Bad Press

by Maureen Carter

  “Tone? Any time.” Snow aimed for a casual crack, missed by a wide margin. He knew damn well who she meant. Fact was the Disposer had already made contact; his words were imprinted on the reporter’s brain. Snow shivered, suddenly cold. “Have to wait and see, won’t we?” It was almost a relief when the news editor called Snow to his office. Anna waited until Rick Palmer’s door was closed before gathering the letters and slipping them into her attaché case.

  Bev didn’t want to piss on Anna Kendall’s paper parade, but a quick butcher’s at the scrawled contents of the first few creased sheets wasn’t hopeful. “This is great, Anna,” she fibbed. “Thanks a bunch.” She told God it was a barely white lie. Like He’d care. Unlike Anna, who might take offence and not come to the wicket again with potential goodies. Mind, Bev might’ve overdone the effusion.

  It looked as if Kendall was blushing; the Twix-coloured eyes were lowered. “Hope they won’t waste too much of your valuable time. But they were being thrown away, and you never know, do you?”

  Know what? That every loony on the planet had picked up a pen? A near matching stack had been sent to the nick. Bev shoved the letters in a file, promised to get them fine-tooth combed later. Mac could have a look-see when he got back from Wolverhampton.

  Bev had been looking forward to a nose round the newsroom but Anna had called to change the location. The writer had been on assignment over Highgate way. Made sense to drop by after. She’d just come from interviewing a woman who was marrying for the eighth time. “Get all the good jobs, I do.” Anna had laughed, broken the ice before handing over the letters.

  Bev popped the file atop a wobbly in-tray. She’d opted for her office rather than an interview room. More user-friendly. She sat back, flexing her manipulation muscles, asked Anna to talk in more detail about her request. Bev observed more closely than she listened. The young woman was like a breath of fresh air. Mind, she waved her hands a lot when she spoke. Had to admire the passion, GSOH too, maybe a touch naïve. Anna made a good case, but Bev had already drawn mental lines. She was only interested in access to Snow. Like she’d tell Anna that. Magnanimously she agreed in principle to Anna shadowing, but only when it didn’t impede Operation Wolf. “Priorities and all that.” She smiled, hands spread.

  “I absolutely understand.” Anna leaned forward. Close and cosy. “We can still do the general interview stuff, though?” Puppy dog eyes. She put Bev in mind of Daz when he was doing his Andrex bit.

  Bev sighed. “Journos aren’t too popular round here at the mo, Anna. Might be best to hang fire till we get a handle on the case.”

  She nodded, clearly disappointed. “Unless...” Pen tapped perfect teeth. Bev’s fingers were crossed under the desk: Go on, gal, she urged silently. “Maybe some time when you’re in town you can pop in? I can record a chat in the newsroom easily enough.”

  Result! She waggled a hand. “See what I can do.”

  Anna opened her mouth, maybe thought better of it, lowered her eyes again.

  “What?” Bev’s lip twitched. Girl was certainly no hard-nosed hack.

  “Tell me to get lost. I won’t mind, but any chance of me looking round an incident room? Just to pick up the buzz. It could add veracity to the front line cop features.”

  Yeah right. Girl was a cop tart: one step up from a crime scene gawper. She just wanted a gander. Bev thought it through. Two minutes wasn’t going to hurt. And it could pay-off big time. But. “No can do. Sorry.”

  Anna shrugged, reached for an expensive looking case. “No prob. You know what they say... If you don’t ask...”

  Too true. Same ‘they’ talk about hot irons and striking. “How’s Matt Snow coping in the spotlight?”

  She turned her mouth down. “Struggling, I’d say. He likes people to think he’s Mr Cool, but I think the pressure’s getting to him.”

  “Pressure?” Bev scoffed. “Screwing the opposition? Guy gets more scoops than Mr Whippy.”

  Wasn’t one of Bev’s best, but it made Anna laugh. “I suppose... but Matt didn’t ask to be singled out. Right now he’s got every nutter in the city on his back, the management breathing down his neck, the police on his case. Oops. Sorry. I...”

  Dismissive wave. “No worries.” Anna reached for her jacket. Now or never. Worse thing she could do was tell Bev to fuck off. “Wanna help him?”

  She paused, one arm in a sleeve. “Matt?”

  Bev nodded, adopted a serious expression to counter Anna’s uncertainty. Sounds of silence. The tick of Bev’s wristwatch was audible. For a few seconds she thought she’d made a bad call, then...

  “Sure.” Anna sat back, crossed her legs. “Truth be told I feel a bit sorry for him. Some of the other hacks are giving him a hard time. Jealous, I suppose. What can I do?”

  Bev held her gaze. “Keep an eye on him for me.”

  Incredulity? Contempt? The writer straightened. Miss You-Can-Not-Be-Serious. “Are you asking me to be your snout?” Bev shrugged. Win some, lose some. “Yeah, go on then. I’m up for that.” Anna’s giggle was infectious. “Tell me more.”

  Phew. Not lost her touch then. Bev asked Anna to keep her eyes, ears, mind, open. “Can’t tell you what for exactly.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Anything out the ordinary piques your interest, twitches the antennae. Try and find out who he talks to, where he goes, what he’s up to. If you can get him to open up, maybe he’ll drop his guard, let something slip. Problem?”

  The frown deepened. “Why do I get the impression he’s being treated as a suspect?”

  Bev’s turn to lean forward. “Not that, Anna. I think a killer’s playing him like a fiddle. I reckon Matt’s out of his depth. He assumes he’s in control. He’s not. And it’s a dangerous game.”

  She nodded. “He’s aware of that.” Guessing?

  “Is he?”

  “He’s scared. I sensed it this morning.” Anna looked down at her hands.

  “Go on.”

  “I asked if he thought the Disposer would write again.” Eye contact now. “Way Matt reacted – I think he already has.”

  Bev probed but could extract no more. Anna’s gut feeling wasn’t proof. Made sense though. Could explain why Snow hadn’t returned any of Bev’s calls. Again. He’d certainly not been at his desk since first thing. “You heading back to work now?” Anna shook her head. “Next time you see him? Get him to give me a bell?” She pushed her chair back. “I’ll walk you out.”

  They had to pass the incident room. Bev popped her head round the door. Busy? More buzz in a defunct beehive. She beckoned Anna. “Two minutes, OK?”

  Bev was no clock-watcher, but by 18.43 she’d had enough. A stack of papers at her left elbow represented eliminations: calls put in, checks made, follow-ups done and dusted. At the right lay further actions. It was a much smaller pile but the tasks in it needed deeper digging: phone interviews where she’d picked up vocal nuances, felt she’d elicit more face-to-face. Meant she’d gabbed a lot too. Hoarse wasn’t in it. Three bottles of Malvern water she’d necked, throat still felt like barbed wire. Please God, don’t let me be coming down with anything. The weekend beckoned, as did Byford. The plan was to spend it together. Starting tonight.

  She ran a finger test on her hair. Yep. Needed washing. No problem. The big man wasn’t due to come courting till nine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had two days off running. Not that she’d be doing much running. She gave a lazy smile.

  Arms high, she stretched kinks from her spine, revelled in the prospect of a long lie-in followed by a bit of duvet action. Unlike uniform. Poor sods would be posting fliers first thing round the crime scenes on the Churchill and in the park. She’d mooted it at the late brief. Got the green light from Flint. Designs were at the printers now. Bit like wanted posters only in this case it was information they were after. Were you in blah-blah on such-adate? The leaflets would be tucked under windscreens, tied to lampposts, pushed through letterboxes. Might get a result...

  After the brief, she’d finally g
ot round to filling in Flint on her abortive visit to Madeleine Graves. The DCS seemed happy enough, agreed the ball was now in the cryptic correspondent’s court. Without more to go on, they’d done all they could. Assuming there was more.

  As for the Disposer and the possibility he’d contacted Snow again, Powell had the dubious pleasure of chasing that particular ball. No peace for the wicked: the DI was on duty all weekend. Course, if hell broke loose, leave would be cancelled and she’d be back in like an Exocet. Perish the thought.

  She rifled her emergency rations drawer, came up with half a Mars bar. Mouth was chocker when the phone rang. She made a stab at giving her name.

  “Boss?” Mac. She could hear his puzzled frown.

  A chunk of caramel was stuck in her teeth, jammed to the roof of her mouth. She garbled her name again.

  “That you, boss?”

  Swallow. “Nah. Amy Winehouse.”

  “Touch-ee. You sounded like Daffy Duck. Thought I’d got a wrong number.”

  “I was masticating.” Came out all hoity-toity. Stifled guffaw noises down the line.

  “You’ll choke in a minute, mate.” A smile curved her lips.

  “S’OK. Just had this vision of you mast...”

  “Enough already. This a social call or what?” As if. Mac had been chasing alibi leads in Wolverhampton.

  “Scrivener lied, boss.”

  Wolf whistle in the corridor. Door slamming in car park. Bulb flickering in Bev’s head. Eddie Scrivener. Father of Tanya: a victim of Wally Marsden. “Give.”

  “Told you he was playing darts? Tournament at The Bull? Drop too much jolly juice? Home to beddy-byes?”

  “Check.”

  “Bollocks.”

  Mac Tyler didn’t do broad-brush strokes. Mostly he paid more attention to detail than Bev. He told her that though the pub landlord had corroborated Eddie’s story, something smelt iffy. So he asked for the names of other darts’ players, other regulars. Mac had paid several house calls. Three men backed up the alibi. Two swore they’d not set eyes on Scrivener for a month.

  The mental bulb was still only a flicker. It was a long way from mendacity or even a simple mistake to murder. She licked a finger, mopped chocolate flakes from the desktop. “What’s Scrivener saying?” Mac would’ve visited the house, didn’t need telling.

  “Not there, boss. Not been seen since Tuesday.”

  Not since her phone call. “Neighbours?”

  “No idea where he is.”

  “Shit.” She saw Scrivener’s face again, screwed in hate when he’d been photographed storming from Marsden’s trial at the crown court.

  “There’s more.”

  “Go on.”

  “Smell of gas coming from Scrivener’s place.” Eau de fishy bullshit.

  “Never.” Shock, horror.

  “Thought it best checked.”

  “Deff.” Breaking and entering – without the breaking. Saved time, cut red tape.

  “And?”

  “Place is a shrine to his kid. Pictures all over the walls, cabinet full of baby clothes, lock of hair tied with pink ribbon.”

  “She ain’t dead, Mac, and she ain’t a kid.” Eighteen if Bev remembered right.

  “Had her childhood wrecked, boss.”

  Stolen innocence, tarnished lives, shattered dreams. Phrases from the Disposer’s letter. Bev pursed her lips. Eddie Scrivener had never let go, never moved on. He adored the child Tanya had once been; how much did he hate the man who – in effect – had taken her?

  The bulb burned brighter. Very least they needed urgent words with Scrivener. She’d get the news bureau to issue a release, ask Wolverhampton to keep an eye on the house. “Nice work, Mac.”

  “Not finished, boss. Scrivener kept a scrapbook. Crammed with paedophile court cases, trial reports, mug shots.”

  “Wally Marsden?”

  “Page one.”

  Flash bulb went off in her head.

  It was gone eight by the time Bev pulled up kerbside at Baldwin Street. No lights burning inside. Frankie must be off crooning somewhere. As she locked the motor, foodie fumes floated in the night air. World cuisine in walking distance, one of the things she loved about her Moseley pad. Spanish, Greek, Thai, Indian, Italian, Chinese, French, you name it... Mind, she’d kill for a chip butty right now.

  The thought brought her up sharp. Had Eddie Scrivener killed for a damn sight more than a fish supper? Jury was a long way out. But at least Mac’s dogged persistence had thrown up a lead. Before leaving Highgate, she’d briefed key players like Flint and Powell, liaised with a bod in the news bureau, swapped a bit of banter with Mac who was last seen pawing over a hot keyboard. She smiled, shook her head. Mac had finally – and tentatively – invited her to a comedy night. He was on the stand-up bill at The Dog in Digbeth on Sunday. Shame. She’d sure as hell go along for a heckle, but Byford had a prior booking. She shivered, spine tingled, hadn’t felt so girly in yonks.

  She chucked her keys on the hall table, curled a lip at the local rag Frankie must’ve left there. Hopefully, Eddie Scrivener’s mug would make tomorrow’s front pages. Not that the cops were pointing fingers yet. But Scrivener had questions to answer. ‘Needed to help with inquiries’ was the wording on the news release.

  Sitting room was neat as a pin. Had her mum been in? No. Friday was one of the days her ma worked. Bev slung her coat over a chair, kicked off a Doc, watched in horror as it almost decapitated a piece of Frankie’s Capo di Monte. Guilty sniff. Prob’ly a rip-off anyway. Even so, she eased her foot gently from the other shoe before giving the knick-knack a once-over. Teeny-weeny chip. Who’d notice that?

  Right. Bit of mood music. Stones? Nah. Reminded her of Oz. Moby? Cold Play? Travis? Nah. Annie Lennox? Heather Small? Sade? Nah. Her nail flicked through more CD cases. Yeah. Dylan’d do it tonight. Just Like a Woman, featuring Bev Morriss on backing vocals.

  Thank God for the latest media report on alcohol in pregnancy. This week, a glass didn’t do any harm. Next week? Dicing with death probably. The first sip was pinot nectar.

  She sighed. Couldn’t ignore it any more. The answerphone had been flashing since she came in the door. It’d be her mum; Emmy Morriss ran on clockwork. Bev’s heart sank. It wasn’t that she’d avoided her ma since the scan... Yeah right. Only like the bubonic. Just that Emmy had wet her knickers knowing one baby was on the way; her maternal ministrations now would make a mother hen look negligent. Come on, Bev. Share. Don’t be a heel.

  Best hear what ma had to say first. She hit Play. It wasn’t Emmy. It was Byford. Couldn’t make the weekend. Sorry.

  Stunned silence then furious shout. “Fuck you, big man.” Bastard hadn’t even got the bottle to call her mobile. Wine glass drained, she poured another, slid down the wall, sat on the tiles, hugged her knees. Tears streamed down her face. She breaks just like a little girl, Dylan sang. Damn right, Bob.

  SATURDAY

  19

  Matt Snow lit a Marlboro, red-rimmed eyes creased against the smoke. Tonight was the first time he’d touched tobacco in five years. There were four left in the pack. Hacked off, he shoved it in his trouser pocket. Along with half a dozen other addicts, he was huddled in the cold on the pavement outside The Prince. The road surface glistened after a heavy shower; a canvas for fuzzy lights, wet leaves, street art. Urban Impressionism.

  Giggles and guffaws as a fellow smoker cracked a joke. Snow didn’t crack a smile. He was close to, but not part of, the group. A position he happily occupied, normally. Outsider was pushing it a bit, but the reporter had no close friends. Maybe even cultivated the loner image, reckoned the aloofness added a touch of authority. Superiority? Mystery? He sniffed. Yeah right. No point kidding himself. It was other people kept their distance. He was no Mr Popular. Peers respected his ability, viewed him as a ruthless bastard: a bullyboy who’d flog his grannies for a down page filler.

  The reporter took a long hard drag, flicked the glowing stub in the gutter. What the hell had he sold to the Disposer
? And what was in it for him, exactly? He sighed. It was a bit late for second thoughts.

  Snow fought his way back to the bar. Terracotta tiles were tacky with beer slops, cream walls were coated with nicotine. The Prince wouldn’t have been his pub of choice: the cop shop was only a two-minute walk. Last thing he needed was to bump into the Bill. Or Bev. Mind, they probably had better things to do on a Saturday night.

  Snow ordered another Stella, lingered near the bar. Brash big mouths with loud accents and braying laughs meant he could barely hear himself think. Probably no bad thing. He checked his Blackberry. No texts. Bunch of voice messages from Morriss and Powell. The pay-as-you-go was on vibrate in his breast pocket. He was waiting for the Disposer’s next contact. When it came, perhaps he’d ask the bastard why he’d told Snow to hang out at the Prince. Least of his worries really. The Disposer was ballistic after that morning’s Eddie Scrivener coverage. Reading between the lines, it was clear the cops had Scrivener in the frame for the Wally Marsden murder. The Disposer wasn’t into glory sharing. He was threatening action that’d get the national media creaming its collective jeans. Have to get their arses back to Birmingham first. Terror alerts in the capital meant most of them had returned to base.

  “Tintin. How you doing, mate?” Jack Pope, crime correspondent on the Chronicle. Great.

  “Watch it!” Snow snapped. Pope’s heavy-handed backslap had jettisoned Stella all over Snow’s shirtfront. Ineffectual dabs with a tissue only spread the stain.

  “’Nother drink?” Pope winked. “Or have you just spilled one?”

  Snow itched to whack the smirk off his face. Pope was a walking cliché: the tall dark handsome smooth talker. Jack the lad, and one of the lads. Everything the short, pallid, bland Snow wasn’t. On the other hand Pope couldn’t write his way out of a split paper bag. Ex-cop, for Christ’s sake. Didn’t have a clue about crafting a story.

  “What brings you here?” Snow asked. Like he could care less.

  Pope tapped the side of his nose. “Little bird.” That figured. Guy had an aviary at his disposal. Not that Snow was bitter or anything.