‘I don’t bloody believe it.’ Squad room supremo Jack Hainsworth slammed the phone on the desk. Bev glanced up from a printout, swore she’d heard the casing crack. The half-dozen other detectives on duty kept their heads down, busy-busy all of a sudden.
‘Anyone seen the guv?’ Hainsworth shouted. Then muttered, ‘He’s gonna do his fucking nut.’
Bev was gagging to ask why, but knowing the Yorkshireman he’d only tell her to keep her nose out. She cut mouthpiece Mac a subtle nod instead.
‘What is it, Jack?’ Rising, dead keen, Mac offered his services. ‘Want me to go find him?’
‘Hold on. I’m trying his extens— Shit.’ Clearly the slam had bust more than the casing. Cursing under his breath, he picked up another handset. Way he was going, next thing he’d burst would spurt blood. The vein in his temple was doing a passable imitation of a break-dancing worm. ‘I tell you, Mac, heads are about to roll. So many you’ll not be able to count the buggers.’
Don’t just stand there, Tyler. Bev looked like Marcel Marceau on speed. Mac opened his mouth but that was far as he got. Hainsworth lifted a finger. ‘Jack here, guv.’ The inspector’s Adam’s apple bobbed a couple times. ‘I’ve just had Winson Green on. Brian Tempest’s dead. He’s topped himself.’
Bev’s eyes widened. ‘No way.’ From her post by the printer, she heard Powell’s voice on the line. His reaction was slightly more expansive.
‘No fucking way. If you’re shitting me …’
Dialling tone. Door slam. Mad dash along the corridor. Then clinging onto the doorway, Powell stood in the threshold trying to catch his breath. Just for a second or two, in Bev’s head anyway, the poor sod looked like he was on the cross.
‘Screw found him in his cell, guv.’ Hainsworth broke everyone’s silence.
Powell dropped the stance, strode into the room. ‘And?’
‘Toerag did a Fred West.’
Hanged himself, then. Bev’s fingers went to her neck. If she recalled right the Gloucester serial killer had torn his clothing into strips, used the end result as a ligature. Winson Green prison was supposed to have had West on suicide watch. Go figure where the flak flew. As for Tempest?
Powell raked both hands through his hair. ‘Where were the guards? What were they playing at?’
‘He was still breathing when they got to him, apparently.’ Hainsworth handed Powell a cup of water. ‘Croaked before the ambulance got there.’
‘Something on your mind, Morriss?’ He pressed the cup against his forehead.
Christ. Was it that obvious? ‘Was Tempest down as a vulnerable?’ And subject to closer supervision.
‘What are you implying? That he should’ve been? That this is somehow my failing?’ Pricker-lee. Sounded livid, as livid as the bruising looked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, gaffer. I’m not blaming you, for Christ’s sake.’ Or was she? Just a tad. No one takes their own life unless they’re on the edge. Had something or someone pushed Tempest over the edge? Like being accused of a murder he’d not committed?
‘Aren’t you? It sounds that way.’ He turned his head, snarled, ‘Someone get that fucking phone.’
The nearest DC stopped earwigging, took the call.
Struck Bev that under mounting pressure Powell was looking for someone, anyone, to lash out at. Maybe, she’d hit a nerve and he felt a twinge of conscience. She raised a palm, backed off, no mileage in pushing it. Not now at any rate. But if actions speak louder than words, then Tempest’s final deed had been loud enough to wake the dead. Big questions were: who’d he been talking to and what was he trying to say?
‘Ask me, guv, Tempest’s done us all a favour.’ Hainsworth. Who else?
Bev sniffed. ‘How’d you work that one out?’ As if she didn’t know.
‘Guilty as sin, wasn’t he? No trial now. And nobody having to fork out to keep him behind bars. Dead quick. Dirt cheap. Seemples.’
She had to turn away. ‘Fucking disgrace to the force.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Leave it, the pair of you,’ Powell snapped. ‘What about a note? Did he leave one?’
‘Not that I know, guv.’
Far as Bev remembered West had left a love letter to his missus, burial plans, even a sketch of a joint headstone. Such a sad loss. Lip curled, she glanced back at Hainsworth. ‘Did you ask?’
Clearly not.
‘I’ll give them a bell, shall I, gaffer?’ Bev headed towards a desk.
‘DCI Powell.’ The rookie who’d answered the phone waved a hand in the air. ‘Sir.’
‘It’s not school,’ Powell barked. ‘Unless you need a piss, what have you got?’
‘A note’s turned up at the house. Looks like it’s from the kidnapper.’