved a lip. Must be where the expression came from: flicking the bird. Or maybe not. Sighing, she checked her phone screen. Come on, Caz, get your finger out. Not that she didn’t trust Carol’s record of the conversation with Hayes, but she wanted to compare verbal notes. Pick up anything that might bolster her case at the next interview session. If Pemberton was back any time soon they could join forces, present him with a united front.

  ‘Least Hayes is talking to you,’ Powell said.

  ‘Finch still giving you the run-around, is he?’

  ‘Silent bleeding movie, more like. As if it’ll do him any good.’

  ‘Copy that.’ Not given the professional calling of his victims. Cops made expert witnesses, too. If Finch kept schtum till the end of his perch life, he’d still be going down big-time.

  Watching Powell scoff, she weighed up whether to voice a niggle playing on her mind. ‘Y’know, gaffer … it looked to me like Finch had taken a nasty … tumble.’ She wanted him to meet her gaze – and he did; held it, too.

  ‘Not like you to beat bushes, Morriss. We all know what happened. Finch played hardball with a couple of cops: he had it coming.’

  Beat being the operative word. Powell could face deep shit, disciplinary action, even demotion. She felt her heart sink. ‘But gaffer, there was no need for you to—’

  ‘Me?’ He nearly choked on his lettuce. ‘Me!’

  ‘My bad.’ Palms raised in surrender mode. ‘I assumed—’

  ‘You assumed I’d take the law into my own hands? Thanks a bunch, Morriss.’ He shoved the empty plate to one side, leaned forward, elbows on table. ‘Look, I can’t say it wasn’t tempting, not after what the little shit did to you and Hardy, but I didn’t lay so much as a fingernail on him. Nah, the fisticuffs were down to one of the arresting officers. Bloke called Andy Whiting?’

  She nodded. ‘Handy Andy?’

  ‘Yeah, well he is now. The prat got carried away. I called him into the office this morning, issued the mother of all bollockings. I’d never condone what he did, Bev, but quite frankly, if Finch isn’t making a formal complaint, who am I to slap one in?’

  She turned her mouth down. Sounded dodge to her. Finch could be biding his time: if the truth emerged down the line, Whiting would be in deep dung and Powell as senior officer would be up to his neck in it for what would be viewed as an attempted cover-up.

  ‘Long as you know what you’re doing, gaffer.’

  ‘Never stopped you, has it, petal?’

  Touché. She turned her head so he wouldn’t catch her wry smile.

  ‘Done now, Mr P.?’

  ‘I am indeed.’

  Bev frowned, turned back. On a rare foray from the counter, Cath had just presented Powell with a plate of his usual fare. ‘Bon appetite, bab.’

  ‘You’re a star. Ta, Cath.’ Powell smiled up at the old dear.

  ‘Get away with you.’ Flapping a modest hand, she trundled back, called out, ‘Don’t go eating it all at once, now.’

  ‘What’s up with you, Morriss? The salad was only a starter. Certainly not enough to keep a man of my calibre going.’ Going? With all the salad cream swirling round his system, he’d be lucky to stop.

  ‘Your call, gaffer. I’m not saying a word.’

  ‘That’ll be a first. Fancy a chip?’

  ‘Nah, you’re all right.’ She scraped back the chair, grabbed her bag from the floor. ‘Some of us have work to do. Ciao.’

  ‘Oh yeah – Bev, I meant to tell you …’ She glanced back. This had better be good. ‘Remember weeks back asking me about an ex-cop?’

  ‘Not off-hand.’

  ‘George Mellor? DCI.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ It had slipped her mind that she’d mentioned the bloke to Powell. ‘It’s a bit late now though, gaffer.’

  ‘Got that right,’ he said, ‘I read his obit last night.’

  ‘Last night?’ Frowning, she started retracing her steps. ‘You sure?’

  Powell rolled his eyes. ‘Death notices generally signify expiry dates, detective.’

  ‘I’m not querying if he’s dead.’ She tutted. ‘I want to know when.’

  ‘Last week, apparently.’ Powell saw the report, he told her, in the latest edition of Police, the Force mag.

  ‘Why’d they carry an item about Mellor?’

  To mark a long and distinguished police career and a load of charity work. Or, as Powell put it, ‘char-riddee do-gooding’.

  ‘I don’t get it.’ She shook her head. ‘I heard he left the Force under a cloud ages ago.’

  ‘Best check your source, then, ’cause if Police is anything to go by, I shouldn’t wonder if the blessed George isn’t looking down from one now, plucking his harp.’

  41

  Heading for the squad r
oom, Bev couldn’t stop wondering, and it was Charlie Silver who occupied most of her thoughts. Especially now she’d heard from Carol, who’d pulled out of Solihull and was on the way back to Highgate. Neither Oliver Ward nor his mad dog had been in residence. On the off-chance he’d taken the mutt for a stroll, Carol had waited in the car ready to waylay the guy, but eventually gave it up as a bad job. Soon as she showed her face, they’d tackle Hayes. Two-faced little git.

  As for Charlie Silver, Bev was damned if she could make up her mind. Had the old-school cop led her up the proverbial garden path? Made up a bunch of stuff about Mellor because he wanted to please her? Unless Mellor had turned over a new orchard of leaves when he left the Midlands, the way Charlie depicted the guy had been at best misleading, at worst character assassination. And why say Mellor had died ‘a while back’ when it had only been a week?

  ‘All right, sarge?’

  ‘Tickety,’ she murmured, nodding distractedly at a passing plod.

  Was it conceivable Charlie had actually traced Mellor before he’d left for Spain and realized he’d got the wrong end of the truncheon, but decided to string things out because he was so keen to work a case? ’Course, the old boy could’ve just been confused when they spoke on the phone, got his dates mixed up or something. Easy enough to do when you’re getting on a bit. Either way, it needed sorting soon as. She’d left Charlie a voicemail asking him to get in touch pronto. However it panned out, she wanted to get her mitts on the archive stuff he’d hung onto.

  Far as the live inquiry was concerned, the squad room looked to be a hive of heads-down, hands-on activity. Observing for a second or two from the doorway, Bev clocked DCs bashing keyboards, making notes, talking into handsets, riffling paperwork. Wending her way to have a word with Mac, she heard Marty Cox’s name mentioned a couple of times. Truss was being taken at her matter-of-urgency words: locating the crime boss a priority now. Out in the field, more detectives would be talking to lesser-known pimps, minor players lower down the pecking order, who’d have no qualms toppling Cox from top spot. Probably see it as a chance to feather their own birds’ nests. Bev curled a lip. Honour among thieves there might be; where pimps went, forget it.

  Perching on Mac’s desk, she said, ‘Took your time, didn’t you, mate? How’d it go?’ No post mortem was unalloyed joy, but charred remains took some beating.

  Lip curled, Mac glanced up from his screen. ‘You bloody owe me.’

  ‘Shame. Never mind. And?’

  He scooted the chair back and crossed his ankles. ‘As you know, the path man didn’t have a lot to work with.’

  A body with fourth-degree burns. Recalling its appearance, Bev shuddered. ‘Yeah – sorry, mate. So what we got?’

  ‘Not much. No prints, hair, fibres. Tell you what King did find, though.’ Mac held her gaze. ‘Soot in the airways.’

  ‘Aw, shit.’ She closed her eyes briefly. Poor sod had definitely been alive when the fire was burning.

  ‘There’s teeth, too,’ Mac said. ‘The doc reckons he can extract DNA.’

  ‘Best get someone round Khalid’s place, see if they can grab anything for comparison.’

  ‘I’ve already been, boss. Picked up a toothbrush and a comb. They won’t help with the body, though. Not the one in the bath, anyway. It’s not Khalid.’

  ‘What?’ A tiny patch of skin had survived relatively unscathed, apparently. Sufficient to tell Doc King that the victim was a white male.

  ‘Thank God he’s narrowed it down,’ Bev drawled.

  ‘He can’t work miracles with that one, boss. But I asked him to check if any samples match with the body on the building site.’

  Where Khalid’s licence showed up. Nodding, she gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Well done, mate. Good thinking.’

  ‘Call on line one for you, sarge.’ Chad called over. ‘A Sonia Abbot?’

  ‘Ta, Chad.’ She broadened the smile. If anyone had insider knowledge on pimps and their haunts it was Sonia and the SWAT team. ‘Bev Morriss here, thanks for getting back so fast.’ By the time Bev had set up a meet, Carol Pemberton was heading over, coffee in one hand, stiff brown envelope in the other.

  ‘Brought this for you, sarge.’

  ‘Ta.’

  ‘Not the coffee.’

  ‘Worth a try.’ Bev winked as she took second prize.

  ‘It was sitting in reception,’ Pemberton said. ‘There’s a parcel down there for Powell as well, but I couldn’t be arsed.’

  Bev curved a lip, had a damn good idea what it contained. She’d paid more for gift-wrap and next-day delivery but, hey, who cared? ‘I shouldn’t worry, Caz,’ she said tugging out a photograph. ‘If ever a bloke needed the exer… Fuck a mallard.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Have a decko.’

  The pic showed the outside of a familiar house in Balsall Heath. Bev pointed to a male figure standing gazing through an upstairs window. ‘Is that who I think it is? Or is that who I think it is?’

  And what in God’s name was he doing in Karim Khalid’s pad?

  42

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ You lying turd burger. Bev’s loving endearment remained unvoiced. The tapes, audio and video, were running; the silent commentary was mostly for her own benefit, as in letting off mental steam. Being cooped up in an interview room with Hayes would test the patience of a pope on happy pills. Aside from a gasp and a telling flash of panic, guilt or both when he clapped sight of the picture, Hayes had just zipped it, too. Mind, after being presented with irrefutable proof of lying for Pluto, what more could he say? Any fool could see he’d been close enough to Khalid to mooch round the guy’s boudoir.

  ‘Well?’ She cocked her head. Talk your way out of that, asshole.

  Hayes clearly had other ideas. Mouth pressed tight he sat back, clamped his arms round his chest, and flicked glares between Bev and Pemberton. Pity the poor hands tucked under soggy armpits. By now the boozy body odour pervaded IR1’s increasingly less than fragrant air. Pembers had already tried counteracting it with a subtle squirt of Rive Gauche under the table. Far too subtle, in Bev’s opinion.

  ‘Come again, Mr Hayes,’ Bev said. ‘I didn’t quite catch it.’

  Eyes narrowed, he mouthed an obscenity.

  Fuck you too, mate. ‘Once more for the tape, please, Mr Hayes,’ Pemberton, all polite.

  Holding Bev’s gaze, he ran his tongue along a fleshy top lip. The clock’s tick suddenly sounded louder. Carol tapped a pen against her teeth. Bev slowly drummed a thigh. Hayes was almost certainly playing for time, definitely playing silly buggers. In cop parlance, he was bang to wrongs.

  ‘So.’ Bev budged the chair in closer, elbows on table. ‘Would you like to explain what you were doing there?’

  Apparently not. Quite the turnaround, considering they’d earlier had trouble shutting him up. Prior to being shown the not-so-happy snap, he’d sat there blithely trotting out any number of bare-faced lies, repeated denials, offensive verbals. Never heard of him, love. Wouldn’t know him from Adam, love. Never go to Balsall Heath, love. Nor Moseley. Wasting your time, love. He must’ve fondly imagined he was home and dry, ’cause after a while the cocky tone took on a caustic edge. He called Carol Pemberton a ‘dopy bint’ for misquoting him in the first place, claimed Bev was bent and had planted the weed, and – talk about taking the piss – had threatened to sue the pants off the pair of them for setting him up.

  Till that point, Bev had been happy enough feeding him rope, but camel’s back and all that. She’d whipped out the black-and-white still, shoved it across the table, sat back and watched the dumb show. Given the location, the guy had pretty much framed himself. Without a doubt, somebody had dropped him in it. Bev wished to hell she knew who. Not to mention when and why. But either way, short of having an identical twin in the wings, Sam Hayes was up shit creek, and not having an oar would be the least of his worries. Given he didn’t have a boat.

  ‘So, Mr Hayes.’ – Bev treated him to a tight smile – ‘Are you s
till sure you don’t want a lawyer present?’ Please say no again. A brief slowed the pace and there was a way to go yet.

  ‘If I need one, love, you’ll be the first to know.’

  Fine by me, love. She had an ace or two up her sleeve, more accurately in a couple of files at her elbow – the search team’s initial findings and Forensics’ interim report. Way she regarded Hayes now was as small fry. But there was a saying about sprats and mackerel-catching. ‘Long as you don’t try saying later you weren’t asked.’

  Insofar as a hard chair allowed, Hayes adopted a faux casual slump, legs spread, features set in an ugly scowl. ‘Just get a move on, eh.’

  ‘What’s your connection with Karim Khalid?’

  ‘Ain’t got one. Barely knew the guy.’

  Without breaking eye contact, she tapped the pic. ‘Spend a lot of time in strangers’ bedrooms, do you?’

  ‘Think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you, copper?’

  ‘Answer the question.’ Fucktard. ‘What’s your connection with Karim Khalid?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘What were you doing on his property?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘When were you there?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘No comment. What? No!’ Eyes wide, he straightened sharpish, almost toppled the chair. ‘’Course I didn’t kill him. No way.’

  ‘Any idea who did?’

  ‘How the fuck would I know?’

  But Bev reckoned he might have a sneaky suspicion. The slight pauses, shifty looks, wavering glances all indicated more lies.

  ‘What about Marty Cox?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Ever had dealings with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t know him?’

  ‘No. I mean yes. I don’t know him.’ He tugged an earlobe.

  Bev reached for the file, took out a clear plastic envelope, slid it across the table. ‘Sure about that?’