Blood Money Part 7

Bev slouched back, hands on head, legs crossed, and sussed out the action. Mac was texting, Pembers was biting a nail, Powell leaned against a wall leafing through one of the zillion files he needed to catch up on, Peter Talbot and Jack Hainsworth were shuffling printouts, the two new-ish DCs were reading through their notes probably in the hope they'd be word perfect when it came to delivering input, Daz was doing The Sun crossword. Bev sighed, circled an ankle. Byford still had his back to the gathering, pen still squeaking. She spotted Sumi Gosh behind a desk a few rows back, gaze fixed on a computer screen. They needed to get their heads together, sooner rather than later. After signally failing to attract Sumi's attention, she tried air mail. Missive scribbled on a sheet of A4, she folded it into a paper plane, sent it flying into Sumi's air s.p.a.ce. It crash landed into Darren New's who re-modelled a wing tip before re-launch.

"What are you playing at?" If the guv had yelled, it would've been less ominous. Everyone in the nick knew the softer his voice the harsher the sentence. A pointer tucked under his arm, Byford was replacing the top on the marker pen, steely glare on Darren.

"Sorry, guv, I was..." The words petered out, but the bobbing Adam's apple said a lot.

"Being puerile," Byford sneered. Bev's ankle was like a windmill in a force ten. What was bugging the big man? He'd be handing out detentions in a minute. "If I could afford to lose an officer you'd be off the squad."

That was well over the top. Bev straightened, bristling. "Daz didn't start it. If you need to take it out on someone have a go at me." Her eyes blazed, heart raced. It was as good as calling him a bully who needed a whipping boy to cover his own failings. As if that wasn't enough, she'd issued a public challenge for him to take her on. In the diss-the-boss stakes, it was a double whammy: insubordinate and insolent.

Byford clenched his jaw two, three times. She stared, arms folded, aware the squad was holding its collective breath. Talk about sailing close to the wind; this was more like the eye of the storm. When he spoke, the words were little more than a whisper. "When we've finished here, you report to my office."

"Sir." Loud and clear.

"Donna Kennedy committed suicide last night." Business mode, normal delivery. Byford's roving gaze took in every officer present. "Her death far as I'm concerned is as much down to the Sandman as Alex Masters's murder." No one argued. "We stop him before there's another." Earnest. Unequivocal. And total b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. They were no nearer an arrest than they were on the first day of the inquiry. Byford walked the line of charts, used the pointer as he named each victim, paused a few seconds to let the incident's import sink in.

Facing the squad he said: "The targets weren't selected at random. He didn't just flick through yellow pages. There have to be links between the women. We've looked before. Clearly we've not looked hard enough. We dig deeper. I want ideas."

The sound of a pneumatic drill shattered the silence, broke the still uneasy tension. There was the odd laugh, a weak one-liner. Byford nodded at the open window, the nearest DC took the hint and closed it.

"How about a property angle?" Mac scratched his cheek. Bev frowned. Burglars often had a favoured point of entry: louvred windows, french doors, whatever, they rarely deviated from an MO. The Sandman wasn't fussy how he got in; they'd already dismissed this line of inquiry. "Maybe the victims have had dealings with the same estate agent?" Mac had a different line in mind. It was a reasonable next move. Up to now they'd concentrated on establishing personal connections: family, friends, neighbours, colleagues. Same with any case: start small, work out. If the women had thought of selling their houses, it meant keys could be floating around. Not the likeliest scenario but at least the ball was rolling. The team ran with it.

"What about banks? Building societies? Do they use the same branch?"

"Motors? They all drive. Maybe they visit the same garage?"

"Go to the same gym?"

"Hairdresser? Library?"

"Callers to the house? Gardener maybe?

"Window cleaner?"

"Milkman?"

Potential leads or clutched straws they'd all have to be checked if only for elimination purposes.

"Volunteers?" Byford lifted an eyebrow. A couple of DCs raised their hands.

"Don't bother calling Diane Masters." Head down, Bev jotted notes on a pad. "I'm seeing her this morning."

"You're not," Byford said.

She looked up smartish. "It's arranged."

"I'm not getting into it here. See me later." Open-mouthed she watched as he perched on the edge of a desk, rolled down the sleeves. "Chris? Forensics, please."

She glowered through her fringe as the FSI manager Chris Baxter took a sip of tea, coffee, whatever, from his Buffy mug. A slight flush highlighted his freckles as he swallowed, then dabbed thin lips. "As you know, we lifted fibres from the railings at the back of the Masters property." Black cotton. Didn't amount to much until they nailed the Sandman and got a match. If they nailed..."We're still waiting on a few test results but apart from that it's more of the same." Which meant SFA. Sweet forensic all.

Byford's lips tightened. Frustration wasn't in it. Each crime scene had yielded an embarra.s.sment of potential goodies, they could run donkey rides on the sand alone but not a grain had been traceable. Or rather it was to any builder's yard in the UK. Ditto the tethers. The three-ply nylon cord was manufactured by the mile and available in almost every hardware store across the country.

"Any joy with the knot man?" Daz asked. Bev stifled a snort. She doubted Prof Ed Mclean would appreciate being referred to as the knot man. It made him sound like a bondage act on Britain's Got Talent instead of Europe's leading forensic knot a.n.a.lyst. They'd found Mclean via the National Crime Faculty at Bramshill. Cops used the NCF register when they needed input from expert witnesses or behavioural investigative advisors posh for profilers, or the Freud Squad. Either way, soon as the cords had been through the local forensic mill they'd gone down to Southampton for Ed Mclean's specialist take.

"Talked to him briefly last night." Baxter ran fingers through thinning ginger hair. "Like with the previous cases, the knots used on Faith Winters are simple half-hitches, and were tied right-handed. Though that could be to disguise the fact he's left-handed." Chris's blush had deepened a shade. No wonder. The local forensic ace had come up with identical info days ago. She'd like to know how much the pro was being paid. Talk about old rope and easy money.

"And that's it?" Byford asked.

"He's cross-checking burglaries with similar MOs, but..."

"Best not hold our breath?" The guv sighed. It wasn't the inquiry's only instance of hopes being raised then dashed by forensic let down. Way back at the first crime scene, traces of sweat and skin had been extracted from one of the cords, knots were usually a good place to lift DNA. Only snag? Lab tests showed it was Beth Fowler's. Bev wouldn't be surprised if the Sandman had planted the b.l.o.o.d.y stuff. He could be a cop, he knew so much. She frowned. No way. Yes way? Either way given her current standing, it wasn't an idea she'd be sharing any time soon. She plumped for safer ground. "Anything back on the knife you bagged at Blenheim Road, Chris?" Knife. Shoot. She'd not handed in Dorkboy's blade from the other night. Must still be in the Midget. Mental note: get on to it, Beverley.

"It's in the initial report. There's a copy on your desk." Must've missed it under all the other stuff. She spread empty palms. "Tests aren't complete," Chris said. "But the blood's not human." Coincidence more than convenient discovery, then? Couldn't really say the news was a shock; Bev had never shared Danny Rees's rose-tinted theory. "Shouldn't take long to determine what animal it's from," Chris added. "Not sure where it'll get us though."

Movement on the CCTV front was equally disappointing. A couple of DCs had interviewed owners of vehicles parked overnight in the vicinity of the Masters place; every one checked out. Of the five people who appeared on the tapes four had come forward after media appeals. All four had been eliminated. Which left one mystery man.

"Get on to the news bureau," Byford told one of the detectives. "Tell Bernie I want the CCTV frames issued to the press by midday at the latest."

Bev made mental notes as she listened to more negative feedback: no headway with mask suppliers from Mac, ditto stolen jewellery from Carol Pemberton and Sumi. One of Bev's notes made it on to paper: exhibits, check.

"Stick with it, everyone." Byford rose, retrieved his jacket. It was almost a wrap. "If there's no early break, I might take the Crimewatch option. I had a producer on the phone last week wanting to send up a researcher." There's a surprise. Bev could see the reconstruction now. Man in clown mask, terrified woman tethered to a bed, low light, menacing shadows, sprinkling sand, spooky soundtrack. Good telly, wasn't it? Long as you don't have nightmares.

"Want me to look after that, guv?" Powell casually stroked his neck.

"Mike. Sorry. I got sidetracked." The guv cracked his first smile of the day. "Should have welcomed you at the start. Good to have you back on board." Bev raised an eyebrow. A sidetrack now, was she? "Just so everyone knows," Byford continued, "soon as DI Powell's up to speed, he'll take senior investigating officer role on the murder inquiry. Pete Talbot'll remain SIO on the burglaries. I'll stay in overall charge, and I'll be looking to split the squad into two teams." There'd be joint briefs, he said, and smaller strategy meetings with the SIOs and other key players as and when.

The reasoning was sound. The inquiry was already becoming unwieldy. With more and more information being gathered it was increasingly vital to prioritise and disseminate it properly. As Tony Blair didn't say: communication, communication, communication.

Byford slipped into the jacket. "Anyone want to add anything?"

Not a word apparently.

15.

It didn't happen often. Bev was speechless. As in goldfish.

"Don't be under any illusion," Byford said, "she's this close to slapping in an official complaint." Bev glanced at the guv's finger and thumb they were b.u.t.t-joined. Post-brief, she'd tailed the big man to his office expecting a dressing down. Now they faced each across his executive desk, he'd not even asked her to sit. Charlotte Masters had phoned Highgate first thing apparently. She'd seen Byford's name in the press, knew he was the officer in charge. Currently he was only just keeping a lid on his anger. "Objectionable, amateur and incompetent were among the adjectives she used." He glanced at a Post-it note on the desk. "Not forgetting a disgrace to the force."

Four or five screaming gulls patrolled a roof opposite. Sodding racket. Shame she hadn't got a gun. She waited until Byford closed the window. "Charlotte Masters wants me off the case, that's all."

"Don't be ridiculous." Thanks for listening, guv. "She found you obnoxious."

"Obnox..." The voice couldn't get any higher. She cleared her throat. "Obnoxious?"

"She said it not me." He jammed a hand in his trouser pocket. "The girl's upset, for G.o.d's sake, her father's been murdered."

"Turn on the waterworks did she?" Bev studied her nails.

"If that's your att.i.tude, no wonder the girl's got a grievance." And thanks for the vote of confidence, guv. Byford took a deep breath before ploughing on. "I a.s.sured her you were one of my best officers, experienced, sensitive, dedicated, professional."

"'preciate it." Sheepish mutter.

"I've not finished. Ms Masters doesn't share my view. If she goes ahead, sergeant, it won't just be the interview you'll lose." She followed his glance to a fat personnel file on top of the out-tray. Her name wasn't visible but she'd seen the file often enough. She'd faced so many disciplinaries, she should have a seat on the board. Meant Byford had already been on to Human Resources for her paperwork though.

She toed the carpet. "I did apologise to her."

"Not always enough, is it?" He walked to the water cooler, poured himself a cup, drained it. "What did you say to upset her?"

Guilty as not even tried. She objected loudly. "Make out like I deliberately p.i.s.sed her off, why don't you, oh you did."

"I won't tell you again, sergeant." The voice was dangerously low. "Don't answer back."

She licked dry lips before giving him a precis of the exchange with Charlotte Masters, then: "It was six of one and half a dozen of the other. I was out of line maybe but she could've put me straight."

"It's not down to a witness to 'put you straight'. Sort yourself out, sergeant." He reached for the phone. "I'm asking Mike Powell to go out there this morning." She shrugged. Being Powell's second fiddle was better than sitting on the subs' bench. "Carol Pemberton can go with him."

She stopped just short of stamping a foot. "Putting someone else on it's playing into the girl's hands. Sir."

"D'you really think I'm so easily manipulated?" He shook his head. "And it's not a game."

Course not. But Diana Masters was a key witness. Pleading her case didn't come easily to Bev, but she rated Powell's interview skills as patchy to middling. "Me and the widow are like this, guv." It was pushing it a tad to show crossed fingers. Not that showing closeness was why Bev usually employed the gesture. "Look, if I run into Charlotte, I'll give her the full-on Morriss grovel." Her eyes shone. "One more chance? Please?"

"I gave you one." He stared at her for five, six, seconds. He'd missed a bit shaving, but now wasn't the time to mention it, she reckoned she knew what was coming. "You threw it back in my face." At the brief.

Yep. She raised both palms, felt a blush rise. "I was totally out of order there. I apologise. It won't happen again."

"d.a.m.n right it won't. Consider this a verbal warning. Next time it'll be in writing." He nodded at the door.

His eyes were harsh as the words. There was no leeway however hard she searched. "Sir." She turned, walked away, head high. Pleading was one thing, but she'd not get on her knees. Halfway out of the office, she heard the receiver hit the cradle.

"Bev." Eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g, she glanced back. "One last chance. That's it."

He held up a single finger to drive home the point; her vision was blurred, she was seeing double.

PC Danny Rees was on one knee in the middle of the pavement head-height with a little girl who looked like Alice in Wonderland's kid sister. Bev raised a curious eyebrow as she drove past. Following the action in the wing mirror, she parked the Polo a few doors down from the Masters place. Flushed and frowning, young Danny looked a little out of his depth. The kid was in floods of tears, clinging to the hand of a whippet-thin, thirty-something blonde, presumably the mother. They were all rabbiting on, but from where Bev sat it was a silent movie. A grey winter blanket sky added to the monochrome impression, Park View seemed leeched of colour bar the little girl's scarlet coat, and a couple of magpies arguing the toss over a dead rat in the gutter. Two for joy? Yeah right.

For all of a second or three, she considered giving Danny a hand. Nah. She lit a Silk Cut instead. This was the rookie's deal and he needed the practice. More to the point she was itching to interview Diana Masters. Soon as Mac rolled up, they'd get the show on the road. Fanning smoke through the window, she glanced at the clock on the dash, tutted. The rush hour was over: trust Tyler to get caught in traffic. Normally they'd have travelled together, but after the blistering encounter with the big man she'd ached for her own s.p.a.ce. Last thing she needed was Mac coming over all paternal, trying to get her to open up.

Frowning, she glanced in the rear view mirror. The silent movie now had sound effects. What was that kid's problem? Talk about throwing a wobbly. Mind, Bev knew the feeling. Since the guv's b.o.l.l.o.c.king, her mood swings made an emotional rollercoaster look flat. The hurt and grat.i.tude had morphed into self-righteous pique. She took a deep drag. Frig's sake she was hunting a murderer not looking for a best mate. Course she'd be civil to Charlotte Masters, but she'd not be cowed by anyone. If she had to watch every word she said, the suits might as well gag her. It'd go with the straitjacket. Fighting crime was crazy enough without both arms tied behind the back. Anyway bottom line was this: if push came to shove they could stuff the job.

"All in a day's work, eh, sarge?" Danny was squatting at her window, nodded at the kid and woman as they strolled past the motor.

"What's up? Someone nick her jelly babies?" Bev cracked a half-smile. Danny was easy on the eye, and had a decent line in banter a rare breed at Highgate.

"Nah. She wants me to look for Crumpet."

"Thought you had a girl?"

The blush was endearing. "Missing cat. Me being a policeman she wants me to get a search party out. I told her I was a bit busy, like." Bev nodded, knew Danny was now on the team mopping up house-to-house inquiries, not everyone had been at home during the first wave. "Said they should get posters up, see if..."

"When'd it go AWOL?" She took another drag, eyes creased against the smoke, toying with a notion.

"Couple of days, why?"

"Where'd they live?"

He nodded up the road. "Big place round the corner, with the hedge?" Close to where uniform had found a knife stained with animal blood. A discovery Bev had always seen as dead convenient. "What's up, sarge?"

"Dunno yet." It was a h.e.l.l of a leap from missing moggie to master criminal. She frowned, trying to think it through.

Danny removed the helmet, smoothed shiny dark hair. "Her mum was giving her a hard time as well, reckoned she was telling porkies."

"Lost me there, Danny. This cat missing or what?"

"Yeah, it's missing, but the little girl says someone ran off with it. Wants me to put the bad man in prison." Indulgent smile, shake of the head.

Bev stiffened. "Did the kid actually see a bloke take the cat?" Curt.

The smile faltered slightly. "The mother says she makes things up all the time."

"Did she see a bloke take the frigging cat? Christ, Danny, you were here when we found the knife."

"You think...?" She'd never seen blood drain from a face so quickly.

"I don't know what I think, 'cept there's an outside chance the kid might have clocked the perp. You'd best..."

"On it, sarge." Like a bat on speed. He was halfway down the road before she'd hit fast dial for forensics. The tests needed narrowing down. If it was cat blood on the knife, they needed to know p.r.o.nto. Busy line. "d.a.m.n."

"Where's the boy wonder off to?"

Jeez-us. Mac was at the window now. Not such a pretty sight. "Tell you later." She'd get on to the lab after the Masters interview. The cat thing was probably a wild goose chasing red herrings down a dead end. No sense wasting even more time now Tyler was here. She stubbed the baccy, grabbed her bag. "What kept you, mate?"

He pointed at the ashtray. "Could have you for that. The Smoke Free Exemptions and Vehicles Regulations 2007 states quite..."

"Nothing in the known universe could you have me for, mate." She locked the motor, headed towards the house. "So? What kept you?"

He hitched his denims. "D'you never listen to the radio?"

It'd been on; she'd not been tuned in. "Just give, eh?"

"Some nutter's on top of Selfridges."

"p.i.s.sed off at the prices probably." Cynical snort.