Sunday
Bev’s early night failed to materialize, but so, thank God, had her visions of getting lost in the maze. Powell had been a revelation to her in more ways than one last night. Not only had he found the maze a piece of piss, he’d had Tyson eating out of his hand. They’d taken quite a shine to each other. The mutt had even allowed Powell to cut off some bloodstained fur, so that it could go to the lab. Bev curved a lip. Talk about dog-whisperer.
No, she was late home because it had taken a while to set the crime-scene ball rolling at Morton Place. Uniform, FSIs, DCs, RSPCA – all had to be called in. A fingertip search of the grounds and property would resume at first light. Forensics had already lifted traces of Ward’s DNA from his pillow, comb and toothbrush. A match with the skin taken from the bath would confirm or otherwise the note’s contents.
Flinging back the duvet, Bev shook her head, recalling every word: Hey, cops, the hot bath’s a dry run for when Oliver Ward burns in hell. Bloody joker. She glanced at the time before falling into bed. Past midnight. No wonder she felt knackered. Worth it, though. When they’d finally pulled out, inquiries were underway and she could sleep easy. Feel fully justified in taking off, if not the day, at least a few hours tomorrow.
Of course, when she said sleep easy …
Come the early hours, she was still tossing and turning, wrestling the duvet as much as her racing thoughts. She propped herself up on an elbow, reached for the glass and took long slugs of tepid water. The heat was on, temperature and work-wise. As if it hadn’t already been a priority, hunting down Marty Cox was now crucial. Of her original gang of four, he was the only survivor. By a process of elimination, it looked as if Cox was behind the exterminating. Like as not he’d orchestrated the dodgy tip-offs, the faulty signposts, the pointing fingers. She’d not even put it past him to have fed Sonia duff information, with his henchmen ostensibly tipping the wink to one or more of the girls.
Damn. The water had gone straight through her. Again. Babies and bladders, eh? Hey-ho, she hauled herself out of bed, headed for the smallest room. Having boned up on Dr Google the other night, plus all the baby bumph from the real doc, Bev was quite the obstetrics expert nowadays. She had to admit it had come as quite a relief to learn that even in the early stages of pregnancy frequent trips to pee were not uncommon. Not quite so happy to discover she had stress incontinence to look forward to.
She snorted. Not that wee-ki-leaks were a laughing matter. Especially when laughing could bring them on. And coughing. And sneezing. Best hope she didn’t catch cold.
Shame they’d not caught Cox, though.
While she perched, she mused a bit further on the man’s motives. He’d not just removed the competition: he’d eradicated their features. True, it made ID difficult and hampered the investigation, but surely there had to be more to it than that? The violence had been intense, vindictive almost.
Glancing in the mirror as she washed her hands under the tap, she recalled Cox’s ‘before’ and ‘after’ photographs. Imagined what he must feel every time he caught his reflection, saw the damage caused by the acid. She paused, raised an eyebrow. That’s it. He’d been out for bloody revenge, hadn’t he? She nodded agreement in the glass. He could hardly take it in kind or the trail would have led back to him a damn sight quicker. Destroying his rivals’ looks by having his goons virtually stamp them out must have been the next best thing. Best thing? She curled a lip. Christ, Beverley. Go back to bed.
Lying on her right side as usual, she stretched out a hand to take Byford’s pic from its customary place on the bedside table. For a while she ran her gaze over his face, then, matching his smile, murmured, ‘Night night, guv. Love you. See you in the morning.’
‘Not late, am I?’
For a second or two Bev thought it had to be a dream. She’d opened the front door and found the guv there, clutching flowers: sunflowers. ’Course it couldn’t be him and it certainly wasn’t a dream. Not when she’d been up an hour, showered, dressed in her Sunday glad rags, spoken to Powell, Mac and Dazza, and had actually been on the point of leaving the house toting two gift bags packed with goodies for her mum and Sadie. She shook her head, told herself to get a grip.
‘We did say eleven, Bev.’ We did? ‘Is it not a good time?’
‘No. Yes. Um. I. Look. Sorry, Rich, when exactly did we make this arrangement?’ And why did she have to come across like a gibbering wreck? Because – apart from not having a clue what he was talking about – every time she set eyes on Byford junior the uncanny likeness to the guv almost took her breath away. Tall, great body; dark hair, grey eyes, full lips. Richard even had his dad’s voice, and don’t get Bev started on the George Clooney smile.
‘We spoke on the phone.’ Please, not the smile. ‘Three, four days ago? You were in the car, I think?’
Aw, shit. She briefly closed her eyes. It came back to her now. Chad-the-lad’s crap driving, bad line, crossed wires, cut call.
‘I followed it up with a text.’
‘You did?’ How the hell had she missed it? She could’ve saved him a journey. ‘I didn’t get it.’
‘Damn. I wish I’d called now. Oh well, no worries.’ Yeah, right. She could hear his disappointment, felt a tad bad considering he’d clearly dressed to impress with the charcoal chinos, crisp white shirt. Mind, her linen shift dress wasn’t so shabby. Obviously had Junior’s approval too. ‘You look lovely, Bev. I take it you’re off somewhere?’ Smiling again, he pointed towards the bags.
‘Another minute and you’d have missed me.’ His dad had loved the frock, always told her the cornflower shade matched her eyes. Mind, she’d had to slather concealer round her neck this morning – couldn’t turn up at her mum’s sporting an injury. ‘I’m off to ma’s. She’s expecting me. Not seen her for ages. If I don’t—’
‘Hey, it’s okay. I understand. Another time, maybe?’
Stay mean, keep him keen? Make his day or make him go? Should she, shouldn’t she? Come on, Morriss, make your mind up. ‘Thanks for the flowers, though. Pop them in water before heading off, shall I?’
He glanced askance at the bouquet, then looked at Bev. ‘Er … yes … you could … I suppose.’
‘It’s okay,’ she laughed. ‘I know they’re not for me.’ Sunflowers were his dad’s all-time favourites, the guv’s grave looked bare without them.
‘You had me going there for a minute. Anyway, really good seeing you again. I’d better let you get on.’
‘Are you in the car?’ Apparently not. ‘Come on, then, I’ll give you a lift. It’s on the way.’ Almost. ‘They look beautiful, don’t they, Bev?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, like big smiley faces. You can see why he loved them.’
The cemetery was rammed with visitors, but they’d managed to find a bench in the sun to kick back, admire their handiwork. Bev had returned quite a few tentative smiles and hesitant waves from passing wrinklies. They probably had her and Rich marked down as an item, a sort of Darby and Joan junior. Bless.
‘They always remind me of Little Weed,’ she said, angling her head towards the flowers. ‘Ever watch that?’
‘Bill and Ben? Sure. The original’s on YouTube. They did a remake, as well.’
She smiled to herself. Yeah, Bill and Bev. Either way, the blowsy golden blooms entirely hid the stark wooden cross. That was fine by her.
‘Thanks for coming with me, Bev.’
She shrugged. Even as she’d offered the lift to Green Lodge she knew it wouldn’t stop there, knew she’d accompany him to the graveside. She never missed a chance to spend a bit of time with the guv. Hadn’t talked out loud to him on this occasion, though. Rich had cast enough rum looks her way since they arrived. Apart from a lack of leg room, he’d been fine in the Midget, chatted away like they were old mates. They’d touched on the weather, work, world events. Not a word on the baby. Again, that was fine by her. ‘You’re welcome, Rich. Any time.’
Eyes closed, she tilted her face skyward, luxuriated like a cat in the heat. She pictured herself on a beach: white sand, warm sea, chilled wine, hot waiter hand-feeding her peeled grapes and slices of mango. She gave a lazy grin. Yeah, she could go with that. Shame about the surround soundtrack: loud Brummie accents, low traffic buzz, distant chime of an ice-cream van, ‘O Sole Mio’.
‘What are you thinking, Bev?’
‘This ’n’ that,’ she murmured, eyes still closed.
‘You look happy, whatever it is. In fact, I think you look really … well.’
‘Ta.’
‘Do you miss him, Bev?’
You are SO kidding. Straightening, she turned to look at Richard, who stared straight ahead. ‘Nah,’ she scoffed. Like an arm and a leg. Like her mind, sometimes. ‘’Course I bloody do. What kinda question’s that?’
‘I just thought what with work keeping you busy, family commitments, social life. And what with you being so young and …’
Where the hell was he going with this? Even Richard looked as if he’d lost the thread. ‘Young and … what?’ she prompted.
‘I just wondered …’ Facing her now, he met her gaze. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’
‘’Course I’m not,’ she snapped.
‘Good,’ he snapped back.
‘And it has a shadow of a shit to do with you why?’
Holding her gaze, he said, ‘Because it might affect my decision.’
‘On what?’
He took a deep breath, then told her he was considering moving down, getting a teaching post in Birmingham. There was nothing and no one keeping him in The Lakes. He reckoned it was time to make a fresh start, and he’d like to be around to help when the baby came.
Nothing life-changing, then. ‘Down to you, isn’t it?’ What did her love-life have to do with any of it? Then the look in his eyes told her. Ah. Right. She’d been a bit slow there. Not to mention a tad taken aback. He must’ve read her expression, too.
‘Thing is … I like you, Bev. I think we could be … friends.’
‘We already are.’ Keep it light, Beverley.
‘I know. But maybe we could be more than friends.’
‘What? Like besties?’
‘Come on, you know what I mean.’
She turned her mouth down. ‘I ain’t ready to shack up with anyone, Rich.’
‘Good Lord, I wasn’t suggesting that.’ His look of sheer panic morphed into a tentative smile. Though Bev reckoned the move could’ve been a lot quicker. He added a wink. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘Don’t rush into anything, mate.’ She sniffed. Tempting though the prospect of a proper grown-up relationship with Junior might be, she needed a hell of a lot of time to mull over what he’d said.
‘You’re not ruling it out, though?’
‘Nah. But I’m warning you now: I’m a pain to live with.’
‘Yeah, dad told me.’
‘Cheeky sod.’
‘Him or me?’
‘The pair of you.’
She stood up laughing and jangled the car keys. ‘Best get off now or mum’ll get the locks changed.’
Still seated, he looked up, frowning. ‘Oh. Okay. Is that it?’
‘Nah. You need to drop by Tesco. You can’t turn up at Emmy’s place empty-handed. Whatever would she think?’
Emmy Morriss lost no time reeling off her thoughts about Richard Byford. They emerged unprompted whenever she and Bev had a minute to themselves in the kitchen. There’d been quite a few proclamations, given that between them they’d prepped, plated up and cleared a three-courser. Among her mother’s musings? He was a catch, a hunk, a dreamboat, a stunner and, just now, a sticker.
‘Sticker?’ Bev pulled a face. ‘Don’t you mean keeper?’
‘Probably.’ The girlie laugh took years off Emmy’s heart-shaped face. ‘He certainly looks jolly game to me.’
Shaking her head, Bev masked a smile. She’d never associated the word ‘skittish’ with her mum before. ‘Which chocolates you want opening, ma?’ On offer were Bev’s Black Magic and the fancy ones Richard had brought.
‘Oh, I think we’ll have the Belgian liqueurs, don’t you?’
‘Thought you might,’ she muttered.
‘Did you say something?’
‘Nah.’
‘Fan them out on a nice plate then, lovey.’
Yeah, ’cause that’s what we always do. She lifted the corner of her mouth. ‘He’s not visiting royalty, ma.’ They both cocked their heads: Prince Richard must’ve have cracked an even funnier gag in the sitting room.
Emmy gave a sigh of contentment. ‘Just listen to your gran, Bev. I’ve not heard that giggle for ages. Richard’s just what she needs. A real tonic. Don’t you think?’
‘If you say so.’ She didn’t know about tonic, but he’d certainly kept her gran topped-up with Bailey’s. Bev also reckoned Byford junior’s general all-round perfection was beginning to grate a tad. Especially since the lying toad had admitted not having sent a follow-up text. Hadn’t wanted to risk her sacking him off at the last minute.
‘It’s true,’ Emmy insisted. ‘Your young man can charm the fuzz off a pear.’
‘Peach.’
‘Don’t split hairs.’
‘And he’s not my young man.’
‘If you say so, dear.’ She sniffed. Actually it was more like a snort. Bev tightened her lips at more sounds of merriment from the next room. ‘Coffee ready to go, ma?’
‘Almost.’ After Emmy had reapplied lippie, obviously. ‘Talk about peas in a pod,’ she said. ‘I just can’t get over how much he looks like his father.’
‘Yeah, you said.’ People used to say the same about Bev and Emmy, with their dark hair, olive complexion, deep-blue eyes. But the strain of looking after Sadie had etched itself into her mum’s face.
‘It’s really quite uncanny.’
‘Sure is,’ Bev agreed for the umpteenth time. Mind, Emmy’s complexion had turned a whiter shade of pale when she first saw Byford junior. Looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Had to fortify herself with several dry sherries while finishing off the cooking. Which could explain a lot. Bev could hardly begrudge her, though. Emmy had done them proud: pork, perfect as per, crackling, stuffing, apple sauce, roasties to die for. And as for the death by triple chocolate pud …
‘He has a very healthy appetite, too, Bev,’ she pronounced, finding room on the tray for the cafetière. ‘I like that in a man.’
Yeah, you mentioned it once or twice. ‘I’ll take that, ma.’ Bev eyed the tray.
‘Thanks, lovey, but come here and give us a proper hug first. I’m so happy to see you. Don’t leave it so long next time.’ Bev’s anathema to touchy-feely stuff didn’t extend to the woman whose womb she’d occupied. Stepping into the embrace, she breathed in Emmy’s familiar scent of vanilla with a touch of honey.
‘Come on, ma, they’ll think we’ve got lost,’ she said, disentangling herself, then smoothing her hair. ‘What’s up?’
Emmy stared at Bev’s neck. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’
Her hand flew to the flesh wound. ‘No. ’Course not.’
‘What are you trying to hide, then?’
Trust never-miss-a-con-trick Emmy. Bev’d never get away with making up some cop-and-bullshit story. ‘Leave it, okay?’ Her mum’s tight mouth said it was anything but okay. Last thing Bev wanted was another lecture about the job. She lifted the tray. ‘Please, ma, just get the doors, eh?’
‘Here, let me help.’ Richard shot out of the chair as soon as he spotted them enter.
‘It’s okay, mate. It’s not that heavy.’
‘Yeah, but if you don’t have to? Especially in your con—’ He dried up. Must have clocked her fleeting look of horror. Surely to God, he’d not said anything about the baby?
With three pairs of expectant eyes on her, Bev came up with the best line she could. ‘Don’t fuss, sweetie, I told you – the arm’s fine now. So if you could just’ – cocking her head – ‘let me get to the table?’
Three seconds it took before he cottoned on. ‘Of course you did’ – stepping aside – ‘I completely forgot. Sorry.’
Oh, you will be.
‘What happened to the arm?’ Emmy asked, dead casual.
Bev said she’d bruised it, Richard said sprained. Simultaneously.
‘Really?’ Emmy arched an eyebrow. ‘Hear that, Sadie?’
‘Never mind all that. When’s the baby due, our Bev?’
It hadn’t been a conspiracy of silence. Richard hadn’t blabbed. Emmy and Sadie had harboured their own sneaking suspicions for a while, apparently. Bev should’ve known. When had she ever been able to pull the wool over their eagle eyes? Emmy came clean after registering the filthy look Bev had thrown at Richard before bursting into tears and dashing from the room. At least she’d not chucked the tray at him. Okay, Byford junior might not have actually let anything slip, but he’d provided the perfect opening. And he had a bunch of catching up to do if he wanted to worm his way back into her good books.
In the downstairs loo, Bev stood in front of the mirror giving the remains of her make-up a few running repairs. The face that looked back suggested she should have opted for a full service. Like she cared. Talk about being blindsided. Sadie’s blunt inquiry had shattered all Bev’s carefully-constructed defences. Emmy’s plaintive ‘It’s why we thought you were avoiding us, lovey’ had only added more guilt to a crammed emotional pressure cooker. Even so, Bev rarely lost it in public.
On the upside, at least the baby elephant in the corner was now out in the open. Not the father’s identity, though. Her mum had tried pussy-footing around the subject, far too polite to probe and Bev not prepared to provide. She gave her reflection a wink. Girl has to have some secrets. Okay – time to rejoin the party and put up with beaming smiles and baby small talk. She’d not be surprised to find her mum sitting there knitting a christening gown. As it happened, she glimpsed Emmy through a gap in the door: no needles in sight, but given the mouth-action there was clearly a lot of yacking going on. About to enter the fray, Bev heard an all-too-familiar refrain.
‘Don’t you think it’s time she found a more suitable job, Richard?’
Bev froze just outside the threshold, eyes narrowed. This she had to hear. Fact was, Emmy had never in a zillion years wanted her to join the police. Bev had never seriously considered any other career. If Richard allowed himself to be enlisted in Camp Emmy, that’d be it: curtains. The relationship, or whatever it might turn out to be, would be over before it had begun.
‘I’m not sure I see what you mean.’
‘Surely you, of all people, know how dangerous it can be.’
Could she be any more insensitive? His dad’s face had been blown to shreds by a madman wielding a gun. Richard wasn’t exactly ignorant of the perils.
‘There are certainly some dangerous individuals out there.’
‘My point entirely, Richard. I’m sure you agree Bevvy puts herself in the firing line every time she goes on shift?’
Bev balled a fist. Yep, Emmy had definitely stocked up at the insensitive shop.
‘I agree … it’s a tough job.’
‘Well, then?’
‘I really think she can take care of herself, Emmy. She loves the job, and according to Dad … Bev’s one of the best detectives he ever worked with.’ One of? That all? Who was she trying to kid? She’d never heard that before and now had an all-over rosy glow.
‘But surely—’
‘She knows what she’s doing, Emmy: I could never stand in her way. … And knowing Bev,’ he added, ‘I’d like to see anyone try.’
‘Try what, sweetie?’ Bev asked, breezing in and heading for the chocolates.
‘Nothing, dear,’ Emmy said, all-innocence. Bev reckoned her mum could dissemble for Europe. ‘And do offer them around. I’m sure your gran would like one.’
Bev smiled. ‘I think she’s nodded off.’ Sadie’s tiny frame slumped in her favourite armchair, pixie feet six inches off the carpet. Her snowy hair and pink cheeks reminded Bev of candyfloss and marshmallow. The old dear’s face was scored with lines and wrinkles and Bev loved every one.
‘Well, you think wrong.’ Sadie opened her eyes and shuffled straight. ‘No ta, love,’ she said waving away the plate. ‘Mind, if there’s another Bailey’s going …?’
‘I’m sure I can find one,’ Richard offered. ‘Is it still in the kitchen?’
He was just about out of earshot when Sadie gave her verdict. ‘You could do a lot worse, our Bev. I like him.’
‘You’re a big fan, too, aren’t you, ma?’
Emmy gave a tight smile. ‘You know me, dear, I never like to make snap judgements.’
‘No, ’course you don’t.’ Bev pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering how she’d survive another hour or so of full-on family fun. Then pricked her ears. ‘Waterloo Sunset’ had never sounded so sweet. ‘Chuck us my phone, will you, ma?’ Actually it might not be work – it could be a PPI call or someone trying to flog double-glazing – she could use either as an exit route.
‘It’s your day off, Bev.’ Emmy said, passing the handset. ‘If that’s—’
She lifted a finger. ‘Bev Morriss.’ Mac on the line: Marty Cox had turned up.
On her feet now, she scouted round for her bag. ‘I’m on the way.’ Mac said there was no need, just thought she’d like to know.
‘I do. And I’m heading in.’
‘Don’t bother rushing, boss. He’s dead.’
‘What!?’
‘The pathologist reckons at least a month.’
Shee-oot. No wonder they’d not been able to find the guy. And if Cox hadn’t even been in the picture, her theory that he was the pimp killer had just been comprehensively shot out of the water.
‘There’s more,’ Mac said. Forensics had been on the phone, he told her. They’d had the results on the rush job with the dental DNA. The body on the building site was definitely Karim Khalid. The priority now was working to see whether DNA from the patch of skin in the bath matched Oliver Ward’s.
And then there were none … She posed a few questions, then cut the call, found that Richard had returned and was holding out her bag. ‘You’ll need this.’ She nodded. Guessed he’d done a little listening in of his own.
‘I need to get off an’ all, sorry,’ Bev said.
‘I knew it,’ murmured Emmy.
‘Don’t worry about me, Bev,’ Richard said smiling. ‘I’ll walk you to the car, then grab a cab.’
‘Surely you don’t have to rush off as well?’ Emmy intervened. ‘I’m sure we can keep you entertained for a while.’
‘If you show him any baby pics, ma …’ I will kill you. Stooping, she pecked her cheek. ‘Love you tons.’
Sadie really had dropped off this time. Bev blew a kiss her way. Given the amount of Bailey’s she’d downed she could easily sleep for a week.
‘Am I forgiven?’ Richard said as they approached the MG.
‘Yeah, just about. Did your dad really say that about me?’
‘Of course. Why ever would I make up a thing like … Ah.’ The guy actually blushed, realized he’d given the game away. And he could dig himself out of the self-created hole.
Lips pursed, Bev unlocked the motor, made to get in.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘it’s a fair cop. I knew you were earwigging at the door. But I meant every word I said, Bev. And I bet Dad did, too.’
‘Straight up? The best detective he ever worked with?’
‘No.’ He frowned. ‘One of them.’
‘Good job you said that, sweetie.’ Unsmiling, she tapped a salute. ‘Laters.’ Driving away she clocked him in the mirror. When she reached the end of the road, he still stood where she’d left him. She watched him smile and return the salute. Bev curved a lip. Maybe her mum was right. Maybe, just maybe, Byford junior was a keeper.
Bev Morriss. Ace detective. Glowing accolade. Frigging joke.
Bev leaned – better word, slumped – against the back wall of the squad room. Powell sat on the edge of a desk at the front of his hastily-convened ad hoc brief. Bev felt she’d have been better placed in the corner, wearing a cone-shaped hat emblazoned with a bright red capital letter D. D for dumb-ass, red as in blood. Feeling physically sick, she stared unseeing at the floor. Four men dead: four lives lost. There’d been too much blood-letting by far during Operation Lynx. How many mistakes were down to her forcing through her beliefs in her misconceived theories?
She ran her gaze again over the visuals on the whiteboards: Dean Hobbs, Karim Khalid, Oliver Ward and Marty Cox. A gang of four, for sure: but four murder victims, not prime suspects. And no perp or perps in the frame. How could she have got it so spectacularly wrong?
Cox could never have masterminded Pimp Wars. Not when for four weeks he’d already been permanently out of commission, his body rotting at the bottom of a litter-strewn ditch off the A38. The truck driver had found a damn sight more than he’d bargained for when he pulled over to take a leak. Recalling Pollard’s call of nature, she stifled a snort. It’d be hilarious, if it wasn’t so fricking serious.
No. Cox was the last of the four victims to turn up, but he’d been the first taken out. According to Mac, if it hadn’t been for a wallet found at the scene, the corpse would probably never have been identified. The pathologist hadn’t even had a full skeleton to work with. Bev guessed foxes, feral cats and the like had enjoyed a bun fight over the bones.
‘What you reckon, Morriss?’
She glanced at Powell. ‘Say again, gaffer.’
He bit his lip, took a deep, probably calming, breath. ‘If you’re not listening, I don’t know why you bothered coming in.’
‘If you want me to go, just say.’
‘Grow up,’ he snapped. Fair dos. She’d asked for a verbal slap-down. Anyone could see he was under a shit ton of pressure, with even more flying flak imminent.
‘I was asking your opinion on Sam Hayes,’ he said. ‘The guy might be sitting on intel. I say we push. Hard.’
She shrugged. ‘Could do.’ She still regarded Hayes as a cerebrally-challenged bit-part player. Trouble was, she now had no leading man in mind. Maybe it was time for a complete re-think.
‘I take it you have a better idea?’ Powell said. She shook her head. ’Then don’t turn your nose up at mine, detective.’ Powell pointed a pen at one of the murder boards. ‘Hayes named Ward as a major player. Whatever else he might be privy to …’ – the DI paused – ‘we need to know. And we need to know now.’
‘Mac, I want you in on the interview with me.’
Bev pursed her lips, tried not to show it, but the slight bridled a tad. Mac was more than up to the job, but she’d brought Hayes in. Yeah, and look where that had led them. Maybe the whole shebang needed a fresh pair of eyes. She listened as Powell recapped where the case stood before dishing out tasks to the squad. They were more or less back to square one – again. He wanted every statement, every report, every scrap of evidence painstakingly picked over and pulled apart. All witnesses re-interviewed; every step retraced. Standard procedure with a static inquiry. Especially when the only ongoing aspect was the body count.
Bev rubbed a hand over her face. The Blond had touched on something earlier that niggled at her. She’d reckoned it a line that could be worth pursuing, but still couldn’t pin the thought down. The more she chased, the more elusive it became. Oh, sod it. What’s the saying? If it’s important, it’ll come back.
‘Why don’t you sod off home?’
Bev glanced up from her desk, hadn’t even heard Powell enter. With his jacket finger-hooked over his left shoulder, it looked as if he’d clocked off himself. She’d spent hours poring over witness statements, police reports, Forensics feedback – keen, if not desperate, to find … what? She still felt convinced answers lay here somewhere, probably staring her in the face: she just wasn’t seeing them.
Sticking her pen behind an ear, she scooted the chair back. ‘That’s nice. Ta, gaffer.’
‘I’m serious, Bev, it’s supposed to be your day off. You look wiped out. I need you here bright and early in the morning, firing on all cylinders.’
‘You do?’
‘’Course. You’re not on light duties yet, y’know.’ Nah, but she’d be taken off the front line pretty damn soon if Jessica Truss had her way. Anyone’d think pregnancy was a terminal illness, not a natural condition, for crying out loud.
‘Good to hear, gaffer.’ She broke eye contact. ‘I thought you were …’ Pissed off at her for leading the squad down a blind alley.
‘What? Pissed off at your wonky thinking?’
‘Close.’ Remarkably so. ‘Can’t say I’d blame you.’ She turned her head to look at the montage of pics on her wall. Back when she’d cobbled it together the four men had been people of interest. If she’d shown the right sort of interest, would they still be alive? Had she not shown enough interest because subconsciously she’d classed them as low-life pimps? Four pairs of eyes seemed to stare back accusingly. Bollocks. No they don’t, Beverley. Best thing she could do was to drop the diva act and take the scales off her own bloody peepers.
‘Get over yourself, Morriss. Last time I looked, I was SIO. I could’ve reined you in any time. Give yourself a break now and again. For Chrissakes, you’re not the only one in the history of mankind—’
‘Womankind.’
‘And that.’ He frowned. ‘Shouldn’t that be humankind, anyway?’ She masked a smile: Powell on the niceties of inclusive language. Wonders would never … ‘Whatevs,’ he said, hand flapping, ‘you’re not the first and you won’t be the last cop to misread the signs. At least you try looking for ’em, Morriss.’
‘You’re right, gaffer. But, even so, my bad. I feel pretty gutted, if you must know.’
‘You’ll live.’ He smiled. ‘Come on, home time. I’ll walk you down.’
She glanced at her watch. Coming up to eight. Might as well call it a day. ‘Let me grab my bits and you’re on.’
‘And I’m banning shop talk, okay?’
‘Works for me.’
She cut him a glance as they walked down the corridor. Dare she? Could she? Hey, why not? ‘How’s your love life, then?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why? You at a loose end?’
Cheeky sod. ‘Nah, all tied up me, mate. Just wondering if you’re on the lookout, I could maybe fix you up with someone.’
‘You? Fix me up? God, you’re a scream, Morriss.’
The conversation stalled while they took the stairs down, resumed in the car park with Powell saying, ‘Put your bow and arrow away, petal. I’m spoken for.’
‘Wow, that’s great’ – giving his arm a playful punch – ‘so who’s the lucky—?
‘Nosy bugger, aren’t you?’
‘Trick of the trade, innit?’ Asking questions, eliciting info people don’t want to give. ‘Gonna tell me who she is then?’
‘Who says it’s a she?’ What?! ‘Hell’s teeth, Morriss, for heaven’s sake shut your mouth.’
Was he winding her up? She pumped for more, but he wouldn’t budge an inch. Ah well, tomorrow is another day. They’d reached her motor before it occurred to her to ask how he and Mac had got on in the Hayes interview. Despite what Powell had said, a copper banning shop talk was like a vicar vetoing prayers: it wasn’t going to happen.
‘You were right about the guy, Morriss. He’s a total scrote.’ Apparently Hayes had denied even knowing Oliver Ward, let alone naming him as the next big thing. ‘I tell you, ’Powell sneered, ‘you’d get more use out of a chocolate firelighter.’
‘I’d have no use at all for one of them,’ she drawled, getting into the hot seat, ‘All gas, I am.’
Powell winked as he leaned down to close the door. ‘You said it, petal. You said it.’
Powell’s parting shot struck home as Bev stuck a child-sized portion of chips in the oven to keep warm. It wasn’t that she’d fallen off the health-food wagon, but she felt she’d earned a little treat. The brainwork at the nick had whetted her appetite and provided an excuse for a mini-pig-out – in Bev’s opinion, anyway. Whatevs, her synapses fired and her eyes lit up as she made the connection with the DI’s final words. You said it, petal. You said it.
Bev had said it, but Sam Hayes definitely had not. That’s what had bugged her at the brief earlier. When the DI asserted that Hayes had given them Oliver Ward’s name, he’d put words into the guy’s mouth. Bev distinctly remembered now that during her interview with Hayes, although he alluded to a Mr Big muscling in, he’d not actually named names.
Tapping a lip, she wandered over to the bread bin. So who had supplied the all-important info? Of course. The SWAT queen, Sonia Abbot. She’d tipped the wink when she caught Bev on the snoop, found her with her fingers almost in the till – okay, drawer. Bev’s hand stilled as she buttered another round of Mothers Pride. Come to think of it, Sonia had been more than helpful on a couple of occasions. First time Bev met her, she’d talked about pimps battling it out in a turf war, and she’d dished the dirt on Dean Hobbs, describing how he’d sliced up several working girls. Never went so far as to name any victims, though.
Bev grabbed a towel to wipe her fingers, reckoned it was about time she looked at the pics she’d snapped on her phone that night. Perched on a work surface, legs dangling over the side, she flicked through the shots. Great line-up of wine glasses, dear. Had the women deliberately obscured their faces she wondered? The only woman really on show was Sonia, slap-bang in the middle. Still frowning, Bev studied the back of the print this time, again tried making out the faint indentations. She turned her mouth down. They were even less clear than on the original and even there, they could just have been a bunch of random letters.
Scrolling back through the previous images, she registered lots of hair, corners of mouths, ear lobes. And? Eyes narrowed, she altered the zoom, focused this time not on the pic itself, but on the newspaper on which she’d hastily placed the picture before grabbing the shots. She’d captured only an inch or so of an inside page, which showed the title and date and a little of a headline. The squiggly bits remaining looked like hieroglyphics.
Lowering the phone, she frowned. Why hang on to an old copy of the Wolverhampton Echo? If she remembered correctly, there’d been a bunch of yellowing cuttings clipped together in the drawer as well. Squinting hard, she tried reading the dateline again, but boy, she needed her Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass. Frankie had presented it to her a couple of years ago as a joke present. Bev seemed to remember chucking it in a drawer, along with the pipe and deerstalker.
She hopped off the side to ferret round. ’Course, it had to be in the last place she looked; but hey, if the glass did the trick. Magic! So what earth-shattering news had been reported on 14 April 2010? Only one way to find out – and there was no time like the present. Mind it’d be a lot easier to read online archives on the laptop screen, and she may as well do it in comfort on the sofa. En route to the sitting room, Bev clocked the flashing green light on the answerphone in the hall. Voicemail. Could she be arsed? Only people she knew who used landlines were cold-callers.
Why not? She was passing anyway … ‘Hello Bev, Charlie Silver here. Thought you were coming over tonight?’
She groaned. Sod it, sod it, sod it. The arrangement had gone completely out of her head. She checked the time on her watch: quarter to nine. By the time she’d driven over to Dudley it’d be time to head back. Last thing she wanted when she finally got to tackle the old boy would be to rush him.
She grabbed the laptop, took a seat and shook her hands at the wrist. Time to fire up the Quattro – okay, the Toshiba. While it booted up, she dashed off a message to Charlie, promising to make it over to see him tomorrow evening. A text pinged in at the same time. ‘The romper suit rocks. It’s so you! R xx’
She sniffed. Yeah, right.
She’d have words with Junior later – the Echo’s website had appeared on screen. So, Beverley, let’s try and find out what it’s all about. She tapped a few more keys, shuffled back in the seat, ready for the ride.
New bid to find girl’s killer
Wolverhampton police are to stage a reconstruction of murder victim Clare Cooper’s last known movements. Clare (17) was found almost five weeks ago, bludgeoned to death outside her home in the Morden Vale district of the city. Despite a large-scale manhunt and several witness appeals, police still have no clues to the killer’s identity.
Detective Inspector Pete Naylor hopes that a reconstruction will jog people’s memories and prompt more witnesses to come forward. ‘This was a vicious attack on a defenceless young woman,’ he said. ‘I’m asking for the public to help my officers catch a callous killer.’
The reconstruction will take place early next week and it is understood that a former school friend will take Clare’s place on her final fateful journey.
Bev drummed the cushion next to her. It had to be this piece about a police search. Nothing else in the Echo that day resonated. She couldn’t see Sonia’s interest being piqued by falling house prices, perilous pot-holes and parks full of dog-poop. Not enough to hang onto the paper all this time, anyway.
But what was Sonia’s connection? Bev couldn’t work it out, but she’d clearly missed the start of the story and had some catching up to do. The report’s down-page placement made it more of a holding piece. The murder itself would’ve been headline news when it happened. Pete Naylor wouldn’t have sanctioned a reconstruction unless they needed the coverage to keep the crime in the public eye. He’d clearly either run out of ideas, or was desperate for a lead. Probably both.
So. Given that every running story had a start-line, Bev entered a search term. E-digging being a damn sight quicker than plod work, seconds later she was reading the first report, from Saturday, 13 March 2010:
Police hunt girl’s killer
West Midlands police have launched a murder hunt for the killer of a teenage girl from Wolverhampton. Clare Cooper’s body was found by her mother on the doorstep of their home in the Morden Vale district of the city in the early hours of this morning.
Clare, who is believed to have been unemployed, is understood to have been out with friends on the night she was attacked. Details of how the teenager died have not yet been released, but Detective Inspector Pete Naylor, who is leading the hunt for the killer, is appealing for help from the public. He is urging anyone who was in the vicinity of Queen Street, Manor High Road, Walsall Way and Drayton Close from eight o’clock onwards last night to come forward.
DI Naylor said, ‘It’s vital we establish Clare’s last known movements. We need to speak to anyone who saw Clare or who noticed anyone acting suspiciously. This was a vicious attack on a defenceless young woman and the killer is still at large. I urge anyone with information to contact the police immediately.’
Clare’s mother, Mrs Eve Cooper, aged 39, was too distraught to comment. A neighbour who did not wish to be named told our reporter: ‘Clare was a lovely girl, vivacious and outgoing. She always seemed to have a smile on her face and a kind word for everyone.’
A special police hotline has been set up for members of the public to call in confidence.
Bev studied the accompanying pics: an exterior of the family home and a single-column head-and-shoulders of Pete Naylor. The reporter obviously hadn’t been able to get hold of a victim photo, or Clare’s smiling face would doubtless have been staring back from the screen.
She hit a link to a later article and, yep, Clare’s image had made the front page. Not that she seemed too happy. She had about her the gaunt white look of a Goth: long, jet-black hair, heavy eye-liner, dark lippie. The sharp features set in an unfortunate scowl.
Bev clocked the accompanying headline and raised an eyebrow.
Murder victim a ‘regular user’
A post mortem has revealed traces of heroin in the body of murdered teenager Clare Cooper. Clare (17) was found dead four days ago on the doorstep of her home in the Morden Vale district of Wolverhampton. She was discovered by her mother, Mrs Eve Cooper. Although police say the drug was not present in life-threatening quantities, they believe Clare may have been a regular user.
DI Pete Naylor, who is leading the hunt for Clare’s killer, is appealing for anyone with information to contact the police. A special hotline has been set up and calls will be treated in the strictest confidence. DI Naylor said, ‘This is not about Clare or her friends taking illegal substances: it’s about tracing and questioning whoever supplied the drugs. Clare’s killer is still at large – any information that could lead to an arrest is vital.’
Mrs Cooper (39) has so far been too distressed to talk to the media. She is due to appear at a news conference later this week. It is believed that Mrs Cooper will make a direct appeal to the public for help in finding her daughter’s killer.
Good. Should make interesting reading. A few minutes later, after a shed-load of searches, Bev reckoned Mrs Cooper must’ve changed her mind. Second thoughts? Cold feet? Still too distraught? People said every parent’s nightmare was to have a child die. How much worse when that child has been murdered? And as for discovering the body on your own doorstep … Bev shuddered, couldn’t begin to imagine how that would feel.
She traced finger and thumb along her jaw line, then shifted the laptop to the space alongside on the sofa. A little background music usually helped the brain cells function. Frankie had recently converted Bev to vinyl, and flicking through the sleeves she curved a lip at a memory of the guv, who’d had a sizeable vinyl library of his own. His go-tos had been Bach and Beethoven, whereas Bev saw herself as more of a Beatles and Beach Boys girl. They’d tried educating each other – but with only limited success. She sighed. Whatevs. She definitely needed a few good vibes tonight.
Laptop in situ again, she flexed her fingers ready for another news trawl. After a while, it seemed to Bev that the initial saturation coverage had pretty soon given way to an occasional trickle. Because of Clare’s alleged drug use? Surely not? More likely a question of there being no major developments. Either way, Bev could easily see why the DI in charge of the case had resorted to a reconstruction. Naylor certainly hadn’t lived up to his name. She glanced at his photo again, put him in his late-forties, early-fifties. Made a mental note to check first thing if he was still stationed out there.
The next link took her to the reconstruction story.
Friend retraces murder victim’s final steps
A former school friend has taken part in a police reconstruction of murder victim Clare Cooper’s last known movements. It is now almost six weeks since Clare’s body was found by her mother on the doorstep of their home in the Morden Vale district of Wolverhampton. Clare (17) had been beaten to death. Since then, appeals for information have failed to lead the inquiry any further forward. Police hope the reconstruction, with Katie Granger standing in for the murder victim, will prompt people with information to come forward.
Katie Granger, who was in the same class as Clare when they attended Hill Crest Academy, bears a striking resemblance to the dead girl. Katie, who was also a neighbour of the dead girl, told the Echo, ‘Clare was my best friend and I’ll do anything to help the police find her killer. Prison’s too good for men like him.’
Detective Inspector Pete Naylor, who is leading the murder hunt, said, ‘Somebody out there must know who’s responsible for Clare’s death. The killer is somebody’s son, maybe somebody’s husband, somebody’s father or brother. I’d ask anyone with information or who harbours suspicions, however insignificant or slight they think those suspicions may be, to contact the police.’
When asked if he feared the killer could strike again, DI Naylor refused to comment.
Clare’s mother, Mrs Eve Cooper, did not attend today’s reconstruction and has been too distressed to talk to the media. Further coverage on page 3.
Better pics, hopefully, thought Bev; the girl dressed in black in the wide shot could’ve been anybody. Bev scrolled through, hoping for at least one close-up. There were two. Bev narrowed her eyes. Holy shit. Clare Cooper wasn’t the only girl to whom Katie Granger bore a striking resemblance. ’Cause from where Bev sat, she’d swear Katie Granger had a twin. Either that or she’d changed her name to Kelly. Kelly Hunt. And if Bev was on the money, how the hell had Clare’s school mate ended up at SWAT HQ alongside Sonia Abbot?