Overkill

by Maureen Carter

  Bev let her witter on in similar vein, watching as she fixed tea and dropped a couple of Jaffa cakes on a chipped plate.

  ‘There you go.’ Passing a mug across, Sonia did a double-take. ‘Whatever happened to your neck?’

  Gawd, she’d almost forgotten. ‘Nothing serious’ – stroking the dressing – ‘a nutter with a knife tried having a go.’

  ‘How dreadful,’ she said, taking a perch on the edge of the desk.

  As good a way as any to introduce the topic. ‘Nah.’ Bev held Sonia’s gaze. ‘We both know women who’ve gone through far worse, don’t we?’

  Point patently taken, Sonia nodded. Of course she did: for starters, the girls carved up by the pimps’ mercenary, Dean Hobbs. Sonia knew what Bev wanted, too. ‘I’ve tried, Bev. I really have. They just don’t want to talk.’

  Bev’s heart sank to her Docs. ‘Look, Sonia, I’ve got two, maybe three, dead pimps on my hands. God knows how many might be in the firing line.’

  ‘Dean Hobbs, I’m aware of. Who’s the other?’

  ‘Guy called Karim Khalid?’

  Sonia nodded, took a sip of tea. ‘Fairly new to the market. Word is he was raking it in, made more than a living off his girls’ backs.’ Sounded about right: a prostitute in a brothel could earn two grand a week. Times that by what? Twenty, thirty, forty?

  ‘You say “his” girls? Might a few of them have jumped stables?’ From Marty Cox, perhaps.

  Sonia gave it some thought, then, ‘It’s possible, I guess. I understand Khalid gave a better cut.’

  ‘Yeah, well he might have paid for it in the end.’ The body on the building site had a fair few incisions.

  ‘I can’t pretend I’m sorry,’ said Sonia, smoothing her skirt. ‘You said three?’

  ‘Unconfirmed as yet.’ Bev explained about the fire, that there’d not been much body left to identify. ‘Like as not he’s in the same trade, given he was found in Khalid’s gaff.’

  ‘Is your thinking that Cox is behind the killings?’ Something in the way she asked the question and the way she held eye contact made Bev pause and try reading between the unspoken lines.

  ‘Seems that way.’ Sonia stayed silent. ‘Mind, I could sure do with a steer,’ Bev prompted. ‘A name or two to work with could make all the difference.’

  ‘The girls won’t talk to you. Not about pimps.’

  ‘Yeah, you said.’

  Sonia raised an eyebrow. ‘It doesn’t mean they haven’t talked to me, though.’

  ‘Go on.’ Willing her forward.

  ‘They tell me a major player’s muscled in on Marty Cox’s empire.’ Same old, same old. Drat. She’d thought they were finally getting somewhere.

  ‘Yeah.’ Bev struggled not to sound too gutted. ‘I heard there was a new pimp on the block.’

  ‘When I say muscled in on Cox, I mean seen him off. Permanently.’

  ‘Shit.’ If that was true, no wonder they’d not found him yet. ‘Don’t suppose anyone’s named names, have they?’ ’Course not – that’d be way too easy.

  Sonia took her time finishing the tea, then put the mug down. Leaning forward, hands on desk, she stared Bev in the eye. Then, ‘You didn’t hear this from me, right?’

  ‘Deffo. You can trust me.’

  ‘I mean it, Bev. If it ever got out I’d talked …’

  Say no more. ‘You have my word.’

  She bit her lip as if still debating whether to open her mouth. Bev hardly dared take a breath. For Christ’s sake, don’t back off now.

  ‘Okay. His name’s Oliver Ward. One of his lackeys is called Sam Hayes.’

  45

  Bev’s fists had been balled so tightly her palms – currently throttling the steering wheel – stung where the nails had pierced her flesh. Oliver Ward. The poncey git with the swanky pad, the guy she’d mentally dubbed ‘wankpot’. She was heading out to Solihull, now, and still seething at the man’s gall. She cut her passenger a quick glance.

  ‘I’m itching to run the bastard in,’ she said.

  ‘Ditto, but do calm down, d … detective.’

  ‘Good recovery.’ Despite the circs, she curved a lip. Heck of a long time since she’d had Mike Powell riding shotgun. His offer to tag along had to be a first. Truth be told, she’d have preferred roping in Mac, but knew he was unavailable right now. She’d toyed with the idea of paying Ward a house call on her tod, but recalled the Finch fiasco and decided once bitten … well, maybe not bitten. Of course, she could have farmed out the interview, delegated it to another detective duo, but felt it was her lead and desperately wanted to see it through. Taking Ward down a few pegs didn’t figure at all in her reasoning. Perish the idea.

  ‘Does this old banger of yours go any faster, Morriss?’

  Cheeky sod. She treated the question with the withering glance it deserved. Seated bolt upright, gaze straight ahead, Powell certainly looked fired up. Probably wanted a piece of the action, or a share in any glory that might be in the offing. Likelier still, he just didn’t fancy another Saturday night downing pints in the pub owing to the fact no one had made him a better offer. Not for the first time, she wondered why The Blond didn’t seem to have much action between the sheets. Mind, post-Byford she could talk. The only guy she’d even looked at twice was Byford junior.

  ‘How’d you want to play it?’ Powell asked. Thank God he’d agreed so readily that Ward needed confronting straight away. Came as a great relief to Bev, because tomorrow’s leave was sacrosanct. If she cancelled again, her mum would kill her.

  ‘Let’s busk it, eh?’ she said.

  ‘Nice one. Though you could’ve said “by ear”.’

  ‘Not playing for laughs, gaffer.’ It wasn’t like they could go in heavy-handed, not without a bunch of hard evidence to back up Sonia’s claims. Ward’s lackey might provide them with a little substantiation, but Hayes wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. Mac or Pembers could pump the lying git in the morning. Bev had no desire to deal with a monkey, not if the organ grinder was around.

  She parked the motor just up the road from Morton Place. No sense tipping Ward off he was about to have a not-so social visit. The evening was almost balmy, gorgeous smells wafted as they walked past immaculate gardens. Honeysuckle? Jasmine? She wasn’t hot on plant names, but they sounded about right. Halfway up Ward’s drive, Powell, who’d been taking in all the attractions, commented, ‘Tell you one thing, petal, we’re in the wrong business.’

  ‘Nah, don’t think so, gaffer. Dirty money, innit?’ Pimps didn’t even earn the ill-gotten gains themselves. They screwed their working girls thrice over by forcing them into shagging strangers then relieving them of their earnings. The only way the women beggars could handle such sordid conveyor-belt encounters was by getting off their faces on crack, sold at top whack by their very own pimp.

  ‘Ready?’ Powell said, hand on the brass knocker.

  ‘Damn right.’ The hammering sounded loud and echoed in the still air. She’d been prepared this time for the barking-mad hound of the Baskerville but, nothing. Stepping back a ways, she ran her gaze over the ivy-covered façade. Not so much as a twitch at a blind. ‘Hit it again, gaffer.’

  He knocked even louder this time. Talk about anti-climax. Should’ve known they’d be lucky to find him at home.

  ‘Shit, Morriss, it looks like we’ve wasted our sodding—’

  ‘Shush! Listen.’ Head cocked, she pricked her ears. Again, a muffled noise outside somewhere. ‘Hear that?’

  He frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Bang the door again, gaffer.’ Yeah, definitely something out here.

  Powell lowered his voice. ‘Did you say the guy has a dog?’

  ‘Tyson. A bloody great Siberian Husky.’

  ‘Sounds like whimpering to me, Bev.’

  She nodded. ‘Over there.’ Eyes peeled, they walked in step over the grounds, pausing every now and again to listen out. ‘It’s around here somewhere, gaffer.’

  ‘Yeah, sounds close,’ he said, glancing round.
‘Whatever it is, I think it’s in there.’ Tilting his head towards the maze.

  ‘You’re right.’ Reaching the entrance, she murmured, ‘Where’s a bag of breadcrumbs when you need one?’

  ‘Nah. Just follow me. Compass on legs, I am.’

  She sure hoped so. If they had to call the nick to send out a rescue party, they’d never live it down.

  Powell halted, whispered. ‘There he is.’

  Standing on tiptoe to look over his shoulder, she followed his gaze. The massive dog lay on its side, had just about enough energy to lift its head. Its once white coat was matted and looked as if it had been tie-dyed a red so dark it was almost black. When the dog whimpered again, even Bev felt a tinge of pity for the poor creature. Not enough to get any closer, though. She watched Powell inch forward, hand held out, murmuring sweet nothings.

  ‘There, there, boy. Let’s have a look at you. Everything’ll be okay.’

  ‘Get a vet out, shall I?’ Bev starting digging in her bag for her phone.

  ‘I shouldn’t bother.’

  ‘Not pegged out, has it?’

  ‘Nah, he should be fine. He’s probably hungry, thirsty definitely. Might have been drugged, too. He’s been tethered down, that’s why he can’t move.’

  So whose red stuff was it then? Forgetting her canine aversion, she dashed forward. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Precisely, Morriss. He’s covered in it, but it ain’t his.’

  ‘I’d love to know where his lord and master is.’ She glanced round as if expecting Oliver Ward to pop up, brandishing a tin of Pedigree Chum. When she looked back, Powell had latex gloves on and was easing out something that had been shoved under the dog’s collar. ‘What you got, gaffer?’

  ‘It’s a note,’ he murmured, unfurling a small roll of paper.

  ‘Get a move on. What’s it say?’

  ‘Give us a chance, will you?’ Still staring at the note, he slowly shook his head. ‘Shoot. I didn’t see this coming.’

  ‘What is it, gaffer?’

  ‘Not “what” – “who”.’ He lifted his gaze. ‘The body in the bath? According to this, it’s Oliver Ward’s.’

  Sunday

  46

  Bev’s early night failed to materialize, but so, thank God, had her visions of getting lost in the maze. Powell had been a revelation to her in more ways than one last night. Not only had he found the maze a piece of piss, he’d had Tyson eating out of his hand. They’d taken quite a shine to each other. The mutt had even allowed Powell to cut off some bloodstained fur, so that it could go to the lab. Bev curved a lip. Talk about dog-whisperer.

  No, she was late home because it had taken a while to set the crime-scene ball rolling at Morton Place. Uniform, FSIs, DCs, RSPCA – all had to be called in. A fingertip search of the grounds and property would resume at first light. Forensics had already lifted traces of Ward’s DNA from his pillow, comb and toothbrush. A match with the skin taken from the bath would confirm or otherwise the note’s contents.

  Flinging back the duvet, Bev shook her head, recalling every word: Hey, cops, the hot bath’s a dry run for when Oliver Ward burns in hell. Bloody joker. She glanced at the time before falling into bed. Past midnight. No wonder she felt knackered. Worth it, though. When they’d finally pulled out, inquiries were underway and she could sleep easy. Feel fully justified in taking off, if not the day, at least a few hours tomorrow.

  Of course, when she said sleep easy …

  Come the early hours, she was still tossing and turning, wrestling the duvet as much as her racing thoughts. She propped herself up on an elbow, reached for the glass and took long slugs of tepid water. The heat was on, temperature and work-wise. As if it hadn’t already been a priority, hunting down Marty Cox was now crucial. Of her original gang of four, he was the only survivor. By a process of elimination, it looked as if Cox was behind the exterminating. Like as not he’d orchestrated the dodgy tip-offs, the faulty signposts, the pointing fingers. She’d not even put it past him to have fed Sonia duff information, with his henchmen ostensibly tipping the wink to one or more of the girls.

  Damn. The water had gone straight through her. Again. Babies and bladders, eh? Hey-ho, she hauled herself out of bed, headed for the smallest room. Having boned up on Dr Google the other night, plus all the baby bumph from the real doc, Bev was quite the obstetrics expert nowadays. She had to admit it had come as quite a relief to learn that even in the early stages of pregnancy frequent trips to pee were not uncommon. Not quite so happy to discover she had stress incontinence to look forward to.

  She snorted. Not that wee-ki-leaks were a laughing matter. Especially when laughing could bring them on. And coughing. And sneezing. Best hope she didn’t catch cold.

  Shame they’d not caught Cox, though.

  While she perched, she mused a bit further on the man’s motives. He’d not just removed the competition: he’d eradicated their features. True, it made ID difficult and hampered the investigation, but surely there had to be more to it than that? The violence had been intense, vindictive almost.

  Glancing in the mirror as she washed her hands under the tap, she recalled Cox’s ‘before’ and ‘after’ photographs. Imagined what he must feel every time he caught his reflection, saw the damage caused by the acid. She paused, raised an eyebrow. That’s it. He’d been out for bloody revenge, hadn’t he? She nodded agreement in the glass. He could hardly take it in kind or the trail would have led back to him a damn sight quicker. Destroying his rivals’ looks by having his goons virtually stamp them out must have been the next best thing. Best thing? She curled a lip. Christ, Beverley. Go back to bed.

  Lying on her right side as usual, she stretched out a hand to take Byford’s pic from its customary place on the bedside table. For a while she ran her gaze over his face, then, matching his smile, murmured, ‘Night night, guv. Love you. See you in the morning.’

  47

  ‘Not late, am I?’

  For a second or two Bev thought it had to be a dream. She’d opened the front door and found the guv there, clutching flowers: sunflowers. ’Course it couldn’t be him and it certainly wasn’t a dream. Not when she’d been up an hour, showered, dressed in her Sunday glad rags, spoken to Powell, Mac and Dazza, and had actually been on the point of leaving the house toting two gift bags packed with goodies for her mum and Sadie. She shook her head, told herself to get a grip.

  ‘We did say eleven, Bev.’ We did? ‘Is it not a good time?’

  ‘No. Yes. Um. I. Look. Sorry, Rich, when exactly did we make this arrangement?’ And why did she have to come across like a gibbering wreck? Because – apart from not having a clue what he was talking about – every time she set eyes on Byford junior the uncanny likeness to the guv almost took her breath away. Tall, great body; dark hair, grey eyes, full lips. Richard even had his dad’s voice, and don’t get Bev started on the George Clooney smile.

  ‘We spoke on the phone.’ Please, not the smile. ‘Three, four days ago? You were in the car, I think?’

  Aw, shit. She briefly closed her eyes. It came back to her now. Chad-the-lad’s crap driving, bad line, crossed wires, cut call.

  ‘I followed it up with a text.’

  ‘You did?’ How the hell had she missed it? She could’ve saved him a journey. ‘I didn’t get it.’

  ‘Damn. I wish I’d called now. Oh well, no worries.’ Yeah, right. She could hear his disappointment, felt a tad bad considering he’d clearly dressed to impress with the charcoal chinos, crisp white shirt. Mind, her linen shift dress wasn’t so shabby. Obviously had Junior’s approval too. ‘You look lovely, Bev. I take it you’re off somewhere?’ Smiling again, he pointed towards the bags.

  ‘Another minute and you’d have missed me.’ His dad had loved the frock, always told her the cornflower shade matched her eyes. Mind, she’d had to slather concealer round her neck this morning – couldn’t turn up at her mum’s sporting an injury. ‘I’m off to ma’s. She’s expecting me. Not seen her for ages. If I don’t�
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  ‘Hey, it’s okay. I understand. Another time, maybe?’

  Stay mean, keep him keen? Make his day or make him go? Should she, shouldn’t she? Come on, Morriss, make your mind up. ‘Thanks for the flowers, though. Pop them in water before heading off, shall I?’

  He glanced askance at the bouquet, then looked at Bev. ‘Er … yes … you could … I suppose.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she laughed. ‘I know they’re not for me.’ Sunflowers were his dad’s all-time favourites, the guv’s grave looked bare without them.

  ‘You had me going there for a minute. Anyway, really good seeing you again. I’d better let you get on.’

  ‘Are you in the car?’ Apparently not. ‘Come on, then, I’ll give you a lift. It’s on the way.’ Almost. ‘They look beautiful, don’t they, Bev?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah, like big smiley faces. You can see why he loved them.’

  The cemetery was rammed with visitors, but they’d managed to find a bench in the sun to kick back, admire their handiwork. Bev had returned quite a few tentative smiles and hesitant waves from passing wrinklies. They probably had her and Rich marked down as an item, a sort of Darby and Joan junior. Bless.

  ‘They always remind me of Little Weed,’ she said, angling her head towards the flowers. ‘Ever watch that?’

  ‘Bill and Ben? Sure. The original’s on YouTube. They did a remake, as well.’

  She smiled to herself. Yeah, Bill and Bev. Either way, the blowsy golden blooms entirely hid the stark wooden cross. That was fine by her.

  ‘Thanks for coming with me, Bev.’

  She shrugged. Even as she’d offered the lift to Green Lodge she knew it wouldn’t stop there, knew she’d accompany him to the graveside. She never missed a chance to spend a bit of time with the guv. Hadn’t talked out loud to him on this occasion, though. Rich had cast enough rum looks her way since they arrived. Apart from a lack of leg room, he’d been fine in the Midget, chatted away like they were old mates. They’d touched on the weather, work, world events. Not a word on the baby. Again, that was fine by her. ‘You’re welcome, Rich. Any time.’