Authors: Maureen Carter
“Live though, won’t he? Why’d they go for him?”
“He’s no idea. No convictions for sex offences. No one said anything, just dragged him out.”
“Mistaken identity?”
Powell shrugged. “Who knows?”
Briefly she told him how it was panning out: twenty-two arrests, eighteen remanded on bail, four blokes in custody refusing to give more than their names. The DI was still thinking about the guy he’d saved. “He thanked me for helping him, Bev.”
She smiled. “Deserve it, mate.” No wonder he’d been in high spirits earlier. “Best hit the road.” She reached for her bag. “You like blueberry muffins?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. Next time maybe. Ciao.”
She was four beds away when he shouted. “Hey, babe, I want a divorce.”
“Bite me.”
“Much as it grieves me, I think we’ll have to let him go.” It was Flint’s verdict after the day’s second session with Matt Snow, the latest with his brief banging on about rights. Early evening now and Bev was in Flint’s office reviewing the interview and the evidence – lack of.
Forensically, nothing linked Snow to the murders. No prints, hairs, skin cells, fibres. On the witness front, one anonymous phone call did not a conviction next summer make. As to motive, whatever Flint’s opinion, Bev thought it was questionable, if not risible. Killing as a career move? I don’t think so. One thing she was sure of: Snow had vital information, and he wasn’t sharing. They could probably hang a police obstruction charge round his scrawny neck, but...
“Know what they say about giving people enough rope?”
“If we release him... he’ll incriminate himself?” Flint was chucking balls of paper in the bin.
“Guy won’t do diddly in custody.” Set him loose, he might slip up. And they only had Snow’s word that he’d not got up close and personal with the Disposer. Assuming the bastard existed, surely there’d be physical contact at some stage?
“We’d need a tail.” Flint’s missile went wide.
“Natch.”
“Twenty-four-seven. Doesn’t come cheap. I’ll give it some thought.” Another wide ball.
Bev shrugged. What price a life? Thank God Anna Kendall wasn’t charging for sleuthing on the side.
“What do you make of this?” Flint turned a newspaper to face her,
Evening News,
late edition.
She’d already seen it, still couldn’t work out why Snow had messaged the desk to hold the front page. “Ain’t gonna set the world on fire, is it?” The sidebar wasn’t much more than a re-run of the Disposer’s first letter: I am our children’s saviour. Paedophiles are scum. Paedos are vermin, yada yada. Bev narrowed her eyes, envisaging a cat among the pigeons. Make that a feather-ruffling pig. “Why don’t we write to him? The Disposer?”
Flint’s ball hand stilled mid-air as he stared at her. “Saying?”
She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “The guy thinks he’s smart, right? Leading the dance, calling the tune, writing the script...”
“I get the picture.”
“’Kay. So we ask him something only the killer could know.” While Flint thought that through, she ran a mental checklist of some of the information they’d withheld from the media. “What about the spray paint in the alley? No one outside the squad knows about that.”
“And?” He was prepping another missile.
Just let me get my crystal ball. “Depends what we get back.” She sniffed. “It could prove whoever’s writing’s genuine.”
Flint shrugged. “There’s no doubt the killer was behind the first letter. There’s privileged information in it.”
“Yeah. The first.” She let that sink in. “What if there’s a copycat clown out there?”
He threw the ball from hand to hand, four or five passes, then laid it on the table, game over. “We’d have to run it past the lawyers. Police using the press to correspond with criminals raises all sorts of issues, ethical questions.” He gave her a fleeting smile. “Joined-up thinking though, Bev. I like that.”
Ain’t gonna like this. “Not my baby, boss.”
“Oh?”
“DI Powell’s. Saw him in hospital. Lunchtime.” She was taking his name in vain: Powell wouldn’t have a clue what she was on about. Bigging up the DI was more leverage in her one-woman campaign to get him back in harness. Fact that so far there’d been no media mauling helped; the DI was a hero according to the
Post’s
leader column.
Flint’s thin lips almost disappeared. “Powell’s not on the inquiry.” He reached for a file: case closed.
No one said it’d be easy. She straightened, aimed for gravitas. “Mike Powell saved a man’s life out there, sir.”
“Potentially jeopardising the entire operation.” Chipped ice.
“It was a calculated risk. You ever taken one?” Supplication? Insubordination? Knew she was treading a fine line.
“He disobeyed an order, sergeant.”
“An order issued before the immediate threat to a man’s life, sir.” God’s sake, Bev, tell it like it is. She spread her hands. “That bloke was toast any second.” Waited till he made eye-contact. “Powell couldn’t stand idle and watch a repeat performance of Monk’s Court.” She put some spin on what the DI had confided earlier. That he’d acted on instinct, initiative; doing nothing wasn’t an option. Flint listened, nodded a few times. Bev thought it was in the bag.
“Thanks for that, sergeant.” The DCS picked up a slim gold pen, started writing.
Bev closed her gaping mouth. “And?”
“I’ll bear it in mind at the inquiry.”
OK. Bull by the bollocks. “We need senior officers like Mike Powell, sir.” Again she waited. Her eyes held more meaning than the words. Was Flint up to the interpretation? “The DI wouldn’t bend a rule if it bit him in the bum. He’s as straight as a die.” She couldn’t afford to query Flint’s integrity straight out. If mistaken, it would be professional suicide.
Cold stare. “Is that why you’re still sergeant?” If attack was the best form of defence, he’d got her drift. And like Bev, he was treading carefully. Maybe they had the measure of each other.
“Nah.” She gave a brittle laugh. “Too lippie for the men in grey, me.” She’d never get further than DS cause she didn’t lick arse, and didn’t stay in line. Never crossed an important one though.
Flint leaned back, crossed his arms, looked her over. “Yes.” The word had three syllables.
Waste of sodding time. She gathered her bits, grabbed her bag. Gobbing off had done squat for the DI and now she’d made an enemy of Flint. Great day’s work.
He reached for the paper ball, played it between his hands. “Pick your battles better in future, Bev.”
She rose. “Sir.”
“Soon as he’s fit, I’ll ask Powell to take on admin duties pending the inquiry.” The bin pinged as the ball went in. “I’d already made the decision.”
Bev could barely speak her teeth were clenched so tight. He’d let her bang on like a drum kit. “So all this...”
“Was very revealing. It taught me a lot about you.” She so didn’t like the sound of that. Nor Flint’s thin smile. She didn’t trust the man. He might know more about her. She was kidding herself thinking she’d got his measure.
Quit while you’re not ahead, Beverley. She turned at the door. “Hope it taught you I don’t jump hoops. Not for you. Nor anyone.”
“Oh go on, sweetheart.” The plea was from Bev’s mum asking her to Sadie-sit. Emmy rarely asked a favour, but she had tickets for a Cliff Richard concert, the regular sitter had pulled out and Bev’s gran was throwing a wobbly. Mobile tucked under chin, Bev was rifling her knicker drawer. She’d only just chilled since the Flint altercation. The drive home helped, as had the passion fruit smoothie.
“Any other night, ma, I’d be there in a flash.” She’d already said no, twice. She heard a querulous Sadie kick off in the background, pictured her mum’s lovely face, saw the disappointment. Bev tightened her lips, knew the scumbag who’d attacked Sadie was to blame for all this. Three years on and her gran’s nerves were worse. The old lady rarely ventured out, was petrified staying in, especially on her own.
“’Kay, love. No worries. What are you up to? Something exciting?” Pollyanna Emmy versus Bev-the-heel-Morriss. No contest. Her mum reckoned Cliff was the bee’s bollocks.
Bev closed the drawer. “Time you want me, ma?”
It was Byford’s fault. He’d phoned earlier, said he’d try to book a table this evening at San Carlo to celebrate passing the medical. Hadn’t phoned back to firm anything up. She was pulling faces in the mirror a minute later when Frankie strolled in with the phone.
“Good God, Bevy, you’re never gonna wear that, are you?” A pink leopard print thong dangled from the drawer. She took the phone, gave Frankie the finger. “Hey, guv. Sorry ’bout this...”
Not tonight, Joseph.
“Don’t turn round. Do exactly as I say.” The crap line in a Marlon Brando mumble was from a B-for-bad movie. Matt Snow had more sense than to show his derision. But he’d expected something original from the Disposer. The reporter shot an involuntary glance in the driving mirror. And froze. That was original all right. No wonder the voice was muffled. Dark eyes glinted beneath the grille of a burqa. Snow looked away but not before split second eye contact in the glass.
Almost midnight now, the reporter had hit a few dives after the cops let him go. Hadn’t been too hammered to spot a back seat passenger in the Fiesta as the cab dropped him outside the flat. The reporter had no doubt who his uninvited guest was. No point walking away from it, they had to deal sooner or later. Didn’t stop Snow cacking himself though. In a weird way he was partly relieved. During the latest police grilling, he’d begun to doubt the killer’s existence himself.
“I think we need to talk, don’t you, Matthew?” Less muffled this time. Male. Educated.
“Sure. That’d be good.” It sounded as if Snow had a pond of jumpy frogs in his throat.
Rustling from the back, sudden movement. “On edge, Matthew?” Snow felt cold steel at his neck, hot breath in his ear.
Jesus Christ. No. Not like this. Whirling thoughts. Darting fears. Body immobile. Warm blood trickled already where the blade bit into skin.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Matthew. We still have work to do, don’t we?” Terror and the knife’s pressure paralysed Snow. The Disposer used the blade to underline the point. “Don’t we, Matthew?” Snow winced. “I’ll take that as yes. When I remove the knife, don’t open your mouth unless I tell you. If you turn round, I kill you. Clear?”
Another wince. The pressure eased. The fingers Snow ran round his neck came back sticky, stinking of blood. “Flesh wound, Matthew. Nothing to worry about.” An opened box of tissues landed on the passenger seat.
Snow cut another glance in the mirror. Imagined the bastard had a sly grin under the headgear. Not that he could tell. He could stare at the reflection until the cows left home, and still be unable to provide a decent description. Shame that. Because this time the psycho had gone too far.
“So... current state of play? I’m pleased, Matthew. I think I can trust you.” Snow clenched his fists. “Between you and me, the mission’s almost over and as we know, that’s when your work really begins.” Snow’s frown deepened. “Come, come, Matthew, you must have realised that once the project’s complete my part is over. I’ve no intention of getting caught, going to prison, being punished for doing the world a favour. The plan was always to kill myself. Don’t look like that, Matthew! I’ll make sure you have everything you need: the biographical material, the photo albums, we can still tape the interviews. You were always going to be the writer.” He paused. “Think of me as the ghost.”
He talked for five minutes. Paedophiles had destroyed his childhood, he told Snow. Gave chapter and stomach-turning verse. There were two monsters he still wanted to kill, then he’d take his own life. When he named names, Snow would realise just how big the story was. As well as the glory, he promised the reporter a cool half-million.
A brown envelope appeared at Snow’s shoulder. “A little advance, Matthew.”
Bloodstained fingers trembled as he tore the envelope. Snow gasped; beer-laced bile caught in his throat, tears stung his eyes. The photograph showed Snow’s mother, naked, stepping out of the shower.
“Advance warning, Matthew. Fuck with me.” The blade appeared, skewered the print. “I fuck with her.”
Snow dropped his head in his hands, bony shoulders shook as he sobbed. Any idea of talking to the cops vanished in that instant. He was way out of his depth. It had been a dangerous game. And he was no longer playing.
“Matt’s phoned in sick.” Anna Kendall’s opening words. Bev had put in the call from her office hoping to arrange a newsroom snoop, keep up the pressure on Snow if only for an hour or so. There’d be no round-the-clock tail. Flint had vetoed it at the early brief, couldn’t get it past the bean counters. Brief ’s only bright spot had been Flint’s announcement that the guv would be back at his desk tomorrow. Bev knew already, didn’t stop her cheering with the rest of the squad.
“What’s up with Snow this time?” Feet on desk, she was checking her hair for split ends, decided to book a trim.
“Dicky stomach, I think.”
Knew how he felt. Twice she’d thrown up in the middle of the night; so much for thinking the baby barfing was over. How much longer did it go on, for God’s sake? She sniffed. Pigging out on Belgian chocolate and Bailey’s with Sadie last night probably hadn’t helped.
“Why the call?” Anna was breathy, expectant. “Is it the interview? Are you coming in?”
Anyone would think it was a royal visit. Telling Anna it wasn’t worth the trip without Snow’s presence wouldn’t be the smartest move. “Love to, Anna. Bit tied up at the mo.”
“Stupid of me. You must be so busy right now...” She tailed off uncertainly. Her question unanswered. “So why...”
The call? Feet. On. Think. Beverley. “Fancy a drink, tonight?” Shit. Sounded like she was hitting on her. “Be useful, like, before getting down to business.” Another double entendre. Double shit. “God, that sounds...”
“A great idea.” Anna laughed. “You’re right. When it comes to big interviews, it’s dead useful to feel you know someone a little beforehand. There’s hardly ever time in this business, but on the odd occasion I’ve gone down that path, it’s really paid off.”
Time and bar sorted, inspiration struck. “Anna? One other thing you might be able to help with...”
“Call for you, boss.” Mac Tyler waved a phone in the air. Bev had been prowling the squad room, pacing up and down in front of the whiteboards, gazing into dead men’s eyes, rueing another dead-end day. Follow-up calls leading nowhere, run of unreturned answerphone messages and e-mails, same old. Most of the afternoon had been spent on what she un-fondly called recycling: rereading police and pathology reports, reviewing key witness statements, rewinding video footage. Trying to join the dots – see the picture. They weren’t even close: dots or cops. Hundreds of officer hours, shed-loads of shoe leather, so much graft, so little to show. Make that nada.
“Who is it, mate?” Better be good. She’d been necking Red Bull, dying for a pee now.
“Bad line, sorry, boss.” Could be something to do with the wire dangling from his ear. She scowled: probably listening to Five Live.
“Bev Morriss.”
“Sergeant... you said to phone...” A woman’s voice petered out. Bev frowned, couldn’t place it. Not surprising. She’d given her numbers out more times than Directory Inquiries.
“Yeah?” Pained expression, crossed legs.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sergeant.” Sounded like she had a cold. “It’s Mrs Graves. Madeleine Graves.”
Bev’s mental Google came up with: swanky pad, husband topped himself, brownies to die for. “Mrs Graves. Thank you for calling. How may I help?” The simper turned heads with incredulous faces: Mac, Darren New and Caz Pemberton’s.
“So sorry... I’m still not thinking straight. It’s such as shock.” Another anonymous letter? The widow didn’t have a cold. Bev heard it now: she’d been crying. “Slow breaths, Mrs Graves. Take your time.”
In the background, a grandfather clock chimed the half-hour. Bev’s watch had 5.20. Snuffles and sniffs then: “I discovered it when I returned home. I just don’t understand how anyone could do such a thing.”
Break-in? Place trashed? Stuff nicked? There’d been a fair few valuables knocking about, family obviously worth a euro or two. Bev ran her gaze down a list of local cop shops stuck on the wall. Tudor Grange was Handsworth’s patch. “Mrs Graves, best thing...”
“I wouldn’t ask, but... you were so... kind.” Catch in the throat. “Please, dear, please can you come round? I’m on my own. I don’t know what to do.”
Quick calculation. It’d mean missing the late brief. She scowled. More barely disguised flak from Flint. On the other hand her time sheet was in rude health. And the woman was in obvious distress. “With you in...” She frowned. Click on the line. “Mrs Graves?”
Pensive, she dropped the phone back on its cradle. Mac was mangling a keyboard with two fingers. “OK, boss?”
Not if she didn’t get to the loo. “Gotta dash.” She turned at the door. “Mac, tell the chief I’m out interviewing witnesses.”
“Straight up? Someone seen something?”
She waggled a hand. Madeleine Graves must’ve seen something.
Madeleine Graves stared at her late husband’s portrait. Her face was a wreck of mascara and tear tracks; his was obliterated by a recent coat of red gloss. The stink of paint overpowered any lingering pot pourri.
“It’s completely ruined,” Madeleine sobbed. “Who would do such a thing?”
Bev turned her gaze from the painting. “Did your husband have any enemies, Mrs Graves?” One. Obviously.
“Everyone loved Adam.” She shook her head, dabbed her face; the handkerchief had an embroidered A. The widow’s make-up was patchy now. Like her recall. Chucking a can of paint over a portrait was hardly a loving act. Loathing maybe.
Especially since nothing else appeared to have been touched. Madeleine had been at a friend’s house playing bridge, arrived back around five pm, found a side door forced, fumes hit her soon as she stepped inside. Couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw the damage. Not just the paint. The canvas had been badly hacked about with a blade of some sort.
“Sure nothing’s missing?” Bev asked.
“Of course I’m not sure.” Snappy. Bev waited out the silence. Madeleine took a deep breath. “Forgive me, dear. I’m still in a state of shock.”
“You had a look round?”
Brisk nod. “As far as I can tell nothing’s gone, but...” She held out empty palms. “I may have missed something, I’m not...” Herself. Not with trembling hands and shaking knees.
“Sit down, shall we?” Bev tucked an arm under Madeleine’s elbow, steered her gently to the kitchen. “Hot drink?” Small rituals. Big comfort. It would give the woman something to do, help her focus.
“Coffee. Thank you, dear.” The widow struggled on to a stool, lavender silk skirt riding up her thighs.
Bev gave a lopsided smile. The latte machine was beyond her. She fixed instant, kept the voice casual. “Noticed any strangers hanging round? Anything suspicious?” Had to ask though they always struck Bev as daft questions. If someone clocked something iffy, surely they’d call the cops? Or maybe not. According to the tabloids, the police can’t put a flat foot right these days. Any days.
“No, dear, nothing.” She twisted the hankie in her hands.
“Burglar alarm on?” Madeleine’s face was answer enough. “Sugar?” Bev added two spoons. “Was your son home?”
“No. Thank God.” That was heartfelt. Scared Lucas might’ve been attacked? Or that he’d have a go? Could mean trouble either way. Ask Tony Martin. “He’s staying with a friend from college.” Mrs Graves stared into space, still fiddling with the hankie. “Bristol, I think he said.”
“Here y’go.” Bev smiled, pushed the Gold Blend Madeleine’s way, hopped on to the next stool. “I know this is difficult, Mrs Graves...” Sure was. Asking a grieving widow if her bloke had any dirt on him. As well as a can of Dulux. “Did your husband have any problems at work?” Medical profession attracted lawsuits like moths round candelabra. Maybe a whingeing patient...
“Nothing.” Lipstick had bled into the fine lines round her mouth. “Never.”
No ambiguity. Unless he hadn’t told her. People went to extraordinary lengths to keep secrets from their partners. Mind, suicide was a tad over the top.
“We told each other everything.” Fond smile. “It’s why our marriage was so strong.”
She gently patted Mrs Graves’s arm. “Sure.” Sure she’d put in the checks. If litigation had been pending, presumably paperwork would still be in the system. Assuming the problem was professional.
Bev cleared her throat. “Attractive man, your husband, Mrs Graves.” Posh for totty magnet.
“Yes. He was.” The smile vanished as the implication sank in. “What are you saying?”
Maybe some besotted patient had read too much into his bedside manner. Hell hath no fury like a stalker scorned. Or maybe Dr Graves had a habit of stringing women along. Delicate territory. Best tread carefully. “Was he having an affair?”
Colour drained from the widow’s face. For a second or two it looked as if she might keel over. “Women tended to throw themselves at my husband, sergeant.” Cold stare. Yes. And? “Adam never gave them a second glance.”
Not talking quick looks. “Fine.” Bev smiled, made mental notes. Mrs Graves was in the dark or in denial. Or the doc was pure as the driven snow.
Every breath you take... every move... Bev’s favourite track. She was driving back from the Graves’s place, helping The Police with the chorus, volume almost loud enough to drown out the Nokia’s ring tone. She glanced at caller ID. Penalty points or pull over to take it? Points she’d risk but not the ensuing bad press. She parked the Midget near a hole-in-the wall on the Alcester Road. Needed cash anyway to get in a round or two with Anna Kendall.
“Guv. How’s it going?” A rocket lit up the night sky, stars cascading like a mini Niagara. Firework season started earlier every year. They’d have Easter eggs attached soon.
“Milky Bars are on me, kid.” She heard the smile in his voice.
“Miss your mouth again?” Her lips curved.
“Oh, how they laughed. Table’s booked. San Carlo. Seven o’clock.”
“For?”
“Tonight.”
Shit. Silence. Broken by Byford. “I thought we said...”
“Sorry, guv, something’s come up.” She told him about the meet with Anna Kendall. More silence suggested the big man was underwhelmed. “Problem with that?” she asked.
“She’s a journalist, Bev. Can you trust her? Are you sure she’s on your side? Not sniffing for a story that’ll drop you in it?”
“Gee, guv, never thought of that.” Course she’d considered it. Like she’d considered the strict guidelines on evidence gathering. She wasn’t brain dead. “What you take me for?”
“Not for dinner, that’s for sure.” The joke, like the laughter, was weak. The warning was implicit. Sure no one’s taking you for a ride?
The cab dropped Bev in Broad Street just after seven. Lights were bright, buzz was muted; in a couple of hours the area would be heaving. People out for a good time on cheap booze in noisy bars. Some ending the night behind bars on drink-related charges. Yep. Quick check. Police surveillance vans parked in the usual places.
Bev dug gloved hands in pockets, glanced at the sky. Starry starry night. No wonder it was parky. Glad of the winter coat, she headed for the Hard Rock café. Glad too she’d nipped back for a quick shower and costume change. She’d eschewed the blue look for a loose-fitting, long-sleeved blackberry frock. This was its first outing. Doubtless she’d grow into it.
A group of lads gave her the eye
en passant
. She masked a smile. Go, girl. Not lost it yet. Jack Pope once said, you scrub up good, babe. His subsequent limp only lasted an hour. Still smiling she arrived at the bar, without thinking ordered Southern Comfort. Force of habit. Used to drink here with Oz. The smile faded slowly. Fled completely when she clocked Jagger strutting his stuff on the wide screens. More Oz memorabilia. He was a Stones’ groupie, knew the words to every song, and the moves. Painful memories. She didn’t want to go there.
A hand waved gently in front of her. “Come in, Captain Bev.”
She turned, forced a smile. “Anna. Hi. Miles away.”
“Never?” She shucked off a black trench coat. Looked great in a purple smock and pixie boots. The gear wouldn’t do anything for Bev. She’d resemble a club-footed aubergine. “Drink?”
Anna asked for orange juice, wandered off in search of a decent table. A few guys followed her with lecherous eyes. Kendall was sexy without being obvious.
Glasses in hand, peanuts in pockets, Bev made for the corner. She reckoned they’d be in for some preliminary small talk. Be a bit unsubtle asking the girl straight off if she’d struck oil.
“I found them.” So much for preamble. Bev sat down. “Thing is,” Anna continued, “there’s boxes of the things. Wasn’t sure how far back you wanted to go.”
Neither was Bev. Her thinking was that Snow’s work had almost certainly played a part in landing him in the excrement. Odds were something he’d written had got him noticed. Or someone he’d interviewed had singled him out. Or she could be barking up the wrong redwood. She’d started scouring back copies of Snow’s greatest hits; the columns alone could take ages. Even then she’d only be covering what had appeared in print. What about the material that hadn’t made the cut? Detail that hadn’t seen the light of day? Which is where the shorthand came in. As in notebooks.
“How many you reckon are there?” Bev offered a pack of nuts.
“Cheers.” She tore the wrapper with her teeth. “Hundreds.”
“Oh joy.” Needed narrowing down. Wheat from chaff, sheep from goats and all that. “Any stories given him a load of grief this last year or so, say?”
“Not that I know of. I could ask round if you like.” She licked salt from her lips. “Don’t worry. Discretion’s my middle name.”
Bev tilted her glass. “Cheers.”
“Thought I’d bring you a dozen at a time? Not so obvious then. Not that Matt would notice.”
“Oh?” Bev tore her glance away from the in-house entertainment; a bare-chested Marc Bolan was now cavorting on the screens.
Anna took a sip of juice. “Apart from the fact he’s hardly ever in? I think he’s got enough playing on his mind.” Snippy for Anna.
“Like?” Bev asked.
She popped in a nut, chewed slowly. Thinking time? Wondering how far to go? “OK. Here’s the thing. I like the guy, right?” Nod from Bev. “But I’m not sure I know who he is any more. It’s like there’s two of them. One minute he’s Matt of old, the next he won’t give you the time of day. He’s pissing people off mightily. Going round the newsroom playing the big I am. Dropping hints about book deals, film rights.” She paused, tapped the side of her head. “I think he’s losing it.”