Blood Money (19 page)

“Wakey wakey, rise and shine.” Mike Powell. The DI wouldn’t be asking about the state of her health. “How quick can you get to the General?”

Duvet flung off, she flicked on the lamp, clocked the time: 06.17; registered an intact egg-timer, and the picture frame she’d knocked over: her and the guv on a weekend in Bath. Mouth
turned down she calculated rapidly. The hospital was a ten-minute car ride, quick shower, face on, piece of toast. “Half an hour, forty minutes.”

“Forget the slap, Bev. Make it twenty.”

Her hand stilled on the bathroom door. It was more than the fact he’d used her first name, there was something in the tone she couldn’t pin down. “Why the rush?”

He’d not had a shave; she could hear the rasp as he rubbed his chin. “Because the latest victim might not last that long.”

Latest? Her scalp tingled. “You talking Sandman?”

“Got it in one.”

She was rooting through the wardrobe for a suit. “I'll hold the shower.”

06.33 and it was sheeting down when Bev hit the slick stone steps at the General’s wide front entrance. She’d used half of one of the intervening sixteen minutes to
scribble a note to Fareeda: new locks being fitted – bolt them! Then with the DI’s words ringing in her ears, she’d shot three reds, slewed a ticket-less Polo across two parking
bays and made a dash for it. Race against time? God, she hoped not. After only a short sprint rain streamed off the leather coat and trickled down her spine; she knew her bob would look like a
skull cap. Inside, the heat was tropical, her skin felt clammy, and she was out of breath. She fanned her face with a hand. Steam would be rising any minute, some of it from her ears given what
she’d learned en route. Powell and Control had fed more detail via police radio. Tight-mouthed, she loosened the coat; bastard Sandman had excelled himself.

The victim was Libby Redwood, thirty-seven, Kings Heath address. She’d been found semiconscious by her sister. The women had been due to catch an early flight to Paris, the sister –
Kate Darby – driving them to the airport. Getting no reply at the house, alarm bells had rung. The Sandman – indeed any criminal activity – had been the last thing on Ms
Darby’s mind when she let herself into the property. Her sister was a chronic asthmatic; the fear was that she’d suffered a severe attack. She’d done that all right.

Flashing ID at security and reception, Bev headed for A&E, boots squeaking on shiny lino as she power-walked the corridor. If the medicos had failed to stabilise Mrs Redwood, Bev knew it was
unlikely she’d get a look in let alone an interview, but the sister was here too. Powell was desperately hoping she could give them a heads-up. The inspector had no doubt the break-in was
down to the Sandman. It had the hallmarks: the sand, the pillow, the pound sign carved in the flesh.

The DI was overseeing ops at Knightlow Road where a full forensic team was finger-tipping the place seeing if any evidence could be salvaged. The fact that Kate Darby had contaminated a crime
scene was neither here nor there given the state of her sister. According to the DI, Ms Darby had found the victim tethered to the bed, gasping for breath, an inhaler inches from her bound hands.
Kate had administered medication, called an ambulance and alerted the cops. In that order. Even so, it was touch and go whether Libby Redwood would make it. Bastard Sandman? Sadistic monster.

Bev neatly sidestepped an orderly’s mop, nearly collided with an empty trolley being wheeled by a heavyset porter with industrial acne. Palm raised in apology she stepped up the pace,
registered inconsequential detail in passing: fingermarks on pea green paintwork, flu jab poster, picture of the Christmas raffle winners. Lucky for some.

It struck her again how hospitals were like cop shops: open all hours. Current action wasn’t Saturday night fever level, though nowadays any night could be binge-fuelled febrile. The buzz
was low but building as she approached the department: beeps and hums, rustling curtains, swishing screens, toast and coffee smells detectable among cleansers and TCP.

The scene as she turned the corner brought Bev up sharp. It was too late. She knew it the second she caught sight of the dignified though distraught woman clutching a handbag on her lap as if
her life depended on it. Kate Darby was seated in an orange plastic chair over by the far wall, silent tears streamed down her ashen face as a doctor sitting beside her spoke in hushed tones. Bev
heard the odd phrase: oxygen levels, respiratory failure, everything we could. And sorry.

Even from here, Bev could see the woman’s knuckles were white, the bones looked as if they’d split the skin any time soon, a foot tapped a jerky beat. She halted, reluctant to
intrude on the raw emotion, felt a flash of anger. What planet was the doctor on? This was no place to deliver a death message. Private grief. Public arena. Glancing round, she registered that
wasn’t quite the case. A couple of nurses stroked computer keyboards but there were no punters in sight or earshot.

She took a calming breath and swallowed. Realistically when it came down to it, the location was immaterial. Libby Redwood was dead and nothing, let alone mourning etiquette, was going to bring
her back. Bev balled her fists. It was show time. She’d have to butt in, probe, push, trot out trite words. She hated this aspect, loathed it to buggery. Like most cops she was sick to death
of telling herself it was a shit job but someone had to do it. Shit didn’t even come close. So? Put up or shut up. Heat. Out. Kitchen. Make that hospital.

And it was time to enter; the uneasy dialogue over the way was clearly coming to an end. Wishing she had a speech writer, even an idea of her lines, Bev braced herself, plastered on a
well-rehearsed face. “Ms Darby?” The woman lifted her head, the doctor whipped round in his seat. Bev didn’t offer a hand, it didn’t seem appropriate somehow.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I know this is a bad time. I’m Detective Sergeant...”

“No way, officer.” Glaring through horn-rimmed glasses that didn’t fit, the doctor jumped up and tried doing the human barrier act. The name badge on the open-necked shirt read
Alistair Munro. Big Al came up to Bev’s shoulder and was several years junior. “How about showing a bit of respect here?”

One thing Bev appreciated was being lectured at by a condescending speccy short-arse. Lip curled, she drew herself up to her full height. Then looked closer and backed off. She clocked the signs
of exhaustion on his face: lilac shadows under bloodshot eyes, flaky skin, not-so-designer stubble. The man was missing more than a few hours’ sleep, he’d just lost a patient and was
trying to protect a woman who’d undergone what was probably the worst night of her life. She could empathise with him. Up to a point.

She raised both palms. “You got it, doc. If Ms Darby doesn’t...”

“Don’t ‘doc’ me, detective.” He took a step closer, jabbed a superior finger. “Can’t you see you’re out of order?” Officious little
prat.

Bev felt the blush rise, her palms tingle. And not with embarrassment. He was pushing his luck. She arched an eyebrow, nodded at the horseshoe work station a few metres away. “A word,
Doctor Munro.” Something in the tone? A darkening of those blue eyes? The guy hesitated but only a heartbeat or three. “Please excuse us, Ms Darby.” Soft, solicitous request from
Bev.

She heard his footsteps behind, turned deliberately sharply just before they reached the destination. She wanted him up close but not personal: the mouthwash didn’t mask the baccy breath.
Voice low, matter of fact, using a little licence, she said: “The man who killed Libby Redwood is out there.” It was pre-dawn but he cut a wary glance to dark, rain-lashed windows.
“He’s killed before. Got a taste for it now. Odds are he’ll kill again. The other victims are so traumatised they’ll probably never lead a normal life.”

Pale grey eyes widened as he pushed the glasses up his nose. “Other victims?”

“Four women scared of shadows. Including their own.” Casual delivery, deadpan features. “See, Doctor Munro, I’m trying to help. I want to give those women closure and
stop the bastard getting to anyone else. Cos you know what?” She cocked her head. “He doesn’t scare me. Fact is I’d like to beat the shit out of him. I don’t like men
intimidating women.” She stepped in, couldn’t get any nearer. “Do I make myself clear?”

For a second she thought he’d try and save face by telling her to piss off, but he was only a baby bully. “I take your point, detective.” He backed away, glancing over his
shoulder where Kate Darby sat, still clutching the bag. “But look at her.” The victim’s sister stared into the distance, lips moving almost imperceptibly, foot still drumming the
floor. “She’s in shock.”

“No. I’m not.” She cut him a glare, made eye contact with Bev. “I’m trying to remember exactly what Libby said.”

Bev’s jaw hit the tiles. “Said?”

“Before the ambulance arrived.” The woman rose, self-assured, graceful. “Is there a coffee bar? Caffeine helps me think. And it’s important I get it right. Whoever did
this needs locking up. And that’s where you come in, isn’t it, sergeant?”

Byford’s bulky outline blocked the doorway. He clutched a sodden Fedora in both hands, his black trench coat slick with rain. The kitchen at Knightlow Road had been given
the forensic all-clear or he’d be in whites. If worth it he’d slip into kit anyway, put back the brief if need be. It was still early yet. Wall clock showed the time coming up to seven.
“What have we got, Mike?”

A startled Powell whipped round, mug in hand. “Guv? What you doing here?” Byford smelt coffee, the DI must have been helping himself. He let it go: Powell wouldn’t get away for
hours, everyone needed a break. As to why Byford was at the crime scene – he was sick of sitting on his backside, seemingly twiddling his thumbs.

“Relax. I’m only taking a look.” He masked a smile at Powell’s vain attempt to conceal his unease. He probably thought the big man was checking up or muscling in. And to
an extent, he’d be right. Mike was a decent cop, more plodder than high flier, but he’d only been back in harness a couple of days, it would be easy to miss something. Byford raised an
eyebrow: like everyone else hadn’t. It wasn’t just that, though. The senior detective had felt more than the normal urge for action. The higher the rank, the bigger the desk, the more
difficult to get away. Much of his job was strategy, admin, shuffling papers, not dealing with people. Give him hands-on any day, however dirty the work.

Powell rinsed the mug under a tap. “As to what we’ve got, being honest, not a lot. There are prints on the tethers, but Chris reckons they’ll be the sister’s when she
released the vic.”

Byford nodded. “I’d heard.” He’d bumped into the FSI manager on the way in, also learned that the sand and tethers would almost certainly be untraceable. And that the
point of entry – french windows at the back of the house – was clean as a bleached whistle. No useful treads either; the over-sock technique had been employed again. Fact the house
hadn’t been trailed with mud gave them a pointer towards the timeline: according to the Met people, the rain hadn’t started until around five a m. Big deal. Top line was this: given the
perp’s past record they had little hope of coming up with the forensic goods.

Byford glanced round. The kitchen was what he supposed they called farmhouse chic: brass pans hanging from cream walls, pine dresser full of blue and white striped crockery, bowl of dried
lavender on a washstand, frilly curtains, feminine touches. He shook his head, wondered if Mrs Redwood would ever want to return after what the intruder had put her through. “Why her,
Mike?” He narrowed troubled grey eyes. Something had to connect the victims, sometimes seemed the more he looked the less he saw.

“If we knew that, guv...”

He raised a hand, didn’t need telling. “So what are we doing?” Powell leaned against the sink as he ticked tasks on fingers. House-to-house was underway, area search would kick
off at first light, CCTV would be pulled in and pored over. Byford’s jaw ached with the clenching. As Bev would say, Same old, same old. The big man’s frustration and anger had grown
exponentially during Operation Magpie. Not that he’d admit it, but this morning, hearing the latest reports from the crime scene he’d felt a tinge of despair, depression. The Sandman
wasn’t just a step ahead, he was out of sight.

The big man sighed, twirled the hat in his fingers. “Get through to Bev?”

“She’s at the General.” He frowned, lifted a finger then fumbled for the ringing phone in his pocket. “Good timing or what?” The ironic half-smile faded fast.
Byford didn’t need to hear to know the news wasn’t good.

Biting his lip, Powell ended the call. “The vic didn’t make it. Bev’s hanging on. There’s a chance the sister’s got something for us.”

Bev ended the rushed call to Powell, shoved the mobile in her bag. She was at a corner table in the hospital’s coffee shop waiting for Kate Darby to finish in the loo.
Apart from a bored looking barista with a sub-Amy Winehouse beehive, they had the place to themselves. Bev didn’t do patience, and in this case it was hard to hide the signs. Playing a
plastic spoon through her fingers, she was on the edge of her seat physically and mentally. Was it possible the Darby woman held a key – if not the key – to the case?

Stilettos clacked across fake parquet. Bev turned her head, watched closely as the tall and enviably slender Kate Darby weaved an elegant path through empty Formica-topped tables. The previously
mussed blonde chignon had been smoothed into place and she’d applied running repairs to her face, only removing smudged make-up not adding a layer. With classic bone structure and even skin
tone, Bev wondered why the woman bothered in the first place. Maybe the supreme confidence came from her looks; the posh accent, just shy of Celia Johnson’s in
Brief Encounter,
probably helped. Given Kate Darby hadn’t long taken final leave of her sister, tough cookie was a phrase that sprang to mind. Not that Bev was complaining. Sooner tough than crumbling.

“Thank you, sergeant.” She tilted her head to indicate the cappuccino and sank into the seat opposite. Slipping her shoulders out of a costly looking camel cashmere coat, she let it
hang over the back of the chair. “Right now I could kill for a cigarette.” Fag hag with an asthmatic sister? She must have intuited Bev’s mild surprise, dismissed it with an airy
hand. “I gave up years ago, but there are times...” Pain briefly pinched her regular features. It was there, just not paraded.