Bad Press (6 page)

Realisation didn’t dawn, nothing so rapid. But eventually the woman drew back the chain, turned on down-at-heel tartan slippers and traipsed listlessly down a narrow unlit hall, fumbling both hands along the walls as she went.

Bev and Powell exchanged bemused glances. The back sitting room – small, square, cluttered – was in semi-darkness. Heavy maroon damask curtains were drawn, half a dozen red candles flickered on a black marble grate, others cast gothic shadows across the ceiling. Bev glanced behind, half expecting Vincent Price to appear, all pointy canines and swirling cape.

Whoever said a woman could never be too thin had never come across Gladys Marsden. Skeletal limbs, sunken cheeks; the long horsey face was draped with lank, salt and pepper hair shot through with nicotine. Big yellow teeth reinforced the equine impression. The shiny black polyester dress didn’t.

Bev clocked faint movement from a rocking chair in the corner. From Mrs Marsden or a more recent occupant? Had the not-so-merry widow noticed it too? Either way, she scuttled over, lowered herself gingerly on to a huge squashy cushion covering the hard seat.

“Mrs Marsden?” Bev prompted. Is there anybody there? “Mrs Marsden?”

The woman stared into the distance, frail fingers fluttered at her lips. Her other fist balled a scrappy piece of tissue. A cheap faded carpet muffled the rhythmic rock from the chair. When the voice came it was flat, matter-of-fact.

“He’s not a bad man.” Present tense. Common confusion among the recently bereaved. Relieved the woman was talking at all, Bev didn’t pick her up on it. “He needs help, treatment...”

“Castration.” Powell’s snide aside wasn’t helping. Bev glared, nodded at the furthest armchair. He rolled his eyes, mouthed
get a move on
.

“He knows it was wrong... knows he should...” She could’ve been talking to herself; Bev suspected Gladys did a lot of that. She moved in, knelt close, reached out. The woman recoiled, clamped her hands under her armpits.

“When did you last hear from your husband, Mrs Marsden?” The woman’s glance – maybe involuntarily – darted to the left. A round table was covered with a scarlet tasselled cloth, a tumbler and white cards lay splayed in the centre, letters not suits. Strewth. If Bev’s reading was right, they’d be having a word with Henry the Eighth in a minute, never mind Wally Marsden.

“Walter can’t get through now. He’s in limbo.”

Aren’t we all? Bev’s heart sank. The woman was off her fucking rocker. Compassion vied with contempt. In a way, Gladys was another of Marsden’s victims. But his only apologist.

“Why did you call, Mrs Marsden? Is there something you’d like to tell us?”

“Too late...”

“What’s too late?”

The woman’s lips moved constantly but no words emerged. Bev tried every tack in the tin. Nothing. Pins and needles finally forced her to her feet. She suspected the woman was on medication, must have a care assistant, home help, something of the sort. Maybe they could tackle it through a third party. “I’ll leave this with you, love.” Bev put a card with her phone numbers into the woman’s hand. “Call me if you want to talk.”

“Waste of time,” Powell muttered in the hall. Bev sniffed. Most plod work was: leads that turned into dead ends, lines that went nowhere. Maybe the woman was a fruitloop, or maybe she’d had call to contact the hot line. Either way, Gladys wasn’t sharing. Her wavering voice reached them as the DI opened the front door.

“He lied to me. He said he’d help Walter, or I’d never’ve...”

Bev slurped the dregs of a tepid Diet Coke, eyed Powell’s Big Mac and mammoth fries. She’d already seen off a not so Happy Meal. Half two and ravenous by the time they’d finally wrapped up Gladys’s interview, they’d stopped for a bite. They had more than food to chew over.

A man in a suit had apparently turned up on Gladys Marsden’s doorstep flashing cash. For a hundred and fifty quid the old woman had parted with Wally’s phone number. Thought she was doing her ex a favour. Fair exchange? No robbery. But had it led to murder? Full of remorse and self-reproach, Gladys clearly suspected it had. It was the reason she’d called the hotline so many times. She’d hung up because what could she tell them?

Through tears and gritted teeth, she’d given Bev what little she had. She couldn’t remember the man’s name, wasn’t even sure he’d divulged it. She couldn’t provide much of a description, and hadn’t asked for identification. Given the cursory glance she’d cast at Bev’s, he could have shown her a picture of the Prince of Wales and she’d have let him in. At first she thought he was from the social, then the probation. Maybe even the police. All Gladys knew was that the ‘nice young man’ had promised to get Wally off the streets, off the pop and into a job.

Bev sighed, fiddled with a straw, watched as Coke drops splattered the table. She couldn’t get her head round the fact that Gladys still had feelings for a child molester. Marsden had rolled up out of the blue at Bath Road just after his release from Featherstone prison three months back. He’d not asked to stay, just told Gladys he’d like to phone from time to time to let her know he was still alive. Ironic or what? Bev’s mouth twisted as she recalled the woman’s words spluttered through racking sobs: Marsden had been a good father, never harmed a hair of their kids’ heads. Yeah right. Wally junior was now in Wandsworth nick. Colin farmed sheep in New Zealand. Go figure. There was denial, and there was delusion.

The depressing train of thought was derailed when a couple of kids at the next table started chucking bits of lettuce. Bev glared at the ringleader who was probably all of ten. Years and stones.

“Hey, doughboy. Knock it on the head.”

“Why? What you gonna do ’bout it, slag?”

“Find out, fatso.” She leaned across the divide, gave a lazy smile. “Go on. Lob a bit at me. Make my day.” Please don’t. It’d mean five hours’ paperwork, and he wouldn’t even get his wrist slapped with an ABC. Acceptable Behaviour Contract? Arsie Bastards’ Club. He needed a slap with something solid – and not on the wrist.

Buddha Boy dropped the stare first. “Sorry, miss.”

She closed her mouth. “Better be.”

“What you say to him?” Powell whispered.

“No big deal.” She sniffed. “Treat kids with a bit of respect. S’all.”

The DI had trouble swallowing a chip too. He managed to spit out something about Marsden’s mobile. That the paedo had owned a phone hadn’t occurred to anyone on the squad. Not that it would have led them anywhere. It was missing. Bev had even rung the path lab to get one of Overdale’s underlings to go through Marsden’s multitudinous layers of clothing again.

“Think it’s worth sending Picasso round?” Powell gestured to his fries, slumped back, appetite spent, long legs spread.

“Ta.” She grabbed the carton, considered the question. Al Copley was Highgate’s best police artist. The verbal information he drew from eyewitnesses was as detailed as the likenesses he sketched. Word was, Al could get a self-portrait out of Stevie Wonder. In Gladys Marsden’s case, he’d have to be that good.

“I reckon her sight’s shite.” Bev bit a chip in half.

“How’d you work that one out?”

“Wavy eye-line, trouble focussing, fumbling her way along the walls. And what was with the candles and sitting in the dark?” Light probably hurt her eyes.

“Nah,” he scoffed. “Old bat’s away with the fairies.”

Bev shrugged. “Maybe.” The confusion could’ve been genuine or was there method in the madness?

“Meaning?”

“It doesn’t add up.” Instinct? Intuition? Either way inexplicable. Eyes creased, mouth twisted, her thoughts had clearly moved on.

“Share.” Powell said, pointing at her face. “That’s an idea you’re having – or a stroke.”

She hunched forward, elbows on table. “Assume whoever visited Gladys was lying, right?”

“Goes without...”

“He’s not from the social or the probation. And he’s definitely not out to give Marsden a make-over.”

“Life Swap?”

Incredulous frown. “Anyway, moving on... what sort of drongo goes round with a fistful of cash asking people questions?”

If he said Chris Tarrant, she’d bop him. There was a dip in the surrounding buzz. She could almost hear the DI’s mental cogs clicking. Then it dawned.

Two minutes later they were in the car park at the back of McDonald’s. Given that the DI’s Matt-Snow-copybook was well blotted, they’d decided Bev should have a go this time. Gentle probing – nothing heavy. Tintin wasn’t the only journalist with a fat chequebook. Just the only hack who’d arrived at the crime scene before the cops.

“Shame Mac’s not around,” Powell said. “I hear he’s good at tossing in the odd googly at an interview.”

“No prob.” She paused, key in the MG’s door. “I’ll pick him up on the way.”

“From Matlock?” She frowned. The DI elaborated. “He took off like a bat out of hell before lunch. Got a bell from his ex. One of the kids was rushed to hospital this morning.”

“Kids?” Mac Tyler? Talk about being decked by a feather. “Mac’s got...?”

“How long you worked with him?” The criticism though tacit was cutting. Four months they’d been partners, he’d not breathed a word about having brats. Worse than that, caring sharing Mother Superior Morriss hadn’t even asked.

The
Evening News
building is as central as it gets. Listen hard outside and Bev reckoned you’d hear the city’s heart beat. Hemmed in by towering structures, the austere grey 1970s fascia was broken up by huge gleaming panes of glass. Catch the light right and it was like a wide-screen showing Cityscape the Movie. Right now, bits of blue sky acted as backdrop to the plush law courts opposite, the foreground was criss-crossed by streams of extras. Having left the Midget in a multi-storey, Bev had a walk-on part herself. A glimpse of her ruffled reflection – the look was hedge-backward not wind-tossed – meant a hasty digital comb-through as she lingered a few seconds taking stock.

She loved the buzz here; most of the second city’s cultural, legal, financial and commercial gems were within walking distance of where she stood. She grimaced; bummer if you were a journo on expenses. Mind, Shanks’s pony’d be a damn sight faster than horsepower given the traffic. Bars of music blared through gaping windows as cars crawled by: hip-hop, heavy rock, Hank Williams. Exhaust fumes vied with fried onions, hot fat, vinegar. Pavement traffic was chocker too: shoppers, office workers, a Big Issue seller with purple dreds, a pencil-skirted Blackberry Woman clacking along barking orders saving at least one planet, a couple of briefs on the corner having a smoke, Rumpole wigs tucked under their arms. When a tourist with a branch of Jessop’s slung round his neck asked in shattered English the way to the beach, Bev reckoned it was time to move on.

The news agenda had moved on too. Billboards sandwiching the paper’s main entrance screamed Killer Winter.
Killer Winter?
How’d that work? Yeti axe murderers storming Broad Street? Christ, it was early October, barely autumn, and the rag was full of reports forecasting the Big Freeze and freak blizzards. And on that hot topic, she’d not called Snow before turning up. Forewarned was forearmed. Seemed to her, Tintin had enough people tipping him the wink.

“He’s out. Sorry.” A blowsy middle-aged receptionist lifted an indifferent glance though a long scarlet fingernail marked her spot in a Cosmo article on multiple orgasms. Bev had heard more sincere apologies from Bill Clinton. She cast a withering glance at the athletic poses illustrating the centre page spread: that’d be the G-spot the talon was covering. Bev’s testiness could just as easily have been targeted at the Marge Simpson lookalike relishing every word. Bev stared in awe at the woman’s wobbling lilac beehive. It defied every known law of gravity. Must be some serious underpinning going on in there. “Any idea when he’ll be back?” Polite, friendly.

The woman licked a finger, turned a page, held an imaginary piece of string between outstretched hands. Bev wouldn’t have been surprised to see her take off given how the bingo wings were flapping. Rocket up the rectum would do the trick too. She was half-tempted just to go find the newsroom, but even a cursory glance registered the high-level security: turnstile, swipe cards, CC cameras recording every blink. She tapped a foot on the tiles; Marge still didn’t pick up the cue. Maybe she’d forgotten her line. “P’raps you’d like to ask someone?” Bev’s tone was dangerously sweet.

“Been there, done that. No one on the desk knows where he is. And he’s not answering his phone.”

Bev frowned, wondered who else had been sniffing round. Marge reached to flick another page found a hand in the way. “Who else has been asking?”

The woman stared at the hand; Bev slowly retracted it. “People are always after him. He’s a reporter. Certainly not my job to keep track...”

“’Xactly what is your job lady?”

“Is there a problem, Rita? Perhaps I can help?”

Bev took her elbows off the desk, turned to find a young woman – early- to mid-twenties – hovering at her shoulder. The face was pleasant, the voice placatory but Bev’s hackles had yet to fall. “And you are?”

“Anna Kendall.” Wide smile. “I work here. I’m a writer. On features?”

Bev shrugged. “Good for you, love. How about getting Rita here to pull her finger out and...”

Anna quelled the flow with a raised hand. And was that a wink? “Let’s find somewhere to talk.”

Somewhere was round the corner of the L-shaped foyer where four chunky faux leather armchairs were arranged round a glass-topped coffee table. Anna Kendall hauled a seat out for Bev, before sinking into one herself. Rita was out of sight and earshot, if not mind.

“Don’t mind her. It’s not personal. She’s a pain in the bum to everyone.” The young woman arched a conspiratorial eyebrow. “I reckon she knows where the bodies are buried or she’d have got the boot years ago.”

The laughter was infectious; Bev was immune. Didn’t appreciate the rare feeling of being wrong-footed. She studied Kendall closer. Gamine was the word that sprang to mind. The delicate features, almond-shaped eyes, small bones didn’t amount to great beauty but the apparent warmth and openness was appealing enough. If you liked that kind of thing. The woman seemed vaguely familiar. Was it just the matey attitude or had they met before? “Do I know you?”

Slight twitch of the lips. “Aren’t detectives supposed to remember faces, names, that sort of thing? Sergeant Morriss?” However gentle the tease, Bev didn’t appreciate it. Kendall cottoned on to that fast. “Sorry. It was a couple of months ago. You were giving a talk at Hillside Comprehensive?”

Bev nodded. Balsall Heath. There’d been a string of complaints from people living near the school: rival girl gangs fighting in the streets, intimidating passers-by, swearing, spitting, flashing blades. Bev had gone along to give a bud-nipping motivational talk. Motivated one of the little buggers to slash a tyre on the police motor. She remembered it well but not the woman sitting opposite. “Still one up on me, love.”

Kendall smiled, tucked a glossy strand of hair behind a tiny ear. “You probably didn’t notice. I was right at the back of the hall. I wanted to grab an interview when you’d finished but the news desk called...”

“...with a better offer?” A thin smile diluted the irony.

“Sorry.” She had the grace to lower a sheepish look. “I was impressed actually, thought you handled the kids well.”

Yeah right. Bev shifted her sleeve, checked the time. 3.15.

“Sorry. You must be busy. How can I help?”

Stop apologising for one thing. “I’m after Matt Snow.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She was on her feet already. “You OK here for a minute?”

Bev watched as Kendall waited for the lift. There was something about her stance; the way she rubbed the small of her back. The loose fitting rust coloured smock hardly flattered the woman’s figure. But maybe that wasn’t the reason for wearing it?

A beep from her mobile cut short the speculation. The text was from Powell: Bath Road. Now. She frowned. Had Gladys Marsden finally seen the light? She was about to hit the DI’s number when Kendall reappeared showing empty palms.

“Can’t help. Sorry. Matt took off a couple of hours ago. There’s no pointer in the diary. One of the subs thinks he took a call from a contact.”

Bev rose with a can’t-win-’em-all sigh, handed Kendall a card. “Ask him to give me a bell, would you, love?”

“It’s Anna.” The tone was icy. Oops. Didn’t like the ‘love’. Or was that Bev’s imagination? All of a sudden, Kendall was Little Miss Sunshine again. “Tell you what... I’m meeting him for a drink later. If I don’t see him before, I’ll mention it then.”

“Ta, love.” The grin was a tad smug. She should’ve bowed out gracefully at that point but couldn’t resist another. “By the way, when’s the baby due?” In the one-upmanship stakes, Bev reckoned she was now on equal footing.

“January.” Anna smiled, gestured to the door. “When’s yours?”

Gladys Marsden would never see the light again. Powell, grim-faced, arms crossed, slowly shook his head as he stared at the wasted body slumped in the rocking chair.

“Coincidence or what?” His question was rhetorical.

Bev squatted close by, concerned gaze scouring the flesh for signs of injury. They were back in the now even stuffier sitting room at Bath Road where – an hour after they’d left – a carer had discovered Gladys Marsden’s still warm corpse.

What sounded initially like a routine call had struck a chord with an on-the-ball operator in Highgate control. The report had been channelled straight through to the incident room. Lucky. Or it could’ve taken hours to filter down.

Bev had done a Lewis Hamilton getting here; shame it wouldn’t be him on the speed camera. The sharp exit had also distanced her from Anna Kendall. But not the writer’s parting remark. Once Bev had got over the shock, she knew the dithering had to stop. She’d called the clinic on the way over, arranged another appointment. Camera had probably clocked that too. At the moment there were more pressing issues to deal with.