Cocky git. “Why didn’t you say anything?” She tapped a foot until she spotted the peeping toe. It lacked gravitas.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s rich coming from you. Anyway, the cop shop’s hardly the best place to talk, and besides...I needed time to think.”
“’Bout?”
Pregnant pause. “You. Me. The baby.”
“Babies.”
His Adam’s apple took a dive. “You’re expecting twins?”
Expecting? “Came as a bit of a shock actually.”
He pushed himself up from the sink, sat next to her at the table. “Two babies?”
“One each.” She nicked Frankie’s line, folded defensive arms. “Obviously don’t run in the Khan family or you’d have clocked that too.” His lips tightened. She softened. He deserved more than weak one-liners. She gave him chapter and verse from the first day she found out about the pregnancy to the scan.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Bev?”
Hardest part. Fudge it? No point. “I didn’t want to keep it – till I found out there were two.”
“And now?”
She shrugged. “Manage somehow.”
No hesitation. Not a heartbeat. “We’ll manage.” Gently he unfolded her arms, closed his hands round hers. “Get a transfer, Bev. Come to London. We can get a place together. Be a family.” His gaze searched her face. She didn’t know what love looked like, but his expression seemed to cover it. What a star. What an offer. Mighty tempting.
She bit her lip. “Wanna make an honest woman out of me?”
“I’m no miracle worker.” Suspicious sniff. “You still smoking?”
“Nah, mate. That’d be Frankie. Anyway...” She flashed a grin, sucker-punched his arm, spoke from the heart. “I’m hugely flattered by the invitation, Oz, enormously pleased...”
“I hate it when you talk like that.”
Warmest smile this time. “You’re the nicest man I know...”
Withering look. “Nice?”
“Y’know what I mean.” Like she knew he’d always loved her. One of the reasons he’d moved on was because she couldn’t commit, wouldn’t let him close. Close to tears now, she couldn’t even meet his eyes. For a bloke, he picked up on it quick.
“There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere?”
She nodded, eyes still cast down. “I can’t do it, Oz. You know that.” Her mum and gran were here, Frankie, her home.
“Your folks?” Oz knew all about family pressure. He tilted her chin, stroked her cheek with a thumb. “Thing is, Bev, you’ll soon have two more people to think about. What’s best for them? Have you thrown that in the equation?”
Little people. He was right. But she’d only just seen the figures. So focused on her present, she’d not fully considered their future. She was always banging on about kids needing two parents, preferably one of each gender. Oz would make a great dad. She loved the guy. But did she love him enough? And what about the unfinished business with the guv? It was late, she was knackered, mixed up, pissed off.
“Can’t get my head round this tonight, Oz. Let me think about it, yeah?”
“That’s all I’m asking, Bev.” He kissed her gently, took his leave, turned at the door. “Just don’t keep it to yourself this time.”
When he’d gone, she reached for a smoke. “Tea-leaf,” she muttered with a wry smile. The pack had gone too.
FRIDAY
36
Highgate. Seven a m. Good on you, guv. Byford had responded to the message she’d left on his answerphone. The photograph of the school trip was on Bev’s desk. It was the first thing she saw through admittedly bleary eyes. The blurred vision was down to an almost sleepless night. She’d thrown on her sharpest Prussian blue suit and boots in sartorial compensation. Bag dumped on the floor, coat slung on a hook, she picked up the snap for a closer look. The big man had stuck a post-it note on the back, indicating where the kid was in the line-up. Shame she’d missed the guv. He must’ve been in at the crack of dawn; maybe he’d had a crap night as well.
Wasn’t just Oz’s bolt from the cobalt that had left her tossing and turning, thoughts on the case had been – still were – in overdrive. Shots in the dark? Flashes of inspiration? Or so off-field she was out of the game?
She chewed the inside of her cheek, turned the snap over, ran her gaze along the smiley gap-toothed kids. And focused. One notion had hit the mark. She’d been right about Madeleine Graves having an older child. A daughter. Was she also right about who that daughter was? Bev studied the little girl’s face. Couldn’t tell from this. The image was too small, taken too long ago.
She reached for the phone, dialled the imaging unit. “Al, I’ve got a favour to ask.”
“So what’s new?”
Mac was in the canteen, ploughing through a full English. Bev pulled up a chair, straddled it, legs jigging.
“How’s it going, Mac?” Disarmingly sweet smile.
He stared open-mouthed for a few seconds before answering. “Off to babysit. Thought I’d stoke up first.”
Plate like that he’d be in charge of a crèche. “Oh?” She twirled a spoon between her fingers.
He told her Flint wanted him down at the Accident and Emergency hospital. Yesterday’s attack victim was compos mentis, might be up for questioning some time that day. If the man could identify Snow as his assailant, they’d have eyewitness evidence on top of the forensic. Enough to throw away several keys.
“Enjoy the bash last night?” Her fingers drummed the table, legs still pumped.
“Flint’s do?” Mac burst egg yolk with a crust. “I wasn’t there.”
Great. Might be easier if he shared reservations. “Reckon he’s counting chickens...?”
“Doubt it.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t go... I was looking at houses.”
“Course you were.” She should’ve remembered; he’d told her often enough he wanted out of that bedsit.
Mac raised an eyebrow. “Why you asking about Flint?” Her nonchalant shrug didn’t go with the tapping foot, drumming fingers, darting glance. “Come on, boss. Out with it.”
“What?”
“Either you’re working up to something, or you’re sat on an ants’ nest.”
Quick calculation: the guv was otherwise engaged, she needed a sounding board, might as well take the plunge. Hunched forward, she lowered her voice. “I don’t buy Snow as the killer.” She outlined what bits of theory she’d come up with, the rest was too sketchy to share. She told Mac she believed the Graves family held Matt Snow accountable for Adam Graves’s death. That the doc had been so scared of bad press he’d topped himself. That his wife and son had set up the reporter to take the rap for the murders. “Revenge pure and simple. What you reckon?”
“I reckon you’re sat on an ants’ nest. Where’s the evidence?”
She snorted. “With exhibits.” All the items the Graves had planted in Snow’s place. “Thing is Mac, the story’d been spiked anyway. Snow couldn’t stand it up. The doc’s suicide wasn’t down to Tintin.”
“I’ll say it again: where’s the evidence?”
She flapped a hand. “It’s a family affair, Mac. Don’t know the detail, who did what, when, but they’re in this together. Heartless arrogant bastards. Wasting what they see as a few losers to trap a fall guy like Snow.” Both fists were tight now. “Think they’re so smart they’ll get away with it. And if we don’t do something...”
He studied her face for a second or two. “You’re out of your tiny.”
“It makes sense, mate. We always believed there had to be more than one killer.” She held his gaze. “I think it’s three.”
He pushed his plate away. “You can’t go flinging wild accusations round, boss. Not without...”
“Evidence.” She tightened her lips. “I know. I’m working on it.”
“What’s Flint say?”
She shrugged. “He’s got his killer.”
“What you going to do?”
“Working on th
at as well.” Thin smile. “Might need a favour...”
Seemed to Bev her office clock was on go-slow. Probably because she’d asked Al Copley for a rush job. Bev didn’t do patient. With endless paperwork and phone calls, the morning had dragged interminably, her brain the only thing on fast-forward. One minute the Graves scenario was sound as a bell, the next it had more holes than a sieve shop.
The twenty-minute break around midday had been for fresh air as much as food. No one at the nick to play with anyway: Mac still at the hospital, Byford at the magistrates’ court for the Joshua Connolly remand. At a pinch, Powell could’ve filled the social gap but the DI had swanned off to Brighton on a few days’ leave. That and the blue sky made her realise how much she needed a break. Most of the people she’d passed on the streets round Highgate looked as if they were on a permanent breather. Youths hanging round offies, single mothers pushing double buggies. Bev didn’t go down that mental path, concentrated instead on where the Graves connection was going. One solid link was all she needed.
She fancied running a few points past Snow, but Flint had left her out of the latest interview. Didn’t think she had the right attitude. Mid-afternoon now, and the chief was still in Interview 2; Carol Pemberton was sidekick. Bev’d sneaked several butchers’ through the spy hole during the day. Every time she looked, Snow was slumped further in the chair. Sullen-faced, tight-lipped, it looked as if the reporter was letting his brief do most of the talking. Wise move.
She stifled a yawn, ambled to the window, spotted the guv walking to his motor. Actually, rewind. On second glance, it was Byford junior. She’d made that mistake before. She breathed on the glass a few times, drew a smiley face, stepped back, head cocked, to admire the handiwork.
“Busy day then?” Al Copley. Imaging unit’s Picasso-man. He put Bev in mind of Harry Potter on stilts.
“Stops RSI, this, mate.” She winked. “Think of the money I’m saving the brass.”
He raised an eyebrow, stepped in carrying an A4 envelope. “There’s a point in there somewhere?”
“Bashing that keyboard for hours on end?” She nodded at the desk. “Ever know me slap in an industrial injury claim?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure the brass’ll be jolly touched.”
She almost snatched the envelope from his hand. He pushed his glasses up his forehead. “With a bit more time, Bev...”
Al had worked magic anyway. She’d asked for a rush job, and he’d delivered. Seeing Richard Byford that first time – that airbrushed computer-enhanced version of his dad – had given her the idea. Only she’d asked Al to do the opposite. In seven hours, he’d added twenty years to the little girl in the school photograph. And she’d grown into Anna Kendall.
37
“I’m going out there. Tudor Grange.” Bev was parked at the back of Highgate in the MG talking to Mac on the phone. He was up to speed though still stuck at the hospital. Her thinking was that Madeleine was the easy first target, the family’s soft underbelly.
“You’re not.” Adamant. “Not on your own.”
“Do me a favour.” Like she’d go in without backup. “When can you get away?”
The eye roll was audible. “Tell Flint. See what he says.”
“Tell him what, Mac?” Her hand gripped the wheel. “There isn’t enough to go on.” All day she’d speculated with ideas, possible scenarios. “I need to get her talking.”
“Have you spoken to Kendall?”
“Yeah, sure. Hey, honey. Guess what? You’re nicked.” Despite the scorn, she’d lifted the phone seven or eight times to call the cow before deciding against. Tips-offs were more Kendall’s baby than Bev’s. She’d given Rick Palmer a bell though, discovered among other things that Kendall was out on a job. Business as usual then.
Waves of fury had washed over Bev, as she’d taken on board the full depth of Kendall’s duplicity. Reckoned she could drown in Embarrassment Ocean. “Needs a face-to-face, Mac.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I’m wrong.”
Rustle on the line. “It’s six o’clock now.” Checking his watch. “Flint’s sending a replacement any time. I’ll call soon as...”
“Meet you there.”
“No, boss.”
“Place needs an eye on it.” Her biggest fear was that they’d do a flit. Then again, they were so effing cocky they probably thought they could walk the Channel.
“Don’t go in on your own.”
“As if.”
Bev had no intention of going in on her own. She was getting the lie of the land. Through the sitting room window, she spotted two liars softly lit by lamps, chatting, drinking red wine. Very cosy. Mother and son reunion. She scowled: as if Lucas Graves had ever gone away. Snide sod’s hair still looked as if it had been dipped in red paint.
Bev felt like a theatregoer watching a play. Instead of the stalls, she was keeping a low profile from the Midget.
Parked opposite – the profile wasn’t that low. Deliberate? Maybe.
Twenty minutes on, it started tipping down. Rain hammered the soft top, ran down the windscreen. She watched through a soft focus waterfall, as Madeleine drifted to the window, drew the curtains. End of act one
Bev flicked the wipers, wished she’d brought something for the interval. Could be some time... There were only two cars on the drive. Probably meant no one else was in there. Shame. She itched to confront La Kendall; she smacked her palm against the wheel. More she thought about it, stronger the mortification. She’d been jerked round by the same puppet masters as Snow. How dumb can you get? She hadn’t been stringing Kendall along at all. Kendall had wanted to get near the inquiry, engineered it herself. And Bev had swallowed the arse-licking lies, hook line and sodding sinker: Oh Bev, you’re a great role model. Oh Bev, I hope the head start helps. Oh Bev, you’d be ace. Sergeant Morriss! Are you asking me to be your snout? She groaned. Fuck’s sake. She’d even let the frigging woman have a nose round the incident room. She dropped her head in her hands.
And almost missed Lucas Graves’s exit.
DC Mac Tyler pulled out of the hospital just gone seven. Shucking into his coat, he ran towards the car park, hit fast dial on reaching the Vauxhall. The boss would think she had a heavy breather on the line. He gave a grim smile: the quick dash wasn’t entirely down to the cloudburst.
Mac had finally been given the medical green light to talk to the Churchill estate attack victim. He’d spent the last twenty minutes interviewing the thirty-year-old who’d been left for dead. Paddy Jarvis had revealed more than his own identity.
PJ had been a fighter, he told Mac. Literally. Won medals as an amateur boxer; knew how to roll with the punches, how to land a few. During an almighty struggle, Jarvis had whacked his attacker in the face, not sure exactly where because he’d worn a hood. Fired and furious Jarvis had yanked it off for a closer look. It was at that instant a syringe was plunged into Jarvis’s arm. But the glimpse he’d caught of his assailant before hitting the ground was enough.
Whatever crimes Matt Snow may have committed, he hadn’t attacked Paddy Jarvis. Not unless the reporter dressed like a member of the Adams family.
“Come on, boss,” he muttered. “Pick up will you?”
The sound of crunching gravel alerted Bev. She lifted her head to catch Lucas Graves, dandy-strutting in a long dark coat, towards the silver BMW. Nasty bruise on his cheek. Good. She hoped he’d walked into a wall. Madeleine, framed in the heavy oak door, blew kisses as he got into the car. Bev curled a lip, felt like spitting. She watched as the taillights disappeared, tapped tetchy fingers on the gear stick. Couple minutes later, a light came on upstairs. Madeleine again. Was she alone in the house?
Bev snatched the phone on the first ring, listened as Mac filled her in on the development. Paddy Jarvis’s description of the attacker fitted Lucas Graves in every detail, even without the clincher bruise. She felt her palms tingle. It had been worth freezing her ass off. If nothing else, Lucas Graves could be brought
in for questioning. She’d pass the BMW’s registration to Highgate control; Graves wouldn’t get far.
“Have a word with Flint, will you, mate? Fill him in on what’s going on.” Mac was always on at her to delegate more.
“Gee thanks, boss.” Short straw in poisoned chalice.
Bev checked the clock on the dash: 7.10. “How long’ll you be?”
“Ten mins max. Boss... don’t go in...”
“Mac. I know.”
Meant it too – had Madeleine Graves not emerged minutes later with a Louis Vuitton in one hand, car keys in the other.
38
The gravel did its early warning act again. Madeleine Graves spun round on kitten heels before Bev was in spitting distance. She registered the flash of contempt in the widow’s face before the practised warm smile was smoothed on. Unlike the patchy heavy-handed make-up.
“Sergeant.” Arms wide. “As you can see, I’m on...”
Slow head shake. “I’d like a word, Mrs Graves. Got some news.”
Peachy lips tightened. “It’s really not convenient.”
“Wet out here.” Bev’s flat palm underlined the rain check.
Without speaking, the widow stowed the cases in the Audi’s boot, nodded towards the house as she stormed past. Bev brought up the rear, tugged her forelock. Inside, she noted the huge gilt mirror replacing Adam Graves’s damaged portrait. Madeleine gazed at her own reflection; droplets of rain fell on the tiles as she ran a hand through her hair. Eye contact with Bev in the glass was fleeting and hostile. “News, you said?”
“Not here.” Not in the hall where Bev had left the door slightly ajar. The widow had no choice, followed Bev to the sitting room. Virgin territory to Bev. Her quick glance took in dark woods, deep reds, tapestries, tassels. She perched on the edge of a chesterfield opposite a fireplace big enough to burn tree trunks. Madeleine Graves, still wearing a navy swing coat, posed in front of it.
Grandfather clock ticked, rain needled windowpanes. “Caitlin Finney,” Bev began.
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