Death Line (28 page)

“OK, mate, give.” Bev held out a hand; the other stayed on the steering wheel. They were nearly back at Highgate and Mac had barely opened his mouth, probably down
to his jaw being set in concrete. They’d eventually left Drake Street with the needful plus the name of a local man who Bridie claimed had hurled abuse at Eric. They also had Long’s
mobile so a check could be run on the calls. “Come on, Mac. What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” She had a great view of his shoulder.

“You think I was out of order back there?”

He gave a resigned sigh, turned to face her. “We’re cops, Bev. It’s not our job to sit in judgement on people.”

“Bollocks.” She smacked a palm on the wheel. Somebody bloody well had to.

He tossed his head. “Oh, the cut and thrust of intellectual argument.”

“It’s a no-brainer, mate. Get real. We’re not Robocops.” God, it was getting steamy in here. She lowered the window, let in some air. “You saying we shouldn’t
have feelings same as other folk? What’s that Shakespeare line? If you prick us, do we not bleed?”

“Long certainly did.” Casual mutter. He wasn’t up for argument.

“If you poison us, do we not die?”

“That too.”

“Not funny. Not clever.” She glowered. He sank a half bottle of Evian. “You know what I mean, mate. There’s no point pretending. I don’t feel the same for sleazy
pervs and their apologists as I do about innocent kids and vulnerable oldies. Human nature, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but she’s just lost her old man. You didn’t have to slap her down like that.”

She sniffed. “I didn’t appreciate the lecture.”

“So why give one back?”

“Agree to differ, shall we, mate?” She’d save her sympathy for people who deserved it. Sod the one-size-fits-all school of policing. They drove in silence. Bev ran a mental
to-do list while Mac leafed through the local rag. At a red just round the corner from the nick, a headline caught her eye: Murder victim named. Must be the John Doe. She tapped a nail on the
story. “What’re they saying, mate?”

Mac read: “Police have named a man beaten to death in Wednesbury in the early hours of this morning. The body was discovered by a passer-by in a back alley near the town centre. Officers
searching streets nearby found a bloodstained wallet dumped in a bin. Prints match those of the murder victim who’s now been identified as sixty-nine year old Cyril Lord. Mr Lord lived in
Harper House, Wednesbury. Anyone with information et cetera.” He glanced up; nodded at the green light. “Boss?”

“Shit.” She put her foot down.

“What’s it to you anyway?”

“Just wondered.” Harper House rang a bell somewhere but she couldn’t fix on it, had to concentrate on finding a space in the car park. Tight but doable; she eased the motor in.
“Can you get out that side, mate?”

“No problem. Just one thing, boss...” His hand was on the door. “If you’re going to spout Shakespeare to prove a point, don’t forget what he said about the quality
of mercy not being strained.” He tapped the side of his nose. Smart-arse. She pulled a face as he squeezed out, jumped when he popped his head back. “It droppeth as the gentle rain from
heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed.”

The mock Gielgud was too good. “No shit, Shylock.” Her lip twitched.

“Portia actually.” He winked. “Get it right.”

“Thought I’d let you know soon as, Bill.” Roy Plover, Detective Superintendent Byford’s opposite number in Wednesbury, was on the phone. He’d
confirmed what the guv had just discovered himself in a call to a contact in the Home Office. Patrick Woolly had been released on licence at the back end of last year under a new identity: Cyril
Lord. “Obviously we’ll help in any way, but I’m happy to hand it over.”

“Thanks, Roy, we’ll liaise shortly. Speak later.” Pensive, Byford dropped the phone in its cradle. Coming so close to the murder of Roland Haines and Eric Long, the child
killer’s death couldn’t be coincidence, surely? Woolly hadn’t been exposed in the media like Long and Haines, but the difference was easily explained: strict reporting
restrictions were in place covering his identity and whereabouts, the media were banned from making an approach, no editor would’ve touched the story. It narrowed the field. Only a select few
would’ve been aware of Lord’s real name and criminal past, a small number within the local police, local authority and probation service. And the killer.

Pursing his lips, Byford reached for the cutting he’d found in the baby Fay file. More than gut instinct told him the same man was responsible for all three murders. Was it possible this
was a message from the killer telling him the same?

Alerting the team via e-mail, he brought forward the brief by an hour. Something told him they were going to need an even bigger squad room.

Joe King had been right when he said the cops would have found it impossible to release a death picture. A montage of colour shots from the crime scene currently being tacked
to a whiteboard in the briefing room was turning the stomachs of hardened squad members. Seated towards the front, Bev had been registering reactions: pig sick to puke alert. Sodding heat
didn’t help. She flapped the neck of her dress, desperate to get some air down there. Until now, she’d thought Darren’s injuries were about as bad as it gets. Patrick
Woolly’s face had been virtually obliterated, the hatred behind the attack unimaginable.

Only the two detectives on secondment from Wednesbury appeared anywhere near immune, not surprising given they’d both seen close ups of Woolly in the flesh. They were there to aid
Highgate’s investigating officers overcome the handicap of not having been at the scene. There was little worse for an SIO than not viewing the body in situ. It was unavoidable in this
instance; the squad’s involvement only became an issue when Woolly’s real identity emerged. Hopefully DC Cheryl Starkie and DS Trevor York would go some way to bridging the gap. Bev had
chatted to them briefly, both seemed to know what they were doing.

A well-rounded, late thirties brunette with a Dudley accent, Cheryl was just finishing the display: adding a street map and a photograph of Woolly before the damage. Carol Pemberton and Danny
Rees were comparing notes in the corner; Sumi Gosh sat at a desk near the window, sunlight glinting off blue-black waves of hair halfway down her back.

“Eh up. It’s the three musketeers.” Mac, perched next to Bev, cocked his head. Unsmiling, she glanced back to see Byford, Knight and Powell striding to the front. Grim-faced
wasn’t in it. The guv slung a couple of files on the desk nearest, flung his jacket over a chair, kicked off without preamble. “I’d say the killer’s running rings round us.
Three-nil now. How many more before we nail the bastard?” Shouting wasn’t his style, nor swearing. Normally.

“Four actually, guv.” Bev stared nonchalantly, her circling ankle a more accurate signal of her feelings. “Josh Banks is a victim too.” Don’t forget it, was the
unspoken corollary.

Mac raised a finger, probably drawing fire. “Far be it from me, guv. But why assume the Wednesbury stiff’s our baby?”

Byford glared as if it was a dumb question. “Patrick Woolly fits the offender profile.” Curt, clipped. “He killed a child for Christ’s sake. That more than meets the
killer’s agenda.” What was his problem? Bev couldn’t recall seeing the big man so tetchy.

Mac rested folded arms on his paunch. “True, but he wasn’t in the papers. He’s beaten up in the street. We didn’t get a tip-off.” He shrugged. “Sounds more
like a random attack to me.”

Fair points. The tic in the guv’s jaw said he didn’t agree, or maybe he knew something he wasn’t sharing. “So the killer’s stopped advertising,” he snapped.
“Until the evidence says differently, Patrick Woolly’s our case.”

“Yeah, but, how did the killer know who Cyril Lord was?” Mac persisted. “Privileged information, isn’t it, guv?”

Barely perceptible signs to anyone else gave it away: Bev was convinced the guv was holding something back. Maybe had something to do with the leak? What a pisser, not knowing who to trust.

“It’s one of the lines of inquiry, Mac,” Byford said. “First...” He beckoned DS York to the front to give a rundown on what the Wednesbury cops had done so far. A
lanky six-footer, Trevor York was animated but the data he delivered was routine: fingertip search of the back alley, cull of CCTV in neighbouring streets, canvass of passers-by, witness appeal on
local radio. The area wasn’t residential but a billiard hall round the corner from where Woolly was found in Brewers Lane had an active membership. A couple of DCs were going through the list
on the off-chance someone had been in the vicinity. Bev took it all on board while casting covert glances at the guv. Something was bugging him big time. He wasn’t just tetchy, he was ill at
ease, almost shifty.

“Any ideas on the murder weapon, Trev?” Powell, hands in pockets, leaned against his customary wall. It should have a blue plaque by rights now.

The DS jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “To do that much damage the pathologist thinks a hammer.” Obviously not turned up during the search.

“Forensics?” Knight asked.

“Short supply, guv.” York brushed a heavy fringe out of light brown eyes. “No defence wounds. No fibres. Victim was old, he’d been drinking, was probably a bit doddery at
the best of times. Best guess is the killer was lying in wait in the dark, lashed out. A single blow would have knocked him to the ground then...” He shrugged. Bev shuddered.

Somebody’s mobile chirped.

“Sorry guv.” Sumi was half out of her seat. “I’ll step outside. Need to take this call.”

Byford barely noticed; thanking Trevor, he threw it open. Knight asked what, if anything, was being released to the media.

“Nothing. Not without my clearance. I want to see every word that goes out. Last thing we need are headlines screaming serial killer.”

“They’re sniffing round already, guv,” Powell said. “Curran says he’s had Toby Priest on the phone asking if it’s true Cyril Lord was out on
licence.”

Tight mouth then: “Tell Curran to refer all calls to me. We’re making no comment at this stage.”

Least said soonest... And what was that wartime saying? Careless talk costs lives. Bev sat up straight, eyes creased.
Careless.
She’d not considered the killer careless before.
Cocky maybe, cavalier even. But now...

“Something on your mind, Morriss?” Powell raised an eyebrow. Gawd, was she that obvious?

“He’s getting desperate, isn’t he? Reckless. Wasting Woolly on the street was a hell of a risk. What if someone was passing? He could’ve been caught redhanded.”

“Your point?” Byford asked.

“He’s losing it. Doesn’t care. Taking chances. It’s escalating, guv.”

He snorted. “And that’s useful how?”

“Means he’s more likely to make a mistake.” Next time. The irony wasn’t lost. To catch a killer, they needed him to strike again.

“Guv?” Sumi Gosh re-entered, mobile raised. “Just spoken to Staffordshire police. The stolen motor from Balsall Heath?” The only car clocked on CCTV that hadn’t so
far been traced. It had now.

“Turned up in a country lane in Tamworth, torched.” Bev ripped a ring-pull off a can of Red Bull. She and DI Pete Talbot were standing chatting in Interview
One’s viewing room. The show next door must have attracted a matinée audience too, going by the empty cups and crumpled crisps packets. Typically, Pete had asked if there’d been
any progress on Operation Swift. “We’re getting it towed over: let FSI loose on what’s left.” She glugged half the contents of the can, dragged a hand across her mouth.
“We’re not exactly cracking open the champagne.” Warm smile. “Not like you, eh, Pete?”

He gave a modest shrug. The DI towered over Bev, towered over anyone under six-five and not built like a brick shit-house. Gentle Giant? Bollocks. His bulk was intimidating and he wasn’t
scared to use it on arsey customers. In Ben Lawson’s case it hadn’t proved necessary. The low-life who’d attacked Darren had spilled so many beans, Pete’s team was calling
him Heinz.

“Not so big now, is he?” The DI tilted his head at the glass, swigged lemon tea from a thick white mug. He was taking a short break from the interrogation. Bev had dropped by for a
nose.

Lawson sat with his feet up, hugging bony knees that poked through ripped denims. Snivel Boy had tears and snot running down his face. The petulant scowl was history, the yob more mindful of his
future. According to Pete, he’d dished enough dirt on three mates to cover an opencast mine, never mind his arse. Or thought he had. The little shit couldn’t talk his way out of hard
evidence like blood traces in the treads of his Nikes. Bev’s palms itched. “Want me to take over, Pete? Read him a bedtime story?”

He laughed. “I want him standing when he gets to court.”

Then he’d go down. Lawson and the others. There was already enough forensics to build a case. The team hoped to throw in separate less serious charges as well. All four antisocial gits had
been named in calls logged from cowed residents at Heathfield House. Pete reckoned the tenants would be queuing up to give evidence, and not as character witnesses.

She cast Lawson a contemptuous glance. “Has he said why, Pete?” No need to spell it out. Why? was always the big one and, when mindless violence came into the equation, usually the
hardest to figure out. Stacey Banks wanted it answered too, she’d asked that day at the station, asked again when she called to give Bev details of Josh’s funeral.

“He won’t say.” Deep crevices appeared when Pete turned his mouth down, the craggy face cried out for Botox. “They were bladdered, egging each other on. They knew he was
a cop though. They’d seen him on the estate asking questions.”

Fair cop? Is that what it boiled down to? Bev shook her head. Thank God Lawson’s mother had come forward. She drained the can, chucked it in a bin. “’Fore I go, can you sign
this?” If anyone’s name deserved to be on Darren’s card, it was Pete’s.

Byford watched through the glass, waiting until Bev finished. It was like watching a mime show; he half smiled even though he couldn’t make out a word she was saying.
Sitting forward, elbows on knees, her eyes shone and rapid hand movements underlined points as she talked. The conversation looked sparkling, animated and one-sided. Darren was a captive audience.
Still comatose.