‘Why not try keeping your gob shut too?’
She shot up, spitting metaphorical feathers. ‘How dare you speak to a senior off—?’
‘Act like one then.’ Steely-eyed, she watched him open a bottle of water, slake his thirst then wipe the back of a hand across his mouth.
‘Apologize now, Tyler.’
‘Get lost. Rachel Howard made a mistake. We know it. She knows it. The woman feels like shit without you rubbing her nose in it.’
‘Diddums. Tell someone who gives a crap.’
‘And that’s another thing,’ pointing a podgy finger, ‘the way you looked at her, anyone’d think she was the crim not the vic. Goes without saying she ought to have done the decent thing sooner, but if she’d not come forward, we’d be none the wiser. The woman lost her daughter a few months back. Just cut her some slack, eh?’ He tightened his lips. ‘That last pop was pure spite. Why’d you do it, Bev?’
Sorrow more than anger? Red rag. Raging bull.
She felt her heat rise and it had nothing to do with the sun. ‘Let’s ask Cath Gates, shall we? Whoops, I forgot, we can’t. ’Cause she’s still fucking critical.’
‘Keep it down, for Christ’s sake. You sound like a harpy – and however loud you shout, it won’t make you right.’
‘Yeah? Well, it looked to me like you were the one having trouble keeping it down, mate. Fawning? It was like the frigging Rachel Howard fan club in there.’
Mac licked his lips very slowly. It must’ve been nine, ten seconds before he spoke. ‘That was below the belt even for you. And you know what? You’re talking through your arse.’
‘It’s between the legs I’m talking.’
His clenched jaw should’ve acted as a brake. ‘If I were you I’d take that back right now, DS Morriss.’
‘Or what?’ She could only see his profile.
‘Or I put in a complaint.’ He flicked the ignition, cut her a glance. ‘And I go see Powell, tell him I can’t work with you any longer.’
‘Suit yourself, constable.’ She turned her head away, eyes smarting. No frigging way would she withdraw it. Tyler had given Rachel Howard the ogle-eye from the get-go. Pathetic. Bloke his age slavering over a woman who couldn’t see further than the end of her pretty little nose. While all Bev could see was Cath Gates lying damn near dead. Take it back? Like hell she would. Tyler could go fuck himself.
Lips tightly clamped she tapped a foot, ignored the nagging voice in her head. Streets and people passed in a blur as she stared unseeing through the window. Bit by bit niggles wormed their way into her thinking. Mac had a point. If Rachel Howard had kept her trap shut they’d never have known about the assault. She could hardly have been expected to second-guess the consequences of keeping it to herself. And all those Golden Boy fantasies, Bev? Wasn’t it a bit rich, giving Mac a hard time? Yeah, yeah, yeah. So?
She yanked her bag off the floor, rummaged through it for the Setlers while sneaking a glance or two at her partner. His body language said laid-back, features set in the same equable expression. Why couldn’t she hide her feelings like that? Mac looked the same as ever: calm, solid, sound. Through the good times and the freaking dire, he’d been there, looking out for her, watching her back. Six years they’d been a double act; she couldn’t stand the thought of it coming to an end. Christ, if she’d managed to alienate even Mac Tyler, the famous Morriss empathy must be well and truly dead in the water. She’d consider swallowing her pride if she could only get rid of the sodding heartburn. Bollocks. To top it all the Setlers were history. Flopping back, she shoved the empty pack in her bag.
‘There’s more in there.’ Tight-lipped, he nodded at the glove compartment.
She frowned. ‘You feeling dodge too?’
‘Nope. I knew yours wouldn’t last long. You’ve been eating them like Smarties.’
Her eyes welled up at the simple act of kindness. Why was she such a bitch? Mac was a star and she treated him like shit. She had to wait a while before trusting her voice not to crack. When he’d parked up at the rear of the nick, she laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘I don’t deserve you, Mac. You’re good to me and I was well out of order.’
‘Correct on all counts.’
‘I’m really sorry, mate.’
He shrugged, made to open the door. ‘Mac, what more can I say?’
‘As I recall, you’ve already said too much.’
Talking between the legs. She cringed at the memory. ‘It was a load of bollocks, mate, I take back every word.’
‘Every word?’
‘Deffo.’
‘And you’ll cut down on the lip?’
‘Double deffo.’
Another nod, then he got out of the motor. Was she forgiven? He didn’t say either way until they’d almost reached the back entrance. ‘OK, I’ll give you a clean sheet; don’t blot it.’
‘It’s not sheets you blot, mate, it’s— Sorry, force of habit.’ She waited inside the door, gave Mac a tentative smile. ‘We pals again then?’
‘S’pose.’ Thank God for that. He turned his mouth down. ‘I ain’t into all that kiss and make up stuff though.’
‘Nor me, mate.’ She risked a friendly wink. ‘People’d only talk.’
17
‘Can’t talk now, Mum, sorry.’ Bev towelled her hair with a free hand, regretted picking up the call at all. Powell had been in full flow at the late brief, so she was in blue-arsed-fly mode at the moment. Actually, given late developments, make that Powell had been in full crow: the blond reckoned they were a scintilla away from charging Tempest with the Lucy Rayne murder, on top of Cath Gates’s attempted. As for Rachel Howard’s would-be assault, it’d be small beer by comparison, assuming that was Tempest’s baby too.
‘Bev. I just want—’
‘I’ll give you a bell tomorrow, OK?’
‘But love, there’s—’
‘After Corrie?’ Her mum and gran had soaps coming out their ears. The silence suggested Emmy was less than thrilled. ‘Tell you what, Mum, I’ll try and pop round instead, how’s that?’
Shorter silence this time then: ‘Don’t bother, Bev. I wouldn’t want to put you out.’
‘No worr— Mum?’ Frowning, she stared at the screen. No Emmy either. Sarky? Sad? Bev suspected a bit of both. She shrugged, tossed the phone on the bed. She’d make up for it tomorrow, take round a box of chocs, splash out on the Baileys.
If Powell was on the money about Tempest, the next few days would be more a case of the squad tying loose ends rather than chasing leads. If.
Bev ditched the DIY hairdryer, started rifling Frankie’s bulging make-up bag. As for the Rayne evidence, it still looked pretty flimsy far as she was concerned. Maybe more than paper-thin, but by no means conclusive. Lips pursed, she lined up concealer, eye shadow, mascara and blusher. Frankie only had herself to blame – she shouldn’t leave the stuff lying round. Not that Bev’s mate would give two hoots. Unlike Nathan Rayne, who’d well resented Tempest sponging readies off him. Rayne had recognized the guy straight off from the pic Sumi Gosh had finally run past him. Goshi had recounted the rest of the tale at the brief.
Tempest had apparently been a roadie back in the nineties. Not for Rayne’s boy band, but mixing in the same milieu; they’d run into each other at gigs, festivals, the like. More recently, Tempest had approached Rayne outside the radio studios, tapped him up for a few quid. Rayne had reluctantly dug his hand in his pocket but told Tempest in no uncertain terms not to make a habit of it. The intelligence had all come pretty late in the day, so Tempest would be confronted with the new lines of questioning in the morning. Powell hoped that by then there’d be something concrete from forensics to back it up.
Bev pouted into the magnifying mirror, checking the results of her mini-makeover. What was Obama’s line about lipstick and a pig? Yeah, well, she’d never really got the hang of slap. Who needed it anyway? Shit. Half seven already. As she shot up from the stool, the strategically placed toga towel landed round her ankles. She stepp
ed out of it, picked her way through a carpet of blue ensembles that she’d given the elbow before her shower.
The shift dress she had in mind had only had one outing, should be on the rail at the back of the wardrobe. Yep. She ferried it to the cheval glass, posed with it against her body. Her mouth lifted at one corner. The guv had been spot on: the cornflower-blue was an exact match for her eyes. Her smile faded when she glimpsed the ugly scar. Normally she glossed over it – no point dwelling on what might have been. This time she traced a finger along the jagged line where a crazy had stabbed her in the belly. Bev had lost unborn twins. Lost? Well, it was one way of putting it. She swallowed. Any wonder she chose not to give it headroom?
She treated herself to an imaginary twirl, reckoned the fit would be a tad looser, but hey. Right. Pumps or kitten heels?
‘Bev?’ Frankie tapped the door. ‘You seen my make-up?’
‘I think it’s on the shelf in the bathroom, babe.’ Grimacing, she waited on a count of ten before sneaking downstairs. She slipped the bag on the side in the kitchen, tiptoed down the narrow hallway. If she could just get out before—
‘Off out, are we?’ Frankie said, mid-slink down the stairs. If Bev didn’t turn her head, she still might get away with it. Not swiping the warpaint, but being forced to come clean about where she was going. Frankie would be agog, read way too much into it, then demand chapter and verse. Her cross-examination skills could have been honed at Guantanamo; giving her an opening was out the question.
‘Yeah, evening class. Must fly.’
‘What they teaching you, then?’
Her mind went blank. ‘Poetry.’ What. The. Feck. She needed lessons in blurting. How not to.
‘Poetry. I should’ve guessed.’ Sarky madam. ‘Have fun. Hun.’
Bev rolled her eyes. Wordsworth could rest easy. ‘Yeah, don’t wait up.’
‘Oh Bev?’
‘Yeah?’ Without thinking, she turned.
Eyebrow raised, Frankie gave Bev’s face the once-over, twice. ‘No worries. Don’t want to be late, do you? They might make you stay behind after class.’ The jollity sounded false, the smile seemed forced.
Bev just nodded, pulled the door to behind her. Frankie not commenting on the effort she’d made to look half-decent was almost more worrying than not hearing the verdict.
Powell smacked his lips and placed an empty pint glass on a Guinness beer mat. He’d done the pally overtures bit: time to get down to business, gloves off. ‘Come on Tyler, spill. How’s she doing?’
Mac took temporary avoidance measures by downing the last inch or two of bitter. The unlikely coupling wasn’t his choice. They happened to be leaving the nick at the same time and Powell had offered a swift bevvy in The Station. Mac had the distinct impression that refusal wasn’t an option. He glanced across the crowded bar to where a few of the lads were gathered, jars in hand, engrossed in the big match on the wide screen. Another scrap Mac could live without.
‘Give us a break, gaffer.’ Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. ‘She’s only been back a few days.’ It was far too early for Mac to deliver the goods. Thinking on, make that the bads. If he didn’t have so much time for Bev, he’d already have shared his concerns, could’ve provided Powell with a list.
‘Believe it or not, I’m well aware of her presence.’ Powell drew his lips together, then adopted another tack. ‘Any problems need nipping in the bud though, wouldn’t you say, Mac?’
He saw a buck passing his way. Shame the blond hadn’t shelled out for nibbles at the same time. Mac could hardly be expected to talk through a mouth full of pork scratchings. That’d be well rude.
‘Come on,’ Powell prompted. ‘Look at it this way: full-blown shit hitting the fan wouldn’t do any of us any good, would it? Least of all Bev.’
‘Goes without saying.’ He tilted his head at the glasses. Powell looked well pissed off, just signalled half with a hand. Mac shuffled off for refills, hoped the blond wasn’t reloading.
‘Same again, is it?’ The landlord’s meaty hand was primed on the pump.
‘Ta, Stan. Chuck in a pack of them, will you, mate? Actually make that two.’
‘Pushing the boat?’
Mac gave a lopsided smile, turned his head to look at Powell. He’d swear the gaffer had Bev’s interests at heart, but suspected that if they clashed with his, or her arsy antics jeopardized his career or an inquiry, she’d be out on her bum. And so she should be, not that it had come to that yet. Mac sighed. But was he really doing her any favours keeping schtum? Bev had always had a gob on her, everyone knew that, but her tongue now had a vicious edge, and her moods were more volatile, less predictable. And Mac wasn’t stupid; he’d registered that near meltdown at the Cath Gates crime scene. Bev had nearly lost something there, and it sure as hell hadn’t been her footing.
To blab or not to blab? That was the question. Either way he’d not be able to leave the jury out much longer, least of all because Powell wouldn’t allow it to go on. Right now, the guy was chatting merrily away to a girl clearing the table. The red-haired lass hadn’t joined in, but the Mona Lisa smile suggested she’d heard it all a million times before. Or maybe didn’t have a clue where he was coming from. Join the club. Powell’s love life was a mystery to Mac. The guy took care of himself, wasn’t bad-looking, yet he’d not had a long-term partner in the six years Mac had known him. Bev reckoned his wife had left him for a woman and it was a case of once bitten … But then, Morriss could be all heart sometimes.
He settled up, then ferried the drinks back across the tacky mud-coloured carpet. Could Powell, he wondered, be seeking grounds to put Bev out to grass? No, he didn’t think so. Mind, if the cheeky little sod came out with another slur like that one in the car, he’d drag her to the knackers’ yard himself. It was all very well looking on Bev as a daughter, he thought, but every kid needed slapping down from time to time.
‘I could give her one.’ Powell’s lecherous gaze was directed at the barmaid weaving her way through the punters.
Mac had a mind to ask, one what? But he’d probably get the gory details. ‘Cheers.’
‘Hey, I only wanted a half.’
‘Don’t finish it then, gaffer.’ Mac pulled the chair further round to get a better view of the screen. Well, something like that.
‘Talking of unfinished business.’ He took a slurp. ‘Bev Morriss.’ He proceeded to relate more or less verbatim the exchange in the squad room when Bev had lashed out at Mac.
‘Water off a duck’s back, gaffer. It’s the way we are.’ Mac shrugged. Recalled who’d been round that day and presumed Jack Hainsworth had grassed on her.
‘Not in front of an audience, it isn’t.’ He slammed the glass on the table, his opinion clearly non-negotiable.
‘Fair enough. I’ll have a word.’ End of? He bloody hoped so. Despite Mac’s own misgivings, he’d decide if and when Bev’s behaviour needed reporting. Powell could back off. Conversation buzzed around them, but Mac let his raised glass do the talking. The silence between them wasn’t companionable and didn’t last long.
‘By the way,’ Powell leaned forward, lowered his voice. ‘How’s Bev’s ankle? Going over like that the other day could’ve been well nasty.’
‘Why not ask her yourself? I’m sure she’d appreciate a kindly word.’ He smiled, then drained his glass, got to his feet. A rustling from his pocket acted as reminder. ‘Got something for you, gaffer.’ He dropped a pack of scratchings on the table, tapped a mock salute. ‘Don’t eat them all at once.’
At least he’d given the guy something to chew on.
18
Leafy Four Oaks and its double-fronted detacheds were a thirteen-mile drive and a far cry from Bev’s back-street Moseley terrace. The clue was in the name and leafy was no cliché given the upmarket area boasted one of the UK’s biggest parks, not to mention back gardens the size of Kew. Bev sniffed. She could get away with nose trimmers on her patch of grass. If she’d a mind to.
She parked the
MG a few doors down from the guv’s pad, grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, checked her face in the mirror. As she locked the motor, she scanned the wide tree-lined street with its gleaming people carriers, classy porticoes, lush lawns. Byford had loved living just that bit further out, reckoned the short commute gave him psyching up time or winding down, whatevs. Bev hoped a short walk and fresh air might help clear her head too…
Of the same road chock-full of emergency vehicles: police cars, ambulances, armed response unit, everything lit by main beams and flashing blues. Of the shots, the screams, the stench of scotch mingled with blood. She closed her eyes briefly, then held her head high, hiked her bag and strode into the drive.
Richard must’ve been on lookout: the heavy front door swung open as she stretched to ring the bell. There was no handshake, just a friendly ‘Hi’, then: ‘Have you eaten yet, by any chance?’
Not a bite for ages. ‘I’m stuffed, me. Couldn’t manage a morselette, I’m afraid.’ Not with a belly full of dive-bombing butterflies. The thought of food made her want to puke.
‘Shame. I’m starving.’ He smiled, stood back to welcome her in. ‘I really fancied calling one of the Indian places.’
‘Go ahead. Don’t mind me.’ If he answered, she didn’t hear. The instant she crossed the threshold the familiar smells kicked in, the signature scents of cinnamon and sandalwood. She spotted the guv’s fedora hanging on the hallstand, cast covert glances at piles of cases, boxes, crates, black bin-liners. Richard had been a busy boy.
‘I don’t think I’ve stopped all day,’ he said. ‘I thought we could sit in here?’ Playing doorman again.
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