“So.” Madeleine struggled on to the stool next to Bev. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“I’ll show you.” She licked crumbs from her fingers, took a copy of the anonymous note from her pocket. “It was sent to a senior officer at Highgate police station.”
Madeleine nodded. “Wording’s exactly the same as mine. More cake, dear?”
“Yours...?” Gob. Smack.
“I received two in the post.” She took a genteel sip of coffee.
Don’t tell me you binned them. “Could I take a look?”
“I burned them.” She shuddered. “Poisonous cowards. If someone has something to say – they should come out with it. Not hide behind a cloak of anonymity.” The voice. It was like the plummy one in the Archers. Jill? Sod the voice, Bev. Listen to what it was saying. That was an odd phrase she’d used.
“‘If someone has something to say...’’’ Bev quoted. “You think someone has?”
Coffee sloshed as Mrs Graves banged the mug on the breakfast bar. “Whatever gives you that impression? Of course not. There’s not a sliver of doubt my husband killed himself... and I... have to live with that.” She paused, eyes brimming. “Can you imagine the pain? The guilt?” There was a catch in the throat, the head dropped. Bev waited patiently. A measure of calm restored, Mrs Graves looked up, held Bev’s gaze. “A thought that tears me apart? Adam was so desperate he took his own life. And I had no idea what he was going through.”
Some soulmate. Bev swallowed, still had to ask. “Did he leave a note?”
“No.” Her glance flicked to the left. It was as good as a lie detector. Bev pursed her lips. The porkie didn’t mean a lot; it wasn’t uncommon for a wife, husband, close family member to destroy a suicide note. But not before they’d read it. Bev’s voice was soft and low. “What did it say, Mrs Graves?”
The probe was gentle, but enough to send her off on one. She cradled her head in her hands, rocked slightly as her shoulders shook.
“Leave her alone.” Vocal knives.
The whiplash was almost audible as Bev spun round. There was a young guy in the doorway. With attitude. The sort that must’ve cost his parents an arm and leg. No need to ask who he was. He was a shorter thinner paler version of his father. Still fit though. And knew it.
“It’s all right, Lucas.” Madeleine sat up quickly, wiped tears with the sleeve of her kaftan. “Sergeant Morriss is just doing her job.”
“Her job’s to upset you?” The drawl didn’t quite go with the Russell Brand look. Still, he’d got the black drainpipes, natty waistcoat, round-necked shirt off to a tee. He just needed to borrow one of his ma’s scarves.
Madeleine began, “This is...”
“Your son.” Bev wondered how long Lord Snooty had been listening at the door, and if his timing mattered. She flashed her brightest smile, hopped off the stool, approached with hand outstretched. “I’m Bev Morriss.” It was a little test she often used. Lucas Graves passed, but only just. His none-too-clean fingers barely touched in the fleeting shake. This close she could see what he’d done to his hair. The black tips looked as if they’d been dipped in a can of scarlet paint. She repeated why she was there, asked for any input he might have. He didn’t. You don’t say?
“If that’s it...?” he asked. “I was just on the way out.” She watched as he shucked into a black leather jacket, kissed Madeleine’s cheek. He turned at the door. “I didn’t mean to be rude, officer. It’s just... my mother’s going through a hard time.” He’d dropped the drawl; was the charm just another act? “Nice to meet you.” He gave a mock salute.
Doubt. Benefit. Bev nodded. “Snap.” Ten minutes later, Bev was making tracks herself. She’d pushed Mrs Graves again on the anonymous letters. Apart from extracting a promise from the woman that she’d contact the police if more arrived, that was it. As to the existence of a suicide note, the widow was adamant there’d not been one. On balance, Bev couldn’t see it mattered. Cause of death wasn’t suspicious. She’d seen or heard nothing to set antennae twitching.
She paused in the hall. “Want me to drop those for you?” The bin bags.
“I wonder why Claudia’s girl didn’t come? The sale’s on Saturday.”
“For...?”
“The Conservative Party.”
Christ on a bike. Frozen rictus. Two went in the boot; two on the passenger seat. Madeleine waved from the door. Bev’s weak smile died as she unlocked the driver’s door. Talk about insult to injury. Some toe rag had scrawled FILTHY in the dust on the soft top. She peered closer. Or was it FILTH?
“As excuses go... that’s on a par with cutting your granny’s toe nails.” There was a smile in Byford’s voice. Bev was on the phone explaining why she couldn’t go round to his place that night.
“Straight up, guv. I’ve gotta drop them first thing.”
He pictured her surrounded by bin bags, sorting through the Graves’s cast-offs. “Must say, I never had you down as a closet Tory.”
“That is so not funny.”
He laughed. “What are you hoping to find? Cameron’s policies?”
“Ever considered stand-up?”
“With you and Mac around?”
“Later.”
Byford smiled, shook his head, ended the call. He retrieved his tumbler from the kitchen, headed for the best seat in the house. His body-shape indent in the leather recliner was proof of that. From here through the picture window, the big man liked to look out on the cityscape in the distance: jagged shades-of-grey skyline during the day, now a mosaic of twinkling lights. Better than the box any time.
He sipped Laphroaig, replayed Bev’s call. Had it just been an excuse not to see him? Had she feigned sleep last night? And was a tiny bit of him relieved? He gave a wry smile. Whatever the future held, Bev’d be a handful and a half. With or without babies.
He rolled the malt round his tongue. Either way he knew he wasn’t into one-night stands. Never had been. For him it would be long-term or nothing. Was he ready for that? And what about Bev? Commitment was an alien concept to her. He sighed. Whether she liked it or not, motherhood would force a change. Clipped wings and cramped style could lead to compromises she’d never otherwise consider. Including him? He downed the whisky; the angst was going nowhere.
“As Bev would say, ‘Get over it’,” he chided himself, and reached for his book: Ian Rankin’s Exit Music.
It’s not as if you’re asking her to get hitched.
FRIDAY
17
Mouldy five pence piece and a bunch of fluff. What more had Bev expected? A handwritten note: I, Adam Graves, being of decidedly dodgy mind, topped myself cos... She smiled to herself: yeah, like that’d happen outside an Agatha Christie. Most of the gear she’d gone through hadn’t even belonged to the doc. Flipping heck: Frankie had fancied one or two of the skimpy tops herself. God knew what the widow looked like in them. Mutton and unborn lamb sprang to Bev’s mind.
Traffic was rush-hour-heavy; she took a rat run to avoid Moseley Road’s worst bottleneck. Anyway, she’d got shot of the bin bags. Come to think of it, the old woman she’d handed them to looked a bit like Christie. Not that on the button though, given she’d tried persuading Bev to join the Conservatives. Bev had eschewed the party invitation and legged it. Maybe she should’ve stuck round, picked up some detecting tips.
Operation Wolf certainly needed a few steers, according to the expert currently reading the eight o’clock news. Bev tapped a finger on the wheel. West Midlands police admit they’re no nearer an arrest in the so-called...
Yada yada. She curled a lip, opted for a blast from Snow Patrol instead. Revelled in the freedom, the simple pleasure in flicking the switch. After her attack a couple years back, she’d had the CD player ripped out of the Midget. Couldn’t listen to in-car music without getting flashbacks of the rapist. Yeah. Well that was history now. And the panic attacks. She hiked the volume, sang along at the top her voice. Give me a chance to hold on, give me a chance... It didn’t quite drown
current fears. Or future concerns. She reached higher, pulled out another vocal stop.
Then pulled down the visor; bright sunlight was making her squint. Windscreen could do with a clean. She leaned forward peering through grease streaks and bird shit. Washers weren’t doing it. Christ, it was filthy. Like the roof. She’d wiped that particular F-word off the soft top this morning. On reflection she reckoned Lucas Graves’s dabs could’ve been all over it. Could be wrong but his fingers had been decidedly grubby in last night’s reluctant handshake. Payback for upsetting mummy? Maybe. On the other hand loads of kids had problems with cops.
No doubt Anna Kendall would soon be finding that out. It’d only take five minutes tailing a cop round some parts of the city to feel the love. Bev had caught up with the hack on the phone yesterday evening. She’d made provisional arrangements to hook up with the writer after lunch depending what had come in overnight. And assuming nothing vital came up at the brief.
Real bummer ‘bout the bin bags though. If she’d not been otherwise engaged, maybe she would’ve spent the evening with the guv.
“You didn’t catch Flint and Paxo? You missed a blinder, sarge.” Mac offered Bev half shares in a bacon butty as they scuttled along the corridor trying to avoid a late arrival at an early brief already put back an hour. Before leaving home, Bev had wolfed two boiled eggs and a platoon of Marmite soldiers. Mind, that was ages ago, least an hour.
“What’s on it?” Nose screwed suspiciously. “And no I didn’t.”
“Thought Flint was gonna land him one. Daddies’ sauce.”
Rude to say no. “Ta, mate.” Must be the eating-for-three kicking in. “Edited highlights. Shoot.”
“It was national pop-a-cop-day. Paxman was like a terrier in a bone yard. Made the boss look a right clown.” Mac was a wicked mimic. “‘No cause for alarm? Are you entirely serious, Detective Chief Superintendent?’ Then he gives Flint the eyebrow.”
“Give him a starter for ten as well?” she snorted.
“Finished, have we?” The DCS. Behind them. The question was rhetorical. He certainly didn’t hang about for an answer. Bev and Mac stepped aside sharpish and sheepish. Flint swept through, spine ramrod straight, and marched in to the briefing room. Suitably chastened, they fell in line behind.
Going by the massed ranks’ sudden hush and badly concealed smirks, Mac wasn’t the only one who’d watched the media savaging. Flint clearly had a problem with it. Building up a head of steam? Full body. He stood centre front, hand in pocket, ran his gaze over the fifteen or so squad members assembled. “Let’s get this straight before we start,” he barked. “I’m sick of taking stick from ignorant gits. It’s bad enough when the press has a go. I’ll not tolerate it from my officers.”
Tough. At the back, Bev bridled. Then actually gave it some thought. The man had a point. Heading up a major incident inquiry wasn’t easy even without gratuitous pops. Not that she’d personal experience of the top job. Nor likely to. But she’d seen the heavy toll a high profile case could take, knew senior detectives who used chemical crutches to get through: baccy and booze being the legal ones. People like Flint, the guv, even Powell, were the guys with a neck on the block. They called the shots and it was there the buck stopped.
As for the press, it was easy to take swings from the safety of a desk. Shame a few more hacks didn’t have Jack Pope’s insight. Her old mate Popie had thrown in the badge for a press card couple years ago now. Over a boozy Balti, not that long back, he’d made what for him was an intelligent observation that had stuck with Bev. He reckoned the two jobs had a lot in common. In police work and journalism, no two days were the same, each shift brought something new – often volatile situations that had to be defused using people skills. Instant communication and connection with complete strangers went with both career territories. Big difference though. “At the end of the day, babe...” She recalled Jack’s winning combination of cliché and condescension. “Reporters don’t make life and death calls. They just write about it. The only deadline bothering me is my editor’s.”
Three deaths in as many days were bugging Flint. Any more critics on his back and he might buckle. Bev jotted a reminder on her to-do list, half listened as the DCS ran through the stats: hundred and twenty statements, tapes from seventy street cameras, ninety-eight calls to the hot line. Number crunching really. Nothing to go on.
“Short of catching the killer red-handed,” Flint said opening a shaving nick as he rubbed his chin, “we need quality information.” Without forensic evidence and video footage, a breaking case often boiled down to that: the one phone call that pointed police in the wrongdoer’s direction, the one tip that led to an arrest. Or the crim gets careless. Or cocky. Cops aren’t clairvoyant; they don’t have visions, blinding flashes of inspiration. That sort of bollocks was for the box.
“What about Crimewatch?” Powell had starred with the lovely Fiona Bruce once, probably fantasised about repeating the performance with Kirsty. “I’m pretty thick with one of the producers.”
Pretty thick? Bev masked a smile, made another note.
“Christ, Mike,” Flint groaned. “I hope we nail the killer before that.” The monthly programme had gone out last night. Double-edged sword as well. Prime time telly could really open the fruitcakes’ floodgates.
“Reconstruction?” Daz mooted.
“Maybe, lad.” Flint didn’t sound convinced. Re-creating the last known movements of a pair of paedos didn’t have a lot going for it in the simpatico stakes. Flint threw the brief open, and officers ran through results of tasks assigned. It didn’t take long. No news in this case not being good news. There were still masses of boxes to tick, phones to bash, doors to knock. Routine, methodical plod work. Pulses were not racing.
Bev tucked her pen behind her ear. “I reckon the killer’ll be in touch before long.”
“How’d you work that one out, Morriss?” Powell sneered.
“Enjoying it, isn’t he?” She mimed writing. “Corresponding with a tame hack. Getting his story splashed all over the front page. Bet he’s got a taste for it.”
“Keen for more.” Flint nodded, sighed. Maybe he was thinking the same as Bev. Fact was the Disposer wasn’t the first psycho to enjoy seeing his name – and words – in print. Look at the Zodiac killer in the States. Forty years since his homicidal spree in California, but films and books chronicling the story were still being churned out. The Zodiac wrote to three newspapers claiming more than thirty lives. Crammed with taunts and cryptic clues, the correspondence added to his notoriety and the public’s fascination. Course, the first – and still most infamous – serial killer to get his rocks off writing to the press was considerably closer to home. And just as elusive.
Neither Zodiac nor Jack the Ripper had even been identified – let alone caught.
“Bev.” Flint tapped her on the shoulder on his way out. “More pressure on Matt Snow, I think.”
18
“More fan mail, Matt?”
Snow scowled as he flicked his head round. Anna Kendall was peeking over his narrow hunched shoulders. He might fancy the pants off her, didn’t mean he appreciated the prying. Mind, in the pink shift dress she was a sight for runny eyes. Maybe he was just getting paranoid?
The reporter had come in early, thought he’d have the newsroom to himself for a while. Wanted first dibs at the early post he’d brought up from front desk. Amazing how time flies when you’re not enjoying yourself; the whole team had drifted in by now. And Anna’s question couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Some nutter reckons he’s the Disposer.” Snow waved a sheet of lined paper that had clearly been torn from a spiral notebook. “Says he’s gonna wipe out redheads next.”
“Couldn’t start with Chris Evans, could he?” Anna perched on the edge of his desk, crossed her legs, probably oblivious to what her hemline was up to. He returned the tongue-in-cheek grin, aware of a slight relaxation in his taut nerve cells. He’d felt wired to the national grid since his
last contact with the killer. And the cops.
“Evans is OK.” Snow lounged back, hands crossed behind his head. “How ’bout Anne Robinson?”
“What do you reckon the Disposer would say to her?” There was a gleam in her eye. “You are the...
“...weakest link. Goodbye.” He completed the limp line. Their laughter was forced. The unsolicited mail had a serious aspect. Every Tom, Dick and hoaxer was jumping on the bandwagon.
“How many letters now, Matt?” Leg casually swinging.
“Stopped counting after thirty.” He tried meeting her eye-line but given the distraction it was difficult. “Look at that.” He pointed a Hush Puppy at screwed up balls of paper on the floor. No room in the bin.
She slipped elegantly off the desk, squatted, skimmed some of the offerings. “Shouldn’t you let the police take a look at this stuff?”
He snorted. “It’s complete bilge, Anna.”
“Even so...” She licked her lips as she read. “Are they all anonymous?”
“Pretty much. ’Cept for the note from George Bush. Oh yeah, and the one from Tony Blair.” Snow rolled his eyes. “Fuckwits.”
“With fingers clearly on the political pulse,” she quipped, then sat cross-legged, lowered her voice. “Do you think he’ll write again?”
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