Blood Money (17 page)

She blew her cheeks out on a sigh, rolled back the chair, drained the can. Stats and facts; people and pain. The figures didn’t tell a fraction of the real story, didn’t show livid
bruises, shattered bones, broken spirits. Or dead bodies. Closing her eyes, she recalled a Met inquiry she’d been on the periphery of a few years back. A young Kurdish-born woman raped and
strangled, body crammed in a suitcase, driven to Birmingham for burial. In a Handsworth back garden. Killing ordered by her own father. Why? She’d walked out on an arranged marriage, fallen
in love with another man. Bev sniffed. So why’d all the reports carry quote marks round the phrase, honour killing? Like there was any doubt. The cops hadn’t exactly covered themselves
with glory either. Bev could still see the grainy mobile phone footage of the victim warning police she was in danger. The media had dubbed the video evidence from beyond the grave. Much fucking
good it did the victim. Bev’s fingers crushed the can. God, she needed a smoke. If Sumi didn’t show soon, she might nip...

Or not. There was a tentative tap on the door. It certainly wasn’t Mac.

“Sorry I’m late, sarge,” Sumi said. “I couldn’t get away.” The young DC had been fielding calls in the squad room, the lines were going crazy.

“No prob.” Bev was the same, couldn’t resist a ringing phone. Never knew if it was the big one, the witness with the case-cracker. Daft to think cutting edge detection and
forensics skills solved every crime, the majority of success was down to intelligence from the public. Not that it was all quality gen. “Anything earth shattering?” Bev offered a slice
of pizza, tried not to notice there were only two left, she’d bought the family size.

“Not for me thanks.” Sumi smiled. “As to earth shattering – you know what it’s like after a media appeal.”

“Sure do.” Loony tune central. Byford had apparently done turns that afternoon for local telly and radio, the Park View footage had also received a few airings. Bev frowned. Come to
think of it, the local rag’s claws had been sheathed lately. She reckoned Toby Priest’s cop-out poll must’ve gone in the guv’s favour – or it would’ve been
plastered all over the front page.

“People mean well mostly, but...” Sumi held out empty palms.

Did they? Bev wished she had Sumi’s faith. Or maybe not. Given her recent reading matter. She opened her mouth to get down to Fareeda business, but Sumi hadn’t finished.

“Have you heard about Byford?” He’d decided to go ahead with
Crimewatch
, announced it at the late brief apparently, and according to Sumi it was about the only positive
step that had emerged. Bev turned her mouth down. Not sure she’d describe network exposure as a move forward. “Hey sarge, do you think...?”

She thought Sumi was stalling. “Enough already. What’re we going to do?” No need to clarify. Sumi knew the situation as well as if not better than Bev.

The animation dropped from Sumi’s features. Bev noticed feathery lines at the edges of her fine eyes. “I wish I knew, sarge.”

“It’s Bev, OK?” She rose, walked round, perched on a corner of the desk, closing the gap between them. “And course you know, Sumi. It needs reporting.”

“What does?” Her voice rose, she straightened, crossed her legs. “She won’t even tell me what ‘it’ is?”

Secrets and lies; fear and despair. Bev held the other woman’s gaze. “She didn’t walk into a door, Sumi. Whoever did it will likely do it again. Prob’ly worse next
time.” What was it she’d just read? Victims are likely to suffer thirty-five attacks before... “This isn’t the first time, is it?”

Sumi bit her lip. Bev winced at the teeth marks. She clenched a fist. Unfair maybe but she saw these walls of silent protection as complacent complicity. Sumi was a cop, westernised, but under
the skin...

“I think it may have happened before.” She dropped her head. “She just won’t talk about it.” Sumi had phoned her cousin four or five times during the day, tried
getting Fareeda to open up. The girl wouldn’t even say why let alone who. Bev sighed in sorrow and anger. After the net search, she knew vicious beatings could be down to something as
innocuous as a girl taking off her scarf in the street, wearing hair gel, having an unknown number on her mobile.

“Tell me about Fareeda. What does she do, what’s she like?” Sumi relaxed slightly. Fareeda was shy, quiet, bright, an A-star science student, into music, reading and TV.
“You know, sarge, usual teenage things.” Sumi gave a tired smile. Bev didn’t return it, she’d learned squat. “Beatings aren’t the norm, Sumi.” And
she’d uttered not one word about Fareeda’s family set-up. The girl was Muslim: it struck Bev this was all about family. She pushed herself off the desk, paced the office. “You had
a word with the parents yet?” Fareeda was old enough to leave home, but somehow Bev didn’t think that would cut much ice with mum and dad. And the age of consent wasn’t why
she’d asked. She suspected the father was implicated in the attack. Why not come out and say so – instead of pussy-footing round what Bev saw as the women’s misplaced
sensibilities?

Sumi shook her head. “I phoned to tell them she’s OK, safe, but she’s begged me not to make contact again.” She looked down at her hands. “She doesn’t want to
go back.” Inadvertently she’d said it all.

“Where’d they live?”

Eyes wide, Sumi hesitated. Made no diff. Bev had already done a bit of homework, knew Fareeda had four brothers and the family lived in Small Heath. Sumi knew how easy it was to get hold of
information. She gave Bev the address. “Don’t go round, sarge. It’ll make it worse if you get involved.”

If? “Fareeda’s holed up in my spare room, Sumi.” And how much worse could it get?

“She needs a bit of space so she can get her head together.” Sumi held out her palms. “Just a few more days where she feels safe. Please, sarge?”

Maybe it was the stink of air freshener that brought it back: the unwanted gift on her doorstep. Shit. “Sumi.” She aimed for casual. “Last night? When you and Fareeda came over
to my place? Is it possible you were followed?”

Sumi hadn’t been aware of a tail, but neither had she been checking assiduously. Fareeda had texted the previous evening begging for help. Sumi had driven to Small Heath
and collected her cousin from a bus shelter several streets from the family home. They’d motored round aimlessly for twenty minutes or so before heading for Bev’s. This was some of what
Sumi shared with Bev before they left Highgate at a rate of knots in separate cars.

God knew what went through Sumi’s mind, but Bev’s unease increased en route. Before hitting the road, they’d called her landline and Fareeda’s mobile several times, no
one had picked up.

“Come on, come on.” Bev tapped the wheel. Seemed every sodding light was against them, and dense fog was no help. She flicked on the wipers again, rubbed the windscreen with a
sleeve. The smear reduced visibility even further. Nice one, Bev.

She’d not seen the possible Saleem connection either. Outside chance maybe, but it was there: the dumped heart could be down to one of Fareeda’s relatives. A warning to Bev to back
off. That could mean a clear and present danger. She’d not given the thought house room when she’d compiled her list of likely suspects. Quite a few of the crims she’d nicked had
featured Neanderthals who grunted predictable watch-your-back warnings from the dock. Even Dorkboy had made the cut on the basis their run-in was recent, more than that, he’d lost face with
his crew. Briefly she’d considered the Sandman, but only because he already occupied so much of her headspace. If any cop was in the Sandman’s sights, Byford had the big media
profile.

A guy ran across the road just as the lights changed. Cutting it fine or what? She muttered
wanker
under her breath. Actually going on the gait and natty gear, he looked vaguely familiar.
Driving away, she clocked him in the mirror. Yep. Jagger lips. Mick, was it? Rick? She knew he lived off Moseley’s main drag; it’s where they’d ended up that night. She’d
had no duvet action since. Cop’s life was a great contraceptive.

Baldwin Street was just up ahead. Sumi was right behind. Bev indicated left, scanned both sides of the road. She was locking the Polo when Sumi pulled up in an unmarked Astra. It was just after
eight. The house was in darkness.

Sam Tate stared into the small oval mirror and toyed with the idea of giving the Sandman a little fun. Up-lit in the beam of a torch, his benignly smiling alter ego seemed to
concur with the notion. Tate wouldn’t have believed it possible but, disembodied and cast in monochrome shadows, the clown mask was even scarier. Good. Tate cocked his head, expanded his
chest, liked what he saw.

Inexplicably, an old Beatles song leapt to mind –
I am the Walrus.
In his head, he changed the lyric to Sandman. It appealed more to his already inflated ego. The media had bestowed
the title, but he liked it, got a thrill seeing it on billboards, hearing it on the radio. The Sandman had something of the dark about it. And not the Michael Howard variety. He sniggered under the
mask. Muffled, the malevolent sound spooked the rich bitches even more. That’s why he did it. Look at this one: eyes like dinner plates, trembling so much the bed was shaking, wheezing like
an old biddy on forty-a-day. Fully aware of the effect his eyes had, he met her terrified gaze in the glass, then drifted towards her, loomed in so close he felt her warm breath through the slits.
A pitiful moan escaped as she tried to move her face. “Please... please... don’t.”

“Shut it,” he snapped. “I won’t tell you again.”

Biting down on her lip, she nodded compulsively. He skimmed the Maglite over her body, made sure it lingered on the pert boobs, the slight swell of her belly and the pubic – now public
– arena. Spread-eagled, her thighs were open to the slow stroke of the torch. He broke out in a sweat, felt the stir of a hard-on. Naked and tethered she was at his mercy. He could do
whatever he fancied and no doubt about it, Libby Redwood was a looker. Not like the crones Dee usually picked. Face it, he’d be doing the poor cow a favour. Sure looked as if she needed
loosening up a bit. He pinched her nipple with gloved fingers. Stupid tart flinched. Next time he used the knife. He narrowed his eyes. Surely, a quickie would do no harm? The rucksack was already
packed with rich pickings. He’d be in and out in no time. Another inane snigger. Or maybe not. If Dee found out she’d kill him. On the other hand... if no one was left to spill the
beans. He played the beam on the blade of the knife.

“Don’t hurt me,” she whimpered. “Please don’t hurt me...”

Witch must be a mind reader. Carefully, he laid the weapon on the bedside table, the ostensibly merciful gesture apparently underlining the clown’s larger-than-life smile. For ten, fifteen
seconds he stared down at her then: “Me, me, me.” Each mocking word punctuated by a stinging backhanded slap. The woman’s face was screwed in fear, tears flowed down blood-drained
cheeks. Beneath the mask Tate’s fine features were set in ugly contempt. Was it worth the hassle? Nah. He couldn’t be arsed. With the endgame in sight he wouldn’t want to screw
up.

Bev hit the light switch. A quick scan through narrowed eyes revealed nothing out of place, nobody in situ. Quiet though. She cocked her head; the house had an empty feel. She
chucked keys and bag on the hall table, shucked out of her coat. “I’ll take a look upstairs.”

Sumi nodded, didn’t need telling to take the ground. Bev entered the bathroom first. Pristine. Not so much as a hair in the sink. Damn sight tidier than normal. Same story in the spare
room, hardly a sign Fareeda had slept there. Bev registered a hike in her heartbeat, tingle in the palms. Unwanted images flashed in her head, other searches she’d taken part in leading to
skeletal remains, decomposing flesh, bloated bodies. For God’s sake. Get a grip.

She checked the wardrobe, bed, drawers, nosing round for any sign of life. It was tucked away at the back of the bottom drawer. “Well, well, well.” A pregnancy tester. She recognised
the brand immediately, had chosen it herself what seemed a lifetime ago, two lifetimes ago. Briefly she closed her eyes, banished more uneasy thoughts, concentrated on the implications for
Fareeda’s present and future. The girl certainly wasn’t running the kit in for a friend. So much for Sumi’s blind faith in her cousin’s non-existent sex life.

Sumi’s scream put complex thoughts on hold. Bev dropped the pack back in the drawer, took the stairs three at a time. Shaking and terrified Fareeda leant against the hall wall, clinging to
Sumi. Stroking the girl’s hair, Sumi said she’d found her hiding in the cupboard under the stairs. Crouched in the far corner, she’d been peering out from behind a mountain of
empty boxes, DIY gear and discarded furniture. Toss up who got the biggest shock. Sumi was calmer now, her relief almost palpable. Fareeda looked fragile, bowed if not broken.

“Get her settled, Sumi.” Bev nodded towards the sitting room. “I’ll fix a drink.”

A sense of déjà vu accompanied Bev to the kitchen. It didn’t seem five minutes since they’d first gone through this routine. Slight deviation now though, after filling
the kettle she opened the fridge, poured a generous Pinot Grigio, sank it before the tea was brewed.

Sumi and Fareeda were huddled together on the sofa. Sumi’s arm lay protectively round her cousin’s shoulder. Bev bummed the door to. “Here you go.” Along with Pinot, the
tray held two mugs and a pack of digestives. She slipped it on to the coffee table then sat cross-legged on the floor opposite her houseguests. Waiting for enlightenment she took a sip of wine,
then another. Neither woman met her glance. She was half tempted to see how long the silence would stretch, but the genial host was morphing into Basil Fawlty: knackered, rattled and pissed off. It
had been a long day and she was running out of sympathy for a girl who it seemed to Bev wouldn’t lift a finger to help herself.

“You gonna sit there all night – or maybe tell me what happened?” Something had obviously spooked Fareeda. Unless she’d been playing hide and seek. On her own.

“Sorry. I’m still a bit shaky.” Fareeda’s bangles slipped and jangled as she blew her nose, wiped her eyes on a tissue. “Someone broke in.”