Blood Money (6 page)

She was back within a couple of minutes, goodies on the passenger seat. Two portions plus mushy peas was maybe going it, but she was a growing girl. Her smile froze, her hand stilled at the
ignition. No. She wasn’t. Not any more. Head bowed, she hunched over the wheel, the emotional pain as sharp as the Black Widow’s blade in her belly. She gripped the wheel, took
steadying breaths, willing the hurt to subside. Her best mate Frankie had witnessed a few flashback episodes, told Bev she needed counselling. Frankie had been told to fuck off. She’d packed
her bags, left Bev to it. Baldwin Street now had a spare room. Bothered? She’d get a lodger, a stranger, someone who’d not give her a hard time.

The scream came from down the street. Bev’s head shot up, vision blurred; she dashed away a tear with the heel of her hand. Scumbags. She was out of the motor in the blink of an eye. Five
hoodies were circling a little old lady outside Threshers off licence, prodding, jostling, name-calling. Sods could easily have snatched her bag and buggered off. Seemed to Bev loads of kids
involved in low level street crime only did it for the buzz, the kicks. Generally speaking, they got away with it. Police dished out cautions to save on paperwork. Punters looked the other way. Not
this frigging time.

“Leave her alone, you little shits.” She’d be on Strepsils in the morning. “Back off. Now.” A handful of passers-by did exactly that, the five thugs turned as one,
contemptuous leers on every spotty face. They couldn’t have been more than fifteen, sixteen, stuffed full of swagger and strut. Seeing Bev hurtle towards them halted the granny baiting for
all of two seconds. Clearly they didn’t consider a lone woman a threat, all but one returned to hassling the old dear. The probable ringleader, dork with a death wish, bared his lips, barred
Bev’s path. “What you gonna do about it?”

Everything but Dorkboy was a blur: her focus was absolute, momentum unstoppable – even if she’d wanted to. The defiant wide-legged stance meant his groin was an open goal. She scored
– he took the penalty. Bent double, he clutched his crotch, gasped for breath. She was an inch from kneeing him in the face, controlled it just in time. Eyes blazing, she spun round, fists
balled. The others had legged it. Shame.

“You’re nicked, sunshine.” Hissed in his ear. “Don’t move a muscle.” Not that he could.

The old woman was leaning against the offie wall for support. Bev placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You OK, love?”

“Will be when I’ve got me breath back. Thanks for stepping in like that. I only nipped out for a bag of chips.” Sparse white hair framed a face that still showed traces of
prettiness, the hand clutching her chest was scrawny and liver-spotted.

“Any time, love,” Bev smiled. “Hang on here a sec.”

Dorkboy was snivelling in the gutter. She nudged his arse with the toe of her boot, flashed a warrant card. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Police brutality. I’ll have
you.”

“Tell someone who gives a shit. On your feet.” She counted five, grabbed his hood, hauled him up. “Pockets. Empty. Now.” Another count of five. “Please
yourself.” She rubbed her hands, reached for the front of his jeans.

“’Kay, OK.” Ineffectual fumble.

“Turn them out, dumbo.” She tapped her foot. “What’s your name?”

“Craig.”

“Craig what?”

“Foster.” He spread the contents on the damp pavement. The fags were probably nicked. Ditto the iPod. Gum, keys, comb, bus pass were fair enough; God knows why he was carrying
condoms. Face like an arse was contraceptive enough. None of it was book-able. She took a note of his address, phone number then poked a finger in his chest. “Listen up, moron. One toe over
the line and I nail you. Clear?”

“’Kay.” More nose wiping. Not so full of it without his mates.

“Say you’re sorry.” She nodded at the old woman.

“Wot!”

“Now.”

“Sod off.”

“Suit yourself. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Disneyland.” She reached for her phone. “Where’d you think?”

“OK, OK.”

After a grudging apology, he strode off into the night muttering under his breath. Bev turned to the old woman. “Still hungry, love? Hang on there a sec.”

Bev had lost her appetite. As she returned from the motor toting her fish supper, something in the gutter caught her eye. A car headlight picked it out again as she approached. Even before she
knelt, she knew it was a knife. Was it Dorkboy’s? Mostly youths only tooled up for protection. He’d probably dumped it when he realised she was a cop. Not as moronic as he looked then.
Cos carrying was the only offence she could’ve have had him on. If it had prints, she still might. No gloves, nothing to wrap it. Unless...The old woman had wandered across. Smiling, Bev
stood and handed her the chips. “Mind if I borrow your scarf, love?”

Fair exchange. No robbery.

Bev in Madame Pompadour gear – all red lace and low cleavage – held a dagger at the Sandman’s throat. “Come on, joker. Show us the colour of your
money.” With the other hand she yanked off the clown mask. “Guv?” While she struggled to get her head round that, Byford’s features morphed into the Black Widow’s. Bev
blinked, rubbed her eyes. When she opened them again, a machete-swinging Toby Priest advanced towards her sprinkling holy water. And she was wearing the mask. Screaming she teetered back and fell
into a sand pit full of tiny bodies.

Gasping for breath, Bev bolted upright, flung off the duvet, sweat trickling down her spine. Byford, Black Widow, the Bishop. No prizes for guessing where that lot came from. Freud’d have
a freaking field day. Make that month. Of Sundays.

She reached for the glass on her bedside table, took a few sips of water, glanced at the time. Great. Quarter past two. It’d taken ages to drop off anyway. She’d been wrestling with
thoughts of Dorkboy. The youth had been lucky in one way. It was only his age that had held her back from inflicting serious damage. What really bothered her was that for a while she hadn’t
given a toss either way.

An hour later she was still propped up reading the latest Janet Evanovich, wishing her own love life featured a testosterone-fuelled lead called Ranger. Bev gave a wry smile. On her track record
that’d be the Lone Ranger. The phone didn’t wake her. She answered before it rang twice. “Bev Morriss.” And waited. “Hello?”

It wasn’t a breather, but she was pretty sure someone was on the line. “Is there anybody there?” Ouija board silly voice. Suit yourself, mate. Maybe a dodgy connection? Mind,
there’d been a couple of hang-ups on the answer phone when she got back. She shrugged, gave a wide-mouthed yawn, stretched her legs and laid Ranger on top of the duvet.

The next call did wake her. It was just after four a m. It was Highgate. And Operation Magpie had now become a murder inquiry.

“Victim’s an Alex Masters, fifty-five years old.” The cop on the door – PC Steve Hawkins – consulted his notes, his partner Sergeant Ken Gibson
was on a mobile. They’d been the first uniformed officers to respond to the triple-nine. A DI and DC who’d arrived just after were now inside the property. Bev tightened her belt: it
was brass monkeys out here with frost white-tipping the lawn and diamond-studding the drive. Could be why the MG failed to start; she’d had to grab a lift from Mac.

“How’d she die?” Mac rubbed a flaky patch of skin on his neck.

“She’s a he,” Hawkins enlightened them, “as in Alexander. Control got it arse about face.” Call had been garbled apparently and whoever took it assumed a female
victim because the Sandman targeted lone women. “Anyway, the guy died from stab wounds.” Hawkins’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Blood everywhere.”

Bev glanced round. The crime scene was close to the Blenheim Avenue burglary, and not far from Baldwin Street – in distance. Not that she could see herself stretching to a plush
mansion-ette in Park View. The cost-a-packet properties backed on to a fair-size private park and lido. Come first light, a search team would be finger-tipping the area. FSI were already hands-on
upstairs, the body was in situ in the master bedroom.

“Who called it in, Hawkeye?” Bev asked.

“The wife. Diana. She was screaming, hysterical. No surprise given what’s gone on.” Also helped explain the initial confusion. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.
“She’s in there now with a neighbour. She took a couple of flesh wounds. Lucky really. The bastard probably panicked, legged it...”

Bev flapped a hand. “Ta, Steve.” Tad early for a speculative heads-up when she hadn’t even seen the body.

Hawkeye gave a please-yourself shrug. “GP’s on the way, sarge.” Bev nodded. Ditto the pathologist presumably. Gillian Overdale always took her time. Then she’d bang on
about the weather, the welfare state, women newsreaders. You name it... Bev turned a scowl into a cheery wave as Overdale cruised past in an aging Land Rover. She’d be whingeing about having
nowhere to park in a minute. The road was chocker with police motors and a meat wagon waiting to transport the body to the mortuary. Despite the circus, Bev clocked only a couple of twitching
curtains. This was posh-ville, residents didn’t stand in the street and gawp.

“DI Talbot’d like you to have a word with the widow,” Hawkins told Bev. She nodded, that figured. Pete Talbot, who’d taken on much of Mike Powell’s duties, was a
good cop, but at six-six and near on fifteen stone, his sheer bulk could intimidate some witnesses. A short fuse didn’t help either. Course that was a plus when dealing with hard men.

“Pete still upstairs?” she asked. He was, and according to Hawkeye happy to hang around and liaise with Overdale. Top man: saved Bev a brush with Doctor Death. Through the door she
caught a glimpse of polished panels, stained glass, stately home staircase. She nodded at Mac. “See what we’ve got, eh?”

The wife was in what Hawkeye had been told to call the drawing room. It had the feel of a genteel though slightly seedy drinking club with William Morris walls and heavy dark furniture, brass
lamps cast dingy glows, stags and foxes gazed soulfully from gilt-framed misty landscapes. Dimpled copper scuttles gleamed either side of a huge fireplace, embers glowed in the grate. All it needed
was a brace of flatulent black Labs and the tableau was complete.

It took Bev a second or two to locate the source of the noise – and what the sound was. Against the wall to the right of the double doors, Diana Masters was curled in the foetal position
on a gold velvet chaise longue. The back of her neck was exposed: slender, white, vulnerable. Her narrow shoulders shook, heartbreaking sobs muffled by an oyster satin nightdress stained with
blood. Bev halted momentarily. It was evidence; she should’ve been told to change. She bit back commenting. The husband wasn’t the only victim here. Bev had witnessed this sort of pain
too many times, countless lives ruined in the fall-out from violent death.

As she and Mac drew near, an elderly matron type homed in from the left. The neighbour presumably. Her bulky tweed-skirted hips straddled the approach path, and Bev caught a whiff of wet dog and
dry sherry.

“I really don’t think she should be disturbed right now.” Her bulbous pale blue eyes shot glares between Bev and Mac. No one reacted to the sound of ash falling in the
grate.

“You a doctor?” Bev asked.

“No.” Wattled neck flesh quivered. “Dr Gannon should be here any minute.”

“Best get a move on, then.” Bev strode forward.

“I don’t think so, young lady.” Lady? Bev caught Mac scratching his nose.

“What is it, Joy?” Diana Masters lifted her head, looked as if she was trying to focus – not just bleary eyes. There were a couple of defence wounds near the knuckles on both
hands, another thin red weal on a well-toned arm.

“Don’t worry, Diana dear, they’re police officers and they’re just leav...”

Bev barged in, hand outstretched. “Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss, Mrs Masters. This is my colleague, DC Mac Tyler. If you feel up to it, we need to ask a few questions.”

Fleeting touch of fingers as the woman straightened. “Of course. I understand. Joy...?” Looked less than ecstatic. “I’m sure the officers would appreciate a hot
drink.” It was polite but it was a dismissal.

“White coffee, two sugars. Thanks.” Bev gave the order. There was a Norwegian wood moment while they glanced round for a chair. Mac spotted a couple of uprights against a wall,
carried them across the faded sage Wilton. Doing the interview standing was out of the question, but the seating arrangements felt a bit like an audience with a minor royal. Bev instantly dismissed
the notion. Diana Masters had done nothing to warrant it.

“This is Alex’s favourite room.” She gave a deep shuddering sigh. “I feel close to him here. I hope you don’t mind?”

“No worries. It’s fine, Mrs Masters.” Looking at her now, Bev reckoned pop princess was nearer the mark. The glossy hair with caramel highlights curved razor sharp under a firm
jaw-line. Even without make up, the amber eyes were slanted, feline. Put Bev in mind of that singer: Sophie something? It’d come to her. Like a shed-load of other info, some of it useful.

At this stage, she knew squat about the Masters. Initial interviews were about feeling the way, laying down broad brushstrokes, fine detail being filled in by subsequent sessions. By the end,
the cops would probably know more about Diana and Alex than their own mothers.

She led Diana gently through the easy ones, full name, age, occupation, family members, anyone who had access to the house. Mac’s note-taking meant Bev was freer to register the non-verbal
signals; in Diana Masters’s case, licking the lips a lot, fiddling with earlobes. Bev was surprised to hear the woman was forty-one, she’d have guessed thirty, thirty-one. There was a
daughter, Charlotte, twenty-three, who had her own place in Selly Oak and was on the way over. It was no shock to learn that apart from a few hours’ voluntary work, Mrs Masters didn’t
have a job. Didn’t even do her own cleaning, the hired help came in four times a week, young woman called Marie Walinski. Judging by the set-up, it was pretty clear Diana didn’t need to
earn a crust; the Masters family didn’t look short of a bob or three. Then Bev clocked a photograph on top of a baby grand that confirmed her impression. Alex Masters on the steps of the Old
Bailey, black gown billowing. No wonder the name had rung a bell. Masters was barrister to the rich and famous. Made Mr Loophole look like Judge Jeffries.