Bad Press (7 page)

Like most cops she didn’t do coincidence but also acknowledged that from time to time they happen. On the other hand, Gladys had been a sick woman. The GP had been in the house when they arrived, and he’d given a rundown: cirrhosis, osteoporosis, dementia, glaucoma: mortality-pick-and-mix. Bev rose, pursed her lips. “Can’t see nothing obvious. Could be natural...”

“I could win
The X-Factor
but it ain’t gonna happen,” Powell sneered.

“Too right. You have to be good at something.” The response was automatic, her focus elsewhere. Something wasn’t right here. Something missing? Something extra? Either way, she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“I know this: we turn up asking questions and the old girl’s dead before we’ve even shared it with the squad.”

The thought had occurred. “The guy with the cash was watching the house? Realised we were on to him?”

“Could be.” Powell shrugged. “Or maybe he’d decided to take her out anyway.”

Damage limitation. Callous bastard. If it was murder. According to Gladys’s doctor, the old woman already had one leg in the grave: she’d have been lucky to see in the New Year. Still no excuse for some scumbag pushing her over the edge. Bev unclenched her fists. No sense spoiling for a fight either. Not until they knew how she died. The DI was playing it by the book anyway. Crime scene guys were on the way, police tape cordoned off the house.

Bev prowled round, gazing at Gladys’s prized possessions, trying to pin down her mental worry bead.

“Uniform are knocking doors,” Powell said. “A neighbour might have seen something.” He loosened his tie. The air was getting staler by the second. Bev felt it too. It was suffocating in here.

She scratched a cheek. “Maybe we were getting warm, if not close.” It was an uneasy thought that their earlier visit might have inadvertently led to the woman’s killing. Either way, it would be several hours before they knew the cause of death. The autopsy might not go ahead until tomorrow. Bev homed in on Gladys again. Death had even further diminished the poor old girl. Slumped and shrunken, her emaciated body seemed to take up even less space. Or was that because...?

Bev squatted again, gently moved Gladys so that more of the rocking chair was visible. She was right. No cushion. Even more gently, she took the hand that Gladys had refused to give her in life. It had been too easy, maybe, to dismiss all the marks as signs of old age. Sure, the scrawny skin was virtually covered in liver spots, but closer scrutiny revealed what Bev now thought were signs of death.

“What is it?” Powell asked.

She shook her head, glanced round the room, knew this time what she was looking for. She crawled across the grubby carpet, searched under chairs, behind the curtains, then scrambled towards the table, lifted the tasselled cloth.

“What are you looking for?” He was wiping sweat from his face with a linen handkerchief.

“Gladys’s cushion.” Still kneeling, she turned, met Powell’s gaze. “The murder weapon.”

And it wasn’t here. For once, Bev didn’t need Overdale’s expert opinion. The death scene played in her mind’s eye: the old woman gasping for breath as a shadowy figure shoved the cushion into her sunken features. The faint finger marks on the back of Gladys’s hand suggested she’d put up a half-hearted struggle. Given her ailing health, it wouldn’t have taken long for the killer to snuff out what little life she had left.

“Sorry I’m late, babe.” A flustered Matt Snow leaned across the table, zoomed in for a close up. Deliberately or not, Anna Kendall slid along the dimpled leather bench and the reporter found himself kissing air. No more than he deserved given his entrance was forty minutes overdue. They were in the Manhattan, a new-ish cocktail bar in the Mailbox. Moody Woody Allen sepia skylines covered the walls; soundtrack seguéd from Gershwin to Sinatra. Play it again, Sam.

Anna smiled, patted the seat. “No worries. I’ve been keeping it warm for you.”

He’d read her wrong. What a star. The kindness threw him momentarily; he hesitated, finger-combing his fringe. It made him realise how – tonight of all nights – he badly needed a friend. He took a deep breath, hoped to God he could play Mr Normal. “What can I get you?”

She raised a quarter-full glass. “Chardonnay, thanks.”

Two snake-hipped waiters were dazzling a couple of chavs with their perfect teeth and dodgy American twang. Matt observed Anna in the mirror while he waited his turn. It was no hardship. Her Angelina Jolie lips curved in a private smile as she slipped a paperback into her bag, a crime novel going by the cover. Good way to kill time. Though it wasn’t killing time that preyed on the reporter’s mind.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. No worries, Anna had said. As if. The series of phone calls that afternoon had been deadly serious. If the man who called himself the Disposer was on the level, he planned to waste more perverts. Said his mission was to clean the streets of human dross. And he wanted Snow to write the story. The reporter would get exclusive access to every twist and turn of a seriously warped mind. It was a journalist’s wet dream. But that was all it was: pure fantasy. Except the educated sober voice on the other end of the line had sounded as sane as Snow’s. Which was why the reporter had told the guy to back off or he’d alert the cops. The response still chilled Snow’s blood: speak to the police and I promise you’ll beg to die. The Disposer had then described Snow’s exact location, the brown suit he was wearing, even the woman in a burqa by the swings. Hardly surprising, given Snow had followed the Disposer’s precise directions to sit on the bench near the kids’ play area in Canon Hill Park. It was one of four places Snow had been ordered to hang round that afternoon. That was the stick. The carrot was a face-to-face with the Disposer. But it hadn’t happened. Snow frowned, tried to recall the guy’s final words. Something about trust being vital and that Snow had passed an initiation test.
An
not
the.

The reporter scowled. Puppet? He had more strings than the Thunderbirds. But could he pull them to his advantage? Food for thought? A mental feast, but Snow wasn’t sure he had the stomach for it. Make that guts. This was land-mine territory. Every journo joked they’d kill for a good story. Could he really stand by while the Disposer did it for him? OK, that was well over the top. The reporter was a bit-part player, a bystander, an observer, but didn’t it boil down to the same thing? If he knew what the Disposer planned – and did nothing to prevent it? He sighed. Snow wasn’t just out of his depth; he was drowning.

Anna caught his glance in the mirror, winked and smiled. God, she was gorgeous. Anyone else and Snow would have cancelled tonight like a shot. Given the distractions, he wasn’t exactly in the mood for small talk.

Anna spoke before he sat down. “Before I forget, Bev Morriss is after you.”

Both wine glasses clattered as he placed them on the table, a few drops of Snow’s Rioja spilled on the glass. If Anna noticed, she chose not to comment. “She was sniffing round reception at the paper. I saved her from a fate worse than death.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Well, Lethal Rita anyway.”

Matt tried to match Anna’s smile. “What did Morriss want?”

She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Didn’t say.” Anna clinked her glass against Matt’s. “We didn’t exactly hit it off to tell you the truth.”

He was desperate to blunt the edges with alcohol, couldn’t trust himself to lift the glass without trembling. The Disposer’s threat still echoed in his head:
talk to the police and you’ll beg to die...
“Morriss is a lippy bint.”

Anna turned her mouth down. “Seemed OK to me. I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot actually. Anyway. I said I’d get you to call.” She handed him a card from her pocket. “Number’s there.”

“Great.” Like he was going to.

“Could’ve been something to do with Gladys Marsden...” Anna picked a loose thread from her dress, oblivious of Snow’s slack jaw.

“What could?”

“Why the police wanted a word. Mind, I don’t think they’d discovered the body then.” She drained her glass. “Matt...?” Snow couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears. He was about to disappear into the Gents anyway.

“I’m forever blowing bubbles...” The teetering soprano could shatter double-glazing. “Pretty bubbles in the air.” A scalded cat with a frog in its throat would sound more mellifluous. “Dum-de-dum-dum-dum...”

Bev stretched full length in the bath, twizzled the hot tap with a big toe, snuggled under a soufflé of soapy vanilla froth. Scented candles filled the air with cranberry and cloves, a glass of chilled Chablis was at hand. Apart from Johnny Depp in a towel, what more could a girl want? Johnny Depp in a flannel? The singing detective wiped a leer off her face.

“Dum-de-dum-dum-dum.”

“Put a sock in it.” Frankie’s ears hurt and she was in the kitchen.

“Dum-de-dum-de-dum-dum-dum.”

“I’ll give your dinner to the dog.”

“We haven’t got a dog.”

“I could fix that.”

Bev grinned. Glad they’d got over the spat, hated being at odds with her best mate. Only mate? The mental barb had niggled before. Cops tended not to fraternise outside the force. Well, Bev didn’t. Was that a failing? Who cared? Not tonight any way. Let it go...

Frankie was determined to celebrate. She was chuffed to bits Bev had rescheduled the antenatal appointment, and Frankie had landed a couple of gigs at venues she’d not played before. Considering she was a seriously good session singer, Bev was surprised she’d not stomped up to pull the plug by now.

Mind, Frankie was wearing her Domestic Goddess hat too. Going by the occasional whiff of garlic and basil, Pasta Perlagio was on the menu. Frankie’s signature dish differed a dash and drizzle every time. Not that the Domestic Dingbat was carping. Bev’s culinary prowess knew no beginning. Then again her deductive powers hadn’t been so hot recently. She blew flushed cheeks out on a sigh, ducked ensuing clouds of bubbles.

Actually, she took issue with herself, that’s not true. She’d been bang on at Gladys Marsden’s place. Overdale had phoned the DI with the post mortem’s preliminary results. As well as the bruising on Gladys’s hand, the pathologist had found petechial haemorrhaging in the soft tissue of the old woman’s eyes, mouth and larynx. Asphyxiation would go on the death certificate: posh for a cushion in the face. Despite the heat, Bev shivered. According to Overdale, Gladys was so weak she wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight.

Unlike Matt Snow. The slimy little bastard had given Bev the slip. Before knocking off for the day, she’d tried all the obvious places, plus a few dives where she knew the reporter drank occasionally. She’d left messages with everyone who knew him, even had a word with her old mate Jack Pope. She gave an unwitting smile. Ridiculously good-looking, Pope was a resistible blend of boyish charm and macho bullshit. A former cop, he was now Snow’s equivalent on the
Sunday Chronicle.
There was no love lost between the rival crime correspondents whereas Pope was one of Bev’s old flames. She reckoned he still held a torch for her. She tilted her head, turned her mouth down. Make that a flickering match. Whatever. He said he’d keep an eye open for Tintin.

“You decent?” Frankie’s hand appeared proffering Bev’s mobile. “It’s Oz.”

Water and bubbles sloshed over the sides as Bev shot up. No way could she talk to Oz, she’d not returned his calls or texts for weeks. “I’m out.”

Frankie came in, glared at Bev. “She says she’s out.”

Bev glared back, shooed the phone from her face, mouthed a panicky, “No!”

She was scared witless. Scared he’d find out about the pregnancy when she still wasn’t convinced she wanted the baby. She closed her eyes, pictured her former lover’s beautiful sculpted features. The phone was still inches from her face. The pain in Oz’s voice brought tears to her eyes. “Bev? If you don’t want to talk at least have the bottle to tell me...”

Bev hid her face in her hands, counted ten, fifteen seconds. He must’ve thought she’d hung up. He’d not have said it if he knew she could hear. The volume was lower this time, but the words rang in her ears.

“’Kay. Fine by me... fuck you, lady.”

DC Mac Tyler made it a rule never to drink alone. Nearly midnight by the time he arrived back, he closed the door on his soulless Balsall Heath bedsit and headed straight for the bottle. The last few hours had been a nightmare. He’d driven like a maniac to reach Matlock. God knew how he’d arrived in one piece. Not that he had. He’d been in bits after the call. En route he’d replayed his ex-wife’s hysterical voice on the phone telling him that George, their eight-year-old, had been knocked over by a van on a pedestrian crossing. The under-age uninsured driver was in police custody. George was in intensive care, a head injury causing concern.

Concern? Unspeakable churning terror. Mac had never endured anything worse. The thought of losing...

His hand shook as he poured two inches of Bell’s into a chipped mug, leaned back against the sink. His stomach was empty, the spirit burned his insides. He downed it in two gulps. Whenever he closed his eyes all he could see was George’s cheeky little face on the pillow, white skin mottled damson and mauve.

Alone and lonely, the detective sank his face in his hands. George had regained consciousness – thank God – by the time Mac arrived at the hospital. The skull fracture was hairline, doctors said recovery should be quick and complete.

But the relief was tempered by the absolute agony of countless what-ifs... Pacing the corridor outside the IC unit, a memory had flashed unbidden into Mac’s brain: his mum, years ago, saying she’d died a thousand deaths when he was growing up. Now he knew what she meant.

Mac poured more alcohol. Was it worse for mothers? When he told Jess he’d be going back to Birmingham that evening, she’d flipped, screamed at him to bugger off; the job had always come first. Had it? He took a sip, sucked the liquid through his teeth. Like a lot of blokes, he compartmentalised. But he loved the boys more than anything on this earth. Blanking them out at work was a coping strategy. Being a cop was a dangerous game, without distractions. Could women do that? Would Bev be able to?

He sloshed the dregs round the mug. It wasn’t just that though. With the marriage breakdown, he only had limited access now. Not seeing the boys every day hurt like hell. Just thinking about it brought tears to his eyes. It was why he rarely talked about them. The transfer to Birmingham had made it easier to keep emotional baggage to himself. Early on, he’d sussed out who ran the Highgate rumour mill, chucked in a seed or two about going through a messy divorce. Generally speaking, people had left it at that.

Maybe it was why he’d extended the same courtesy to his spiky sergeant. For a couple of weeks now, he’d suspected she was pregnant. But it was down to her if and when she told people, assuming she was going ahead with it. Would he think less of her if she had an abortion? Yes. No. Maybe. He shook his head. Poor bloody woman. What a decision to have to make.

He pushed himself up, wandered wearily all of eight paces to an unmade single bed. Self-disgust washed over him. He’d promised himself it would only be a few weeks, but four months now he’d lived in this dump. The beige anaglypta walls were like vomit, grotty carpet tiles stuck to the soles of his shoes. He perched on the edge of the mattress, took a photograph from a wonky bedside table. It was the only thing in the place he valued. George, like his older brother Luke, had inherited Mac’s dimples. He ran a stubby finger over their faces, mirrored their broad grins. Despite the fear, the pressure, the pain of having kids – Mac knew his boys were the best thing in his life. Not for a second did he regret being a dad. Maybe it was time to risk getting his head bitten off. And mention the joys of parenthood to Bev.