Blood Money (8 page)

“Right.” Byford balled his fists. “I want every frame of footage from every camera in the vicinity viewed. I want everyone on it traced. And I want every vehicle on it checked.
The perp didn’t disappear into thin air.”

“Never know, guv.” Pollyanna Morriss speaking. “The geek squad might work a bit of magic.” Amazing what the guys in technical operations could do.

“The pictures need a miracle, sergeant. So unless Christ’s on the payroll...”

“That who I think it is, boss?” Mac cocked his head at a print-out pic on Bev’s desk – his crossed ankles were up there, too.

“Doing in my chair, Tyler?” She slammed the door, stomped across the floor of her office. “Feet. Now.” Finger click.

Sheepish, he swung down desert boots, vacated the hot seat. Bev snatched the print-out, gave it a good shake. It was dotted with pastry flakes and grease spots. Alex Masters looked as if he had
the lurgy. Mind, that was an improvement on his current condition. “What you been eating?”

“Cheese and onion pasty.” Mac mimed empty pocket linings. “I’d’ve saved you a bite if I’d known.”

“There’s a gob full on this.” She grimaced, checked her watch, raised an eyebrow. Don’t have to be having fun for time to fly. Half past lunch o’clock already.

“I take it pretty boy’s the vic?” Mac hadn’t actually seen Alex Masters – dead or alive; not even spotted the photo at the house. She filled in the guy’s back
story: ex-criminal prosecution lawyer, barrister to the rich and famous. Byford was already up to speed: Bev had just come from his office. She’d intended sharing the information on Masters
during the brief, but Jack Hainsworth’s dramatic denouement had brought the curtain down early. Not that it was the main reason for her visit to the big man. She’d dropped by to pass on
news from technical operations – if not good then slightly less bleak. The images of the perp weren’t as black as Byford feared. She’d spent an hour or so with techie manager
Brian Whelan. Though there was still a bunch of buttons to twiddle before getting final results, it was looking a tad brighter.

“Brian reckons there might be more than meets the eye to the Park View footage.” Bev stood at the side of her desk, leafing through paperwork.

Mac turned his mouth down. “Like what?”

She was binning the boring stuff: crime stats, performance reviews, today’s initiative. “Logo on the jacket. “She tapped her upper arm. “Another on the rucksack.”
Both needed enhancing.

“Rucksack?” Mac queried.

“Yeah, I didn’t spot it first time round either.” No one had. The communal focus had been on the face, well, the mask. “Nor the socks,” she added.

“Socks?”

Distracted nod. “Two pairs, Brian reckons.”

“Two pairs?”

“You got parrot genes, mate?” She dithered about ditching the print-out of Masters’s
Times
profile, decided to leave it be. “Yeah. Thick wool socks over his
shoes.” Or trainers, boots, ballet pumps. Guessing game, wasn’t it? The perp was au fait with enough forensics to know to mask his footwear as well as his face. FSIs covered up to
protect crime scenes; crims did it to protect themselves. Proof – as if the cops needed more – to know they weren’t dealing with a goofball. Also the best indication yet that the
Sandman had wheels. And that the motor couldn’t have been parked a million miles away. Byford’s instruction to check every camera in the immediate area now had added imperative.

Mac had been gazing at the
Times
article. “Masters was an ugly bugger.” He pulled a face. “Would you give him one, boss?”

“Not now, I wouldn’t.” She sniffed. “Got the time, Mac?” Her watch was in full view and there was a clock ticking on the wall.

“Uh?” Puzzled frown.

“I need a lift.” She was already shucking into her coat.

“Knew you were on the cadge,” he said. “The Mac’s a giveaway.”

Hitch-hike thumb in the air. “Yeah, well, I can see you’re rushed off your feet.”

He was now. “Where you want dropping?”

“Baldwin Street. Motor’s gotta be sorted and I need to catch a few zeds.” Donna Kennedy had called first thing. The Sandman’s third victim wanted the interview
rescheduled for this evening. Probably double-booked or something; she’d struck Bev as a bit of an air-head. Blonde, late-forties Donna had a touch of the Stepford wife, except Simon Kennedy
had been dead more than a year. Though Bev hadn’t much time for the woman, calling round this evening was no sweat. It was this morning’s four a m shout that was a problem.

“Sleeping on the job, boss?” Mac winked as held the door for her. “Part-timer.” Like he’d not already slipped home for a kip and a shower.

She caught a mixed citrus whiff. “Changed the aftershave?”

“No!”

Olfactory hallucinations: she was smelling things. Definitely needed a break. Counter-productive to keep going when you could barely keep your eyes open. Anyway unlike the paperwork, the
overtime budget wasn’t a bottomless pit.

“This lift, boss?” They were strolling down the corridor.

“Yeah?”

“Cost you.”

Eye-roll. “How much?”

“Pieces of eight.” Strangled squawk. “Pieces of...”

She laughed. He gave good parrot. “In your dreams, Percy.”

“Little sods. They give animals a bad name. Need caging, the lot of ’em. And I’d chuck away the keys.” The belligerent rant came from an old bloke whose
head only just came up to Bev’s shoulder. They were standing on the pavement outside her Baldwin Street pad, both staring glum-faced at the vandalised MG. Alfie Yates was a neighbour, born
and bred in the house opposite, they’d lived a stone’s throw apart for three years. Neighbourhood Watch? Bev hadn’t even noticed the little man until he introduced himself a
minute or two ago. Alfie was making up for lost time. Rabbit-rabbit.

Half-listening, she vaguely wondered why he’d never hit her radar before. The job probably. One of the drawbacks. The culture and anti-social hours meant personal hinterland – never
mind community involvement – was mostly bare. Bev could count on the fingers of one digit the number of people she felt vaguely close to. Right now she wished she was next to the git
who’d given the Midget a crap make-over.

Hands jammed in the pockets of her leather coat, she circled the car, totting up the damage. Two arms and a leg, she reckoned. Jagged lines had been gouged down both sides, glass shards from the
wing mirror winked from the gutter, the soft top had shit air con. Stanley knife? Screwdriver? Metal comb? Bloody sharp whatever it was.

Alfie was waiting for a response, but she wasn’t sure her voice wouldn’t crack. She loved the motor more than some old boyfriends – including their bodywork. As for the
MG’s? Lips tight, she traced a finger along one of the raggedy tracks, emitted a fringe-lifting sigh. She peered inside. What was with the scarf on the passenger seat? Shit. What with
everything else kicking off, the old lady and the lost supper had slipped her mind. Mental note: surrender knife.

“Police’ve been round,” Alfie told her. “Called them myself first thing. Though what good the Old Bill’ll do. I say old...” Derisive sniff.
“Spotty-faced kid, all of twelve.” His volley of tuts set loose dentures clacking like castanets. “What’s your line of work, Bev?”

“Air hostess.” Didn’t miss a beat. Might’ve had something to do with the Boeing flying over. “I’m away a lot.”

He gave her an old-fashioned look, but didn’t comment. She felt a bit mean lying, but telling people what you did for a living wasn’t worth the hassle. Alfie was a retired postman
apparently. He had a round face, and his bald crown looked as if it had a white fur trim. Several chins concertinaed into an un-demarcated neckline. He put Bev in mind of a monk. There was no
sackcloth, but plenty of ash. Alfie’s angry words were punctuated with sign language from a wildly gesticulated Sherlock pipe.

As to the cops not nailing the bastards, Bev tended to agree. Even in the best of times, criminal damage didn’t get much of a look in on the police priority list, right now most
cops’ eyes were peeled for the Sandman. She’d pull the attending officer’s report when she got back to the nick, but since first sight of the ruined paintwork, her gut had told
her this was personal. Maybe she’d kicked one butt too many. She wasn’t on MySpace or Facebook, they were too in-your-face from a cop’s point of view. But Bev didn’t need a
social networking site to know where the bad guys lived. And vice versa. Should they feel moved to find her.

“Mindless yobs,” Alfie sneered. “No discipline, no respect. Streets aren’t safe anywhere these days.”

Bev narrowed her eyes. Dorkboy? Could this be down to the yob and his gang? She tapped fingers on thigh. Nah. Probably not. There were likelier lads in the frame. She ran a few names through her
head, all but missed Alfie’s next diatribe.

“... the whole bloody road.” He took it in with a sweep of the pipe.

She stepped back from the fall-out. “Say again, Alfie?”

“One end o’ street to t’other. Five cars and a van they done over last night. Well, I say last...”

She frowned. “Sorry, Alfie, you saying it wasn’t just my motor?”

“No, lass. What makes you think that?”

Wry smile. “Must be getting paranoid.”

He tapped the side of his nose, gave a broad wink. “And y’know what they say about that?” He was still chortling as he crossed the road, waving the pipe. At the door he turned,
shouted back. “Don’t worry, lass. I’ll keep an eye on the place. When you’re on your travels.”

Travels? She’d be lucky to take a flight of stairs.

Bev’s pessimism was well-grounded. It was mid-afternoon before the motor was sorted, or at least on the road to being sorted. Carl, a mechanic at the Easy Rider garage
she used in Stirchley had driven over with a swapsie, a VW Polo to tide her over. She’d not long waved them off, leaving neither time nor inclination for a kip. Sleep was the last thing on
her mind anyway, too many notions buzzing round in there already.

One of which she wanted to moot to Diana Masters.

It was getting on for half-four when Bev parked the Polo outside the house in Park View. PC Danny Rees had drawn the short straw again. He was on the door, meticulously recording comings and
goings, logging it was called. Well exciting. Just thinking about it made Bev yawn. Thinking one step further, it meant the forensic boys hadn’t pulled out yet. Big job on their hands though.
She peered through the windscreen. Sky was blue ink with a smattering of star glitter. Not surprisingly, the search team was calling it a day. Some of the guys stood chatting round the back of a
white van, metal shelving and steel cases visible through the open doors, a couple of searchers still trying to find the way out of their paper suits.

Bev gave a wolf-whistle as she locked the motor. “Wotcha.” There were a few waves and Hi, sarges. Rubbing her hands, she strolled to join them, wishing to hell she’d brought
gloves. “Any joy, lads?” Nothing earth-shattering or surely she’d have heard?

“Big fat screwdriver do you?” Tall, stick-thin guy with a pencil moustache. Robin? Robert? “It was used to force the frame in the kitchen window.”

Was he winding her up? “You joking?”

“Not me, but the perp’s got a sense of humour.” He told her it had been found in one of the Masters’s flower beds, only a cursory attempt made to hide it. Lab work would
confirm the forensic match, but to a trained eye the screwdriver had definitely caused the marks in the wood.

There had to be a punch-line but she couldn’t read it in his face. “’Kay, so why aren’t I laughing?”

“He’d only nicked it from next door’s garage.” The neighbour had been looking for it, actually in the garage at the time, happened to glance into the Masters’s
garden and saw the action. “Knew it was theirs straight away, sarge.”

“How come?”

“Her husband carves his initials in all his tools apparently.” He wiped the back of his neck with a crumpled hankie.

“Her?”

“A Mrs Cummings. Joy, I think she said.”

Bev arched an eyebrow. They had come across a bit of joy then. “Prints?”

He snorted. “Now that is funny.”

The screwdriver was so clean it squeaked. Not a solitary whorl. It had been carefully wiped before being left almost in full view. Bev stamped her feet, more to keep the blood flowing than
signal frustration, though there was a smidgen of that, too. The Sandman obviously wanted the cops to find it. Why? Because nicking neighbours’ tools to gain access was the sign of a pro. In
this case – a two-fingered wave to show the cops how clever he was. Like they needed further proof. The guy was savvier than a smart arse convention.

“We can’t go on meeting like this, Danny.” Bev winked.

“Sarge.” Still on door duty, PC Rees blushed as he stood to one side to let her in. Wiping her boots on the mat, Bev was still smiling when a waif carrying a tray of crockery stepped
gingerly down the Masters’s wide staircase. The tray looked too heavy for the girl’s slender frame. Her dull blonde ponytail was scraped back so tight it brought tears to the eyes and
accentuated what were already sharp features. The shapeless cheap-looking gear had charity shop written all over it. The girl had to be the hired help. Marie, was it?

“Hiya.” Bev raised a hand. “I’m Detective Sergeant Morriss. Bev. Can you tell Mrs Masters I’m here, love?” She’d told the widow four-thirty on the
phone, it was only a few minutes after.

“Sure. Would you like to come through to the kitchen?” Bev did the honours with the doors. Cups and saucers rattled as the girl laid the tray on a heavily scarred butcher’s
table. “She was having a nap. I’ll just see if she’s awake.”

Lucky for some. Bev stifled a yawn. Mind, if the widow wasn’t ready... “Cup of tea’d be nice while I wait.”

Slight hesitation then: “No prob.” She pulled one of the Bentwood chairs out from the table, Bev ignored it, took a nose round. The racing green and buttermilk colour scheme
wasn’t to her taste. Kitchen itself was a weird blend of retro and high tech gleam machines. Probably need an engineering degree to work the Gaggia; mind, it could double as a mirror. She
peered at her reflection. Save a bit of time in the mornings – you could apply the slap waiting for your espresso to perk or whatever it is espresso does.