Bad Press
Maureen Carter
Also by Maureen Carter from Crème de la Crime:
Working Girls
Dead Old
Baby Love
Hard Time*
* Also available in unabridged audio
Praise for Maureen Carter’s gritty Bev Morriss series:
Many writers would sell their first born for the ability to create such a distinctive voice in a main character.
- Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence
Complex, chilling and absorbing... confirms Carter’s place among the new generation of crime writers.
- Julia Wallis Martin, author of The Bird Yard
Imagine Bridget Jones meets Cracker... gritty, pacy, realistic and... televisual. When’s the TV adaptation going to hit our screens?
-Amazon
Fast moving, with a well realised character in... Bev Morriss.
- Mystery Lovers
... a cracking story that zips along...
- Sarah Rayne, author of Tower of Silence
British hard-boiled crime at its best.
-Deadly Pleasures Year’s Best Mysteries 2007 (USA)
... a first-rate book... Carter did an excellent job of showing the pressures... I have ordered the first books in this series!
- Maddy Van Hertbruggen, I Love a Mystery Newsletter
... it is good to see a publisher investing in fresh work that, although definitely contemporary in mood and content, falls four-square within the genre’s traditions.
- Martin Edwards, author of the highly acclaimed Harry Devlin Mysteries
Crème de la Crime... so far have not put a foot wrong.
- Reviewing the Evidence
First published in 2008
by Crème de la Crime
P O Box 523, Chesterfield, S40 9AT
Copyright © 2008 Maureen Carter
The moral right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typesetting by Yvette Warren
Cover design by Yvette Warren
Front cover image by Peter Roman
ISBN 978-0-9557078-3-4
A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library
Printed and bound in Germany by Bercker.
www.cremedelacrime.com
About the author:
Maureen Carter has worked extensively in the media. She lives in Birmingham with her husband and daughter. Visit her website:
www.maureencarter.co.uk
I am again hugely indebted to Lynne Patrick and her inspirational team at Crème de la Crime. Many thanks also to Lesley Horton for her editorial skill and insight. For their help in my research I thank the Birmingham Mail’s women’s editor Diane Parkes and the crime correspondent Mark Cowan. Being back in a newsroom was great fun, though of course the journalists in Bad Press are fictional creations. Like Bev I became an ‘instant expert’ on the UK comedy circuit thanks to stand-up comedian Caimh McDonnell who shared his knowledge and expertise so generously.
As I’ve said before, writing would be a lonelier place without the support of some special people. For ‘being there’ even when they’re sometimes miles away, my love and affection go to: Sophie Shannon, Peter Shannon, Veronique Shannon, Corby and Stephen Young, Paula and Charles Morris, Suzanne Lee, Helen and Alan Mackay, Frances Lally, Jane Howell, Henrietta Lockhart, Anne Hamilton and Bridget Wood.
Finally, my thanks to readers everywhere – as always, this is for you.
For Douglas Hill
in fondest memory
1935–2007
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chpater 38
Chapter 39
For a man who’d be dead in five hours, Adam Graves looked remarkably good. He couldn’t see that – or anything else – right now. The bathroom was like a sauna; it was difficult to detect the aquiline nose in front of his face through a mirror wreathed in grey mist.
Adam wiped away the condensation, then stood back and took a long detached look. He was fit, and knew it. A deep tan enhanced the defined muscle tone. He was in better shape, ironically, than most men half his age. The thick black hair was definitely, defiantly, too long for his forty-four years, but women liked it. A bitter smile ghosted his lips: the thought no longer gave him pleasure. He snatched a jade silk dressing gown from the back of the door and tied the cord tightly round his waist.
Fastidious about his appearance, he took even greater pains this morning. What was that movie? Looking Good Dead. He scowled. Sick joke. Not funny. Momentarily overcome, Graves lunged at the basin and gagged.
Deep breaths helped regain superficial control. He flicked on the radio, ignored Today’s running order, willed himself through his own early morning agenda. Shave. Teeth. Hair. Shave. Teeth. Hair...
As he lathered his chin, the smell of almond cream mingled with those of the espresso and croissants Madeleine was fixing downstairs. The thought of food turned a stomach that was already churning. Not that he’d breakfast at home. Not on a Wednesday. It wasn’t part of their domestic routine.
Adam expertly ran the razor along his taut jaw-line. For a nanosecond, he imagined slicing the jugular, ending it here and now. He stilled the blade over the artery; observed, clinically almost, the pulse flicker, then closed his eyes, could almost taste blood. No. Stick to the plan. Shave. Teeth. Hair. Shave...
Carefully, he drew the blade down the plane of his cheek, chiselled features once more impassive, long sensitive fingers steady. The mauve smudges under his grey eyes talked of broken sleep, not shattered lives. These things he noted coolly, dispassionately.
A neighbour would later tell police that Doctor Graves always looked the same: like a man who didn’t have a care in the world. The observation would have pleased Adam. It was what he wanted people to think.
A shiny scarlet bead oozed as the blade nicked his skin. He winced, pressed tissue to the tiny wound, uttered a sotto voce, “Damn.” The unwitting irony provoked laughter bordering on hysteria, both immediately stifled. More deep breaths. Shave. Teeth. Hair...
He’d agonised for weeks about what to do; the thinking time was over. It was the first of August – the last day of his life. Meticulous
ly, he cleaned and dried the razor. As he brushed his teeth, his mind replayed scenes he should have refused to take part in. Again, he closed his eyes; jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Was it worth it? One moment of madness...
Except it wasn’t one moment. And he’d been perfectly sane.
He straightened, spat into the sink, licked toothpaste from his top lip. Though his death would devastate Madeleine and their son Lucas, learning the truth would destroy them. Adam couldn’t face that. In more rational moments, he knew the argument was specious. In reality, he knew he was a coward.
Not that he was scared of dying. He’d held patients’ hands, whispered platitudes as they took their final breath. He stared unflinching into the mirror, dragged a comb through his hair. It wasn’t death that scared Adam Graves; it was life.
Strong sunlight splashed through the casement window as Adam padded across the galleried landing. The deep ivory carpet warmed his soles. He lingered a while outside his son’s room. Lucas rarely put in an appearance before mid-morning. Adam fought the urge to enter, bandy a few exchanges. It would be a bad move: this wasn’t a day for firsts.
The grey linen suit he’d carefully selected was hanging on the outside of an ornately carved wardrobe. Adam dressed quickly and put a few items into a battered Gladstone bag. The bag had belonged to his father; Adam’s continued use of it was an affectation that spoke of clinging to the past, of family loyalty and the comfort of familiarity. The irony didn’t register with him this time as he slipped silently through the connecting double doors into his wife’s bedroom. The peaches and cream décor was not to his taste. Unnaturally neat, it could have been used as a set for Beautiful Interiors. His lip twitched: very Madeleine. He inhaled the scent of her vanilla perfume as he headed for the bed. And as he slipped an envelope under her satin pillow, he told himself he was doing it for her.
But then Adam told himself a lot of things these days.
The handcrafted kitchen was a vast expanse of green tiles and dark woods. Madeleine Graves perched on a high stool at the breakfast bar, like a slightly overweight fairy in a forest. The diaphanous lilac negligee didn’t do a lot for her. Neither did the pink chiffon scarf attempting to tame unruly chestnut locks. Despite her current sartorial shortcomings, she hadn’t stinted cosmetically. Madeleine was probably more sensitive about the age gap than Adam.
She offered her husband a glowing peach cheek for the familiar peck. “What time will you be home, darling?” For the doctor’s wife, it was just an ordinary day. She licked a finger, turned the page, apparently engrossed in a story about a thirteen-year-old who’d fathered triplets.
Maybe she sensed something in the pause, heard something in the silence. When no response came, she finally lifted her head, lines deepening between her amber eyes.
“About six?” Adam said.
No. He was fine. “Excellent.” Madeleine blew another kiss through a peachy pout, frowned as she spotted a mark on his shirt collar. Her wagging finger and indulgent smile, beckoned him closer.
“I’m late already, Maddie. What is it?” He was backing towards the door.
She shrugged. The perfect doctor: patients always came first. He was obviously in a hurry. He wouldn’t have time to change the shirt; and maybe no one else would notice. “No worries, darling.”
Though she couldn’t recall the last time her husband had cut himself shaving.
An elderly couple walking their teenaged Jack Russell through Hanbury Woods that evening spotted the battered Gladstone bag first. The scuffed leather case lay in a clearing to the right. It was an incongruous sight, but easier for the brain to process than the rest of the scene. The old woman wanted to believe that local youths had been throwing cans of red paint around again. Yobs had already targeted the church and parish hall. In reality neither she nor her retired police officer husband thought this was a mindless attack by vandals. But it was a more acceptable interpretation of what their eyes saw.
Scarlet grass? Leaves sprayed red? Their dog prancing round a man’s body lying in a crimson pool?
The old man patted his wife’s arm, told her not to move. He edged closer, gently coaxing the animal away. “Here, Nelson. Good boy, Nelson. Who’s a good boy then?”
Not Nelson. The dog was tearing at a dark red gash that had once been a man’s throat. And it was ruining a crime scene.
The old man turned to his wife hoping she wasn’t in shock. “We need to call the police. Got your mobile, love?”
She lifted a hand to shush him. She was already on the phone issuing directions.
MONDAY
1
“Say again?” Tired and tetchy, the crime correspondent of the Birmingham Evening News regretted last night’s Balti but not as much as the beer. And the brandy. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but when the phone rang two hours down the line, Matt Snow was barely awake, let alone fully alert. The reporter tried sitting up but his head felt surgically attached to his sweaty pillow. A voice he couldn’t place right now was banging on about a tip just phoned in to the news desk: man’s body, major incident, Ladywood. Could be an exclusive. And there was a hole the size of Canada on the front page.
Ordinarily Snowie would have been well up for it. He loved his work: the kudos more than the cash. Which was lucky. And he was good at what he did. Strike that. He was ace. Just not right now...
“Look, mate. Give it The Bishop. He’ll do you a good job.” Matt didn’t rate Toby Priest. The young reporter wasn’t in the same league. If the story had legs it would soon come running back to papa Snow.
“Your call, dude. But I reckon it’s got biggie written all over it.”
Snow frowned, didn’t care for the tone. Was it the new guy? Skippy? He raked fingers through a short straw-coloured fringe. Its normal tufted appearance was one of the reasons fellow hacks called him Tintin. Generally behind his back. The reporter swallowed a curry-laced burp. He was definitely torn between a warm duvet and a shit hot story. His weekly column and the occasional motormouth gig on local telly put Snowie in the big-fish-small-bowl class, but he lusted for Great White category. One lucky break and the pigmies he had to work with would be calling him Jaws. Even so, a guy had to get his zeds in. He drawled through a badly stifled yawn, “If you can’t reach The Bishop, give us a call back.”
“Forget it. I’m not your freaking secretary. I’ll find someone who gives a shit.”
Aussie dork was hanging up. “OK, OK. Hold on.” He reached for the pad and pen he kept by the bed. “Sling us the address again.” Details scrawled, he gave a muted, “Thanks, mate.”
“Pleasure’s mine.” Pause. “Tintin.”
He gunned the gleaming black Ferrari along slick city streets. Slick? Or mean? Matt Snow couldn’t make up his mind. He was forever killing time by mentally drafting lines for his first blockbuster. It was all in his head, not a word on paper yet, but Dan Brown, eat your heart. Snow reckoned his opus would make The Da Vinci Code look like kiddie Cluedo.
In the real world, the reporter was on the pavement outside his flat just off the Hagley Road in Edgbaston, freezing his balls off and failing to flag down a black cab. First week in October – whatever happened to an Indian summer? He stomped his feet to try and keep warm. Where were all the taxis? Jeez! It was only half one in the morning, and this was a main drag into town.
Snowie sighed, ruffled his fringe. The car keys in his pocket rubbed temptingly against his leg, but he suspected he was still over the limit; last thing he wanted was to lose his licence. A hack without a carriage was like tonic without gin. The locus (he liked that word; might use it) was only a stone’s throw. The Churchill estate was well walkable. Then again...
The Fiesta started first time, which was good going. Recently he’d been calling it the Fiasco, and was trading it in next week. He wanted something with a bit more poke, bit more street cred. He fancied a Midget but Bev Morriss would rip the piss something rotten if he went for a Morriss-mobile. Like he was bothered. He’d be more wor
ried if she didn’t give him a hard time. He and the spiky DS had crossed more swords than Lancelot. But Morriss was a good cop – even if she did have a gob on her.
Snow wasn’t drunk or he’d never have got behind the wheel, but he drove like a snail on Mogadon to compensate. Even so it took less than five minutes to reach the less than salubrious location. The Churchill lay – lolled – cheek by jowl with the city’s richest quarters. The five-star-first-class-top-banana-notch likes of the National Indoor Arena, the International Convention Centre, the Hyatt, the Rep were all in spitting distance. Which was most Churchill residents’ speciality sport.
The reporter parked the car on a scrubby grass verge, killed the engine, re-acquainted himself with his surroundings. Every reporter in the city knew the housing estate; every police officer knew it better. Its grotty council semis and solitary tower block had been slung up in the sixties and slunk down inexorably since. Its streets were neither mean nor slick. They were dustbins and dog shit, gang culture and graffiti.
Most residents thought it was named after the dog that flogged insurance on the telly ads. Challenge Churchill? Yeah right. Given the crime tsunami round here, they’d be lucky to get third party on a pushbike.
And Matt was staring at the biggest wave: ASBO Tower. Nineteen floors pocked with pushers and pimps, felons and fuckwits. High-rise lowlifes who made it home-shit-home for the few decent folk who hadn’t moved out: families clinging like hairs round a bath. Steel-railed balconies broke up the grim grey fascia, limp washing still hung on makeshift clotheslines, kids’ toys and pot plants added the odd daub of colour, but even that was muted in the jaundiced glow of streetlights. Matt counted a dozen or so windows that showed signs of life: insomniacs. Or inmates up to no good.
He frowned. Something was missing. Cops cars were like lampposts on the Churchill: permanent fixtures. He reckoned residents could charge the Bill parking fees. But then they’d have to speak English. And talk to a pig. He doubted there’d be many who’d do both.
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