Blood Money

by Maureen Carter

  “If you could talk us through again what happened the night your husband died, Mrs Masters?” Bev slipped a copy of Mac’s notes from her pocket, needed to compare what the woman said now with the original version: omission, deviation, addition could all be telling. When a witness was word perfect it could mean they’d memorised the lines thinking they’d be less likely to divulge incriminating material. Course, they could just be telling the truth.

  Diana Masters took a deep breath and swallowed hard. She repeated how the sounds of a scuffle woke her from a deep drug-induced sleep. For a few seconds, she’d thought it was a dream, a nightmare, her husband wrestling with a man in a clown mask. The intruder rained blows time and time again. She didn’t even realise there was a knife. Until the smell of blood brought home the terror. She repeated her belief that her husband sacrificed his own life to save hers. By grabbing the killer, Alex gave her precious seconds to reach the panic button. His reward was another vicious onslaught. She bit her lip. “How can people like that live with themselves, sergeant?”

  What could she say? She shook her head. “Did your husband speak at any stage, Mrs Masters?”

  “Speak?” She looked confused, not rabbit-in-headlight variety, more slightly thrown. “No. No, I don’t think so. He was struggling to breathe, fighting for his life.” She barely reacted when a phone rang somewhere in the house.

  “You said the intruder approached you?” Bev asked gently. It was always going to be the hardest line of questioning. The widow closed her eyes, massaged her temples. Bev exchanged glances with Mac. “Take your time, Mrs Masters.” Uncle Mac mode.

  She was clearly psyching herself up. When she spoke, the words spilled out fast and furious. “He came within three feet. All I could see were his eyes. Black. Shiny. Aroused. He wanted to kill me. I’m convinced of that. It was only the alarm that stopped him. He had to take a split second decision to finish the job or escape. He panicked, called me a...”

  A tap on the door halted the flow. Bev cursed mentally. Interruptions they could do without. Marie, presumably, came in with a silver tray, set it on a low table. She looked like Kate Moss a decade ago on a bad day: lanky hair, pouty mouth, pasty complexion. “Someone called Tate on the phone, Mrs Masters, shall I...”

  “I’m busy. I’ll call back.” She swung her legs down, sat forward, started pouring coffee into white porcelain cups. The girl hovered with a gormless expression on her face. “That’s all, Marie. Thank you.”

  There was milk, sugar, biscotti on the tray. Mrs Masters told them to help themselves. Mac took advantage of the enforced break; he needed a leak, though that wasn’t the term he used. While they waited, small talk was strained: the weather, the widow’s charity work, the William Morris wallpaper. Jeez. They’d be on the price of onions soon. Bev hid growing impatience; the interview was at a critical stage. Before Mac even sat down, Bev took up the questioning. “You were about to tell us what the intruder said, Mrs Masters?”

  “He called me a fucking bitch.” Her bottom lip trembled. “No one’s ever spoken to me like that in my life.” Lucky you. It was almost a daily occurrence for Bev.

  “Was there anything in the voice you recognised, anything that reminded you of anyone?” Long shot given it was just two words.

  She shook her head. “I only wish there were, sergeant.”

  “Difficult one this, Mrs Masters.” It was the same question she’d intended putting to Donna Kennedy before her untimely death. “Is there any chance at all you know the man?” Not easy implying someone has a psycho in their social circle.

  Predictably, she bristled. “Of course not.” Her hand shook and the cup rattled as she placed it in the saucer.

  “Please, Mrs Masters, just think about it. Was there anything about him that was even vaguely familiar? Smell, stance, way he walked?” The squad had assumed from the start the perp wore the mask to prevent the women providing a description, but what if they knew what he looked like. And if they’d seen his face could provide an identity? As the guv said, the Sandman didn’t flick through yellow pages, looking up V for victim. He appeared to know a fair bit about the chosen individuals. Maybe the likes of Donna, Faith Winters and Beth Fowler couldn’t handle the possibility that someone they associated with at whatever level could wish them harm, let alone carry out an attack. At least Mrs Masters was giving it some thought now, clearly replaying the scene in her head.

  “I think he was quite a young man, twenties perhaps? Powerful, strutting, arrogant, what’s the word...?”

  “Macho?” Bev suggested.

  She nodded, concentrated again. Bev counted fifteen seconds before the widow shook her head. “It’s no one I know, sergeant.” It didn’t have to be an intimate acquaintance, Bev persisted. She talked her through possibilities: garage mechanic, travel agent, wine waiter. Again Mrs Masters considered the suggestions before dismissing them. It was the same take on links between her and the other victims. Mac had brought photographs of the women. Diana Masters studied each image carefully. She frowned, hesitating over Faith Winters’s picture. Breath held, fingers crossed, Bev asked if she’d come across the woman before.

  “Only on the news, I’m afraid.” The widow dropped her head. “I don’t actually know her.”

  Bev’s heart hit her boots. Gently she pushed again and again, old ground, new ground. The only certainty established was that nothing had been stolen during the incident. Eventually they reached the point where it was counter-productive. “God knows I want to help, sergeant.” Mrs Masters ran both hands through her hair. “I’m so tired I can’t think straight.” Each strand seemed to fall back into perfect place.

  Resigned, Bev said they’d leave it for now, took a card from her pocket. “If anything comes to mind, Mrs Masters, even if you’re not sure it’s important, ring me any time.”

  “Thank you.” She gave the card a quick glance, placed it on the album. Grilling over, she sank back, visibly relaxed. But something was bugging Bev, seeing the pictures reminded her. They’d now traced Alex Masters’s movements on the day he died. He’d returned to his London chambers late afternoon after the unexpected collapse of a big case. He’d told a partner he intended clearing a backlog of paperwork, gave no indication he was thinking of heading back to Birmingham. Clearly, he’d changed his mind. Security cameras clocked him leaving the building just after eight p m. He’d eaten at a bistro round the corner before collecting his Audi from an underground garage. More cameras and a paper trail showed he’d stopped for gas and coffee at Cherwell Services on the M40. Next door’s CCTV had footage of him arriving home at midnight, parking the car and letting himself into the house.

  “One more question, Mrs Masters. Any idea why your husband didn’t call? Let you know he’d be back?”

  “He did call.”

  “But you...”

  “Around eight. To say goodnight. He sounded tired. He said he was going to eat then go back to the apartment.” A bachelor pad in Docklands, according to the DC who’d run the checks.

  “And he didn’t call again?”

  She sighed. “I guess he may have tried...But when he’s away, I generally go to bed early, take a pill. And you know, sergeant.” The widow glanced at her husband’s photograph, a sad smile tugging her lips. “Despite appearances, Alex was an incurable romantic, quite impulsive from time to time. It could be he wanted to surprise me.”

  He’d sure done that.

  PC Danny Rees, mobile glued to his ear, was perched on the bonnet of Bev’s motor. The Polo was a rental: Rees was on borrowed time. “Shift your arse, Rees.” If his bony bum had dented the bodywork, there’d be hell to pay. Not to mention the Easy Rider garage. Smartish he jumped up, backed away, palm raised in apology, still gabbing on the phone. Park View was pretty quiet this time of day, posh, affluent, definitely not ASBO territory. People in these parts had letters after their name. Bev lit a Silk Cut, picked a fleck of baccy from her tongue. “What you reckon, mate?”

  Mac unwrapped a Ma
rs bar, jabbed it in her air space. “You should stop smoking.”

  “Yeah right. Diana Masters. Top line.” Travelling back to the nick in separate cars meant it’d be a while until they could pick over detail.

  “I think she was doing her best.” He took a bite, then: “Seems genuinely cut up to me. What’d she say about the will? ‘I’d give away every penny if it brought Alex back’.”

  Pass the sick bag. Mental slapped wrist. As to the attack, the widow had related – though not verbatim – the same sequence of events. That augured well for authenticity if not totality. What Diana Masters had seen was so traumatic the brain was probably suppressing the full picture: subconscious censorship, cerebral defence mechanism. Witnessing murder was bad enough, how much worse when the victim was someone you love? Diana had adored Alex Masters; Bev didn’t doubt that for a minute. Neither did Mac.

  “Worshipped him, didn’t she?” He winked, shoved in the last bite of chocolate. “What’s he got I haven’t?”

  Apart from eight million quid? Smoke curled from Bev’s flared nostrils. “How long you got, mate?”

  Danny joined the confab, pointing the phone at the Polo. “Sorry about that, sarge.” Gleam in the eye, he tucked the mobile in a tunic pocket. “Heard the latest?” Clearly, he was gagging to share.

  “Shipping forecast?” Bev drawled. “FTSE? Give before I keel over in a frenzy.”

  He glanced round like it was classified information. “There was this nutter on top of Selfridges...” Past tense.

  She flapped a get on with it hand. “And?”

  Pursed lips. It was his story and he was telling it. “Dressed as a clown. Police were there, fire, ambulance, the works...”

  “Danny?” She flicked ash on the ground. “What’s happened to him?”

  “Him?”

  17

  Jessica Kathryn Harvey. Twenty-two. The picture on the dog-eared student card didn’t do her justice. Pensive, DI Powell fingered the plastic wallet, recalled again the flawless skin and perfect features of the young woman who’d died in front of his eyes. She reminded him of someone, or maybe it was just the titian hair. Maybe it was a painting he had in mind.

  He sighed. Back at his desk now, he couldn’t shake off the incident: the sickening thud of the impact, shocked gasps from the crowd, then a stunned silence that seemed to last for ever. Unbidden, the phrase dead weight repeated again and again in Powell’s spinning thoughts – like a stylus stuck in a groove. He’d reached her first, longed to brush away the rough grit from her ivory cheek. Desperately she’d opened her mouth to speak but words were beyond her. The mask lay a few feet away, red shining lips parted in wide garish grin. It must’ve flown off in the fall. Powell balled his fist. Why? For frig’s sake, why?

  He slumped in the chair, loosened his tie. God, he could do with a drink. Times like this he almost wished he smoked. Had Jessica Harvey been on the wacky baccy? Or the booze? Some mind-altering substance? Had she been so wasted...? He closed his eyes. Saw again the lovely undamaged face. It was her body that had been smashed. Surely her mind had already been broken?

  Maybe the mother could shed some light. Poor cow was driving down from Whitehaven to identify her only child. He had to put it behind him. Jessica Harvey’s suicide was uniform’s baby. Why was that a relief? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? The introspection was uncharacteristic and useless. Focus and move on, man. They had a killer to nail, he sure couldn’t see the Sandman handing himself in any time soon.

  “You’re trying to tell me that’s the Sandman?” Byford slung the paper across his desk, leaned back in the chair, legs spread. Bev averted her gaze, looked instead at “that”; a child’s drawing, crude primary colours. Five-year-old Daisy Towbridge had come up with the artwork in exchange for a bag of Gummi Bears from PC Danny Rees. Under her mother’s watchful eye in the kitchen of their Moseley home, Daisy had crayoned a likeness of the man she claimed took her cat. Unorthodox, sure. Inadmissible, deff. Potential? Maybe. Unconvinced, Byford picked up a pen: class dismissed.

  Bev stood her ground. “Think of it as first draft, guv.” She’d been equally sceptical until she’d heard the full story. Danny had spent time chatting to the girl and – showing a bit of initiative – organised the impromptu sketch show off his own bat. He’d asked Bev to be there when he ran it past the big man.

  She tilted forward slightly, read upside down. It looked as if Byford was immersed in some poor sod’s Performance Development Review. More sodding paperwork, more sodding accountability. Like there weren’t enough hoops to jump. Every officer was monitored every bloody month nowadays. Why not go the whole pig roast? Make the snoop-test weekly, dish out gold stars or detentions on a Friday afternoon. Sod the rain forest. Danny looked gutted, too. She’d give it another shot. “Come on, guv, at least think it over.”

  Byford sighed, lay down the Waterman. “She’s five years old, sergeant.”

  “So?” Blank look, empty palms. “Obviously we’d need to bring her in, organise a child witness officer, police artist. Working on it together, they might come up with something worth feeding the press.” She’d already checked Al Copley’s availability. He was Highgate’s top imager, known inevitably as Picasso.

  “Again sergeant.” He tapped a finger on the desk. “She’s five years...”

  “Age isn’t IQ, guv.” Come on, Danny, help me out here.

  “She’s bright as a button, sir,” Rees enthused. “Well advanced for her years.” Bev masked a smile. Not quite Danny’s earlier, pithier, precocious brat.

  Byford raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Reads a lot of fairy tales, does she?” Bev exchanged glances with Danny. Ground was less certain here. Daisy had a lively imagination according to her mother. Even so, it was a weird tale to make up and stick to. She’d told Danny that when she couldn’t sleep, she sometimes looked at the stars through her bedroom window; even had a kid’s telescope. On the night Faith Winters was attacked, Daisy had spotted a man in the street trying to coax her cat. She’d banged the window; he’d glanced up, grabbed the animal and done a runner. Mrs Towbridge confirmed she’d found Daisy sobbing and had put it down to a nightmare.

  “Even the mother thinks it could be the truth now, sir.” That was no lie. Julie Towbridge had conceded her judgement might have been hasty.

  Byford narrowed his eyes; Bev read the sign, pushed on. “If the e-fit, sketch, whatever’s no good – we don’t release it. No harm done.”

  He picked up the Waterman, tapped it against his teeth. “We don’t even know it’s cat blood on the knife.”

  No. But she’d now asked the lab to fast track the tests. “Should hear later today.”

  “The guy could be anyone, Bev. Who’s to say it’s the...?”

  “Thing is, guv, we’re not exactly drowning in leads. I know it’s long odds, but if the kid did clock the Sandman...” She left it hanging; he’d be aware of the consequences of failing to follow it through.

  Byford raised an eyebrow, reached for Daisy’s daub. “Think Al Copley’s around this afternoon?”

  Oh, yes. “Want me to check?”

  “Keep me posted.” He flapped a hand towards the door. They were almost out of the office when Byford called, “Nice work, Rees. Oh and Bev?” She glanced back. He had a knowing look on his face and a PDR aloft in his hand. “Guess whose?”

  “Cheers.” Bev toasted Danny’s brownie points from the guv with a steaming mug of canteen tea. The young cop had offered to buy her a drink as thanks for holding his hand at the audience with the big man. They’d grabbed a table near the radiator. Not hard in the post-lunch lull, tougher finding anything half-decent to eat. The ratatouille looked like puke and she’d turned her nose up at the liver and onions. Mind, Fareeda’s toast was still festering at the bottom of her bag. She’d ferret it out when she got back to her desk, assuming she still had a desk, she’d not seen it since the early brief, it could have been swept away in a sea of paper by now. And why did Danny look so ecstatic not. “Wh
at’s up, mate? You should be well chuffed.”

  Gazing at the Formica, he circled his finger in a pool of spilt milk. “Why didn’t I see it, sarge?” Missing cat: bloodstained knife. “If you’d not been there...”

  “Bollocks.” True actually. But she’d been in the game a damn sight longer, and her middle name was suspicious. The rookie needed positive rope not a kicking. “Who was it got the kid drawing?” She blew on the tea. Al Copley was primed and set to go soon as the girl and her mum showed. “Masterstroke that was, Danny.”

  He gave a lip service smile, still beating himself up. She’d been there, done that, knew it was a waste of time. Glancing round, she spotted Sumi at the counter and raised a hand. Sumi mouthed a See you later. Bev glanced at her watch: four hours to be precise.

  “And the way you played it with the boss?” Danny interrupted her not particularly welcome train of thought. “I thought Byford would never go for it. He was eating out of your hand by the end. I wouldn’t have known where to start.”

  She shrugged. “The guv and me go back a long way, Danny.” Shame there didn’t seem to be so much ahead. And that the time had gone when it wasn’t her hand he wanted to eat from.

  “Yeah, but...”

  “No, but.” And quit the whinge-fest. “Get over it, Danny. You’ve got the makings of a decent cop. Just remember – look, listen, and learn. Don’t be afraid to ask questions and never believe a word anyone says. Keep your eyes open, your mind focused and your mouth...”

  “This the lesson according to Saint Bev? Mind if I take a pew.” Smirking, DI Powell placed a tray on the table, parked his bum on the next seat. Powell didn’t suffer her offal aversion; the plate was swimming in liver. She nearly gagged on the stink. “Don’t mind me,” he said, waving a magnanimous fork. “You were banging on about your mouth.” He nudged the new boy. “This I must hear.”