“I’ve just come from IC. I’m really pleased to say he’s showing signs of improvement.” Bev heard the smile in Doctor Sugar’s voice. Great way to start the day. She didn’t get to speak to Cathy every time she rang the hospital but always asked if she was around on the off-chance. She liked the woman and was pretty sure they shared a soft spot for Darren. Mind, after last night’s feverish imaginations, Bev was almost convinced she needed treatment herself. Byford as bad guy? How likely was that? She’d suspect Sadie was an Al Qaeda sleeper next.
“Top notch, doc. Is he up to visitors then?” Sliding open the middle drawer of her desk, she struggled to extricate the massive get well card. She’d get the few remaining signatures after the brief, try and drop it by this evening.
“Hold your horses.” Mock admonition. “He is still unconscious, Bev.”
“No worries. I could sit there bombarding him with Stones music and taped messages from Gordon Brown.”
“Could set him back if he’s a Beatles fan and votes Tory.” The doctor laughed. “Seriously, he is off the tubes and performing much better on the GCS.” Glasgow Coma Scale. Bev was well-versed in initials now. Cathy had run her through the scale earlier. Patients scored between one and fifteen according to eye, verbal and motor responses. When Darren had been admitted he was barely hitting four. He’d registered eight on the latest tests.
“All them scales – we’ll have him playing piano when he comes round, doc.”
Audible groan then: “You’re wasted in your job. Bye, Bev.” Her smile was still there though.
Bev’s faded momentarily. She only wished she could tell Darren the scrotums who attacked him were behind bars.
“Hey Morriss! Have you heard?” DI Powell in sharp suit and silk tie drew up alongside Bev in a corridor at Highgate. Clutching a couple of files she masked a smile, reckoned he’d reverted to type in more ways than one. And he’d overdone the Ralph Lauren aftershave again.
She cocked her head: “Good morning, Bev. How goes it?”
“Yeah yeah.” A friendly smile and flapping hand dispensed with social niceties and the doorstep near miss in one – for the DI – surprisingly subtle fell swoop. She’d half expected a blast of No Regrets or A Kiss is Just a Kiss from the man who thought PC was something you sent in the post. “Witness phoned in after the telly appeal. A neighbour saw Eric Long letting some bloke into the house the night he was killed.”
She gave a low whistle. “Description?” Falling into step they headed for the briefing room.
“Not bad.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Car’s on the way to bring him back here. We’ll line up one of the artists. Get them to work on an e-fit. Could be a break.”
About bloody time. She held up crossed fingers, turned the gesture into a wave as she clocked Mac ambling towards them.
“Talking of break,” Powell said. “What the fuck happened to you?”
Mac lifted his hand, winced as it grazed his nose. It wasn’t broken but swollen fit to burst. “He’s had a nose job.” Bev quipped.
“Get your money back if I were you, Tyler.” Powell held the door, gave a knowing smirk as she passed. “Bet he regrets it. Don’t you, Morriss?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Non.”
“So when are we expecting this witness, Mike?” The guv stood centre stage caught in a shaft of sunlight. He’d jettisoned the jacket five minutes back and was now rolling his sleeves. Bev was in a light cotton shift dress and still feeling the heat. Byford would be the last cop to count chickens but it was easy to see he found the lead from Drake Street encouraging. More than that: she reckoned it had perked up what had been a lacklustre brief and a downbeat squad desperate for movement.
Powell’s Rolex glinted in the light. “Forty minutes or so, guv.”
Byford nodded. “Liaise with Paul Curran, will you? We need to get it out there fast.” If the image was halfway decent, they’d release it to the media before the metaphorical ink was dry.
“He’s heading out to some photo shoot in Handsworth.” DCI Knight piped up. “Neighbourhood policing, I think he said.”
It’d take a while for the visual to be pieced together and a cynic might say neighbourhood policing and Handsworth was an oxymoron. “Should be back just in time then, thanks, Lance.”
The DCI failed to return the guv’s fleeting smile. Bev pursed her lips. Was Lancelot still piqued? Listening with half an ear, she made a few notes as the big man recapped where the inquiry stood. Nothing substantial had changed since their run-through in the pub last night. With hindsight her sharp exit had definitely been too hasty. Not getting offered a replay was something she probably would regret.
“Right, anyone have anything else?” Byford slipped a hand in his pocket.
“One of the motors picked up on CCTV?” Sumi Gosh had been chasing and checking. “Turns out it was stolen, sir.” And still missing. “I’ve only just found out.” Good job she made that clear: the guv looked as if he was about to have a go.
“OK. Circulate details.” Other forces would keep an eye out too. Probably no connection but elimination was a big part of any inquiry.
Mac raised a finger. “I’ve got an address for Alfie Cox, guv.” Some of his digging had paid off. “He’s the grandfather of...”
“Hannah Cox.” Byford nodded. “The child of Eric Long’s former partner.” Bev did a mental double-take. Talk about being on the ball. “Go on.”
“He was pretty vocal when Long got sent down,” Mac elaborated. “Said he should’ve got a much longer sentence.”
Byford raised an eyebrow. “If I recall correctly, he said Long should’ve been put down.” Spot on again. He’d certainly been doing his homework. “Cox must be getting on a bit now. But if you think he’s worth an interview...”
Bev crossed her legs. Don’t get too excited, guv. Anyone would think suspects were coming out of their ears.
“What about those test results, Bev?” Byford asked.
“Left a message first thing, guv. He’ll get back to me soon as.” The pathologist had been on a call out to Wednesbury. Some bloke found beaten to death in a back alley. Thank God it wasn’t their baby. One thing they weren’t short of was victims.