Blood Money (28 page)

The call box was on the corner near a row of cheap shops, two were boarded up one looked bombed out, the rest had rusting iron grilles. She pulled the motor over, sat for a few seconds, hands
clutched tight round the wheel. What the hell was the blackmailer playing at? Where was he? He had to show his face if he wanted the cash. And Charlotte’s. She cut a glance to the passenger
seat. Cases full of money. Not that the creep would get a cent of it. Payback was behind: Sam in a white transit tailing her. She patted the knife in her coat pocket. A little life insurance. Just
in case.

Before leaving the safety of the motor she scoped out the surroundings. Street scum thrived like vermin round here. Her mouth curved in wry amusement. A woman with murder in mind wary of feral
kids. Better safe than screwed. Stepping out of the car, she pulled her coat tighter. Cold out here. As the grave.

Before going in, she held a hankie to her face, the fabric lavishly sprayed with Chanel. Opening the door, she screamed, shot back in horror when a liberated rat darted through the gap. Calm
down for God’s sake. Where were the instructions? Faint stir of panic. What if...? Her glance spotted the paper on the floor in the far corner. Like the others it was composed from words cut
out of newspapers Gingerly she knelt, used only her fingertips to retrieve it from wet concrete.

Her head told her to wait until she was back in the car. But the game had gone on long enough. She didn’t do Tom and Jerry. Her hand shook with rage, furious tears pricked her eyes as she
read the words again – she’d already got the message.

TONIGHT WAS A DRY RUN.

UNTIL TOMORROW, BITCH.

Bev clocked the place through the passenger window as she finished her baccy. PAs clearly weren’t on the same whack as their bosses. Evie Jamieson’s modest
pebbledash semi in Kings Norton needed tarting up. Bit like the owner in that respect, a lick of paint would make the world of difference. Stubbing the butt, Bev shook her head. Blimey, girl, what
is this? A makeover show?
Location, Location
meets
Ten Years Younger
. Made her think about the telly though. She couldn’t believe the guv had bought a new tie for
tomorrow’s
Crimewatch
recording. She twitched a lip. Nah. He must’ve been joshing. Sounded almost like his old self when she’d called to fill him in, not that there’d
been a bunch to contribute. Glancing again at the house, it didn’t look likely there’d be much to pick up here either. There were no lights on; no signs of life. Could she really be
arsed?

Sighing she locked the motor, picked her way through snow that was rapidly turning into grimy slush. Her knock on the front door dislodged a few flakes of peeling maroon paint. Same story round
the back: even a cobweb in the kitchen window-frame was unoccupied – apart from a dead spider and desiccated fly. Stamping frozen feet, she scribbled a line on another card, shoved it through
the letterbox, headed back to the car. Trouble with this job, there were times she felt like a sodding postman.

“Read that.” Lip curled in contempt, Diana Masters thrust the note over her shoulder towards Sam. Arriving back at Park View slightly later than Diana, Sam had
hurtled into the drawing room found her sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, staring into the flames. Frantic, his darting glance had taken in the carnage: broken glasses, shattered bottles,
smashed picture frames, a sea of books swept from the shelves. He took faltering steps towards her. “What happened here?”

“Read the fucking note!”

Kneeling now he took it from her trembling fingers. “Dry run?” He glanced up, registered her flushed face, shallow breathing, dried tears on her cheeks. Bollocks. If she cracked now
they were under shit creek, they wouldn’t need a paddle. “The guy’s a scumbag, Dee.”

“Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.” She beat the carpet with her fist.

“Come on, babe.” Gently he pulled her into an embrace. “It’ll be OK.”

Angry she shook him off. “Easy for you to say, Sammy.” Saliva glistened in the corner of her mouth. “You’re not the sucker who’s been jerked round all
night.”

“Yeah, but I was right behind you, babe.”

“You won’t be tomorrow.” She rose, wrapped her arms around her waist.

“But, Dee...”

“For God’s sake. Tonight’s charade was a little test. Remember what he said? No cops? No clown? The bastard’s been on the phone. He saw you, Sam. We have one last chance
to get it right.”

Bev clocked Oz first. No surprise given she’d been watching for him from the sitting room window. For the nth time she told herself he was here on biz. Whether Fareeda
Saleem’s exile was voluntary or not, Oz had thought it worth pursuing a chat with the father. The Small Heath visit was pencilled in for tomorrow, Oz was dropping by Baldwin Street to say hi.
Given they’d barely exchanged two words since the break-up, how come she felt like Bridget Jones on a v v bad day? No time to explore that one, he was locking the motor.

Play it cool, girl. She took a deep breath, twitched the curtains to, licked her lips, smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks, hitched the skirt, tugged the T-shirt, glugged on a glass of Pinot,
fell off a three inch heel in the dash to the door. Miss Cool-io opened it before the bell rang.

“Wotcha, Khanie.” Hand against jamb, heart racing, she gave a lazy smile.

“Hello, stranger.” Oz brushed her cheek with his lips before stepping inside. “How’ve you been?” God, she’d missed that smell.

“Tickety. You?” Hardly worth asking. He looked tastier than ever. Four Michelin stars just for starters.

“I’m good.” The small talk wasn’t doing a bunch to hike the word count. Standing around in the hall shuffling their feet didn’t help either, especially with a
snapped heel. After a few seconds’ silence they kicked off together.

“Fancy a...?”

“How ’bout...”

“You first...”

“Nah, you...”

The laugh was only a tad forced as she led the way to the kitchen praying the limp wasn’t too obvious. “Have you eaten?”

“Have you cooked?” Like she could’ve been performing open heart surgery with a spatula.

“Guinea fowl slow-roasted on a bed of squash served with pomegranate and rhubarb jus. How’s that sound?”

“Like a wind up.”

She sniffed. Was a time he’d have fallen for it. “Or beans on toast.” She peered into the bread bin. “Without the toast.” A smiled tugged at his lips. She’d
forgotten how it did that. “Fancy a takeaway?”

“I’m fine, Bev, honest.” She stared as he straddled a chair. Lucky chair. “Wouldn’t say no to a coke though. What’s wrong with your foot?”

“New shoes, mate.” She tottered to the fridge found him a can, helped herself to a top-up. She chilled as the chat flowed: his new flat in Fulham, films they’d caught, books
they’d read. He asked after her mum and gran. Social wheel-oiling; surface stuff.

“So how’s Byford these days?”

She almost choked on the wine. Even without dodgy footwear, the personal question had caught her on the hop. She gave a casual shrug hoping to restore equilibrium. “Up against it. We all
are with the Sandman out there.” Oz wasn’t talking work pressures. She was aware of that. He knew they’d had a thing going, held the guv partly responsible for her inability to
commit.

He gave her time to elaborate then arched an eyebrow. “Back off, shall I?”

Head down, she sensed his gaze on her. “We’re not together if that’s what you mean.” Was he weighing up his chances? And what the hell would she say if he came on to
her?

“Who you with now, Bev?” Briefly she closed her eyes, recalled the male tails she’d chased of late: fucking waste of time.

“Brad Pitt’s getting pushy.” She studied her nails. “Thinking I might need an injunction.”

“Footloose then?”

“Yeah.”

“Was a time I thought you and the guv would tie the knot.” So had she, and the thought it had passed still hurt like shit.

“’Nother coke?”

“Sure.”

“The Saleem stuff?” She handed him a second can. “How’d you want to play it? I’ll need a bit of notice, got shed-loads on tomorrow.” His turn now to avoid eye
contact.

“Yeah right. Thing is, Bev... I’ve just come from the house.” The hum of the fridge had never sounded so loud.

“What?” Sinking back into the chair, she lowered the volume. “Why?”

He pulled the ring can, swallowed several mouthfuls before answering. “Being completely upfront, Bev – having you there wouldn’t’ve helped.”

“Don’t hold back, mate.” Scowling, she folded her arms.

“I’m only telling it like it is.” Saleem, as he’d told her before, was unlikely to open up in the presence of any woman, especially a young white cop. “Plus I have
to get back to London earlier than I thought. It was kind of now or never.”

She didn’t return his smile. His reasoning had logic, it didn’t stop her feeling cheated; riding shotgun to Oz had definitely held appeal. “So what happened?”

Saleem had been hostile initially but Oz spoke the same language: literally and culturally. “I couldn’t go in casting allegations. I made it clear we knew about his daughter’s
injuries, and that she was no longer around.”

“And?”

“He claims not to know why she left home in the first place or have any idea where she is now.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“I think he was telling the truth, but if he’s a better liar than I give him credit for, at least he knows his card’s marked.”

“Great. No worries then.” Remind me to mention it when Fareeda turns up as fertiliser.

“Bev.” He leaned forward elbows on table. “Girls do run away. If they’re escaping abuse, violence, forced marriage, whatever, they don’t want to be found. Fareeda
could well be staying with friends some place.”

“And if she’s not?”

“We may never find out. It’s not an episode of
The Bill
. Life has loose ends.”

“Do me a favour, Oz.” Patronising git.

“Sorry, Bev. I just don’t see there’s much more to be done at this stage. I left Saleem in no doubt we’d looking out for Fareeda and keeping an eye on him.”

Tight smile. She’d asked for his help, his expertise, she could hardly throw it back in his face. “Appreciate it.” And maybe he was right. If Fareeda was pregnant she’d
have even more reason to make herself scarce. Crikey, she could even be with the father. Lost in thought, she missed the spectacle of Oz dismounting, only got to see the chair being pushed back in
place. “You off?”

“Yeah. Thought I’d head back tonight.”

What was that sudden lurch? Oh yeah, her sinking heart. Seeing him standing there, smiling down at her, she so didn’t want him to go. “Don’t have to.” It was the closest
she could get to asking him to stay. She held her breath, couldn’t look at him any more. He reached out gently pulled her to him, wrapped her in his arms. It felt so good: listening to the
steady beat of his heart, her cheek against his chest.

He kissed the top of her head. “Walk me to the door, then?”

What? Eyes stinging, she pulled back, held his gaze. Maybe getting closer wasn’t out of the question. “Stay tonight, Oz... please.” He’d never know how much that cost
her.

“I can’t, Bev.” He reached to touch her face. She’d hurt him too often, that was all, she could talk him round.

“Come on, Ozzie.” She smiled, tried making light of it. “You spoken for or something?”

She was twenty-five, PC Ayeesha something-or-other. They’d been seeing each other three months, thinking of shacking up together. At the doorstep, he held her briefly. “Stay in
touch, eh?”

What like some bloody pen pal? As if. She gave her brightest smile as he drove away; the tears came when he’d gone.

The car was parked a few doors down Baldwin Street; a figure wearing a hoodie slumped behind the wheel, dark gaze fixed on the mirror. The observer hadn’t intended
pulling over – not tonight – but then he’d clocked the Asian. Very fucking touching. Not content with jerking him around, the bitch was now screwing someone else. Lips bared, his
trembling fingers left damp trails as he stroked the baseball bat. Filthy slut had brought it on herself, but the shakes and sweats were too bad tonight. When it happened, he’d be the one in
control. He could wait... the timing had to be right.

“Hey, Morriss.” Bev glanced over her shoulder, saw Powell looking particularly suave striding along a Highgate corridor towards her. “Ready for your close-up?
As Norma might say?” She masked a smile; the guy was so transparent, even without waving the imaginary fat cigar.

“Major or Desmond?” If he’d hoped to catch her out – no chance.
Sunset Boulevard
was one of her favourite movies.
Crimewatch
taking a few shots hardly
qualified as a remake.

“La Desmond,” he said. “though looking at you....”

She cut him off with a raised palm. Knew what he was getting at. If a close-up was called for, she’d need a damn sight more time in make-up. The bags under her eyes needed straps. After
several hours tossing and turning, she’d very nearly overslept. Her wake-up call had been a knock on the door from Carl at Easy Rider. Seeing the Midget parked outside Baldwin Street had
brought the first smile to her face since Oz drove off into the metaphorical sunset. It hadn’t lasted long given the journey in had been through thick slush with the promise of more snow
later. Oh joy!

“They’re only after a bit of wallpaper, y’know, mate.”

Like the guv had made clear in an e-mail, expect a TV crew in the incident room mid-morning, the producer needed general shots of the squad; blink-and-miss bland gvs for the presenter to voice
over. Only officers who were on IR duty anyway would be involved, and the crew had been told to film round people not get in the way. The big man would be the star, he’d be interviewed at his
desk and on location.

“I’m only putting in a guest appearance, Morriss. Making sure everyone knows what’s what.”

“Course you are.” The DI was a media tart. Give him his due though, he’d run an exemplary brief first thing. Took skill to galvanise troops into going over old ground,
he’d deployed most of them back on to the streets round the crime scenes canvassing passers-by in the hope of striking witness gold. The rest were phone-bashing, checking statements,
following up calls. He’d asked her to pursue the Oxfam link – like she needed asking.