She nodded, wandered into the lounge. If he’d suggested the back room, she’d have refused. ‘There must be masses to sort.’ Like a lifetime’s.
‘You can say that again.’ Smiling, he raked his hair, dislodged what looked like dust, cobweb strand maybe. ‘I’d no idea dad was such a hoarder. He couldn’t have thrown away anything. Ever. Look, can I get you a drink?’
That she could manage. ‘Wine. White if you have it.’ Preferably large, maybe serve it in a bucket.
‘Two ticks. Make yourself at home.’ Bev watched him go, still amazed at the resemblance – physical, at any rate.
As per, she jumped when the grandfather clock started chiming. If she really was at home the bloody thing would be first out the window. The tick was bad enough but she could sure live without the Big Ben bongs every quarter-hour. Hugging herself, she took a stroll round the room, glance flicking over familiar items, Byford’s babies. She gave a wry smile at the shelves lined with crime fiction. Why, guv? Why? Still amused, she rolled her eyes at what passed for his music collection: a bit of Bach and Beethoven was OK, but Rod Stewart? Simply Red? Gerry and the Pacemakers? She’d so tried to bring him up to speed in that department. He’d certainly widened her horizon on movies. She ran a finger along the DVD spines. He loved all the old Hollywood giants: Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant, both Hepburns, Bette Davies, the list went on. She didn’t linger on the family snaps propped on the piano he never played, preferred the pictures in her head, ’specially one of the guv upstairs hours before the shooting, the smile in his eyes when he more or less asked her to live with him. ‘What? Shack up?’ she’d said. He’d given her that exasperated-indulgent look, the one she knew so well.
‘Pinot Grigio OK?’
‘Perfect, ta.’ She tilted her glass, carried it to the settee, perched on a dark red velvet cushion. It was weird watching Richard settle in Byford’s armchair.
He took a sip of wine, then: ‘About the other night—’
‘Enough said. Honest.’
‘Appreciate it.’ He popped his glass on a low table. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d want to come to the house. I guess it must feel … strange … after …’
Watching your dad die in my arms? She nodded. ‘Yeah, it does.’
‘That night?’ He broke eye contact, stared down at his hands. ‘Did he …?’
Suffer? She’d been asked the question countless times, grieving relatives wanting reassurance, easy answers. Should she tell it like it was? That his dad had gone through hours of pain, humiliation and terror before the first bullet shattered his face?
‘I think not, Richard.’ She shuffled back a little in the seat. ‘It was over very quickly.’ She could see he was struggling, the fingers were tightly laced now and he still hadn’t looked up.
She reached out a tentative hand but at the last instant pulled back. Her heart beat faster than the clock’s tick, sounded louder in her ears too.
After another ten, fifteen seconds he raised his head, cleared his throat. ‘Thanks for that.’ She nodded, sipped some wine. ‘I’m glad you were with him, Bev, that he didn’t die alone.’
Another nod, more wine. Surely the message was clear?
‘I understand you don’t want to talk about it, but … can I ask one more question?’
Please don’t. ‘Sure.’
Clearly hesitant, he ran both hands through his hair this time. ‘Do you … do you ever think about the man who …?’
‘Who what?’ As if she didn’t know.
‘Who killed him?’
‘No.’ The faintest alarm rang in her head. ‘Why?’
‘Precisely that. Why?’ She felt slightly uncomfortable under his searching gaze, would give a lot to know what was going on behind those slate-grey eyes. ‘I’d like the bastard to explain exactly why he killed my father, a man who never harmed anyone in his life.’ Softly-spoken, measured, calm. Just like the guv. The more fired up Byford senior was, the lower his voice. Byford junior dropped his now too. ‘Don’t you want to know, too, Bev?’
‘What good would it do?’ The alarm bell was louder now. Was there a hidden agenda going on here? Had he somehow found out about her bedside vigils? Or – oh, shit. Her hand tightened round the glass. What had Nina said about Curran’s mystery visitor? Tall, dark, tasty. Yep, Richard junior sure fitted the bill. Gently swirling the glass she said, ‘Besides, it’s something we’ll probably never know, Richard. Warren’s in no state to tell anyone anything any time soon.’
‘Curran,’ he snapped, apologized, added unnecessary clarification. ‘His name’s Paul Curran.’
‘Sorry, stupid mistake.’ Deliberate error. And he’d certainly passed the name test. There could be a simple explanation for the instant and tetchy correction. She just couldn’t think of one right now.
‘Besides, how sure are you about Curran’s current state?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Sure enough.’ Fuck it. Just who was testing who here and, more to the point, to what end? ‘Why? Do you know something different?’
‘Only what I’ve read up on. I like being well informed.’ Healthy interest? Morbid curiosity? Or, like Bev, unfinished business? She’d love to know what his game was, but he played his cards as close as she did. She needed Nina Night Nurse shedding some light, pretty damn quick. He pursed his lips. ‘As to Curran, time will tell, I guess.’
‘Hate to rush you, Richard, but on the phone you said something about—’
‘Of course. Let me show you.’ He headed for a bureau in one of the recesses. ‘I found the stuff in various places. I put it all in here.’
Bev smiled uncertainly as she took the file from him, recognized immediately the distinctive italic handwriting. She leafed through letters he’d never sent, photographs she’d no idea he had, and a notebook with odd jottings. Frowning, she picked up one of the letters.
‘You don’t have to read it all now,’ Richard said. ‘Take it, keep it. I think he’d want that. As I started telling you on the phone, I didn’t realize how much he …’
She wasn’t listening. Not to Byford junior, anyway.
I don’t know about you, Bev, but the night times are the worst. Getting back to an empty house, cooking for one, eating alone, no one to talk to, no one to share with. It’s then I most wish I had you here with me. Making a mess, making a noise, making me curse, but always, darling Bev, making me smile. Don’t go …
Blurred vision as much as anything stopped her reading on. A fat tear plopped on to the paper, smudged the ink. A box of tissues appeared in her lap. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose. For one of the few times in her life, she was almost at a loss for words. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ She raised her head, met Richard’s gaze. ‘He never really said much about …’
‘It must be a Byford thing.’ His eyes glistened too as he pulled a tissue from the box for her. ‘Not talking about emotions. I’d no idea he felt so lonely. Wish I’d spent more time with him.’
She nodded. Don’t we all? ‘Thanks for this, Richard.’ She gathered everything back into the file. ‘Sorry and all that, but I’m gonna have to hit the road.’
‘Please, you don’t have to rush off. How about I order that food?’
‘I can’t, sorry.’
‘Another drink?’
She’d barely touched the first. ‘Another time.’
‘OK.’ He smiled. ‘Before you go, if there’s anything you’d like … as a memento, I mean. Please, be my guest. Have a look round.’
The file under her arm held everything she needed. On the other hand, she’d probably never see the house again. She had a vague notion about laying ghosts. Maybe a final tour …? ‘OK. Thanks. I’d like that.’
‘No worries. Take your time.’
She placed the file on the bottom step, then hand on banister walked slowly upstairs. There was only one room she wanted to revisit. Late sun spilled across the bed this time, not the moonlight that had bathed a sleeping Byford in silver. They’d not long made love and she couldn’t tear her gaze from
him. She found herself smiling, knew right then that there were places he’d always live.
The wave of nausea struck without warning, and she had to make a dash to the bathroom. She retched a few times into the bowl, brought hardly anything up. No surprise, given how little food she’d had. Gripping the sink, she took a few steadying breaths, studied her face in the mirror. Her skin was almost white, the mascara like black tears. Christ, all she needed was a black cap and pompoms and hey presto, Pierrot. Then it dawned. The sickening realization. Eyes wide, she slapped a hand over her mouth. What a bloody clown.
‘You OK up there?’
She must’ve sounded like a herd of elephants. ‘Peachy,’ she called back. ‘Down in a sec.’
How long had she been kidding herself? Had she just been in denial? Lightning can’t strike twice and all that malarkey? No one else had mentioned it, though, and last time she’d been pregnant the world and his aunt knew before her. She grabbed some loo paper, wiped the muck and sweat from her face, flushed the tissue down the pan. Gazing in the mirror again she promised herself this time would be different. This time she’d give birth if it killed her.
He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when she came down. ‘Decide on anything?’
You could say that. But it was way too soon to share. She took the file from his hand. ‘No, I don’t need anything, thanks.’
‘Sure? I saw you look at that when you came in.’ She followed his gaze to the fedora.
Could be useful, a hat to keep things under. ‘You have it, Richard.’ She patted the file. ‘Really, I have everything I need now.’
19
‘OK, babe? How’d it go last night?’ A glammed-up Frankie popped her head round the kitchen door; the look suggested she had an early start. Leaning against the sink, still in her dressing gown, Bev had a mouth full of toast.
‘No worries. Fill me in later. Ciao.’
Bev winced when the front door slammed. Not that her throbbing head could get much worse. Three hours’ sleep on a damp pillow will do that. She finished the toast, poured a glass of water, drank the lot staring through the window. Thank God she’d nipped to the chemist last night and not blabbed the P-word to Frankie when she got home. How could she have let herself get so carried away? Bloody fool. Clown didn’t even come close. Nah, mate, wishful thinking.
Sighing, she wandered to the bin, dug the test kit out of her pocket, buried it under a mound of tea leaves, eggshells, crumpled cans, empty cartons. Thin blue line? Except it should’ve been two. Another sodding shattered dream to put behind her. She snorted. Wondered how much room could be left back there. At least she had the file to look forward to, if and when she could face it.
‘Hey, guys?’ Powell entered the squad room with a gleam in his eye and a bounce in his step. Bev reckoned he must’ve been on the budgie food. Trill, if she recalled the old telly ad right. Enjoying the spotlight, Powell issued a general beam before finally popping his question.
‘Do you want the good news or the frigging ace?’ Preen bloody preen. Yeah, he’d definitely binged on bird food again.
Bev glanced up from the screen, closed the page pretty damn quick and reached across the desk for her Red Bull. She knew the blond had been closeted with Carol Pemberton discussing tactics for the Tempest interview: maybe he’d hit on her and she’d not told him to fuck off. Yeah, that’d be the day.
‘Tempest’s come clean and we’re about to throw away the key?’ Hainsworth smirked from his perch on the window sill.
‘Close, as it happens. We’ve found one, Jack. A key. Tucked away in Tempest’s gaff. And guess whose it is?’ He sniffed. ‘Well, was.’
‘Come on, gaffer. Don’t keep us in suspenders.’ Hainsworth again. Who else? Bev rolled her eyes.
Powell tilted his head at the only pic on the whiteboard.
Lucy Rayne’s? She turned her mouth down. Must’ve been bloody well hidden then, the search team had been combing the place off and on for two days.
‘Problem, Morriss?’
She shook her head. ‘Where’d they find it?’
‘Only in her sodding handbag.’ He raised a palm. ‘I know, I know. I’ve given Baxter a bloody good bollocking, believe you me.’ Crime scene manager, Chris Baxter. Bev frowned. Not like CB to miss a trick. She made a note on her pad.
‘Did they find—?’ Mac had taken the words out of her mouth.
‘Hold on, Tyler. I’m not finished.’ Forensics had come good in the park, he told them. Fibres and hair had been recovered, pointing to Tempest being responsible for the attempted assault on Rachel Howard. Not that it mattered much in the great scheme of things, given the woollen threads were a perfect match to those found at the Cathy Gates crime scene. Powell loosened his tie another couple of inches. ‘Tempest’s going so far down, he’s gonna get the bends.’
Leaving aside his tenuous grasp on decompression sickness, Bev had to concede it looked as if Powell could’ve been on the money all along. Not that he was lingering for a medal or a round of applause.
‘So what’s Tempest saying?’ she called after him.
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘All, as they say, will be revealed.’
‘What you make of that then, boss?’ Mac ambled over, ripping the wrapper from a Mars bar. She closed the page pronto again; the screen shot of Richard Byford had been flashing on and off like a subliminal message. She could’ve just asked him, she supposed, but last night’s mental alarm bell was still ringing. In between calls this morning, she’d Googled Richard Byford + Lake District and discovered he taught English at a comprehensive near Broughton. She’d really been after a decent image of the guy’s face and the school’s website had obliged. She’d sent Nina a JPG – all she could do now was hope the nurse got back smartish.
‘What’s that then, mate?’ She stifled a yawn. ‘The meaning of life?’
‘You know full well what I mean. Tempest being up for the Rayne murder. Are you on the same page as Powell?’
‘How much do you want to know?’ She held out her hand.
Mac sighed, dropped a chunk of Mars in her palm. ‘It’d better be worth it.’
‘He could be right. On the other hand …’ She raised an eyebrow, waited until another sweetener landed. ‘Who knows? Only one way to find out.’
Bev and Mac took ringside seats in the viewing room to get a bird’s-eye shufti at the sparring. Powell and Tempest squared up across the metal table. Pembers sat alongside the gaffer, playing a pen between her fingers. Lawyer Larry appeared to be keeping a watching brief. Sounded to Bev like Powell was ahead on points. Brian Tempest looked a darn sight more subdued than last time she’d seen him. Arms folded tight, he stared stony-faced at a couple of bagged and tagged exhibits on the table. There was no need for a magnifying glass, let alone a microscope, to work out what the coarse ginger strands were or whose head they came from.
‘They must still be on about the aggro with Rachel Howard.’ Head down, Bev delved in her bag for a pen. ‘He’ll wheel out the big guns any time now.’ Well, the handbag. ‘Shit. Mac, you got a—?’
Her personal pen supplier already held one out. ‘I want it back an’ all. You could open a shop with all the—’
‘Ta, mate.’ She nodded at the monitor. ‘The gaffer’s doing that steeple thing with his fingers.’
‘So?’
‘Means he’s getting ready for the showdown. So, shush.’
‘Let’s get this clear, Mr Tempest. You admit being in the park and you admit having an altercation with a woman, but you claim she ran into you and then became verbally aggressive?’ Bev snorted. Partly at Powell’s police-speak, mostly at Tempest’s bloody nerve.
‘She wa’n’t just gobbing off. She kept shoving me, grabbing me hair.’ Handy that. Risible too, given their disparate frames: for David and Goliath, read Rachel et cetera.
‘How convenient, Mr Tempest.’ Powell traced a finger along his jaw-line. ‘But you still can’t remember what you were doing in the park that day?�
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‘I was stoned.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Powell said, as if it made complete sense. ‘Like the time you attacked Cathy Gates?’
The sharp intake of breath from Larry Hicks elicited a glare from Tempest. ‘Look, I’ve put my hand up to that. I was off my head. Lost control. Didn’t know what I was doing.’
Powell gave a sage nod. ‘And when you killed Lucy Rayne, were you off your head then?’
‘Now look, my client—’
‘Leave it.’ Tempest flagged the lawyer down with a hand. ‘Put your sewing kit away, cop. I’ve told you time and time again I was nowhere near the place. Never heard of the woman ’til you lot started banging on.’
‘The gaffer’s enjoying this.’ Mac sniffed. ‘Why not just put the guy out of his misery?’
‘You said it yourself, mate.’ The blond was toying with his prey. ‘Besides, you know what they say about rope.’
Powell rose to his feet, started pacing behind Tempest. Pembers was clearly on Tempest-watch, looking out for the tiniest reaction. ‘So the name Rayne means nothing to you, Mr Tempest?’ Dead casual.
‘I said, didn’t I?’
‘What about Nathan Rayne? Heard of him?’
‘Big noise on the radio, innee?’ He glanced round, trying to see what Powell was up to.
‘That it?’
‘S’all there is.’ Tempest nibbled a hangnail.
‘Sure about that?’
Still pacing, Powell gave the silent treatment a whirl. It didn’t work this time; Tempest seemed more interested in sucking the blood from his thumb. In the impasse, Bev added a line or two to her notes.
‘OK, Mr Tempest. Let’s see if this jogs your memory.’ Powell sauntered back to the table, picked up a sheet of paper and read out a date, time and location. ‘Ringing any ding-dongs at all?’’
Tempest shook his head. Bev reckoned he couldn’t look any shiftier if he’d just graduated from shifty school.
‘I’m well shocked, Mr Tempest. ’Cause it’s when Nathan Rayne says you tapped him up for twenty quid.’
It took around ten seconds before he realized he couldn’t wriggle out of the hole. ‘OK, OK.’ He raised a palm in surrender. ‘We used to be in the same biz. I needed a few bob, thought I might as well ask. No harm in that.’
Grave Affairs Page 10
