Bev nodded, tight-lipped. ‘Actually, Mrs Howard—’
‘Come on, Ma.’ Tom made to steer her away. ‘You can see she’s busy.’
‘Of course.’ She raised a palm. ‘Sorry to bother you. Oh. Do give my regards to Mr Tyler.’
Who? She had to think for a second. ‘Sure thing.’
‘Grateful members of the public?’ Charlie nodded at their retreating backs. ‘Rarer than hen’s teeth, that.’ Bev clocked a few crumbs lodged in the old boy’s dentures but at least he’d finished scoffing. She’d yet to put the most important question.
‘Any idea where Mellor is now, Charlie?’
‘I could ask round, if you like?’ There was a gleam in his eye. He sounded keen, knew the ropes. Probably had time to kill. ‘I’m off on me hols tomorrow, just the week. But I’ll get on the case soon’s I’m back. That do you?’
‘That’ll do me just fine.’ She’d happily wait that long. ‘Ta, Charlie.’
Five minutes later they stood outside, shaking hands, swapping pleasantries. She’d walked a few steps down the high street when she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. ‘Bev. I’m sure you’re not short of mates, but any time you need to talk about Bill, you know where I am.’
She blinked back tears. ‘Ta, Charlie. You’re a star.’
So much for nearest and dearest. A guy she’d only just met recognized what she needed most.
32
‘What’s it worth then, Missie?’ Mo Iqbal was pushing his luck. Not to mention his licence. Bev could almost see the cabbie rubbing his finger and thumb together. As for that ‘Missie’, she’d bet a day’s pay his boss hadn’t told him how she earned her crust. Iqbal couldn’t be in any doubt what she wanted though she’d just mentioned Nathan Rayne.
‘You saying you want paying for the info, Mr Iqbal?’
‘Time’s money, innit?’
‘Fair point. Let’s see …’ She put the mobile down for a sec, pulled over outside a row of run-down shops and business premises. Well, what the hell? She was passing anyway. Besides, illegal, isn’t it? Driving while you’re on the phone. Cops had to set a good example. ‘Yeah, I reckon we could go up to four, five hundred quid.’
‘Now you’re talking, bab.’
‘Damn right.’ She locked the MG, hoisted her bag, narrowed her eyes. ‘Couple a nights ago I saw you do forty in a thirty speed limit, jump two reds on the Moseley Road, and you’re currently withholding information from a police officer. So I’d say we’re looking at obstruction as well. Call that the cherry on the poppadom, shall we?’
Silence. Then: ‘Jokin’ ya, innit?’ Snicker, snicker. ‘Had you down as a cop soon’s you stepped in the cab, bab.’
‘Look through the window out front, sunshine.’ Bev stood on the pavement peering through All Star Cars’ barred grilles. All Stars? Yeah, right. Celebs were lining up round the block. When the cabbie’s face eventually appeared, Bev waved. ‘Tell me, Mr Iqbal?’ His expression was well worth the wait. ‘Am I laughing?’
Exiting All Stars ten minutes later Bev had a sort of smile on her face. Lot to be said for the personal touch, professional heavy hand. Turning, she gave Mo another wave. Friendlier this time. The guy was definitely one of life’s givers. As in answers. Papping the horn as she pulled away from the kerb, she wished she’d left the MG’s roof down. Talk about hot seat. Her bum was already stuck to the leather. Still, no pain, no gain. And her knowledge of Rayne had certainly increased. According to Mo Iqbal, Rayne had had a lady friend with him in the back of the cab.
Waiting on a green, Bev tapped the wheel. What was the old joke? That was no lady that was my wife. Except the woman hadn’t been Rayne’s wife. Nor was she a lady. Going on the cabbie’s description, she’d sounded more like a lay. Casual one at that. Didn’t sound as if they were bosom buddies either. Mo claimed they’d had the mother of all rows. Cash. What did they call it? Root of all evil. Bev sniffed. Didn’t know about that. Wouldn’t mind having enough to find out.
She did know that Mo Iqbal would be dropping by the station later, taking a look at a few pics. Street girls’, to be precise. Probably a long shot and might have no bearing on Rayne’s recent, for want of a better word, losses. But if the loving husband and adoring new father was seeking out the hurly-burly rather than the double bed, his behaviour raised a lot more questions.
And it was Rayne’s turn to answer now; Mo had provided enough. For his troubles, Bev had even given him a tip.
In future, mate, watch the lip.
Mind, she’d dropped a fiver in a charity box on the counter. Midland Air Ambulance always needed a few bob.
‘So what you saying, Morriss? That he rips off some hooker, sorry, sex-trade worker, and in a fit of pique she snatches the baby in lieu of payment?’
‘Yeah, ’course I am.’ Bev rolled her eyes. That Powell was in the nick, not out in the field, was a surprise, let alone that he was perched on her desk, eyeing her lunch and coming out with a load of crap. Until he popped his head round the door, she’d been sitting happily minding her own business (OK, checking out former DCI George Mellor) and scarfing down a pork pie prior to reporting for squad room duty at one. After spending the best – make that worst – part of the morning at Rayne’s place, Powell looked so wracked off, she hoped sharing what she’d learned from Mo Iqbal might perk him up a bit. Not make him sound as if he thought she was delusional.
‘I’m not giving you the perp on a plate, gaffer.’ Biting off a chunk of pie. ‘No way’s that what I’m saying.’
‘Enlighten me, then.’ He helped himself to a crisp. Prawn cocktail. The surf to her turf.
She chewed a while then swallowed. ‘If Rayne’s getting up to tricks with ladies of the night, surely it’s got to be a line we pursue’
‘Night?’ He nearly choked on a snort. ‘The Hagley Road tarts cop lifts off milkmen. Blow job in one hand, pint of full cream—’
‘Cut it out.’ Bev’s killer look would have silenced him on its own. Still watching him, she moved the pie out of his reach. ‘And keep your mitts off my crisps.’ His lip was only just healing, shame to see it split again. She’d had run-ins before with Powell over his slack attitude to street workers. She’d taken his earlier apology as a sign the lectures had finally pierced his thick skin.
‘OK, miss, what are you saying?’
‘Not sure.’ She nibbled at the pastry. ‘But if he is having sex with prostitutes, his marriage couldn’t have been all it was cracked up to be, could it?’
‘We don’t know the bird in the taxi was a hook … prostitute.’ He took another crisp. ‘Besides, she could be Fanny Hill’s love child: I still don’t see what it’s got to do with the price of onions.’
Onions again. She sighed, flicked crumbs from her lap. Powell was probably right. Maybe she’d got it out of proportion, saw connections where none existed. But if Rayne was paying for sex with strangers, it shot to shit the family-man image he was trying to sell. And if he lied about that …
‘Tell you what, Morriss. If this Iqbull chap—’
‘Iqbal.’
‘Whatevs. If he fingers— OK, identifies the woman in the cab as one of the girls on our books, we’ll give Rayne a hard time.’
Bev closed her eyes. They’d done enough rolling for one day. ‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Rayne’s lost his wife, his baby’s missing.’ Powell turned his mouth down. ‘Have to ask him nicely instead, won’t you, petal?’ He nodded at the crisps.
Tutting, she shoved the pack across the desk, dropped in a casual quid pro quo. ‘Ever heard of George Mellor, gaffer? DCI back in the eighties? Might’ve left under a cloud.’
The crisp didn’t make it to his mouth. ‘How old do you think I am?’
She cocked an eyebrow. Best keep mum. ‘I only asked.’
‘Ask Vince. He’s been round since Methuselah’s dad was a nipper.’
She already had: Vinnie reckoned Mellor was well sound. Powell got to his feet, scouted round for the bin. ‘Why�
�d you want to know, anyway? Not moonlighting, are we?’ He paused, hand on the door. ‘You know what happened last time you went freelance.’
She lifted a corner of her mouth. Like she needed telling. The undercover stint had involved working the streets, trying to protect underage prostitutes from a psycho pimp. Very nearly got herself killed. ‘Like that’ll happen again.’
‘Good-oh. Nowt to worry about then, have I?’
Missing baby? Mute kidnapper? Media clamour? New boss on Monday?
She pursed her lips. Oh, let’s think.
33
‘I don’t bloody believe it.’ Squad room supremo Jack Hainsworth slammed the phone on the desk. Bev glanced up from a printout, swore she’d heard the casing crack. The half-dozen other detectives on duty kept their heads down, busy-busy all of a sudden.
‘Anyone seen the guv?’ Hainsworth shouted. Then muttered, ‘He’s gonna do his fucking nut.’
Bev was gagging to ask why, but knowing the Yorkshireman he’d only tell her to keep her nose out. She cut mouthpiece Mac a subtle nod instead.
‘What is it, Jack?’ Rising, dead keen, Mac offered his services. ‘Want me to go find him?’
‘Hold on. I’m trying his extens— Shit.’ Clearly the slam had bust more than the casing. Cursing under his breath, he picked up another handset. Way he was going, next thing he’d burst would spurt blood. The vein in his temple was doing a passable imitation of a break-dancing worm. ‘I tell you, Mac, heads are about to roll. So many you’ll not be able to count the buggers.’
Don’t just stand there, Tyler. Bev looked like Marcel Marceau on speed. Mac opened his mouth but that was far as he got. Hainsworth lifted a finger. ‘Jack here, guv.’ The inspector’s Adam’s apple bobbed a couple times. ‘I’ve just had Winson Green on. Brian Tempest’s dead. He’s topped himself.’
Bev’s eyes widened. ‘No way.’ From her post by the printer, she heard Powell’s voice on the line. His reaction was slightly more expansive.
‘No fucking way. If you’re shitting me …’
Dialling tone. Door slam. Mad dash along the corridor. Then clinging onto the doorway, Powell stood in the threshold trying to catch his breath. Just for a second or two, in Bev’s head anyway, the poor sod looked like he was on the cross.
‘Screw found him in his cell, guv.’ Hainsworth broke everyone’s silence.
Powell dropped the stance, strode into the room. ‘And?’
‘Toerag did a Fred West.’
Hanged himself, then. Bev’s fingers went to her neck. If she recalled right the Gloucester serial killer had torn his clothing into strips, used the end result as a ligature. Winson Green prison was supposed to have had West on suicide watch. Go figure where the flak flew. As for Tempest?
Powell raked both hands through his hair. ‘Where were the guards? What were they playing at?’
‘He was still breathing when they got to him, apparently.’ Hainsworth handed Powell a cup of water. ‘Croaked before the ambulance got there.’
‘Something on your mind, Morriss?’ He pressed the cup against his forehead.
Christ. Was it that obvious? ‘Was Tempest down as a vulnerable?’ And subject to closer supervision.
‘What are you implying? That he should’ve been? That this is somehow my failing?’ Pricker-lee. Sounded livid, as livid as the bruising looked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, gaffer. I’m not blaming you, for Christ’s sake.’ Or was she? Just a tad. No one takes their own life unless they’re on the edge. Had something or someone pushed Tempest over the edge? Like being accused of a murder he’d not committed?
‘Aren’t you? It sounds that way.’ He turned his head, snarled, ‘Someone get that fucking phone.’
The nearest DC stopped earwigging, took the call.
Struck Bev that under mounting pressure Powell was looking for someone, anyone, to lash out at. Maybe, she’d hit a nerve and he felt a twinge of conscience. She raised a palm, backed off, no mileage in pushing it. Not now at any rate. But if actions speak louder than words, then Tempest’s final deed had been loud enough to wake the dead. Big questions were: who’d he been talking to and what was he trying to say?
‘Ask me, guv, Tempest’s done us all a favour.’ Hainsworth. Who else?
Bev sniffed. ‘How’d you work that one out?’ As if she didn’t know.
‘Guilty as sin, wasn’t he? No trial now. And nobody having to fork out to keep him behind bars. Dead quick. Dirt cheap. Seemples.’
She had to turn away. ‘Fucking disgrace to the force.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Leave it, the pair of you,’ Powell snapped. ‘What about a note? Did he leave one?’
‘Not that I know, guv.’
Far as Bev remembered West had left a love letter to his missus, burial plans, even a sketch of a joint headstone. Such a sad loss. Lip curled, she glanced back at Hainsworth. ‘Did you ask?’
Clearly not.
‘I’ll give them a bell, shall I, gaffer?’ Bev headed towards a desk.
‘DCI Powell.’ The rookie who’d answered the phone waved a hand in the air. ‘Sir.’
‘It’s not school,’ Powell barked. ‘Unless you need a piss, what have you got?’
‘A note’s turned up at the house. Looks like it’s from the kidnapper.’
34
The kidnapper was a man of few words.
Sorry now, daddy? Wish you’d said goodbye?
Nathan Rayne, though no longer weeping, wasn’t exactly loquacious. He sat hunched over in an armchair, staring down at hands clutched knuckle-splittingly tight. ‘Heaven knows I want to help but …’
He hadn’t a clue what the note meant. Bev and Powell, seated opposite, exchanged the latest in a series of increasingly frustrated glances. Thirty-two hours it had taken the kidnapper to make contact and the message meant sod all to the recipient. Apart from wanting to give Rayne a damn good shaking, Bev hoped to God his Ma might shed a bit of light when she got back. Stella Rayne had some sort of appointment in town. Bev hadn’t even asked about Frankie. The telltale trace of Nina Ricci meant she was lurking somewhere.
‘I hate to say it.’ Powell tugged an earlobe. ‘But the words weren’t just plucked out of the air.’
Rayne’s head shot up. ‘Why be so bloody obscure then? Why not just come out with what they want?’
‘That’d make it too easy, wouldn’t it?’ Powell was studying his nails. Bev wouldn’t mind betting the casual pose was a put-up job. She’d listened to the gaffer’s high expectations in the car on the way over: breaking case this, imminent collar that, Daisy home safe before you know it. Except now the only sound she heard was falling hopes. Mind, they were lucky to be sitting here at all given how far Powell had had his foot down.
‘Guy’s too clever by half, if you ask me,’ Bev said, picking a loose thread off her skirt. The kidnapper was a right smart-arse. Not just his clear-as-slung-mud message but the means of its delivery. The note, typed on white A4 paper, had been sent in the post of all things. So last frigging century. But it figured. Snail mail left no e-trail, and with the police presence in and around the house, Snatchman was hardly going to deliver the missive in person. As for ringing, forget it. Phones in the house had more taps than B&Q. Bev almost had to admire the bastard.
Except if the significance really was lost on Rayne, the kidnapper was wasting his time. And theirs. And Daisy’s? Bev suspected the baby’s was limited.
She narrowed her eyes. What had Rayne just asked? Why not say what they mean? Say, speak, utter, spill the beans. Maybe that was another reason why a call was a no-no. What if the kidnapper knew Rayne would recognize his voice? Not so much show-and-tell as talk and give the game away? The cops thought they were dealing with a professional operator. But what if snatching Daisy was purely personal? Some sadistic malicious bastard who knew Rayne well enough to take pleasure in putting him through hell.
Looking at his bowed back and shaking shoulders, Bev reckoned he was already
knocking at the gates. She gazed through the vast sliding doors, saw the space on the terrace where Daisy’s pram had stood, pictured the tiny dent on the pillow. Forensics had taken the lot for further investigation.
‘I’m asking again, Mr Rayne.’ Powell leaned forward, softened his voice. ‘The message has to mean something.’
His eyes welled up. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I just don’t know.’ He couldn’t fail to see that the note read as if it was a message from Daisy, though. Taunting spiteful words addressed to her dad. Put a new spin on out-of-the-mouths-of-babes. Christ, it didn’t get much crueller than that. Bev closed her eyes briefly. Actually, it did.
Whatever Nathan Rayne had done, in the kidnapper’s head it was the mother of all cock-ups. Rayne was being made to pay and it didn’t look as if cash came into the equation.
Voices in the hall. Bev pricked her ears. Amy Harwood’s soft murmur, then Stella Rayne’s screech. ‘Oh my God, is he all right?’ Seconds later Stella appeared in the doorway, still clutching a Harvey Nicks bag.
‘Nathan, darling.’ She thrust her shopping at Amy, then homed in on her son. ‘What does it say? What do they want, darling?’
The original plus envelope had been biked back to the lab. Rayne nodded at the coffee table where a copy lay. Stella Rayne picked it up, read the message. ‘But it’s not fair, Nathan. How could you say goodbye, you didn’t—’
‘Didn’t what, Mrs Rayne?’ Bev prompted.
‘Didn’t … didn’t … know Daisy would be taken of course.’
‘Quick recovery.’ Love. But not quick enough. Bev almost scouted round for another bag. One that had a cat in it. Though given the sudden dodgy smell, make that rat.
Glaring, Stella Rayne tapped a foot. ‘What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?’
Bev tilted her head at the note still fluttering in the woman’s hand. ‘You tell me, Mrs Rayne.’
‘I’m ninety-nine-point-eight per cent certain she knows something, gaffer.’ Not that forty minutes’ further close questioning had persuaded Stella Rayne to open up, let alone reveal all. Nor her son. Bev cut a glance at Powell then tightened her seat belt a gnat’s. Seemed like a smart move. They needed to get back to the nick in one piece. Powell had another media appeal lined up. And the way tasks and paperwork piled up Bev would be lucky if she could still see her desk.
Grave Affairs Page 17
