Blood Money

by Maureen Carter

Witch must be a mind reader. Carefully, he laid the weapon on the bedside table, the ostensibly merciful gesture apparently underlining the clown’s larger-than-life smile. For ten, fifteen seconds he stared down at her then: “Me, me, me.” Each mocking word punctuated by a stinging backhanded slap. The woman’s face was screwed in fear, tears flowed down blood-drained cheeks. Beneath the mask Tate’s fine features were set in ugly contempt. Was it worth the hassle? Nah. He couldn’t be arsed. With the endgame in sight he wouldn’t want to screw up.

  Bev hit the light switch. A quick scan through narrowed eyes revealed nothing out of place, nobody in situ. Quiet though. She cocked her head; the house had an empty feel. She chucked keys and bag on the hall table, shucked out of her coat. “I’ll take a look upstairs.”

  Sumi nodded, didn’t need telling to take the ground. Bev entered the bathroom first. Pristine. Not so much as a hair in the sink. Damn sight tidier than normal. Same story in the spare room, hardly a sign Fareeda had slept there. Bev registered a hike in her heartbeat, tingle in the palms. Unwanted images flashed in her head, other searches she’d taken part in leading to skeletal remains, decomposing flesh, bloated bodies. For God’s sake. Get a grip.

  She checked the wardrobe, bed, drawers, nosing round for any sign of life. It was tucked away at the back of the bottom drawer. “Well, well, well.” A pregnancy tester. She recognised the brand immediately, had chosen it herself what seemed a lifetime ago, two lifetimes ago. Briefly she closed her eyes, banished more uneasy thoughts, concentrated on the implications for Fareeda’s present and future. The girl certainly wasn’t running the kit in for a friend. So much for Sumi’s blind faith in her cousin’s non-existent sex life.

  Sumi’s scream put complex thoughts on hold. Bev dropped the pack back in the drawer, took the stairs three at a time. Shaking and terrified Fareeda leant against the hall wall, clinging to Sumi. Stroking the girl’s hair, Sumi said she’d found her hiding in the cupboard under the stairs. Crouched in the far corner, she’d been peering out from behind a mountain of empty boxes, DIY gear and discarded furniture. Toss up who got the biggest shock. Sumi was calmer now, her relief almost palpable. Fareeda looked fragile, bowed if not broken.

  “Get her settled, Sumi.” Bev nodded towards the sitting room. “I’ll fix a drink.”

  A sense of déjà vu accompanied Bev to the kitchen. It didn’t seem five minutes since they’d first gone through this routine. Slight deviation now though, after filling the kettle she opened the fridge, poured a generous Pinot Grigio, sank it before the tea was brewed.

  Sumi and Fareeda were huddled together on the sofa. Sumi’s arm lay protectively round her cousin’s shoulder. Bev bummed the door to. “Here you go.” Along with Pinot, the tray held two mugs and a pack of digestives. She slipped it on to the coffee table then sat cross-legged on the floor opposite her houseguests. Waiting for enlightenment she took a sip of wine, then another. Neither woman met her glance. She was half tempted to see how long the silence would stretch, but the genial host was morphing into Basil Fawlty: knackered, rattled and pissed off. It had been a long day and she was running out of sympathy for a girl who it seemed to Bev wouldn’t lift a finger to help herself.

  “You gonna sit there all night – or maybe tell me what happened?” Something had obviously spooked Fareeda. Unless she’d been playing hide and seek. On her own.

  “Sorry. I’m still a bit shaky.” Fareeda’s bangles slipped and jangled as she blew her nose, wiped her eyes on a tissue. “Someone broke in.”

  Bev stiffened. “Someone’s been in the house?” Was the bastard still here? Fired, she sprang up, fists balled, ready to take off in pursuit.

  “He’s gone.” Fareeda raised a palm. “I heard him leave.”

  “Why were you still in the cupboard then?” Sumi posed the question a damn sight more gently than Bev had been about to.

  Curtains of hair concealed her face as she dropped her head. “I was scared in case he came back.”

  Adrenalin falling, Bev dropped to the floor again. “From the beginning, Fareeda. Now.”

  Shredding the tissue in her lap, the girl told them there’d been a knock on the door. She’d looked through the landing window saw a man on the step. She watched him take something from his pocket, then heard what she thought was the sound of a key in the lock. Panic set in at that point. Without thinking, she ran to the cupboard, shut herself in. “He went straight upstairs, I heard his tread above my head, I was so scared I could hardly breathe. Any minute I thought...” The voice broke, but her gaze was steady, her eyes brimmed with unshed tears and pleaded for Bev’s assurance, understanding, whatever.

  In Bev’s head, fury vied with sympathy. Getting involved in Fareeda’s messy life had inadvertently led an intruder into her own. Unwittingly she thought of the Sandman’s victims. Beth, Sheila, Donna, Faith, Diana. Imagine the horror they’d gone through. Tonight was a breeze by comparison. But this wasn’t down to the Sandman. Both the timing and Fareeda’s attitude had convinced Bev that this was the Saleems’ baby. She fought to keep her voice level. “Don’t piss me about, Fareeda. Who was it?”

  Bev sensed Sumi’s shocked gaze but kept her own glare on Fareeda. The girl straightened, bristling. “How the hell do I know? I’ve never seen him before in my life. I told you, I panicked. I ran. I wanted to get away. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Bev stared at the girl’s beautiful damaged face. Fareeda was more than capable of lying through her missing teeth. The pack upstairs was proof positive of that. A protective wall of silence appeared to be part of the family structure. She toyed briefly with asking how far gone the girl was, decided the question would likely get a more productive response when big cousin Sumi wasn’t around. Blurting it out would destroy what – if any – trust Fareeda had in Bev, showing discretion might make it easier to bond when they had a one-to-one chat. Keeping mum? Bev curled her lip. Crap expression.

  Bev’s face was an open book; Fareeda had clearly read the scepticism. “Honest, Bev, the man was nothing to do with me. I should’ve realised before but...”

  She raised a palm. “Yeah, yeah, you weren’t thinking straight. So now you are?”

  “The man was white, mid-twenties, thirties? I’m not good with ages.” Her rueful smile wasn’t returned. “He was dark-haired but definitely not someone in my circle. There’s no way...” Eyes wide, she clammed up, aware she was in danger of giving away too much. Bev could easily fill in the blanks: there’s no way my family would hire a heavy who wasn’t Asian. Assuming Fareeda wasn’t lying about the guy’s colour. Maybe Sumi was thinking along the same lines. She turned Fareeda to face her.

  “If you know the man, Fareeda – now’s the time to say so. We can’t help if you don’t give us the full picture.”

  “I’m telling the truth.” She folded her arms, truculent. “Why would I make it up?”

  Bev took a mouthful of wine, rolled it round her tongue. It still seemed a hell of a coincidence: within hours of the girl’s arrival, animal matter had been left on the doorstep and an intruder had broken in. Or not? She almost choked on the wine. What was it Fareeda had said about a key in the lock?

  Drink spilled as she slammed down the glass, dashed into the hall. Were the scratches round the lock fresh or normal wear and tear? Bev rubbed her chin, heard the sound of more jumping conclusions. Despite what Fareeda said, it didn’t necessarily figure the guy had a key; the lock could’ve been picked. Either way she made a mental note to call her friendly neighbourhood locksmith first thing. Wouldn’t be the first time. She ought to ask for a discount. Deep in thought she stepped out, scanned the street in both directions. Nada. Natch. Even the fog had lifted.

  She closed the door, leaned against it for a while still thinking things through: the cow heart and tonight’s break-in could be connected with Fareeda, but not the damaged MG, the early hours hang-ups. She narrowed her eyes, her gaze fixed on the stairs. The earlier search had been incomplete. Hand on banister she headed for her bedroom. />
  21

  It took fifteen, twenty seconds for Diana Masters to pinpoint the sound. Being roused from a deep sleep didn’t help her disorientation and the ring tone was unfamiliar, the phone had never been used before. She groaned when she registered the time. The clock’s glowing green digits showed 02.17. Jesus this had better be worth it. Her fingers scrabbled on the bedside table, as she homed in on the mobile. It was a recently acquired pay-as-you-go, and the number was known to only one other person.

  “Sam?” Sleepy, still confused, she ran a hand through her hair.

  “Diana, we have a problem.”

  She bolted upright, instantly alert, goose bumps not entirely down to the temperature. “What do you mean – a problem?” It was nothing trivial. His tone told her that, and he rarely called her Diana.

  “Someone saw me leaving the Redwood place tonight.” She heard him swallow, detected incipient panic in his voice.

  “Someone saw you?” Incredulous. Concealing her censure was a huge effort. She swung her legs out of bed, paced the room, thoughts swirling – none of them good. She waited for Sam to elaborate, not willing to make it easier for him, not keen to learn more, knowing ignorance wasn’t an option.

  “It’s worse. He recognised me.”

  Her legs almost gave way, she sank on to the edge of the bed. “But the mask?”

  “He followed, watched me take it off.” His voice cracked. She sensed he was on the verge of tears. Tough. His stupidity bordered on criminal negligence. Criminal! Christ. That would be funny – if they weren’t neck-deep in ordure.

  “How the hell did you manage that, Sam?” Cold, clipped, mentally clutching for even the shortest damage-limitation straw.

  “I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t see anyone around. I thought I was in the clear.”

  “Thought?” Had she badly misjudged the guy? They were supposed to be equal partners. OK, she was older and had the intellectual edge, but he was sharp, a quick learner and they shared the same dream and drive to realise it. Not drive. Ruthlessness. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, surprised how good she looked given how shit she felt. Not that it gave her any pleasure. Not with Sam whingeing on like a wuss. She recalled the last time he’d been here, preening in front of the same mirror, titillating her with the same bloody mask. She tapped a finger against her lips. Please let this flaky state be a temporary aberration. If he went to pieces they’d be well and truly fucked. She took a calming breath, injected warmth she didn’t currently feel into her voice. “Come on, Sammy, we can work it out.”

  “There’s more.” Another swallow. “He’s been on the phone. He wants a cut.”

  Blackmail. Her scalp pricked. Thank God for that. It meant the greedy oik wouldn’t go running to the cops. “A cut?” She stroked her slender neck, gave a lazy smile. “I’m sure we can manage that.”

  “Diana. He’s not talking peanuts.” She knew Sam well enough to suspect he was holding something back. And he wouldn’t be saving the best till last. “He knows about us.” Diana closed her eyes: could it get any worse? “He wants you to make the drop. He knows how much your old man was worth. He wants half a million.”

  She snorted. Like that was going to happen. Then frowned. They’d been so careful. Who could have found out? And how? And what the hell were they going to do? God, she needed time and space to think this through. Sam wasn’t going to come up with an answer. She had to be strong, or Sam would fall apart. They’d come a long way, they were on the home stretch and she’d be damned if some bastard was going to stop them reaching the finishing line. Feline eyes narrowed as she worked on the seed of an idea. It would need a lot of nurturing but there was too much at stake not to give it their best shot.

  “Darling.” There was a teasing smile in the endearment. “When I say cut... I’m not necessarily talking cash. After all, the Sandman’s a dab hand with a knife... is he not, Sammy?”

  When she ended the call ten minutes later he sounded calmer, which was lucky. Until the blackmailer made contact again, it was a waiting game and they’d need nerves of steel. Duplicity and cunning they already had in spades. She’d told Sam to drop by tomorrow. She knew a guaranteed way to help him unwind. Diana lay back on the bed, reached out a hand to switch off the light. It would be OK. And she’d missed enough beauty sleep for one night.

  It wasn’t exactly hidden, but Bev missed it during her increasingly tetchy sweep of the bedroom. Maybe she’d been expecting something bold and in-your-face, given whoever it was had taken a hell of a risk coming here. Who’d the bastard think he was? How dare he invade her space? Hot and dusty after crawling under the bed, her temperature as well as her temper was rising. She was at the bedroom door, unclenching a fist so she could switch off the light when she spotted it: a new item on the summer holidays cheesy tat shelf.

  Eyes creased, she walked towards the far wall where she kept her tacky knick knacks. Her mate Frankie had a collection, too. They’d been amassing the gross and garish since they were kids, trawling tourist dives from Blackpool to Benidorm seeing who could bring back the winning gewgaw. Harmless fun, teenage kicks – the egg-timer was an impostor, though. And had a sting in the tail.

  Tight-lipped, she took it from the line-up where it was tucked between a lime-green T-rex and a day-glow pink guppy with Barbara Cartland eyelashes. The egg-timer wouldn’t qualify for a place; it wasn’t kitsch enough for one thing. The hourglass in a wooden frame was a traditional design, not trashy rubbish. Secondly, it wasn’t totally useless: an egg-timer had a purpose – presumably this one also had a message.

  She perched on the bed, timer nestling in her palm, slowly she inverted it, watched the sand trickle down. She tried to read beyond the obvious, and not to read too much. But if this was from the Sandman, he’d made it personal. The suggestion? That time was running out?

  It was past midnight before Bev hit the sack, knackered, drained and still grappling with thorny thoughts. Was it the Sandman who’d been in her home? Was the timer a warning, or a challenge? She’d kept the find to herself during the subsequent two hour session with Sumi and Fareeda. The talk had dragged on and on, going nowhere slow: Fareeda stone-walling at Olympic level, Sumi sincere but ineffectual in getting her cousin to divulge who’d inflicted the injuries. Bev had gone through coax and cajole mode to bribery and coercion. Nothing worked. The girl was adamant, she just wanted a few days to get her head straight. And her nose and teeth, presumably. Bev had it in mind to pay a house call on the Saleems, nothing heavy, just a quiet word. She’d take advice on that from the one person she knew who might be able to give her a decent steer. Assuming Oz was still talking to her. She’d know soon enough, she’d left a message on his answer phone.

  Throughout the discussion, the pregnancy kit had burned a hole in Bev’s mental pocket. But by the time Sumi called it a day, it was too late to bring up the issue. Too late. And Bev was too distracted and if truth were told not feeling particularly well-disposed towards the girl. Jeez. Bev was only human. Mañana would do. Fareeda wasn’t going anywhere, and was under strict instructions to bolt every door and window in future to stop further unauthorised entries.

  Bev lay on her back, gave a jaw-breaking yawn. So much for an early night. The egg-timer was on the bedside table; she reached for it now, held it in both hands and watched the slow trickle of sand. Was it a challenge from the killer? This is your mission should you choose to accept. The line from the Cruise movie had sprung to mind unbidden. She gave a thin smile. If she was honest, hadn’t she instinctively made the decision the instant she picked up the timer knowing she risked destroying prints?

  A personal challenge she could take. No doubts on that score. With a black belt she was more than capable of kicking ass, going too far even; inflicting – and taking – serious damage. She’d been there more than once; the danger since last year’s attack was willingly going there again. Having been through the worst – she had no fear, little restraint. Personal risk wasn’t a factor. But the prof
essional?

  She turned the timer again, watched the sand glisten in the lamplight. If she went out on a limb over this, played the Maverick card, she could kiss goodbye to the cops, never mind the stripes. Teflon Girl they’d called her after the last disciplinary. Mind, there were times she still felt like telling the suits to stuff it anyway. On the other hand if she told the guv what was going off, he’d put a 24/7 tail on her. He’d done it once before behind her back; she’d hated it then, wouldn’t tolerate it now. Baby-sitting she didn’t need. And the last thing she wanted was to scare off the perp.

  Anyway, what had she got to lose? Metaphorically or actually everything she valued had already gone. Her babies. Byford. Oz. Bring on the sodding violins, Beverley. She snorted, gave a wry smile. The sand had run out. She placed the timer back on the table, turned off the lamp, snuggled under the duvet. “Bring it on, sunshine. Any time...”

  THURSDAY

  22

  It was pitch black when the phone roused Bev from a deep dreamless sleep. Bleary-eyed, fuzzy-headed, several cylinders short of an engine she made a grab in the dark, heard something tumble and crack. Shit. Great start. Had the timer gone for a Burton? No going to work on an egg today, then. Come to think of it where was Burton? And why’d people go there? And could she care less? Sharpen the act, cobweb-brain. She shook her head. At least she’d located the mobile. If this was another hang up... She snapped out a peremptory, “Bev Morriss.”

  “Wakey wakey, rise and shine.” Mike Powell. The DI wouldn’t be asking about the state of her health. “How quick can you get to the General?”

  Duvet flung off, she flicked on the lamp, clocked the time: 06.17; registered an intact egg-timer, and the picture frame she’d knocked over: her and the guv on a weekend in Bath. Mouth turned down she calculated rapidly. The hospital was a ten-minute car ride, quick shower, face on, piece of toast. “Half an hour, forty minutes.”