Bad Press (8 page)

Early morning. A whiff of autumn in the air. Mellow fruits and mistiness? Petrol fumes and dog poo. But then, Cavendish Close was a popular spot for pooch-walking. The MG was parked outside Matt Snow’s flat. Bev perched on the bonnet scarfing breakfast. Her long navy coat was new, felt a tad big on her. She scowled. Not like her feelings last night. Fuck you, lady, Oz had said. Small didn’t begin to cover it. Minuscule. Mortified. Murderous. How could Frankie...?

Oz has a right to know, my friend.

Mayo oozed from the end of a six-inch BMT sub and she licked it quick. Course Oz had a right to know. She was aware of that. Didn’t mean she was ready to tell him. She’d told Frankie to shove her pasta up her bum. It was the last cordial exchange they’d shared. A mound of viscous black-peppered penne had stared accusingly at Bev from the kitchen bin this morning. Talk about having your bubble burst...

Starving, she’d stopped off at Subway and was now making up the dietary deficiency. Frankie would find a scribbled note when she got up. If she didn’t like it she could lump it.

A flash of light on glass alerted her to action at the door of Snow’s apartment block. Bev hastily wrapped the sub in a napkin, shoved it in her bag. This was one bloke she did want to talk to. She jumped up, wiped greasy hands on a tissue. All a touch premature. A middle-aged woman walked out of the building in a corporate suit that said she worked in a bank or a building society. So where was Snow? Bev’d put a call through when she pulled up twenty minutes ago. He’d just stepped out of the shower, said he’d see her in five. Unless she wanted to come up and rub his back. Cheeky sod.

She strolled down the road. Traffic rumble would soon be a roar, not far off rush hour now. Would she make the early brief? Quick glance at her watch: 7.15. Not if Tintin didn’t get a move on. She frowned, couldn’t afford to lose Brownie points, not when she needed a favour from the DI.

A russet-red carpet of leaves rustled underfoot. She had a quick look round, kicked a bunch in the air. Then another. And another. She grinned, recalling the days she and Frankie waded through leaves walking to school, always arm-in-arm, always having a giggle. Enough already, button it, Beverley.

Maybe she’d give Powell a quick bell, early warning she might be late. She scrabbled in her bag, picked a few shreds of iceberg off the touchpad. Sodding leaky sub. The phone rang as she was hit about to hit the DI’s number.

“You’re not gonna believe this.” Matt Snow.

“Try me.”

There was a pause; it sounded like he was sitting in traffic. “I forgot you were outside. The desk called. I’m in...”

“Shit so deep – you’re gonna sink, matey.”

He said he was in the motor on the way to some job on the other side of town. Bev took a calming breath. “There’s a stack of questions need answers, Snow. I’ll give you an hour to get to Highgate nick.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Fifty-nine minutes, forty-five seconds.” She slung the phone in her bag, stalked back to the motor. “Catch you then, you little turd.”

Bev checked her watch as she crossed the car park at the nick. If she raced, she’d just make it. She clattered up the back stairs, burst into the squad room. A fat guy in a loud shirt was staring at a computer screen. It took a second to realise who. “Looking rough, mate.” She rifled through printouts, sneaking the odd covert glance at her DC.

Mac Tyler gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Don’t hold back, sarge.”

“Dog rough then.” A wink softened the edge, but it was true. Desperate Dan stubble on both chins, pink flaky patches on his cheeks, and the eyeliner was an unflattering red. Shit! She’d forgotten. “Sorry Mac. How’s...?” Christ, she didn’t even know the kid’s name.

“George. He’s OK.” He told her briefly what had happened: the accident, the hospital, the doctors’ verdict.

“Great.” Shifty eyes, shuffling feet. She didn’t really do kid talk, and it looked as if Mac’s eyes were tearing.

“How ’bout you, sarge? Stomach still giving you gip?” He sat back, rested beefy hands on porky paunch. Loaded question? Meaningful look?

“Tickety. Comin’?” She dashed out, clutching a sheaf of overnight incident reports to skim on the way: shots fired in Handsworth, non-fatal stabbing on the Lozells Road, four houses turned over in Moseley, fatal RTA in Digbeth, bingers’ brawl on Broad Street. Yawn yawn. Same old.

Their joint appearance at the brief interrupted Powell’s flow. “Good of you to drop by.” He waved an arm in extravagant welcome. Sarky sod. Bev bit her tongue; she’d still not asked the favour. She flashed him a smile, sat at the front, pen poised, all ears. Three or few new faces had joined the squad. Gladys Marsden’s murder had clearly upped the ante.

Powell perched on the corner of a table, swinging a leg encased in fine grey wool. “As I was saying, instinct tells me we’re looking for one killer. Nail Gladys’s and we’ve collared her old man’s. And given the complete lack of progress tracking Wally’s – that’s kinda lucky.”

“Dead lucky for Gladys,” Bev mumbled. Mind, in a cackhanded way, the DI had hit the nail smack on. Establishing Wally Marsden’s movements was like pinning down fog. A homeless dosser, Marsden had gone wherever the fancy took him. Gladys had neighbours, a carer, a mate or two, presumably. As for her gentleman caller, a team of detectives was in Bath Road now trying to flush out information from the locals.

Powell looked at Bev, eyebrows raised. “And then there’s the Matt Snow connection.”

She waggled a hand. “Loose connection.” Her account of the farce outside the reporter’s flat raised a few titters. “Said he forgot I was there.” Outrage incarnate. “Can you believe that?”

Even the DI had a ghost of a smile. “Bloke must have a death wish.”

Quick time check. “He’s got five minutes, then the wand comes out.”

Caught between a rock and a hard place? That’d be a breeze. Matt Snow’s quandary was off the register. Hack off the Disposer or risk Morriss getting one on her? Make that another one. Bloody woman was nosing round like a pig in a truffle market. If the Disposer got wind of her inquiries, odds were he’d think Snow had blown the police whistle. And the reporter had no wish to die.

Right now he was tapping the wheel, stuck at a red on the Stratford Road, heading for Lidl’s at Small Heath. He’d taken the Disposer’s directions over the phone, just minutes before Morriss’s early morning call. Snow glanced round nervously, half expecting a Highgate posse on his tail. The reporter knew he’d have to talk to her sooner or later; the current jaunt was only putting off the inevitable. But he had to square it with the Disposer first. Make it clear the police were after Snow, not the other way round. The reporter had no intention of blabbing to the Bill.

A horn blared. Snow glanced in the mirror, curled his lip at a wally in a white van. The reporter was hacked off being shoved round, had half a mind to get out and deck the guy. He didn’t have time, hit the gas instead. Apart from doing his Thunderbirds impression he had a column to write, for Christ’s sake. Hadn’t given it a thought so far, nor the nascent bestseller. What price make-believe when he was in the middle of the real deal? Scared and out of his depth he may be, but he was a reporter... Play it right, and it could be the biggest coup of his career. Or cock-up.

He flicked the radio, nudged the volume, just missed the top of the news.

“... found dead in her Sparkbrook home yesterday has been named as Gladys Marsden. West Midlands police say the woman died from asphyxiation. They’re treating the death as murder and are appealing for witnesses...”

Snow loosened his cheap brown tie, ran a finger round his collar. Morriss’s third degree would have to wait. He’d text her saying he’d get to Highgate soon as. He had questions of his own first for the Disposer. The reporter lowered the window, inhaled cool air, wished he could turn down the heat.

“Sergeant Morriss?” The voice on the landline was warm, friendly. It took Bev a couple of seconds to place it. She was at her desk, writing the tenth or eleventh report of the morning. Bliss on a Bic. Not. Months ago, she’d read an article: Sir Ronnie Flanagan, chief inspector of constabulary no less, had worked out that fifty-six million police hours a year went on paperwork. Bev reckoned fifty-five million of them were down to her. Any distraction was welcome. Usually.

“Ms Kendall.” Clipped, cool.

“Anna, please.” Bev heard the smile, ignored a pause for her to respond in kind. “Sorry, sergeant. If you’re busy...?”

“Get to the point, love.” Churlish. Childish. Why was she such a cow to the woman?

“I could call back...”

Exaggerated sigh. “What you want?” Bev doodled on a piece of card: a witch with warty chin, hairy hooked nose.

“I work on features, right?”

Bollock-alert. She blackened a witchy tooth. “And?”

“You’re a female detective fighting crime on the front line.”

“Hold it right there, love.” She was seeing a wall with a fly on it. And herself writhing under a media microscope.

“Come on, Bev, you’re a great role model. I watched the way you handled those kids at Hillside. I’d love to shadow you for a few days. See how a modern day cop copes with the pressures policing the mean streets. Tell it like it really is. You’d be ace, Bev.”

Lick my bum, why don’t you? As for first name terms – in your dreams. “Paperwork and plod, Ms Kendall.”

“Not all the time. And when it is... I’ll say so.” Another pause. Letting the sincerity sink in? “Honest, Bev, I’m not in the habit of making it up as I go along. I’m sick of seeing the police get a bad press. Why not show it from a cop’s point of view for a change?”

Bev knew Kendall was bullshitting, but... “Yeah, OK. I’ll think about it.” It might be worth keeping her sweet. The writer worked alongside Snow, could pick up the odd titbit, pass it on to Bev. It might open newsroom doors without getting a warrant first.

“Fantastic! I’ve already run the idea past the police press office.” Had she indeed? Sharper than she looked then. “I reckon we could get a series out of this. Crime’s so sexy at the moment... when I say sexy... I mean...”

“Don’t worry. I get the drift.” Her lip twitched in a wry smile, picturing Kendall’s unease. Not to mention Powell strutting round in Rocky Horror gear. “Give us your number. I’ll get back soon as.”

She provided three. “Did Matt Snow call by the way? I gave him your card last night.”

“Spoke to him first thing.” No detail. None to give. Not that she would.

“Was he OK?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just that he called in sick this morning. Stomach bug, I think.”

“Did he now?” Keeping Kendall sweet was a no-brainer. She’d just revealed a big fat Snow porkie. Git said the news desk had called him out. She’d keep that up her interview sleeve when the lying rat came in later. The reporter hadn’t shown at Highgate this morning, but had sent her a text with a new ETA.

She glanced at her watch. It was late o’clock. “Gotta dash, Anna.”

“OK. Thanks for your time. Oh and Bev? That comment about the baby? I was completely out of order. You’re only just starting to show, aren’t you? If you’re anything like me, you’re not making a big thing of it yet. I don’t know how you feel, but I was dead scared early on... losing it... you know?”

“Yeah.” She cut the connection, laid a hand on her belly. “Something like that.”

“Talking to yourself, boss.” Mac stood in the doorway.

She scowled. “You
ever
knock?”

“The DI says you’re nipping out?”

“Couple hours tops.” Powell had OK’d the favour. P’raps she ought to bite her tongue more often. She threw a few bits into her bag. Damn mayo everywhere. “Personal stuff.”

“Fine by me.” He sauntered to the desk, carrying a file. “The DI wanted you to have a look at this.” She cut it a glance. Shit. The label read: PCC/crime stats/DI Mike Powell. “He’s keen you’re familiar with the format.” Mac raised an eyebrow. “Should you ever be asked to do one.”

Palms held in mock surrender, she flashed a guilt-riddled grin. “It’s a fair cop, guv.”

Mac nodded at the doodle. “Self portrait, boss?” Deadpan nonchalance.

“Touché.” She blew him a kiss. “Deputy Dawg.”

The figure wore a black hoodie emblazoned with
The Who Live At Leeds.
A mobile phone concealed much of the face, one eye was flush with the camera’s viewfinder. Matt Snow was in its sights, looking as if he was having a hot flush. Finger on the shutter: click.

What was visible of the mouth curved in a sly grin. Lidl’s stinky bottle bank wasn’t the coolest place to hang. Then again neither was Bath Road, or Canon Hill Park. The reporter hadn’t looked over the moon on any of his recent assignments. The photographer had quite a portfolio to choose from now. One more shot. No rush. Wait until the reporter was in frame. Click.

Bev was so far out of her comfort zone it felt like she’d entered Room 101. Least there were no rats, just women in varying stages of pregnancy sitting round, banging on about babies and water births, big boobs and breath control. Christ, she’d be swapping knitting patterns and recipes for pureed kumquat soon. And thinking ’bout rats, where was Frankie? Her faithful forgiving friend. Bev gnawed her thumbnail. Scary being here at all, let alone without a mate. Guess the note she’d left that morning hadn’t mended any fences. She sniffed; sod Frankie.

The orange moulded plastic chairs wouldn’t win any comfort awards. Bev sprawled anyway, folded her arms, closed her eyes. Wasn’t just blanking the clinic, she hated hospitals full stop. They evoked memories of her dad’s cancer, sobbing her heart out in an empty corridor. Death and disinfectant. Past shadows. Future fears.

She tried tuning in to the present. A couple of women in trackie bottoms were talking soaps, a woman in a scarlet and gold sari was doing the
Guardian
crossword, a surly kid with an eyebrow piercing was picking a scab on a bony knee. All human life...

Bev sighed, reached for a dog-eared
Reader’s Digest
. And another. Christ, she’d pod the kid here if they didn’t call her in soon.

“Beverley Morriss.” Least she was a name not a number. “This way, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? OK, Hot Lips. Actually the young blue-eyed blonde did have an attractive mouth; it was currently set in a warm smile. Bev’s faltered. It was novel being patronised by a woman, specially one who didn’t look old enough to have A-levels.

“Relax. We don’t bite.” The nurse sat behind a desk. Bev’s glance took in a leaping dolphin screensaver, cup full of pens and a page-a-day calendar of George Bush-isms. “My name’s Clare. I just need to take a few notes.”

The room was light, airy; the walls pale lemon. Bev shucked off her coat, hung it on a hook, spotted a stain on the back. Dried mayo looked like bird shit. Could life get any better?

“Is this your first visit?” Clare reached for a file.

“Yeah, I missed a couple appointments.” Bev looked down at her hands.

“No problem. Just a few questions.”

For few questions read full medical history. Bev replied monosyllabically to Clare’s attempts at small talk. She was edgy because she knew what was coming.

“Now for the good bit.” Clare smiled. “You get to see your baby for the first time.”

And maybe the last? Either way an ultra sound was unavoidable. No scan, no termination. It was hospital policy. Bev could come up with a zillion reasons why it would be madness to have a kid, but what if she fell in love with a faceless grey blob? What if she already had feelings for it? Her head was on fast spin. She was a cop, she made occasional life or death calls. Why was she a quivering wreck?

“Take a seat outside,” Clare said. “Someone will call you. And cheer up, sweetheart, it might never happen.”

What if it already has? Eyes brimming with tears, Bev grabbed her coat, hoisted her bag, stomped through the waiting room, headed for the exit.

“Hey, my friend.” Frankie’s voice stopped her at the doors. “You’re not running out on me again are you?”

“Where’s Morriss?” Mike Powell burst into the squad room, silk tie over his shoulder.

An admin clerk held out empty palms. Mac Tyler looked up. “I think...”

Powell flapped a hand. “Save it. She said two hours max. It’s four o’clock now.”

Mac could’ve kicked himself for not thinking on his feet, covering Bev’s back. She was only an hour late, but given the recent disciplinary... More to the point, she’d not called in. “Something must’ve come up.”

“Got that right. A triple-nine. Five minutes ago.” Powell shoved the paper across Mac’s desk. “Man’s body. Small Heath park. Stratford Road. Uniform are on site. A crime team’s on the way. Get over there now.”

Mac grabbed his jacket. “Boss, Bev wouldn’t...” What? By the time he’d fashioned a comeback, Powell was out the door.

“Where were you?” Bev slumped in the same plastic orange moulding as before, bottom lip jutting.

Frankie swivelled in her seat, arms folded. “Hello Frankie! Great to see you. Thanks for coming. How are you, my...?”

“No friend a mine.” Bev cut the snipe-fest.

“Leave you to it, shall I?”

“Fucking dare.”

The banter was hushed because a couple of toddlers were close by, giggling as they raced Dinky cars across the floor. They were all nappy bums and dimpled thighs. Bev found a smile on her face, not sure where it came from.

“See.” Frankie tilted her head at the kids. “Better than the telly any day.”

Bev shook her head. “Even for you, that’s barking.”

Frankie shrugged, pulled a pack of Revels from her pocket. They chomped in companionable silence for a spell.

“I’m scared, Frankie.”

“Come on, it’ll be cool. Whatever happens I’m here for you...”

Must be true given the missive she’d left Frankie. Get your ass to the Women’s at one. Big love, Bev. “Like the note?”

Frankie sniffed. “Diplomatic service is crying out for people like you.”

“Ms Morriss?” It was a man in a white coat this time.

Frankie whispered, “They’re coming to take you away.” It didn’t help.

White coat held the door open. Bev caught a whiff of coffee breath as she swept past. Guy was quite fit in a spiky blond kind of way: David Bowie cheekbones, big teeth, tiny diamond ear stud. Badge on his chest said: Marc Kingsley, Radiographer.

“Excited?” he asked Bev.

Frankie flashed a smile. “She’s speechless.”

Bev half-listened to Kingsley’s spiel as she glanced uneasily round the suite: pastel pinks and blues, metal filing cabinets, blank monitors. Business end was obviously the big leather couch. Kingsley dragged a chair next to his. She was about to perch when he pointed at Frankie. “It’s for your friend.”

The paper sheet rustled under Bev’s bum as she lay back. She watched Kingsley peel on latex gloves then reach for a tube. She winced as he rubbed gel on her belly.

“Cold?” Smiley face.

Polar. “Tad nippy.” She simpered.

Sleeves rolled, he wielded what looked like a TV remote. “I’m just going to run this over your tummy. You won’t feel a thing.”

Wanna bet? Watery smile.

Kingsley moved his toy this way and that, his eyes creased in concentration. Frankie’s shone with excitement “Look, Bevy.” She was on the edge of her seat like it was a Big Brother double eviction or something.

Reluctantly, Bev turned her head to the monitor. Palms damp, pulse hiked, she tried to make it out. Shadows and shady bits. Then she saw something. She narrowed her eyes.

“Yep,” Kingsley said. “There you go.” His finger pointed to a tiny black blob. “That’s your baby’s heart. Beating like a drum.”

Vaguely aware of Frankie’s hand in hers, Bev’s focus was on the moving image. She squinted. Glance flicked across the screen. She held her breath. Blood whooshed in her ears, drowning a similar noise coming off the speaker. She stretched an arm to the monitor, finger hovering over the pulsating blob. “If that’s the heart...” She moved the finger a few inches to the right. “What’s that?” An identical shape. Beating. Like a drum.

Kingsley peered closer. “Hey! Congratulations. You’re having twins.”

Stunned silence. Frankie squeezed Bev’s hand. “One each.”

The quip wasn’t funny and the bonhomie was forced. Frankie was as shell-shocked as Bev. It was clear in the voice. Bev couldn’t see Frankie. Bev couldn’t see anything. Not with eyes tight and hot tears streaming down her face.