40

‘Shame they never look like homicidal whackos.’ Powell tilted his head at one of the latest additions to the whiteboard – a hot-off-the-press e-fit, a Morriss–Tyler collaboration completed to debut at the early brief. Bev would beg to differ with the DI’s observation. She’d seen e-mugs on Crimewatch gross enough to keep Quasimodo awake at night. She knew where he was coming from, though: if perps all looked as ugly as sin on a bad hair day, it’d make the job a piece of cake.

‘The reverse in this case. He’s quite the looker, isn’t he?’ Powell said, straightening his tie.

Bev stifled a sigh. ‘More to the point, gaffer, it’s not a bad likeness.’ Leaning against the wall, arms folded, she ran her gaze over the eight or so detectives gathered near the front. Gratifyingly, they appeared too busy taking in the e-fit to pay too much attention to Powell’s witterings. Or they found it more palatable to focus on than the perp’s sequence of post-mortem stills Blu-tacked alongside. Bev had asked for copies to be run off, ditto the recording on Rayne’s phone. The guy’s voice and e-fit forged the best lead since the inquiry kicked off. The sick photos stressed how crucial it was to get the monster behind bars.

Sipping coffee, Bev glanced back at the board, where sunlight streaming through a window fell across the creep’s face. With the Nordic colouring, icy stare and chiselled features, she could well imagine their prime suspect playing the baddie in some Scandi-noir crime series. Maybe she should go all gloomy and channel her inner Sarah Lund, borrow one of the Swede’s sweaters. It’d be just the job in the current temperatures.

‘It’s almost like a negative.’ Pembers tapped a pen against her teeth. ‘Certainly a bloke with an individual look.’

‘He’s like a young David Bowie crossed with that tall bird from Kill Bill.’ Darren New added a sage nod to his awesome insight.

Bev shot him an old-fashioned look. Trust Dazza. The guy cracked more off-the-wall comments than Humpty Dumpty.

‘If he’s that striking we’ll have him banged up by lunchtime, no probs.’ Powell sniffed. ‘Any volunteers to man the lifeboats?’

Snarky sod. Okay, they’d not had a flood of calls from punters yet. What did he expect? A bloody miracle? The news bureau hadn’t long issued the fresh media appeal. The wording had taken a wee while, too. They’d eventually gone with the trusty formula: police inquiries, man sought. ‘Deranged killer; don’t touch with a ten-yard rusty bargepole’ might be construed as a tad non-PC. Especially by the courts. Given the squad still had to gather solid evidence.

‘Come on, gaffer, give it a chance, eh?’ Just ’cause you didn’t come up with the break. Ungrateful sod.

‘Keep your wig on, Morriss. It was only a joke.’

She balled her fists. Excuse me while I split my sides.

‘Not one of your best, guv.’ Mac didn’t look enamoured either.

Powell perched on the edge of a desk, started rolling a shirt sleeve. ‘Fact is, even with the photos and the recording there’s still a hell of a long way to go. The bastard’s out there and soon as he realizes the bird’s flown he’ll smell a rat, presume she’s blabbed, and he’ll make himself scarce. Okay, scarcer.’

Bev frowned. The English translation took a second or two. She thought the moot points amounted to: not being able to contact Raynes would set the perp’s alarm bells ringing; they needed to nab him before he did a runner.

‘Mac, can you get the blind, mate?’ Powell said, squinting. ‘How safe’s this place where the hack’s holed up, Morriss?’

‘Don’t see how he could be onto it, gaffer.’ The reporter swore she’d not been followed from Birmingham. Bev knew they’d not had a tail on the drive to the cottage. She’d kept a few cars behind with her eyes peeled, then taken a good look round the property, inside and out. ‘There’s a state-of-the-art alarm system, CCTV cameras front and back. She’s not stupid. And I’ve got her phone.’

Powell muttered something about matter and opinion, then started to ask Bev if she’d heard a peep from the perp. Started to ask because her look of incredulity soon shut him up.

‘If anything,’ she said, ‘I think it’s more likely we’ll get a bite at her Edgbaston pad.’ She’d persuaded Powell to sanction surveillance on the grounds the perp might well pay a return visit. Christ knew how he’d react when he discovered an empty nest. Empty apart from a pair of fledgling detectives.

‘Sooner the better,’ Powell said. ‘It’s costing enough.’ Hand in pocket he walked back to the board, stood right in front obscuring everyone’s view. ‘I just wish I could see the connection.’

Bev shuffled six inches along the wall. Don’t we all?

‘Given the motive he must’ve known Aiden Manners really well, guv.’ Darren threw in a knowing nod.

‘Ta, Daz. I think we can take that as read,’ Powell murmured.

‘Unlike Raynes’ story,’ Bev said. ‘God knows what he’ll do when he realizes it ain’t gonna happen.’

‘God knowing’s a fat lot of good.’ Powell sniffed. ‘We need to talk to anyone who was – is – close to Manners. You’ve spoken to the parents, Morriss, what about the missus?’

‘She’s lined up for later this morning, gaffer.’ Bev lobbed her cup into the nearest bin. ‘I’ll ask about the brother while I’m there. Bit of a black sheep, apparently. Maybe she’ll shed some light.’

‘Raynes never spoke to him, did she?’

‘I think she might’ve recognized the voice if she had, don’t you?’

‘You being sarky?’

‘Me?’ As if.

He didn’t look convinced but changed tack anyway, started dishing out tasks: trace and question Manners’ friends, relatives, ex-colleagues; complete checks on the names supplied yesterday by Raynes; and given the guy had been seen near the school, detectives were to street-canvass and knock doors in Stirchley again, this time round armed with the e-fit. The latter prompted an expression of unbounded joy from one of the DCs landed with it. Everyone in the room knew that by now the perp could be anywhere.

‘You can wipe that look off your face soon as you like,’ Powell said. ‘The e-fit’s a strong lead, could jog a few memories. Should’ve said: Bev, Mac, well done both. Good work.’

A thanks from the blond? Wonders cease never.

‘Right.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Before we get cracking, I think you should have a listen to the bastard’s dulcet tones.’ Powell had already had the pleasure when Bev had dropped by his office earlier.

‘Good idea, sir, but then’ – Pembers picked a hair off her skirt – ‘can we come up with a better name? I’m sick of hearing the word “bastard”.’

‘Well, hush my mouth.’

‘She’s right,’ Mac said. ‘It’s getting tired.’

‘Do we have any suggestions, ma’am?’ Powell asked.

Darren jumped in with, ‘How about The Joker?’

Powell curled a lip.

‘Raynes calls him “the creep”,’ Bev offered.

‘That’ll do. So relieved it’s sorted.’ Powell nodded at her. ‘Play it again, Sam.’

Bev clocked the looks of concentration and contempt as the squad listened to the creep’s taunts and threats. Having heard it so often herself, she half tuned out. No doubt about it, though, Bev reckoned voices said, no pun intended, a lot about their owners. Tone, delivery, accent could be as distinctive as fingerprints. Vocal dabs. Her lip twitched, not that the notion was so outlandish. She recalled a few cases where crims had been collared by voice recognition. Talked their way into a sentence, you could say. In fact, if all else failed today, she’d try and persuade the radio and telly people to give the creep’s voice an airing on the news.

‘Did you hear that, Morriss?’

She glanced up at Powell. Could see by his face she’d missed something.

‘Tell her, Daz.’

‘I know the voice, sarge. I’ve spoken to the guy.’