14

The hack was going for the jugular. Given it was 9.15 am and Bev had been on the point of leaving the office, she rued turning back to take the call. The reporter had a story – for that read, hatchet job – and she wanted it stood up. Sod those pesky get-in-the-way-facts.

‘Look, love –’ Bev interrupted.

‘Please, officer, the name is Summer –’

‘Okay. Listen up, Ms Summer –’

‘Ms Raynes, actually.’

Summer Rains? ‘Right.’ Seriously close to a fit of the giggles, Bev bit down on her lip. She’d bet the woman just loved her parents’ cracking sense of humour. Whatevs. She wiped the metaphorical smile off her face. Though the moniker meant nothing to her, Bev had an inkling who owned it: the tall blonde with the horsey face who’d been grandstanding at Trafalgar Road when Ray Pitt took an unscheduled dive off his balcony. The clue was in the hack’s hooray voice, not to mention the distant jangle of bangles.

‘It’s with a “y” and don’t bother, sergeant,’ – laboured sigh – ‘I’ve heard them all before.’

I doubt it. ‘Good. You can cut to the chase, then, can’t you, love? Chop-chop.’

The workload was piling up and she already had a bunch of stuff to get through. Rendezvousing with Mac and heading out to Stirchley headed the list. Powell wanted her back around lunchtime to sit in on a news conference, and the new gaffer Jessica Truss – Byford’s replacement – had summoned her to a one-to-one meet late afternoon. Christ knew what that was about.

Phone clamped to her ear, Bev strolled to the window to scan the car park below. Yep. She could just make out Mac’s bulk behind the wheel of the Astra. He’d be sitting on the horn if she didn’t show soon.

‘Fine. I’ll fire away. Do you consider your abusive remarks pushed Ray Pitt over the edge? I’d like a comment, please.’

So that’s where she’s coming from. Bev rolled her eyes. Raynes’ preamble had touched on her own idiosyncratic recollections of the exchanges Bev had shared with Pitt before he parted company with the balcony. Raynes had just ratcheted up the one-sided conversation several gears. And if the now risible accusation appeared in print, Bev’s ‘You fucking arsehole git!’ could come back to bite her in the bum. Not that it was ever gonna happen.

Sighing, she took a perch on the sill. ‘Nothing pushed Mr Pitt over the edge, Ms Raynes. He either jumped or was the victim of a tragic accident. You were there. You saw it.’

‘Indeed I did. Quite dreadful. Given his state of mind, were you right to threaten him?’

‘Threaten?’ She cleared the helium out of her throat. ‘Did you say threaten?’

‘Yes.’ Silence. A heartbeat or two, then Bev heard papers being riffled. Reckoned the reporter was staging the sound effects. ‘I took a note and I quote: “Come down here and I’ll have you for that, you –”’

Bloody wankpot. Okay, the invitation could’ve been worded better, but: ‘For crying out loud. He chucked a missile that had just whacked me on the head.’

‘Even so, goading a man clearly under pressure hardly corresponds with the Force mission statement, does it? “Preventing crime, protecting the public”, and … remind me … how does it go?

‘Helping those in need. What’s your game, Ms Raynes?’ Bev circled an ankle, aware she needed to watch her step here. The woman wasn’t dense, must know the claims hadn’t got a leg to stand on; they were a pile of doo-doo. The conniving git would also be well aware that if she slanted a story along those lines, Bev would end up in the ordure.

Sounds drifted in through the open window: papping horn, running footsteps, ‘Good Vibrations’ whistled badly. Inside, the silence stretched, then: ‘I’ve heard a rumour.’ Raynes’ drawl had disappeared, the volume had dropped; the tone was now a knowing conspiratorial crossed with barely contained excitement. Put Bev in mind of little kids playing: ‘Show me yours first.’ Except Raynes was a big girl now.

‘Oh yeah.’ Bev said warily.

‘The body at the school?’

She stood smartish, eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Come on, DS Morriss, you can tell me.’

It took Bev all her time not to tell the oily bint to fuck right off. ‘Tell you what exactly?’

She paused. ‘About the razor.’

Shit-a-brick shithouse. Senses on full alert now, Bev gave another dead casual sniff. ‘What razor?’

Obviously the police news release hadn’t alluded to it in any way. They’d have had every nut job on the patch ringing in with duff info or false confessions. The fact Raynes had picked up a whisper was bad news, the consequences could be far worse. Question was, just how much detail was the reporter privy to?

Raynes dropped the forced laughter. ‘Nice try, detective. But you know full well what I’m getting at.’

Bev knew she wasn’t saying a word. She kept an eye on her watch, wondered how long it would take Raynes to break the silence. Eleven seconds.

‘Listen, Bev, I’m sure we can come to some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement.’

Bev clocked seven seconds this time.

‘After all, I guess it’s possible I might have … misheard? The other day? In Small Heath?’

Un-bloody-believable. Bev shook her head. The hack was playing the back-scratch card, as in: Give me what I want and I’ll spike the Pitt story. The unspoken agenda being: Or else …

Bev had another word for what Raynes was up to. Tracing an eyebrow with a finger, she said, ‘Who’s your editor, pet?’

‘Sorry?’ Sounded gormless. Bev bet the face went with it.

‘Name, number, now. Give.’

‘Whatever for?’ Raynes sounded alarmed.

‘So I know where to slap in the official complaint.’

‘On what possible grounds?’ Nervy laugh.

‘Let’s tick ’em off, shall we? Inducement. Blackmail. Bribery. Corruption. Threatening a police officer. Shall I go on?’

‘But –’

‘But nothing, Ms Raynes. And that’s what I advise you to do with your so-called scoop. Nothing. As in: en, oh, tee, aitch, eye –’

‘All right, all right. You’ve made your point.’ She said tetchily.

‘Glad to hear it.’ And without spelling everything out.

Bev frowned at another blast from below. Mac was certainly giving the horn some welly. ‘Oh and, love, so’s you know,’ – grabbing her bag – ‘our little chat’s on tape.’

Ouch. The bloody woman had hung up on her. Temper, temper, love.

Dashing across the car park, Bev just hoped her victory wouldn’t be short-lived. Having the last word was all very well, but she’d not like to predict how long the enforced embargo might last.