Bad Press (3 page)

“Hey, boss. I got a name from Hawkeye. The perp?” She couldn’t read the glint in his eyes.

“Go on.”

“You’ll not like it.”

She sighed. “Shoot, Mac. I’m not in the mood.”

“Matt Snow.”

“Tintin?” She lowered the volume and pitch. “As in the hack?”

“The very same.”

“Yeah right.” She folded her arms, tapped a foot. “And the punch line is...?”

Newsman Matt Snow looked anything but cool. Slumped on a metal chair in Interview Three at Highgate nick, even the reporter’s fringe flopped. Four plastic cups with dregs of tepid tea equalled the number of hours he’d been cooped up. Dark marks ringed the armpits of his cheap brown suit, echoed the bruise-like circles under his eyes. A smell of sweat hung in the already stale air. Snow was acutely aware whose.

He heard a faint whistling and lifted his head. The out-of-tune dirge sounded like the theme to
Mash
, and it was getting louder. Snow was on his legs before the door opened.

“Thank God for small mercies,” he muttered as a tall good-looking blond carrying a file sauntered in. “Inspector Powell. This is a joke, right?”

“Body with a blade in its neck? Hilarious.” The DI sniffed loudly, pointed at a chair. Snow felt the heat of a blush rise on his cheeks. As an on-the-road reporter, he’d had several run-ins with Mike Powell; cocky bastard was enjoying this.

“The Churchill.” Powell stroked his jaw. “Tell me about it.”

Snow slumped into the seat. “I’ve already given one of your guys a statement.”

“Yeah.” Powell smirked, as he opened the file. “Reads like one of your little fairy stories.”

The reporter’s chair legs screeched across gunky floor tiles. “That’s it. I’ve had enough.” He was doing these dickheads a favour; he’d not be treated like scum.

“It’s not even started. The Churchill. Talk.”

“Or...?” Snow snarled.

“You’ll be arrested on suspicion of...”

“What...?”

“Where shall I stop?” Powell ticked points with fingers. “Resisting arrest? Assaulting a police officer? Attempted burglary? Perverting the course of justice? Screwing up a crime scene?” Leaning back, he stretched his legs, crossed his hands behind his head. “Then there’s the minor matter of a murder.”

Snow sighed, resumed his seat. It was bollocks. He wasn’t seriously in the frame. But he wasn’t stupid. Fact was he had been at the scene, and though not prime suspect, he was key witness. Powell applying the heat meant he was on a fishing trip. The reporter knew full well what the DI was after: who’d tipped him off about the body. But he couldn’t give him what he didn’t have. Course, he could be reading it wrong. Birmingham Six. Guildford Four. Bridgewater Three. He’d no desire to be the Churchill One. “Do I need a lawyer?”

The DI picked a nail. “You tell me.”

Snow calculated rapidly. Calling in a brief would take time he didn’t have – not if he wanted to stay ahead of the game. It was a couple of hours since he’d been given the use of a phone. Natch, he’d rung in his story and had words with the news desk: disconcerting words. A bunch of stuff needed sorting, but until he got out of this dump his hands were tied. “Am I under arrest?”

Powell shook his head. “Police inquiries. You’re helping.” The inspector poised his PaperMate over an A4 pad. “So help.”

Snow sighed. Sooner he talked, sooner he’d be released. He spoke uninterrupted for five minutes, giving a carefully edited version of the night’s events. How he’d driven to the estate, found it deserted, saw what he thought was movement outside the off-licence, almost stumbled over the body, checked it for a pulse. And how relieved he was when the police arrived. He illustrated the last point with a winning smile.

The DI took a small mirror from his breast pocket, studied his reflection for at least a minute. He frowned, shook his head, stared again. “What do you think, Mr Snow?”

The reporter shifted uneasily in his chair. “How’d you mean?”

Powell rose, walked round the desk, leaned into Snow’s face. “Yesterday, I was not born.” The DI tipped the reporter’s chair back with the toe of an Italian leather loafer. “Sunshine.”

Snow slipped a couple of inches. “It’s the truth.”

“But not as we know it.” Powell tipped the chair further. “I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing...”

“I don’t know any more,” Snow shrieked.

The silence – like Snow’s balance – was uneasy. Powell let both hang then lowered only his voice, pausing between each syllable. “Then how come you were there?”

“Told you.” Truculent now. “A tip-off.”

“From?”

“I don’t know.”

And that was the truth. He’d checked with the news desk. No one from the newspaper had called. The Aussie sub, Skippy, hadn’t even been on shift. Until Snow knew what – or who – he was dealing with, he intended keeping his cards close to his chest.

Fresh from the Churchill estate crime scene, Bev stood framed in the window of Mike Powell’s second floor office. Arms folded, deep in thought, she watched as Matt Snow’s forlorn figure crossed the car park. She was digesting the DI’s take on his run-in with the reporter. It was giving her wind.

“Why’d you hold him so long? Tintin’s no killer. He’s just a hack with attitude.”

Not to mention an alibi for the most likely time frame.

“Yeah. I know,” Powell said. “Fun watching him squirm though.”

She shook her head. Not funny. Not clever. The press had enough anti-police axes to grind. She glanced round. Oblivious, the DI lounged in a padded leather chair, size twelves on the desk, hands in pockets, not one blond hair out of place. Nice work if you can get it. Not like rallying the troops on the ground. As if that straw wasn’t tiny enough, it’d started tipping down. She ran a hand over her damp hair. The Guinness-coloured chin-length bob felt like a skullcap, and she’d swear the Doc Martens had shrunk. She gave an eloquent sniff.

“No harm in a spot of custody.” The DI waved an airy hand. “Good for a newsman to get a new perspective.”

“You’ll be the one with a new perspective.” She snorted. “From a sodding crucifix when he knocks his next piece out.”

“A few hours in Highgate nick? It’s hardly Guantanamo.”

“Not the point.” She circled Powell, took a pew opposite. “Snow was never a serious contender. No percentage rubbing him up the wrong way.”

The DI sharpened his act, snatched his feet off the desk. “Look, mate, he was at the crime scene, had a knife in his hand, claims he got a tip but can’t or won’t say who from. And have you read his column lately?” Powell gestured at a pile of newspapers near his elbow. “I’ve skimmed a few,” he said. “Way Snow sees it, castration’s too good for kiddie fiddlers like Wally Marsden.”

“Child molesters,” Bev snapped. She hated the kiddie fiddler tag. It made the heinous sound innocuous, like some sort of game. She leafed through a couple of copies while Powell signed a few forms. The DI was spot on about the columns. Matt Snow made Richard Littlejohn read like Richmal Crompton. Bring back hanging for paedos? Yeah. By the scrotum. Over a vat of hot bleach. Wasn’t just sex offenders Snow savaged: any form of low-life was fair game. But bark and bite. Snowie was a journo not a psycho: his keyboard was mightier than his sword.

“You all right, mate?” How long had he been peering like that? “You look dog rough?”

“Fuck’s sake. I’ve been up since two o’clock.” And sick three times.

He shrugged, muttered something with the words time and month in it.

Her eyes were slits. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. Keep your hair on.” Why was he looking at her like that? “You putting on weight?” Powell didn’t do PC.

“You looking for a slap?” Nor did she. Either way it was time to change tack. “Matt Snow,” she said. “He’s so far out the frame...”

“Look, Bev.” Her name from his lips still came as a shock. Their working relationship was up and down like a busy lift. In recent months, they’d forged a sort of harmony, think hip-hop rather than Handel, but they were getting there, despite when he forgot and reverted to Morriss or Hey-you. “Just cause Matt Snow’s a hack doesn’t mean he’s not capable of offing a toe-rag like Wally Marsden.”

Her curled lip suggested grave doubt. “Assuming he’s capable, he doesn’t even know who the victim is.” No one in the media did. The police would issue the identity at the mid-morning news conference.

“So?” Powell sat back, smoothed his tie, then his hair. “Snow’s alibi had to be checked, or I’d’ve been failing in one of my duties as senior officer.”

Senior officer’s duties? Arse. Your. Own. Up. The checks made sense though, and given the reporter’s alibi seemed sound, it meant Wally Marsden’s killer was still on the loose.

“Best get off your bum and get on with the others then.” She turned at the door, gave a mock salute. “Sir.”

Cops are only human and though few would broadcast it, no one was moved by Wally Marsden’s murder. The early brief in Highgate’s smallest and shabbiest incident room lacked the frisson that comes when officers care passionately about a case. The only buzz emanated from a dopey bluebottle beating itself up against a window.

Bev leaned against a side wall, sipped ginger tea, observed the few squad members who weren’t already working the Churchill. Uniforms and a couple of DCs were out knocking doors, canvassing passers-by, chasing CCTV. DI Powell had cobbled together a further six detectives, an exhibits officer and an admin clerk. Bev returned a few nods, but it was clear in the bored expressions and lacklustre body language that though they’d all do the needful to track the killer they’d not shed tears for the victim.

Contrasting images of the paedophile stared out from a couple of whiteboards at the front. Blown-up black-and-white mug shots and posthumous technicolor stills recorded a sharp decline in Wally Marsden’s face and fortunes. From the sort of man you’d pass in the street to a lowlife who’d died there. Bev took another sip, wished she felt more.

DC Darren New – Highgate’s answer to Tom Cruise, so Darren reckoned – caught her eye-line, patted an empty seat between him and Sumitra Gosh. Bev shook her head, raised the cup in a cheers anyway. A queasy stomach meant a quick exit could be in the offing. Darren shrugged a shoulder, shoved over next to Summi. Bev’s sardonic eyebrow matched Mac’s. Did Dazza have the hots for the delectable DC Gosh? Do dogs piss up lampposts? Mind, any bloke with a prostate fancied Sumitra: waist-length curtains of blue-black hair, dark chocolate eyes and a figure to die for. Or diet.

Bev sucked in her gut, checked her watch. If the DI didn’t get a move on, he’d be...

“Morning, all.” Powell strode to the front, suit jacket flapping like dirty wings. Keeping his back to the squad, he made a show of studying the photographs. “Walter Marsden. Scumbag. Kiddie fid... Child molester.” He paused a few seconds then turned to eyeball the team. “Bastard got what he deserved? Killer’s done us all a favour?” Silence broken only by the kamikaze fly. “Anyone here feels like that? Do me a favour and get out.” He pointed to the door. Another pause. “The room. The building. The police.”

Bev turned her mouth down. The sentiment was pure guvspeak, but she’d not have ranked even the new improved Powell in Detective Superintendent Byford’s professional league. Or personal. Maybe she’d misjudged the guy.

“Only joking.” Powell winked, flashed a grin.

Yeah right. But joking about what? Marsden’s shit fate? Or unfeeling cops? The vagueness could be deliberate to deflect potential flak: PC moles were everywhere. But Bev didn’t rank Powell as that sharp a cookie – or he’d be acting detective superintendent. Not that anyone could fill Byford’s shoes. Eyes closed, she swallowed hard. It wasn’t that she didn’t still see the guv, but home visits weren’t the same as having him round the nick. The superintendent was recovering – slowly – from life-threatening injuries sustained on the last case they’d worked. She missed him to bits.

“Keeping you up, sergeant?” Like Powell cared. Bev’s blue eyes blazed. The DI lifted both palms, looked away. “’Kay. Problem one: Marsden was NFA. Slept rough most the time, occasionally crashed in one of the shelters.”

No fixed address. So no pad, no neighbours, probably no paperwork, unless he carried it on him. Meant they’d be checking every doss house, every soup kitchen; talking to the Sally Army people, Big Issue sellers, the social, you name it...

“The Churchill Marsden’s regular patch?” Bev asked.

Powell shrugged. “You tell me. No one’s talking. That’s problem number two. Feedback from our guys on the estate? Think blood out of brick wall. Punters either didn’t know Marsden or don’t give a stuff.”

“Because he was a sex offender? Or because he was a dosser?” The questions were Carol Pemberton’s. Tall and slim, with a dark glossy pageboy, the DC was classy and savvy. Bev had time for Pembers.

Powell rubbed the back of his neck. “Either? Both? What’s it matter?”

“Shed-loads, if the killer targeted Marsden deliberately.” Bev’s casual delivery didn’t disguise the serious point. One that opened several lines of inquiry, including revenge served several years cold. She made a mental note to get hold of Marsden’s victims’ files.

Powell tapped a finger against his lips. “Best run a check on the victims’ families. Just in case. Far more likely Marsden was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Like Matt Snow.” Dazza sniggered. Tintin jokes were already doing the rounds. Hack by name, hack by nature was the pick of the crap so far. But smart-arse remarks aside, the reporter’s early presence at the crime scene raised a bunch of questions. The biggie being: who tipped him off?

Powell perched on the table, loosened his tie. “Any thoughts?”

Half the squad threw in its two penn’orth: most money landed on the informant being the killer, or pretty damn close.

“Close to the scene, sure,” Bev said. “Don’t follow he’s the perp.”

“Or knows who is.” Dazza was on the same page. “Could be some joker passing by. Sees the body. Thinks: sod the plod. Tips off the press.”

“’Xactly.” She frowned. “Why Matt Snow, though?” It had bugged her since Mac first mentioned it.

“Matt Motormouth Snow?” Powell sneered. “Anyone who reads the
News
knows Tintin’s name.”

Yeah. But not his private number. Nor the right buttons to push to drag a journo out of his pit in the middle of the night. The mystery caller had editorial nous. And smart enough, probably, not to have left a telecom trail. They’d check Snow’s phone records but Bev doubted they’d lead anywhere. Not that the tip had done the reporter any favours. He’d ended up in police custody, the so-called exclusive unexploited. It’d be a media free-for-all in a couple of hours, especially when the DI released Marsden’s ID.

She added lines to her mental checklist as Powell assigned actions. Apart from the news conference that Mike Media-Tart Powell was keeping for himself, the straws were all short. Carol and a young officer whose name Bev could never remember would take the shelters. Dazza and Goshie would talk to rough sleepers on and around the estate. Thinking went that if Marsden had any mates, they’d be street people, fellow dossers who might be able to point the inquiry in the right direction. The priority was to try to establish Marsden’s last known movements, but anything that shed light on the man’s lowlife routines would help. Given they’d nada to go on...

Like any sex offender, Marsden had been on a register. In theory it meant tabs were kept. In practice, there were loopholes; Marsden had sleazed through the net. He’d not appeared on any official radar for weeks. That was the DI’s third problem.

Powell jumped to his feet, clapped his hands. “Right. Someone out there knows something. Find them. Talk to them. I want this sewn up by the end of the week.”

“Just like that,” Mac muttered. The quip barely raised a smile, the squad’s mood was still downbeat. Bev was musing on ways of extricating herself from Marsden’s post mortem. Mac volunteering would be good, especially if she could persuade him it was his idea in the first place. Nah. He wasn’t that stupid. She sighed, crushed the cup, lobbed it in a bin. Everyone was making leaving noises when the door hit the back wall.

The head of the police news bureau made a late entrance, and did not look ecstatic. Bernie Flowers was John Major’s double: dapper grey suits, neat grey hair, glasses too big for his face. The bland image was misleading: Bernie had edited a national tabloid before a booze problem forced him out. Now sober and sharp as a scalpel, he had a better handle on the media than Max Clifford. Bernie didn’t suffer fools at all, never mind gladly.

“Who the fuck leaked this?” ‘This’ was the lead on the front of the
Evening News.
Bernie brandished the paper like a red flag – and he was the raging bull. The headline ran: VILE MONSTER MARSDEN BUTCHERED IN BACK ALLEY. Alliteration v accuracy? No contest. Either way, Snow had his scoop. And the DI a fourth problem.