Grave Affairs

by Maureen Carter

  GRAVE AFFAIRS

  by

  MAUREEN CARTER

  GRAVE AFFAIRS

  First published in 2014

  By Creative Content Ltd, Roxburghe House, 273-287 Regent Street, London, W1B 2HA.

  Copyright © 2014 Creative Content Ltd

  The moral right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published

  In view of the possibility of human error by the authors, editors or publishers of the material contained herein, neither Creative Content Ltd. nor any other party involved in the preparation of this material warrants that the information contained herein is in every respect accurate or complete and they are not responsible for any errors or omissions, or for the results obtained from the use of such material.

  The views expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinion or policy of Creative Content Ltd. or any employing organization unless specifically stated.

  Cover design by Daniel at HCT Creative

  Typesetting by Creative Content Ltd

  eISBN 9781908807274

  Praise for Maureen Carter

  “Bev Morriss is a strong character inhabiting an energetic and compelling series of stories that would work well on TV. It’s only a matter of time, surely.” - Tangled Web

  “A strong narrative voice and easy to understand slang…” - Publishers Weekly (USA)

  “British hard-boiled crime at its best.” - Deadly Pleasures Year’s Best Mysteries (USA)

  “Carter writes like a longtime veteran, with snappy patter and stark narrative.” - David Pitt, Booklist (USA)

  “Carter has mastered the art of the crime thriller to ensure a page turner which will catch you out no matter how hard you try to second guess her.” - Diane Parkes, Birmingham Mail

  “[W]ritten in a no-nonsense pared down style which combined with an action filled plot leaves the reader gasping for breath and turning the pages…” - Karen Meek, Eurocrime

  “British hardboiled crime fiction at its best.” George Easter, Deadly Pleasures (USA)

  “… a cracking story that zips along… “- Sarah Rayne, author of Tower of Silence

  “Crime writing and crime fighting: Maureen Carter and her creation Bev Morriss are the Second City’s finest!” - Mark Billingham, author of the acclaimed Tom Thorne series

  “If there was any justice in the world she’d be as famous as Ian Rankin!” - Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  About the Author

  Also by Maureen Carter

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My huge thanks go to the wonderful team at Creative Content: Ali Muirden, Lorelei King and Daniel Raven Clift. Big thanks to my editor Lynne Patrick, my police and media contacts and - of course - to all readers everywhere.

  To Sophie and Peter, always.

  1

  Two-o-two, two-o-three, two-o-four …

  As pastimes go, totting up her footsteps as she walked was harmless enough. Tonight, the clack of heels on paving slabs provided a soundtrack, helping Lucy keep mental count. She’d played the numbers game off and on for years. Not when other people were around; she wasn’t that sad. But on her own, she’d occasionally slip back into the childhood routine. Everyone knows what they say about old habits.

  If she thought about it at all, she saw it as a sort of comfort blanket. Certainly a subtle way of sending out engaged signals. Not that Moseley’s leafier byways were exactly teeming at the moment. No great surprise. She’d left her friend’s a lot later than intended. Lucy gave a wry smile. If she was Cinderella she’d be scooping out the pumpkin for soup now.

  Two-twenty-one …

  Her smile deepened as she pictured her younger self conscientiously jotting down figures on scraps of paper. Three thousand steps to school, six hundred to the newsagent, a hundred and fifty to the bus stop. The tallies varied a tad each time, but that was part of the attraction. If she lost count, the rules meant she had to start over – she’d already done that twice tonight. The smile changed into a pout: perhaps her parents should have told her to get out more.

  Either way she’d moved on since then, or Nathan Rayne wouldn’t have given her the time of day let alone a swanky eternity ring to mark Daisy’s birth. Five months six days ago now. She curved a lip. Not that she was counting or anything. Every time she looked at it, the white gold band gave Lucy a rosy glow. Wiggling her left hand, she flashed a grin as the full moon added extra sparkle to the row of diamonds. Lucy in the sky, she thought. Or somewhere like that.

  Tossing back her hair, she lengthened her stride a little, switched her tote bag to the other shoulder.

  Two sixty-two …

  If she recalled correctly, the walk from Hannah’s should now run to about four hundred paces. Not that she was anal. They’d bumped into each other at ante-natal classes. ‘Bump’ said it all, given they’d both had six weeks to the big day. Living so close was a bonus. Like tonight, Lucy hadn’t needed wheels, could enjoy a drink and not jump a mile if she spotted a cop car. And talk about balmy – despite the sundress and short-sleeved jacket, her antiperspirant was working overtime.

  Two-eighty …

  As for the exercise, it’d help shift the last half kilo or so of baby fat. Hannah, bless her, swore Lucy still looked more like Kate Moss than Kate Moss. Lucy needed a bit more convincing; she’d just caught sight of her reflection in the window of a people carrier.

  Three-thir—

  Frowning, she glanced over her shoulder. No. Still deserted. Maybe a pair of Cinders’ rodent chums getting pally in the bushes? Or an over-active imagination playing tricks again.

  Where was she? Three-thirteen …

  She was tempted to ditch the damn shoes, jog the rest of the way – the killer heels were li
ving up to their name. More than that, it was her first evening off since becoming a mum. A few hours on a girls’ night was hardly up there with a Lady Gaga gig but even so she’d missed Daisy like crazy, was dying to see her tiny perfect face, watch those delicate lilac eyelids flutter as she dreamt of – who knew what? The next bottle, probably. Lucy’s lip twitched. She’d bet Nat had been necking a bottle or two, smart money would be on the Jack Daniels.

  Three-twenty …

  She stifled a yawn; bed couldn’t come soon enough. Shut-eye seemed in short supply these days. Hoisting her bag again, she set off up Tudor Rise’s slight incline. The private development comprised half a dozen half-timbered properties, mostly screened by mature hedges, high walls or both. Lucy sniffed. Round these parts, Neighbourhood Watch was easier said than done.

  Shee-ite. A heel had caught in something. Pitched forward, she lost her balance, ended up on her knees. She knew she should’ve got rid of the sodding shoes. Cursing again, she paused to catch her breath, rub grit from her hands. The massive blow to the base of her skull sent her sprawling. The next took her breath away, left her spread-eagled, hugging the parched grass. Reeling with shock as much as pain, she was vaguely aware of being dragged by the ankles. Then acutely aware of crushing pressure on her spine, her head being savagely yanked back by the hair and a man’s upside-down gaze raking her face.

  ‘Scream, you die.’ A dark piercing stare confirmed the threat; the glint of a blade an inch from her eye reinforced it. In a blink, the knife pressed against her neck. ‘Savvy?’ Nodding wasn’t an option, not when swallowing could be fatal.

  ‘Guess what, darlin’?’ He smiled as he forced her head further back. ‘I lied.’

  She felt cold steel, warm blood. He sliced the blade across her neck again. A gurgling noise died in her throat, cut off by a third, deeper incision. Voiceless, she begged with her eyes, pleaded with him, with any passing god: Don’t kill me, don’t let my life end here, please don’t let me die. He puckered his lips in a mock kiss then smashed her face into the dirt.

  Lucy was on her back when she came round. Nothing worked any more. She couldn’t move, could barely make a sound. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she murmured her baby’s name. Scalding tears cooled as they trickled down her broken face, joined the pool of blood spreading like a red lake over the grass. Her eyelids flickered as she gazed at the vast canopy of stars twinkling against the night sky. So many stars. Countless stars. Fading to black through still-open eyes.

  2

  ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes …’

  A scarlet-tinged rosebud landed with a muffled thud on the white coffin. The man who’d tenderly kissed the flower before letting the stem fall from his tapering fingers sank to both knees sobbing, rocking perilously close to the open grave.

  ‘… dust to … ahem—’ Vocal flow staunched by the emotional outburst, the youngish vicar cleared his throat and glanced down uncertainly at the top of the man’s head. He moved a step or so closer, placed a tentative hand on a heaving shoulder and dropped his voice. ‘Mr Rayne, if you’d like a—’

  The hand was unceremoniously dislodged when Nathan Rayne staggered to his feet, flung his arms towards an azure sky and screamed his wife’s name. Rayne’s wailing and keening grew louder as tears streamed unchecked down his face. The grief was infectious: black-clad mourners cried openly, others dabbed hankies or tissues at leaking eyes; the younger contingent hugged each other, weeping. People with more restraint – or less theatrical bent – exchanged shifty looks before studying their own or neighbours’ shuffling footwear. Most managed to contrive an occasional peep at the distraught widower.

  Decked out in black velvet frock coat, drainpipes and wing-collared white shirt, Rayne was all a bit Russell-Brand-meets-minor-royalty. The general fawning from some folk round him furthered the resemblance. Rayne made flesh the ‘local boy makes good’ cliché. He’d morphed effortlessly from singer in a boy band to sometime TV presenter. Though he’d never hit celebrity A-lists and telly appearances had dwindled of late, his shock-jock show on a Midlands radio station and the bi-weekly column on a regional tabloid ensured a big-fish-small-pond profile.

  Hence a sun-bathed Green Lodge cemetery was milling with mourners: family, friends, loved ones, fellow so-called meeja types and an array of mostly female fans were out in force.

  So was the force.

  ‘Gawd help us.’ The tall blond detective, nattily dressed in a dark trench coat, leaned against the trunk of a sycamore tree and stifled a yawn. ‘Lady Di’s got a lot to answer for.’

  His colleague cut him a glance to see if he was joking. He wasn’t. Her gawping mouth rivalled the Queensway tunnel. The woman bit back the barb that might’ve landed her with a disciplinary. Instead, after a slow count to five, she mouthed, ‘I cannot believe you just said that.’

  ‘Well, look at it.’ From their vantage point at the top of a grassy slope, the blond swept his seen-it-all-before gaze over the gathering. ‘Emotional diarrhoea or what?’ His loud sniff was presumably designed to underline the point. ‘It’s the Di factor all over again, isn’t it? Look at me, everyone.’ He tossed a diva head. ‘Feel my pain. No, feel mine. And as for the merry widow …’

  Widower. Get it right, moron. ‘For God’s sake, the man’s entitled to grieve. His wife’s rotting in the ground and the baby’ll never know her mum. Give him a break, eh?’ Mouth tight, she looked back at Rayne who was now being comforted by an elegant expensively-groomed woman in a dove-grey coatdress. Stella Rayne’s gloved hand rubbed the small of her son’s back as she smoothed several dark strands from his cheek. Concern etched on her face, her mouth opened and closed in what looked like a comforting ‘there there’. After a barely perceptible nod from Nathan Rayne, the vicar picked up where he’d left off.

  ‘Give the guy a break, sir.’

  The blond sniffed again. She hoped he had a cold coming on. With luck he’d need time off.

  ‘Or you could try Detective Chief Inspector. You know me, petal, I’m easy either way.’

  DC Carol Pemberton knew Mike Powell could be a prime plonker. ‘Strictly speaking, it’s Acting Detective Chief Inspector … sir.’ The verbal italics were telling. Sometimes she wondered how the guy had made DI, let alone been promoted a rank, albeit temporarily. Actually that wasn’t strictly true. The knock-on effect of Detective Superintendent Bill Byford’s senseless killing had left Highgate short on two senior officer posts. Powell had even lobbied to step into Byford’s shoes, but the brass hadn’t been that desperate. Christ, Carol thought, Bev Morriss could do a better job than the blond, assuming she ever got her act together.

  She turned half-circle to scan extensive grounds bordered by gold-tipped metal railings and mature trees in full leaf. Beyond, a flock of squawking seagulls squabbled over pickings in a scrubby field; on the horizon, a sprawling urban hotchpotch of high-rise flats and tower blocks, Birmingham’s version of the Manhattan skyline. Closer to home, a movement off to the left caught Carol’s eye. A stray dog sniffed one of the benches dotted round the site. Squinting against the glare from a Mercedes wing mirror, she registered row upon row of graves, stone crosses, simple headstones and the odd weather-beaten angel. The fact that Bill Byford’s had been the last funeral she’d attended preyed heavily on Carol’s mind. Little wonder, given his burial plot was just discernible in the distance. It had pissed down that day but even more people had showed up for that service. Was it only a month back? She suppressed a sigh. Seemed like a lifetime.

  ‘Yeah well, strictly speaking, Mrs Pedant, the great unwashed aren’t milling round to say cheerio to the dearly departed. They’re here for an ogle at her old man. ’Specially that lot.’ Yet another sniff. But then journos generally got up Powell’s nose.

  ‘Try telling that to her mum and dad, sir.’ Carol cocked her head towards a white-faced, hollow-eyed couple clinging to each other as they stared down into the final resting place of their only child. God alone knew what was going on in their minds
. Bob and Marie Foster had initially asked for a blanket ban on the media but presumably Rayne had persuaded them otherwise. Newspeople were here on the understanding they kept a low profile. As if hacks and snappers weren’t easier to spot than a shark in a fish bowl.

  The cops didn’t exactly meld either. Powell and Pemberton weren’t the only detectives keeping a watching brief; two squad members who’d been stationed in the church now did their best to blend in with the mourners. The theory behind the police presence was to spot anyone who shouldn’t be there. Carol reckoned the killer hanging round with a sandwich board would be a good start. Fat effing chance. Either way the law was here to show a bit of respect to the bereaved. Not that Powell seemed to have got the memo. Carol watched aghast as the guy studied something green he’d just extracted from his teeth.

  ‘Hunt in a pack. The press,’ he drawled. ‘Safety in numbers and all that crap.’

  Carol moved a step away, mentally distanced herself, too. Her thinking wasn’t on the predators; the poor bloody victim took priority. Lucy could’ve done with a few friends around the night she ran into the killer. The ferocity of the attack had appalled seasoned detectives; one of the first attending uniforms had thrown up at the scene. The pool of vomit hadn’t exactly helped the investigation, but the squad’s singular lack of success in nailing the perpetrator couldn’t entirely be put down to contamination of evidence – not when there was a distinct dearth of evidence to contaminate. Without a suspect, a few fibres were neither here nor there. To make matters worse, when the police rolled up they found Rayne cradling his dead wife in his arms. A neighbour had spotted the touching tableau from an upstairs window and raised the alarm.

  Not unnaturally, Powell and others had assumed there’d be an early collar round Rayne’s neck, and Carol suspected the DI’s current show of laboured disdain was down to deep frustration and a shaming sense of failure. Despite appearances he wasn’t a total arse, but as senior investigating officer he was meant to be running the show, and they’d had as much luck as Lucy the night she bumped into a psycho a stone’s throw from safety.