Death Line (20 page)

“So is Pete thinking the witnesses aren’t kosher?” She ran a salty finger round the rim of her glass.

“Not saying that exactly. But they’re both desperate to get the scum off their patch. It’s not like they actually saw the boot going in. But the youths had been hanging round
as per.”

“Is he bringing them in for questioning?”

“He’s keeping tabs.” Surveillance. The rope theory. As in, give them enough, it could turn into a noose. Pete definitely needed more to go on than what could be the dodgy
say-so of disgruntled residents. She knew he was releasing pictures to the media showing the full extent of Darren’s injuries. Perhaps surprisingly, Mrs New had given permission for the shock
tactics. Bev was in two minds about it.

Powell leant across to pick up a menu from the next table. “Heard about Overdale?”

“Go on.” Bev hadn’t seen the pathologist since their not so brief encounter on the railway line at Foxton.

“She collapsed at work last week. In hospital having tests now.”

Bev turned her mouth down, recalled thinking the woman hadn’t looked so hot at Haines’s crime scene.

“Some bloke from Walsall’s covering for her.” Could be why they still hadn’t had the tox results from Josh Banks or Roland Haines. Overdale maybe wouldn’t have been
chasing the lab and it’d take a while for the new guy to get up to speed. Powell handed her the menu. “How do you think the guv’s looking, Bev?”

Where’d that come from? And why the casual slip? She kept her head down. “Hadn’t thought about it. Why?”

“Just wondered.” Yeah right. Obviously something on his mind. She kept silent. He’d share if he wanted. “One or two of the guys think he’s looking a bit...
stressed?”

“We eating then?” She wasn’t going to get into that. By one or two Powell probably meant the whole station was gabbing. Were they right? Was there cause for concern? Given
she’d barely looked Byford in the eye since the stupid crack about a leaving collection she was hardly in a position to judge. And now wasn’t the time to speculate. It was definitely
going on the back burner though. “The burgers are good.”

The food was handy for mopping up the booze. Probably should have ordered pudding. And cheese. And coffee. Black. Soon as they steered away from work-related topics, talk flowed like the wine.
And liqueurs. They touched on classic films and latest books, politics and people. For a guy whose cultural height she’d earlier have described as a lap dancing pole, Powell had sharp
insights and opinions. Once he’d dropped the macho act, he was good company, and for a blond he’d always been quite tasty. Better than all that, he could actually make her laugh. Talk
about seeing someone in a new light. She’d had no time for the view before. Mind, she was well pissed.

“Good job we walked, Mike.” They were halfway back to Bev’s place. Gone eleven, the sky was navy with a zillion stars, traffic was light, pavements pedestrian-heavy.

“Call that a walk?” Powell reached out to steady her. She didn’t pull away; he left his arm where it was. She needed the crutch, there was no more to it than that. The drinking
too much had been deliberate. It wasn’t clever, she knew that, too. She could have called a halt, was aware when she’d had enough. But sometimes, if only for a few hours, the edges
needed blunting, painful images softening: Darren, Josh, Byford, babies.

“Sod it.” The key slipped from her fingers. “Where’s it gone?”

Powell bent to retrieve it. Which meant releasing her waist. He caught her but she teetered slightly, toppled towards him. She could have turned her face, could have closed her lips. Powell
avoided the kiss. Laughing, he pulled away. “Come on, Bev. You’ll regret this in the morning.”

Maybe she would. Moving closer, she placed her hands on his cheeks, gazed into his eyes. “Just a kiss, Mike.” A moment’s light relief from the emotional baggage and dark
thoughts. “Nothing heavy.”

“Thank God for that.” He gave her cheek an affectionate peck. “Thought you were after my body.” Smiling, he held the door as she staggered in. “Night, Bev, catch
you tomorrow... again.”

Had he just patted her bum?

Around two a m Bev’s Angus beef burger threatened an unwelcome return. The couple hours’ restless tossing and turning had no doubt added to the internal churning.
The sultry heat wasn’t helping. Even with the window wide open, and a Dylan t-shirt that barely covered her butt, the room was like a sauna in the tropics. It was hot and she was bothered,
and not by hitting on Powell. Heart hammering, sweat pouring, scalp prickling, it was a full blown barf alert. Swinging her legs to the floor, a foot got tangled in the duvet long since kicked off
the bed. The ensuing hopalong tussle almost sent her flying in the dash to the bathroom. “Bollocks.”

It was a bit rich blaming it on the burgers when she’d drunk her own body weight in alcohol.

Either way it was a false alarm. Calming breaths and cold water did the trick. Still holding her wrists under the tap, she stared into the mirror. Dripping hair, panda eyes, spot was on the way
out, though. Could be worse.

What was it Powell had said: Come on, Bev. You’ll regret this in the morning. She raised an eyebrow. Damn right she would, but only the self-induced hangover. OK, the move on Powell
could’ve been subtler, but they were both adults, and it wouldn’t have gone further than a kiss. She wasn’t that bladdered. Anyway she’d checked Tudor Road; there
wasn’t so much as a garden gnome on sale. The DI may have had his eye on something, but it wasn’t the property market. So why pussyfoot around?

Holding on to the sink, she leaned into the mirror. If recent experience had taught her anything, it was Life’s too short, Beverley. And she wasn’t talking stuffing mushrooms, her
thoughts were on higher life forms. Regrets? No.

She was with Edith Piaf. Even better, make that Robbie Williams. He was still alive.

When the phone rang around five-ish, Bev’s immediate thought was Darren. Mind racing, heart thumping, she picked up the handset, praying it wasn’t the news
she’d been half-expecting.

“Bev Morriss.” Sharp. Peremptory. Perched on the edge of the bed now, breath bated.

“Sorry, sarge. Control here. We’ve got a sus death. Uniform in attendance. Requesting CID attendance. It’s out Stirchley way. Can you...?”

“No problem.” Thank you God. Bev reached for a pen. It wasn’t Darren, it would almost be a pleasure. “Fire away.”

Eric Long was found lying in a bath of his own blood with slit wrists. A black-handled knife close by on the chequered floor was an obvious giveaway. Suicide. Open and shut.
Dead cert. Except his wife didn’t buy it. Or didn’t want to. It was a hell of a purchase. Bridie Long’s terrified screaming had woken neighbours who’d alerted the police.
Mrs Long was currently in the care of the woman next door. After an initial examination, the uniformed constables who’d responded to the triple-nine realised they were out of their depth. One
of them was now briefing Bev in the dim narrow hallway of the terraced house in Stirchley.

“It’s a bloodbath, sarge.” The way Colin Duckworth had been rubbing his hands put Bev in mind of Lady Macbeth. His ghoulish observation was probably spot-on. Not that she could
confirm it. She’d yet to enter the crime scene. There were enough bodies up there already – not counting the stiff. The new pathologist was apparently doing his thing, the FSI team
waiting to do its, apart from the forensic officer who’d have been recording every detail from the word go: stills and video. The DCI would be joining the party soon. Bev had called Knight at
home knowing he’d want to attend: the name Eric Long not so much ringing a bell as sending out shockwaves. Was Long’s suicide genuine or did they have another Roland Haines on their
hands? Grappling with that idea knocked Alka-Seltzer on the head as a hangover cure.

“Literally,” Duckworth said. “A bloody bloodbath.”

“Colin, leave it out.” Gags she could live without.

“I’m not kidding, sarge. It’s like an abattoir.” She cut him a withering glance, registered not relish as she’d first thought but revulsion. The guy looked as sick
as she’d felt earlier. Sweat ran off one of his chins and the flabby flesh was white.

“Get some fresh air, eh, Col?” Last thing they needed was a pool of vomit muddying the waters. “See if anyone out there needs a hand.” When she’d arrived it had
seemed there were more police vehicles parked up than private motors. She’d had to leave the MG in the next street. The flashing blues had attracted a few gawpers: couple of women in curlers
and dressing gowns, an old bloke with pyjama bottoms flapping under a raincoat. Could explain why the press was out in force, too. Preferably it was down to one of the not-so-busy-bodies outside
calling a few news desks in the hope of a tip-off fee or getting their mug on the telly. As opposed to a leaking cop on the make.

Bev glanced at her watch, just coming up to six. Should have enough time. She picked her way to the foot of the stairs along one of the duckboards FSI had laid in the hall. “Chris?”
she hollered. “If you need me, I’ll be next door.”

If Bridie Long had seen a ghost she couldn’t look any worse. In fact a ghost would probably be an easier option given the haunted expressions currently running across her
gaunt features. The woman’s complexion resembled creased parchment and the mauve smudges were like eyeshadow that had missed the lids. Her hunched sparrow-like frame seemed lost in the corner
of a huge leather settee as she stared sightlessly into the middle distance through pale blue pink-rimmed eyes. Bev knew she’d be replaying the death scene in her head. It was a silent movie
even though the thin dry lips moved constantly, or maybe there was a soundtrack only she could hear.

“Mrs Long?” She certainly wasn’t listening to Bev. Closing the door with her bum, Bev headed further in to the stuffy over-furnished room. The drab sepia-and-sludge
décor co-ordinated with Bridie Long’s frumpy shapeless frock. Bev had to step over a fat comatose cat sprawled full-length across the carpet. It woke with a start, hissed and lashed
out with a paw. Black or not, the sodding thing was lucky it missed.

“Mrs Long? I’m a police officer. Detective Sergeant Morriss. Bev Morriss.” She reached out a hand, wasn’t surprised it went unnoticed or ignored. The attending officers
had told her without irony that the woman was on a knife-edge, close to losing it big time. Bev perched on the nearest armchair, elbows on knees. “Mrs Long, I’m sorry for your loss. But
I need to ask you a few questions.” She’d been tasked by Knight during the brief phone call to see what she could elicit before the woman lost it completely.

“I can’t... stop... seeing... the blood... it’s there all the...” She clawed the crepe-like skin of her neck. It hurt just to watch.

“Please, Mrs Long. I want to help but you must talk to me. Can you tell me what happened last night? What time you found your husband? What you did then?” They’d not been able
to work it out. If she was at home when the deed was done, why hadn’t she heard something? Acted to stop it.

She glanced at Bev for the first time. “I was at a friend’s. Left here about nine.” The voice was a flat, lifeless drone.

“A friend’s?” The prompt wasn’t taken, Bev let it go for the moment. “What time did you get back?”

“Late.” She itched to take the woman’s hand from her neck.

“How late?”

“We’d had a barney. I was riled. I stormed off then thought it best to get back.” Male? Did Bridie have a bit on the side?

“What time?”

“’Bout half four.”

“Half four?” Must’ve been a hell of a row. And a damn good mate.

Mrs Long had clearly picked up the inflection. “I found a text from some fancy woman on his phone. Told him two could play at that game. Just wanted to teach him a lesson.” She ran a
finger under her eye. “Childish I know.” She could say that again. Sounded like love-struck teenagers, rather than middle-aged marrieds. Eric Long was what? Early forties; she looked
late fifties. Maybe he liked older women. Had liked.

“I’m going to make a few notes, OK?” Bev slipped a hand into her bag. Wasn’t ideal. It cut down eye contact and observation but needs must. She wrote: woman, text,
mobile. They’d need detail, but it could wait a while; initial interview was generally surface-scratching stuff. Hopefully Mac would show before too long. “So you got home
and...?”

“Made a cuppa tea. Thought I’d take one up.”

“Before then? The front door? Was it locked? Were there any signs of a forced entry?” It was delicate ground; she was groping in the dark, hedging bets. She knew Bridie Long was
absolutely adamant her husband hadn’t topped himself. Given what had happened to Roland Haines, she could be right. But until the evidence signposted the way, every path had to be covered.
Conclusions needed reaching, not jumping to.

“No.” She was doing that thing with the lips again; maybe the dentures needed a tweak. “Nothing.”

“What about the kitchen? Notice an extra cup? Glass?” Had Eric Long known the putative killer, invited him in for a drink?

“Might’ve. I’m not sure.” She shook thin, badly cut salt and pepper hair. “Can’t seem to think straight.”

Next question wasn’t going to help. “What about the bathroom? When did you go in?”

“Soon’s I saw Eric wasn’t in bed.”

“Had the bed been slept in?” Might help narrow the time-frame.

“It was a bit rumpled, but...” She shrugged. Straightening the sheets was probably a novel concept.

“So you went into the bathroom...?”

“It was the smell.” She slapped a hand to her mouth and there was nothing melodramatic about the gesture. “It’s coming back now. There was this weird foul smell. I
stepped inside... slipped in the...”

“Was the light on?” How much had she seen, how long had there been to take it in? She’d not be allowed back any time soon for sure.

“I wish to God it hadn’t been.” She shuddered visibly. “I could only’ve stood there seconds, but the sight’ll be with me forever.”

Join the club, thought Bev. Cops had a mental montage of shit memories. Byford called it the little bits of hell on his pillow. She paused while the woman composed herself. “Mrs Long. I
know it’s not easy, but... was your husband... depressed... did he have any financial problems, emotional worries... anything going on you’re aware of?”