Blood Money (27 page)

“If she’s lying, boss.”

“Everybody lies.”

“Yeah, well.” He shoved the pictures back in the envelope. “We heading out there, now?”

“What you think?” She checked the mirror; saw the twinkle in her eye. “Granddad.”

Diana Masters answered the door wearing a black funnel neck coat, a classy brooch added a bit of light relief; Bev could see her reflection in the silver. Unlike the
widow’s, the Morriss bob could have done with a comb. Every shiny strand on Masters’s head appeared in perfect place, the expression seemed a tad strained. “What is it, Sergeant
Morrison? I was just on the way out.”

“It’s Morriss, Mrs Masters.” Patient smile; either she got the name wrong on purpose or the widow had the memory of a goldfish with Alzheimer’s. “Just a few
questions.”

“Of course.” The glance at her Rolex was intended to be noticed.

“Won’t take a minute,” Bev said. “Cold out here though.” Her shiver was as subtle as the widow’s time check. They were allowed in, but no further than the
hall. The roses were just beginning to shed a few petals, still stunning though.

“Off to Oxfam are you?” Bev asked, smile still in position.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oxfam. Must meet quite a few people there.”

“Is there a point to this?” The question was addressed to Mac.

“Beth Fowler,” Bev replied.

“Who?”

“One of the Sandman’s victims? You were shown her picture? Said you didn’t know her?”

“As you say, sergeant, I meet a lot people through my work. I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

Mac had the photo ready. “Take another look if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Masters.” The snap had been taken before the Sandman’s attack, it bore little resemblance to the
wreck she’d turned into. “Have you met her before?”

Masters traced a finger along her jaw line as she studied the likeness. “I could have... I’m not sure.”

“She knows you,” Bev prompted.

“She may well, sergeant.” The cat eyes narrowed. “I’m out back a lot. I don’t notice everyone who comes in.”

“She says you passed the time of day a couple of times.”

“Then I’m sure she’s right.” The smile seemed fake and revealed lipstick on a front tooth. Hallelujah, the widow’s grooming wasn’t perfect. “Is there a
problem with that? Is it a crime to speak with someone and not be able to recall it months later?”

“See, here’s the thing: I’m wondering if there’s anyone else you haven’t been able to recall? Cos that could really help us with our inquiries.” One slip-up
from the widow would be understandable, but what if the other victims used the shop? What if Diana Masters had lied about not knowing those women, too? Was that the link the inquiry had been
looking for? And what the hell would it mean? Bev kicked herself for coming here half-cocked. She should have checked with the other victims first, thought it through better.

“I’m under a lot of strain, sergeant. I can’t be expected to remember every little thing. And quite frankly I can’t see that it matters. Not when I have so many other...
matters on my mind. I wasn’t on the way to work.” She took a handkerchief from her coat pocket, dabbed her eyes. “If you must know, I was on the way to choose a headstone for
Alex.”

Best conversation stopper Bev had heard in a while. “Sorry to hold you up.” She hoisted her bag. It was time to hit the road anyway, see what light the other women might be able to
shed, before coming back better prepared. Bev was at the door when she turned. “Almost forgot... I need a word with your daughter. Any idea where she is?”

“She fucking knows, Diana. That cop knows something.” Sam stood in the kitchen doorway, arms spread-eagled against the frame for support. The word crucified came to
Diana’s mind. His face had an unhealthy sheen, sweat beads oozed above his top lip. The police visit had spooked Diana Masters too, not that she’d show it. She shucked off the coat,
draped it over the banister. “Get me a drink.”

He threw his hands up. “Perfect. Get plastered. Why not?”

“Water.” Face screwed in contempt she spun on her heel. “I’ll be in the drawing room.”

“What did your last servant die of?”

God. So original. “Stab wounds,” she muttered. No mileage debating finer points with Sam until he’d calmed down. The room was cold, she hadn’t bothered to light a fire.
She crossed to close the heavy velvet curtains, gazed at the falling snow for a few seconds. It wasn’t settling yet, please God it stayed that way. She couldn’t afford to mess up
timings tonight. She pressed her head against the glass. How much longer could she keep her cool? It had been mere luck spotting the cops’ car from an upstairs window. She’d warned Sam,
slipped on a coat and at least semi-psyched herself for the stand-off. Looking on the bright side, it had probably been more useful to her than the cops.

She felt Sam’s touch on her shoulder, turned and took the glass from his trembling fingers. “Thank you.” Hers were steady as she drained it.

Hands on hips, he slowly shook his head. “How do you do it, Dee?”

She shrugged. “The cops know nothing, Sam.” Or very little. “Obviously they haven’t got a clue about Charlotte. Or we’d hardly be standing here, would we?”
She led him by the hand to the chesterfield.

“I know that.” He pouted. “I’m not stupid. But that other stuff, the Fowler bitch...” She stroked his hair as he laid his head in her lap.

“So? What does it prove? I’ve got a shit memory? The cops were on a fishing trip is all.” Diana had kept well out of sight in the shop while making her assessments, was
ninety-nine per cent certain none of the other women had spotted her. Morriss might, just might, work out how the victims were selected. But none of that was going to unmask the Sandman or link him
to Diana. She looked at him now. Shivering, smelling faintly of sweat it was difficult to believe he’d put the fear of God into a string of rich bitches. Her smiling face masked complex
emotions, harsh judgements: her fate was with this man. At least for the foreseeable.

“Aren’t you scared they’re closing in, Dee?” She couldn’t meet his desperate gaze. “Not even a little?”

No. Sherlock in a skirt could dig as deep as she liked, it wasn’t the great detective that bothered Diana. It was a faceless voice on a phone. “It won’t be long now, Sam. We
just have to keep our nerve.” At least, I need to keep mine, she thought; yours is shot to shit.

“It’s in there somewhere, guv.” Slightly flushed, Bev pointed at the report that Byford was now scrutinising for the second time. It was a hastily cobbled
resumé of the visits she and Mac had made that afternoon. For Bev, the realisation had struck home even before the checks were complete, which was why she was hitting Byford with it before
the brief. Seemed to her time was running short. As he read, she wore out his carpet, slowly shaking her head. “I so should have seen it sooner.”

Oxfam. Dead men’s clothes. It was what widows did. Shit. In what seemed another life, Bev had even dropped the Black Widow’s bin bags at some fundraising do. Talk about irony. The
crazy who’d nearly killed her had unwittingly helped lift the eye-scales. “The pointers were there all along, guv.” She re-ran them in her head: Kate Darby saying Libby Redwood
had only recently got round to sorting her husband’s clothes, bin liners Bev had actually stepped over at Faith Winters’s house. Jesus wept. Donna Kennedy had actually used an Oxfam pen
to write the sodding suicide note. Even Mac had mentioned bagging his old gear and still she’d not put two and two together.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Bev. It’s not exactly in-your-face, is it? Beth Fowler and Sheila Isaac aren’t widows.” No, but she now knew they’d both been regular
visitors to the Oxfam shop where Diana Masters worked as a volunteer.

“Still should’ve spotted it sooner, guv.”

“The Oxfam link’s here. That’s a given.” The big man traced an eyebrow with a finger. “But I’m not sure where it gets us.” Frowning he glanced up.
“Sit down, will you, Bev.” She perched, foot still tapping. “I’m not disagreeing,” Byford continued. “I can see how the shop fits with the victim selection
process. Question is who was doing the selecting? You say none of the other victims could ID Diana Masters?”

She shrugged. “Said herself she spends a lot of time out back. They may not have seen her, but she was well placed to clock callers.”

“The shop has surveillance?”

“Betcha.” Mac had sussed it, called in from the premises not ten minutes ago.

Byford rose, walked to the window, perched on the sill. “What about other staff? Could anyone else be in the frame?”

“Mac reckons there’s no one under sixty in the place. My money’s on Masters, guv. We ought to pull her in.”

“On what?”

A sodding skateboard. She unclenched her fists. Why couldn’t he see it as well? “Come on, guv. She had to be feeding this information to the Sandman. You said yourself he
didn’t just flick through yellow pages.”

“Where’s the proof? And there’s no point rolling your eyes. If she’s involved, you ran the risk of tipping her off today.”

“Yeah, well. She wasn’t exactly shaking in her boots.” She pictured Masters in her widow’s weeds, dabbing that refined little nose. Off to select a headstone. Course she
was.

“She’d hardly show she was rattled, would she?” He tapped a finger against his lip. “If you’re right Bev, it makes her an accomplice.”

“More than that, guv.” She held his gaze. “Makes her accessory to murder.” Through the window snow was falling, Bev thought of covered tracks, sands of time. “She
needs bringing in.”

“We still need evidence, Bev. We can’t hold her without that. And while she’s out there, she could lead us to the Sandman.”

“You thinking a tail?”

He nodded. “I’ll run it past Phil soon as I can get in to see him.” Phil Masters. ACC Operations. Even if he gave it the green light, it wouldn’t happen until first
thing. “What we need now is intelligence; talk again to the people who know her.”

The sitting still was getting to her, she jumped to her feet. “D’you need me at the brief, guv?”

“Why?” He glanced at his watch: 5.05. “Where are you...?”

By 5.06, she’d gone.

Bev slipped half a bitter in front of Mac, slumped in the seat opposite then tilted her head at his glass. “Not much call for that stuff round here.” Here was The
Hamptons, poncey bar on the canal-side down Brindley Place. The wall-to-wall monochrome including furnishings and fixtures gave it the feel of a set for a black and white movie. Not that there was
much action. Charlotte Masters hadn’t shown since before her father’s murder. Bev hadn’t really expected to find her there, the girl was grieving for God’s sake, but
she’d wanted a word with the boss, a tall lanky guy in dark suit and designer sun glasses. Pretentious prat. She’d discovered that Charlotte’s attendance had been patchy for
weeks. More to the point, none of the staff could suggest where the girl might hang out. Certainly wasn’t Selly Oak; her pad had been their first port of call.

“Cheers, boss.” Mac slurped half the contents then pulled a gnome-having-stroke face. “No nuts?”

“Empty calories, mate. Think of the figure.” She winked, slung him a pack from her pocket. “Don’t eat ’em all at once.”

Just the one palmful, then: “I can see why you want to talk to her – but what d’you want out of it?”

Bev sipped Pinot, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Come on, mate, you sat in on the interview at her place. We weren’t even prompting when she came out with how she feels
about her ma.”

“Get the thumbscrews out next time, eh?” Mac waggled his eyebrows.

“We need someone to dish the dirt.” She sighed. With the exception of Charlotte, no one had uttered a bad word against Diana Masters. During the inquiry the widow had emerged from
interview after interview smelling of chocolate roses. Bev had also wanted to lean on Evie Jamieson. The PA hadn’t actually badmouthed the boss’s wife, but she’d sure not joined
the chorus of effusion. Mind, it was academic at the moment, getting hold of Jamieson had proved as difficult as the daughter, the PA hadn’t shown at the chambers today.

Bev took another sip, glanced round as a blast of cold air entered bringing in a stream of what looked like office workers. The drinkers headed for the bar, snow dandruff glistened briefly on
coat shoulders, people shook flakes from their hair, stamped wet footwear, cracked feeble one-liners about the weather. Mac was about to open his mouth when Bev’s mobile chirped. She read the
text, smiled, shoved the phone back on the table. “You were saying...?”

“I was wondering if the girl’s OK.” He brushed salt off his shirt front. “She was pretty cut up about her dad.”

“Hopefully she’ll see the note we left, get back soon as.” Bev turned her mouth down. “Prob’ly staying with a mate. Blood’s not always thicker than
water.”

“Talking of which.” He lifted the glass. “This is gnat’s piss. Fancy a big boy’s drink at the Prince?”

“Nah. I’m thinking of swinging round Evie Jamieson’s place when we’re done here.”

Judging by the falling face, she bet he had a hot date. She shook her head, wry smile curving her lip. “Where’d you want dropping, Romeo?” The old girl probably wouldn’t
be in. Even if she was Mac didn’t need to be there.

“Sure?” Bless. He was like a bloodhound after a facelift.

“Come on, lover boy.” She drained the glass. “Let’s make tracks.”

Literally as it happened: they left a trail of footprints on pavements slick with snow. The Polo’s windscreen had a light smattering, too. She chucked him the scraper, patted the top of
the motor. “Make the most of it, mate.” The garage was dropping the Midget back in the morning, thank God. “This’ll be your last outing in this thing.”

“That why you look so chirpy?”

That and the text from Oz. Not so much hot date as old flame. Engine running, she switched the heater on full. “Yeah. You could say that.”

Outwardly calm, Diana Masters was seething. Cold sweat trickled down her spine when she leaned forward to peer through the Merc’s windscreen. Swirling snow didn’t
help. She was on the lookout for what would be the third phone box on a not-so-fucking-merry dance the blackmailer had been leading since a call to the house less than an hour ago.
No cops. No
clown.
The bastard had actually sniggered at that point.
Or you’ll never see the bitch again.
The creepy Dalek voice had gone on to issue directions to a sprawling sink estate
where Diana had found instructions in a phone box that stank of vinegar, cat piss and God knew what else. The stench in the next box had been worse. The instructions there had led her here. Alum
Rock. And a hard place. Dear God let this be the end of the road.