Window down, she lit a Silk Cut, shuddered involuntarily as Veronica Carver’s face flashed before her eyes; heard again the old woman’s words: “Let’s say I’m a light sleeper.” She could picture the action: the old woman creeping after her daughter-in-law, witnessing the crime, working out how to turn it into Helen’s death sentence. Maybe she’d taunted the younger woman, threatened her with the police and prison. Unless Helen did the decent thing.
Bev smacked the wheel. One thing she wasn’t sure of: was the son in on it? She’d eventually reached David Carver on his mobile. The guy had sounded stunned, amazed. But then Heathcliff taught drama. And Bev had heard a female voice in the background. She suspected one of his lady friends was there, giving him an audience.
She took a final drag, flicked the butt, closed the window. Then tensed. Her hand froze on the ignition, heartbeat quickening. She’d caught movement. In the mirror. She looked again. Must be mistaken. Reflection, perhaps. She turned the key. A CD began to play.
If you don’t know me by now...
Rustling from the back. Her eyes met his in the mirror, an unwavering stare through jagged holes in a black mask. He’d been lying in wait, biding his time. The shock was so great she nearly pissed herself. Cool it, girl. Show fear and you’re fucked. “OK, sunshine, out you get.”
“I don’t think so.”
Don’t panic. Larry’s guy was in the car behind. Two against one. “Hop out and we’ll forget this ever happened.” Like hell.
“You’ll remember.” A mocking whisper. “Every detail.”
She hit the horn hard, glared at the mirror. Where the fuck was the minder?
“It was quick. He didn’t suffer. Much.” Cold steel against her neck, then a warm trickle. “Start the car, Bev.”
“Go to hell.” His knife hand twitched. She nearly passed out in pain. Fingers trembling, she turned the key, reversed the motor, trying to think ahead. Stay calm, go by the book, establish rapport.
And there was something about the bastard’s voice...
“Gonna tell me your name?”
“Next right.”
She took it. “Still don’t know what to call you.”
“Give the dog a bone.”
She’d heard it before. Recently? Think. She needed to hear more.
“Come on, you know my name.”
“And the rest.” Ice on her spine.
She needed more to go on; talk, you bastard. Sod the book.
“Get off on wearing frilly knickers, do you?”
“Wank off.” The Birmingham accent was stronger. And the menace.
“The pair you sent don’t fit.”
“Lose weight,” he sneered. “I’ll help.” The knife bit into her flesh.
But it was enough. The voice had told her what she needed to know.
“Thought you only went after blondes?”
“Oh, I will. When I’ve got you off my back.”
Another jab of the knife took her breath away; a knee in her kidneys punctuating more words that confirmed her suspicions. And the food smells hadn’t been trapped in the pool car. They were wafting off her attacker. As for on his back, she’d not even been close.
“Clocked you as filth first time I laid eyes on you. Should’ve kept your piggie snout out.”
Then the wannabe cop, Will Browne, told her how she’d die and what he’d do before then.
Storefronts and shop windows passed in a blur. She focused only on what was ahead. Within minutes the city streets lay behind them. The last signpost pointed to Hollywood. No hills, no movie stars. The south Birmingham suburb shared the name, not the glamour.
The roads were narrower here, the lanes winding. He’d make a move soon; aroused, nervy, maybe distracted, he’d order her to stop the car.
“Pull over. Now.”
She never had liked taking orders. She took a deep breath, braced herself and slammed her foot down. Not on the brake. On the gas.
The body was found at 11.37 during a routine security patrol. It took a further five minutes to establish identity. Kevin Melrose, a thirty-seven-year-old protection officer, married with two children, had been killed by a single stab wound to the heart. The implications were obvious and immediate.
Larry Drake, personal protection unit head, alerted Byford at home. By 12.05, every available officer and detective was either on the road or about to join the hunt for the missing Peugeot. Control was unable to raise Bev. She’d been out of radio contact for more than two hours.
In the nightmare, she was being raped. She fought to regain consciousness, struggled frenziedly to throw off the attacker. His body pinned her to the frozen earth as he thrust into her. Desperate to wake, she screamed, writhing in pain and terror. Something sharp pressed into her spine. She forced her eyes open, gulped for breath. And smelt cow-shit and petrol and fear and sweat.
Not a dream. They were in a field: long grass, thistles, straggly hedge. The car on its side a few yards away, a main beam casting light over a scene she wanted no part in. Filthy, shivering, half-naked, she could barely move under the rapist’s weight. She had no recollection of anything since hitting the accelerator. Guessed the impact of the crash had knocked her out, and he’d pulled her clear.
This wasn’t how she’d envisaged it panning out. Lamb to the slaughter was not her style. But this wouldn’t be the final act. With absolute clarity and coldest fury, she determined that when this was over, he was going to die.
Operations room at Highgate. The place buzzed with barked orders, snatched conversation, radio static. Byford was heading the search, Jack Hainsworth co-ordinating. As SIO Street Watch, Mike Powell had been informed and was in a squad car heading towards the main search area.
The general location was down to data from CCTV. Cameras had also captured what looked like an ostensibly innocent encounter between the personal protection officer and an unknown assailant. The stranger, who’d kept his back to the lens, appeared to be assisting Melrose into the Passat. To the casual observer, Melrose then looked as if he was sitting at the wheel, waiting for a friend.
Bev’s motor had been filmed exiting the multi-storey, and travelling along Broad Street. It had then been picked up at various points including the Bristol Road, Moseley Road, Kings Heath High Street. It was last recorded heading towards Redditch on the Alcester Road, the A435.
The most intense police activity was centred south of the city. The area was swarming with squad cars, unmarked motors and hard-faced cops itching to catch the bastard.
Byford’s glance kept returning to a freeze-frame on the monitor: a shot of Bev in the car park, hands deep in pockets, that funny little half-smile on her face. Byford closed his eyes. Dear Jesus, keep her safe.
Fear and nausea threatened to overwhelm her. She gagged, gasped with pain. Blood ran into her eyes and mouth, warm and sticky. It felt as if a vice was tightening round her skull. She had to think. All that mattered was survival. She had to get out alive. Had to control this.
Black eyes stared through the mask’s holes. She had to blank out what he was doing. Concentrate on what she could do. Training and experience kicked in. Go for the groin, the eyes, the knees. How? She could barely move and the pain was intense. Then she remembered what he’d done to the other girls: Rebecca, Kate, Laura. How he’d diminished them, damaged their lives. She would not be a victim. She had to act, seize the slightest chance.
The bastard was reaching a climax. It was almost over. A new terror ran through her. The knife? Where was it? He’d kill her if she didn’t act.
Fear wasn’t going to do it. Fury was the way. Cold and calculating, she worked out what to do. She’d have a second, maybe two. No more.
The call came via control from a motorist on his way home. A car in a field off the B291, looked as if it had ploughed into a ditch and gone over, no information on occupants or vehicle. Byford put the phone down, felt a stir. With neither number nor model, it wasn’t a given; his gut told him otherwise. Road and map reference h
ad been relayed to every car in the area. He rubbed knuckles into tired eyes. They’d find out soon enough.
Bev’s image was still frozen on the monitor. Byford studied it for thirty seconds or so, realising – maybe acknowledging – that he no longer saw her as the lippy daughter he’d never had. He couldn’t define exactly what he felt now. Paternal wasn’t even close.
He grabbed his overcoat. He wouldn’t get there first, but he’d get there.
It wasn’t cold fury. It was animal instinct, passion for survival. Pinned down, in pain, Bev couldn’t kick or punch. There was only one option. Adrenalin fizzed in every vein as she jerked her head up and sank her teeth into his face.
She aimed for the nose, found the lips. Biting through the mask in a gross parody of a kiss, she tore the flesh, thrashing from side to side like a pit bull savaging a child.
He howled, his hands flailing at her face. With his blood soaking through the mask into her mouth, she clamped her teeth tighter, reaching out, frantically scrabbling for a weapon. Her fingers found the hilt of the knife, fallen to the ground beside her. Tried to lift it. Christ. It was snagged. Tangled grass? She gave another desperate tug, groaning, hot furious tears wet on her cheeks.
Blood gushed from Browne’s wound as he fought to get away from her teeth. He hurled himself aside, falling on his back with a gasp. It was the opening she’d prayed for. When he twisted back towards her, she was ready, slamming a knee into him, throwing a punch at his ruined face. Again and again she lashed out, then yanked off the mask, saw bloody flesh and glazed eyes. Why wasn’t the bastard fighting back?
She staggered to her feet, waves of pain she’d blanked out now threatening to fell her. Still Browne didn’t move. Slowly she circled him, swung a vicious kick at his ribs. As the body rolled with the impact, she saw the glint of the blade – the inch or so not embedded in his back.
She was only vaguely aware of the car, the new headlights. Sinking to her knees on the grass, burying her face in her hands, she sobbed uncontrollably in relief, in shame, in sorrow. She felt a blanket being draped around her shoulders, the gentle touch of a hand.
“It’s over now, Bev. It’s all over.”
Even in the aftermath of horror and death, she registered the words and recognised the voice. For the first time in seven years, Mike Powell hadn’t called her Morriss.
As she glanced up, the DI gave a tentative smile, then knelt on the frozen earth and held her in his arms until she stopped crying.
39
“I spy with my...”
Emmy Morriss’s little eye searched for inspiration. A starkly clinical private room in Edgbaston’s Nuffield Hospital didn’t provide a lot of scope. Especially after seven days’ play.
“Mum,” Bev sighed. “I swear if it’s b for bed again, you’re gonna end up in the next one.”
“Glad to hear you’re feeling yourself.” The guv hovered in the doorway, both hands clutching his fedora.
“That’s b for boss, then, is it?” She threw Emmy a withering glance.
Her mum hastily gathered sewing gear, satsuma peel and a less than enthusiastic old lady. “We’ll leave you to it, love. Grab some coffee, shall we, Sadie?”
Bev’s gran mumbled like a kid missing all the fun. “See you later, Mr B.”
“Best come in,” Bev said. It was bound to happen sooner or later. She’d not allowed the big man anywhere near since the attack. Nor Oz, nor Dazza, nor Vince. Her mum, Sadie, Frankie, Carol – they’d been the ones on grape duty. She could handle them.
Mike Powell was the only guy who’d got past reception on the couple of occasions he’d dropped by. She couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t as though they had a lot to say. She supposed it was to do with him having been there, having comforted her when she felt like dirt on the bottom of a shoe.
Byford sat back in an armchair still warm from Emmy. “How you doing?”
“Tickety-boo.” She saw his lips tighten. Physically she was on the mend. The aubergine bruises had faded to plum; they’d turn dingy green in no time. Blood tests for STDs were clear. She wasn’t pregnant. The stitches had been removed from her neck; the scar would be a permanent reminder. Like she needed one.
“Want the truth, guv?”
“No point otherwise.”
“I don’t feel myself,” she said. “I feel like shit.”
He reached a tentative hand. “Bev...”
She jerked back, folded her arms. “What?”
“I...”
“Don’t know what to say? Where to look?” She snorted. “No. Nor me.”
He hesitated, then launched into an account of the week’s highlights, events not emotions. She knew most of it, of course, but the monologue filled what threatened to be a spiky silence.
Terry Roper had pleaded guilty to child abduction and arson with intent to endanger life. The phone calls – hoax and malicious – were also down to him. He’d be looking at a six-year stretch. Natalie Beck and Veronica Carver were sticking to their stories; the crown prosecution guys would have to sift fact from fantasy. Police divers had recovered Jessica’s body; Byford and Carol Mansfield had attended the funeral. Helen Carver’s body was on ice, pending the possibility of further forensic tests.
“The Beck baby’s with foster parents in Northfield,” Byford said. “But Maxine’s made headway since Zoë was found. There’s a chance she’ll get custody. She’ll certainly fight for it.”
Bev reached for a glass, slowly sipped tepid water.
“And...” This was new. He paused, hoped she was ready. “Will Browne’s body’s being released for burial tomorrow.”
If she didn’t put the glass down, it’d break. “You’re telling me all this like I give a shit?”
“Is that right, Bev?” He waited for her to look at him. She knew and took her time. “You don’t care any more ?”
She broke eye contact. It was one big mess and she couldn’t sort it. Will Browne was dead. And she was dead sorry. Sorry it hadn’t really been her doing. The fatal stab wound was inflicted when he fell on the blade. Its lethal position was down to her frantic fumbling, and it getting caught in a clump of grass. Inadvertent, not intentional.
The Beast was dead and she was sorry she’d only mauled him. How sick was that?
“You’ve not answered, Bev.”
How could she? Browne had violated more than her body. She’d heard about the sick fuck’s lock-up in Digbeth, gagged whenever it sprang unbidden to mind. She barely knew who she was any more. Desperately needed someone to tell her. Not so long ago, she’d have looked to Oz. But he was finding the attack and her actions difficult to handle. So Carol had told her – and had also told her about the sergeant’s exams Oz was about to take. Best all round. Probably. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. But she was damaged goods anyway.
And was fucked if she’d show it. “Lob us a grape.”
He sighed, passed her the bowl. “How long are they keeping you in?”
A shrug.
“When you coming back?” It sounded more than a query about returning to work.
Another shrug. Out of the corner of her eye she caught him clenching his jaw. The visitor was losing patience. How could she explain? About panic attacks in the day? And being scared to sleep at night, with Will Browne’s ruined face in front of her every time she closed her eyes?
“Tell you who won’t be on the welcoming committee,” Byford said.
That piqued her interest. “Oh?”
The guv popped a grape in his mouth. “Les King.”
Lazy Les. PC Plod who’d dragged his feet on the first day. “Still on gardening leave, is he?” Not that she cared.
“Bit more than that. Bastard’s on a charge.”
Criminally negligent, but that wouldn’t land him in court. “What for?”
“You know those letters I got?”
Remember Baby Fay... One to the station, one to the guv’s home. “He didn’t?” She closed a gaping mouth.
“We got a camer
a installed at my place. Caught him red-handed.” Byford gazed down at his own. “Should’ve occurred to me, really. King was around at the time. We never hit it off.”
“’Specially after you nearly decked him the day Zoë Beck disappeared.” The lop-sided smile was rare these days but it went unnoticed. The big man was miles away. And she’d bet a pony to a pound his thoughts weren’t on the Beck baby. “What you thinking, guv?”
He met her glance. “Baby Fay. That we’ll never know what happened, who abducted her, killed her. We all have them, you know, Bev.” Her raised eyebrow inquired. “Bits of hell on the pillow.”
She nodded. So how come hers were all over the sodding bedspread as well?
“Almost forgot.” He dug a hand in a pocket, passed an envelope. “Vince Hanlon said to give you this. You won the Christmas raffle.”
She tossed it unopened at her side. Another memory from hell. Vince had been flogging tickets the night a terrified young mother had dumped her newborn in a stinking phone box in Balsall Heath. Relatives had flocked forward to bury the corpses. Not.
Byford rose, hat under his elbow. “You’re bigger than this, sergeant.”
That’s what she’d thought, too.
“No one thinks any the less of you, Bev.” She’d spot tears in his eyes, if she could see through the veil of her own. He turned at the door. “Browne isn’t doing this. You are.”
She stared at the wall. The big man was right. She’d vowed not to be a victim but, God, was it easier said than done. She heard his voice in low conversation in the corridor. Her fingers brushed against the envelope. The faintest of smiles tugged at her lips as she opened it. “Guv?”
He popped his head round the door.
She waved a couple of tickets. “Fancy a night out? West End job?”
“Sounds good.” A sceptical voice suspected a catch.
“Front-row seats.” She winked. “An Inspector Calls.” Best not mention Claridges. Bags of time to worry about that.
Byford shook his head, gave a slow smile. She’d get there; he knew she would. “Go on, then. You’re on.”
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