Blood Money Part 9

Gazing at the Formica, he circled his finger in a pool of spilt milk. "Why didn't I see it, sarge?" Missing cat: bloodstained knife. "If you'd not been there..."

"b.o.l.l.o.c.ks." True actually. But she'd been in the game a d.a.m.n sight longer, and her middle name was suspicious. The rookie needed positive rope not a kicking. "Who was it got the kid drawing?" She blew on the tea. Al Copley was primed and set to go soon as the girl and her mum showed. "Masterstroke that was, Danny."

He gave a lip service smile, still beating himself up. She'd been there, done that, knew it was a waste of time. Glancing round, she spotted Sumi at the counter and raised a hand. Sumi mouthed a See you later. Bev glanced at her watch: four hours to be precise.

"And the way you played it with the boss?" Danny interrupted her not particularly welcome train of thought. "I thought Byford would never go for it. He was eating out of your hand by the end. I wouldn't have known where to start."

She shrugged. "The guv and me go back a long way, Danny." Shame there didn't seem to be so much ahead. And that the time had gone when it wasn't her hand he wanted to eat from.

"Yeah, but..."

"No, but." And quit the whinge-fest. "Get over it, Danny. You've got the makings of a decent cop. Just remember look, listen, and learn. Don't be afraid to ask questions and never believe a word anyone says. Keep your eyes open, your mind focused and your mouth..."

"This the lesson according to Saint Bev? Mind if I take a pew." Smirking, DI Powell placed a tray on the table, parked his b.u.m on the next seat. Powell didn't suffer her offal aversion; the plate was swimming in liver. She nearly gagged on the stink. "Don't mind me," he said, waving a magnanimous fork. "You were banging on about your mouth." He nudged the new boy. "This I must hear."

"...and your mouth zipped." She gave a disingenuous grin. "'less you've got something worth saying." Powell opened his for a comeback but Bev got in first. "'specially when you're eating. Sir." She winked at Danny, drained the mug, sc.r.a.ped back the chair.

Powell muttered, "Lippy tart," as she walked away. G.o.d, it was good to have the DI back. He was PC as a Playboy mag. She smiled then remembered the Bullring fiasco, turned back. "You got the short straw this morning, sir. Sorry to hear that." Couldn't have been a barrel of laughs. You'd not wish it on your worst enemy. Tight-lipped, he waved the fork in what she interpreted this time as dismissal. She stepped back smartish but not before noticing his eyes. It looked very much to her as if the DI was tearing up. She walked away without another word. On rare occasions, even Bev knew when to b.u.t.ton it.

Soon as she dropped her bag on the desk, Bev opened the office window, breathed in deeply. She could still smell Powell's liver. Lips puckered, she sniffed her jacket. Picked up traces of almond body lotion but that was about it. b.l.o.o.d.y stink was clinging to the back of the throat. Like a bad crime scene.

Powell on the verge of tears, though? She narrowed her eyes. Maybe he was mellowing in his early middle age. She gave a thin smile. Nah. It was probably the onions. Snorting, she sat down, recalled an incident from DI Powell's glory days as a PC, his Silence of the Lambs moment. She'd dined out on the story for months; even now there was a smile on her face. Super-cool Powell had seen the movie when it first came out and watched Jodie Foster dab Vick under her nose to mask the reek of corpses. FBI technique, wasn't it? Course the DI slathered it on at the first rank opportunity. A pungent PM if she remembered rightly. He'd come in next morning with a top lip like he'd done ten rounds with Rocky. Station wags called him Vicky for years. She preferred Clarrie.

Enough of this. She sighed, surveyed her desk. The paper mountain looked more like the Urals. Get the old crampons out, girl. She fumbled in her bag, took out breakfast-lunch-high tea and pulled a face. Covered in fluff, hair and bits of tobacco, the toast lost what little attraction it had held. A further scrabble elicited an almost full pack of Polos. Her eyes lit up: beggar's banquet. After half an hour at the admin rock face, the door nudging open was a welcome distraction. She knew who was there without looking up. "Don't you ever...?"

Mac bustled in. "Couldn't, could I?" Closing the door with his b.u.m he ambled over, bags in hand. Top man.

Arching her back in a lazy stretch, she gave an unwitting flash of lacy black bra. "G.o.d, you know how to treat a woman, Tyler."

Hastily redirecting a lecherous ogle, Mac slipped the goodies in front of her. "Choc chip m.u.f.fin and a caramel macchiato? Must be where I've been going wrong." Perched on a desk corner, he told her he'd been chasing mask suppliers, nipped in to Starbucks on the way back.

"Catch anything?" Mouth watering, she peeled the paper from the cake, licked the crumbs.

"Nah." He'd shown an image of the mask lifted from CCTV footage, but none of the outlets stocked it. "Gave me a few places to try though." She muttered something through a mouthful of m.u.f.fin. "Say again, boss."

Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she told Mac they had a date for later. "Charlotte Masters. Fixed it on the phone." Surprisingly easily as it happened. Maybe the girl had seen sense or Bev's grovel master-cla.s.s had paid off.

"Back at Park View?" Distracted, Mac cast uneasy glances round the office.

Bev breezed on regardless. "You'd-a thought. Dutiful daughter caring for grieving momma and all that. But she wants the meet at Selly Oak..." Bemused, Bev paused as Mac hopped off the desk, made for the bin, gave it a good shaking, studying the contents. "... she's got her own pad there." She finished the sentence though she might as well have been talking to herself. "Lost something, mate?"

"No offence, boss, but there's a funny smell in here." Mac spotted the brownish stain first, pointed a stubby finger at the package on her desk. "h.e.l.l's that?"

She frowned. It wasn't that she'd forgotten the parcel; she'd been keen to break the back of the paperwork first. Looked on it as a carrot after the stick. Mouth down, she pulled the box nearer, tore open the paper. Whether it was the sight or the smell that greeted her, she slapped a hand to her mouth. "What the f.u.c.k?"

It was animal rather than vegetable. And it certainly wasn't a novelty clock.

18.

The heart wasn't going anywhere. Bev had her back to it gulping fresh air through the now wide open window. "Where is she, mate?" Querulous. "Thought you said she was in the building?"

"She is," Mac said. As luck would have it he'd clocked the police pathologist chatting to Vince Hanlon at the front desk no more than ten minutes back. Gillian Overdale popped in on path business from time to time, but it was pure happenstance she was around when they needed expert opinion. Paging her had seemed the best and quickest way of finding out exactly what they had on their metaphorical hands. "She's on her way." He peered into the box again: fat, muscle, valves, ventricles. Mac was no medico but it looked human. "Chill."

"Chill? Chill?" She lowered the volume. "How chilled you be, matey, if someone left a bleeding heart on your doorstep?"

She'd never know. There was a rap on the door then the pathologist poked her head round. "What have you got for me then?"

Thank G.o.d for that. Arms folded, foot tapping, Bev nodded at the opened box on the desk. "You tell us, doc."

Overdale barged in looking as if she was on the way to a Cotswold shoot. The tweeds, brogues, distressed Barbour were typical of her habitual county look. The pudding basin steel grey bob did nothing for her shiny moon face. Through gold-framed bifocals, Overdale took a good look at the heart. "You don't need me, sergeant." Was that thin lip twitching? "You'd be better off with a butcher."

Bev didn't see the funny side, her fists were balled. "Perhaps you'd like to be more specific." Ultra polite.

She sniffed. "It's a cow's. They look human but they're bigger."

"A cow's? You sure, doc?" Mental cringe. Dumb question, or what?

"I can't tell you her name and address, sergeant, but yes, pretty sure."

"Anything useful you can say?" Thin smile.

"It's past its sell-by but not by much or the smell would be worse. So it's fresh-ish or it's been frozen." Was she taking the p.i.s.s? "Seriously, sergeant. It was probably kept in a fridge until whoever it was did whatever they did." She retrieved her steel case from the floor. "But as I told you it's not my territory. Try Waitrose." She was still sn.i.g.g.e.ring when she reached the door. "The meat counter."

"Boss." Mac's low warning and extended arm halted Bev in her tracks. Gritting her teeth, she slammed a fist into her palm. "Cool it, sarge." Mac in placatory mode. "Here y'go." He proffered a bottle of Highland Spring. Body temperature. Where'd he keep these things? Pulled a second from a different pocket. She drank greedily, wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. Chances of tracking down where the organ came from, or more to the point who left it, were on a par with discovering weapons of ma.s.s destruction in the Vatican.

Mac perched on the desk, arms resting on beer belly, genuine concern in his warm brown eyes. "So who'd pull a trick like that, boss?"

She'd given it serious thought since first setting sight on the b.l.o.o.d.y thing. Someone obviously wanted to freak her out. Was it a warning, a message, a sick joke? But who? And why? Pound to a penny it was someone she'd p.i.s.sed off big time. She affected a who cares shrug. "Where shall I start?"

The dark-haired man sat on a velvet kidney-shaped stool studying his gym-toned physique in the dressing table mirror. Light bulbs round the gla.s.s were switched on Hollywood style; heavy gold velvet drapes were drawn against both cas.e.m.e.nt windows though it was only mid-afternoon. An older woman, her back to the man, lay on the king-sized bed behind, an ivory negligee revealed lightly tanned and slightly parted thighs.

The man was naked apart from the clown mask. Preening this way and that, he admired his taut lean body, repeatedly flexed well-defined muscles. He shuffled forward, adjusted the mask, called the woman's name to make sure she was watching, then ran a moist pink tongue along the red rubbery lips. Their glances met in the mirror. An observer might have found the man's lascivious gesture faintly ridiculous. For Diana Masters it was almost the ultimate turn on.

"Do stop that, Sam." The lazy smile was indulgent, her normally sleek hair damp and mussed, perfect make-up smudged. "I have to get ready." She pointed a mock schoolma'am finger. "And you, Mr Tate, should not be here." Plus, if he felt anything like her, he'd be s.h.a.gged out.

"Always time for a quickie, Dee." Confident bordering on arrogant, the young man rose, padded slowly towards her, flicked a long black fringe from eyes that were nearly as dark. "You know you want it." She couldn't take her eyes off him, everything about him was beautiful. And growing more so. Teasing and playful, he flaunted the fastest growth area inches from her open mouth.

Slowly she turned on to her back, deliberately flashing her inner thighs. "No more than you do, darling." Diana meant the refusal though. It was a risk Sam even being here. They'd kept the affair secret for six, seven months. They'd met during one of her stints at Oxfam; he worked in the hair salon opposite. The attraction had been instant, unstoppable. They'd come so far a c.o.c.k-up now wasn't an option. Though deadly serious, she smirked at the unintended mental pun. Obviously the house wasn't crawling with cops any more, but there could be a knock on the door any time, that dreadful Morrison woman back again with the fat man, or any of the interchangeable woodentops. There'd been so many. Imagine! They'd wanted her to have a family liaison officer around the place. Ludicrous. Risible. On the other hand, wasn't the risk part of the thrill?

She knew the answer when he tried to enter her. Her laughing protest was merely token; both knew she could never say no. His dark sensual eyes glinting through the slits turned her on even more. But now she wanted the complete picture. Careful not to cause damage, she gently removed the mask, laid it on the bed; both aware it would be needed again business and pleasure. Parting her lips and legs, she drew his beautiful face towards her. There was nothing in the world that Diana Masters wouldn't do for the Sandman.

Byford squinted as he held the image at arm's length. "I don't know, Bev. Releasing it could be more hindrance than help." Thank G.o.d he'd dropped calling her sergeant, but more than that she hoped the guv's verdict on the e-fit was down to dodgy eyesight rather than Daisy Towbridge's vision. For the better part of two hours, the little girl and her mother had been ensconced with Al Copley and a child witness officer working on a composite of the cat thief's features. Byford now held the image and its future in his hands.

Over his shoulder, Bev studied the face again. "It's not bad, guv." Unlike a lot of visuals produced by over-anxious or over-avid witnesses, Daisy's effort didn't resemble half the population, and if Bev's instinct was smack on it could depict the Sandman. The likeness was the end result of patiently-posed, carefully-constructed open-ended questions aimed at not making the kid feel prompted or pressurised into coming up with something just to please the grown-ups. Bev had popped her head round the imaging suite door and reckoned the chances of Daisy doing or saying anything she didn't want were slimmer than Bev's of landing Johnny Depp. What the little girl had delivered was this: a guy in his twenties, not bad-looking, long black hair, dark, deep-set eyes, wide mouth, prominent cheek bones.

Byford sniffed. "Looks like that chap who used to knock about with Kate Moss." Bev pulled a face. That narrows it down. "Pete something or other...?" he expanded.

She mirrored the guv's squint. Couldn't see it herself. She leaned against the filing cabinet, ankles crossed. "So what you going to do?"

He slipped the image on to his desk and wandered to the window. "Hang fire, I think."

"But guv..."

A screech of tyres from the car park below as much as Byford's raised palm halted her protest. "She only caught a glimpse, Bev."

"Under a streetlight. With a good pair of young eyes." Twenty: twenty, she'd checked.

Perched on the sill, he looked at her without speaking. The big man wasn't convinced. Was it worth pushing the forensic tack again? The stain on the knife was definitely cat blood, she'd found Chris Baxter's updated report on her desk. Along with... she blinked, censored a flashback of the cow heart. She'd mentioned the gross gift to the guv. With nothing to go on, he agreed there wasn't much they could do, apart from Bev keeping an even closer eye on her back than normal. Cops don't win the popularity vote. What she wanted was the superintendent's authorisation.

"How 'bout the tests on the knife? Don't they swing it, guv?"

He shook his head. "It's still a load of ifs and maybes, Bev."

She held his gaze. "All we've got, guv."

"Doesn't mean it's worth having."

She sighed, knew the score. She was probably clutching short straws in a basket with too many eggs. And if the guv was right and they released a misleading image, it would likely provoke a load of duff intelligence from the punter. The cops would then end up being pointed in the wrong direction which had to be even worse than their current position of not having a clue where to go.

"Third left after the Queen's Head, boss." Mac cut a sideways glance through the pa.s.senger window then bit off a chunk of Granny Smith. Dodging the juice, Bev raised an incredulous eyebrow. Wonders would never cease: Mac scoffing fruit. "That one of your five-a-year, mate?"

"Sarge made a funny," he drawled. "Ho ho." Progress was slow. The Bristol Road was rush hour chocker, traffic stop-start, headlights picking out greasy puddles from an earlier shower. Patchy fog was hovering now, clouds of the stuff swirled round the tops of streetlamps, diffusing the orange glows.

Sneaky smile still playing on her lips, Bev checked the mirror, flicked the indicator. "What's with the apple then? You on a health kick?"

Fidgeting slightly, he subtly loosened the seatbelt. "If you must know, I want to shift a bit of weight."

"Hire a crane." The snort was unstoppable. She caught a glimpse of stony profile. "Sorry." Whoops. "Hey, mate, there's nothing wrong with being... cuddly." Her search for a mollifying alternative took a smidgen too long. Mac gave it a short shrift sniff. She wondered idly if he had a new woman in tow. His divorce must be going through any time. Had to be rough living miles from your kids, must get lonesome now and then.

"Hey, Twiggy." He tilted his head to the right. "Over there. House with the baskets."

"Touche, Tyler." There was a tight s.p.a.ce up ahead. She reversed the Polo, applied the handbrake. "Finish your apple, mate. I'll take a breath of air." Leaning against the motor, she scoped out the street. Bank Avenue, Selly Oak, was Edwardian villa territory: bow windows, low redbrick walls, stained gla.s.s fanlights over solid front doors. Good nick mostly, except the odd multi-occupancy: Birmingham uni was in walking distance. She turned her mouth down, reckoned Charlotte Masters must be doing all right. The only pad Bev could afford at the same tender age was a one-bedroom maisonette over a Balsall Heath laundrette.

She glanced at her watch: half five. Coming here meant they'd miss the late brief. The guv was cool about it, even cracked a wan smile when she described it as time off for bad behaviour. Best not put a foot wrong in this encounter with Ms Masters. And she hoped it wouldn't take too long. She needed to pop back to Highgate before calling it a day. A spot of unfinished business on the Fareeda agenda. Still, two birds with one stone: she could pick up breaking developments on the Sandman front at the same time. a.s.suming there'd be any. The car gave a sudden lurch as Mac shifted his weight getting out. Still feeling a tad mean over the crane crack, she hoisted her bag and bestowed a full wattage beam. "OK, mate?"

"Yeah. Let's get it over." He sounded as thrilled as her. Mind, she'd given him the back story, Charlotte's complaint and the subsequent b.o.l.l.o.c.king. As Mac opened the gate, he nodded at a brace of baskets hanging either side of the door. "Is that what I think it is?"

Bev peered closer. "Not weed is it?"

"Doh." He rolled his eyes. "Looks like leylandii to me." Her blank look made it clear: gardening was a foreign country. "Think beanstalk," Mac enlightened. "As in Jack only it grows quicker."

She raised the bra.s.s knocker, left it pending. "Didn't he nick a golden goose?"

"Hen. And it laid gold eggs. Didn't you learn anything at school?"

Their eyes met, lips twitched in sync. Both knew the trivial pursuit was only putting off the serious tack. "Go on, boss, get on with it."

She rapped the door a couple of times, tightened her belt along with a mental girding of the loins. Despite the earlier bravado she felt an unaccustomed edginess. Bev didn't do timid, but Charlotte Masters had marked her card. And not with a dance request. The door opened in a heartbeat.

"b.o.l.l.o.c.ks." The girl slapped a hand to her mouth. She wore a scruffy Afghan coat and was now knotting a leopard print scarf round her neck. "I thought you said tomorrow. My head's all over the place. Sorry."

Bev had her doubts: the girl's father had been murdered. Was it likely she'd forget details of a police visit? Maybe the grief was getting to her? Maybe she was losing her grip? Or maybe she was just being a.r.s.ey? "As we're here...?" Bev forced a smile; she'd give a month's salary to read the girl's thoughts.

Eventually voicing a.s.sent, Charlotte stepped back. "Yeah, sure."

The living room was off a pale terracotta hallway. It was Habitat meets Pier with lots of taupe and light wood, vibrant splashes of teal and scarlet courtesy of a shed-load of scatter cushions and ta.s.selled throwbacks. Bev caught a smell of joss sticks: jasmine? vanilla? And a more pungent undertone. If her suspicion was correct it could explain a lot.

"Take a seat." Charlotte slung the coat over a chair. "Get you a drink?"

"Thanks, no." Bev answered for both of them. "We'll ask a few questions then shove off." They'd share the interview load this time, good cop, good cop.

"Fire away." The laidback stance on the opposite sofa seemed deliberately exaggerated. The faded blue denims and cheesecloth shirt were casual to the point of slack. Bev hadn't noticed before how plain she was: if ever a girl needed a touch of slap... The hair was again sc.r.a.ped back in a ponytail, and still looked as if it could do with a wash. The contrast with her mother was acute. Unlike Diana Masters, Charlotte clearly thought grooming was something to do with horses.

Bev had intended opening with a bridge builder but given the girl's more amiable att.i.tude plunged straight in. "Tell me... have you noticed anything odd near your parents' house in... say, the last two or three weeks?" Charlotte pouted, apparently casting her mind back. A clock ticked, water pipes gurgled; Bev nudged. "A stranger hanging round? Cars you've not seen before?"

More pondering then she shook her head. "I'd like to help. Thing is I'm rarely there these days. I moved out four, five years back."

"College?" Mac c.o.c.ked a casual eyebrow.

"University of life." With a smile the girl looked almost pretty. It wasn't just her softer features. Charlotte seemed a different woman: chilled, no hard edges. Home territory, perhaps? Or s.p.a.ced-out? The dope smell was stronger in here. Bev reckoned a spliff or two could explain Charlotte's mellower mood and earlier confusion. Not so much losing grip as deliberately letting go. Emotional pain relief? Cannabis as coping mechanism? Each to their own. Bev sniffed, filed the discovery under F for future use and L for leverage. She pressed on: "I guess you visit from time to time?"

"Hardly ever." Not unfriendly, though the smile was thin. She spread her arms wide. "I love this place. And value my independence."

"What do you do for a living, Miss Masters?" Sounded like polite interest rather than pointed question. Bev was glad Mac had broached it.

The girl hesitated slightly before giving a careless shrug. "Bar work. The Hamptons? Brindley Place?" Cool, upmarket bistro down by the ca.n.a.l. Either Charlotte earned a fortune in tips, or she'd won the lottery. This house certainly didn't come cheap. Head down, the young woman picked a loose thread on her jeans. "My parents help with the mortgage."

Ah. Say no more. Bev's lip curved. That'd be the bank of dad: Diana didn't earn pin money at Oxfam. Would mummy be as generous now she held the purse strings?

"Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your parents?" Mac still had the baton.

Her head shot up. "You said the burglary had nothing to do with my father." Smarting eyes sought a.s.surances from them both.

Mac gave what he could. "We always look at every possibility."

Charlotte's hand shook as she reached for a scuffed patchwork bag, pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboro. Empty. Scowling, she chucked it on the table, tapped twitchy fingers on thigh. "I don't understand," she murmured. "Who'd want to hurt Daddy?" She must know how ridiculous that sounded; someone had killed him. Charlotte's father may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time he was no less dead. The young woman scrabbled in the bag again, found a crumpled tissue, dabbed her eyes. "She says he wasn't even due home."

Who's she? The cat's mother? The old saying sprang unbidden to Bev's mind. She'd mull over the implications later maybe: right now there were more obvious points to pursue. "What about your mother, Miss Masters? Can you think of anyone who'd want to harm her?"

"How would I know? I'd be the last person she'd confide in." Bev's interested was piqued. She watched, waiting out the silence, as Charlotte tapped a finger against her lips. "Look, I may as well tell you... we're not exactly... close." Bev's jaw gaped involuntarily. "I'm sorry if that shocks you." Charlotte sounded anything but. "Diana doesn't really approve of me, you see." The smile was bitter and didn't reach her bloodshot eyes. "I don't fit her image of beautiful dutiful daughter. I'd rather you know so she can't play the emotional blackmail card again."

"Emotional blackmail?" Bev prompted.