Grave Affairs

by Maureen Carter

  ‘Yeah, OK.’ She sniffed. Viewing the crime-scene footage needed both eyes wide; x-ray vision wouldn’t go amiss either. The task topped her to-do list once the brief was done and dusted. Second-hand images were nowhere near as good as the real thing, but as being there on the night was no longer an option, needs must.

  She scooted the chair back to the desk, plucked a hair off her boot-cut denims – navy, natch. ‘How about CCTV, then? What’s the state of play?’

  Squad members had trawled through masses of the stuff, he told her. If she wanted a butcher’s at the edited highlights, there were copies in his office. She added CC to the list under read interview transcripts. The print-outs were already on her desk and Powell had a beady eye on the top one, Nathan Rayne’s.

  ‘You’d best look at the tape too.’ Her frown raised a question. As far as she was aware Rayne hadn’t been cautioned, let alone pulled in. He’d asked for a recorded interview at the nick, Powell explained. The guy had turned up two weeks back with a brief in tow and told Powell it was, quote: ‘“So you get off my back and concentrate on catching the bastard who’s ruined my life.” Cocky git.’

  Ruined his life? Interesting slant. One for the Morriss back burner, that. All innocent, Bev held Powell’s gaze. ‘Frankie hasn’t got a bad word to say about the guy.’

  He peeled himself off the frame. ‘No accounting for taste, is there?’ Her grin faded when he called from down the corridor, ‘Brief’s in ten, Morriss. Don’t be late.’

  ‘Pass me an egg, grandma,’ she muttered.

  ‘Egg? No way.’

  Still scowling, she glanced up to see Mac heading her way, paper plate in each palm. With the rumpled denims and loud check shirt, he looked like a lumberjack moonlighting in a greasy spoon. He’d revived the logger wardrobe when he got the old heave-ho from his last squeeze. She’d got him into chinos and plain cotton but the look, like the woman, hadn’t gone the distance.

  ‘Get that down you, boss.’

  Bev’s eyes widened as he placed one of the plates in front of her. Even for the canteen, the bacon butty was a whopper. It looked like the best part of a pig was struggling to get out.

  ‘Trust me, sarge. That’ll put hairs on your chest.’

  Chest hair. Just what I’ve always wanted. Lip curled, she lifted a chunk of white bread oozing ketchup. ‘What part of “Could you get me a banana?” didn’t you grasp, Tyler?’ It couldn’t have been any clearer in last night’s text.

  ‘Come on, boss. Look at you. You’re wasting away. Talk about a bag a—’

  Bones. ‘Say it, mate. There’s no—’ Need to tread on eggshells. Not Mac, anyway.

  ‘More sauce?’ Smiling, he stretched out a palm full of sachets.

  She shook her head, shoved the plate to one side, tried to ignore her stomach’s growling disbelief.

  Mac helped himself to a seat. He sure wasn’t about to fade away any time soon. Not shovelling a sausage bap down his neck like there was no tomorrow. Mind, Bev had to admit she’d kinda missed the old boy. His junior rank bore no relation to his age, experience or avoirdupois. Fifty-plus and pushing fifteen stone, her sidekick had felt more collars than Dot Cotton in the Walford launderette. Bev was pretty damn sure his use of the term ‘Boss’ held more than a hint of irony, and was absolutely sure there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for her.

  ‘So, Tyler, what about the rest of my little missive?’ She drummed the desk with her fingers, watched as he wiped the grease from his mouth.

  ‘Done my best, boss.’ Shoving the hankie in his pocket. Failing to make eye contact. Bev pursed her lips. She’d asked him to spread the word. The last thing she wanted was the squad coming over all Oprah Winfrey. As long as no one mentioned Byford or asked how she was feeling, she’d probably get through the day. Just.

  ‘Appreciate it, mate.’ She hoped his best was good enough. He’d certainly flunked the banana test.

  ‘Well, sarge, I reckon it’s about time we earned a crust.’ He ditched the plate, ambled over to the door, offered her a warm smile. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Give us a minute, eh?’ Just until her stomach stopped churning. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  At least he shut the door this time. She waited a few seconds before sliding open the top drawer. Under her newly-opened “Baby Fay” file, she’d placed another victim’s smiling picture. ‘Wotcha, guv. Wish me luck, eh?’As she closed the drawer, her gut was still doing its thing. Only one thing for it. She made a grab for the sandwich and demolished half of it in two minutes flat. Shame to see it go to waste.

  5

  You’re wasting everyone’s valuable time, officer. A man, centre frame, ran both hands through glossy blue-black hair that fell just below his shoulders. The classy bone structure was nature’s gift, but the shiny white veneers had probably cost an arm and a leg. Seated in a viewing booth at Highgate, Bev paused the tape then shuffled forward. The longest lashes she’d ever seen on a bloke framed baby-blue eyes, the lightly tanned complexion looked equally smooth close-up. As for attitude? Confident nonchalance with more than a touch of effortless charisma. Yep, she sure could see why Nathan Rayne had lodged in Powell’s nostrils. The guy’s wise-ass comebacks had wormed their way under the DI’s skin too. Not so much what Rayne said as the making-allowances-for-a-thicko delivery. Match made in heaven, then. Bev retrieved the pen from behind her ear, hit Play and reran one of the loving exchanges.

  So to recap, Mr Rayne, as I understand it you left the house at around four a.m., concerned your wife hadn’t returned home.

  You understand correctly.

  Was that a usual occurrence?

  Cack-handed wording or what? Even second time round, Bev winced. She knew what Powell was driving at but there were more direct ways to get there. His body language didn’t help, either. He’d gone for the anal-retentive look whereas Rayne could’ve been mainlining muscle relaxants.

  His sigh was audible, then: Was what a usual occurrence, officer?

  Your wife—?

  I assure you my wife wasn’t in the habit of staying out late.

  I’m not sugg—

  It might help everyone if you can express yourself more clearly, officer.

  She almost felt sorry for Powell; he’d walked straight into that one. Clearly the subtext had been whether Lucy Rayne might have had a bit of rough on the side, a reason for not coming home until the early hours. Not the easiest poser to put to a grieving widower whose wife had bled to death virtually on her doorstep. Recalling the crime-scene footage, Bev shuddered. Lucy Rayne laid out like an extra from a vampire movie, fractured skull to boot. As to a murder weapon or two, there’d still been no sight. The pathologist’s report cited a blunt instrument and a serrated blade. Thank God for that, or the squad would really be stumbling in the dark.

  Eyes creased, she studied Rayne again. The guy was certainly no idiot. He’d known precisely where Powell was going, and after a bit more fancy verbal footwork had fully answered the question and follow-ups. He’d even overridden his brief’s advice from time to time. He had of course vehemently rebutted the suggestion Lucy was playing away, and without a scrap of evidence the line of inquiry was on hold.

  She reached for the Evian bottle, sank the last tepid sips. Her temples throbbed. No surprise, given she’d spent most of the day closeted away on catch-up. At least she was au fait with other inquiry lines the squad was still following. She ran her gaze down the bullet points on her pad: the stalker route – had Lucy been the target of an obsessive? The deranged fan – had Rayne’s recent marriage seriously unhinged one of his groupies? The robber scenario – someone had certainly lifted Lucy’s rings and bag, but why the heavy-handed violence? Muggers rarely went in for overkill. Random attack by a crazy appeared to be hot favourite among the squad. Bev tapped a finger on her lips. It didn’t ring true, somehow. Seemed to her there was something personal in the assault’s ferocity and close-to-home location.

  ‘Never trust a bloke wearing mascara.’ Mouth down, Mac nodded
a sage head towards the screen.

  ‘Chrissakes, Tyler.’ Scowling, she glanced over her shoulder. God, she hated people creeping up on her. ‘And what’s with the mascara crack?’

  ‘Not mine, boss.’ He slurped something from a polystyrene cup. ‘It’s from the Chairman Powell book of wit and wisdom.’

  ‘That’d be a slim volume,’ she murmured, rolling back the chair. Mac had to take evasive action. Smartish. Shame about the coffee and the shirtfront. ‘What’s your take on Rayne then, clever dick?’

  ‘Intelligent, articulate, sharp.’

  ‘How sharp?’ Too sharp? Is that what Mac wasn’t saying?

  ‘As a filed tack.’

  ‘How about guilty?

  ‘Can’t see it myself.’ He slung the cup towards the bin. Couldn’t see that either. Unsmiling, she wagged a finger until he bent to do the decent thing. Given the flash of bum crack, she’d probably let the littering go next time. ‘I was on the call-out that night, boss. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone so overcome with grief.’

  He had a bloody short memory then. ‘That right?’ Mouth tight, she reached for her bag; she’d put in twelve hours. ‘Laters.’

  ‘I meant … murder suspect … boss.’ His voice tailed off. He knew he’d put his size twelve in his big mouth again. Watching from the doorway, Mac dithered about going after her. A few of the lads were going over the road for a jar in The Prince. Given she’d barely shown her face apart from at the briefs, he doubted a spot of socializing would be high on her wish list. Besides, he’d probably only end up pissing her off even worse. Nah. Best knock the idea on the head.

  He caught up with her on the stairs. ‘Fancy a drink, boss? My shout.’

  Like a hole in the head. ‘Nah, you’re OK, Mac. I’ve got a bit of business lined up.’

  Unfinished business.

  6

  Paul Curran hadn’t even had the decency to finish the job and end his miserable existence. He’d been in a persistent vegetative state since gunning down Byford in cold blood four weeks, three nights ago. There were other casualties in the fall-out from the failed police operation. DCI Lance Knight, who’d green-lighted Bev’s futile attempt to save Byford’s life, had fallen on his sword. A senior detective accepting full responsibility and resigning no questions asked had probably saved a few junior necks. The findings of an internal inquiry were pending, but no officer had yet been suspended. The marksman who put a bullet through Curran’s head had been taken off the firearms unit. A lot of cops reckoned he should’ve been awarded a row of medals.

  When the story hit the media, Paul Curran, a police press officer, made the headlines.

  Death wish cop killer said it all. And nothing at all. Bev Morriss knew the full score: Curran three, cops nil. She’d entered the guv’s house that night, begged Curran not to open fire, spun a pack of lies aimed at persuading him to surrender to armed officers waiting outside. With hindsight, he’d clearly never had any intention of giving himself up. Dashing into the street waving the gun around was asking to be taken out.

  Suicide by cop they call it.

  Only it hadn’t worked. The pathetic shit still drew breath.

  Fists clenched into tight balls, Bev stood at the foot of his bed in the nursing home. The Sunrise, they called it. She could think of better names. The room was all muted lights, soft hums and pastel shades and it stank of human waste. Heart pounding, she ran an assessing gaze over a man she’d happily tear apart with her bare hands. Sandy hair, smattering of freckles, bland features: Mr Innocuous. Apart from a twisted mind and homicidal bent.

  There’d been no change since her last visit. Curran looked exactly the same, like he was asleep, dead to the world. Except there was no cognitive function, no bladder or bowel control, he couldn’t feed himself or speak and the occasional spooky opening of the eyes was involuntary. First time it happened, Bev had nearly shat herself. But the odd twitch didn’t figure; take away the feeding tubes, the drips, the other paraphernalia, and Curran’s lying in state would be permanent, as opposed to persistent. PVS. Same initials, but a world of difference.

  Bev had crammed up on the subject, read everything she could lay hands on, waylaid the odd medico in the corridor. Persistent meant a chance the patient would regain consciousness. After a year the condition’s deemed permanent, people rarely recover and at the say-so of a court feeding and watering’s usually withheld. If Curran went down that route, likely he’d be sedated and left to die.

  Peacefully. In his sleep.

  Peacefully? Bev had to unfurl her fists before the nails pierced the palms. She dug both hands in her pockets, out of harm’s way. There was certainly no family clamouring round trying to save Curran’s waste of skin. There’d been an older sister, until he murdered her, smothered her baby at the same time, hours before wasting the big man. Quite the killing spree. Had Curran also despatched Josh Banks, the ten-year-old whose murder Bev had been working before Byford’s death? That’d raise the score-line a notch. The cops needed more than one late goal.

  Bev stirred at a movement of air, glanced round to see a nurse framed in the threshold.

  ‘Are you here again?’ The young woman smiled. ‘Can’t keep away, can you? Need a chair, pet?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, ta.’ Night Nurse Nina, Bev always thought of her. She’d ferried a coffee in for Bev one evening and they’d started chatting, got on pretty well. The blonde bun, grey eyes and hot figure probably met most male patients’ fantasies. The genuine warmth and wicked sense of humour did it for Bev and they’d exchanged numbers. ‘I’m just about done here.’

  ‘It’s good of you to come.’ Smiling again, she glanced at the patient. ‘It’s not like he has a lot of visitors.’

  Bev raised a don’t-mention-it palm. ‘Seems the least I can do.’ Unlike Nina. Bev watched as she knelt and did the needful with the catheter. Sooner you than me, sweetheart.

  She’d told the nursing home she was distantly related. Dead distant. She’d had to keep away from Curran when he was in the Queen Elizabeth; chances of being recognized as a cop by staff at the hospital were that much greater. Apart from anything else, a young detective colleague had been in a coma there a few weeks back; Bev used to stop by every opportunity she got to see him. Darren New had pulled through, thank God, expected back on light duties any time soon. There had to be some light at the end of the tunnel.

  ‘Cheer up, love.’ Nina held Bev’s gaze as she tightened the bun a gnat’s. ‘There’s still a chance, you know.’

  ‘Chance?’

  ‘That he’ll wake up.’

  She gave a sad half-smile. ‘We can but hope.’

  ‘You know what they say? Where there’s life …’ She arched an encouraging eyebrow. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Give you time to say goodnight.’

  ‘Appreciate it. See you soon.’ She heard fading footsteps, a car horn, her pulse whooshing in her head. She’d been here twice before, observing. Watching brief. The first time she clocked his eyes open, her hopes took a hike. She’d held her breath willing him to show another sign. It was Nina who told her the eye thing was common with PVS cases. They’d even crack the odd smile or grimace: it didn’t necessarily signify much. Bev had masked bitter disappointment.

  More than almost anything in life, she wanted the bastard to come round, wanted him to see her waiting, wanted to pose a few outstanding questions. Then finish that bit of business.

  It was in bed that night when Nina’s words came back to Bev: It’s not like he has a lot of visitors.

  Propped up on an elbow, Bev sipped water from a glass. Not a lot of visitors? Did that mean there were others? Given Billy-no-mates Curran had wiped out what remaining flesh and blood he had, it raised a couple of questions.

  Who else was keeping an eye on the murdering bastard and, more important, why?

  7

  ‘Sleep OK?’ Frankie’s words struggled through a stifled yawn. Wearing leopard print jimmies and a trace of Nina Ricci, she padded across the kitchen he
ading for the kettle.

  Suited and booted in blue, Bev looked back at her toast, snapped off a black crust. ‘A log would be amnesiac by comparison.’ That was forgetting the hot sweats, the nausea, the night terrors.

  ‘I think the word you’re after’s “insomniac”.’

  Bev pulled a face behind her friend’s back, watched as she effortlessly opened a window. Bloody Amazonian barely needed to stretch. Bev’s handy wooden box had gone walkabout or she might have released the fug herself. Breaking off another burnt edge, she muttered a ‘Whatevs.’

  ‘So did you or didn’t you?’ Smiling, Frankie leaned against the sink, folded her arms. ‘Sleep, that is.’ Even bathed in strong sunlight, she looked like something off a classy lads’ mag. Bev could spit.

  ‘Sorry? No one told me it was the Italian inquisition.’ Christ, there were only a couple of mouthfuls worth eating.

  ‘Duh! It’s Span—’

  ‘Double-duh!’ Like she didn’t know that. The eye-roll was pretty eloquent too. ‘You’ve missed your calling, mate.’ Bev sniffed. ‘You’d be better off in a classroom.’ Teaching. As opposed to semi-pro singing, with a bit of maîtresse d’ing thrown in on the side, courtesy of her dad’s restaurant.

  ‘It was a harmless enough question.’ Frankie was certainly studying Bev’s face. ‘You’d rather I didn’t worry about you?’

  ‘Ten out of ten. I’ve got a mother for that, OK? Emmy’s got degrees in fretting.’ Bev stormed over to the bin, slung the lot in. ‘She does my head in as well.’

  ‘As well?’ The subtext hadn’t passed her by.

  Bev clocked Frankie’s mouth tighten and her hand pause momentarily as she went to pour boiling water in the pot. Why the hell didn’t she just come out with it? If Bev had a penny for every time Frankie and the rest had buttoned it recently, she could be a bloody city banker. Banker? Maybe not. Either way she was sick of being treated like she was made of glass.

  Bag shouldered and keys in hand, she strode towards the door. ‘In future, missus, try telling it like it is, eh?’ If people just stopped pussyfooting round her eggshell ego, they’d all get on a damn sight better.