Authors: Maureen Carter
“The victim’s Todd Freeman, he was twenty-four years old, lived in Aston.” Anna Kendall with an early morning alarm call. “Says here, he was released six months ago.”
Hair mussed, Bev was propped on one elbow in bed, cheek creased from where she’d been sleeping on a Jeffrey Deaver. Not that the novel wasn’t thrilling, she’d just been too knackered from real life twists to keep her eyes open. They were saucer-wide now.
“What else has he got?” Bev asked. Meaning Matt Snow. Anna was at the subs’ desk, reading from a monitor. Sneak preview. Bev swung bare legs out of bed, winced at the temperature, central heating didn’t kick in till six. She missed the last few words. “Say again, Anna. Didn’t catch it.”
It was difficult, she said. If anyone heard the call, she’d be shown the door. “I’ve given you the top lines anyway, Bev.” Sure had. Freeman had apparently served two years in Winson Green for child abuse. He’d been attacked by fellow inmates, and got a load of press after threatening to sue the Home Office for damages.
“Hold on...” There was a frown in Anna’s voice. “There’s a note here... says Matt’s working on a related item... needs to go next to the lead.” Bev heard papers rustling, pictured Anna searching for clues. “Nothing obvious here, but it’ll all be in the early edition.”
“Hit the streets ’bout ten?”
“Yeah,” Anna said. “I hope the head start helps.”
She smiled. “Sure will.” And get her a gold star from Flint. She needed it. She wanted several words in private with the boss later that day; a little leverage might help her case.
Still holding the phone, she slipped an arm into her Snoopy dressing gown. Oz’s smell clung to the fabric. She quashed the same thought every morning. “Any sign of Snow, Anna?”
Not so much as a flake of dandruff. Anna said the reporter had e-mailed his copy. She thought the police might find him at his flat.
“You’re a star, Anna Kendall. Catch you later.”
But Snowie first. Bev hit a number. Minutes later a squad car was on its way to bring him in.
The Highgate jury was split. Picking up the buzz going round the nick, Bev reckoned it was fifty-fifty. Powell was either police hero or dickhead. Wherever two or three cops were gathered together, canteen, coffee machine, corridor, there was only one topic being kicked around, and everyone shooting their mouth. Bev sighed. Shame Vince Hanlon wasn’t jury foreman.
“Took guts to tackle that yob.” The veteran sergeant had caught some of the breakfast telly footage. “There was no time to pussyfoot around.” Vince parked brawny arms coated in silver hair on his paunch. “Now Mike gets it in the neck for thinking on his feet.”
Apart from the mind-boggling choice of anatomical phrases, Bev was with Vince hundred per cent. “I was there, mate. You’re preaching to the converted.” It wasn’t as if they could afford to lose an experienced player. Not when it was three-nil to the Disposer. Four counting Gladys Marsden.
“Some nutter running rings round Flint doesn’t help,” Vince moaned. “I’m not saying he’s not a decent enough boss...”
Flint’s shiny black lace-ups appeared in Bev’s eye-line. Vince was oblivious to the DCS descending the stairs behind. Her sudden coughing fit stopped Vince landing himself in the excrement. She’d got his drift anyway: bad enough being made to look a fool by one of the villains, how much worse when it was down to one of your DIs?
“This it, Vince?” Reason she was there: envelope on the desk with an
Evening News
miniature masthead and her name in copperplate. As Flint exited down the corridor, she grabbed a handful of Vince’s humbugs. “Best keep me sweet, big guy.” She winked. “Or I’ll grass you up to Flint.”
The library pic had been couriered from the
News
building, courtesy of Anna Kendall. Bev studied it, coffee in the other hand, as she walked upstairs. Curly black hair, good skin, even white teeth: Todd Freeman didn’t look like a paedophile. Doh, Beverley. They don’t all look like clones of the devil. She sniffed, elbowed the door to the murder room without spilling a drop. Lucky. It was the inaugural outing for the trousers. Shame bad guys didn’t look the part, she mused further, had it tattooed across their forehead. The good guys would be out of a job in no time. Bring it on. Her wry smile faded fast. Either way Freeman hadn’t deserved to end up as rats’ takeaway. The bleak thought unlocked last night’s bad dream: bared teeth, babies, bin bags. She shuddered, censored the unwanted images fast.
Cup keeping a chair warm, Bev searched a drawer for Blu Tack, fixed the print to the latest in a lengthening line of white-boards. Gruesome shots from last night’s crime scene were already displayed. Hands on hips, she focused on the latest exhibit. Ante-mortem, Freeman was definitely easy on the eye.
“Wotcha, sarge.”
“Daz.” She fluttered fingers in distracted greeting before taking her front row pew. Squad members not already working scenes drifted in. Fifteen men, seven women. Doubtless Flint would be asking for more officers, more resources, assuming he was still senior investigating officer. Rumour had it the brass wanted to hand overall control for Operation Wolf to an assistant chief constable. Smart money was on Les Nixon, ACC Operations. Speculation was also rife as to who would head up the Milton Place inquiry. It’d be a right slap in the face if Flint were shifted sideways. Mind, Highgate was riddled with rumour mills.
Bev sipped coffee, earwigged Daz’s banter with a couple of DCs. Sounded as if he was running a sweepstake on the duration of Powell’s suspension. She tutted, shook her head. Despite more run-ins with the DI than a racetrack, she felt sorry for Powell. Much as anything, she didn’t think he had a lot going in his life apart from the job. Still... “How much, Daz?” She reached in her bag, handed him a couple of quid, took a folded piece of paper.
“OK, boss?” Mac parked his bum on the next seat. Bacon fat fumes wafted from the lumberjack shirt. No prizes for guessing he’d graced the canteen with his presence.
“Dandy. Sauce round your gob, mate.”
“Ta.” A glint in the eye meant he was honing a comeback line. It wasn’t delivered; Flint’s brisk entrance saw to that. The DCS strode in waving a tape in his hand. Came to the point before reaching the front. “I’m not saying it’s the break, but it’s a lead.”
The squad’s body language altered in an instant, sprawled legs were drawn in, slumped bodies straightened. Flint talked as he inserted the tape into a machine. “Woman called the hotline this morning, wouldn’t give her name.” He lifted a finger for hush; superfluous given the room was pin-drop silent.
The husky voice was local, maybe middle-aged. It described a strange man hanging round the perimeter fence at Lidl’s car park on the day Philip Goodie was attacked: short, skinny, blond hair, sticky-up fringe, brown suit, shifty-looking. “Must’ve been there forty minutes at least,” she droned. “Saw him when I arrived, still there when I’d done me shopping.”
So why not come forward earlier, lady? Bev frowned. Trouble with anonymous calls, you couldn’t put a supplementary or six.
“Sound like anyone we know?” Flint’s lips formed a thin line.
Rhetorical question. Everyone in the room knew the tape pointed a finger at Matt Snow. Make that two fingers. Seeing as word got round here faster than MRSA, they’d also heard that Mac had phoned in from Moseley. He’d caught last night’s eye witness – Jodie Mills – just as she was leaving for work. Ms Mills had placed Matt Snow at the Todd Freeman murder scene.
The news hadn’t particularly excited Bev. The fact he’d been there was sure to emerge when the reporter’s articles hit the streets, it didn’t necessarily follow he was in the frame. Flint saw it differently. Either way, they’d soon be asking Snow for his version. The patrol had dropped him off at the nick twenty minutes ago. He was downstairs waiting to be interviewed.
Jotting a few ideas on a pad, Bev kept half an ear open as the DCS assigned tasks to the rest of the squad. The poster campaigns on the Churchill and Small Heath park were still prompting calls; the Eddie Scrivener news coverage had led to half a dozen sightings. Both meant a mountain of follow-up work. As for the latest murder, Flint was dispatching more detectives to join those already in Moseley. Loads of people lived in flats over the shops, and houses bordered three sides of the car park where the alleyway led. Lots of doors needed knocking. When Flint said Milton Place would now be treated as a separate inquiry, Bev tuned out momentarily. Operation Wolf contained more than enough to exercise her brain cells. Mulling it over, she tapped the biro against her teeth, pricked her ears at the word rumours.
Oops. She’d missed something. She glanced up, reached for her coffee, as Flint swept a searching gaze over the troops. “Whatever you may have heard, I can say categorically that ACC Nixon is not being called in. The Chief Constable sees continuity of command as vital in a case as complex as Operation Wolf. So you’ll be putting up with me for a while yet.” The smile reached a corner of his mouth this time. “Piece of news you’ll not have heard. Hot off the press as you might say.” Get on with it, thought Bev. “It concerns SIO for the Milton Place inquiry. Obviously it depends on the medical, but lead detectives don’t get much better than Bill Byford.”
Coffee sprayed everywhere. She used her free hand to dab at the new trousers. Mac handed her a crumpled tissue, ran a finger round his top lip, mouthed, “Coffee moustache.”
“OK now?” Flint asked.
Just perfect.
“A mention woulda been nice,” Bev hissed. The loos at Highgate were deserted but it wasn’t the best place to make a phone call.
“Can you zip it for two minutes?” Byford, just about keeping his cool at the other end of the line.
Considering she’d ignored him all weekend, she couldn’t exit the brief fast enough to give him a piece of her mind. Seated sulkily on a down-turned toilet lid, she had her back against the wall, knees drawn up, berating him for keeping her in the dark. She was keeping an eye on the time – there was just ten minutes before her rendezvous with Flint in Interview One.
“Look, Bev,” Byford soothed, “me coming back to Highgate’s been on the cards for a couple of weeks. Nothing to do with Milton...”
“A coupla...” Her voice hit the ceiling, bounced off the tiles.
“Pipe down, will you?” She heard a deep intake of breath. “Why do you think I’ve not said anything?”
“Told me to button it a minute ago. Make your mind up.”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t want anything coming out until it was definite. How do you think I’ll feel if the doctor says I’m not fit enough?”
“Course he won’t.”
“She.”
“Same diff.” Her bottom lip jutted. “When you seeing her?”
“This afternoon.” A tap dripped in the silence.
“Shit, guv, you could’ve told me.” She stressed the
me
. Surely she was more than just another colleague if not – in every definition of the word – a mate. Or maybe not. Maybe the fact they’d come so close to getting it on was the reason he’d pulled out, stood her up. Despite what they’d shared over the last few months, he was still the boss. So he was putting in the distance before the big comeback.
“Now you know, what’s your thinking?” That the cajolery in his voice meant he was trying to get round her. Like that would work. Professionally, having the guv back in business was the best news she’d had in ages. Finest cop she’d worked with. Personally, she no longer gave a toss. “Can’t wait. Sir.”
Byford interpreted the delivery not the content. “Are you still pissed off?” Swearing. Not like the guv she knew and loved. Once upon a time.
“Pig in shit, me. Sir.” She pulled a face. Not the smartest remark given the location.
“Pity’s sake, Bev, even when I worked there you didn’t call me sir. How much longer are you planning to keep this up?”
“Coulda told me face-to-face.” Stead of leaving the equivalent of a Dear John letter on the answerphone.
“I’d no idea Flint was going to shout his mouth...”
“Not work. The weekend. You. Having better things to do.” She scowled, reckoned maintenance ought to fix that tap.
“Is that what this is all about?” He took the silence as a yes. He came close to hanging up; she was wearing his patience thin. Then he realised that for Bev even to make the call, let alone reveal the vulnerability, was a massive step in Morriss-world. And he owed her an explanation.
“If looking out for my son was a better thing to do then... guilty as charged.” She heard the stroke of an eyebrow, listened as he talked her through Rich’s call, how he’d spent the weekend trying to help. “He needed me, Bev.”
And I didn’t? She thought it through, recognised the guv had a strong case, realised she’d probably always put her kids first. So busy cogitating, she almost missed the best bit. “And... God help me, Bev...” He paused, maybe to let her catch up, or let it sink in. “I need you.”
She closed her eyes, chewed her bottom lip. Maybe she’d been a tad hasty. “’Kay.” She dragged a sleeve across her nose. “Just don’t start bossing me round when you get back.” Her face was one big smile. “Joke.”
“Tell me, Sergeant Morriss, did I say something funny?” Flint sounded genuinely baffled, but affected bewilderment creased his face. Cops were good actors, great at dissembling. Must be the bad company they keep. In this case: Matt Snow.
Bev, seated behind a metal table at Flint’s right, ostentatiously checked a notebook. Not that she’d written anything. No point given the exchange was being recorded. Snow wasn’t to know she hadn’t taken down his every word.
“Nope.” She traced a virgin page with her finger. “Here y’go, chief. You informed Mr Snow he’d been placed at the scene of a crime. Can’t say it has me rolling in the aisles.”
It was pushing the veracity envelope a tad but hey, Snow hadn’t heard what the anonymous caller had said. Not that he looked moved either way. Sprawled in a hard chair opposite, the reporter chewed a hangnail on his thumb. He was getting to be an old hand at this lark: this was his third police interview under caution. Again, he’d eschewed a brief. “When is it? I’ll see if I can get an hour off work.”
Flint’s bafflement wasn’t faked this time. Nor Bev’s. “What?” she asked.
“ID parade.” He spat a tiny piece of flesh on to the cracked lino. “The eye witness who can pick me out?” The smirk hadn’t altered an iota. “Bring it on.”
Bluff or bullshit? Either way a husky female voice on the phone didn’t add up to a bean, let alone a row of the things.
“Are you denying you were in Lidl’s car park around the time of Philip Goodie’s murder?” Flint asked.
“Dunno.” More nail nibbling. “When’d he die?” The nail stuff couldn’t just be a gesture to convey insouciance, as Bev first thought. The skin round his fingers was raw, every nail bitten to the quick and beyond. And one skinny leg encased in crumpled brown polyester, pumped like a piston. He straightened slightly, loosened his tie. “Anyway, since when’s shopping at Lidl’s been a punishable offence?”
“So you were there?” Flint said.
“Nah. Cheap gag.”
Flint rose, walked round, perched on the desk, invaded Snow’s space. The flicker of unease across the reporter’s face was fast; so fast Bev wondered if she’d imagined it.
“Could cost you dear, Mr Snow.”
The reporter looked away first. “I wasn’t there, OK. It’s his word against mine.”
“Hers,” Bev corrected.
“Whatever.”
Flint and Bev exchanged brief glances, a nod to step up the pressure. “What is it with you and crime scenes, Mr Snow?” Flint ticked them off on his fingers. “Wally Marsden. Philip Goodie. Todd Freeman.” Was there shock in the sudden silence? Naming Freeman should’ve knocked Snow for six. Local radio’s top line on the story was that a man found murdered had yet to be identified. The
Evening News
hadn’t hit the streets yet. The reporter opened his mouth; changed his mind.
“What is it, Mr Snow?”
“Nothing.”
“Surprised we’re up to speed? That we haven’t had to ‘read all about it’.” Flint’s voice snarled with contempt. “See, here’s the thing.” The DCS glared, folded his arms. “If the Disposer just wants you to write his story, if he feeds you the information, if he tells you what to say, why do you go to the crime scenes at all? Let alone get there before anybody else.”
“I’m a reporter. It’s what I do.”
Flint raised a sceptical eyebrow. Snow’s were knotted in concern. Bev reckoned it was the first genuine emotion he’d failed to hide.
“Is it, Mr Snow?” He sniffed. “Is that all you do?” The eye contact lasted seven, eight seconds before Flint rose, walked back to his original seat.
“Hold on a minute,” Snow asked. “Where’s this going?”
Flint ignored the question, leaned forward, elbows on desk, gazed at Snow as if he was an exhibit in a freak show. “Would you say you’re a violent man, Mr Snow?”
The pale blue eyes darkened. “Meaning?”
“Ever glassed a bloke,” Bev said helpfully. “That clear enough?” He mumbled something that sounded like
bitch
. “Didn’t catch that, Mr Snow.” Bright smile from Bev. “Once more for the tape, please.” He leaned back, arms folded. “Mr Snow refuses to repeat his statement.”
She leaned forward, lowered her voice. “Son-of-a-bitch.” Spat out. “Jack Pope could’ve lost an eye.”
“It was self defence. Pope was off his face.”
“Liar. Unprovoked attack is what it was.” Normal volume now. “So to answer DCS Flint’s question...?” Flint cocked an expectant head.
“I need the loo. I want a break.”
She curled a lip. “Locking up’s what you need.”
Flint twirled a pen in his fingers. “Ever met him?” The sudden change of tack was pre-arranged. Bev scanned Snow’s face for the slightest tic, the tiniest signal that might say more than words. The reporter’s face was frozen. The piston leg had stilled too.
Recovery came, but not quick. He licked dry lips. “Met who?” As if he didn’t know. Snow was playing for time.
“Your psycho pen pal,” Bev sneered.
The reporter’s gaze flicked between his interrogators. Bad cop. Worse cop.
“Well?” Flint prompted. “Have you?”
Snow’s head dropped to his puny chest. “No.”
“Didn’t catch it, Mr Snow.”
“No!” Snow shrieked.
“Let’s see if I’ve got this right.” More ticked fingers. “You’ve never met your informant, you don’t have a name, a number, or any means of contacting him.”
“Like he’s going to tell me,” Snow snarled.
“Hear that, sergeant?” Flint turned his mouth down. “Mr Snow appears to be the official mouthpiece of the Invisible Man.”
Bev sniffed. “That the same as non-existent?”
The reporter nodded slowly, ashen-faced. “I see what you’re doing. I get it now. You bastards aren’t gonna shoot the messenger. You’re gonna stitch me up and throw away the key.”
“I’d say that’s another one of your little fantasies, Mr Snow.” Flint stood, signalling the end of the session. “I’m giving you some time to think about what you’re doing. I strongly advise you to consider your position. Sort the fact from the fiction.”
Mid-morning. The canteen at Highgate was quiet. Couple of traffic wardens quaffing tea, and a pair of community support officers at the counter. The plastic plods were stocking up on Penguins and bottled water. Bev sat at a window table in a shaft of strong sunlight, picked a hair from a corned beef and tomato bap. Flint had stumped up for the coffees. She suspected the DCS thought there was a crack in the case, and they’d soon be celebrating with more than Nescafé.
“Reckon he’s up for it?” Bev asked, pulling a face as she extracted another hair. Maybe one of the caterers was moulting.
“Up for something. Wish I knew what.” He pursed his lips. “He’s either devious or dangerous.”
“Dickhead or dupe.” She sniffed. “Make that both.”
“You don’t see him as a killer?” He popped a couple of sweeteners into a steaming mug.
Mouth full, she waggled a wavering hand. She and Snow went back a fair few years. Her instinct said no. Then again, she’d never have envisaged him taking a bottle to anyone. Jack Pope had definitely not been drunk. Snow had played fast and loose with the truth there. She wondered if his grasp on reality was any stronger. Either way instinct wasn’t evidence. If Snow’s hands were dirty with something other than newsprint, they needed to find out what – and stand it up in court.
“Dunno,” she said. “Think we’ve got enough for a warrant?” Search of Snow’s home, motor, might uncover proof one way or the other. That the so-called Disposer existed or was a figment of what Flint clearly saw as Snow’s fevered imagination.
The DCS leaned in, held her gaze, lowered his voice. “Not with what we’ve got.”
“Best get some more then.” She frowned. Was Flint talking cutting corners? Bending procedures? Dangerous territory given Snow’s accusations of police embroidery. She’d stitch up Snow like a shot, but only because the bloke was falling apart. As well as the state of his nails, he smelt as if he could do with a wash, his clothes were none too clean and his face was the colour of lard except for the pus in his spots.
Bev chucked what was left of the food on her plate. Couldn’t stomach it any more, nor, if she’d read it right, Flint’s innuendo.
“What about the headaches?” It was another box to be ticked or not on the doctor’s clipboard. Jo Esler looked more media woman than medico. Early thirties, casually dressed, blonde hair in sleek ponytail; her regular features were usually set in a smile. No white coat syndrome in Doctor Esler’s consulting room. Byford still felt apprehensive. The detective slipped an arm into a crisp white shirt, took a quick peek at how he’d scored so far. Blood pressure. Heart. Chest. Reflexes. Looked like a clear round.
“Headaches...?” Byford fastened the top button. “Remind me...” He hoped what Bev called his George Clooney smile would conceal the barefaced lie. The searing pain was unforgettable, but they struck much less frequently now, and his balance was virtually back to normal.
Doctor Esler rolled her eyes. She’d treated Byford since the night of the attack, almost certainly saved his life. She’d come to know and respect the big man. She was also wise to his little ways. “How many a week, Bill? And let’s have the truth.”
Byford resumed his seat. “Maybe one a fortnight.” Esler’s eyebrows were almost as eloquent as the big man’s. “OK, OK,” Byford ceded. “Two.”
“So that’s twice weekly.” She made a note. “Do they respond to pain relief?”
Occasionally. “Sure, and they’re nowhere near as intense.” Esler applied her visual lie detector test. Byford held the diagnostic gaze, managed not to shift in the seat. The detective wasn’t being foolish. There was no point trying to swing the medical if he wasn’t ready to go back to work. Physically, he reckoned he was eighty, eighty-five per cent fit, and resigned to the fact that was it for the foreseeable. The thought of early retirement was appealing, too appealing. If he didn’t go back soon, he never would. And though tempted, he wasn’t ready for that.
Esler ticked another box. Her grateful patient breathed a mental sigh of relief. “How do you feel about three days a week, Bill? See how it goes.”
Byford saw a part-time lame duck with two Achilles heels. “No way.”
“Glad you thought it through.” Esler smiled. “Can’t say I’m surprised. You’re stubborn as a mule.”
Byford reached for his jacket. “Clean bill of health, then, doctor?”
She turned her mouth down. “Slightly soiled, I’d say. But probably in excellent working order.”
Bev had worked through more lunch breaks than she’d had hot dinners. Not this one. She fed coins into a hungry ticket machine, swallowed the last bite of blueberry muffin, checked her watch. Given the twenty-minute drive across town, she calculated she had quarter of an hour at most. Why’d hospital car parks cost an arm and a leg?
A steroids ’r’ us security guard patrolled the General’s main entrance. She flashed a warrant card. The gorilla searched her bag anyway. Cursory check though or it would’ve taken a month.
“Health hazard that,” he snarled. Cheeky sod wiped a hand on his trousers, pointed to the right. “Reception’s...”
“I know.” The General was second home to a lot of cops. Mostly on account of crims. She grabbed directions from the desk, headed for the lifts, halted halfway down the ward. No sign of Powell. “Buggery-bollocks.”
“I beg your pardon?” It was an admonition, not an apology. Bev turned. A matronly sister stood there, lips puckered, hands buried in surplus hip flesh.
Bev couldn’t be doing with the aggro. “Running late, love. Visiting Mike Powell. Know where he is?”
“Outside regular hours, you’re not.” Sister Smug folded her arms, tapped a foot. “Unless you’re next-of-kin.”
“Wife.” Blue eyes blazed. “That kin enough?”
“Babe.” Powell in grey silk PJs, wrapped an arm round Bev’s shoulder, pecked her cheek. “I didn’t know you cared.” Fatso was clearly sceptical. He confided sombrely, “We’re estranged, you know.” Bev wanted to strangle him. He planted another peck. “Good to see you, chicken.” She itched to wring his neck. “Excuse us, Mary.” He smiled. “Bev and I have so much catching up.”
The DI led her to relative safety. “Mrs P, eh?” He grinned, lying on his side, blond hair ruffled for what must be the first time in history. Bev slumped into a visitor’s chair. “Breathe a word, ever,” she hissed, “and you’re dead.”
“Feel better already.” His lip still twitched. “So what you doing here?”
“That’s nice.”
“Surprised to see you that’s all.”
Bev was surprised, too. Apart from the bruise on his left temple, Powell looked fit as well as fairly tasty. The casual look suited him better than the customary sharp tailoring. Mind, dressing down didn’t get much lower than jim-jams. “Not at death’s door, then?”
“Nah.” He stroked the side of his head. “Observation mainly. Should be out tomorrow. Where’s my grapes?”
“Tesco?” She suspected he was trying to keep the chat light, noticed a slight tremor in his hands. Lonely places, hospitals. Especially for someone who never talked about family, whose wife had buggered off years ago, and whose professional life hung in the balance. No time for social niceties though.
“What you did was freaking stupid.” His knuckles turned white. She looked him in the eye. “And I’d’ve done exactly the same.” If she were Powell. And felt guilt for losing a young officer in a fire. “It got to you, didn’t it?”
“What you on about?” Seemed to her the snarl was token.
“I was there, Mike. I saw it.” The use of his Christian name was a first. Maybe it was that, maybe the warmth in eyes as blue as it gets. Still he hesitated. She sat forward, reached for his hand. It took more than quarter of an hour for it all to spill out. He told her about the trauma he’d gone through when Simon was killed, the continuing night terrors, the torment he’d felt watching impotently as events unfolded outside Milton Place.
“Had to do it, Bev. No choice.” He searched her face for approval.
“Saved a life, Mike.”
“Yeah. And lost a job.”
“Don’t know that.” Nor was he aware of the leverage she might now have with Flint.
“Guy’s in here you know.” Powell had been visiting the sick when she arrived. Apparently the young victim was in the next ward. “Shattered nose, jaw, cheekbone, detached retina.”