Deep sigh. “I told you on the phone I’ve never heard of the wom....”
“Bollocks.” Time for faffing round had long gone. These people had plotted meticulously, executed ruthlessly, presumably had an exit strategy in place; some sort of confession was needed. From a woman who dished out lies as easily as she took breaths. And a woman Bev believed had blood on her hands. Figurative if not actual.
“How dare you.” Hard face. Clipped voice.
Easy shrug. “Finney was a threat to your husband; she went to the press.”
The eyes darkened. “Don’t be absurd.”
“All those allegations. Nasty.” Bev pursed disapproving lips, shook her head. “’Nough to get him struck off.”
“This is outrageous.” Madeleine bit her lip, a quivering hand went to her throat. Maybe lying was second nature. “Adam was the most... wonderful man...” Except where her husband was concerned. She’d protect his memory at any cost.
“Phoned the editor just for a chinwag, did you?”
The widow’s foot stopped tapping. She loosened her coat. “Editor? I... don’t...”
“Heard you gave him a right rocket.” Car engine? Bev pricked her ears. “All those smears, accusations.” She turned her mouth down. “They’d have destroyed your old man. Know what they say? No smoke...”
Madeleine clamped her hands over her ears. “Stop it.” If the widow had an Achilles heel it was called Adam.
“You stop it, lady,” Bev hissed. Time she heard some home truths. “Stop lying through your teeth. Stop the charade. Stop...”
“All right! I phoned the editor.” She swallowed, cooled it. “So what? I had every right. The exposure would’ve ruined Adam. Ruined us. There wasn’t a single word of truth in what that cheap trollop was saying. Yet still that muck-spreader kept digging for sleaze that didn’t exist.”
Bev creased her eyes. She’d not heard, then. Didn’t know the paper had dropped the story. That Snow had told Adam Graves they’d not run with it. Think. Feet. On. What did it mean? Didn’t know yet. She sniffed. Casual. “Whose idea was it?”
“What?”
“To stitch up Matt Snow. Make him pay. Bump off a few paedo-losers along the way.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But she did. The warm brown eyes held chips of ice.
Bev shrugged. “No one gives a toss anyway. Scum of the earth.” The widow kept shtum. “Who came up with the Disposer? Good game, eh? That down to Anna, was it? Her and Lucas do the strong arming? You a dab hand with the needle, are you, Maddie?”
Flared nostrils, tight fists. “You know nothing.”
“I know this, lady.” Straight delivery. “You’re going down.”
“Wrong again, ace detective.” Condescending drawl. “Isn’t she, Mummy?”
Heavier the rain, slower the traffic. Slick roads, slack driving. Mac reckoned it was closer to twenty minutes by the time he turned into Tudor Grange. Peering through the screen, wipers on max, he spotted the Midget two-thirds the way down. Couldn’t see the silhouette of a driver. He drove past slowly. Where the hell was she?
He parked the Vauxhall behind the MG, tapped his fingers on the wheel. Impatient, pig-headed, bolshie, Bev was all that. But she’d not have gone in without good cause. Maybe she wasn’t inside at all? Just taking a closer look from the street? Yeah. Right. In this pissy weather.
Resigned, he got out, locked up, wandered towards the house. Eyes peeled, ears pricked, he walked on by the first time, dodged spray when a passing car hit a puddle. On the second pass he registered the tiny line of light where the door wasn’t flush. That settled it then. His duty as a cop to tell the householder, wasn’t it?
The boss had been right about the gravel. Dead noisy? Too noisy? Frowning, he turned his head. Just a fraction too late.
Bev didn’t react, continued talking as if Anna Kendall had been there since the get-go. The devious cow would never wrong-foot her again. Bev thought she might have heard the cavalry approaching as well. The gravel was better than a burglar alarm.
“See, I know this is a family affair,” she said. “But I can’t work out who did what when.”
“Never were much of a cop.” Kendall sauntered in wearing frock coat, slouch boots, elitist sneer. She dropped a peck on her mother’s cheek, lowered herself into a leather armchair. “Hannah York, by the way. Anna Kendall’s my professional name.”
Bev so wanted to slap off the smirk. She unclenched tight fists. Woman had a point though. Bev should’ve seen a lot of things sooner. Eyes were beginning to open now, pieces slotting into place. Kendall was the only member of the Graves family who could’ve known Matt Snow was no longer a threat. Why maintain the delusion? Unless it served her self-interest.
“Help me out here.” Bev spread her hands. “Who wrote the note?”
“What note?” Madeleine asked. Bev sensed Kendall, York, whatever the hell her name was, watching closely.
“The suicide note, lady. The one you destroyed.”
Exasperated, Madeleine showed plump empty hands. “There was no...”
“Let’s think, what would it say?” Bev cocked her head like she was working on a form of words. “Something like: I can’t stand the pressure? I’m being hounded? Matt Snow’s destroying me?”
“Guttersnipe with his tawdry accusations.” The widow’s face twisted in ugly hatred. Bev had hit the true colours button. “That pathetic little man drove Adam to his death. What my husband did, he did out of love for his family to save us the shame, the...”
“Pile of shite. Your old man wasn’t under pressure from Matt Snow. The guy couldn’t stand the story up. The paper was never going to run with it.”
“But... Adam...” Bemused frown.
“Knew all about it. Soon’s Snow found out it was a no-no he did the decent thing. Told your old man he had no worries.” She turned to the woman she still thought of as Kendall. “But he did, didn’t he, love?”
Kendall yawned. “Sorry. Did you say something?”
The interchange had gone over Madeleine’s head. Mind on recall. “But the note... Adam was afraid...”
Yes! Bev hid her elation. Little more than inspired conjecture had just been confirmed. Stack more needed verifying. “The note was written by someone else, Mrs Graves.” She paused to let it sink in. “Cause it sure as hell wasn’t the one your old man left.”
Madeleine frowned, whispered, “What?”
Kendall casually adjusted a boot. “We’re really not interested in your infantile suppositions.”
“She didn’t mention it then, Mrs Graves? The real note.” Wing. Prayer. Busk.
“You bitch,” Kendall hissed. “Shut your stupid mouth.”
Bev dived at the last minute; knew she should’ve kept her eyes on the younger woman. She dodged the blow’s full force. Frigging lucky, that. Kendall hadn’t lashed out with a fist. The black-handled knife had come from her pocket, maybe a boot. The blade had ripped into Bev’s sleeve, nicked the upper arm. It’d sting like crazy later but the adrenalin kicked in same time as the training.
Bev aimed just above the wrist, heard the crack as her foot made contact with the bone; the knife flew across the room. Kendall screamed, clutched the wrist close to her body. Bev grabbed the injured arm, twisted it up Kendall’s back. Twisted it higher. Kendall gasped in pain. “Don’t fuck with me, love.”
Bev had taken more self-defence courses than Bruce Lee. Without a weapon, Kendall stood no chance. Bev stood behind Kendall, positioned her so she faced her mother, still holding the injured limb in a vice-like grip. “Go on, love. Talk to Mummy. Tell her the truth.”
Mac didn’t see what hit him. Heard the sickening crunch as a missile whacked his right temple. He caught fleeting movement in the corner of his eye, sensed a dark form in the shadows behind. Angry accusing noises were coming from the house. Pain was so bad it hurt to think. Knew he only had seconds to make a move. Dizzy and nauseous, he sank to his knees. He covered his face with his hands, no
t sure how long he could keep it together. Please God, let the bastard show himself soon.
The split second the figure emerged Mac hurled a fistful of gravel at the guy. Paddy Jarvis’s description had been spot on. Lucas Graves. The movement sent shock waves through Mac’s head, spasm after spasm of pain. Police sirens in the distance undoubtedly saved him. Lucas Graves snarled, aimed a last vicious kick at Mac’s face then fled. The backup Mac had called was closer. Not close enough. Slowly, wincing with every move, Mac staggered to his feet, inched forward, felled once more by waves of sickness.
The piercing scream from inside drowned the sirens’ wail. Mac forced himself to stand again, lurched forward, arms flailed for balance. Blood ran from his nostrils, streamed from the head wound. Swollen eyes were almost closed by the time he reached Bev. It was too late then anyway.
Madeleine Graves was like a marble statue. “Tell me what, Hannah?”
“Don’t listen to her, Mummy. She’s...” The words were lost in a scream as Bev ratcheted the arm.
“Tell her, Kendall. Tell her about the note her old man really wrote. The one you found and thieved.” The writer struggled; Bev tightened her grip. “Cause if your ma found it – she’d have known, wouldn’t she?”
“Known what?” Madeleine asked. Cool.
“Killed to stop it getting out, didn’t you?” She gave the arm a vicious twist.
“Stop what getting out, sergeant?” The widow couldn’t have known, or she’d not have gone along with the murders. The paedophiles had been wasted so Snow would get life. Madeleine wanted him behind bars because she believed he’d as good as killed her husband. But the reporter had no longer been a threat to Adam Graves’s precious reputation. The threat was closer to home.
“The secret of their sordid affair,” Bev sneered. Shame she was holding Kendall from behind, she’d like to see the cow’s face. “Shagging your mum’s old man, weren’t you, love?” Bev narrowed her eyes. Something Rick Palmer said sprang to mind. Conjecture took a leap in the dark. “Got you knocked up, didn’t he? You’re having his kid. See, lady, your precious husband was screwing a girl young enough to be his daughter. His fucking stepdaughter. That’s why he topped himself.”
Preternaturally calm, the widow stared into space: the sham of the past, shame of the present.
“Tip him over the edge, did you, love. Threaten to tell the old lady if he didn’t leave her? Set up with his bit on the side?”
Police sirens. Guttural roar. It was over in seconds. The widow’s arctic eyes had calculated the distance between hand, knife, Kendall’s distended belly. Course was set, momentum unstoppable. Light flashed on the blade as Madeleine swung it over her head, charged.
Scalp tingled, heart raced, Bev screamed at the widow to stop. Futile. The weapon was trained on Kendall, the unborn baby. Bev still held the writer shield-like from behind. She had to release her. Had to push her away. Had to protect her. Had to get out of the...
Bev barely felt the blade enter her body, caught a glimpse of Mac as she passed out. Poor sod looked in a bad way.
39
Groggy when she came round after surgery, the guv’s grave face had told Bev the only thing she wanted to know. What she considered trivia had filtered out during his visits over the ensuing days. Numb, listless, she didn’t give a toss that the Graveses were in custody, that her instincts had been right. That SOCOs had uncovered enough evidence at the house and outbuildings to nail the murdering bastards and secure Snow’s release. She couldn’t even get worked up that Byford was arriving any time to drive her back to his place. They’d take it easy; see how things worked out a day at a time. Few months back, she’d have been delirious at the prospect. Now?
Ten days she’d lain here surrounded by the sunflowers he’d brought, the books and mags she hadn’t read, music she couldn’t listen to. She’d been weighing up the personal cost, the price she’d paid. Reckoned her account was in the red, couldn’t envisage clearing the debt any time soon.
Professional losses too? There was bound to be a disciplinary; surely she’d lose her rank? She’d endangered her partner’s life as well as her own. Mac said he’d speak up for her at any hearing. But could she face another? Did she care? Mac was currently blue-eyed boy; he’d had the nous to call control who’d sent in backup. Not that she begrudged him. Last time he’d popped in to try cheering her up, his eyes were more damson than blue.
Her jacket was on the back of the chair. She slipped it on. Street clothes felt strange: denims, Docs. She checked her watch. Grimaced. Wandered to the window. Brave-face time. She was mildly surprised her reflection was unchanged, given her insides were shattered. Only Byford knew about the night terrors, the damp pillow every morning, the interminable fury, frustration. She scrabbled in her bag for a bit of lippie. Waste of time; her hand shook too much to put it on straight.
What had the guv said? “You saved two lives, Bev. Hold on to that.”
Saved two. Lost two. Easy come. So not easy go. She closed her eyes, gasped at the ache in her soul. The good dreams were even harder to bear. In those she held the twins in her arms. They hadn’t been butchered by a mad bitch.
Except Madeleine Graves wasn’t insane. Nor were her evil lying kids. For different self-serving motives they’d conspired in a monstrous plot. The arrogance was breath-taking. Waste a few paedos? The Graveses didn’t give a rat’s arse. Soon as Snow was in custody, they were bailing out.
She’d gone over the case time and again, tiny detail to final frame. Tortured herself with thoughts of what if...? Could she have spotted the Kendall-Graves connection earlier? Should she have cottoned on to the fact that the glitzy girlie tops in the widow’s bin liners could never have belonged to Madeleine? Shouldn’t Kendall’s fawning and flattery have rung alarm bells? Taken for a ride? Nah. World cruise.
Seeing something wasn’t always enough – it had to be interpreted properly. With hindsight, Caitlin Finney’s anonymous note hadn’t been questioning the fact Adam Graves committed suicide. Finney had wanted them to investigate the reason why. Why couldn’t she have just said so? Saved them all a...
She dug her nails into the palms of her hand. Finney was damaged goods too; back in psychiatric care. Eddie Scrivener as well. He’d never recovered from – in effect – losing his daughter, Tanya. Recent events had brought it flooding back. He’d had a breakdown, been found sleeping on the streets in Walsall.
All those people. All that pain.
Far as Bev could see, the only winner was Matt Snow. The reporter was writing a book: Death Sentences. Insensitive moron had asked her for input. She’d given him two words – one of which was ‘off’.
She groaned. How the hell was she going to get through this? Sobbing, she dropped her head in her hands, didn’t hear the door. Hands massaged her shoulders, smoothed the knots from her neck. She hated the guv to see her cry. Head down, she surreptitiously wiped away the tears, mustered a weak smile, then turned to face him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you too.” She’d not let Oz visit, couldn’t stand to see his pain as well.
“How are you, Bev?”
“Peachy, me, mate.”
Sceptical eyebrow. “Yeah, I can see that.” He took her hands. “Bev, I can’t say how sor...”
She snatched them back. “Don’t, then.”
Tender smile; he knew gentle words choked her. “I’m up visiting the folks... heading back south this afternoon. I just want you to know... I still think we could make a go of it. If you’re interested... the offer stands.”
Could they? Was she? Clean break. New start. Maybe that’s what she needed. She saw her own reflection in his eyes, reached a hand to stroke his face.
Both turned at a tap on the door. The guv popped his head round, gave an uncertain smile. “When you’re ready... Bev?”
Author’s note:
What’s in a name...?
During the writing of each Bev book, I’ve experienced one of those extraordinar
y coincidences that really send the hair on the nape rising. Bad Press was no exception – this one still amazes me.
Like many authors, I often find it difficult to come up with names for characters. They have to be just right and I can agonise for hours before finally deciding. For Bad Press, I created a news editor. I could see him in my mind’s eye, hear his voice even, but what was I going to call him? After much metaphorical pen-chewing, I recalled a couple of reporters I’d worked with in the early days of BRMB radio. I borrowed one’s first name and combined it with the other’s last. Perfect. I was writing Rick Palmer’s first appearance when I decided to check my e-mails. When I saw the inbox I gasped. One of those erstwhile colleagues had just sent a message. Was I surprised? You bet. It was the first time I’d heard from either of them in nearly thirty years.
Heaven, Earth, Horatio... as Bev might say.
Maureen Carter
April 2008
To discover more of our eCC titles, please visit our website:
www.creativecontentdigital.com
Or follow us on Facebook www.facebook.com/creativecontent
CRÈME DE LA CRIME
More witty, gritty Bev Morriss mysteries from Maureen Carter:
WORKING GIRLS
Fifteen years old, brutalised and dumped, schoolgirl prostitute Michelle Lucas died in agony and terror. The sight breaks the heart of Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss of West Midlands Police, and she struggles to infiltrate the deadly jungle of hookers, pimps and johns who inhabit Birmingham’s vice-land. When a second victim dies, she has to take the most dangerous gamble of her life – out on the streets.
ISBN: 978-0-9547634-1-1 £7.99
Dark and gritty... an exciting debut novel...
- Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence
DEAD OLD
Elderly women are being attacked by a gang of thugs. When retired doctor Sophia Carrington is murdered, it’s assumed she is the gang’s latest victim. But Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss is sure the victim’s past holds the key to her violent death.
Bad Press Page 25