Death Line (21 page)

Who hit the stroppy switch? Eyes narrowed, tongue sharpened. “You’ve got a fucking nerve. Emotional worries? Something going on?” Hands scrabbled in a cheap white vinyl bag for
a pack of Embassy. “How ’bout the cops dragging him in for questioning over a kid’s murder he had sod all to do with. How ’bout getting his face in the paper? How
’bout having strangers shout abuse in the street. That do you, will it?” Her hands shook so much she couldn’t strike a light. “Emotional worries? You having a
laugh?”

Bev took the matches, helped her spark up, in need of enlightenment herself. Was Eric Long depressed enough to commit suicide or what? “I’m not quite with you...?”

She spat out a fleck of tobacco. “Course you’re not. It was you lot tried stitching him up. Sure he was hacked off about that. Had every reason an’ all. But I’ll tell you
this: no way did he kill himself. Christ. We’d just won a few thousand at bingo. We were planning to take a trip to Blackpool this weekend... have a break...” She bit her fist.

“Who knew about the win, Mrs Long?” Grope, grope. If it was murder, could the motive be robbery?

“Loads of people. Everyone who was at the Gala on Wednesday afternoon. When you lot said he was in Balsall Heath.”

She took another note, then: “Did your husband have any enemies, Mrs Long? Had he rowed with anyone recently?”

“Apart from your mates, y’mean?” Another spit, no tobacco this time. “Told you, he took a load of stick over that piece in the paper. And whose fault was that, eh? My
Eric didn’t deserve it. Good man, he was... good man...” She broke down then. The collapse wasn’t total, but it’d be a while before she’d be in a fit state to answer
more questions. “...good man... good man, he was.”

Bev curled a lip. Pass the sodding string quartet. Whatever Long was, he was no saint.

She could’ve been talking to herself but she thanked the woman, repeated her condolences and took her leave. As she stepped over it, the bloody cat hissed again. But it was Bridie
Long’s listless mantra that still played as Bev closed the door. Good man he was... good man...

Who was the vision of lust and loveliness? The tastiest bloke Bev had set eyes on in a long time was emerging from the Longs’ front door. Dark hair in floppy curtains,
glowing skin, square-jawed. He sure ticked the babe boxes. And here she was hopping round on the pavement, half in half out of a white forensic suit. Shit. She probably looked like a Home Pride
flour grader.

“You must be Sergeant Morriss?” Great teeth. Tick that box, too. “I’m Joe King.”

“Joking?” Dense wasn’t a good look, but he’d caught her on the hop. “Sorry, I...?”

“Doctor King?” At least he tried masking the smile. “Pathologist?” She liked the cleft chin: very Kirk Douglas. “I’m looking after things until Gillian
Overdale’s back in the saddle.”

“Great.” No rush, Gill. Take your time. “Good to meet you.” The hand she stuck out was clammy. His was cool, very clean with neat clipped nails. “How is she?
Nothing too serious, I hope.” Well, maybe just a tad.

“She had a viral infection few weeks back.” That’s OK then. “But it’s damaged the heart. Depends now on how she responds to treatment. She certainly needs to rest
up a while.”

Bev turned her mouth down. “Sorry to hear that.” Overdale was a good pathologist. It was her people skills she needed to work on.

“Anyway, I’m about finished here. Just need another tape from the car.” Another tape? Christ, how much was he dictating? He picked up on her concern, smiled. “Don’t
look so worried, it’s not that bad. This tape’s dead.” Intuitive. Down to earth. What a star.

“Sure thrown you in at the deep end, haven’t we?” Mental cringe. What a dummy. “Can’t believe I just said that.”

“Thank God for that.” He laughed. “I’d hate to think puns were your party piece. Anyway, your boss said if I found you down here I should send you up.”

“Cheers.” Send her up? Given that little exchange? She sure didn’t need any help in that department.

Not that bad, Doctor King had said. It was pretty gross far as Bev could see. Framed in the doorway, she took stock of the crime scene. Duckworth had got it right when
he’d said bloodbath. Water was drained now but the tidemark was scarlet. Would’ve been like sitting in a tub of red ink. For a surreal instant it brought to Bev’s mind the crazy
stunts people pull for
Children in Need.
Except they used baked beans. Either way, charity certainly hadn’t begun at home here. The gore wasn’t confined to the bath. Blood had
spurted all over the walls, floor, ceiling as if a class of nursery kids had been let loose with poster paint.

Knight, also in whites, was kneeling, turned his head, when he noticed Bev. “Sergeant. How was the wife? What did you get?”

Bridie Long was in better shape than her old man. Bev couldn’t tear her gaze from what was left of him. Eric Long’s rail-thin corpse was somehow propped against the taps; it was all
too easy to imagine the bones under the tight white flesh. Bottom inch or so of long grey hair looked as if it’d had a bad dye job, deep wounds were clearly visible along both knobbly wrists.
Long’s hazel eyes were open, vacant; his face held no trace of emotion. Not a clue to the pain, the sheer bloody terror. Bev shivered.

“Sergeant?” Standing now, Knight’s voice brought her thoughts back on track.

“Sorry.” She glanced at the DCI, gave him a brief resume of the interview, wound up with: “No depression. No money worries. Bottom line is she’s still convinced he
wouldn’t have done that.” Nodded again at the corpse.

“I’m inclined to agree. Morning, Bev.” Chris Baxter, crime scene manager, now stood at her shoulder, top sheet of his clipboard covered in diagrams, measurements, detailed
notes. “Lads downstairs have checked every door and window in the place. There’s no sign of a break-in, nothing anywhere to suggest a struggle.”

Bev frowned. Surely that indicated the reverse, that Long had died at his own hand? Chris had registered her doubt. “Look at the wrists, Bev.” Shit. That meant a close-up. She picked
her way carefully along the walking plates, squatted near the corpse.

“Both main arteries have been severed.” Chris: master of the bleeding obvious. “It would have been like releasing valves, waves of blood gushing like geysers.”

Thanks, mate. She swallowed rising bile. The incisions were deep gouges, flesh was ragged: whoever perpetrated it had meant business. “Could he have done that?”

“Seriously doubt it. Not with this.” Chris waved an evidence bag. “He’d have had a job peeling potatoes with it.” Even from where she squatted, she could see the
blade was too small, too smooth. Chris scratched his head with a gloved hand. “For that sort of damage we’ve got to be looking at something big, sharp, serrated. Small saw
even.”

Except they weren’t.

“We’re thinking the killer took it with him,” Knight said. “Certainly no knife in the house matches the wounds.” So the knife left was meant to make them think
suicide – again?

Chris nodded. “Position of the body doesn’t tally with BSP either.” Blood Spatter Pattern. “Joe’s with us on all this, by the way.” Joe? First names already.
“Makes a change, eh, Bev? Having a pathologist who’s happy calling it at the crime scene.” Overdale rarely ventured further than pronouncing death. And even then, grudgingly. Bev
slapped a mental wrist:
give the woman a break.

“Yeah, but hold on here...” Squatting was a pain, she got to her feet. “Long was clearly no Charles Atlas but even Arnie’s not just going to lie there and...?”
Realisation dawned. Of course. Long would have been drunk or drugged to the eyeballs. “So thinking is...?”

“Some sort of chemical cosh.” Knight rubbed his chin, needed a shave. “Probably not injected. The doc couldn’t see any puncture marks.” Post mortem might change
that view though. “Maybe someone slipped him a Mickey Finn.”

Bev narrowed her eyes: what was it Bridie said? “His wife thought there might have been an extra cup or glass in the kitchen.” Not that she struck Bev as some sort of domestic
goddess.

“We’ve bagged the lot,” Chris said. “And we’ll run samples.” Blood and urine for tox tests. “You’re right about him not struggling though, Bev. No
defence marks. Nothing under the nails.”

“Has to be someone he knew,” Knight said. “What time did you say the wife went out, sergeant?”

“Nine,” she answered absently. Killer could be a friend, but what if it wasn’t? Who else would Eric Long let into his home? The notion hit Bev out of the blue. It would have to
be someone he thought he could trust. Someone in authority. Someone he’d had recent dealings with. Nah. She shrugged off the idea. Christ. A fair few cops could fit that bill.

DCI Knight was in the middle of a quick shave before the brief. He’d not had time earlier but setting the squad an example did no harm; a neat appearance was something
most of the men would benefit from in his book. A tap at the door was followed by Byford’s head in the gap.

“Come in, sir. Won’t keep you a tick.” Knight smiled an apology before turning back to the mirror; the calendar it temporarily replaced was propped against the wall. “You
heard about the early shout? Eric Long?”

Oh, yes. “No worries.” Byford raised a dismissive hand, like many cops he kept an electric razor, spare shirt in the office. In his younger days working big cases, he’d slept
at the desk off and on, too. Thank God that was in the past. As for the early shout, Phil Masters had called him at home first thing. The assistant chief constable had summoned the detective
superintendent to a meeting on the top floor. Nearly ten a m now, that meeting had just broken up. The big man felt as if he was picking up the pieces.

“You OK, sir?” Knight had caught Byford’s reflection, their glances met briefly in the glass. The guv sighed, steeling himself. No way could he make it easy, no amount of spin
would soften the blow. “I’ve been ordered to take over the inquiry, Lance.”

Knight spun round, eyes wide, jacket flapping. “What?” Had it been a cutthroat razor he’d have done himself a nasty injury.

Byford raised both palms. “I had no choice in the matter. It’s not my decision.” He’d argued hard against it. Knew how he’d feel in the same boat. But as Masters
had pointed out more than once, the investigation was going nowhere. It needed a sharper operator at the helm. Whichever way you looked at it, it was a slap in the face for the DCI.

“It’s not a reflection on your abilities, Lance.” Not entirely, though there was an element of that in Masters’s thinking. The ACC felt they should’ve had a collar
by now. Masters always wanted miracles.

“What is it then?” Clipped, cool. Grooming complete, he lay the razor on top of the filing cabinet.

“It comes down to experience, Lance. The ACC feels...” Knight listened attentively to the account of how Masters felt. The younger detective clearly realised the decision had been
made, there was no percentage fighting it. “As I say, Lance, I’m sorry to be the bearer...”

“It’s OK, sir. No hard feelings. You’re only following orders.” His knuckles were tight, white.

But Knight also looked resigned, maybe there was even a glimmer of relief. Byford wouldn’t blame him: if it all went pear-shaped, it wouldn’t be the DCI who’d have to carry the
can. A similar thought crossed Byford’s mind when he’d been landed with the task: a failed investigation would be quite some leaving present.

“That’s great. Fantastic. Best news I’ve had in a long time.” Eyes shining, Bev slipped the mobile into her bag. Darren wasn’t out of the woods
yet but his condition had improved slightly overnight. Her smiling thumbs up to the assembled squad elicited a round of cheers. Good thing there was something to be cheerful about. The brief
should’ve started ten minutes ago. It had already been put back an hour. Again. She grimaced. It was getting to be an occupational hazard for Knight.

She laid her notes on the floor, picked up the coffee she’d grabbed from the machine. Needs must, it was probably better than nothing. Tapping a foot, she glanced round: the team was
growing increasingly restless. Room was crowded, heat was high, officer numbers were up, but so was the body count. Like they had time to sit round gabbing.

“Where’d you get to, mate?” She’d wondered where Mac had disappeared. Winking, he tapped the side of his nose. She budged over so he could park his butt. One sniff
confirmed her suspicions. Jammy sod had detoured to the canteen. She watched him ease greasy wrappers from a pocket in his jeans. Sauce stains pointed to a bacon sandwich. She curled a lip. Imagine
eating that... After the early shout and morning run-round, she could down a cart horse, but there were limits...

“Had mine on the hoof. This is for you, boss.”

“Ta, mate.” Nice one. Nose wrinkled, she examined the filling. “Tad more ketchup’d be good next...”

“Next time? You’ll be lucky.”

She flashed a smile: it was rude to talk with a full mouth. They’d already discussed Eric Long’s death. She’d given Mac a lift back from Stirchley where he’d been giving
uniform a hand knocking doors, interviewing neighbours. No one had come up with anything earth-shattering yet.

“So, boss, what did Danny boy say when you told him you couldn’t make Bristol?”

Hard swallow then: “Gutted he was, mate.” Once she’d explained to DC Rees what mice and men meant in terms of plans going awry. “Soon perked up though when I said he was
taking a pool car. And Carol Pemberton along for the ride.” Pembers would be more than a passenger: Danny was still green, but the interviews could turn out crucial. Cancelling them
wasn’t an option.

Mac nodded. “Pembers’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Likely be the other way round, mate.” Most Highgate males lusted after Carol. Not that Bev minded. Much. She slowed the pace on the sandwich, it was going down a treat but hiccoughs
were so not cool.

“You bumped into the new pathologist this morning then?” Mac trying to be casual was like Gordon Brown trying to be funny.

Her hand stilled on its way to her mouth. “Point being?”

He raised both palms: what, little old me, winding up the boss? “I hear he’s good on the job.” No way was she rising to that one. Mac winked. “Must say he’s very
easy on the eye.”