“Do bears sh...sing in the woods?” Whoops.
“If you need me – you know where I am. And I think you’ll find what bears do is shit.” Cheeky wink.
Bev watched open-mouthed from the door as the little woman scurried through a gap in the hedge, herbaceous short cut. Maybe she was missing Strictly Come Something Inane on the box. Bev narrowed her eyes. Missing something. A notion niggled that she was failing to spot something as well. When she bit into the Penguin, her mouth watered. Maybe the sugar hit would kick-start the mental juices too. As for Mrs Wills – the telly addict aspersion was unfair. The woman had just done her a good turn. And Donna Kennedy. The mutual key holding arrangement had emerged during Bev’s initial interview with Donna. Thankfully it had sprung to mind before she forced the door.
Closing it now, Bev leaned against the wood, took a few sips of chocolate, studied the layout, the body. Why was Donna’s final resting place the hall? Surely it made more sense to pop your pills – and clogs – in bed? Had she been heading for the stairs when she collapsed? Bev had found empty blister packs scattered across a kitchen surface, half-full tumbler of water on the draining board. Christ. The poor woman hadn’t even used booze to blur the edges. Had she miscalculated the dose and the dying time? Sense? Calculations? Logic? Hello! The woman was topping herself, not auditioning for Countdown.
But why call to rearrange the interview? Was it a cry for help? Chewing it over with the last bite of Penguin, she wondered if the final act had been spur of the moment madness. Or if Donna had hoped to be found before the pills took effect. Bev swallowed hard: frigging screwed that up then. What a futile waste of a life. She closed her eyes, clenched her jaw. The sympathy was fused with anger now. Why couldn’t Donna have clung on just a gnat’s longer? Could she see no light at the end of the tunnel? In the darkest of Bev’s dark days, ending it all had never crossed her mind. Homicide, sure. Suicide, never. She still dreamt occasionally of blowing away the mad bitch who’d killed her babies. Snuffed them out before they’d drawn breath. She took a calming one of her own.
Maybe if Donna Kennedy’d had kids she’d not have cut the mortal coil. Far as Bev knew there were no close relatives. Not that finding out was down to her. The death wasn’t suspicious. No one had forced Donna’s hand, doors or windows. Apart from uniform, Bev had called off the troops. Soon as officers arrived she’d shove off. They’d tidy up here then dig into the family tree, see if anyone needed the news breaking. Shit job that was.
Thinking of which... She stifled a yawn, pulled her mobile out of her bag. This wouldn’t be a bundle of laughs either.
Byford was eating at the kitchen table, red wine at one elbow, latest Henning Mankell at the other, Bob Dylan blowing in the wind for company. One of the detective’s new-year-new-man resolutions was to avoid the microwave and rubbish ready meals. Tonight he’d pushed out the culinary canoe. The fresh pasta was cooked to perfection, and the Matriciana was to die for. The Chianti was going down a treat too. Displacement activity? Probably. He sure needed something to take his mind off work. He knew it wouldn’t last soon as the phone rang. Scowling he snatched the handset, glanced at caller ID. “Make it snappy, Bev. Dinner’s on the table.”
“Donna Kennedy’s in the chiller. That snappy enough?”
Tight-lipped, he traced a finger along his eyebrow. Another death down to the Sandman? His heart sank as he considered the ramifications, professional and personal. The media had already written Byford off. The final edition of the Evening News had run a readers’ poll: Cop out – or in? Isn’t it time this man goes? Flattering picture they used: looked as if he had special needs. The paper had gone in the bin. Outside. Byford reached for his glass. “Go on.”
“Topped herself. Overdose. Antidepressants.” He heard her tapping foot add punctuation. “No suss circs. Uniform are here. Ditto the doc. I’m off home. Bon bleeding appetit.”
Deep sigh. “Sergeant. Please.” No point slapping her down. She’d clocked up sixteen hours flat, the exhaustion was audible. Bet she hadn’t eaten either. He wandered to the stove. “What were you doing over there anyway?” Plenty of sauce left? Easily rustle up another portion of penne? No. Don’t even think about it.
“I told you.” Tut. “She switched the time of the interview.” He grabbed his wine, leaned against the sink, listened as she filled in the details, how she found the pills, position of the body, letter left on the hall table. She threw in her take on the woman’s mental state, her notion that it may have been a cry for help.
“Or plea for attention.”
“Maybe...” She paused. He pictured her at the other end: blue eyes narrowed, lips turned down. “Think she was scared of not being found, guv? There’s no kids in the picture, no close family. Maybe she couldn’t handle the thought of lying dead for days?”
“So she called you? Thinking you’d get there, take care of the fall-out?”
“Cheers, guv. Feel better already.”
He sipped the wine. “Suicide’s genuine? No doubt on that score?”
“You’d have none either if you’d read the note. Bastard killed her though.”
Didn’t need spelling out. He heard a door slam, the rasp of a match, deep intake of breath. She’d kicked the habit when they lived together. Raised eyebrow. Well, said she had. He glanced round; Bev touches still graced the place: blueberry candles on the windowsill, a Playgirl apron hanging on the back of the door. A present. Not that he’d worn it. Nor the Santa hat on top of the fridge. She’d left before Christmas.
“Is it possible she knew him without even realising it, Bev?” The Sandman.
“Anything’s possible...” A ‘guv’ was swallowed by a yawn. “Guess we’ll never find out.”
Forensics might though. He’d get a guy round there. Couldn’t dump the sorting on Bev, she needed her bed. “Has the press got wind of it yet?”
“Not that I know.”
It wouldn’t be long though. He rubbed a hand over his face. Maybe the media was right. Maybe he should go. Maybe he was getting too old for this lark. Or maybe he was sick and tired of spending every long empty evening alone in a house that had only recently seemed too big.
“As I say, guv, I’m off. Catch you lat...”
“There’s enough here for two.” Smoke exhalation this time: breathing space? His own was bated. He’d regretted the offer soon as it slipped out. Hadn’t he?
“Best freeze it then. Oh and guv? I’d like the Dylan back.”
She must’ve heard it playing in the background. The greatest hits CD was another Bev relic. He frowned. Actually, no. She’d bought it as a gift. To tune his musical palate, she’d said. The line was dead or he’d have pointed out her mistake. Bob was still banging on though.
It’s all over now, baby blue.
What you’re doing, young lady, is cutting off your nose to spite your face. That’s what her mum always trotted out when Bev was being a bloody-minded kid. Her dad called it wearing the stubborn-blinkers. She sighed, flicked on the Polo’s radio to drown out the silence. Either way she’d sold herself short tonight. Lost out on a plate of decent grub and missed spending a bit of quality time with a decent bloke. Make that the most decent bloke she’d ever come across. Metaphorically speaking. Smart move or what? She whacked the wheel with her palm. Ouch. Why beat herself up? It was Byford’s bloody fault. Make it snappy, Bev! Who’d he think...?
Christ on a bike. She hit the horn, swerving to avoid some binge-head who’d stepped off the kerb. It wasn’t even chucking out time. Like that counted. Moseley village had its share of alco-fools any hour. Still loved the place though. It was so popular sometimes you couldn’t get into the hippest pubs. Bouncers controlled drinker numbers by counting ’em all out, counting ’em all in. Mind, some nights the main drag resembled a war zone.
Make it snappy, Bev. Cheeky sod. While he’d been stuffing his face, chucking booze down his neck and listening to her Bob Dylan, she’d been holding the police fort freezing her arse off with a sti
ff for company. And her stomach still thought she’d had a gastric bypass. The lights were on red at Saint Mary’s Row, she hit the handbrake, toyed with picking up a take-out from the Taj Mahal, or dropping by the Sicilian pizza place? Nah. CBA. Can’t be arsed. It’d be BOT again. Beans on toast.
Make it sodding snappy!
By the time she pulled up outside the house, her mood had dropped down a few gears. From seething through pissed off to the current how-dumb-can-you-get? She’d as good as told the big man to go fornicate while taking a running jump in the fast lane of the M6. Like she could so afford to alienate him professionally. And personally? There were times every nerve in her body ached to be in his arms, but that would mean letting him get close. How could she when she had reverse-Midas? As in everything she touched turned to shit. She dropped her head to her chest and hugged the steering wheel.
It was why she failed at first to spot the two figures huddled in her doorway.
13
Fareeda Saleem was only on her feet because Sumi Gosh was clinging on to her cousin’s shoulders for dear life. Even then Fareeda was bent double, arms clutching her stomach, and issuing soft low moans with every breath. Bev’s doorstep was stained with what appeared to be drops of blood.
“I couldn’t think where else to go.” Sumi’s words didn’t say a lot, it was an understated plea writ large across stricken features. The young DC was normally never less than cool, calm and professional. Sumi was rattled now, rapidly losing it, equally patently this was no place to be.
“How ’bout a hospital?” Bev could barely hide her incredulity – and censure – that Sumi had seen fit to show up here with someone clearly so sick.
“No... please!” Fareeda lifted her head briefly, long hair swishing like black satin curtains. Pain deepened the shade of her already dark eyes, and Bev caught a flash of blind terror.
“I can’t get her to go.” Sumi stroked the younger woman’s back, made soothing sounds. “She’s afraid.”
You don’t say. “Look, Sumi...”
“If you’d rather we...” She cast a sideward glance: pride, propriety, decorum.
Bev had the key in the lock. “First on the left. Sling us your coats.” The sitting room would do. Until she’d talked sense into them. Fareeda needed medical attention. Was she pregnant? Miscarrying even? When they’d met in the car park at Highgate, Bev hadn’t spotted a bump – only a big fat ugly bruise. Maybe there was a baby – and the two were linked. “Hang fire, I’ll get the door for you.” She stood back while Sumi, still supporting her cousin, steered a course to the nearest sofa, started settling her, reassuring her with soft words.
Bev had a zillion questions on hold. “Back in a min,” she called. There was a first aid kit in the kitchen, and they might need hot water. She yanked out drawers, searched cupboards, scanned shelves. Where was the bloody thing? Under the sink. Where else? Quick check of the contents revealed antiseptic, witch hazel, pain killers, enough bandages to wrap an Egyptian mummy. Should do the trick. Shame there was no medicinal brandy: Sister Bev needed a drink or three.
“May I get some water for her, please?” Sumi stood in the doorway, her elegant taupe linen suit spattered with blood. Gracious as always, she seemed to be finding eye contact difficult. And however proper her manners, bringing an injured woman here was out of order.
“Sumi. She needs a doctor.”
The floor tiles were clearly fascinating. “She’ll be OK.”
“Is she pregnant?”
That caught her attention. “Are you mad?” Her guffaw verged not on humour but hysteria. Straight-faced, Bev crossed her arms, waiting. “That was rude. I’m sorry. But Bev, I doubt Fareeda’s been alone with a man who wasn’t family in her life.”
She didn’t labour the point but Sumi’s answer hadn’t exactly addressed the issue. Bev turned her back, took a Coke glass from a shelf, headed for the tap. Like a lot of apprehensive people, Sumi felt the pressure to talk, blurting out: “She’s only just eighteen, Bev.” Like that figured?
“And?” Again she wasn’t going to spell it out. Sumi was being disingenuous. Or in denial.
She spread her hands. “Trust me. Fareeda’s not expecting. If you knew her, you’d realise the idea’s preposterous.”
“Then why’s she...?” A wail cut the supplementary. Fareeda might not be pregnant, but she was scared and in pain. As to the answer, Bev was pretty sure she could take a crack at it. In the overhead lighting in the sitting room, it was obvious someone had taken a crack at Fareeda.
Her beautiful face was beaten black and blue, the damson shade matched her kameez, the silk ripped at the neck. Her nose was probably broken; the bleeding had just about stopped. Her top lip was split, the lower swollen to cartoon proportions. No one was falling about laughing. This was the discernible damage; Bev knew damn well it wouldn’t be the full extent.
Hands on hips, she stood over the teenager so fired up she could barely spit out the words. “Who did this?” Her teeth hurt they were clenched so hard.
Fareeda mumbled something but Bev couldn’t decipher it through sobs and the lisp; two teeth were missing at least. She cut a glance to the older woman. “Sumi.” It wasn’t a question. It was an order. Non-negotiable.
Sitting next to Fareeda, stroking her hand, Sumi shook her head. “I don’t know. She won’t tell me.”
“She’ll tell me.” Bev knelt on the carpet, coaxing, cajoling. Fareeda barely responded let alone revealed detail: what happened and, more to the point, who’d made it happen. In effect the girl was protecting her attacker, a man who’d used her as a human punch bag. Bev felt desperately sorry for her.
“OK, have it your way.” She rose, turned at the door. “Get your coats.”
“Please, please don’t make me go.” Tears ran twin channels down the teenager’s bruised and bloody face. Bev reckoned you’d need a heart of brick not to be moved.
“I’ll drive.”
“No!” Fareeda screamed.
“The hospital. You need checking over, then I’ll take you down the station for a statement.”
She gave a defiant stare, the first indication she still had some spirit left. “I’ll kill myself before letting you do that.”
“The fuck you will!” Shaking with fury Bev stormed across the room. “Never pull that line on me again. Got that?” Maybe she should tell Fareeda she’d spent the night with a corpse, a woman who’d swallowed her bodyweight in happy pills. Another victim of sick violence.
Fareeda dropped her head, fiddled with the bunch of bangles round her wrist. “You don’t understand.”
“Got that right, kid.” Bev frowned, couldn’t catch Fareeda’s mutterings. Patience wearing thin, she snapped: “Say again.”
Eyes brimming, she tossed her head back, raised her voice to a loud shout. “Get this right too. If I speak out they’ll kill my mother. Maybe my sister, my niece. They don’t care.” Tears dripped from her chin, splashed into her lap.
Bev knelt again, took the girl’s hands in hers. “Who will, Fareeda? Why will they? Tell me, love. We can stop them.”
Head high, the teenager held Bev’s gaze. “And if you can’t?”
She glanced at Sumi who was biting her lip looking shattered. Bev lifted a finger, too whacked to think properly. “One night. Then we’ll see.” She shook her head, gave a deep sigh. “I need to sleep on it.”
It was three a m when the phone rang. Fareeda was in Frankie’s old room, asleep, presumably. A shocked and sober Sumi had taken off home shortly after seeing her cousin to bed. Bev had grabbed a slice of toast, knocked back a half-bottle of Pinot and hit the sack. She’d zonked soon as her head touched the pillow. Now she wanted to stuff the bloody thing over her head. Groaning, she fumbled for the receiver, snapped out her name.
Nothing. No one. Nada.
“I don’t frigging believe it.” She punched in 1471. Caller withheld. There’s a surprise. Half an hour later, still tossing and turning she swung her legs out of bed, grabbed a dressin
g gown from the back of the door, headed for the loo. The gown was an unwitting legacy from Oz Khan, her erstwhile lover and former DC, now a sergeant in the Met. Its brushed cotton used to smell of Oz. After he’d gone she’d bury her nose in the fabric, breathe in his scent wallowing in what-ifs and maybes. Then she’d lost his babies and turned down his offer of a life in London. A boil wash had done the trick on the cotton. Shame it didn’t work on lingering emotion as well.
She sighed ran both hands through her hair, picturing Oz’s face: sculpted cheekbones, full luscious lips, dark chocolate eyes like deep limpid pools. Chick-lit? Dick-lit more like. Mills and Bev. She gave a lopsided smile then flushed the loo, washed her hands. Quick glance in the mirror confirmed she looked like shite. Tough. Given what she’d witnessed tonight, it wasn’t the worst look in the world.
Back on the landing she heard a noise from the spare room. She pressed an ear against the door heard Fareeda’s stifled sobs. She reached for the handle, pulled back at the last second, knew further probing tonight would be futile. Fareeda was on a psychological knife edge. Bev was pretty mixed up as well: compassion, concern, but also still a touch of anger. Fareeda had said one thing that made sense. “You don’t understand.”
She was bang on. And until Bev did, she’d leave the girl in peace. Tomorrow she’d make it her business to try and get her head round the issue. Drifting back to bed she swallowed a yawn. Nothing else on the books, was there? Apart from nailing the Sandman. Easy sodding peasy.
From behind a horse chestnut tree on the opposite pavement, a dark figure watched the house. The trunk wasn’t wide enough to conceal the observer completely. Had Bev glanced out, she might have spotted the outline of a body, the glow of a cigarette. The watcher thought the risk worth taking. When the bedroom light was turned off, the observer emerged from behind the tree, padded over the road. Gloved hands carried a package which they carefully placed on the step. Late Christmas? Early birthday? Either way the cop was in for a surprise.
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