Bad Press (9 page)

The scrubby parkland with spindly trees backed on to Lidl’s car park. Rusty iron railings separated the litter-strewn sites; a Tesco carrier bag snagged on a spike, flapping desultorily in a light breeze. Through the gaps a straggly row of motley shoppers gawked at the crime scene. A podgy bleached blonde in a pink shell suit shovelled popcorn like she was watching
Casualty.
Her moon face beamed when a local radio hack thrust a mic towards it. Put new meaning into sound bite. Mac scowled as he ran past. Further along the line, he spotted a couple of school kids videoing the action on their mobiles. Others were yacking into theirs, probably inviting mates round for a viewing.

Panting and wheezing, Mac pulled up at a police cordon protecting the ongoing drama. He tried to catch his breath as he took in the scene. Whoever made the 999-call hadn’t got all the facts straight. There was a body. But it was breathing. Just. It lay on a slatted wooden bench; the way the hands were crossed it looked as if it had been laid out. Except for the battered bloodied face, spattered with white chips of bone and teeth. Two paramedics in green scrubs knelt at the victim’s side attempting to insert a drip. To the right, a couple of white-suited crime scene guys were waiting to move in. Two more were already fingertipping patchy yellow grass round the edge of the tape.

Tyler left them to it, scanned the surroundings for someone less occupied who might be able to fill in the blanks. Darren New and Sumitra Gosh were questioning a group of youths over by a Mr Whippy van. Carol Pemberton and another DC were stopping and questioning people leaving the park via the main gates. Half a dozen uniforms with clipboards were dotted across the grounds also talking to potential witnesses. It didn’t look as if Powell had arrived. Or Bev, despite increasingly urgent messages Mac had left on her mobile. He parted a path through more rubberneckers and press people, and headed for the nearest uniformed officer.

“What’ve we got, Paul?” Still puffing slightly, Mac now regretted the hundred-yard sprint from the Vauxhall he’d left straddling the Stratford Road. More than that, he resented the sneer on Paul Doyle’s patrician face. The young constable was a runner; Highgate wags called him Paula as in Radcliffe.

“White male. Late thirties? Early forties? Taken a right hammering.” Doyle swigged noisily from a bottle of Buxton water. Behind his back, stroppy Canada geese strutted and scrapped over breadcrumbs.

“Name?”

“Not yet.” The tall blond wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Two old dears over there?” Mac’s gaze followed Doyle’s finger. Silver-haired biddies perched on the opposite bench, heads bobbing like a brace of pigeons. One clung on to a tartan shopping trolley, the other a walking frame. “They saw three yobs go through the victim’s pockets then leg it over the fence.”

Mac’s eyes widened. “They witnessed the attack?”

“No. The guy was already lying there. The old girls didn’t realise he’d been beaten up, couldn’t see the injuries.”

How long had the victim been on public view? How many people had passed by, looked the other way? Mac scratched his head. “What is this place? Al fresco funeral parlour?”

Doyle shrugged. “Guy’s not dead yet.”

Powell was tearing across the park, black trench coat flapping, a stray dog yapping and snapping at his heels. Mac waved his whereabouts, carried on talking to Doyle. “What else did you get?” The old women had told Doyle the park was a haven for what they termed dossers and druggies.

“Alkies and smack heads to you and me.” Doyle raised the bottle in ironic toast. “They come here to sleep it off. If you’re homeless, I guess that bench is as good as a room at the Ritz.”

“The guy’s face is raw mince, Doyle,” he hissed.

“Couldn’t see the face when I got here.” He swallowed a burp. “His head was under a newspaper.” SOCOs had already bagged and tagged a three-day-old copy of the local rag, he told Mac.

Doyle’s attitude left everything to be desired. Mac turned, scowl deepening when he spotted a regional BBC crew that had set up as close as it could inch to the police tape. A pencil-thin blonde who’d over done the blusher was spouting into the lens what Mac assumed would be a load of tosh. The hushed delivery and loud hand signals were superfluous given the drama unfolding behind her, though as she was centre frame, viewers would be lucky to catch a glimpse of the real story: paramedics working to save a life.

Mac rolled his eyes. Who watched this garbage anyway?

“All right, Ruby?” Powell did. First name terms no less – and he’d inadvertently ruined the shot in passing. As for his four-legged friend, it was now trying to copulate with the boom mic. The DI didn’t see the reporter run an imaginary razor across her throat.

“Known as a wrap in the trade,” Mac muttered to Doyle who struggled to keep a straight face.

“OK, guys. Shoot.” The DI smoothed his hair, cast occasional glances over his shoulder as he listened to Doyle’s account. He nodded, asked Mac for his take. “What you reckon? Is the victim another dosser?”

Mac shrugged. “Didn’t look it to me, boss.” The jeans and jacket looked respectable enough. Not Armani but...

Powell turned to Doyle. “The old girls? They seen him in here before?”

“They didn’t say.”

Powell curled a lip. “Go and ask then.”

“Paul?” Mac hitched his jeans. “Miss Marple and her mate? Did they get a good look at the sickos who rifled his pockets?”

“Usual gear. Hoodies. Ski scarves. Combats.”

“Pass it to the press office anyway,” Powell said. “They can issue a release.”

“Already called it in.” Doyle nodded over the DI’s shoulder where he could see the victim being stretchered to the ambulance. Powell turned, then pointed Mac towards the action. Mac waited until one of the paramedics was closing the doors.

“Anything you can give us, mate?”

“Still unconscious but he’s stable now.” Latex gloved fingers ran through a mousy crew cut. “Most of the damage is to the head. What it’s done to the brain... Your guess’s good as mine. Give IC a call in a couple of hours.”

Intensive Care. Mac shuddered, and censored an emerging flashback.

“Hey, guv?” Darren New shouting, arm-waving. He was still over by the ice cream van, talking to a lad in Lennon glasses. Mac trailed over with the DI, filled him in on the victim’s condition as they walked.

Dazza was in what Bev called Andrex puppy mode. He jabbed an excited thumb at the kid whose ginger curls poked out of a Dodgers’ baseball cap. Poor lad couldn’t do much to hide a face pebble-dashed in spots. “Listen to this, guv. OJ here’s got something.”

Chicken pox? Powell smiled, applied his young-people-skills. “OJ? Drink a lot of juice do you, son?”

Blank stare. “My name’s Oliver Jenks.” He held out a hand – not in greeting. “I didn’t nick anything. It was like this when I found it.”

There was no money in the wallet, and the tan leather had dark stains. Sticky. The blood not dry yet. It had been lying near a bin in the park. Likely the thief had taken any cash before ditching it.

Too late, but Powell slipped on gloves. There were receipts, a cinema ticket, AA membership. The DI showed the driving licence to Mac. It was a decent picture. Even with the victim’s appalling injuries, Mac could tell it was the same guy: Philip Goodie, thirty-nine, Sutton Coldfield address.

What Mac couldn’t work out was why Matt Snow’s business card was tucked in there as well. And given the park was crawling with press – where was the big-shot crime correspondent himself?

Matt Snow was in New Street, nursing a medicinal brandy in the Bacchus bar at the Midland hotel. If the reporter had thrown a sickie earlier, his gut sure churned now. Excitement? Fear? Blend of both? He sipped the liquid, making it last; he was here to talk business, needed a clear head. He sat in a secluded alcove far away from the loud suits jostling at the bar. The Disposer had arranged the meeting – up close and personal, he’d said. Snow scanned the low-lit cavernous interior again. Timekeeping clearly wasn’t high on the guy’s agenda.

He sighed, tapped a beer mat against the table. By rights, he should be in Small Heath park covering some attack. Rick Palmer had phoned when the story broke, and hadn’t been overimpressed when Snow said he couldn’t turn out, that he was already working a potential lead – massive compared with a glorified mugging. Then Snow mumbled something about a bad line and cut the connection.

He checked his Timex again, watched the bar gradually fill. Closest he had to company was a marble bust nestling in a wall niche. Every time he turned his head right, he was eyeball-to-eyeball with Bacchus and it looked as if the god of wine had been on a bender. Snow scowled. He wasn’t pissed, just pissed off. Fury rising, he wasted another hour before realising the Disposer wasn’t going to show, probably never had any intention.

More mind games? The latest absurd test? The guy was a control freak. Snow had plenty of questions, zero answers. By the time the cab dropped him home, he was in a foul mood, and it worsened when he entered his flat.

Senses alert, he stood motionless in the narrow hallway. Someone had been in. Had to be the Disposer. The bedroom door was open, a light burned in the study. Snow tensed, ears strained. A noise? From the study? Was he still in there? More rustling. Adrenalin fizzing, Snow inched forward. “Hello? Anyone there?” His hand shook as he opened the door wider. The room was empty, curtains wafted in the draught from a window. The reporter let out a noisy breath. Not afraid now, fired up.

A piece of A4 was propped against his computer. Snow entered cautiously, glanced round half-expecting the guy to materialise out of the ether. Up close, it was clear there were two sheets. The first was a message for Matt.

I want the attached in tomorrow’s paper.

“Yeah right.” Lip curled, the reporter perched on the edge of the desk, undid the top button of his shirt as he read the second sheet.

I am our children’s protector. Paedophiles steal our children’s innocence, tarnish their lives, shatter their dreams. Paedophiles are scum. Paedophiles are vermin. Like rats they need to be exterminated. I will destroy them. I will wipe them off the streets. This is my mission. My solemn promise. The Disposer.

Snow snorted. This was all he needed. The guy was a joke; a homicidal pied sodding piper. No way would the paper print the ramblings of a sad sack. And anyway, Snow reckoned he’d danced enough to this loony-tune.

The pay-as-you-go was in his pocket. Startled, he reached it on the fourth ring.

“Took your time, Matthew.”

Snow narrowed his eyes. Was the guy watching the flat? “Look, mate...”

“I’m not your mate. This is business. Got a pen?” There was a superior smile in the classy voice. “Of course you have. There’s a penholder on the desk next to the photograph of your mother.” The pause was deliberate, provocative. “Attractive for her age... isn’t she, Matthew?”

Snow reached for the recorder in his top drawer. He wanted this psycho on tape. “Is that supposed to be a threat?” he hissed.

“I never make threats, Matthew.” The implication didn’t need spelling out.

“What do you want?” He pressed record, held the machine close to the phone.

“That’s better. Sitting comfortably, Matthew? I have a story for you.” Snow listened both appalled and fascinated as the Disposer talked, furnishing details about Wally Marsden’s death only the killer could know. Further, he had chapter and verse on the attack in Small Heath park. The Disposer might be mad as a box of frogs but he was no fantasist. He told Snow he wanted the story and his statement on tomorrow’s front page.

“Another exclusive for you, Matthew.”

“The cops’d be on my back before the ink was dry.”

“Don’t worry about the police. I’ve decided it’s time you had a little chat.” Inevitable, he said, now he was showing his hand, raising the stakes. “It’ll be fine as long as you stick to the script.” Another pause. “My script.”

“It’s not some game of poker,” Snow sneered. Or maybe it was. Maybe Snow could play too. String the Disposer along – and keep the cops happy. At least until he saw how the deal panned out? Why fold, if he was on to a winner?

The guy talked for ten, fifteen minutes. Snow smiled as he watched the tape record every word. The game had risks – but he had an ace or two up his sleeve.

“What the hell were you playing at?” DI Powell hands jammed in trouser pockets, circled the desk, loose papers wafted in the downdraught. Bev sat straight-backed; metaphorically under the carpet, feeling crushed. “Skiving off and...”

“Not...” Bev’s protest petered out.

“If you’d been doing a proper job,” he snarled, “you could’ve asked Snow yourself.”

She looked down at her hands. Powell had summoned her into his office after the late brief of which she’d caught only the tail end. Her tardy arrival had gone unremarked, though he was making up for it now. Not that she’d missed much. She’d heard the bottom lines: the Marsden inquiry was still stalled, initial fears that the Philip Goodie attack was linked had been more or less ruled out. Goodie was neither wino nor dosser. A librarian, living alone, they were still trying to trace next of kin. Big unknown was why he’d been carrying Matt Snow’s card?

Which was what had provoked Powell to throw his toys out the pram. Even worse, Bev knew he was right. If she’d been doing what she got paid for, maybe she could’ve found out.

“I’m sorry.” She picked dirt from a thumbnail.

“Great. Bev Morriss is sorry. All’s well with the world.”

Except it wasn’t. The ultrasound bombshell was doing her head in.

“Felt crook. Must’ve been something I ate.” Food poisoning wasn’t far off the truth. She still felt gutted. There’d been no way she could’ve just headed straight back to Highgate. She’d abandoned an uncharacteristically floundering Frankie, and driven the MG around aimlessly before finding herself outside the guv’s house. Even if the big man had been in, would she really have opened up? Or was that more madness? Christ, next thing she’d be blaming everything on her hormones.

“Got a phone, haven’t you?” Loose change jangled in his pocket.