“You and him.” Diana ran the blade between her fingers. “How long’s it been going on?” The rage had given way to an unnatural calm. Sam had shafted her. Now she’d cut her losses.
“Way back.” Smug triumph. “Did you actually think he loved you? Get real. You’re old enough to be his mother. You were just in the right place at the right time, blithely imagining it was your idea. We were stringing you along from the get-go. You and the old man were a means to the end.” Diana’s keen glance flitted between hand, rope, stairs; brain coldly calculating.
“The end being?” Like she didn’t know: love of money was the only thing they’d ever had in common.
“My inheritance of course.” Charlotte gave a brittle laugh. “That’s when the hard graft pays off. Sam had a hell of a job playing the gibbering wreck, y’know. As for me, the Dalek voice was a real stretch. Mind, we had a ball planning your trips. Hope you enjoyed them – cos you’re a long time dead. And when the dust settles, me and Sam will take off.”
Diana snorted. “He’s not going anywhere, is he?” She nudged his head with her toe. “Prat can’t do anything right. Couldn’t even kill Alex. I had to finish the old boy off.”
“You?”
“What’s the problem? You were happy to take his money, weren’t you?”
“Not happy.” She glanced down for a second. “It was collateral damage.” And didn’t see it coming. Diana grabbed the girl’s wrist, slammed it against the banister. A crack rang out, Charlotte screamed, the knife fell. Tears of pain coursed down her sallow cheeks as she held the shattered arm protectively close. Diana grabbed the noose, forced it over the girl’s head, started dragging her towards the stairs.
Charlotte knew what was coming, kicked, struggled, screamed. Diana barely noticed; she was calculating the drop. Roughly. Suicide wasn’t a bad idea – there’d just be a change of personnel: her daughter could take the swing.
The scream was loud enough to wake the dead. Bev tensed, instantly alert, heard the hiss when her baccy hit the snow. Then another scream. Hell’s teeth. Sounded like blue murder kicking off in there. She scanned both sides of the street, dashed across. No blue lights but the third scream was enough to drown distant sirens.
Sneaking past the Merc, she clocked a bunch of keys in the ignition, reached in and pocketed them. The widow wouldn’t be leaving in a hurry. The door’s fanlight was too high to be any use; she pressed an ear to the wood instead. Made out the odd word. Who was the widow having a go at? The other voice was younger, shriller. Another woman’s. So where was Tate?
More to the point, where was back-up? Sod it. Curiosity killed cats – said nothing about cops. She could always leg it if they clocked her. Slowly, soundlessly, she raised the letter box. Her scalp prickled, heart pounded. It was a stand-off. The widow and her daughter. Both carrying knives. Almost subliminally Bev took in the vase on the floor, pools of water, rose petals. Her focus was on the rope and the dialogue.
... I had to finish the old boy off.
You?
What’s the problem? You were happy to take his money, weren’t you?
Not happy. It was collateral damage.
Breathtaking cynicism followed by heart-stopping action. Eyes wide, Bev watched the drama unfold: the widow whacking her daughter’s arm, forcing the noose over her head. Events were spiralling. If she didn’t go in, people were going to die. Last thing they’d do was open the door for her. The car keys? She scrabbled in her pocket. If one was for the house, she’d... What?
Intervene to save the lives of a couple of devious shits? Last time she stepped between mother and daughter, she’d taken a blade in the belly. Blade. Subconsciously had she had an inkling all along? Was that why she’d stowed the knife in her bag? Palms tingling, she reached for it now. Another scream. Another look through the box. Shit. The girl’d be on the banister any time soon. All it would take was one shove from the widow.
There was only one Yale. It fitted. Still Bev hesitated. Protect life. That was every cop’s first, second, third priority. But what if the sick twisted crazies deserved to die? Ears pricked, she caught sirens in the distant. Back-up was imminent – except time was running out. If she did nothing, she’d be little better than the mad bastards inside and might as well jack in the job. Yeah. And? Still, she dithered. The next scream turned her insides to ice. And forced a decision.
Only seconds to take it in: Tate was out of it on the floor; Diana glared down from the landing. Bev had to get to the girl. The drop hadn’t been fatal but she’d choke if she didn’t stop struggling. Still clutching the knife, Bev chucked her bag down, raced over, took the girl’s weight on her back. In her peripheral vision she glimpsed the widow sneaking downstairs. “I swear, lady, come near me, I’ll kill you.”
Diana Masters glowered from a safe distance. For a second or two it could’ve gone either way. The police sirens probably tipped the balance. She settled for a final kick at lover boy, fled without a backward glance, presumably trying to save her own neck.
Sweating hard, breathing fast, Bev eased the rope over Charlotte’s head, lowered her to the floor, laid her in the recovery position. The only life the little cow deserved was behind bars. Bev didn’t hear Tate, first she knew was when he grabbed her, swung her round. “Interfering bitch.”
Eyes flashing, hackles rising, she hissed: “Picked the wrong one this time, babe.” It was almost too easy. Tate was in a weakened state, Bev so fired up she’d have taken him anyway. Every kick and punch she landed was for the victims, mental pictures of the women a spur to beat the shit out of him.
Back-up was outside now; she became aware of blue lights, sirens, car doors slamming, muffled footsteps running through the snow. Self-defence until they were in here though. Not that Tate was up for it. Arms protecting his head, he surrendered, dropped to his knees, snivelling, the pretty boy face now a mess of tears, blood, snot. Not a whole bunch different from the mask.
“Fucking clown.” Scowling, Bev slapped on the cuffs. Without a blade, the Sandman was a walk-over.
34
The Prince was packed with jubilant cops, dimpled table tops were strewn with glasses, empty crisp packets. Last orders had been called, the guv was at the bar getting them in. Mac was relating to another rapt audience how the fleeing widow ran slap bang into his arms; Powell was cosying up to Sumi Gosh in the corner – no surprise there, nor a snowflake in hell’s chance. Bev raised her glass, gave a lopsided smile, thought fleetingly of Fareeda, hoped the girl was safe. Everywhere she looked there was camaraderie, familiar faces; cops were like one big happy family. The Masters sprang to mind. Maybe not.
Glancing along the scuffed leather bench, she spotted Danny Rees bending Dazza’s ear. Danny boy had been chatting her up earlier, telling her she was his role model. Yeah right. She sipped her wine, not so pissed she didn’t know he was angling for a CID opening. Wasn’t just detectives celebrating though, when news of the arrests broke almost everyone at the nick had piled over to the pub. They’d crowded round the telly at ten, cheering when the BBC led on the story, some of the footage nabbed from the Crimewatch shoot.
The back-slaps and bonhomie had actually started back at the Masters place. Byford had shown just after the cavalry. Far from giving Bev a hard time for going in, the guv had hinted at a commendation. Made a change from disciplinaries. Back then, she couldn’t share the general euphoria. Draining a third, no, fourth glass she was feeling a tad mellower.
She cocked her head. Some joker had put REM on the juke box: Everybody Hurts. Yeah, and cries. She snorted. No, make that lies. The widow had excelled. Not just her – everyone in the inquiry. It was the widow’s face she couldn’t get out of her head though, staring from the back of a police motor, rose petals still clinging to her hair, make-up a wreck. The cuffs had made a nice touch. Accessories were so important. Bev scowled. How could a woman sink so low? Like mother like daughter... last Bev had seen of Charlotte was in the back of an ambulance. Ditto the Sandman. Bad riddance.
They’d all be going down. A forensic team was at Park View, a second at Tate’s flat. Job done. Yeah, course it was. Pensive, she tugged her lip, mulling over how differently that final scene could have played out.
“There y’go.” Byford shuffled up next to her, shoved another Pinot across the table.
“Ta, guv.”
“Sure you’re OK, Bev?” He was on scotch; his concerned gaze was on her.
“Dandy.” Another drink maybe she would be; maybe she’d forget the victims’ faces, the pain and terror the Sandman had put them through, her own reluctance to intervene. Maybe she wouldn’t.
“You ever done the right thing for the wrong reasons, guv?” She circled a finger round the rim of the glass, still not sure whether she’d have stepped in to save the scumbags if she hadn’t heard the sirens. She counted six, seven seconds before he answered.
“Isn’t the result what matters, Bev?”
Was it? “Got me there, guv.” The question was deep and she was drunk, dog-tired. People were drifting off, Mac had just blown her a kiss, must be off his face as well. She stifled a yawn, reckoned it was time to hit the road. The MG’d be OK in the car park. She could just about stagger home, truth be told she fancied a trudge through the snow. She drained the glass, slipped into her coat, gave a mock salute. “I’m off. Catch you later.”
“Fancy a nightcap, Bev?” Those grey eyes held more than an invite for cocoa and that George Clooney smile could melt dry ice. God it was so tempting. But boy was she whacked, knew she looked rougher than a rough thing from rough land. On the other hand...
“Yeah.” Mischievous wink. “How ’bout tomorrow? Eight o’clock?”
Byford was still smiling when he unlocked his motor. Glancing up the road he could just make out Bev’s retreating figure in the distance: black against the snow; shoulder bag like a Santa sack. Despite a reasonably clean end to the case, something was clearly bugging her. He toyed with the idea of catching her up, decided against. No point rushing it. Maybe she’d open up tomorrow. About to get in the car, he spotted another figure that looked to be gaining on her. Byford narrowed his eyes; something about the body language hit his radar. His copper’s instinct told him something was wrong. A scream confirmed it.
No warning. The first blow took Bev’s breath away, knocked her off her feet. The snow had muffled the attacker’s approach. He had some sort of weapon. Baseball bat, she thought. Explosions were going off in her brain. She felt herself being dragged off the street, then a weight on her back. Pinned to the ground, she took another blow to the head. Screaming, she struggled, desperate to throw him off. Fighting back was her only chance. It wasn’t an option: she could barely move. Silverfish thoughts. Who was it? One of the Saleem brothers? Dorkboy? Twisting slightly she glimpsed hoodie and scarf. Got whacked in the face for her effort. A mugging? Was she the victim of street scum? Teeth gritted. Sod that. She was nobody’s victim.
Every muscle flexed, she writhed and bucked. Couldn’t budge the bastard. Waves of nausea washed over her; she felt dizzy, her eyelids fluttered, heart pounded ribs. The booze, the fight with Tate must’ve taken it out of her. What strength she had was seeping away. Dear God, don’t let me die like this. The attacker grabbed a handful of hair, yanked her head back.
“You didn’t return my calls. You didn’t even thank me for your lovely presents. What an ungrateful girl you are.” Presents? The heart? The timer? Who the fuck...? A chunk of hair came out by the roots with the next yank. “Open your eyes.” She tried, but the pain was too bad. “Open your fucking eyes. You have such pretty eyes... Laura.” She stiffened. One of her pick-ups. Tentatively she opened an eye, glimpsed the guy she’d dubbed Jagger lips. Jesus Christ, was he stoned or crazy? Either way he sounded amazingly sane.
“Lissen... I’m a cop.” Lisping, she barely recognised her own voice.
“I know what you are. You’re a slut. You hit on me – then treat me like shit. I don’t like being dissed, Bevie.” Spit trickled down her face. “You lied to me.” Everybody lies. “If I hadn’t nicked your mobile I wouldn’t even know your name. I hate liars. And I hate cops.” She felt a slight draught, sensed he was lifting the bat for another blow. “Two birds with one stone time.”
Drowsy, beginning to drift, Bev wondered vaguely who’d painted the snow red. The sudden release of pressure on her spine made her catch her breath. “Police. Drop it.” Minuscule tug of split lips. She’d know the guv’s voice anywhere. Eyes still closed, it hurt to move. She heard the fight: fists on flesh, rasping breaths, gasps, groans. Then silence. Slowly, gingerly she turned her head. Her attacker lay motionless, stared sightlessly at the night sky. Breathing heavily, Byford knelt in the snow, felt for a pulse. She didn’t need to ask. The jagged rock close by was stained with blood. Big question was whether he’d hit his head going down, or Byford had lent a hand?
“Nasty fall that, guv.” Through her pain she gave a weak smile. “Ask me – it could’ve happened to anyone.”
Everybody lies.
If you enjoyed “Blood Money” by Maureen Carter, you might also enjoy another eCC Creative Crime title:
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Blood Money Page 24