Blood Money (30 page)

But was she accessory to murder? She was accessory all right. Arm candy to Alex Masters and groomed within an inch of her life. Eyes creased against the smoke, Bev pictured the widow the last
time they’d met. Masters had worn that black funnel neck coat, didn’t have a hair out of...

Bollocks. Spine tingling, she bolted upright, thoughts swirling. Suddenly, she saw the light, and not just the full beam of an approaching motor. It was a vision of the widow’s silver
brooch that day. Bev had glimpsed her reflection in its shiny surface, but failed to see the full picture, until now. The item wasn’t Diana’s. It had belonged to Donna Kennedy: a
one-off designer piece, photo and details in exhibits at Highgate. Gotcha.

The guv had to know; she grabbed the phone, hit fast dial. They’d need full back-up now, preferably armed. Diana Masters made the Black Widow look benign.

Headlights dazzling, the oncoming car was almost upon her. Bev shielded her eyes as it slewed wildly in the snow, almost missed the turning into Masters’s drive. The bitch was back –
and cutting it fine.

Fury and revenge fuelled Diana Masters. Slamming the Merc’s door, she stormed to the house careless of the snow. Silhouetted in the doorway she stood for several seconds,
staring open-mouthed at the scene in the hall. Her slanted eyes saw the noose suspended from the banister, the scotch, the paper, the pen – her sluggish brain couldn’t compute. Taking
faltering steps towards the console table, her thoughts dragged, too. “What the hell?”

“Details of the drop.” Startled, she swirled round. More incomputable data. Sam lunged from behind, smiling as he slipped the knife from her coat pocket. “Do exactly as I say
and you won’t get hurt.” Still with that perfect smile, he pressed his own blade against her cheek. “Well, not by me.”

Wary, uncertain, her eyes searched his face. “Is this some kind of joke?”

With a tap of the blade, he set the noose swinging. “Call it gallows humour if you like.”

Stay cool. She had to regain the control here. Taking off the hat she nodded at the writing gear on the console. “What’s that all about?”

“Let’s see...” He waved the knife, raised his glance to the ceiling, ostensibly seeking inspiration. “It’s about a woman driven mad by grief. A woman so devastated
by her husband’s murder, she can’t face life without him. Sadly, she sees only one way out.” He set the rope swinging again.

“You’re mad.”

“You’re fucked.” He cocked his head at the pen and paper. “Take a letter.”

“Come on, Sam,” she wheedled. “We can work this out.” Like hell, you double-crossing shit. Her brain was back in action. Whatever was going on here, he’d pick up
the bill. She knew the clutch bag was out of reach; could she retract the knife from her sleeve?

“Pick up the pen, Diana. Now.”

“Sam, please, this is ridiculous. Let’s just...”

“Shut the fuck up,” he yelled. “I’m done with you ordering me around. I’m sick to death of hearing your prattle. Let’s just get this over.”

Eyes smarting, she nodded meekly. “If I’ve lost you, Sam... I’ve lost everything.” And she’d say it with flowers... Turning to reach for the pen, she grabbed the
vase with both hands, swung it over her head, hurled it with every ounce of pent up fury. Glass whacked bone, blood streamed from nostrils and split lips as he dropped to the floor, clutching his
face. Diana was oblivious to water dripping from her chin, wilted rose petals caught in her hair. She focused exclusively on her target, kicked Tate as hard as she could in the head. He fell to the
side, unconscious, no longer groaning. Eyes like slits, she carefully slid the knife from her sleeve.

“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Diana whipped her head round. Coming down the stairs was a slight figure dressed in black wearing a clown mask.

“I’m pretty sure they’re both in there, guv.” Gaze fixed on the property, Bev still kept a low profile in the Midget, soft voice on the phone.

“Could be,” Byford said. “I’ve just heard from Mike Powell – Tate’s flat’s empty.”

Bev had witnessed the widow’s dash from the car, the long pause silhouetted in the doorway. It was enough to twitch the antenna. “We’ve got the bastards, guv.”
She’d filled him in on the stolen brooch, the missing link.

“Not yet.” She heard a rustle, reckoned he was checking his watch. “Back-up’ll be with you any time. Bev, don’t...”

“What you take me for, guv?” She’d no intention of playing hero. Last time she’d crossed a widow she’d lost two-nil.

“I mean it, Bev.” Slight pause. “I don’t want to lose you.”

I not we? She put that one on the back burner. “Later, guv.”

Later like Mac. At least he’d called. The snow was slowing traffic – and blood flow. God it was cold. She leaned across, scrabbled in the glove compartment. Scowled. Everything in it
but bloody gloves. Eyes narrowed she spotted the edge of a nylon scarf jutting out from under the passenger seat. She frowned then remembered the old dear outside the chippie last week. The scarf
had been in the Midget ever since. She tugged it free, heard a clink as the knife still wrapped in its folds fell out. A voice in her head said: don’t even think about it. So she
didn’t. She shoved it in her bag instinctively – because she felt like it.

Like she felt like standing outside the car and having another smoke. If she hadn’t she probably wouldn’t have heard the scream.

Diana Masters was rigid with rage, her face almost ugly in contempt. “Take the fucking mask off.” It hadn’t taken long to work out. Since Sam had staged the
whole pathetic show, only one person could be hiding behind it. Predictably, her daughter was going for the dramatic effect.

Charlotte ripped off the mask, hatred in her eyes, a knife clutched in her hand. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

Diana cut a glance at her former lover. “Clearly not.” She swung a vicious kick at his kidneys. No response. Charlotte screamed to leave him alone. Screamed again when Diana lashed
out with the other boot. The third kick drew Charlotte closer. Within harm’s reach now, the girl looked puny, stick thin, a pushover.

“You and him.” Diana ran the blade between her fingers. “How long’s it been going on?” The rage had given way to an unnatural calm. Sam had shafted her. Now
she’d cut her losses.

“Way back.” Smug triumph. “Did you actually think he loved you? Get real. You’re old enough to be his mother. You were just in the right place at the right time, blithely
imagining it was your idea. We were stringing you along from the get-go. You and the old man were a means to the end.” Diana’s keen glance flitted between hand, rope, stairs; brain
coldly calculating.

“The end being?” Like she didn’t know: love of money was the only thing they’d ever had in common.

“My inheritance of course.” Charlotte gave a brittle laugh. “That’s when the hard graft pays off. Sam had a hell of a job playing the gibbering wreck, y’know. As
for me, the Dalek voice was a real stretch. Mind, we had a ball planning your trips. Hope you enjoyed them – cos you’re a long time dead. And when the dust settles, me and Sam will take
off.”

Diana snorted. “He’s not going anywhere, is he?” She nudged his head with her toe. “Prat can’t do anything right. Couldn’t even kill Alex. I had to finish the
old boy off.”

“You?”

“What’s the problem? You were happy to take his money, weren’t you?”

“Not happy.” She glanced down for a second. “It was collateral damage.” And didn’t see it coming. Diana grabbed the girl’s wrist, slammed it against the
banister. A crack rang out, Charlotte screamed, the knife fell. Tears of pain coursed down her sallow cheeks as she held the shattered arm protectively close. Diana grabbed the noose, forced it
over the girl’s head, started dragging her towards the stairs.

Charlotte knew what was coming, kicked, struggled, screamed. Diana barely noticed; she was calculating the drop. Roughly. Suicide wasn’t a bad idea – there’d just be a change
of personnel: her daughter could take the swing.

The scream was loud enough to wake the dead. Bev tensed, instantly alert, heard the hiss when her baccy hit the snow. Then another scream. Hell’s teeth. Sounded like blue
murder kicking off in there. She scanned both sides of the street, dashed across. No blue lights but the third scream was enough to drown distant sirens.

Sneaking past the Merc, she clocked a bunch of keys in the ignition, reached in and pocketed them. The widow wouldn’t be leaving in a hurry. The door’s fanlight was too high to be
any use; she pressed an ear to the wood instead. Made out the odd word. Who was the widow having a go at? The other voice was younger, shriller. Another woman’s. So where was Tate?

More to the point, where was back-up? Sod it. Curiosity killed cats – said nothing about cops. She could always leg it if they clocked her. Slowly, soundlessly, she raised the letter box.
Her scalp prickled, heart pounded. It was a stand-off. The widow and her daughter. Both carrying knives. Almost subliminally Bev took in the vase on the floor, pools of water, rose petals. Her
focus was on the rope and the dialogue.

... I had to finish the old boy off.

You?

What’s the problem? You were happy to take his money, weren’t you?

Not happy. It was collateral damage.

Breathtaking cynicism followed by heart-stopping action. Eyes wide, Bev watched the drama unfold: the widow whacking her daughter’s arm, forcing the noose over her head. Events were
spiralling. If she didn’t go in, people were going to die. Last thing they’d do was open the door for her. The car keys? She scrabbled in her pocket. If one was for the house,
she’d... What?

Intervene to save the lives of a couple of devious shits? Last time she stepped between mother and daughter, she’d taken a blade in the belly. Blade. Subconsciously had she had an inkling
all along? Was that why she’d stowed the knife in her bag? Palms tingling, she reached for it now. Another scream. Another look through the box. Shit. The girl’d be on the banister any
time soon. All it would take was one shove from the widow.

There was only one Yale. It fitted. Still Bev hesitated. Protect life. That was every cop’s first, second, third priority. But what if the sick twisted crazies deserved to die? Ears
pricked, she caught sirens in the distant. Back-up was imminent – except time was running out. If she did nothing, she’d be little better than the mad bastards inside and might as well
jack in the job. Yeah. And? Still, she dithered. The next scream turned her insides to ice. And forced a decision.

Only seconds to take it in: Tate was out of it on the floor; Diana glared down from the landing. Bev had to get to the girl. The drop hadn’t been fatal but she’d choke if she
didn’t stop struggling. Still clutching the knife, Bev chucked her bag down, raced over, took the girl’s weight on her back. In her peripheral vision she glimpsed the widow sneaking
downstairs. “I swear, lady, come near me, I’ll kill you.”

Diana Masters glowered from a safe distance. For a second or two it could’ve gone either way. The police sirens probably tipped the balance. She settled for a final kick at lover boy, fled
without a backward glance, presumably trying to save her own neck.

Sweating hard, breathing fast, Bev eased the rope over Charlotte’s head, lowered her to the floor, laid her in the recovery position. The only life the little cow deserved was behind bars.
Bev didn’t hear Tate, first she knew was when he grabbed her, swung her round. “Interfering bitch.”

Eyes flashing, hackles rising, she hissed: “Picked the wrong one this time, babe.” It was almost too easy. Tate was in a weakened state, Bev so fired up she’d have taken him
anyway. Every kick and punch she landed was for the victims, mental pictures of the women a spur to beat the shit out of him.

Back-up was outside now; she became aware of blue lights, sirens, car doors slamming, muffled footsteps running through the snow. Self-defence until they were in here though. Not that Tate was
up for it. Arms protecting his head, he surrendered, dropped to his knees, snivelling, the pretty boy face now a mess of tears, blood, snot. Not a whole bunch different from the mask.

“Fucking clown.” Scowling, Bev slapped on the cuffs. Without a blade, the Sandman was a walk-over.

The Prince was packed with jubilant cops, dimpled table tops were strewn with glasses, empty crisp packets. Last orders had been called, the guv was at the bar getting them in.
Mac was relating to another rapt audience how the fleeing widow ran slap bang into his arms; Powell was cosying up to Sumi Gosh in the corner – no surprise there, nor a snowflake in
hell’s chance. Bev raised her glass, gave a lopsided smile, thought fleetingly of Fareeda, hoped the girl was safe. Everywhere she looked there was camaraderie, familiar faces; cops were like
one big happy family. The Masters sprang to mind. Maybe not.

Glancing along the scuffed leather bench, she spotted Danny Rees bending Dazza’s ear. Danny boy had been chatting her up earlier, telling her she was his role model. Yeah right. She sipped
her wine, not so pissed she didn’t know he was angling for a CID opening. Wasn’t just detectives celebrating though, when news of the arrests broke almost everyone at the nick had piled
over to the pub. They’d crowded round the telly at ten, cheering when the BBC led on the story, some of the footage nabbed from the
Crimewatch
shoot.

The back-slaps and bonhomie had actually started back at the Masters place. Byford had shown just after the cavalry. Far from giving Bev a hard time for going in, the guv had hinted at a
commendation. Made a change from disciplinaries. Back then, she couldn’t share the general euphoria. Draining a third, no, fourth glass she was feeling a tad mellower.

She cocked her head. Some joker had put REM on the juke box:
Everybody Hurts.
Yeah, and cries. She snorted. No, make that lies. The widow had excelled. Not just her – everyone in
the inquiry. It was the widow’s face she couldn’t get out of her head though, staring from the back of a police motor, rose petals still clinging to her hair, make-up a wreck. The cuffs
had made a nice touch. Accessories were so important. Bev scowled. How could a woman sink so low? Like mother like daughter... last Bev had seen of Charlotte was in the back of an ambulance. Ditto
the Sandman. Bad riddance. They’d all be going down. A forensic team was at Park View, a second at Tate’s flat. Job done. Yeah, course it was. Pensive, she tugged her lip, mulling over
how differently that final scene could have played out.