Okey-dokey. She’d have to make a return visit. She strolled to the Midget, deep in thought. Maybe she should do a bit of homework first. Talk to someone who knew the family. The thought perked her up. Good thinking, Beverley. She smiled. Not that she needed an excuse to pop round or anything. She already had a bunch...
The jiffy bag was propped outside Matt Snow’s third floor flat. Brown A5, no name, nothing to indicate its origin. The reporter picked it up gingerly, darted wary glances round the lobby: four identical navy doors, a couple of terracotta pots sprouting plastic palm trees. No mystery Santa lurking in the greenery. If indeed this was the so-called Disposer’s so-called gift. Snow lifted the package to his ear: at least it wasn’t ticking.
The Disposer? What kinda...? Feeling like a character in a Bond movie, he slipped into the flat, checked out every room. It didn’t take long. The selling point had been compact bachelor accommodation. Cramped was nearer the truth. He grabbed a cranberry smoothie from the fridge, drank it standing at the breakfast bar, tried processing a few thoughts. No sign of an intruder so the guy only had access to the communal areas. The low-rise block’s security system wasn’t exactly hi-tech. Maybe he’d blagged his way in, but could get no further without a key.
Please don’t let him have a key! That the joker had access to the motor was bad enough; the thought he’d been in the flat...
Snow rattled the Jiffy bag again, clutched it in both hands, fingered the contents. Open it or call the cops? Should he bring the law in on this? Whatever this was. It was a mobile phone. Presumably pay-as-you-go. Everyone knows they’re that much harder to trace. He upended the bag. No clue. No message. No directions. He found those later. In the bed.
Months of pain were etched on Byford’s face as he opened the door. His six-four frame was leaner than it had been and his hollow cheeks just this side of gaunt. Never a denim and trainers man, he wore moleskin trousers and a pale blue shirt open at the neck. When he saw who’d come calling, the slate-grey eyes lit up and a warm smile diluted the detective’s deliberately doom-laden delivery. “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”
“I ain’t Greek. And what makes you think they’re for you?” Bev, eyes shining, peeked round a sheaf of sunflowers.
“Can’t imagine,” he drawled. Except his house was full of them. Every time she came she brought more. The place looked like an Impressionist painting. Byford stepped back, followed her through to the kitchen. “I might’ve run out of vases.”
“Nah.” She glanced round, grabbed a glass spaghetti jar. “Don’t eat a lot a pasta, do you?”
“Not now.” He raised an eyebrow as she jettisoned a few sad-looking strands bin-wards. Frowning and tilting her head, she positioned the flowers this way and that. Van Gogh couldn’t have done a better job. As Byford watched, a smile tugged his lips. Something he couldn’t or wouldn’t name tugged other parts. The big man valued these visits more than he’d care to admit. In the early days he wasn’t sure how he’d have coped without Bev. He could have stayed with Rich or Chris, but his sons lived miles away, had families of their own to look out for. Byford’s physical scars were bad, but weeks in hospital on life support had left his confidence shot to bits. Bev had been there for him through the darkest days of deep depression. Was that why she gave him sunflowers?
“Where’d you want them?”
“Kitchen window?”
“Kushti.”
Either way, they were a big improvement on her erstwhile floral offerings. His wayward sergeant used to present cacti by way of apology when she crossed the line; was a time his office had more succulents than the Sahara. In recent weeks he’d finally confessed he couldn’t stand the sight of the things. It wasn’t the only confession they’d shared since the attack that almost killed him. They expressed it differently. He found her attractive: she wanted to jump him. Either way, a spark was there that had yet to be ignited. As Bev would say: close but no cigar.
“Have you eaten?” Byford said.
“Thought you’d never ask.” She winked. “Burgers? Chips? Pizza at a push.”
He shoved her on to a stool, fixed omelettes and salad while she brought him up to speed on Highgate’s inside track. If laughter was the best medicine, Bev was a pharmacy. Her face registered every emotion as she talked, and she had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Part of him wanted to take her to bed, wake up with her in the morning. Every morning. The senior-officer-in-his-mid-fifties-who-ought-to-know-better-bit couldn’t get past the complications if he returned to work. Not if, he told himself, when.
And then there was the other little matter...
“Anyone said anything yet?” he asked.
“All them trained observers?” She forked half a tomato. “Not a dickie.”
“Someone will. It’s only a question of time.” He forced eye contact. “Unless...”
She lifted a hand. “Don’t. Please. Not now.” A termination. They’d been there before. He thought she should have the baby. She was still undecided: to be or not to be. He ate in silence, cast the odd covert glance. She looked tired or tense, likely both. It was probably the toughest personal call she’d ever have to make. And one with an imminent deadline.
“Top nosh, boss.” Plate pushed away, she sprawled back. “Gawd. I could murder a ciggie?”
“Again?” He’d never smoked, but knew the craving kicked in after a meal. Far as he was aware she wasn’t even sneaking the odd drag at work.
“What’s all this about Matt Snow?” He’d read the press coverage, but she needed a distraction. He washed, she dried as she told him about the reporter’s heads-up on the Marsden inquiry, the one-liners going round the nick. Byford didn’t see the joke.
“Keep an eye on him, Bev.”
“Tintin?” Her voice couldn’t get much higher.
He nodded. “I wouldn’t trust him far as I could throw him.” He knew what she was thinking, it was written on her face. “I’ll just say this: don’t underestimate the guy. He’s no clown.”
She shrugged, aimed the cloth at a hook on the wall. “Try telling that to Powell. He’s spitting feathers.”
“I’m not surprised.” The cartoon in the News was the DI to a tee, save for the SS leathers and jackboots. Byford retrieved the cloth from the floor, chucked it in the Hotpoint. “But since when’s Snow let the facts get in the way of a good story? He’s ambitious. Wants to go places.”
Another shrug. He sensed she was miffed, maybe she resented the input. No. She was usually happy to use him as a sounding board. Probably just knackered. “Fancy a nightcap?”
“Best hit the road.” Were the yawn and stretch a tad forced?
“Before you go.” He disappeared, returned seconds later with a photograph. “After Kenny Flint’s call, I rooted this out. That’s Madeleine Graves.” He pointed to a stunning-looking woman, one of five adults shepherding a crocodile of little kids. Bev had never seen so many gappy smiles and half-mast socks. “It was taken a few years back now,” Byford explained. “She was married to a man called York then. Adam Graves was her second husband.”
Bev studied Madeleine’s image: long chestnut hair, wide smile, open friendly features. “How well did Mrs B know her?”
Mrs B? Margaret would be turning in her urn. He masked a smile. “Not well. Mums at the school gate sort of thing, PTA evenings, sports day.” He nodded at the picture. “End of term trips.”
“Did you meet her?”
“Once or twice. Bit scatty; pleasant enough.”
“Adam Graves wasn’t on the scene back then?”
He shook his head. “As I say she was Madeleine York when we knew her. I can’t remember her first husband’s name. She was cut up when he died though. Heart attack, I think.”
“And the note? Still want me to check it?” Not enthusiastic, she clearly had doubts.
“Humour me.” He smiled. “I’ve just got a feeling about it.”
“That’d be your feminine side coming out.” Deadpan tongue embedded in cheek. S
he took a final glance at the picture before handing it back. “Fair enough. I’ll give it another whirl. Can’t do any harm, can it?”
TUESDAY
8
11.30!!! Miss it – you’re dead!!!!! XXXX
The death threat was on the kitchen table when Bev moseyed downstairs in her Snoopy dressing gown. She read it, yawned, chucked it in the bin and popped two slices of Mother’s Pride in the toaster for breakfast. The note was Frankie’s – never a girl to mince her words. The appointment was for the antenatal clinic that morning. Pressure of work meant Bev had missed two already. At least that’s what she’d told Frankie who’d turned up both times, and hung round the women’s hospital fuming while her Manolo Blahniks cooled.
Bev pictured it now: a finger wagging Frankie in full-blown maternal hen mode. Christ, she was worse than Bev’s mum. A half-smile twitched her lips as she poured boiling water on a ginger tea bag. Frankie had moved in months back to help Bev through a bad patch that had turned into a quilt. She sighed, couldn’t see her best mate leaving any time soon. Which was a mixed blessing.
Frankie was bossy, self-opinionated, and gobby to boot. Lucky Bev was a self-effacing shrinking violet. She smiled, munched dry toast. OK, Frankie Perlagio could be a pain in the butt, but she was closer than a sister. Mind, Bev didn’t have a sister. Lips puckered, she took another bite. Cardboard was caviar compared with this stuff. It was one of a long list of bland foods suggested on a medical website to curb nausea. Spooky really, cause if Bev hadn’t already put in the net-checks, Overdale’s missive would have been all Greek to her. She’d opened the pathologist’s note late last night and it had put the wind up her a damn sight more than Frankie’s early morning missive.
Overdale had written: Tell me to mind my own business but I’ve been there... Nausea gravidarum is a bitch. Try Phenergan. Lots of ginger. And congratulations!
Nausea gravidarum, medico-speak for morning sickness. The doc’s words alone had been enough to make Bev gag and dash to the loo. Overs had rumbled the pregnancy – would she keep mum or mouth off? Still hunched over the porcelain, hot tears had pricked Bev’s eyes as she realised that Gillian Overdale – a woman she barely knew – was the only person who’d used the word congratulations in relation to the pregnancy.
When Matt Snow threw back his duvet and discovered the note, he knew skin-crawling fear for the first time. His bowels quickened, heart raced, hands shook as he held the paper. Sleep had hardly come at all, let alone easily. The reporter had wrestled with theories, each less likely than the last. Facts were these: the Disposer had been in Matt’s home, driven his car, knew his private number, tipped him off about a murder, observed him at a crime scene. It scared Snow witless. Had he been singled out by a nutter? A crazed fan of his column? Or a killer?
Twelve hours on, the reporter’s overriding emotion was fury. He was back in the real world, a vast crowded newsroom, cocooned and comforted by the familiar paraphernalia of his professional life. No joker was going to jerk him around. Snow didn’t do puppet. As for the message – who did the arrogant toe-rag think he was?
Keep the phone with you.
No cops.
Burn this.
The Disposer.
Yeah right. He’d chucked it in the bin. Not the phone. That was in his breast pocket. May as well hear the sad sack out before telling him to sling his hook. Anyway... Snow tugged his bottom lip: could be a story in it.
There was sod all in the one he was working on now. He glanced at his shorthand; the mugging details he’d gleaned off the police press office voice bank weren’t doing it for him. Kids snatching an old biddy’s handbag didn’t have the same clout as the thoughts whirling round Snow’s head. The Disposer crap had to be a wind-up, didn’t it? But there was a niggle that wouldn’t go away.
There’s more where Marsden came from?
What was that all about? More paedophiles? More murders? More exclusives?
“How’s it going, Scoop?”
Snow lifted his glanced, dropped the scowl. “Great. Great.” Even managed a smile. Anyone but Anna Kendall would have got a mouthful; calling him Scoop was so old. But Snow had been trying to get into Anna’s thong for weeks. He ogled as she sashayed towards the features desk, took her seat just past a column covered in prize-winning front pages. Snowie rubbed his chin, imagined the pert little bum under the shapeless orange frock. With her cheekbones and that hair, he reckoned she’d look a million dollars in a classy suit, stockings, suspenders, stilettos...
“Grow up!” Snow ducked. The paper missile could’ve been launched by anyone on the subs’ desk; they all had their heads down, butter wouldn’t melt. They were jealous; everyone fancied their chances with La Kendall. Snow had already had a couple of goes. He strolled over, casual hand in trouser pocket. “What you working on?”
“A woman in Selly Oak.” She rolled her eyes. “Writes to guys on Death Row.”
“Why?” Her irises were a blue-grey shade he’d not seen before.
“Cause she’s barking?” Snow liked a woman who made him laugh. He watched as she twirled a strand of shiny caramel-coloured hair. “I think she’s hoping one of the sickos will propose so she can make a packet flogging the story. You know the kind of thing...” Anna adopted the urgent tones of a telly ad for the Sun. “...I married a serial killer...”
“...now I can’t sleep at night.” God, she had beautiful teeth. “Fancy a drink tonight?”
“Sure. Why not? As for Mrs Barking Mad – I suppose it’s human interest, isn’t it.” She licked her top lip as she opened her notebook.
Personally, Snow had more interest in the bottom of a colostomy bag. But at that moment, he’d have agreed with every word Anna Kendall said.
Highgate. Mid-morning. The early brief had been exactly that. No developments, no leads, not even close. Powell was angling to do another telly appeal, but the media weren’t biting. Darren New and Sumitra Gosh were still trawling doss houses and soup kitchens. Mac was on the Churchill with the rest of the squad mopping up outstanding door-to-doors. Bev had headed straight for her desk clutching a list of calls as long as a phone book, not many names had a tick. Eddie Scrivener on the other hand had rung back in response to a message she’d left yesterday. Scrivener’s daughter had been one of Marsden’s victims. Right now, the receiver was six inches from Bev’s ear; given the man’s volume, the phone was probably superfluous.
“I’d a taken ’im out soon as look at ’im. Shame someone got in first.”
Fighting talk, but there was a catch in the man’s voice. She studied Scrivener’s face on her screen, the image grabbed from an on-line archive. It was a snatch shot, taken as Scrivener stormed out of Wolverhampton Crown Court on the last day of the Marsden hearing. It didn’t do Eddie any favours. His distorted features gave Munch’s Scream a run for its money.
The conversation had been painful. Until she’d broken the news, Eddie Scrivener was unaware the paedophile was dead. Her subsequent questioning resurrected memories. Not that the trauma had ever gone away. For three years Marsden had systematically abused little Tanya Scrivener. The damage had been a catalyst for the girl’s later self-harm. According to Eddie, she’d fallen in with a bad crowd, started running wild, was eventually taken into care. Eddie hadn’t set eyes on his daughter for months. Nor his wife. The marriage broke up a year after Marsden’s conviction.
“So when you nail him, duck, let me know. I’ll be first in line to buy him a pint.”
Her heart went out to the man. It didn’t stop her eliciting where Scrivener had been on the night of the killing. He’d be eliminated after the alibi had been confirmed. Or not. The same went for Tanya who was now eighteen. Everybody lied – even coppers.
Dispirited and a tad depressed, she hung up. Even if they caught the killer, it wouldn’t end the suffering. As it stood, they had no witnesses, no CCTV, nothing back from forensics. Could be they’d never track down Marsden’s murderer. Could be no one’d give a toss. She yawned, stretched, f
lexed fingers ready for another bout of phone bashing. After a few abortive calls, she nipped to the loo, came back, made a few more. Exciting, this detecting lark. Just for a minute she laid her arms on the desk, rested her head, closed her...
“Don’t do that!” Eyes wide, she shot up. She hated being touched. Mac shoulda picked up on that by now. Giving her shoulder an ostentatious brush, she snapped: “What?”
Mac stepped back, palms held high. “Sorr-ee. Thought you’d like to know Powell’s on the warpath. And that’s before he catches you comatose.”
Hiding the panic, she glanced at her watch. 11.35. Frankie. Shit. She couldn’t have slept that long. “Gotta dash.” She grabbed bag, phone and keys. “Cover for me, Mac?”
“What with? A marquee?”
“Improvise.” She flashed him a grin. “You’re good at that.”
“I’m a shit friend, Frankie. And I’m truly deeply sorry.” Eyes down, Bev toed the dusty pavement, fingered the car keys in her pocket. Gridlock traffic on the Highgate Road had eked a ten-minute journey to thirty, the appointment was history and Perlagio was having a hissy fit. Pacing up and down like an expectant father, she turned, eyes flashing, hands on hips.
“Don’t try that shit thing again,” she snapped. “Forty minutes I’ve been hanging round. Smiling. Simpering. Making excuses.”
“Like I did it on purpose, mate.” Unlike the previous occasions when she’d watched the appointed hour arrive and turned her back on the clock. Why was that? She’d thought about it afterwards. Still wasn’t sure, but fear was in there somewhere.
“What was it this time?” Frankie sneered. “Shergar sighting?”
Bev shrugged, stepped back to let a woman waddle past with a buggy. The toddler looked angelic. Until it stuck its tongue out.
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