Bad Press (12 page)

“If that’s it...?” he asked. “I was just on the way out.” She watched as he shucked into a black leather jacket, kissed Madeleine’s cheek. He turned at the door. “I didn’t mean to be rude, officer. It’s just... my mother’s going through a hard time.” He’d dropped the drawl; was the charm just another act? “Nice to meet you.” He gave a mock salute.

Doubt. Benefit. Bev nodded. “Snap.” Ten minutes later, Bev was making tracks herself. She’d pushed Mrs Graves again on the anonymous letters. Apart from extracting a promise from the woman that she’d contact the police if more arrived, that was it. As to the existence of a suicide note, the widow was adamant there’d not been one. On balance, Bev couldn’t see it mattered. Cause of death wasn’t suspicious. She’d seen or heard nothing to set antennae twitching.

She paused in the hall. “Want me to drop those for you?” The bin bags.

“I wonder why Claudia’s girl didn’t come? The sale’s on Saturday.”

“For...?”

“The Conservative Party.”

Christ on a bike. Frozen rictus. Two went in the boot; two on the passenger seat. Madeleine waved from the door. Bev’s weak smile died as she unlocked the driver’s door. Talk about insult to injury. Some toe rag had scrawled FILTHY in the dust on the soft top. She peered closer. Or was it FILTH?

“As excuses go... that’s on a par with cutting your granny’s toe nails.” There was a smile in Byford’s voice. Bev was on the phone explaining why she couldn’t go round to his place that night.

“Straight up, guv. I’ve gotta drop them first thing.”

He pictured her surrounded by bin bags, sorting through the Graves’s cast-offs. “Must say, I never had you down as a closet Tory.”

“That is so not funny.”

He laughed. “What are you hoping to find? Cameron’s policies?”

“Ever considered stand-up?”

“With you and Mac around?”

“Later.”

Byford smiled, shook his head, ended the call. He retrieved his tumbler from the kitchen, headed for the best seat in the house. His body-shape indent in the leather recliner was proof of that. From here through the picture window, the big man liked to look out on the cityscape in the distance: jagged shades-of-grey skyline during the day, now a mosaic of twinkling lights. Better than the box any time.

He sipped Laphroaig, replayed Bev’s call. Had it just been an excuse not to see him? Had she feigned sleep last night? And was a tiny bit of him relieved? He gave a wry smile. Whatever the future held, Bev’d be a handful and a half. With or without babies.

He rolled the malt round his tongue. Either way he knew he wasn’t into one-night stands. Never had been. For him it would be long-term or nothing. Was he ready for that? And what about Bev? Commitment was an alien concept to her. He sighed. Whether she liked it or not, motherhood would force a change. Clipped wings and cramped style could lead to compromises she’d never otherwise consider. Including him? He downed the whisky; the angst was going nowhere.

“As Bev would say, ‘Get over it’,” he chided himself, and reached for his book: Ian Rankin’s
Exit Music
.

It’s not as if you’re asking her to get hitched.

Mouldy five pence piece and a bunch of fluff. What more had Bev expected? A handwritten note:
I, Adam Graves, being of decidedly dodgy mind, topped myself cos...
She smiled to herself: yeah, like that’d happen outside an Agatha Christie. Most of the gear she’d gone through hadn’t even belonged to the doc. Flipping heck: Frankie had fancied one or two of the skimpy tops herself. God knew what the widow looked like in them. Mutton and unborn lamb sprang to Bev’s mind.

Traffic was rush-hour-heavy; she took a rat run to avoid Moseley Road’s worst bottleneck. Anyway, she’d got shot of the bin bags. Come to think of it, the old woman she’d handed them to looked a bit like Christie. Not that on the button though, given she’d tried persuading Bev to join the Conservatives. Bev had eschewed the party invitation and legged it. Maybe she should’ve stuck round, picked up some detecting tips.

Operation Wolf certainly needed a few steers, according to the expert currently reading the eight o’clock news. Bev tapped a finger on the wheel.
West Midlands police admit they’re no nearer an arrest in the so-called...

Yada yada. She curled a lip, opted for a blast from Snow Patrol instead. Revelled in the freedom, the simple pleasure in flicking the switch. After her attack a couple years back, she’d had the CD player ripped out of the Midget. Couldn’t listen to in-car music without getting flashbacks of the rapist. Yeah. Well that was history now. And the panic attacks. She hiked the volume, sang along at the top her voice.
Give me a chance to hold on, give me a chance...
It didn’t quite drown current fears. Or future concerns. She reached higher, pulled out another vocal stop.

Then pulled down the visor; bright sunlight was making her squint. Windscreen could do with a clean. She leaned forward peering through grease streaks and bird shit. Washers weren’t doing it. Christ, it was filthy. Like the roof. She’d wiped that particular F-word off the soft top this morning. On reflection she reckoned Lucas Graves’s dabs could’ve been all over it. Could be wrong but his fingers had been decidedly grubby in last night’s reluctant handshake. Payback for upsetting mummy? Maybe. On the other hand loads of kids had problems with cops.

No doubt Anna Kendall would soon be finding that out. It’d only take five minutes tailing a cop round some parts of the city to feel the love. Bev had caught up with the hack on the phone yesterday evening. She’d made provisional arrangements to hook up with the writer after lunch depending what had come in overnight. And assuming nothing vital came up at the brief.

Real bummer ‘bout the bin bags though. If she’d not been otherwise engaged, maybe she would’ve spent the evening with the guv.

“You didn’t catch Flint and Paxo? You missed a blinder, sarge.” Mac offered Bev half shares in a bacon butty as they scuttled along the corridor trying to avoid a late arrival at an early brief already put back an hour. Before leaving home, Bev had wolfed two boiled eggs and a platoon of Marmite soldiers. Mind, that was ages ago, least an hour.

“What’s on it?” Nose screwed suspiciously. “And no I didn’t.”

“Thought Flint was gonna land him one. Daddies’ sauce.”

Rude to say no. “Ta, mate.” Must be the eating-for-three kicking in. “Edited highlights. Shoot.”

“It was national pop-a-cop-day. Paxman was like a terrier in a bone yard. Made the boss look a right clown.” Mac was a wicked mimic. “‘No cause for alarm? Are you entirely serious, Detective Chief Superintendent?’ Then he gives Flint the eyebrow.”

“Give him a starter for ten as well?” she snorted.

“Finished, have we?” The DCS. Behind them. The question was rhetorical. He certainly didn’t hang about for an answer. Bev and Mac stepped aside sharpish and sheepish. Flint swept through, spine ramrod straight, and marched in to the briefing room. Suitably chastened, they fell in line behind.

Going by the massed ranks’ sudden hush and badly concealed smirks, Mac wasn’t the only one who’d watched the media savaging. Flint clearly had a problem with it. Building up a head of steam? Full body. He stood centre front, hand in pocket, ran his gaze over the fifteen or so squad members assembled. “Let’s get this straight before we start,” he barked. “I’m sick of taking stick from ignorant gits. It’s bad enough when the press has a go. I’ll not tolerate it from my officers.”

Tough. At the back, Bev bridled. Then actually gave it some thought. The man had a point. Heading up a major incident inquiry wasn’t easy even without gratuitous pops. Not that she’d personal experience of the top job. Nor likely to. But she’d seen the heavy toll a high profile case could take, knew senior detectives who used chemical crutches to get through: baccy and booze being the legal ones. People like Flint, the guv, even Powell, were the guys with a neck on the block. They called the shots and it was there the buck stopped.

As for the press, it was easy to take swings from the safety of a desk. Shame a few more hacks didn’t have Jack Pope’s insight. Her old mate Popie had thrown in the badge for a press card couple years ago now. Over a boozy Balti, not that long back, he’d made what for him was an intelligent observation that had stuck with Bev. He reckoned the two jobs had a lot in common. In police work and journalism, no two days were the same, each shift brought something new – often volatile situations that had to be defused using people skills. Instant communication and connection with complete strangers went with both career territories. Big difference though. “At the end of the day, babe...” She recalled Jack’s winning combination of cliché and condescension. “Reporters don’t make life and death calls. They just write about it. The only deadline bothering me is my editor’s.”

Three deaths in as many days were bugging Flint. Any more critics on his back and he might buckle. Bev jotted a reminder on her to-do list, half listened as the DCS ran through the stats: hundred and twenty statements, tapes from seventy street cameras, ninety-eight calls to the hot line. Number crunching really. Nothing to go on.

“Short of catching the killer red-handed,” Flint said opening a shaving nick as he rubbed his chin, “we need quality information.” Without forensic evidence and video footage, a breaking case often boiled down to that: the one phone call that pointed police in the wrongdoer’s direction, the one tip that led to an arrest. Or the crim gets careless. Or cocky. Cops aren’t clairvoyant; they don’t have visions, blinding flashes of inspiration. That sort of bollocks was for the box.

“What about
Crimewatch
?” Powell had starred with the lovely Fiona Bruce once, probably fantasised about repeating the performance with Kirsty. “I’m pretty thick with one of the producers.”

Pretty thick? Bev masked a smile, made another note.

“Christ, Mike,” Flint groaned. “I hope we nail the killer before that.” The monthly programme had gone out last night. Double-edged sword as well. Prime time telly could really open the fruitcakes’ floodgates.

“Reconstruction?” Daz mooted.

“Maybe, lad.” Flint didn’t sound convinced. Re-creating the last known movements of a pair of paedos didn’t have a lot going for it in the simpatico stakes. Flint threw the brief open, and officers ran through results of tasks assigned. It didn’t take long. No news in this case not being good news. There were still masses of boxes to tick, phones to bash, doors to knock. Routine, methodical plod work. Pulses were not racing.

Bev tucked her pen behind her ear. “I reckon the killer’ll be in touch before long.”

“How’d you work that one out, Morriss?” Powell sneered.

“Enjoying it, isn’t he?” She mimed writing. “Corresponding with a tame hack. Getting his story splashed all over the front page. Bet he’s got a taste for it.”

“Keen for more.” Flint nodded, sighed. Maybe he was thinking the same as Bev. Fact was the Disposer wasn’t the first psycho to enjoy seeing his name – and words – in print. Look at the Zodiac killer in the States. Forty years since his homicidal spree in California, but films and books chronicling the story were still being churned out. The Zodiac wrote to three newspapers claiming more than thirty lives. Crammed with taunts and cryptic clues, the correspondence added to his notoriety and the public’s fascination. Course, the first – and still most infamous – serial killer to get his rocks off writing to the press was considerably closer to home. And just as elusive.

Neither Zodiac nor Jack the Ripper had even been identified – let alone caught.

“Bev.” Flint tapped her on the shoulder on his way out. “More pressure on Matt Snow, I think.”

“More fan mail, Matt?”

Snow scowled as he flicked his head round. Anna Kendall was peeking over his narrow hunched shoulders. He might fancy the pants off her, didn’t mean he appreciated the prying. Mind, in the pink shift dress she was a sight for runny eyes. Maybe he was just getting paranoid?

The reporter had come in early, thought he’d have the newsroom to himself for a while. Wanted first dibs at the early post he’d brought up from front desk. Amazing how time flies when you’re not enjoying yourself; the whole team had drifted in by now. And Anna’s question couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Some nutter reckons he’s the Disposer.” Snow waved a sheet of lined paper that had clearly been torn from a spiral notebook. “Says he’s gonna wipe out redheads next.”

“Couldn’t start with Chris Evans, could he?” Anna perched on the edge of his desk, crossed her legs, probably oblivious to what her hemline was up to. He returned the tongue-in-cheek grin, aware of a slight relaxation in his taut nerve cells. He’d felt wired to the national grid since his last contact with the killer. And the cops.

“Evans is OK.” Snow lounged back, hands crossed behind his head. “How ’bout Anne Robinson?”

“What do you reckon the Disposer would say to her?” There was a gleam in her eye. “You are the...

“...weakest link. Goodbye.” He completed the limp line. Their laughter was forced. The unsolicited mail had a serious aspect. Every Tom, Dick and hoaxer was jumping on the bandwagon.

“How many letters now, Matt?” Leg casually swinging.

“Stopped counting after thirty.” He tried meeting her eye-line but given the distraction it was difficult. “Look at that.” He pointed a Hush Puppy at screwed up balls of paper on the floor. No room in the bin.

She slipped elegantly off the desk, squatted, skimmed some of the offerings. “Shouldn’t you let the police take a look at this stuff?”

He snorted. “It’s complete bilge, Anna.”

“Even so...” She licked her lips as she read. “Are they all anonymous?”

“Pretty much. ’Cept for the note from George Bush. Oh yeah, and the one from Tony Blair.” Snow rolled his eyes. “Fuckwits.”

“With fingers clearly on the political pulse,” she quipped, then sat cross-legged, lowered her voice. “Do you think he’ll write again?”

“Tone? Any time.” Snow aimed for a casual crack, missed by a wide margin. He knew damn well who she meant. Fact was the Disposer had already made contact; his words were imprinted on the reporter’s brain. Snow shivered, suddenly cold. “Have to wait and see, won’t we?” It was almost a relief when the news editor called Snow to his office. Anna waited until Rick Palmer’s door was closed before gathering the letters and slipping them into her attaché case.

Bev didn’t want to piss on Anna Kendall’s paper parade, but a quick butcher’s at the scrawled contents of the first few creased sheets wasn’t hopeful. “This is great, Anna,” she fibbed. “Thanks a bunch.” She told God it was a barely white lie. Like He’d care. Unlike Anna, who might take offence and not come to the wicket again with potential goodies. Mind, Bev might’ve overdone the effusion.

It looked as if Kendall was blushing; the Twix-coloured eyes were lowered. “Hope they won’t waste too much of your valuable time. But they were being thrown away, and you never know, do you?”

Know what? That every loony on the planet had picked up a pen? A near matching stack had been sent to the nick. Bev shoved the letters in a file, promised to get them fine-tooth combed later. Mac could have a look-see when he got back from Wolverhampton.

Bev had been looking forward to a nose round the newsroom but Anna had called to change the location. The writer had been on assignment over Highgate way. Made sense to drop by after. She’d just come from interviewing a woman who was marrying for the eighth time. “Get all the good jobs, I do.” Anna had laughed, broken the ice before handing over the letters.

Bev popped the file atop a wobbly in-tray. She’d opted for her office rather than an interview room. More user-friendly. She sat back, flexing her manipulation muscles, asked Anna to talk in more detail about her request. Bev observed more closely than she listened. The young woman was like a breath of fresh air. Mind, she waved her hands a lot when she spoke. Had to admire the passion, GSOH too, maybe a touch naïve. Anna made a good case, but Bev had already drawn mental lines. She was only interested in access to Snow. Like she’d tell Anna that. Magnanimously she agreed in principle to Anna shadowing, but only when it didn’t impede Operation Wolf. “Priorities and all that.” She smiled, hands spread.

“I absolutely understand.” Anna leaned forward. Close and cosy. “We can still do the general interview stuff, though?” Puppy dog eyes. She put Bev in mind of Daz when he was doing his Andrex bit.

Bev sighed. “Journos aren’t too popular round here at the mo, Anna. Might be best to hang fire till we get a handle on the case.”

She nodded, clearly disappointed. “Unless...” Pen tapped perfect teeth. Bev’s fingers were crossed under the desk: Go on, gal, she urged silently. “Maybe some time when you’re in town you can pop in? I can record a chat in the newsroom easily enough.”

Result! She waggled a hand. “See what I can do.”

Anna opened her mouth, maybe thought better of it, lowered her eyes again.

“What?” Bev’s lip twitched. Girl was certainly no hard-nosed hack.

“Tell me to get lost. I won’t mind, but any chance of me looking round an incident room? Just to pick up the buzz. It could add veracity to the front line cop features.”

Yeah right. Girl was a cop tart: one step up from a crime scene gawper. She just wanted a gander. Bev thought it through. Two minutes wasn’t going to hurt. And it could pay-off big time. But. “No can do. Sorry.”

Anna shrugged, reached for an expensive looking case. “No prob. You know what they say... If you don’t ask...”

Too true. Same ‘they’ talk about hot irons and striking. “How’s Matt Snow coping in the spotlight?”

She turned her mouth down. “Struggling, I’d say. He likes people to think he’s Mr Cool, but I think the pressure’s getting to him.”

“Pressure?” Bev scoffed. “Screwing the opposition? Guy gets more scoops than Mr Whippy.”

Wasn’t one of Bev’s best, but it made Anna laugh. “I suppose... but Matt didn’t ask to be singled out. Right now he’s got every nutter in the city on his back, the management breathing down his neck, the police on his case. Oops. Sorry. I...”

Dismissive wave. “No worries.” Anna reached for her jacket. Now or never. Worse thing she could do was tell Bev to fuck off. “Wanna help him?”

She paused, one arm in a sleeve. “Matt?”

Bev nodded, adopted a serious expression to counter Anna’s uncertainty. Sounds of silence. The tick of Bev’s wristwatch was audible. For a few seconds she thought she’d made a bad call, then...

“Sure.” Anna sat back, crossed her legs. “Truth be told I feel a bit sorry for him. Some of the other hacks are giving him a hard time. Jealous, I suppose. What can I do?”

Bev held her gaze. “Keep an eye on him for me.”

Incredulity? Contempt? The writer straightened. Miss You-Can-Not-Be-Serious. “Are you asking me to be your snout?” Bev shrugged. Win some, lose some. “Yeah, go on then. I’m up for that.” Anna’s giggle was infectious. “Tell me more.”

Phew. Not lost her touch then. Bev asked Anna to keep her eyes, ears, mind, open. “Can’t tell you what for exactly.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Anything out the ordinary piques your interest, twitches the antennae. Try and find out who he talks to, where he goes, what he’s up to. If you can get him to open up, maybe he’ll drop his guard, let something slip. Problem?”

The frown deepened. “Why do I get the impression he’s being treated as a suspect?”

Bev’s turn to lean forward. “Not that, Anna. I think a killer’s playing him like a fiddle. I reckon Matt’s out of his depth. He assumes he’s in control. He’s not. And it’s a dangerous game.”

She nodded. “He’s aware of that.” Guessing?

“Is he?”

“He’s scared. I sensed it this morning.” Anna looked down at her hands.

“Go on.”

“I asked if he thought the Disposer would write again.” Eye contact now. “Way Matt reacted – I think he already has.”

Bev probed but could extract no more. Anna’s gut feeling wasn’t proof. Made sense though. Could explain why Snow hadn’t returned any of Bev’s calls. Again. He’d certainly not been at his desk since first thing. “You heading back to work now?” Anna shook her head. “Next time you see him? Get him to give me a bell?” She pushed her chair back. “I’ll walk you out.”

They had to pass the incident room. Bev popped her head round the door. Busy? More buzz in a defunct beehive. She beckoned Anna. “Two minutes, OK?”

Bev was no clock-watcher, but by 18.43 she’d had enough. A stack of papers at her left elbow represented eliminations: calls put in, checks made, follow-ups done and dusted. At the right lay further actions. It was a much smaller pile but the tasks in it needed deeper digging: phone interviews where she’d picked up vocal nuances, felt she’d elicit more face-to-face. Meant she’d gabbed a lot too. Hoarse wasn’t in it. Three bottles of Malvern water she’d necked, throat still felt like barbed wire. Please God, don’t let me be coming down with anything. The weekend beckoned, as did Byford. The plan was to spend it together. Starting tonight.

She ran a finger test on her hair. Yep. Needed washing. No problem. The big man wasn’t due to come courting till nine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had two days off running. Not that she’d be doing much running. She gave a lazy smile.

Arms high, she stretched kinks from her spine, revelled in the prospect of a long lie-in followed by a bit of duvet action. Unlike uniform. Poor sods would be posting fliers first thing round the crime scenes on the Churchill and in the park. She’d mooted it at the late brief. Got the green light from Flint. Designs were at the printers now. Bit like wanted posters only in this case it was information they were after. Were you in blah-blah on such-adate? The leaflets would be tucked under windscreens, tied to lampposts, pushed through letterboxes. Might get a result...

After the brief, she’d finally got round to filling in Flint on her abortive visit to Madeleine Graves. The DCS seemed happy enough, agreed the ball was now in the cryptic correspondent’s court. Without more to go on, they’d done all they could. Assuming there was more.

As for the Disposer and the possibility he’d contacted Snow again, Powell had the dubious pleasure of chasing that particular ball. No peace for the wicked: the DI was on duty all weekend. Course, if hell broke loose, leave would be cancelled and she’d be back in like an Exocet. Perish the thought.

She rifled her emergency rations drawer, came up with half a Mars bar. Mouth was chocker when the phone rang. She made a stab at giving her name.

“Boss?” Mac. She could hear his puzzled frown.

A chunk of caramel was stuck in her teeth, jammed to the roof of her mouth. She garbled her name again.

“That you, boss?”

Swallow. “Nah. Amy Winehouse.”

“Touch-ee. You sounded like Daffy Duck. Thought I’d got a wrong number.”

“I was masticating.” Came out all hoity-toity. Stifled guffaw noises down the line.

“You’ll choke in a minute, mate.” A smile curved her lips.

“S’OK. Just had this vision of you mast...”

“Enough already. This a social call or what?” As if. Mac had been chasing alibi leads in Wolverhampton.

“Scrivener lied, boss.”

Wolf whistle in the corridor. Door slamming in car park. Bulb flickering in Bev’s head. Eddie Scrivener. Father of Tanya: a victim of Wally Marsden. “Give.”

“Told you he was playing darts? Tournament at The Bull? Drop too much jolly juice? Home to beddy-byes?”

“Check.”

“Bollocks.”

Mac Tyler didn’t do broad-brush strokes. Mostly he paid more attention to detail than Bev. He told her that though the pub landlord had corroborated Eddie’s story, something smelt iffy. So he asked for the names of other darts’ players, other regulars. Mac had paid several house calls. Three men backed up the alibi. Two swore they’d not set eyes on Scrivener for a month.

The mental bulb was still only a flicker. It was a long way from mendacity or even a simple mistake to murder. She licked a finger, mopped chocolate flakes from the desktop. “What’s Scrivener saying?” Mac would’ve visited the house, didn’t need telling.

“Not there, boss. Not been seen since Tuesday.”

Not since her phone call. “Neighbours?”

“No idea where he is.”

“Shit.” She saw Scrivener’s face again, screwed in hate when he’d been photographed storming from Marsden’s trial at the crown court.

“There’s more.”

“Go on.”

“Smell of gas coming from Scrivener’s place.” Eau de fishy bullshit.

“Never.” Shock, horror.

“Thought it best checked.”

“Deff.” Breaking and entering – without the breaking. Saved time, cut red tape.

“And?”

“Place is a shrine to his kid. Pictures all over the walls, cabinet full of baby clothes, lock of hair tied with pink ribbon.”

“She ain’t dead, Mac, and she ain’t a kid.” Eighteen if Bev remembered right.

“Had her childhood wrecked, boss.”

Stolen innocence, tarnished lives, shattered dreams. Phrases from the Disposer’s letter. Bev pursed her lips. Eddie Scrivener had never let go, never moved on. He adored the child Tanya had once been; how much did he hate the man who – in effect – had taken her?

The bulb burned brighter. Very least they needed urgent words with Scrivener. She’d get the news bureau to issue a release, ask Wolverhampton to keep an eye on the house. “Nice work, Mac.”

“Not finished, boss. Scrivener kept a scrapbook. Crammed with paedophile court cases, trial reports, mug shots.”

“Wally Marsden?”

“Page one.”

Flash bulb went off in her head.

It was gone eight by the time Bev pulled up kerbside at Baldwin Street. No lights burning inside. Frankie must be off crooning somewhere. As she locked the motor, foodie fumes floated in the night air. World cuisine in walking distance, one of the things she loved about her Moseley pad. Spanish, Greek, Thai, Indian, Italian, Chinese, French, you name it... Mind, she’d kill for a chip butty right now.