Blood Money Part 18

"And if she's not?"

"We may never find out. It's not an episode of The Bill. Life has loose ends."

"Do me a favour, Oz." Patronising git.

"Sorry, Bev. I just don't see there's much more to be done at this stage. I left Saleem in no doubt we'd looking out for Fareeda and keeping an eye on him."

Tight smile. She'd asked for his help, his expertise, she could hardly throw it back in his face. "Appreciate it." And maybe he was right. If Fareeda was pregnant she'd have even more reason to make herself scarce. Crikey, she could even be with the father. Lost in thought, she missed the spectacle of Oz dismounting, only got to see the chair being pushed back in place. "You off?"

"Yeah. Thought I'd head back tonight."

What was that sudden lurch? Oh yeah, her sinking heart. Seeing him standing there, smiling down at her, she so didn't want him to go. "Don't have to." It was the closest she could get to asking him to stay. She held her breath, couldn't look at him any more. He reached out gently pulled her to him, wrapped her in his arms. It felt so good: listening to the steady beat of his heart, her cheek against his chest.

He kissed the top of her head. "Walk me to the door, then?"

What? Eyes stinging, she pulled back, held his gaze. Maybe getting closer wasn't out of the question. "Stay tonight, Oz... please." He'd never know how much that cost her.

"I can't, Bev." He reached to touch her face. She'd hurt him too often, that was all, she could talk him round.

"Come on, Ozzie." She smiled, tried making light of it. "You spoken for or something?"

She was twenty-five, PC Ayeesha something-or-other. They'd been seeing each other three months, thinking of shacking up together. At the doorstep, he held her briefly. "Stay in touch, eh?"

What like some b.l.o.o.d.y pen pal? As if. She gave her brightest smile as he drove away; the tears came when he'd gone.

The car was parked a few doors down Baldwin Street; a figure wearing a hoodie slumped behind the wheel, dark gaze fixed on the mirror. The observer hadn't intended pulling over not tonight but then he'd clocked the Asian. Very f.u.c.king touching. Not content with jerking him around, the b.i.t.c.h was now s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g someone else. Lips bared, his trembling fingers left damp trails as he stroked the baseball bat. Filthy s.l.u.t had brought it on herself, but the shakes and sweats were too bad tonight. When it happened, he'd be the one in control. He could wait... the timing had to be right.

TUESDAY.

31.

"Hey, Morriss." Bev glanced over her shoulder, saw Powell looking particularly suave striding along a Highgate corridor towards her. "Ready for your close-up? As Norma might say?" She masked a smile; the guy was so transparent, even without waving the imaginary fat cigar.

"Major or Desmond?" If he'd hoped to catch her out no chance. Sunset Boulevard was one of her favourite movies. Crimewatch taking a few shots hardly qualified as a remake.

"La Desmond," he said. "though looking at you...."

She cut him off with a raised palm. Knew what he was getting at. If a close-up was called for, she'd need a d.a.m.n sight more time in make-up. The bags under her eyes needed straps. After several hours tossing and turning, she'd very nearly overslept. Her wake-up call had been a knock on the door from Carl at Easy Rider. Seeing the Midget parked outside Baldwin Street had brought the first smile to her face since Oz drove off into the metaphorical sunset. It hadn't lasted long given the journey in had been through thick slush with the promise of more snow later. Oh joy!

"They're only after a bit of wallpaper, y'know, mate."

Like the guv had made clear in an e-mail, expect a TV crew in the incident room mid-morning, the producer needed general shots of the squad; blink-and-miss bland gvs for the presenter to voice over. Only officers who were on IR duty anyway would be involved, and the crew had been told to film round people not get in the way. The big man would be the star, he'd be interviewed at his desk and on location.

"I'm only putting in a guest appearance, Morriss. Making sure everyone knows what's what."

"Course you are." The DI was a media tart. Give him his due though, he'd run an exemplary brief first thing. Took skill to galvanise troops into going over old ground, he'd deployed most of them back on to the streets round the crime scenes canva.s.sing pa.s.sers-by in the hope of striking witness gold. The rest were phone-bashing, checking statements, following up calls. He'd asked her to pursue the Oxfam link like she needed asking.

As Powell held the door she walked straight past, caught a glimpse of lights, camera and Dazza hunched over a desk. "Where you going?"

"Looking for the action, mate."

Bev found the note on her keyboard after lunch.

Call Evie Jamieson on...

Hoo-flipping-rah. Dumping her bag, she grabbed pen and paper, punched in the number. Come on, come on... "Miss Jamieson? Bev Morriss here."

"I got your note."

"Thanks for getting back. I need to speak to you."

Few seconds pause then: "I need to speak to you, too." Even better.

"Fire away."

"Not on the phone... It's rather delicate." Better and better.

Wasn't snowing yet, rush hour hadn't started. Bev glanced at her watch. "Be with you in..."

"Not right now. There's someone else you need to see. He can't get away until later."

The PA was adamant. She set a time and that was it. Pensive, Bev ended the call.

"Four o'clock before she'll see me, guv." Bev had nipped into Byford's office to bring him up to speed. The lights had only just been de-rigged after the TV interview, place was like a sauna. She'd watched him shuck out of the jacket, now the tie was coming off.

"Any idea what Jamieson's got?" he asked.

Apart from a crush on her dearly departed boss? Bev turned her mouth down. "Hard to call, guv. Cards. Close. Chest. She wouldn't even tell me who the guy is she wants me to see. Only thing I'd say is she doesn't seem to have a lot of time for Diana Masters."

"You taking Tyler along?" The sleeves were getting the treatment now.

"Probably not. He's over in Moseley knocking doors." And not looking for overtime today, he'd told Bev.

"Keep me posted then." Jesus. He was undoing the top b.u.t.ton on the shirt now.

"You got it." Shame she couldn't stick around for more revelations.

Just gone four, formal greetings over, Bev sat opposite Evie Jamieson. Apparently snow on the M6 had delayed the mystery man's arrival from Manchester. He was a private investigator that was as far as the PA would go. G.o.d knows why she was being so cagey about the guy; she seemed dead keen to get down to other matters. She looked wired, jumpy, her sepia cheeks blotched pink. Bev reckoned the woman was relishing the limelight after years in the wings. The hand pressed to the side of her face failed to hide a tic in the crepe layers of her right eyelid. Bev sat back hoping her relaxed stance would help the woman chill. "Before we start, sergeant, I want you to answer me one question." Twitchy fingers fiddled now with the cuff of a beige cardi.

"Sure, if I can." The tic was burrowing maggot-like.

"Is there any possibility that the murder was planned?" No clarification needed. Jamieson was interested in only one victim. And she'd only ask if she had suspicions.

"We've no evidence pointing that way." Clearly not what the PA wanted to hear. Bev added a judicious, "Yet."

"So it's not been ruled out?" The gleam was back in her eye.

"Nothing's ruled out, Miss Jamieson. But we have a problem, see, there's no..."

"Motive." She didn't work in the law for nothing. "I don't know if this const.i.tutes motive, sergeant." Lips like serrated blades, she pulled a brown envelope from a drawer, pushed it against the desk. "It certainly provides grounds for action."

Opening the flap, Bev's scalp tingled. The contents merited a mental wolf whistle: six grainy black and white pics obviously taken by telephoto lens, but then the loving couple was hardly likely to pose willingly. The grieving widow in steamy clinches with another bloke, and with a body like that it had to be a toy boy. Bev ran her gaze over each incriminating image. Diana Masters obscured his face in every shot.

"Who's the guy?"

The PA raised a hand. It was her big scene and she'd play it her way. Again, it seemed to Bev she revelled in the attention. "I agonised over divulging this matter, sergeant. Twice I tried to get hold of you over the weekend. In a way I was relieved you weren't available. It seemed like fate playing a hand." Bev clenched a fist; she wanted to slap the smug simper off the stupid woman's face, certainly hit her with a withholding charge. Timing is all. She forced a smile instead. "Glad you changed your mind, Miss Jamieson."

"I'd hoped it wouldn't be necessary. But it was clear the police investigation was going nowhere. I couldn't stand the thought that... that... woman might be involved in Alex's death. He swore me to secrecy you see. But he planned to divorce her. The adultery would have cost her a pretty packet."

Questions milled, one jumped the queue. "Did she know?" Bev leaned forward. The PA was taking her time.

"Alex was sure she didn't." Jamieson swallowed, eyes bright. "He was going to present her with the pictures as a fait accompli. Even Diana Masters couldn't have talked her way out of that one." Bev glanced at the top pic. Given where the mouth was, she couldn't have talked, period.

"This is important, Miss Jamieson could she have found out the marriage was on borrowed time?"

"I thought not." Jamieson lifted her gaze from her boss's photo. "Until Alex's murder."

"He says he'll kill me... do what he says, please, please do..." Phone pressed to her ear, Diana's perfect face crumpled. Sam had taken the call, pa.s.sed it to her on the blackmailer's orders. She'd been expecting the Dalek tone issuing instructions not the anguished terrified voice of her daughter. "Charlotte, Charlotte, listen..."

For several seconds, all Diana heard was static; it was almost a relief when the familiar tinny distortion came on the line. "There y'go, lady. Proof she's alive."

Sam stood behind, his arms around her waist. She saw their reflection in the mirror on the drawing room wall. It was like watching characters in a play except she didn't have a script. "How do I know it wasn't a recording?"

"You don't. Trust me, lady the s.l.u.t's alive. It's down to you to keep it that way."

Diana met Sam's gaze in the gla.s.s. "What do you want me to do?" She scowled as the blackmailer dictated directions. G.o.d, the creep was going to pay for this.

"Any tricks and she vanishes. If you're a good girl, you'll have her home safe tonight. Make a mistake and believe me, lady, it'll be fatal."

"They got careless, see, sarge." The PI was certainly making himself at home. Lounging back in his chair, ankle crossed on knee, he slurped tea noisily. Bev forgave him; she'd forgive him most things. He'd arrived more than an hour late at Jamieson's office but Dougie Tempest had brought in more than snow and cold air. He'd just handed Bev a second set of s.n.a.t.c.hed shots. The widow and her lover weren't the only ones who'd been careless. The instant Bev saw the guy's face she clocked it; cringed inwardly. How could she have been so dense? Scissor-hands, she'd blithely mocked. Camper than a marquee, Diana had giggled. Gonna let him loose on your hair, Mac had joshed. Even the man himself had said he'd give her a good price if she ever fancied a decent cut. Oh yes, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d: rusty blade to your slimy b.a.l.l.s.

"You all right, sarge?" Tempest asked, dunking a Rich Tea. She nodded; it was easier than talking through a mouthful of feathers. "Well, as I say, when I first started tailing them it was a soddin' nightmare." The barrister, she'd learned, had hired Tempest two months back. "They'd turn up separately, never leave together. Different bleedin' hotel every time." Jamieson visibly bristled at the language, maybe the estuary accent. As he spoke, Bev took in the wiry little man's cheap navy suit, shiny lace-ups, boot-polished short-back-and-sides. He looked like a dodgy rep; mind, hotels were full of travelling salesmen not canny ex-cops trained in surveillance and covert filming. She'd marked Tempest down as an eighties throwback when to most cops PACE meant running to the bar. Ten out of ten for his results though. "Tell you what, sarge, it made my life a d.a.m.n sight easier when they fixed on a regular love nest."

"They definitely didn't cotton on?" Bev asked, leafing through the images again.

"Do me a favour, darlin'."

Fair enough. "What's the guy's name?"

"Tate. Sam Tate. Ring a bell?"

Oh, yes. Samuel has that effect on women, sergeant. Someone called Tate on the phone, Mrs Masters. Christ on a skateboard; she stiffened. Libby Redwood's last words... Not Dan. Not Stan. Had she been trying to say Sam? Was Tate the Sandman? The double-act with Diana had been flawless. If Tate was gay Bev was teetotal. Did his repertoire include masked s.a.d.i.s.t?

"Is it enough to charge them, sergeant?" Jamieson was on the edge of the seat, her whole face flushed.

Bev ignored her, carried on looking through the pics. "When was this lot taken, Dougie?"

"Day before he got topped. I'd not even sent them." He reached into a breast pocket, handed her an envelope. "Bit more intelligence here: addresses, dates, that kind of thing."

"Ta, mate."

"Sergeant Morriss, I said..." Frowning, Bev raised a hand, desperately trying to work out the implications. "Sergeant..."

She sc.r.a.ped back the chair, grabbed her bag. The PA was getting on her t.i.ts. "It's evidence of adultery, Miss Jamieson." Irrefutable proof Diana Masters and Sam Tate were pa.s.sionate lovers but cold-blooded killers? "As to murder?" She shrugged. "Don't know yet. Shame you didn't open your mouth a bit sooner."

32.

"It's enough to bring them in for questioning."

Like she didn't know that. She'd caught Byford on the phone just as he was leaving for the late brief. He was up to speed now on the Masters-Tate adulterous liaison. Whether it was a criminal alliance still needed nailing. But if the duo were behind the Sandman burglaries, the magnitude of the conspiracy was breathtaking. "Where are you, now, Bev?"

"In the motor. Outside the chambers." She wiped the steamy windscreen with her sleeve, had already sc.r.a.ped three inches of snow off the bodywork.

"Mac with you?"

She cut a glance to the empty pa.s.senger seat. "On his way."

"I'll get a team to Tate's flat." Tempest's intelligence had provided the address plus the salon's where Tate worked. "You pair head out to the Masters place."

"Nothing'd give me greater pleasure."

"Rein it in, Bev. We need proof there's a Sandman connection. Plenty of missing pieces still."

"Sure thing, guv." Way she felt she'd rein it in all right with a la.s.so round the b.l.o.o.d.y woman's neck.

"And, Bev. Bear this is mind... if Diana Masters is the Sandman's sidekick, she stands to go down for life. She'll have nothing to lose."

Stay cool. Stay cool. The words were Diana Masters's mantra as she drove the Merc through heavy snow to the handover a.s.suming the blackmailer wasn't lying. The creep had said last night was a dry run. He'd got that right. She'd already collected directions from two scuzzy phone boxes: another not-so-merry dance. A sly smirk curved her painted lips. This time she'd lead the last waltz.

Her gloved hands gripped the wheel. For the millionth time she checked the mirror. Melted snow glistened in her fur hat from the last frigging foray into the cold. Deep breath. Stay cool. She imagined Sam warming her up, licked her lips. He was lying low back at his flat; she'd call when this was all over. She'd wanted him out of harm's way. He'd promised not to follow, but she'd not been sure he'd stick to it. And if the blackmailer spotted a tail...

Or the knives: one in the pocket of her coat, another in her sleeve, a third in her clutch bag. Overkill? She hoped so. Cold steel, iron nerve. She had one big advantage: she wasn't scared. If it went pear-shaped, she'd die rather than go to jail. She'd nothing to lose, apart from half a million pounds and her daughter's life. And that was so not going to happen.

Next left the Satnav squawked. The call box was on the corner. She checked the mirror, scoped the street. At least the snow meant there was no lowlife around. Pavement was white-over, virginal. She picked her way carefully, wouldn't do to sprain an ankle. She gave a thin smile not on the final leg of the journey.