1

Long lace curtains billowed gently in the room’s soft lighting; the sharp tang of antiseptic in the private nursing home vied with the sour reek of human waste, and lost. Inured to the stench but alert to the rustling sound, Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss flicked a sideways glance from the bed to the casement window. Almost subliminally she likened the flimsy material wafting in the half-light to an outsized pair of lungs. The flight of fancy wasn’t so bizarre, given how long she’d been picturing the real things.

From an ostensibly casual stance leaning on a wall, she refocused on the object of her intense scrutiny. The man lay on his back, unconscious; head and shoulders drunkenly slumped against a mound of pillows. Bev’s normally mobile features were in lockdown as she observed the steady rise and fall of his chest, imagined the inner workings beneath the all too solid flesh: lungs expanding and contracting, heart pumping, blood flowing through arteries and veins.

Outwardly unmoved, she shifted her gaze to take in his face, the beige skin mottled by ginger freckles, the lank hair a shade or two darker than sand; a line of saliva that glistened from slack lips to weak chin. Like the leavings of a slug.

Sleeping Beauty, not, appeared dead to the world. Bev knew Paul Curran would be dead within weeks without the feeding tube in his gut and the catheter bag hooked onto the metal bedstead. Fake food and forced faecal collection – the F-factors that kept him ticking over. Oh, yes, and round-the-clock medical care provided by the Sunrise Nursing Home.

Sniffing, Bev peeled herself off the wall, uncrossed her arms and approached the bed, flexing both fists to ease the pins and needles in her fingers.

‘Come on, wake up.’ The soft murmur barely parted her lips, though had she thought for a second it would have the desired effect, she’d scream blue murder down his ear.

‘You can do it,’ she breathed. ‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine, you piece of crap.’

As per, she glanced round just in case before prodding him savagely in the ribs. On the last few visits, she’d taken to administering stinging slaps to his face as well. Neither did any good. As if she did it for his benefit. Looking down at the guy, she reckoned she’d eat cat sick before helping him so much as one iota. Fact was, if she knew what was good for her she needed to beat a hasty retreat this minute: harm’s way, out of, all that.

If a staff member hadn’t raised the alert, Bev wouldn’t be lingering with intent now. Nina Night Nurse, as Bev thought of her, felt it was just a question of time before Curran came out of the comatose state. Generally, she tipped Bev the wink whenever he showed signs other than reflex motions. Tonight’s summons had been premature: crying wolf. Again.

More than almost anything in the world, Bev wanted Curran to regain consciousness and register her looming over him, watching, waiting. She’d give her right arm to witness comprehension dawn in his eyes as he recalled who she was and worked out why she was there. Sod that. She’d throw in a leg as well, even a molar or two. After all, there’d been times since it happened when it was all she could do not to tear him limb from limb with her bare hands.

What matter a few body parts when Curran had robbed at least three people of their lives, including Detective Superintendent Bill Byford, Bev’s boss and the man she’d loved with all her heart, loved him to bits – literally, after Curran’s bloodbath. Balling her fists, she took another step back, briefly closed her eyes and shuddered.

Six weeks down the line, the flashbacks were less frequent but even more vivid: Byford held at gunpoint tied to a chair; armed response officers surrounding his home; Bev persuading the bosses to let her go in and negotiate. It had so worked. In her dreams.

In her dreams they all lived happily ever after.

In the nightmares, not so much. Not with flashing blues, blaring sirens, her voice begging Curran to spare Byford’s life and the first bullet ripping apart his beautiful face. Watching him bleed to death in her arms had almost broken her.

As for the waste of skin now taking up a bed, he’d run into the road waving a gun in the air. Good as asking to be taken out.

‘Suicide by cop’ they call it in the States. But Curran’s cowardly exit strategy hadn’t paid off, or rather it had gone off half-cocked: a bullet in the head left him lying in state – persistent vegetative. ‘Pea-brain,’ she sneered.

If only. The pun was unintended and neither funny nor remotely true. Curran was anything but stupid. He’d successfully combined a post as police press officer with his self-appointed role of undercover killer. For months the evil conniving bastard had conned Bev and her cop mates into thinking he was one of the good guys.

‘Hey, loser. Wake up.’ She grabbed his hair, slammed his head into the pillow. ‘Do it or so help me God …’ Nothing. Sighing, she let his head drop, backed off again.

Gone were the days when she prayed Curran would do the universe a favour and croak. Now she wanted him compos mentis so he could answer the questions that gnawed at her soul. Why kill a man like Byford, who’d spent his life trying to make the world a better place? And had Curran also snuffed out ten-year-old Josh Banks’ short existence? The boy’s murder – and Byford’s final case – remained unsolved, but not in Bev’s head. She was convinced of Curran’s guilt. If she could elicit his confession, it might go some way to helping Josh’s mum find closure. As for Bev?

‘Everything okay here?’

Bev stiffened, caught a whiff of a familiar fragrance. How long had Nina been standing there, she wondered.

‘I’m hunky, ta.’ Forcing a smile, Bev made eye contact with the nurse. ‘Miles away.’ In the past they call a foreign country.

‘You didn’t look delirious about it.’

‘Ah, that’s my resting-miserable-sod face.’ She turned her mouth down. ‘Known in the trade as I.S.S.’

‘I.S.S?’

‘Irritable Scowl Syndrome.’

Nina laughed. ‘That’s you down to the ground, that is.’ Her smile lit up a pretty, if tired-looking, face. The strawberry blonde hair, the knowing gleam in her grey eyes and her enviable curves embodied most of the Carry On clichés about nurses – except Nina was sharper than a scalpel. She tilted her head towards Curran. ‘Sorry for the false alarm.’

‘No harm done.’ Bev shrugged. Unless looks can kill.

‘I’m sure he’ll pull through one of these days.’ Nina patted Bev’s arm before heading for the business end of the bed. ‘Try not to lose hope.’

‘Doing my best,’ Bev said, ‘but it’s hard.’ Dead hard not to gag as Nina leaned across to wipe the drool off Curran’s face. Sooner you than me, mate.

‘He’s lucky to have you.’ Smiling, she cut Bev a glance. Nina had been led to believe Bev was a distant relative of Curran’s. Pile of doody, natch, but lying had been the only way Bev could get near the scrote. Lip curled, she watched Nina gently lift his head and plump the pillows. Still making him comfortable, she said, ‘When no one’s around, you could do this for him if you want, Bev. He won’t bite. And don’t be scared – you can’t hurt him.’

Wanna bet? She’d seriously considered smothering him with a bloody pillow. Problem was it left too many tell-tale signs.

‘Maybe next time.’ Bev smiled, raised a palm and headed for the door. ‘Catch you later.’

DEATH WISH COP KILLER, the headlines had screamed. The wording had always struck Bev as ambiguous. For cop killer read homicidal detective. As for the dying wish … bring on the wand.