Bad Press (13 page)

The thought brought her up sharp. Had Eddie Scrivener killed for a damn sight more than a fish supper? Jury was a long way out. But at least Mac’s dogged persistence had thrown up a lead. Before leaving Highgate, she’d briefed key players like Flint and Powell, liaised with a bod in the news bureau, swapped a bit of banter with Mac who was last seen pawing over a hot keyboard. She smiled, shook her head. Mac had finally – and tentatively – invited her to a comedy night. He was on the stand-up bill at The Dog in Digbeth on Sunday. Shame. She’d sure as hell go along for a heckle, but Byford had a prior booking. She shivered, spine tingled, hadn’t felt so girly in yonks.

She chucked her keys on the hall table, curled a lip at the local rag Frankie must’ve left there. Hopefully, Eddie Scrivener’s mug would make tomorrow’s front pages. Not that the cops were pointing fingers yet. But Scrivener had questions to answer. ‘Needed to help with inquiries’ was the wording on the news release.

Sitting room was neat as a pin. Had her mum been in? No. Friday was one of the days her ma worked. Bev slung her coat over a chair, kicked off a Doc, watched in horror as it almost decapitated a piece of Frankie’s Capo di Monte. Guilty sniff. Prob’ly a rip-off anyway. Even so, she eased her foot gently from the other shoe before giving the knick-knack a once-over. Teeny-weeny chip. Who’d notice that?

Right. Bit of mood music. Stones? Nah. Reminded her of Oz. Moby? Cold Play? Travis? Nah. Annie Lennox? Heather Small? Sade? Nah. Her nail flicked through more CD cases. Yeah. Dylan’d do it tonight.
Just Like a Woman,
featuring Bev Morriss on backing vocals.

Thank God for the latest media report on alcohol in pregnancy. This week, a glass didn’t do any harm. Next week? Dicing with death probably. The first sip was pinot nectar.

She sighed. Couldn’t ignore it any more. The answerphone had been flashing since she came in the door. It’d be her mum; Emmy Morriss ran on clockwork. Bev’s heart sank. It wasn’t that she’d avoided her ma since the scan... Yeah right. Only like the bubonic. Just that Emmy had wet her knickers knowing one baby was on the way; her maternal ministrations now would make a mother hen look negligent. Come on, Bev. Share. Don’t be a heel.

Best hear what ma had to say first. She hit Play. It wasn’t Emmy. It was Byford. Couldn’t make the weekend. Sorry.

Stunned silence then furious shout. “Fuck you, big man.” Bastard hadn’t even got the bottle to call her mobile. Wine glass drained, she poured another, slid down the wall, sat on the tiles, hugged her knees. Tears streamed down her face.
She breaks just like a little girl
, Dylan sang. Damn right, Bob.

Matt Snow lit a Marlboro, red-rimmed eyes creased against the smoke. Tonight was the first time he’d touched tobacco in five years. There were four left in the pack. Hacked off, he shoved it in his trouser pocket. Along with half a dozen other addicts, he was huddled in the cold on the pavement outside The Prince. The road surface glistened after a heavy shower; a canvas for fuzzy lights, wet leaves, street art. Urban Impressionism.

Giggles and guffaws as a fellow smoker cracked a joke. Snow didn’t crack a smile. He was close to, but not part of, the group. A position he happily occupied, normally. Outsider was pushing it a bit, but the reporter had no close friends. Maybe even cultivated the loner image, reckoned the aloofness added a touch of authority. Superiority? Mystery? He sniffed. Yeah right. No point kidding himself. It was other people kept their distance. He was no Mr Popular. Peers respected his ability, viewed him as a ruthless bastard: a bullyboy who’d flog his grannies for a down page filler.

The reporter took a long hard drag, flicked the glowing stub in the gutter. What the hell had he sold to the Disposer? And what was in it for him, exactly? He sighed. It was a bit late for second thoughts.

Snow fought his way back to the bar. Terracotta tiles were tacky with beer slops, cream walls were coated with nicotine. The Prince wouldn’t have been his pub of choice: the cop shop was only a two-minute walk. Last thing he needed was to bump into the Bill. Or Bev. Mind, they probably had better things to do on a Saturday night.

Snow ordered another Stella, lingered near the bar. Brash big mouths with loud accents and braying laughs meant he could barely hear himself think. Probably no bad thing. He checked his Blackberry. No texts. Bunch of voice messages from Morriss and Powell. The pay-as-you-go was on vibrate in his breast pocket. He was waiting for the Disposer’s next contact. When it came, perhaps he’d ask the bastard why he’d told Snow to hang out at the Prince. Least of his worries really. The Disposer was ballistic after that morning’s Eddie Scrivener coverage. Reading between the lines, it was clear the cops had Scrivener in the frame for the Wally Marsden murder. The Disposer wasn’t into glory sharing. He was threatening action that’d get the national media creaming its collective jeans. Have to get their arses back to Birmingham first. Terror alerts in the capital meant most of them had returned to base.

“Tintin. How you doing, mate?” Jack Pope, crime correspondent on the
Chronicle.
Great.

“Watch it!” Snow snapped. Pope’s heavy-handed backslap had jettisoned Stella all over Snow’s shirtfront. Ineffectual dabs with a tissue only spread the stain.

“’Nother drink?” Pope winked. “Or have you just spilled one?”

Snow itched to whack the smirk off his face. Pope was a walking cliché: the tall dark handsome smooth talker. Jack the lad, and one of the lads. Everything the short, pallid, bland Snow wasn’t. On the other hand Pope couldn’t write his way out of a split paper bag. Ex-cop, for Christ’s sake. Didn’t have a clue about crafting a story.

“What brings you here?” Snow asked. Like he could care less.

Pope tapped the side of his nose. “Little bird.” That figured. Guy had an aviary at his disposal. Not that Snow was bitter or anything.

“When’s the next one, Snowie?” Jack wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Next what?”

“Bin collection. Come on, Tintin. Don’t be a wanker.” His beer-laced burp hit Snow in the face. “Your new best buddy. When’s he sending another paedo packing?”

“Like I’d tell you.” Snow snorted. “If you were on fire, I’d piss the other way.”

“Cruel.” Jack pouted, all hurt. “Might drown one of your Hush Puppies.”

“Snigger away, dickhead. I’ll have the last laugh.” Snow’s fist was balled.

“Oh?” Jack cocked his head. “Gonna piss on the opposition again, Snowie?”

“Buy yourself an umbrella, Pope.”

“Tell me more.”

Snow had already said enough. “Fuck off, pretty boy.” He turned his back.

“Tut tut, Tintin. Swearing’s sign of a shit vocabulary. Still, anyone reads your crappy column knows that.”

Snow had never seen red mist before. Never attacked anyone either. He smashed the Stella bottle against the wall, took an almighty swing. Jack instinctively protected his face but jagged glass ripped the skin open on the back of his hands. Shocked gasps and women’s screams. Rough hands dragged Snow away; others restrained Pope from retaliating.

Two blokes frogmarched Snow through the crowd. At the door, the reporter shook them off and turned. Spittle flecked his lips. “Next time you’re dead.”

“Ballistic wasn’t in it, babe.” Jack Pope looked pale and sounded shaky. “I’d never’ve thought the slimy runt had it in him.”

Arms folded, Bev tapped a toe, watched a young casualty nurse at the General bandage Jack’s ragged wounds. Beyond the cubicle curtains, a depressingly familiar Saturday night drama played: binge drinkers and street brawlers, fuckwits in fisticuffs, blacked eyes, bleeding faces, broken bones. Soundtrack was slurred snatches of
Danny Boy
, and
Angels
. Bev sighed, felt like punching out a few lights herself.

Jack had got off lightly. No stitches, no permanent damage. She thanked the big man in the sky Jack hadn’t lost an eye. Right now both were ogling the earthly angel wielding the lint.

“Hey, Jack, tell me: what part of ‘give me a bell if you find him’ didn’t you understand?” Bev’s anger was directed at herself more than Pope. Her call had unwittingly endangered the guy. She’d enlisted him in her pathetic little hunt for Snow. They’d divvied out the reporter’s haunts and watering holes. Jack had struck lucky. Or not. With hindsight it had been madness. She’d never have asked if he hadn’t been an old flame. And she hadn’t had something to prove. Or better things to do on a Saturday night. Screw Byford.

“Come on, babe,” Jack cajoled. “You weren’t exactly expecting this?” He lifted a bandaged hand. She shook her head. Never in a month of Sundays. “Exactly,” Jack said. “I was just having a friendly little chat with the guy before bringing you in.”

“You pressing charges?” Bev asked.

“Pressing a knee in his nuts next time I see him.” The nurse giggled. Bev gave a token smile. Typical Jack. Should’ve known he’d cock up. Being a team player was an alien concept to the guy. She snorted. Hark who’s talking. Bev had been out on a forest of limbs in her time. But Jack wasn’t a cop any more, didn’t share her priorities. She wanted a word with Snow; Jack would’ve wanted a story.

“What sparked him, Jack?”

“Search me.” Reckoned she’d find something too. Jack had a guilty glint in his eye. Pound to a penny, he’d wound Snow up. But to blow like that? Big questions: was Snow on a knife-edge? Or had the capacity for violence always been there?

“Wait till we get home, shall we?” Jack asked.

Bev was miles away. “What?”

“Before you search me.” Suggestive eyebrow. Kiss-kiss lips.

“Hey, love,” Bev addressed the nurse. “Sure his brain’s not damaged?”

Snow lay on the leather settee, throbbing head clutched in bloodstained hands. Felt as if a chainsaw was hacking his brain. Painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet. Couldn’t counter the booze, perhaps. A bottle of Grouse stood on the carpet, half its contents swirling round the reporter’s gut.

How had he got home? He frowned, dredged vague memories of stumbling out of a cab into the gutter. He chuckled. No idea why. Get a grip, man. Couldn’t afford to lose it again. Why had he let Pope needle him? If the guy pressed charges, Snow would be out of a job. Christ, was he already out of his mind?

Snow felt like a schizo, but wasn’t cut out for the double life. Pretending everything was normal when he shat himself every time the phone rang. Price was high considering he’d never even met the man at the end of the line. Course the pay back was appealing. But the pressure was patently getting to him.

Why else had he shot his mouth off to Pope? Snigger away, dickhead. I’ll have the last laugh. Hilarious. Snow groaned. Talk about showing your hand. Hopefully Pope wasn’t quick enough to pick up the drift. Or was the booze adding to Snow’s paranoia?

He staggered to stockinged feet, stumbled to the window, pressed feverish forehead against cool glass. “It’d be Pope’s word against mine.”

A piss-head weaved across the pavement. Snow’s thin lip curled in contempt. He didn’t see the dark figure against the oak tree. The nearest streetlight was out, the slight form was barely distinguishable from the bark. The watcher was aware of Snow’s every move, had been most of the night, and was sober as a stone cold judge.

Byford tugged the cashmere scarf more snugly round his neck, dug gloved hands deep into fleece pockets. Silver light danced across the surface of the dark ocean, the moon a perfect milky circle against midnight blue velvet. Silhouettes of three, no, four small fishing boats were just visible from the shore, tiny red lights twinkling from the masts.

The big man gazed out from the shoreline. He loved the sea, loved the ever-present sound of the waves; always there, constantly changing, soothing, reassuring, hypnotic. Never jarring, like the cacophony of city noise. He loved the water too, a moving palette with a million shades. Dark now, dark dramatic landscape too, except for the moon’s stage lighting.

His son’s phone call had come out of the proverbial blue. Richard’s marriage was falling apart, Stephie needed space, she’d taken the kids. Byford couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Rich cry. It was a tough call: Bev or the boy? The big man had packed a weekend bag, headed to his youngest son’s home in Cumbria, a village on the coast, Silecroft.

Well-oiled and emotionally drained, Rich had drifted off to sleep around midnight, the big man had slipped out for air, exercise, a little solitude. He wanted to wave a wand, take away his son’s pain. That wasn’t going to happen. From what he gathered, it looked as if Rich and Stephanie needed a miracle, not magic, to avoid divorce.

He sighed, pondered his own little domestic difficulty. The silence from Bev was pretty predictable, he supposed. Stroppy was her default mode. Even so, it wouldn’t have hurt her to give him the benefit of the doubt. As it was, she wasn’t picking up the phone, hadn’t returned his calls. Was she hurt? Fed up? Furious? All three probably. And down had crashed the emotional shutters – up had clanged the personal drawbridge.

Maybe he should’ve been more explicit when he left the message. But whatever he said boiled down to the same thing: my kids are more important. She’d love that.

Did she love him? He didn’t know. Maybe his sudden dash was the excuse she needed. He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. Maybe it was the excuse he needed. He cared for Bev, of course he did, but boy could she be prickly. She made Naomi Campbell look a model of reason. He took a nip of malt from a hip flask. God, he was too old for all this soul-searching. Anyway, he was a bloke, he was from Mars.

As venues go, the back room of the Dog wasn’t big, more comedy stall than store. Produce-wise, a few of the gags were past their sell-by. Who cared? Bev had sunk a few bevies, spirits were high. Good job there was no comedy equivalent of karaoke or she’d be up there. Wouldn’t even need a friendly shove from the girls. Bev, Frankie, Sumi Gosh and Carol Pemberton had bagged the table nearest the front, prime spot to catch Mac’s act.

Caz, looking tasty in red, strolled back from the bar, dished out roasted peanuts and pork scratchings.

“Ta, mate.” Bev smiled. There was only so long you could wallow in self-pity. By Sunday lunchtime, she’d had enough. Byford could go screw himself. As for Jack Pope, she’d given the cheeky sod a lift home from hospital, been sorely tempted by his lech proposal she should be his night nurse. She’d gone back to her place instead, slept for England.

After a late lazy breakfast, the Bullring was calling her name. She’d nipped into town for a bit of retail therapy: books, more bubble bath, earrings, two skirts, three pairs of trousers and a new bra. Needed bigger sizes but hey! Pregnancy’s a growth market. She’d finally popped in to break the baby news to her mum and gran. Emmy and Sadie were chuffed to bits. Good mood must’ve been catching. Bev had raced home, rounded up the girls for compulsory fun at the Crack House. Mind, the wit-smith who’d come up with the club name needed a smack.

Swigging shandy, she gazed round. Décor was cream and sepia and despite the baccy ban smelt smoky-stale. When Mac had said not to expect a lot, he wasn’t kidding, though he’d better be any time soon. They’d already sat through five funny men routines. The Highgate posse made up half the audience; the rest looked as if it had strayed in off the street, probably expected Paul Merton or Russ Noble to be on the bill. So not happening. The Crack House (thanks to Mac, she was an instant expert on these matters) was open-spot slots, a gig for unknown up-and-coming comics. Close but not quite comedy karaoke. Eventually, most of the turns wanted to make it big on the circuit. That wasn’t Mac’s motivation. The stand-up was his antidote to the stress of being a cop. DC Tyler wasn’t about to give up the day job.

Timely reminder. It was work first thing. Bev grimaced. Best switch to the soft stuff.

“When’s he on, sarge?” Sumi hadn’t got the hang of this off-duty lark.

Bev shrugged. “Haven’t got a clue.”

“Nothing new there then.” Frankie smirked.

“Should be on stage, Francesca.” Bev made a show of checking her watch. “Next one leaves in ten.”

“God. You’re sharp.” She tilted her glass.

They hushed it when the compère tapped the mic. He reminded Bev of those little rubber trolls that kids used to attach to the top of their pencils: small, pot-bellied, frizzy hair sticking out round a bald spot. Bloke raised a few sniggers though with a sarky take on celebrity boob jobs.

Caz leaned in, confided sotto voce. “Only time I ever had great tits? When I was carrying.”

“Carrying what?” Sumi sucked Saint Clement’s up a straw.

“Cases. What d’you think?” Caz put her arms round an imaginary bump. Her kids had reached junior school stage. “No shit. Thirty-eight double dee. My old man thought he’d died and gone to heaven.”

Exaggerated sniggers. Bev narrowed her eyes. Sumi was a touch green, not dark vert; Caz had a glint in the eye. Frankie was suspiciously silent. They were up to something.

“Getting pregnant’s a bit drastic.” Sumi grinned. “Can’t see it catching on.”

“What do you think, Bev?” Caz, all innocence.

Bev reckoned she’d been rumbled, that she wasn’t just imagining the sideways glances going round Highgate, that her expanding waistline was indeed the subject of growing speculation and juicy goss. Hands in mock surrender, she confessed. “OK you got me. I’m pregnant. Couldn’t afford the boob job.”

Squeals of delight round the table. “Bev, that’s brill.”

“Nice one, sarge.”

Nice two, actually. But she’d not go that far yet. Frankie already had bubbly on ice at the bar. Bev watched as she sashayed back with a laden tray. “Stitched me up good and proper,” she smiled. “Didn’t even get a sniff.”

“Here’s to the great detective.” Frankie raised a glass.

“Finished, ladies?” Troll Man inquired, eyebrow heading for non-existent hairline. “Next up’s a guy who knows his way round the comedy block. A legend in his own north Midlands neck of the woods... the Crack House is proud to host his Birmingham debut.” He glanced at something scribbled on his wrist. “Put your hands together please for... Mick Taylor.

Stage name? Or was Troll Man too vain to wear specs? Anyone’s guess, but Mac entered through a side door, stepped up to the mic. And the crowd went wild. Well, the Highgate contingent did. Their wave of whoops and wolf whistles almost drowned the sound of Bev’s ring tone.

She caught the odd phrase from Mac: observational stuff on crime and the police. They all missed the punch line. Powell was on the phone asking for backup. Major incident in Balsall Heath. Looked as if it could turn nasty.

Mac cottoned on quick. He joined the exodus to the door. The four people left clapped desultorily. Maybe thought it was part of the act.