As well as the squad working its metaphorical balls off, there’d been extensive media appeals and nigh on wall-to-wall press coverage, but so far diddly of import had emerged. Operation Swift was now sluggishly entering its fourth week and, though few at Highgate nick would admit it, the odds of catching the murderer lengthened every hour.
‘Besides,’ Powell said, ‘there’s grieving and there’s grandstanding.’ Christ, give it a rest, she thought. ‘Methinks the laddie doth prostrate too much, Pembers.’ She rolled her eyes, wondering why he looked so ridiculously chuffed with the piss-poor mangled pun. Rayne wasn’t even stretched out on the ground, let alone in the frame.
‘Not everyone’s emotionally stunted, you know.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The guy’s cut up. Get over it.’ And as for ‘laddie’, she reckoned that was pushing it. Boyish good looks notwithstanding, at a year off forty the guy was nearly twice his wife’s age. The disparity was one reason why Rayne had come under suspicion from the get-go. Not to mention the being-knee-deep-in-blood bit. Fact was, apart from the gore, Nathan Rayne appeared to be squeaky clean. An alibi from his mother had helped put him in the clear. Right now, Momma Rayne was shepherding his path towards a waiting line of limos. With solemn nods the crowd parted; even the press photographers held back, letting their long lenses do the stalking. Rayne paused briefly for the telly cameras, uttered a few words for his viewers.
‘Ask me, he’s enjoying it,’ Powell said.
‘I didn’t.’ Carol sounded distracted, her narrow gaze on the church in the distance. The ugly red-brick exterior was softened a touch by the vast mound of flowers, wreaths, soft toys left by Lucy’s mourners. Carol’s focus was on a woman dressed completely in blue who was backing out of the porch, hands clasped round the handle of a pram. She nodded towards the building. ‘Sir, is that who I think it is?’
Powell slipped a small pair of binoculars from his pocket, trained them on the woman who was now wheeling the pram down the path at the side of the church. ‘Well, well, well. What the hell’s she doing here?’
Bev Morriss hadn’t shown her face at the station since the night of Byford’s shooting. Some of the guys thought she’d never put in an appearance again. The big man had been more than Bev’s boss, more than her mentor, much more. Bev had watched him die in her arms and blamed herself for his cold-blooded murder.
‘And what’s with the pram?’ Carol mused almost to herself. Lucky really, because Powell had already taken off. Halfway down the slope, he called back, ‘Come on. What you waiting for, woman?’
‘For crying out loud, Bev, hang fire, will you?’
‘Naff off.’ Bev pushed the pram, didn’t even glance back. Frankie was right about the crying though: Daisy was squealing like a stuck pig. Pig. Nice one, Bev. ‘I’d never have come if I’d known I’d get landed with this.’
‘There’s no landed about it, Bev. I needed a pee.’ Frankie caught up and placed a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘You could’ve waited for me inside, you know.’ Bev braked hard and stared at the hand until Frankie withdrew it, muttering an apology.
Stepping well back from the pram and its bawling occupant, a flinty-faced Bev folded her arms. ‘The noise was doing my head in.’
‘Doesn’t everything these days?’ Mutter, mutter. Mouthing words had been Frankie’s modus operandi around Bev this last month.
‘Go swivel, Perlagio.’ Just to clarify, she flipped the bird. ‘If I’d known it’d be a baby-minding gig, you’d never have got me here in a million years.’ She’d only stepped outside the house a handful of times since the guv’s funeral and most of the forays had been to lay sunflowers on his grave. Her presence now was testament to her best mate’s powers of persuasion. Plus the massive guilt trip Frankie had chucked in, along the lines of I need you, Bev.
The women had known each other nearly thirty years, shared desks on their first day at school and – Bev often joked – would end up sharing bedpans in an old folks’ home. She hadn’t cracked the gag for a while, hadn’t cracked much in the way of a smile either.
‘Go swivel. How very mature, Beverley.’ It was more murmur than mutter, but Frankie’s arched eyebrow told a different story. Bev watched, impassive, as her friend leant into the pram and gently stroked the baby’s flushed cheek. Sometimes Bev wondered why she put up with the bloody woman. Chalk and cheese were identical by comparison – mozzarella, given her mate’s Italian heritage. Nigella-esque build with waves of raven pre-Raphaelite locks, Frankie Perlagio had a face that could stop traffic as well as launch ships. Bev’s heart-shaped face and Guinness-coloured bob weren’t in the same league; mind, as a cop she’d certainly stopped traffic in her time. Even with heels she only just came up to Frankie’s shoulder and these days struggled to keep the weight on. Her mobile features, which once showed every emotion, now rarely gave anything away. The only constant was a pair of exquisite eyes the deepest blue most people had ever seen.
Head down, Bev toed the gravel with a Doc Marten. ‘Rayne’s your affair, Frankie. He means nothing to me.’ A murder victim’s nearest and dearest should certainly set a cop’s antennae twitching, on or off duty. But Bev was in limbo, suspended in a black hole with a black dog hanging round her neck. The sick note called it chronic backache. It was one way of putting it.
She cut a covert glance at her mate. If she didn’t know better she’d reckon Frankie had lured her here under false pretences, hoping Lucy Rayne’s unsolved murder might be the trigger to get Bev back in the saddle. But no, that’d be Bev’s paranoia showing, given the history between the Perlagios and the Raynes.
Bev was well aware the families had been neighbours for years: holidays, barbies, bonfire parties, Easter egg hunts – when Frankie was a kid they’d shared the lot. Jonathan, as Nathan was known before he got too cool, was still like an elder brother to her. At a time like this natch Frankie would want to be there for him, but it didn’t stop Bev bellyaching.
‘I don’t know why the hell you had to drag me along. And as for a screaming kid?’ Her rising voice was too loud in the sudden silence from the pram. Daisy had either given it up as a bad job or cried herself to sleep.
In no hurry to fill the lull, Frankie ran her gaze over Bev’s face. Then: ‘I didn’t “drag you along”. I asked because I needed my oldest and best friend’s support. God knows, I’ve giv—’ The hand now clasped over her mouth failed to hide a blush that put the baby’s in the shade.
‘Given me enough?’ Bev’s eyes darkened. ‘That what you were about to say, mate?’
‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Frankie bit her lip. ‘No, sod it. It needs saying. It’s four weeks now, Bev. For your own sake you have to move on.’
‘Move on? You think I should move on?’ There was a telling pause before Bev nodded slowly, eyes brimming. ‘Yeah, you’re dead right, Frankie. I see that now.’ Head high and without a backward glance she did exactly what she’d been told.
‘For Christ’s sake, don’t …’ Be such a bloody pain. Waste of breath, Frankie sighed. She had a damn good idea where Bev was headed, anyway. Probably the main reason she’d agreed to put in an appearance in the first place.
Frankie’s motive was more overt: mourning for a young woman brutally murdered in the prime of life, plus being there for a man she loved and regarded as the brother she’d never had. She saw her role as doing whatever was needed to help Nat get through the day. Eyes welling, she looked into the pram. Daisy’s crying jag had left her bonnet at a jaunty angle that put Frankie in mind of a minuscule pirate. Smiling, she gently adjusted the hat. Frankie reckoned it would have made more sense looking after Daisy back at the house, but Nat had been adamant about not letting the baby out of his sight. Not that Frankie had been stupid enough to mention that to Bev beforehand.
She’d only half-expected Bev to turn up, so spotting her sitting at the back of the church had come as a bit of a shock. Not so great a shock as watching her ballsy kick-ass best friend disintegrate with an all-consuming
grief. Some days Bev barely got out of bed, let alone into the shower. Frankie, Powell, Bev’s partner Mac, her mum and gran had tried just about everything to help her get back on track. What’s more, the bloody woman could be pricklier than a porcupine in a needle factory. Nothing had worked – including Bev. And if she refused to go back much longer …
When Frankie wheeled the pram round, she clocked Mike Powell weaving through the crowd like a man on a mission. A none-too-happy-looking Carol Pemberton was bringing up the rear. It was a bit too late to play now. He and Frankie had cooked up the idea together: an ostensibly casual encounter between Bev and her on-the-job cop buddies. She turned her mouth down. It couldn’t have gone better.
‘Where’d she bugger off to, then?’ Powell gave Frankie the eye as he smoothed a hand over his flawless hair. He’d fancied his chances with the Italian for years. Only stopped hitting on her when Bev broke it to him he stood more chance getting into Frankie Boyle’s knickers. Mind, Morriss never went in for word-mincing. Powell had seen a fair bit of this Frankie recently, though. He’d popped round several times to the house in Moseley where she lodged with Bev. Someone had to make Morriss see sense, not that she always granted him an audience.
‘I’ll give you one guess.’ Frankie turned, shielded her eyes from the sun.
The detectives followed her gaze to the horizon where a tiny hunched figure knelt beside the big man’s grave.
‘What if she’s just had enough of being a cop?’ Carol swallowed a lump in her throat. ‘Maybe we should just leave her be.’
3
‘Move on. Let it go. Time heals. Blah-de-bloody-blah-blah. Why the hell doesn’t everyone mind their own sodding business.’ Bev spat on a crumpled tissue, used it to wipe some sort of gunge off the wooden cross. The grave marker was only temporary but there was nothing wrong with starting as you mean to go on.
‘Ask me, they haven’t got the first sodding clue. ’Specially Inspector Sore Thumb bloody Clouseau back there.’ Squatting at the graveside, she admired the result of her handiwork before balling the tissue and lobbing it into the nearest mesh bin. Next time she’d bring sunflowers again; the current lot were well past it. ‘What you reckon, then, guv? Am I right or am I right?’
Generally, she’d hear his voice in her head. Nah. That was all a bit woo-woo. In reality, it was because they’d been so close she always had a damn good idea what he’d come out with. What’s more, apart from Byford being the only person she wanted to talk to, he was about the only one who spoke any sense these days. In the main.
Isn’t it about time you went back to work, Bev? ‘I know, I know. Thought I told you?’ She straightened her shoulders, tapped her forehead. ‘Reporting for duty, sir. First thing Monday, sir.’ Her lip curved as she pictured his face: the ‘sirs’ would have prompted one of his George Clooney smiles. She’d rarely called him anything but guv. ‘Bill’ was hard to say, even after they’d made love the second – and last – time. It was the name she’d cried over and over and over again as he died in her arms. She’d never use it again. Not that she’d come to get all maudlin.
‘Anyways.’ Still squatting, she fumbled in her bag, pulled out a pack of Silk Cut from under a fat sheath of news cuttings. ‘As it happens, I’ve had this idea.’
Glad to see you’ve given up. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Bad for the health. Sorry, guv.’ She sparked up, took a deep drag, then furiously waved the baccy to waft away the smoke. ‘Still, whatever gets you through, eh?’ Apart from the booze and fags, a couple of thoughts had kept Bev going through the maelstrom. In the last few days, her thinking had crystallized. First, she wanted to see the bastard who’d shot Byford suffer; second, she wanted to nail the child killer who’d escaped justice and for thirty years haunted the big man’s thoughts and dreams. Surely if she could track down baby Fay’s killer, the guv would rest easier in peace? And let’s face it, he wouldn’t be six feet under if she’d kept her bloody mouth shut that night. Finishing the job he started was the least she could do.
What’s this idea you’ve had, then? She took another puff. Needing access to police records, archives and evidence meant getting back behind the desk, working the case on the QT alongside whatever Powell threw at her. No prizes for guessing what that would be. And thinking on, nor would there be many Brownie points for guessing the guv’s reaction to her intended extra-curricular activities. Still, not even the big man needed to know everything. Not ’til it was all over, anyway.
‘No rush.’ She used her next puff as a smoke screen. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘Tell him what?’
Shooting round, she lost balance, the fag went flying, she landed on a buttock. ‘Fuck’s sake, man.’
Unsmiling, Powell offered her a helping hand. ‘They reckon it’s the first sign, you know.’
‘I’m not mad.’ She swatted at the hand, struggled to her feet, brushed grass off the back of her skirt. ‘I’m frigging furious. Creeping up like a perv. What’s your problem?’
‘My problem?’
She didn’t care for the raised eyebrow. ‘I don’t want you here. Why don’t you just sod off?’
Powell could shout even louder. ‘Because I care, goddammit.’ The racket set off a raucous response from eight or nine crows perched on the railings like a panel of jurors. Bev glared daggers at the buggers – she’d lay bets it was bird shit she’d wiped off the cross. Next time she’d bring a shotgun or a catapult or a … a sledgehammer. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Powell take a step closer.
‘How often do you need telling, Bev?’ He lowered the voice even further. ‘We want you back.’
She’d seen ads for fake scary cats. People put them in their gardens. Maybe one of those would scare the bejesus out the bloody things.
Powell rubbed a hand over his face. ‘You’re not even listening, are you?’
‘You still here?’ She couldn’t be doing with soft words and sympathy. Bawl her out and she’d bite, show tenderness and she’d buckle. Powell, more than most, knew this – so why didn’t he just shut the fuck up?
‘OK, Bev, here’s the thing: the Rayne inquiry’s going nowhere. The squad’s as motivated as a fox at a hunt ball. It feels like I’m pissing in the wind.’ He held out empty palms. ‘I need your input, your insight, your loony … sorry … lateral thinking.’ His wary smile wasn’t returned.
‘Fox? Hunt ball? You might want to work on that.’
‘It’s you I want.’
‘Didn’t know you cared, mate.’ She bent to retrieve the burned-out stub, flicked it in the bin.
‘Come on, Bev, you know what I mean. I need you back at work.’
For the first time she held his gaze. ‘You need results pretty damn fast, that’s what I know.’ Even a quick skim of the local rags had made that clear.
‘Spot on, Miss Marple.’
It wasn’t even worth an eye-roll. ‘OK.’ She sniffed, hiked her bag, turned on her heel. ‘I’ll think about it, let you know.’
Shaking his head, he watched her walk away.
‘One thing, Hercule,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘When I get back – quit calling me Bev.’
4
Detective Sergeant Morriss had been beavering away at her desk before most of the squad realized she was in the building. Her family doctor had signed her back, the paperwork now parked in HR’s in-tray. Bev had convinced herself citing chronic back pain hadn’t really constituted throwing a sickie: her spine might have been in good nick, but the rest of her had been crushed. Still was, when the black dog reared its ugly head.
Her coping strategy now was to adopt bland expressions and be so far in denial, Powell et al. would think she was Egyptian. She groaned out loud. Crack a gag like that in front of her DC partner and he’d soon be hassling for a transfer. But then Mac Tyler did stand-up in his spare time: he had comedy standards. Yeah, right. Actually the budding Peter Kay hadn’t long popped his head round the door, welcomed her home. She’d tipped him the wink in a text last nigh
t, issued a couple of orders at the same time.
Clicking on to yet another police report, Bev’s sigh lifted her fringe. She clocked the gesture on-screen, dismissed the gaunt face beneath. No time now for reflection, her list of questions was already an arm and a half long. An hour’s catch-up had barely scratched the Lucy Rayne inquiry backlog and, from what Bev had gathered so far, wheat was at a premium in a mountain of chaff. And if, as seemed likely, it turned out to be a random attack, the squad had been sifting with all its hands – and legs – tied behind its back.
Laying down the pen, Bev stared at the photograph she’d Blu-tacked to the nearest wall. In every ongoing murder investigation she kept a pic of the victim within visual reach, preferably a shot showing him or her full of life. Life, hopes and dreams the killer had dashed in the blink of an eye. Without the image, it was easy to lose sight of the person she’d only known post mortem; it focused Bev too, reminded her why she’d become a cop.
Leaning back in the chair, she crossed hands on top of her head, ran an assessing gaze over the photo. No doubt about it, Lucy had been quite the stunner. Not classic features, but definitely something in the way her full mouth lifted at one corner, the sparkle in those pale blue eyes. The long, dead-straight hair was a bit sixth-form, but she’d grow— No, she won’t.
Bev sighed, rolled back the chair, fast-pedalled it towards a shaft of sunlight falling across the grey carpet, then, feet in the air, she performed a couple of spins in an impromptu floorshow. And pretty quickly decided it was a bad move. She closed her eyes, waited for the dizzy feeling to subside.
‘Sleeping on the job already, Morriss?’ Powell had a distinctive drawl, but she detected a smile in it too.
‘Do the job with me eyes closed, me.’ Slowly she lifted just the one lid. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.
‘Is that right? And can Wonder Woman watch movies with her eyes closed, too?’
Grave Affairs Page 2
