“Sure, if I can.” The tic was burrowing maggot-like.
“Is there any possibility that the murder was planned?” No clarification needed. Jamieson was interested in only one victim. And she’d only ask if she had suspicions.
“We’ve no evidence pointing that way.” Clearly not what the PA wanted to hear. Bev added a judicious, “Yet.”
“So it’s not been ruled out?” The gleam was back in her eye.
“Nothing’s ruled out, Miss Jamieson. But we have a problem, see, there’s no...”
“Motive.” She didn’t work in the law for nothing. “I don’t know if this constitutes motive, sergeant.” Lips like serrated blades, she pulled a brown envelope from a drawer, pushed it against the desk. “It certainly provides grounds for action.”
Opening the flap, Bev’s scalp tingled. The contents merited a mental wolf whistle: six grainy black and white pics obviously taken by telephoto lens, but then the loving couple was hardly likely to pose willingly. The grieving widow in steamy clinches with another bloke, and with a body like that it had to be a toy boy. Bev ran her gaze over each incriminating image. Diana Masters obscured his face in every shot.
“Who’s the guy?”
The PA raised a hand. It was her big scene and she’d play it her way. Again, it seemed to Bev she revelled in the attention. “I agonised over divulging this matter, sergeant. Twice I tried to get hold of you over the weekend. In a way I was relieved you weren’t available. It seemed like fate playing a hand.” Bev clenched a fist; she wanted to slap the smug simper off the stupid woman’s face, certainly hit her with a withholding charge. Timing is all. She forced a smile instead. “Glad you changed your mind, Miss Jamieson.”
“I’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. But it was clear the police investigation was going nowhere. I couldn’t stand the thought that... that... woman might be involved in Alex’s death. He swore me to secrecy you see. But he planned to divorce her. The adultery would have cost her a pretty packet.”
Questions milled, one jumped the queue. “Did she know?” Bev leaned forward. The PA was taking her time.
“Alex was sure she didn’t.” Jamieson swallowed, eyes bright. “He was going to present her with the pictures as a fait accompli. Even Diana Masters couldn’t have talked her way out of that one.” Bev glanced at the top pic. Given where the mouth was, she couldn’t have talked, period.
“This is important, Miss Jamieson – could she have found out the marriage was on borrowed time?”
“I thought not.” Jamieson lifted her gaze from her boss’s photo. “Until Alex’s murder.”
“He says he’ll kill me... do what he says, please, please do...” Phone pressed to her ear, Diana’s perfect face crumpled. Sam had taken the call, passed it to her on the blackmailer’s orders. She’d been expecting the Dalek tone issuing instructions not the anguished terrified voice of her daughter. “Charlotte, Charlotte, listen...”
For several seconds, all Diana heard was static; it was almost a relief when the familiar tinny distortion came on the line. “There y’go, lady. Proof she’s alive.”
Sam stood behind, his arms around her waist. She saw their reflection in the mirror on the drawing room wall. It was like watching characters in a play except she didn’t have a script. “How do I know it wasn’t a recording?”
“You don’t. Trust me, lady – the slut’s alive. It’s down to you to keep it that way.”
Diana met Sam’s gaze in the glass. “What do you want me to do?” She scowled as the blackmailer dictated directions. God, the creep was going to pay for this.
“Any tricks and she vanishes. If you’re a good girl, you’ll have her home safe tonight. Make a mistake and believe me, lady, it’ll be fatal.”
“They got careless, see, sarge.” The PI was certainly making himself at home. Lounging back in his chair, ankle crossed on knee, he slurped tea noisily. Bev forgave him; she’d forgive him most things. He’d arrived more than an hour late at Jamieson’s office but Dougie Tempest had brought in more than snow and cold air. He’d just handed Bev a second set of snatched shots. The widow and her lover weren’t the only ones who’d been careless. The instant Bev saw the guy’s face she clocked it; cringed inwardly. How could she have been so dense? Scissor-hands, she’d blithely mocked. Camper than a marquee, Diana had giggled. Gonna let him loose on your hair, Mac had joshed. Even the man himself had said he’d give her a good price if she ever fancied a decent cut. Oh yes, you bastard: rusty blade to your slimy balls.
“You all right, sarge?” Tempest asked, dunking a Rich Tea. She nodded; it was easier than talking through a mouthful of feathers. “Well, as I say, when I first started tailing them it was a soddin’ nightmare.” The barrister, she’d learned, had hired Tempest two months back. “They’d turn up separately, never leave together. Different bleedin’ hotel every time.” Jamieson visibly bristled at the language, maybe the estuary accent. As he spoke, Bev took in the wiry little man’s cheap navy suit, shiny lace-ups, boot-polished short-back-and-sides. He looked like a dodgy rep; mind, hotels were full of travelling salesmen – not canny ex-cops trained in surveillance and covert filming. She’d marked Tempest down as an eighties throwback when to most cops PACE meant running to the bar. Ten out of ten for his results though. “Tell you what, sarge, it made my life a damn sight easier when they fixed on a regular love nest.”
“They definitely didn’t cotton on?” Bev asked, leafing through the images again.
“Do me a favour, darlin’.”
Fair enough. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“Tate. Sam Tate. Ring a bell?”
Oh, yes. Samuel has that effect on women, sergeant. Someone called Tate on the phone, Mrs Masters. Christ on a skateboard; she stiffened. Libby Redwood’s last words... Not Dan. Not Stan. Had she been trying to say Sam? Was Tate the Sandman? The double-act with Diana had been flawless. If Tate was gay – Bev was teetotal. Did his repertoire include masked sadist?
“Is it enough to charge them, sergeant?” Jamieson was on the edge of the seat, her whole face flushed.
Bev ignored her, carried on looking through the pics. “When was this lot taken, Dougie?”
“Day before he got topped. I’d not even sent them.” He reached into a breast pocket, handed her an envelope. “Bit more intelligence here: addresses, dates, that kind of thing.”
“Ta, mate.”
“Sergeant Morriss, I said...” Frowning, Bev raised a hand, desperately trying to work out the implications. “Sergeant...”
She scraped back the chair, grabbed her bag. The PA was getting on her tits. “It’s evidence of adultery, Miss Jamieson.” Irrefutable proof Diana Masters and Sam Tate were passionate lovers – but cold-blooded killers? “As to murder?” She shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Shame you didn’t open your mouth a bit sooner.”
32
“It’s enough to bring them in for questioning.”
Like she didn’t know that. She’d caught Byford on the phone just as he was leaving for the late brief. He was up to speed now on the Masters-Tate adulterous liaison. Whether it was a criminal alliance still needed nailing. But if the duo were behind the Sandman burglaries, the magnitude of the conspiracy was breathtaking. “Where are you, now, Bev?”
“In the motor. Outside the chambers.” She wiped the steamy windscreen with her sleeve, had already scraped three inches of snow off the bodywork.
“Mac with you?”
She cut a glance to the empty passenger seat. “On his way.”
“I’ll get a team to Tate’s flat.” Tempest’s intelligence had provided the address plus the salon’s where Tate worked. “You pair head out to the Masters place.”
“Nothing’d give me greater pleasure.”
“Rein it in, Bev. We need proof there’s a Sandman connection. Plenty of missing pieces still.”
“Sure thing, guv.” Way she felt she’d rein it in all right – with a lasso round the bloody woman’s neck.
“And, Bev.
Bear this is mind... if Diana Masters is the Sandman’s sidekick, she stands to go down for life. She’ll have nothing to lose.”
Stay cool. Stay cool. The words were Diana Masters’s mantra as she drove the Merc through heavy snow to the handover – assuming the blackmailer wasn’t lying. The creep had said last night was a dry run. He’d got that right. She’d already collected directions from two scuzzy phone boxes: another not-so-merry dance. A sly smirk curved her painted lips. This time she’d lead the last waltz.
Her gloved hands gripped the wheel. For the millionth time she checked the mirror. Melted snow glistened in her fur hat from the last frigging foray into the cold. Deep breath. Stay cool. She imagined Sam warming her up, licked her lips. He was lying low back at his flat; she’d call when this was all over. She’d wanted him out of harm’s way. He’d promised not to follow, but she’d not been sure he’d stick to it. And if the blackmailer spotted a tail...
Or the knives: one in the pocket of her coat, another in her sleeve, a third in her clutch bag. Overkill? She hoped so. Cold steel, iron nerve. She had one big advantage: she wasn’t scared. If it went pear-shaped, she’d die rather than go to jail. She’d nothing to lose, apart from half a million pounds and her daughter’s life. And that was so not going to happen.
Next left the Satnav squawked. The call box was on the corner. She checked the mirror, scoped the street. At least the snow meant there was no lowlife around. Pavement was white-over, virginal. She picked her way carefully, wouldn’t do to sprain an ankle. She gave a thin smile – not on the final leg of the journey.
Except there was no note. Where were the frigging directions? Stay cool. Stay cool. Think. Think. She was bang on time. What the hell had gone wrong? Sinking to her knees, she scrabbled on the dank foul-smelling concrete. Nothing. Not a word. It felt like a body-blow. Still kneeling, head in hands, hot tears coursed between her fingers. She’d followed instructions to the letter, done everything the bastard asked...
The phone rang when she was almost back at the car. Spinning on her heel, she lost her footing in the snow, slipped, struggled to stay upright. It was only a few steps to the call box but she was gasping for breath when she picked up the phone.
“Good girl. No tail. The drop details are at your place.”
Bev had sent Christmas cards that looked like Park View. Six inches of snow – and falling – was giving it that festive feel: all fir trees and holly bushes, rosy glows from mullioned windows. Very merry-gentlemen-and-deck-the-halls. Except for what went on behind closed doors, or at least Diana Masters’s door. Not that action was ongoing. The property appeared empty, just hall lights left on. Bev was keeping a watching brief from the Midget parked opposite. Mac was on his way, hopefully he’d get here before the widow showed. She’d told him to bring vests, anti-stab not woolly.
Killing time, she lit a Silk Cut, inched down the window. Despite the falling mercury, she was fired up. She’d had a while to think. If Tate and Masters had masterminded the Sandman burglaries to mask the prime motive of the barrister’s murder, the level of duplicity, depravity, were off the scale. It would mean vulnerable women had been clinically selected and subjected to unimaginable terror so Alex Masters’s killing would look like a Sandman cock up. Tate had certainly had his cock up. Even if there was no Sandman link, Masters had taken mendacity to a new level. Oh yes. She was up there with Uranus. Bev took a deep drag, recalling the doo-doo the widow had spouted: Alex and I were very much in love. This room is where I most feel his presence. I was on the way to choose a headstone. Lying twat.
But was she accessory to murder? She was accessory all right. Arm candy to Alex Masters and groomed within an inch of her life. Eyes creased against the smoke, Bev pictured the widow the last time they’d met. Masters had worn that black funnel neck coat, didn’t have a hair out of...
Bollocks. Spine tingling, she bolted upright, thoughts swirling. Suddenly, she saw the light, and not just the full beam of an approaching motor. It was a vision of the widow’s silver brooch that day. Bev had glimpsed her reflection in its shiny surface, but failed to see the full picture, until now. The item wasn’t Diana’s. It had belonged to Donna Kennedy: a one-off designer piece, photo and details in exhibits at Highgate. Gotcha.
The guv had to know; she grabbed the phone, hit fast dial. They’d need full back-up now, preferably armed. Diana Masters made the Black Widow look benign.
Headlights dazzling, the oncoming car was almost upon her. Bev shielded her eyes as it slewed wildly in the snow, almost missed the turning into Masters’s drive. The bitch was back – and cutting it fine.
33
Fury and revenge fuelled Diana Masters. Slamming the Merc’s door, she stormed to the house careless of the snow. Silhouetted in the doorway she stood for several seconds, staring open-mouthed at the scene in the hall. Her slanted eyes saw the noose suspended from the banister, the scotch, the paper, the pen – her sluggish brain couldn’t compute. Taking faltering steps towards the console table, her thoughts dragged, too. “What the hell?”
“Details of the drop.” Startled, she swirled round. More incomputable data. Sam lunged from behind, smiling as he slipped the knife from her coat pocket. “Do exactly as I say and you won’t get hurt.” Still with that perfect smile, he pressed his own blade against her cheek. “Well, not by me.”
Wary, uncertain, her eyes searched his face. “Is this some kind of joke?”
With a tap of the blade, he set the noose swinging. “Call it gallows humour if you like.”
Stay cool. She had to regain the control here. Taking off the hat she nodded at the writing gear on the console. “What’s that all about?”
“Let’s see...” He waved the knife, raised his glance to the ceiling, ostensibly seeking inspiration. “It’s about a woman driven mad by grief. A woman so devastated by her husband’s murder, she can’t face life without him. Sadly, she sees only one way out.” He set the rope swinging again.
“You’re mad.”
“You’re fucked.” He cocked his head at the pen and paper. “Take a letter.”
“Come on, Sam,” she wheedled. “We can work this out.” Like hell, you double-crossing shit. Her brain was back in action. Whatever was going on here, he’d pick up the bill. She knew the clutch bag was out of reach; could she retract the knife from her sleeve?
“Pick up the pen, Diana. Now.”
“Sam, please, this is ridiculous. Let’s just...”
“Shut the fuck up,” he yelled. “I’m done with you ordering me around. I’m sick to death of hearing your prattle. Let’s just get this over.”
Eyes smarting, she nodded meekly. “If I’ve lost you, Sam... I’ve lost everything.” And she’d say it with flowers... Turning to reach for the pen, she grabbed the vase with both hands, swung it over her head, hurled it with every ounce of pent up fury. Glass whacked bone, blood streamed from nostrils and split lips as he dropped to the floor, clutching his face. Diana was oblivious to water dripping from her chin, wilted rose petals caught in her hair. She focused exclusively on her target, kicked Tate as hard as she could in the head. He fell to the side, unconscious, no longer groaning. Eyes like slits, she carefully slid the knife from her sleeve.
“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Diana whipped her head round. Coming down the stairs was a slight figure dressed in black wearing a clown mask.
“I’m pretty sure they’re both in there, guv.” Gaze fixed on the property, Bev still kept a low profile in the Midget, soft voice on the phone.
“Could be,” Byford said. “I’ve just heard from Mike Powell – Tate’s flat’s empty.”
Bev had witnessed the widow’s dash from the car, the long pause silhouetted in the doorway. It was enough to twitch the antenna. “We’ve got the bastards, guv.” She’d filled him in on the stolen brooch, the missing link.
“Not yet.” She heard a rustle, reckoned he was checking his watch. “Back-up’ll be with you any time. Bev, don’t...”<
br />
“What you take me for, guv?” She’d no intention of playing hero. Last time she’d crossed a widow she’d lost two-nil.
“I mean it, Bev.” Slight pause. “I don’t want to lose you.”
I not we? She put that one on the back burner. “Later, guv.”
Later like Mac. At least he’d called. The snow was slowing traffic – and blood flow. God it was cold. She leaned across, scrabbled in the glove compartment. Scowled. Everything in it but bloody gloves. Eyes narrowed she spotted the edge of a nylon scarf jutting out from under the passenger seat. She frowned then remembered the old dear outside the chippie last week. The scarf had been in the Midget ever since. She tugged it free, heard a clink as the knife still wrapped in its folds fell out. A voice in her head said: don’t even think about it. So she didn’t. She shoved it in her bag instinctively – because she felt like it.
Like she felt like standing outside the car and having another smoke. If she hadn’t she probably wouldn’t have heard the scream.
Diana Masters was rigid with rage, her face almost ugly in contempt. “Take the fucking mask off.” It hadn’t taken long to work out. Since Sam had staged the whole pathetic show, only one person could be hiding behind it. Predictably, her daughter was going for the dramatic effect.
Charlotte ripped off the mask, hatred in her eyes, a knife clutched in her hand. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”
Diana cut a glance at her former lover. “Clearly not.” She swung a vicious kick at his kidneys. No response. Charlotte screamed to leave him alone. Screamed again when Diana lashed out with the other boot. The third kick drew Charlotte closer. Within harm’s reach now, the girl looked puny, stick thin, a pushover.
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