Bad Press (10 page)

Duff battery? Lent it to ET? Dropped it down the bog? “Should’ve called, sir. There’s absolutely no excuse.”

That shut him up. Head bowed, she knew he was staring, trying to work out if she was winding him up. The contrite apologies, lack of lip, and unsolicited ‘sir’ were so not Bev. Head still bowed, her rueful smile had a touch of bitterness: guy probably thought there’d been a death in the family. As opposed to...

Grey tasselled loafers came into view as Powell took his favourite pew on the edge of the desk. “It’s not clever, Bev.”

Course it wasn’t clever. The missing hours weren’t a hangable offence, but the disciplinary meant she was on a tighter lead than a rabid rottweiler. She knew a bunch of hawks was monitoring her professional behaviour. Which was why that solicitous ‘Bev’ was worse than a bollocking. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Want to talk?” Powell asked.

“Nope.”

“Anything I can...?”

“Nope.”

It was dark now, rain skittered across the window. Through lowered glance, she saw their reflection in the glass. The DI’s hand was inches from touching her. Christ. She’d had enough shocks for one day.

She sat up smartish, grabbed her bag. “I’ll get in early, make up the time.” Two hours if the fluttering fingers were anything to go by. “See you then.”

Early night? Or go for an Indian? An image of Oz Khan flashed unbidden into Bev’s brain. Been there, done that. She sniffed, slipped the key in at Baldwin Street, craved a drink. Blunt the edges of a shit day. Litre of pinot would do it. Yeah, cause getting hammered would be so sensible. Shutting out the world, she leaned against the wood, closed her eyes, took a few calming breaths.

“Never could do things by halves, could you?” The mock-censure held a smile.

Even open wide she couldn’t believe her eyes. “What you doing here?” The guv. Walking into the hall from the kitchen. He’d never been in Bev’s house before. How’d he get in? What’d he want? Why’d he...

“Great to see you too.” He tapped his brow.

“Sorry.” She loved his smile. Bet her hair was a mess. “Just... it’s a ...”

Hold on. Never do things by halves? That must mean he knew about the scan.

“We going to stand here all night?” Byford asked.

The Moët was on ice on the draining board. First thing she saw. Second was a sink full of sunflowers. She turned, mouth gaping. He looked as uncertain as she felt. She scratched her head. “Dunno know what to say.”

“That’ll be a first.” He smiled. “Come here, Bev.” He brushed a single tear from her cheek with his thumb, held her in his arms, stroked her hair. Frankie had called, told him she was concerned, he said. She’d let him in then made herself scarce.

“Scared in case you deck her for spilling the beans,” Byford teased.

“Me who’s scared, guv.” She searched his eyes, looked for what? Answers? Reassurance? Magic wand? “What’m I gonna do?”

“Drop the guv for a start.” He led her through to the living room, sat close to her on the settee. Subdued lighting reflected the mood. The big man listened as she talked him through her fear: the mother of all double-whammies. Crippled with doubts about whether she could cope with one baby, the prospect of caring for twins was inconceivable. But going ahead with a termination would mean taking not one but two lives. Desperate eyes searched his face. “How the hell can I do that?”

“Bev.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You can’t.” He told her she was more than capable. Made her sound like a cross between Madonna and Sherlock Holmes in a skirt. Total bollocks but it was what she needed to hear. It was past midnight when Byford rose, gathered the champagne glasses.

“Don’t go, guv.” She laid her hand on his. “Not tonight.”

Gently he pulled her to her feet, kissed her eyelids, her nose, her lips. They walked upstairs, arms wrapped round each other. Thoughts spinning, drained emotionally, her eyelids drooped as she waited for Byford to finish in the bathroom. If she hadn’t been so knackered, maybe she’d have stayed awake.

After a working breakfast – early worms on toast – Bev was first to show her face at the brief. She slipped into pole position, sat back, sipped ordinary tea. Bliss. She’d felt forced to drink enough ginger gunge to last a lifetime or two. Yeah. Well, that was all going to change. Pregnant or not, she’d make the decisions how she ran her life. She blew the fringe out of her eyes. Knew it wasn’t as simple as that, but at least Byford had helped put it in perspective.

Bev-new-woman-Morriss had opted for her one and only tailored suit. The cut and Oxford blue hue was a tad businesswoman of the year. Must be rubbing off. Her desk was almost an admin-free zone, she’d already put in priority phone calls and read – as opposed to skimmed – the overnight reports. Little Miss Smugface crossed her legs, smoothed an imaginary crease from a sharp-pencil skirt.

Might have imagined spending the night with Byford were it not for the note he’d left on his pillow:
You need your beauty sleep. Catch you later!
That last phrase was a Bev-ism. Maybe she was rubbing off too? She gave a lazy smile: need your beauty sleep indeed. With the zeds she’d caught last night, she should be Keira Knightley’s double by now. The smile broadened: would they really have got it together if she hadn’t sparked out?

“Glad something’s tickled your fancy.” Mac flopped on the next chair, pulled a notebook from a pocket of his lumberjack shirt. He flashed a page full of names, people who still needed interviewing, mostly Gladys Marsden’s neighbours in Bath Road, a smattering of Churchill residents who’d not been in during door-to-doors. “Could do with a hand, boss.”

“Sure.” Once they’d spoken to Matt Snow. The reporter had topped her list of early morning calls. She’d certainly wrecked Tintin’s beauty sleep. Threatened to speak to his editor if he didn’t show his ugly mush at the nick any time soon.

She glanced round, counted heads: full squad more or less. The DI got the door with his bum. He entered ferrying a steaming cup in one hand and a load of files in the other. The customary spring in his loafers was currently more autumnal amble. Not surprising given the inquiry was going nowhere fast.

He ran through the state of play, reassigned actions that needed another look in case anything had been missed first time round, then: “Any bright ideas?” Blank faces all round. “OK. They don’t have to be bright.”

“Maybe look at the motive again,” Dazza suggested.

“Doh.” Powell groaned.

“Yeah, but listen, boss,” he argued. “We’re all assuming Marsden was bumped off cause he was a paedophile. What if – like I said before – he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Random attack?”

“Wino squabble?”

“Big boy’s mugging?”

Bev’s phone trilled. She took the call while the squad tossed thoughts round. Maybe it was her body language or the fact the colour had drained from her face. Powell was first to notice. “And?”

“That was the General.” The hospital had also been high on her call list. “They spoke to Philip Goodie’s ex-wife about an hour ago. She didn’t want to know. Said the marriage broke up yonks back cause he’d been abusing their little girl. He got sent down for two years.”

The atmosphere changed in an instant. The DI voiced what was probably on most detectives’ minds. Was Wally Marsden first in a line that now numbered two? “So it’s more than likely we’re looking at a nutter who’s targeting paedos?” Powell chewed his lip, thought it through. “We need a police guard down there now.” Bev shook her head. “Christ’s sake, woman. The perp’s only got to read the papers to know he didn’t kill Goodie. What if he goes back – finishes the job?”

“He’d be a bit late,” Bev said. “Goodie died ten minutes ago.”

No one had yet used the phrase serial killer. The fact that Detective Chief Superintendent Kenny Flint was suddenly senior investigating officer said it all. Mid-morning now and a recently ousted-from-the-top-spot Powell scowled from the sidelines. The brief had been hastily reconvened with a bigger cast. Bev felt a tad sorry for the DI; a high profile case could’ve given him a chance to shine in the guv’s absence. Pitying Powell? Christ. Pregnancy really did mush the brain.

She glanced round, did another head count. The squad now stood at a dozen detectives. Human hard disk Johnny Blake was information officer, exhibits and logistics roles had been dished out to the two Ronnies: Sergeants Cater and Fox. Bev sat next to Mac, keeping her head down, swinging a leg, praying the poisoned chalice would pass to some other sucker this time.

Flint’s steely gaze swept the incident room. She sensed it homing in. “Look after media liaison, would you, Bev?”

I’d rather eat shit, sir. “Sure thing, boss.” She dropped her pen, almost banged heads with Bernie Flowers who bent to retrieve it at the same time. The news bureau boss handed it over with a smirk. “Safe pair of hands needed on this one, Bev.”

Sickly smile. “I’m an octopus me, mate.” Thanks, God. Weak sunlight glinted behind thin grey cloud. She doubted it was a sign from above.

“I don’t want the press getting wind the murders could be down to one man.” Flint warned. “Last thing we need is a feeding frenzy.” Bev pictured a tank of piranhas with her as
plat du jour
. “We don’t know for sure that’s what we’ve got yet,” the DCS stressed. “Only link so far is the fact both victims were paedophiles. As we all know, serial killers almost always stick to the same MO. That’s certainly not the case here.”

Marsden’s throat had been slashed. A blood clot on the brain had seen off Goodie, following the savage beating.

“Unless the killer was disturbed,” Bev said.

“Deranged,” the DI muttered.

Flint raised a hand. “Hear her out.”

Bev shrugged. “Marsden died from the knife wound, but he was beaten to a pulp first.”

“Then the killer dumped the body some hours later.” Flint’s stubble rasped as he rubbed his chin. “Maybe this time he didn’t have that luxury. The murder wasn’t so well planned. Or executed?”

“Maybe lost his nerve.” Beating seven shades out of someone in a public park was high risk. Not everyone looked the other way.

“Or lost control,” Mac threw in.

“Or they could still be unrelated,” Powell said.

Bev’s pensive gaze moved along the whiteboards. But what about poor old Gladys? Why had she been snuffed out too? She frowned. Was that a hint of reproof in the old girl’s glassy eyes? Whatever. It was up to the squad to establish connections.

Shiny black lace-ups squeaked as Flint stalked the room, hands clasped behind his back. “We need to find out what – if anything – these men had in common.”

Background checks then, liaising with prison and probation services. Had Marsden and Goodie served time together? Had either been threatened or assaulted when they were inside? Computer checks too, other forces, similar inquiries. Even cold cases going back a while. Sighs of relief almost all round when Flint assigned Dazza and Carol Pemberton the bulk of the plod work.

“What about other men at risk?” Mac asked. “Should we be warning them?”

“How long’ve you got?” Bev’d done a bit of homework. Latest national figures showed almost thirty thousand names on the sex offenders’ register, well over two thousand in the West Midlands alone. And officers needed to know where to look. Offenders routinely got lost in the system. Only high risk level threes were closely monitored. Add that to a severe shortage of approved accommodation, long waiting lists for nowhere near enough treatment programmes and... The squad got her drift.

“Academic anyway,” Flint said. “Unless we establish it’s the same killer.” He drained a glass of water, gathered his files. “And we’ll not do that sitting on our backsides.”

Heads snapped round when the door took the topcoat off the back wall. Vince Hanlon’s bulk more than filled the frame. It took a ten on the Richter scale to get Highgate’s veteran sergeant off the front desk. Normally. His huge face was flushed puce. Not, Bev reckoned, down to the flight of stairs. “You lot need to see this,” he said. “It’s just come in.”

The
Evening News.
Vince held the paper aloft. The lead headline was just two words, no quotes, not even a journo’s judicious question mark: SERIAL KILLER.

Vince read the small print aloud. “
Convicted paedophiles in Birmingham are being targeted by an anonymous killer. In a letter to this newspaper, a man calling himself the Disposer claims his mission is to wipe out human waste. He’s already claimed two...
”

Bev’s fists were balled. The exclusive had Snow’s by-line. Where was the little shit?

“Oh, and Bev?” Vince called. “Matt Snow’s downstairs. Wants a word.”

Matt Snow, head down in his own newspaper, was propped next to a wanted poster on the wall in Highgate reception. The front page was a winner. The reporter’s late night and early morning had paid off. Coverage looked good, decent size by-line too. It had been the devil’s job persuading his boss to print the material. He’d told Ricky Palmer it had arrived in a package – addressed to Snow – at the
Evening News
front desk. Ricky saw the potential straight off, but the editor wanted to run it past the police. Snow winged it. Sure, later, he said, but the accompanying note made it clear the cops had a copy. If the paper held back, he argued, the exclusive would be lost, along with possible future communication from the serial killer. Maybe it was the prospect of losing out to the competition more than Snow’s clout that swung it. Either way, the strategy had worked.

What was one more shed-load of lies?

Snow was still lounging casually when Bev took the stairs three at a time giving him a quick once-over on the way down. His sludge suit looked as if he’d slept in it; the Hush Puppies were scuffed. She reckoned the laid-back pose didn’t match the tremor in his hands. Could be he’d need the brown trousers.

“That an asbestos suit you’re wearing, Mr Snow?”

“Come again?”

She nodded at the newspaper. “Play with fire – you get burnt.”

“If you’re gonna mess about...” He pushed himself off the wall, made as if to leave.

“Don’t even think about it, sunshine. Follow me.”

DCS Flint was already installed in Interview Two, a copy of the
Evening News
face-up on the metal desk in front of him. Bev did the introductions, told Snow to sit. The reporter took a brown envelope from his jacket pocket, looked pretty smug until Bev reached for a tape, tore the cellophane with her teeth.

“What is this?” Snow spluttered. “I came here voluntarily.”

“Big of you,” Bev murmured.

Flint was impassive. “You’re not under arrest, Mr Snow. You’re under caution. You can leave any time.” He gave a tight smile. “I strongly advise you to answer my questions first. Sergeant?”

Bev started the recording, ran through the spiel: who, where, when. They were going by the book in the hope of putting the wind up Snow. Neither seriously suspected him guilty of more than gross stupidity. They wanted answers that a bit of police pressure might elicit.

“This information?” Flint waved a dismissive hand at the newspaper. “Where did you get it?”

Snow handed Flint the envelope. “This arrived at the paper, addressed to me. The killer’s statement, details about the attacks.” He held Flint’s glare. “It’s why I’m here. In good faith – to help...”

“After rushing it into print?” Flint snarled. “Why didn’t you bring us in on it?”

“Didn’t you get one too?” Ingenuous. Insolent. Bev reckoned Snow was trying to be clever. Trying too hard. It was a polished act. But that’s all it was.

“Sorry, chief,” the reporter said. “I assumed he sent it to everyone, police, media...”

“So you thought you might as well use it anyway...”

He leaned back, ankles crossed. “Just doing my job, Mr Flint.”

“Giving self-proclaimed serial killers a channel of communication?”

“The public has a right to...”

“Puh-leese,” Bev groaned. Not that again...

“What about your responsibility?” Flint said. “It was your duty to report it to the police.”

“It’s my duty to keep readers informed. I write stories in the public interest, not yours. If there’s a serial killer out there, they need to know.”

“They need the truth.”

“Are you saying there is no serial killer?” Defiant? Daring? There was a challenge in the reporter’s eyes. This was the Matt Snow Bev knew, writ large. Was he standing on someone’s shoulders? Were he and the so-called Disposer more than just pen pals?

“This letter?” she dropped in casually. “Is it the first contact you’ve had with the killer?”

“Course it is.” No eye contact. Lying through his teeth? She made a note. Tapping the pen against her own, she recalled the tip-off that put Snow ahead of the game at the Wally Marsden murder scene. Had the so-called Disposer pointed the reporter in the right direction then as well? Had the killer chosen Snow as a tame conduit to get his sick message across? And was Snow arrogant enough to imagine he could deal with that?

“How’d it get to the
News
building?” Again, her tone was indifferent. “This letter?”

Snow frowned. “Post, I suppose.”

“Personal delivery?”

Needled now. “How should I know?”

Pensive, she pursed her lips. “Be on camera anyway.” It was bullshit, but Snow appeared shaken. The paper’s reception area did have saturation CC coverage, but the chances of the Disposer handing over the letter in person were slim. Make that skeletal. On the other hand if there was nothing on tape, could that in itself be significant? Fingers crossed the techie boys would come up with a pointer or two.

Flint leaned forward. “Whether the letter’s genuine or not, you’re playing into the man’s hands.” Oxygen of publicity. Fifteen minutes of fame.

Snow shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. We’re showing him he can trust us. Trust me. If he believes that, he’ll contact us again. Contact me again. Maybe he’ll get careless, let something slip.” The reporter straightened, then leaned forward, mirroring Flint’s posture. “Look, superintendent, there’s nothing in that letter to indicate who he is, where he’s from, or who his next victim will be. Surely if I develop some sort of relationship with him, win his confidence...?”

“What?” Flint snapped. “That you’ll expose him? Bring him to justice? Save lives? Let me work this out, Mr Snow.” He raised a finger as if he was seeing the light. “You’re not a sanctimonious self-serving little prat. You’re actually doing us all a favour.”

“Exactly.” He sat back, arms folded.

“Interview suspended.” Going by the look on Flint’s face, Bev suspected it wasn’t the only thing he wanted to suspend.

DCS Flint dipped a chocolate digestive in a mug of tea. “What do you make of Snow?”

Bev turned her mouth down. They were taking a short break in the canteen. Mac would be on board when the interview resumed. Flint needed to prepare for an imminent news conference – undoubtedly a rougher ride.

“Truth’s not his big suit.” She brushed KitKat crumbs off her jacket. “I reckon he knows more than he’s letting on. And he’s enjoying this.”

She’d been mulling over Byford’s warning about Snow being nobody’s fool, a journo who wanted to go places. Maybe he saw this story as his ticket out. She narrowed her eyes, struck by a sudden thought. What if he was doing more than writing it? What if the Disposer didn’t exist? What if Snow was making the news, not just breaking it? Impossible. Off the wall. They needed forensic evidence, not flights of fancy.

Maybe they’d get something back from the lab. The package was now where it should’ve been in the first place. Not that they were holding their breath.

Bev gazed down on to the car park. Snow’s stories had certainly sparked the feeding frenzy feared by Flint. The media circus was already setting up camp. She spotted radio cars, TV wagons, a couple of OB units. From this height it looked like media toy town. And boy were they gonna have fun. “Sooner you than me, boss.”

Flint followed her gaze. “I’d best get going.” He slurped the rest of his tea, and headed for the exit.

Seconds later he was back. “Bev? I meant to ask. What happened with the Graves woman?”

Bollocks. She’d let it go. The doctor who topped himself. She was supposed to have chased the widow. Flint must’ve seen it on her face.

“Soon as you like, Bev.” The senior detective’s patent disappointment was worse than a drubbing. “Another note arrived this morning.”

“How’s the gut, Mr Snow?” Bev swept in to Interview Two, file under an arm, Mac on her heels.

The reporter straightened from an almost horizontal sprawl and fingered his fringe. “Is this gonna take long, cos I’ve got better things to do. I came here...”

“Of your own free will. Yeah. I know.” She perched on the edge of the desk, cast him a curious gaze. “Stomach bug, was it? Why you didn’t show for work yesterday?”

He stretched both arms over his head, yawning wide. Playing for time? Winding her up? The reporter couldn’t claim he’d been ill. He’d told Bev the news desk had called him out.

“Where’d you hear that, sergeant? I was on a story.”

Anna Kendall had let it slip. And in the truth stakes, Bev knew where her money lay. “What story?” she asked.

“It’s not relevant.” He tapped his foot.

“Where’d you go to cover this story?”

“Leave it,” he snapped. “It’s not important.”

Push it? Press on? She narrowed her eyes. They’d nothing to hold him on. If she got up his nose, he could walk. Anyway there was probably more fertile ground. She moved to the business side of the desk, switched to police-speak. “The tape please, DC Tyler.”

The reporter pursed his lips, sat back arms folded.

“Where were you yesterday afternoon, Mr Snow?” Bev asked. “From midday onwards?”

“At home. Working on my column.” Quick. Too quick?

“Can anyone verify that?”

“I cleared it with the desk. Why?”

“What’s the column about?”

Slight pause. “Police corruption.” The smirk didn’t last long.

“So you weren’t taking a stroll in the park?” She opened the file, casually shuffled through police photographs from yesterday’s crime scene. “Small Heath park?”

“No! I finished the piece then went for a drink.”

“Where?”

“The Bacchus bar.”

“What time?”

“I dunno. Five, six-ish? Are you treating me as a suspect?”

“Philip Goodie. How’d you know him?”

“I don’t. Only what details the killer supplied.”

“That you claim he supplied.” She waited until Snow made eye contact. “Philip Goodie had your business card in his wallet.” The comment provoked what she suspected was the reporter’s first genuine reaction. Confusion? Shock? Uncertainty? Shame she couldn’t read it.

He shrugged. “Punters call all the time. Maybe he had a story for me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “He did that, Mr Snow.”

“And Gladys Marsden?” Mac threw in, as arranged, from off field. “Did she have a story?”

“Who?” Snow shifted in the seat.

“Wally Marsden’s wife,” Bev said. “How much did you pay her?”

“I’ve never met the woman.” But he knew something. There’d been a flash of fear in his eye – Bev was almost sure.

“The poor old girl was dying anyway,” Bev said. “Did you know that?”

“Are you charging me with anything?” They couldn’t. They’d not a shred of evidence against him. Gut feeling told her he knew more about Gladys Marsden’s murder than he was letting on, probably more about the paedophiles’ deaths. Sin of omission? Last time she looked that wasn’t a crime. As for her off-the-wall theory that the Disposer was a figment of the reporter’s imagination – she wasn’t even convinced Snow was capable of killing let alone culpable. They couldn’t detain him. Reluctantly she shook her head. Chair legs screeched against floor tiles.

“Where you going?” she asked.

He cast a glance of contempt. “Some of us have got work to do.”