She lifted her head off the pillow, still only caught the odd word. Sounded like he was cooking up another deal with the tabloids. If she didn’t get a bigger slice of the cake this time, there’d be hell to pay. There was a whiff in the air: someone should tell him not to be so generous with the after-shave. She lay back smartish, pulled the duvet over her head.
“Hey, doll. I’m nipping out. Get you anything?”
Yeah, a private detective. She groaned, mumbled “No, ta.” He took the stairs two at a time; she waited till the front door slammed before springing out of bed. He kept his room locked but she’d had a spare key cut weeks back, just in case. She’d gone through every pocket last night while he was getting hammered in the Selly Tavern. Apart from the fact he must have shares in a condom factory, the search had revealed sod all.
She prowled the small bedroom, working out where to start. The place gave her the creeps. It hadn’t been touched for years. Talk about time warp. The furniture was out of the ark. As for the wallpaper: purple roses. Puh-lease. But she was on a different kind of paper trail: credit-card statements, cheque stubs, receipts, letters, anything that’d point the finger.
The chest of drawers was the size of a planet. Uninhabited. A trawl turned up only a cheesy line in Superman boxers, a job lot of grey silk socks, more shares in the condom factory and a bit of loose change. She dragged a stool over to the wardrobe. Should get some clothes on, really. Her fcuk t-shirt wasn’t up to the job. She stood on tiptoe. What a surprise. Big boys’ wank mags. She shook her head. The guy was so obvious.
“Lost something, doll?”
Her footing. She hit the floor bum first. Shit. “Tel. Thought you went out.”
He was leaning against the door, chewing gum, getting an eyeful. She tugged at the t-shirt.
“What you doing, Nat?”
Dusting? “Just looking.” She gave a girlie giggle. Nerves. Tel was putting the shits up her. Never done that before.
“For?”
She shrugged and watched as the chewing gum appeared like an anaemic slug between his perfect white teeth.
“I’ll let it go this time, Natalie. But bear this in what passes for your mind. If I find you going through my things again, you’ll get a slapping you wouldn’t believe.”
He strolled over, held out a hand. She made to rise. “No. Get yourself up, doll.” He prodded her bare thigh with his boot. “Key. Now.”
She slipped it in his palm. “Sorry, Tel.”
Sorry she hadn’t found anything. Sorry he knew she’d been looking. Still, the key bloke had been doing a bogof: buy-one-get-one-free. Would’ve been stupid not to. Wouldn’t it?
26
Loose end or what? Bev pulled a face, ended the call. Frankie was running late. Running round after Poppa Perlagio, more like. Giovanni wouldn’t let Frankie out the house if he had his way. Even inside, he’d cocoon her in cotton wool if she’d let him. A widower now, Gio loved his only kid to bits but boy, it could be a pain. Bev had his paternal seal of approval because she was a lady cop, mature, sensible. Yeah, right.
An hour to kill. She drifted among a mini-maze of packing cases. Frankie’d urged her to make a start but it had as much appeal as walking on spikes. She wandered to the window, tapped her fingers on the sill. Her mum had advised her to get nets. Yeah. That was up there domestically with a hostess trolley and matching Tupperware. Mind, she could do with a broom. The pavement and her concrete lawn were carpeted in mouldy-gold leaves. She glanced up as a youngish couple emerged from the house opposite, laughing and chatting. He carried a baby in a sling on his chest. She pushed a kid in a buggy. Rare sight, that. Nuclear family: dying breed. Not like the proliferation of single mothers.
She shook her head. It saddened her: absent fathers, broken homes, damaged childhoods. Kids needed a mum and dad, decency and discipline. It was all very well Blair banging on about respect. What about self-respect? The courts were full of yobs who didn’t give a shit about themselves, let alone society. She was sick of dealing with the fallout: street gangs, gun law, ordinary folk scared to step out of the house during the day, never mind after dark. What good was a sodding asbo against that? Family values and a clip round the ear might do it. She rolled her eyes. Thank you, President Morriss.
She turned to face the room but her thoughts were elsewhere. Mr and Mrs Nuclear Family had brought the singular Becks to mind, and the baby. She’d already checked in twice; nothing had moved. The weekend team was poring over every report, every witness statement, every word that had been recorded since day one. A fresh pair of eyes, a new slant might just pick up a lead that had been overlooked. As well as the bums-on-seats stuff, there’d be a team on the beat. She’d authorised another street canvass on the Wordsworth: officers with clipboards stopping and questioning anyone with a pulse.
Come on, Bev. Day off. Remember?
Eenie, meenie, minie, mo. Her finger landed on a case marked ‘ODDS AND SODS’. Crap and tat. She teased open the lid, caught sight of a Bay City Rollers scarf and a Rubik cube. Life’s too short; she’d book a skip on Monday.
She glanced at her watch. Elevenses. Great. Could do with a break.
Quick phone call before she forgot. She’d already tried Callum Gould’s number a couple of times, last night and this morning. He had a right to know Natalie Beck was dropping the rape allegation. And if she could spread a little cheer as she went along her way...
She smiled, but her good deed was not to be. Gould wasn’t in. And she was out of milk.
There was a shop on the corner so why was she in the motor? Nice day for a drive didn’t cut it. She asked herself again, finally acknowledged what it was about. A niggle at the back of her mind was growing. A quick check was all it needed.
Bathed in the golden glow of a bright autumnal sun, even the Wordsworth looked less like a slum. Jee-zus, Beverley. Poetry in motion. She wasn’t stopping. Her destination was in Balsall Heath but not on the estate. She’d checked the A-Z.
She shoved in a CD: Stevie Wonder, Sunshine of your love. Least she could do was provide a bit of backing. By the time she pulled up her brain was almost a niggle-free zone. She’d been doing the mountain-molehill thing again.
Gould’s house was tall, narrow, redbrick Victorian. The kind that little kids clutching thick crayons in chubby fingers drew when they first went to school. No smoke from the chimney, though. Bev locked the MG, took a closer look.
It was unseasonably mild but she felt the stirring of a faint chill. The Guardian was still in the letterbox; curtains upstairs and down were drawn. A dog barked even before she lifted the knocker. It was a big dog or it had a microphone. She took a deep breath, hammered on the door, jumped back smartish. It was the hound of the sodding Baskervilles. The wood was going like a wobble board. The tap on her shoulder made her jump even more. She swirled round, half-expecting Christopher Lee. Or Rolf Harris.
It was the Queen of Bling. “And you are...?” She was a walking jeweller’s: bangles, chains, chandelier-earrings. Even a couple of fillings flashed in the sun.
Bev showed ID, explained she was after a word with Callum Gould. The woman appeared to give it some thought. It wasn’t easy to tell because the face had been lifted; the scaffolding was probably round the back. The leathery complexion was the shade of strong tea, not a good look on top of a teenage-thin frame. Bo Jangles obviously dieted within an inch of her life.
“It’s not like Callum to leave the dog.” The woman could’ve been talking to herself. “He normally asks me to have her.”
“You live next door?” To the she-wolf?
“Over the road, actually.” The hand she offered bowed under the weight of the rings. “Jackie. Jacqueline Jackson.” She gave her fingers a surreptitious wipe on pink animal-print leggings.
Not surreptitious enough. That sort of thing really pissed Bev off. “Any idea where he is?”
“He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“Not at all.” It went against the grain but she gave a bright
smile.
“You wouldn’t say if he was.” The snarl was lop-sided.
“Do you have a key, Mrs Jackson?”
“Do you have a warrant, Sergeant Mason?”
Getting the name wrong was probably deliberate. She let it go. She needed JJ on side. Quick change of tactics. “It’s just that I’ve left mine at home.”
“What?”
“Key.” Bev went for coy, shuffled her feet, gazed at the ground. “Callum’s not mentioned me, has he?”
Jackson looked uncertain but that was more or less permanent.
“We’ve not told many people,” Bev gushed.
“You’re the woman he’s seeing?” With several thousand volts, she couldn’t have sounded more shocked.
Good job it was a scam or Bev would’ve been well offended. “I said I’d pop round, feed the dog but ...” She spread empty palms. Nice touch, Beverley.
There was a glint in the green irises. “Lovely, isn’t she?”
The she-wolf? Bev nodded; weak smile, wary eye. Nice touch? Maybe not.
“Tell me.” Jackie ran a skeletal finger along a razor-sharp jawbone. “What’s her name?”
Bitch? “Never forget a face,” Bev busked. “Names?” She arched a hand six inches over the top of her head. “Crap, I am.”
“You surely are.”
Glances locked for a few seconds. Bev thought JJ was going into spasm then realised it wasn’t a hissy fit – the woman was shaking with suppressed laughter.
Bev had the grace and sense to look a tad sheepish.
“You lying mare,” Jackson sniggered. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Callum’s lady friend...” She paused. “Sonia’s a six-foot Jamaican.”
“Worth a try.”
“Wait there. I’ll get the key.”
Jackson was back in a less than a minute.
“Why’d you change your mind?” Bev asked.
“If you’re that desperate to get in, there must be a bloody good reason, right?”
Bev shrugged. She’d look a right tit if Gould had nipped to the shop.
“Anyway.” Jackson smirked. “If you try anything, Jude’ll have your leg off.”
Jude was a cross Doberman cross. Bev kept her distance while JJ slipped a leash round the dog’s neck.
“I’ll take her round the block. Be back in five.”
It took less than two. Nothing appeared out of place initially. The house was a shrine to Ikea and earth tones. Gould hadn’t slept in his bed.
Bev found his body in the never-land nursery. Sleeping pills and Scotch had put him out of his misery.
“He could’ve lain there for days if you hadn’t gone round.”
Bev snorted. “That supposed to make me feel better?” Her DM sent gravel flying. “Tell you what, guv. It’s not working.”
She was phoning from Gould’s place. A crime team was inside. The pathologist had been and gone. It looked like a clear case of suicide but she’d not take anything for granted ever again. If she’d followed through last night, maybe Callum Gould would still be alive.
Anyway, he’d left a note. His final words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t even original. “Life’s a bitch. And then you die...” Bev reckoned that said it all. And left out everything.
“He took his own life, Bev. You’re not responsible.”
Cop-out. They’d all played a part as far as she was concerned. Gould must’ve been living on a knife-edge. They’d sharpened it and Natalie Beck had shoved it in. No wonder the guy’s dog had been pissed off. She could hear it baying from across the street. Jackie had taken it in but its future looked no rosier than Gould’s.
Bev glanced up as a seagull screeched overhead. Seabirds in the city weren’t uncommon. The sound pleased her every time she heard it. Not now. It simply evoked a stretch of sand with a line of buried heads.
“Bev?”
She took a deep breath. “Still here, guv.”
“Look, the man was under pressure. His marriage was down the pan, his job on the line. He’d been on anti-depressants for more than a year.”
“Great. Just what the doctor ordered, then. A false rape accusation.”
“No one forced the tablets down his throat.”
“As fucking good as.” Natalie shovelling a Happy Meal down her neck came to mind. “What’ll happen to the Beck girl?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, guv. She more or less admits making up the rape stuff.”
“And we charge her with what? Wasting police time? The might of the West Midlands’ finest versus a traumatised under-privileged kid? That’ll do us a lot of good.”
Bev clenched her fist but knew the big man was right. They’d be portrayed in the media as uncaring heavies and Natalie as a cerebrally challenged teenager whose tenuous grasp on reality had been further loosened by the cruel loss of her baby. If she was pursued through the courts, she’d get a caution, at most. And none of that was going to bring back Callum Gould.
On the other hand, if Natalie’s claims hadn’t been levelled in the first place...
“I’m going round,” she said. At the very least, Natalie needed a few home truths.
“You’re not.” It was an order, not an option.
Reluctantly, she agreed. She’d probably end up landing one on the lying little sod. Best to wait till her blood was off the boil.
“Get off home, Bev.” Byford’s words were gently spoken. “There’s nothing you can do there.”
Here. There. Any-freaking-where. What was it Oz said? Unless you’ve taken to raising the dead.
“Here you go, my friend.” The tray held a dinner fit for a cop. Perlagio pasta and spicy meatballs, heavy on the parmesan, saucy little pinot on the side.
“Marry me, Frankie,” Bev said. “I’ll have a sex change.”
“Won’t stop you snoring.”
“Wear plugs.”
Bev pressed play on the DVD. It was Frankie’s choice. Desperate Housewives did zilch for Bev but she owed her mate big time. Frankie’d spent half a day helping sort packing cases and putting the place almost to rights. She’d let herself in and made a decent start before Bev returned from the Gould debacle – late, owing to the MG throwing another wobbly.
They’d not talked much about the teacher’s suicide; Bev could barely bring herself to think about it. But Frankie was there for her. That was worth more than any number of words, however well meant.
Wisteria Lane’s horny housewives were less than absorbing. Frankie’s mind wandered long before the end. “Where are all your photo albums, Bevy? I fancy putting a montage together tomorrow. It’ll make you feel at home.”
Bev grimaced. She looked like a gargoyle in most pictures, but Frankie loved doing that sort of thing and was clearly on a mission.
“That case in the back.” Bev waved a fork in the general direction. “The one with Photo Albums written all over it.”
“Nice one, Bev. So why’s it empty?”
They downed trays in synch and headed for what might one day be the dining room. Not so much as a strip of negatives in the packing case, where there should’ve been twenty, thirty albums, many donated by Emmy – snaps capturing everything from Bev’s first breath to her last day at school.
“Must be around somewhere.” Frankie sounded uncertain. She picked up bad vibes like a magnet.
Bev knew her face was being searched for pointers. She sat cross-legged on the floor, ran a mental inventory, picturing each room. She was certain the photo albums weren’t in the house, yet in no doubt they’d been in the box. But Frankie didn’t need the hassle. “’Course they are, Frankie.”
The pictures were around. Just not around here.
Such deep blue eyes. They followed him everywhere. The Beast scanned the photographs he’d displayed so carefully, his glance resting on a particular favourite here and there. He’d cut out the nobodies in the shots; even so, the pictures almost covered an entire wall of the lock-up. He was rather pleased with the effect. The candles wer
e arranged like runway lights. He lit the wicks with a long taper and carefully dropped the black silk robe, his naked body bathed in gold. He moved this way and that, his shadow, dark as blood, seeping across her face. He stood hands on hips, letting her feast those baby blues on his nakedness. He moved a hand, fingers stroking his cock, cupping his balls. Careful. Not yet.
He imagined her opening his gift, leered as he pictured her wearing the knickers. That’s if she lost a few pounds. He sniggered. He’d bought the wrong size deliberately. Little hint. The Beast went for slim pickings. He lifted a hand to his ear lobe, stroked there too. Wondered if she realised her earring was missing. He’d sent enough messages, dropped enough clues. She’d pick up on it soon. He wanted her to know, wanted her running scared. He wanted a thrilling hunt, before moving in for the kill.
And this one would die.
He strutted nearer to his favourite picture, stared at her face, stroked the outline of a cheek. The eyes were so striking, so... arresting.
He smiled at the notion. “Catch you later, babe.”
27
Natalie Beck’s face stared dolefully from the hall mat when Bev drifted downstairs next morning. The girl, with a picture of Zoë in one hand and the baby’s teddy in the other, was splashed across the News of the World front page. Bev’s mouth thinned as she skimmed the story. ‘Tears of tragic mum’ was the gist. Even though the baby could still be alive. Unlike the currently decomposing Callum Gould. The teacher’s overdose didn’t get a mention.
Frankie was already at the kitchen table, making Nigella Lawson look frumpish. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Bev gave an uncertain smile. It was only a few hours since she’d worked it out herself. She’d been up in the night searching the house for the missing pics. She’d obviously woken Frankie. Bev wasn’t ready yet to share her fears; Frankie worried about the dangers of Bev’s job enough. “Tell you what?”
Frankie sashayed to the fridge, opened the door and grinned like a game-show hostess. “That you’re on a liquid diet.” Apart from a carton of semi-skimmed milk, the interior resembled an off-licence.
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