‘God, you look rough.’ Powell studied Bev’s face as he held the fire door open. ‘Late night, was it?’
She sailed past without so much as a glance, caught a whiff of Colgate. ‘Dodgy prawn.’ Her voice held a smile. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘Lippy women, for one thing.’ Powell lengthened his pace to keep up. ‘I hope to God it’s not catching, Morriss. We wouldn’t want our esteemed guest going down with the lurgy, would we? Not until he coughs, anyway.’
Coughs? Like it was an open-and-shut case? She was tempted to pick him up on it but had second thoughts. Open mind and all that. As for the esteemed guest, Brian Tempest, she reckoned he looked as peaky as she felt. Bev stood on tiptoe to take a gander through Interview Room One’s peephole. Slack-mouthed, Tempest slumped in a chair, spindly legs sprawled in front. What with the ginger dreads and pimples, it was no sight for sore eyes … or queasy innards, come to that.
Frowning, it crossed her mind briefly whether Powell had inadvertently hit the nail on the proverbial. Maybe there was a bug going round? On the other hand, eating her body weight in pasta had probably been a bad move. It had certainly moved Bev to call in at the paper shop for a packet of Setlers. She turned to face Powell, tugging down her skirt: blue, natch.
‘What’s the other thing then, gaffer?’
‘Other thing?’ The nonplussed look dropped around the same time as the penny. ‘Apart from gobby females, you mean?’ He paused, fingers round the door handle. ‘I take it you’ve not picked up the rumour mill’s latest newsflash?’
She’d only just made Powell’s early starting orders. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘Word’s out about Byford’s replacement.’
She felt whatever colour her face had, drain. Daft really, it had to happen one day. ‘And?’
Powell twisted his mouth. ‘Some skirt from the smoke, Vince reckons.’
Skirt from the—? Bev trailed in, eyebrows knotted. Tempest jumped a mile when Powell landed a hefty file on the metal desk. A uniformed constable lounging against the wall straightened, then folded his arms over his chest. Bev put the revelation on the back burner: there’d be time enough for mulling it over later.
‘Slept well, I trust, Mr Tempest?’ Powell smoothed his silk tie. ‘Long day ahead and all that. ’Course, if you had a mind to …?’ The invitation stayed tacit.
‘Let’s think. No.’ Unsmiling, Tempest leaned back, arms folded across his chest. ‘The tapes aren’t running, my brief ain’t here and apart from telling you lot for the umpteenth time I don’t know Linda thingummy from Adam’s aunt, watch my lips. They is well sealed.’ Could explain the state of his breath. Bev and Powell exchanged glances before sitting well out of range.
‘It’s Lucy.’ Bev tore the cellophane from a fresh tape. ‘Lucy Rayne.’ His casual dismissal pissed her off.
‘There y’go then. Don’t mean a thing to me. I rest my case.’ He winked. ‘I could do with a cup a tea an’ all.’ The cocky git clicked his fingers. ‘Chop-chop, love.’
‘Names really aren’t your forte, are they?’ She flashed her ID in his face. ‘Morriss. Detective Sergeant. Remember? And I don’t do room service.’ If the gormless look was anything to go by, she’d lost him at forte.
Powell’s tight-lipped nod at the uniform said sort it. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act meant, among a bunch of other stuff, that interviewees had to be kept fed and watered.
‘Don’t forget the biccies, sunshine,’ Tempest called. He clearly knew his PACE rights inside out. Mind, the career criminal had more form than Aintree. In Stirchley, his home turf, his street name was Previous. As in convictions.
‘Your solicitor’s washing his hands,’ Powell said. ‘He’ll be here any time.’
‘Tell him to have a piss while he’s at it.’ Quite the Oscar Wilde. Tempest nearly wet himself laughing. When the guffaws morphed into a coughing spasm, Bev shoved a half-full glass across the table. Oops.
Cursing, he shot to his feet, brushing water off grubby jeans. ‘Clumsy bint.’
‘Sorry ’bout that.’ She reached into her bag, chucked a few tissues across the desk. ‘Accidents, huh? Not just the home where they happen.’
He pointed to the damp patch round his crotch. ‘This was no accident, you minger.’
She cocked her head. ‘Looks that way to me, Mr Tempest. Still, thank your lucky stars it wasn’t tea you spilt.’
Eyes narrowed, he leaned across the desk. ‘Are you trying to threaten me?’
‘Me?’ She held his gaze. ‘I’m not trying at all.’
Powell slung his pen on the desk. ‘Cool it. Now.’ Tempest broke eye contact first, glancing round when the door opened and a podgy bloke in a pinstripe suit strutted in like his train was about to pull out. Mind, the lawyer always put Bev in mind of the Fat Controller. What with the moon face, tight waistcoat and shiny shoes, all Larry Hicks needed was a monocle and a top hat. After nodding peremptory greetings at the detectives, Hicks placed a cheap attaché case on his lap and cut a sideways glance at his client. ‘Anything wrong, Mr Tempest?’
He lifted a corner of his mouth. ‘Where shall I stop?’
A brief sotto voce exchange followed, then Hicks asked for time alone with Tempest plus replacement trousers.
Bev clocked Powell’s jaw clench as his chair legs scraped the floor tiles. He picked up the file, then tapped his watch. ‘Twenty minutes.’
She’d barely closed the door before he opened fire. ‘Very mature. What the hell were you playing at in there, Morriss?’
‘Hey.’ She raised both palms. ‘Like I say, it wasn’t—’ Deliberate.
‘Don’t come the innocent with me.’ Beckoning her to follow, he strode down the corridor. ‘You knew damn well I wanted him sweet.’
‘You call that sweet?’ She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. Relatively speaking, Tempest had been oozing cooperative candour yesterday, but a night of cold-turkey reflection had quashed that before the session even kicked off. ‘The guy’s an offensive slime ball.’
‘It may have escaped your powers of detection but we don’t see a lot of toffs in Highgate nick.’ He drew up outside his office, turned to face her. ‘What is your problem, sergeant?’
The way Tempest couldn’t even get a victim’s name right? That maybe she was fresh out of tolerance for taking gratuitous crap from ignorant twats? A design fault, that. Because for cops it was par for the course, and coarse. If she was sick of the jibes she might as well hand in the badge. ’Course, she could just be having a bad day. She shook her head. ‘I dunno.’
‘I wanted him amenable so he’d drop his guard. You needled him from the start. Why?’
She lashed out, eyes flashing. ‘I said I don’t know. Back off, eh? At least I don’t want—’ To stitch him up. Dropping her gaze, she toed the floor, saw an imaginary blue line she was a gnat’s nose-hair from crossing.
‘Don’t want what?’ he snapped, loosening his tie.
She shrugged. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘I’ll tell you what I don’t want, shall I?’ He waited until she made eye contact. ‘I don’t want your stroppy attitude. I don’t want your lip. I don’t want you abusing the slack I cut you, Morriss.’ Opening her mouth was as far as she got. ‘Hear me out, I’m not finished. When the Tempest interview resumes, I’ll not have you anywhere near it.’
She might have grovelled, but saw no point apologizing to a door.