She glanced to the right where her flowers had crash-landed: dead giveaway, that. Shame about the shed petals and broken stalks – enough left for a show, though. ‘Fair bit.’
He nodded. ‘I thought so. The sunflowers. Dad told me you liked them.’
‘He loved them.’ She smiled, started to rise.
He rose too, stood a good head taller. ‘My mother hated them.’
For a split second Bev froze, felt her cheeks burn. Slap in the face? No. Fist in the heart. Her eyes stung but she looked up, held her gaze steady. ‘Not sure I know where you’re coming from.’ He resented a perceived intrusion? Didn’t like her relationship with his dad? Or was it conceivable he blamed her for what happened that night? Maybe in the silence he’d been marshalling thoughts too?
‘Look, I’m sorry.’ He raked fingers through the hair at his left temple, the same gesture she’d seen his dad perform a thousand times. ‘I just think it’s a little … unsavoury.’
Unsavoury? Bland mealy-mouthed cobblers. She bit her tongue, literally. The guy had just poured acid into raw wounds; it was way too late for mincing words. ‘Unsavoury?’ She cocked her head, kept her voice even. ‘As in me being here’s not to your taste?’
He gave an if-you-like shrug. ‘My parents were married twenty-odd years. She adored him. Maybe you need to show a little respect to my mother’s memory, if nothing else.’
And the hits keep on coming. Each one a body blow. Bev recoiled inside, itched to land a few punches, but this was no place for a fight, even a verbal sortie. Assuming she had the right and the strength to take on Byford’s grieving son.
‘I hear what you say, Richard. Bear in mind your mother died before I started working with your dad. All I’m doing is laying flowers.’ Her spread palms were empty. ‘I don’t see the harm.’ She clocked him clench his jaw, counted the thirteen seconds their glances locked.
‘No.’ He bent to retrieve the fedora. ‘You never have.’
The pause and barely perceptible emphasis spoke volumes. Bev couldn’t muster a word. If she opened her mouth, there was no guarantee what would emerge, apart from blood from the bite. She gave a mock salute and walked. Whether fall-out from keeling over or current heightened emotions, she couldn’t stop shaking and her legs felt like straws. She heard him call a late apology and a few seconds another call asking if she needed a hand to the car park. Like hell she did. Pompous twat. As for the flowers, he could stick them where the sun don’t…
Sod that – he could shove them up his arse.
13
‘Hey, have you drowned in there yet?’ Frankie backed up the holler by hammering a fist on the bathroom door. ‘I’m cobbling together a bite to eat.’ The Italian’s ‘cobbling together’ meant something out of L’Escoffier.
‘Knock it on the head, pal.’ Bev rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not deaf and how many times you need telling, I’m not—’
‘Hungry. Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ve not tasted it yet.’
Bev studied the pads of her fingers. They didn’t look remotely prune-like to her. She hoisted a leg out the water, twisted her foot to see how the toes compared. Nah, pale and puckered, not dark and wrinkly. Why do people come out with complete bollocks all the time?
Well, some people.
‘You’ve been in there a good hour, Bevy.’
‘So?’ Some smells take longer to expunge than others. It wasn’t the traces of vomit she had in mind, though her Docs still bore the splash marks. She’d barfed twice after the run-in with Byford junior at Green Lodge. She’d just made it to the car in time, then cut it fine again heading for the porcelain at home. It was possible that Mac’s sandwich had held a dodgy prawn or two, but deep down Bev knew that was wishful thinking. Mind, anything was better than her thoughts on the showdown in the graveyard.
‘I had a chat with your Ma tonight.’
‘That’s nice for you.’ Bev heard a sigh, pictured Frankie with her ear pressed against the door listening for anything that might send alarm bells ringing. She knew her mate’s concerns but even in the darkest days Bev had no desire to take her own life. Take Richard sodding Byford down a peg or two, though. How dare he pontificate to her on burial etiquette? And yet … and yet … how come she felt seedy, unclean? Must be the dirt kicked in her face from the guy’s moral high ground.
‘Yeah, well it’s not me she wants to talk to, is it?’ Stone me. Was the bloody woman still banging on? ‘It wouldn’t hurt every now and again to return a call, y’know.’
Says who? ‘Are you finished?’
‘As it happens, no.’
Quick as a flash, Bev hauled herself out of the bath, dripped water all over the tiles, reached for the radio and turned the dial. There was nothing like a bit of heavy metal to set Perlagio’s teeth on edge. And when it was Black Sabbath full blast …
‘What’s got into you, Beverley? You think you’re so sodding—’ What? Clever? Cute? Bev would never know. She slid back into the water and let the beat go on.
‘So sodding clever, don’t you?’ Frankie’s volume tailed off, then she threw her arms in the air and took the stairs two at a time. Black bloody Sabbath? Black bloody Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday … Tossing back a cascade of hair, she strode to the stove and gave a vigorous stir to a simmering pan of pancetta, garlic, tomatoes, peppers, herbs and a Perlagio twist. What the hell had got into Bev? She’d been sweetness and light by comparison this morning. Pensive, the chef licked the wooden spoon, added more black pepper. Maybe her old friend just wasn’t ready to go back to work. Or maybe she was in the wrong bloody job? No amount of danger money could repair a damaged psyche. Frankie’s grimace had nothing to do with the chilli.
She reached high in a wall cupboard for linguine, tore the pack open with her teeth. She knew she wasn’t alone in thinking Bev should find something else. Mrs M couldn’t hide it any more: she’d poured out her heart on the phone. Emmy had felt for a while she was in the process of losing dear old Sadie, now she feared losing Bev too. The distance Bev had put between them in recent weeks was only partly to blame: Bev wasn’t the only one haunted by Byford’s violent death.
Swirling three servings of pasta into roiling water, Frankie wondered how best to introduce the subject of the evening’s other caller. Oz Khan was another Morriss no-go area. Frankie had been taken back in more ways than one to hear his voice on her mobile. Talk about blast from the past. He’d broken Bev’s heart three, four years ago when he took a sergeant’s job with the Met. Bev had turned down his offer to go with him, reckoned he only made it because she was up the duff. After she’d miscarried, not to mention after Oz’s engagement to a fellow cop, Bev had well and truly excommunicated the guy.
Frankie pursed her mouth. So either he’d lost Bev’s numbers or hadn’t got the bottle to make contact direct. Probably the latter. Come to think of it, Oz had sounded like he was on a fishing trip, testing the waters to try and discover what sort of welcome he’d get with Bev. Warm wasn’t the first word that sprang to mind.
‘Pot Noodle again, then?’
Talk of the devil. Frankie masked a smile, recognized Bev’s version of an olive branch.
‘Yeah and you’ll be wearing it in a minute, my friend.’ She glanced over her shoulder saw Bev perched on a stool, towel wrapped round her head. ‘Mind, a sauce suit couldn’t look any worse than that get-up.’
Bev looked down. ‘What’s wrong with this?’ She tugged the Bugs Bunny onesie in a vain effort to pull it into shape. ‘It was a Christmas present.’
‘Really? Who’d you buy it for?’
‘Hope the food’s better than the gags, funny girl.’ She hopped off the perch, sauntered over to examine the contents of the pan, reached for the spoon.
‘Touch that you’re dead,’ Frankie snapped.
‘Ouch.’ Bev snatched back the hand, sucked on the knuckles.
‘I don’t teach you how to nab the bad guys.’ She used the spoon as a pointer. ‘Go, girlfriend. Do something useful.’
Pour
ing wine was a safe bet. The Rioja slid down nicely, as did the pasta. Frankie served Bev seconds, as per. The small talk flowed freely too: telly, Twitter, upcoming gigs. Aretha Franklin was doing the rounds in the background. By the third glass Bev had sufficient bottle to broach the subject. She took another gulp anyway then related the gist of what Richard Byford had said.
‘He made me feel bad, Frankie. It’s the one place I still feel close to the guv. Reckon it’s best I don’t go again?’ The uncertainty in Bev’s welling eyes tore Frankie’s heart.
Had Frankie been asked earlier, she’d probably have suggested Bev cut back on the visits, the fear being that they’d turn into an unhealthy obsession causing even more pain. But talk about kicking a girl when she was down.
‘Know what, Bev?’ She reached across to stroke her friend’s hand. ‘I reckon whatever gets you through.’
14
‘God, you look rough.’ Powell studied Bev’s face as he held the fire door open. ‘Late night, was it?’
She sailed past without so much as a glance, caught a whiff of Colgate. ‘Dodgy prawn.’ Her voice held a smile. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘Lippy women, for one thing.’ Powell lengthened his pace to keep up. ‘I hope to God it’s not catching, Morriss. We wouldn’t want our esteemed guest going down with the lurgy, would we? Not until he coughs, anyway.’
Coughs? Like it was an open-and-shut case? She was tempted to pick him up on it but had second thoughts. Open mind and all that. As for the esteemed guest, Brian Tempest, she reckoned he looked as peaky as she felt. Bev stood on tiptoe to take a gander through Interview Room One’s peephole. Slack-mouthed, Tempest slumped in a chair, spindly legs sprawled in front. What with the ginger dreads and pimples, it was no sight for sore eyes … or queasy innards, come to that.
Frowning, it crossed her mind briefly whether Powell had inadvertently hit the nail on the proverbial. Maybe there was a bug going round? On the other hand, eating her body weight in pasta had probably been a bad move. It had certainly moved Bev to call in at the paper shop for a packet of Setlers. She turned to face Powell, tugging down her skirt: blue, natch.
‘What’s the other thing then, gaffer?’
‘Other thing?’ The nonplussed look dropped around the same time as the penny. ‘Apart from gobby females, you mean?’ He paused, fingers round the door handle. ‘I take it you’ve not picked up the rumour mill’s latest newsflash?’
She’d only just made Powell’s early starting orders. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘Word’s out about Byford’s replacement.’
She felt whatever colour her face had, drain. Daft really, it had to happen one day. ‘And?’
Powell twisted his mouth. ‘Some skirt from the smoke, Vince reckons.’
Skirt from the—? Bev trailed in, eyebrows knotted. Tempest jumped a mile when Powell landed a hefty file on the metal desk. A uniformed constable lounging against the wall straightened, then folded his arms over his chest. Bev put the revelation on the back burner: there’d be time enough for mulling it over later.
‘Slept well, I trust, Mr Tempest?’ Powell smoothed his silk tie. ‘Long day ahead and all that. ’Course, if you had a mind to …?’ The invitation stayed tacit.
‘Let’s think. No.’ Unsmiling, Tempest leaned back, arms folded across his chest. ‘The tapes aren’t running, my brief ain’t here and apart from telling you lot for the umpteenth time I don’t know Linda thingummy from Adam’s aunt, watch my lips. They is well sealed.’ Could explain the state of his breath. Bev and Powell exchanged glances before sitting well out of range.
‘It’s Lucy.’ Bev tore the cellophane from a fresh tape. ‘Lucy Rayne.’ His casual dismissal pissed her off.
‘There y’go then. Don’t mean a thing to me. I rest my case.’ He winked. ‘I could do with a cup a tea an’ all.’ The cocky git clicked his fingers. ‘Chop-chop, love.’
‘Names really aren’t your forte, are they?’ She flashed her ID in his face. ‘Morriss. Detective Sergeant. Remember? And I don’t do room service.’ If the gormless look was anything to go by, she’d lost him at forte.
Powell’s tight-lipped nod at the uniform said sort it. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act meant, among a bunch of other stuff, that interviewees had to be kept fed and watered.
‘Don’t forget the biccies, sunshine,’ Tempest called. He clearly knew his PACE rights inside out. Mind, the career criminal had more form than Aintree. In Stirchley, his home turf, his street name was Previous. As in convictions.
‘Your solicitor’s washing his hands,’ Powell said. ‘He’ll be here any time.’
‘Tell him to have a piss while he’s at it.’ Quite the Oscar Wilde. Tempest nearly wet himself laughing. When the guffaws morphed into a coughing spasm, Bev shoved a half-full glass across the table. Oops.
Cursing, he shot to his feet, brushing water off grubby jeans. ‘Clumsy bint.’
‘Sorry ’bout that.’ She reached into her bag, chucked a few tissues across the desk. ‘Accidents, huh? Not just the home where they happen.’
He pointed to the damp patch round his crotch. ‘This was no accident, you minger.’
She cocked her head. ‘Looks that way to me, Mr Tempest. Still, thank your lucky stars it wasn’t tea you spilt.’
Eyes narrowed, he leaned across the desk. ‘Are you trying to threaten me?’
‘Me?’ She held his gaze. ‘I’m not trying at all.’
Powell slung his pen on the desk. ‘Cool it. Now.’ Tempest broke eye contact first, glancing round when the door opened and a podgy bloke in a pinstripe suit strutted in like his train was about to pull out. Mind, the lawyer always put Bev in mind of the Fat Controller. What with the moon face, tight waistcoat and shiny shoes, all Larry Hicks needed was a monocle and a top hat. After nodding peremptory greetings at the detectives, Hicks placed a cheap attaché case on his lap and cut a sideways glance at his client. ‘Anything wrong, Mr Tempest?’
He lifted a corner of his mouth. ‘Where shall I stop?’
A brief sotto voce exchange followed, then Hicks asked for time alone with Tempest plus replacement trousers.
Bev clocked Powell’s jaw clench as his chair legs scraped the floor tiles. He picked up the file, then tapped his watch. ‘Twenty minutes.’
She’d barely closed the door before he opened fire. ‘Very mature. What the hell were you playing at in there, Morriss?’
‘Hey.’ She raised both palms. ‘Like I say, it wasn’t—’ Deliberate.
‘Don’t come the innocent with me.’ Beckoning her to follow, he strode down the corridor. ‘You knew damn well I wanted him sweet.’
‘You call that sweet?’ She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. Relatively speaking, Tempest had been oozing cooperative candour yesterday, but a night of cold-turkey reflection had quashed that before the session even kicked off. ‘The guy’s an offensive slime ball.’
‘It may have escaped your powers of detection but we don’t see a lot of toffs in Highgate nick.’ He drew up outside his office, turned to face her. ‘What is your problem, sergeant?’
The way Tempest couldn’t even get a victim’s name right? That maybe she was fresh out of tolerance for taking gratuitous crap from ignorant twats? A design fault, that. Because for cops it was par for the course, and coarse. If she was sick of the jibes she might as well hand in the badge. ’Course, she could just be having a bad day. She shook her head. ‘I dunno.’
‘I wanted him amenable so he’d drop his guard. You needled him from the start. Why?’
She lashed out, eyes flashing. ‘I said I don’t know. Back off, eh? At least I don’t want—’ To stitch him up. Dropping her gaze, she toed the floor, saw an imaginary blue line she was a gnat’s nose-hair from crossing.
‘Don’t want what?’ he snapped, loosening his tie.
She shrugged. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘I’ll tell you what I don’t want, shall I?’ He waited until she made eye contact. ‘I don’t want your stroppy att
itude. I don’t want your lip. I don’t want you abusing the slack I cut you, Morriss.’ Opening her mouth was as far as she got. ‘Hear me out, I’m not finished. When the Tempest interview resumes, I’ll not have you anywhere near it.’
She might have grovelled, but saw no point apologizing to a door.
15
‘Sorry it’s a bad line – is that Bev Morriss?’
‘That’s me.’ She frowned, reached for the cup on her desk. It wasn’t the call she’d been expecting, though the male voice certainly rang more than a bell. But why was Byford junior phoning and how’d he get the unlisted number? Whatever. He needed to make it snappy. Mac had a stack of interviews lined up in Kings Heath, people who’d come forward after seeing media coverage of the incident in the park.
‘About last night?’ The throat clearing again. ‘I want to apologize.’
Oh, that’s all right then. Slowly swirling the remains of her coffee, Bev took a while to weigh up a response then: ‘It’s OK, Richard. You were upset. I could see that.’
‘So were you. Look, it’s no excuse, I was out of order.’ She heard a sigh, pictured him sweeping the hair back from his temple. ‘It’s just I hadn’t realized …’
She took a sip, pulled a face. Only one thing worse than canteen coffee: cold canteen coffee. Shame it wasn’t tea – reading the leaves might provide pointers to what the guy was struggling to spit out. She thought it might be Bach playing in the background. Not that she was big on classical. ‘Hadn’t realized what?’
‘I’m at Dad’s place, sorting things, packing up the house. I’ve come across a few papers, letters, photos, personal stuff.’
‘O … K.’ Did she want to hear the rest? ‘And?’
‘Some of it I think you should have. Actually, I’m pretty sure Dad would want that too.’
Like what? Coffee trickled down her fingers as the paper cup caved in under pressure. Scowling she chucked it in the bin, licked the heel of her hand. Nothing was going to bring the guv back; what Richard had discovered could mean even more pain. And yet … Frowning, she glanced up at a knock on the door. Mac popped his head in the gap.
Grave Affairs Page 7
