Bad Press (22 page)

Groggy when she came round after surgery, the guv’s grave face had told Bev the only thing she wanted to know. What she considered trivia had filtered out during his visits over the ensuing days. Numb, listless, she didn’t give a toss that the Graveses were in custody, that her instincts had been right. That SOCOs had uncovered enough evidence at the house and outbuildings to nail the murdering bastards and secure Snow’s release. She couldn’t even get worked up that Byford was arriving any time to drive her back to his place. They’d take it easy; see how things worked out a day at a time. Few months back, she’d have been delirious at the prospect. Now?

Ten days she’d lain here surrounded by the sunflowers he’d brought, the books and mags she hadn’t read, music she couldn’t listen to. She’d been weighing up the personal cost, the price she’d paid. Reckoned her account was in the red, couldn’t envisage clearing the debt any time soon.

Professional losses too? There was bound to be a disciplinary; surely she’d lose her rank? She’d endangered her partner’s life as well as her own. Mac said he’d speak up for her at any hearing. But could she face another? Did she care? Mac was currently blue-eyed boy; he’d had the nous to call control who’d sent in backup. Not that she begrudged him. Last time he’d popped in to try cheering her up, his eyes were more damson than blue.

Her jacket was on the back of the chair. She slipped it on. Street clothes felt strange: denims, Docs. She checked her watch. Grimaced. Wandered to the window. Brave-face time. She was mildly surprised her reflection was unchanged, given her insides were shattered. Only Byford knew about the night terrors, the damp pillow every morning, the interminable fury, frustration. She scrabbled in her bag for a bit of lippie. Waste of time; her hand shook too much to put it on straight.

What had the guv said? “You saved two lives, Bev. Hold on to that.”

Saved two. Lost two. Easy come. So not easy go. She closed her eyes, gasped at the ache in her soul. The good dreams were even harder to bear. In those she held the twins in her arms. They hadn’t been butchered by a mad bitch.

Except Madeleine Graves wasn’t insane. Nor were her evil lying kids. For different self-serving motives they’d conspired in a monstrous plot. The arrogance was breath-taking. Waste a few paedos? The Graveses didn’t give a rat’s arse. Soon as Snow was in custody, they were bailing out.

She’d gone over the case time and again, tiny detail to final frame. Tortured herself with thoughts of
what if
...? Could she have spotted the Kendall-Graves connection earlier? Should she have cottoned on to the fact that the glitzy girlie tops in the widow’s bin liners could never have belonged to Madeleine? Shouldn’t Kendall’s fawning and flattery have rung alarm bells? Taken for a ride? Nah. World cruise.

Seeing something wasn’t always enough – it had to be interpreted properly. With hindsight, Caitlin Finney’s anonymous note hadn’t been questioning the fact Adam Graves committed suicide. Finney had wanted them to investigate the reason why. Why couldn’t she have just said so? Saved them all a...

She dug her nails into the palms of her hand. Finney was damaged goods too; back in psychiatric care. Eddie Scrivener as well. He’d never recovered from – in effect – losing his daughter, Tanya. Recent events had brought it flooding back. He’d had a breakdown, been found sleeping on the streets in Walsall.

All those people. All that pain.

Far as Bev could see, the only winner was Matt Snow. The reporter was writing a book:
Death Sentences.
Insensitive moron had asked her for input. She’d given him two words – one of which was ‘off’.

She groaned. How the hell was she going to get through this? Sobbing, she dropped her head in her hands, didn’t hear the door. Hands massaged her shoulders, smoothed the knots from her neck. She hated the guv to see her cry. Head down, she surreptitiously wiped away the tears, mustered a weak smile, then turned to face him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too.” She’d not let Oz visit, couldn’t stand to see his pain as well.

“How are you, Bev?”

“Peachy, me, mate.”

Sceptical eyebrow. “Yeah, I can see that.” He took her hands. “Bev, I can’t say how sor...”

She snatched them back. “Don’t, then.”

Tender smile; he knew gentle words choked her. “I’m up visiting the folks... heading back south this afternoon. I just want you to know... I still think we could make a go of it. If you’re interested... the offer stands.”

Could they? Was she? Clean break. New start. Maybe that’s what she needed. She saw her own reflection in his eyes, reached a hand to stroke his face.

Both turned at a tap on the door. The guv popped his head round, gave an uncertain smile. “When you’re ready... Bev?”

Author’s note:

What’s in a name...?

During the writing of each Bev book, I’ve experienced one of those extraordinary coincidences that really send the hair on the nape rising.
Bad Press
was no exception – this one still amazes me.

Like many authors, I often find it difficult to come up with names for characters. They have to be just right and I can agonise for hours before finally deciding. For
Bad Press
, I created a news editor. I could see him in my mind’s eye, hear his voice even, but what was I going to call him? After much metaphorical pen-chewing, I recalled a couple of reporters I’d worked with in the early days of BRMB radio. I borrowed one’s first name and combined it with the other’s last. Perfect. I was writing Rick Palmer’s first appearance when I decided to check my e-mails. When I saw the inbox I gasped. One of those erstwhile colleagues had just sent a message. Was I surprised? You bet. It was the first time I’d heard from either of them in nearly thirty years.

More witty, gritty Bev Morriss mysteries from Maureen Carter:

WORKING GIRLS

Fifteen years old, brutalised and dumped, schoolgirl prostitute Michelle Lucas died in agony and terror. The sight breaks the heart of Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss of West Midlands Police, and she struggles to infiltrate the deadly jungle of hookers, pimps and johns who inhabit Birmingham’s vice-land. When a second victim dies, she has to take the most dangerous gamble of her life – out on the streets.

Dark and gritty... an exciting debut novel...

- Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence

DEAD OLD

Elderly women are being attacked by a gang of thugs. When retired doctor Sophia Carrington is murdered, it’s assumed she is the gang’s latest victim. But Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss is sure the victim’s past holds the key to her violent death.

Her new boss won’t listen, but when the killer moves uncomfortably close to home, it’s time for Bev to rebel.

Complex, chilling and absorbing... confirms her place among the new generation of British crime writers.

- Julia Wallis Martin, author of
The Bird Yard
and
A Likeness in Stone

BABY LOVE

Rape, baby-snatching, murder: all in a day’s work for Birmingham’s finest. But she’s just moved house, her lover’s attention is elsewhere and her last case left her unpopular in the squad room; it’s sure to end in tears. Bev Morriss meets trouble when she takes her eye off the ball.

Carter writes like a longtime veteran, with snappy patter and stark narrative.

- David Pitt, Booklist (USA)

HARD TIME

An abandoned baby...

A kidnapped five-year-old...

A dead police officer...

And Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss thinks she’s having a hard time!

Bev doesn’t do fragile and vulnerable, but she’s struggling to cope with the aftermath of a vicious attack.

Her lover has decided it’s time to move on, the guv is losing patience, and her new partner has the empathy of a house brick. She can scarcely trust her own judgement, so what’s left to rely on?

Just when things can’t get any worse, another police officer dies.

And the ransom note arrives.

And hard doesn’t begin to cover it.

British hard-boiled crime at its best.

- Deadly Pleasures Year’s Best Mysteries 2007 (USA)