‘I swear if they’re dicking us around, Morriss, I’ll swing for the buggers.’ The way his hands gripped the wheel, he could have been on a dry run.
Swing. Tempest. Winson Green. Bev wondered if anyone had put in a call to the prison. In light of the kidnapper’s note, Tempest’s suicide hadn’t seemed so pressing. Not that the note had illuminated anything. She slipped her phone out of a pocket, started checking messages.
‘If no one can work out what he’s getting at, why bother making contact at all?’ Powell murmured like he was thinking aloud. ‘Stringing Rayne along? Eking out the agony? Come on, Morriss. What’s your take?’
Glancing up from her phone, she pulled down the sun visor. ‘What if someone can work it out? What if Rayne and/or his Ma’s fully aware of the unwritten agenda?’
‘Can’t see why they’d hold back. Makes no sense.’
‘Depends what they’re keeping hold of. But I bet the “wish you’d said goodbye?” bit is what it’s all about, gaffer. Has to be. I don’t buy Stella’s make-it-up-as-you-go-along theory about Daisy.’ She creased her eyes. But what if the note isn’t about Daisy? Who else might Rayne regret not saying ta-ra to? One for the mental back burner, that.
Powell was clearly mulling something over too. Bev opened a text from Mac. He was in a viewing room with Mo Iqbal. Nothing doing yet, boss. Keep you posted. She tapped her lip. Did Rayne’s possible penchant for prostitutes give the cops any leverage? Or was it a blind alley leading to a dead end on Nowhere Close?
‘One thing’s clear, gaffer, whoever’s holding Daisy’s got the knife out for Rayne. Strikes me it’s a personal vendetta, vicious with it.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ He blasted the horn at some old dear dithering on the edge of the pavement with a shopping trolley.
‘Bloody hell, gaffer. You’ll be like that one day.’
‘Doubt it. I don’t do frocks. Or headscarves, come to that.’
Bev sighed, opened the window, let in a bit of air. Stella Rayne had quite a collection of scarves. Was wearing one force of habit? Sure had nothing to do with needing to keep warm.
‘Anyway, Morriss, you were about to tell me something new.’
‘How’s this?’ She shared her thinking on Rayne maybe being able to recognize the kidnapper’s voice, hence no phone communication. If Powell’s first name had been Winnie he couldn’t have poohed on the notion any harder. Fair dos, though; as he said, there were all sorts of voice distorters on the market these days. Even so. The idea wasn’t being ditched yet.
Powell pushed his sleeve up a surprisingly smooth forearm. ‘Sad fact is, we’re no nearer finding the kid than when she first went missing.’
Couldn’t argue with that. Bev leaned her head back against the rest, ran a mental recap. There were eighty-plus officers knocking doors, street canvassing, questioning drivers, following up scores of calls from the public. Detectives going square-eyed viewing CCTV. Saturation coverage in the media. Missing baby posters plastered all over the streets and multi-appeals on social media. And the sum total? Zilch. No real lead, no genuine eye witness.
‘Something’ll give, gaffer.’ She reached for her phone again.
‘The kidnapper, hopefully. When he hands Daisy over. Still it’s not all bad news for Rayne, is it?’ Isn’t it? He cocked a knowing eyebrow and the snarky tone suggested he was about to share. ‘Having the fragrant Frankie Perlagio’s shoulder to cry on? Enough to make a man go weak at the knees, that.’
She sensed his glance on her, had no intention of meeting it.
‘Your old mate taken up residence, has she?’ Bev reckoned the arch in his voice sounded suspiciously like the arch de triomphe.
‘Sorry.’ She flapped a distracted hand. ‘Did you say something?’
‘I did ask her, like. Not in so many words.’ That figured, thought Bev. He’d be walking with a limp else. ‘Bumped into her there this morning. She told me about the falling out.’
If he imagined for one second she’d take the bait … On the other hand it didn’t sound as if he was fishing. Surely Frankie hadn’t—?
‘Says you showed her the door, Morriss.’ Bee-atch. Bev tightened her mouth, gaze still on the phone. ‘Yeah, she reckons your hormones are playing up.’
Double bee-atch How very fucking dare the woman snigger about Bev behind her back? Her eyes pricked with tears. Frankie was Bev’s best friend. Come to that, her only real mate. She cut Powell a glance. ‘And this is to do with the case because …?’
He shrugged. ‘Could be useful having a mole in the camp.’
‘Yeah, ’cause Frankie’s anybody’s lackey.’ Bev curled a lip.
‘Seemed quite at home to me.’ Dead casual. ‘Feet under the table. Taking care of Rayne’s every need.’
Bev frowned. ‘Just what are you implying?’
‘Well, I guess if you’re so inclined, Rayne’s quite a catch.’
Bev spun round to face him. ‘Are you making out she’s some sort of gold digger?’
‘Your words, not mine.’ He turned his mouth down. ‘Thought you said they had a fling way back?’
‘Close pals is what I said.’
‘How close?’
‘Just where are you going with this?’ Surely he wasn’t implying they’d been at it for years? Off and on shag-mates?
‘You’re the one reckons Rayne has an eye for the ladies. And let’s face it, Frankie—’
‘Back right off, buster.’ It was one thing for her to badmouth the Italian, but she’d not let anyone, least of all Powell, take pops.
‘Prickly today, aren’t we, petal? I’m only—’
‘Well, don’t,’ she snapped. ‘You sitting here all day?’
He clocked the green, pulled away from the lights. The in-car silence lasted a minute or so until he came up with a line. ‘Hey, Morriss. That anger-management course?’ He stifled a yawn. ‘I think you need a top-up.’
35
Couple glasses of Pinot took the edge off most things; couple more on top and she’d be well on the road to Chillsville. First there were mountains of e-paperwork to wade through. Can you wade through mountains? Sod it, she knew what she meant. Can of fat Coke pressed to her forehead, she bummed the door to, then made a beeline for her desk.
Armed with a Biro and a KitKat multi-pack, she started scanning reports on the screen making notes on a pad as she went along. Manual memory stick, wasn’t it? She listed salient points, discrepancies, anything that merited following up, questions that needed answering. She found the act of jotting down the words helped her remember. That was the theory, anyway. Cases like Operation Steel generated so much intelligence, it was easy to lose track, not gain the essential overview. Wood and trees sprang to mind. And that, she glanced up frowning, was without all the distractions.
Like someone rapping out dum-dum-de-dum-dum on the sodding door.
‘Feck’s sake, Tyler, come in.’
‘Dum-dum.’ He flashed a grin. ‘Evening, all.’
She tucked the pen behind an ear, sat back. ‘What you want, mate?’
‘Knocking off o’clock, isn’t it?’ He swept a fleshy arm towards the window. ‘Come on, boss, there’s a world of oysters out there.’
‘Allergic to shellfish, mate.’
‘Lying toad.’
Despite his cheek, her lip twitched. ‘To you this might be a simple desk, Mac Tyler. To me it’s the north face of the Eiger covered in black ice. There’s a blizzard blowing in, I’m running out of rope—’
‘Be needing croutons then, won’t you.’ Wink, wink. ‘Croutons. Crampons. Geddit?’
‘God, you’re good,’ she drawled, waving him off. ‘By-ee.’
‘Aw, come out and play. You know what they say about dull boy Jack?’
‘He’s a jobsworth?’ Bev went boss-eyed trying to balance the pen on her top lip.
‘Not a good look, sarge. Still, I can see you’re snowed under.’ Palm raised, he turned to leave.
‘Hey, Mac.’ She du
cked down to grab the pen from the carpet. ‘I meant to say ta for all your work today.’ Smiling, she added. ‘The boy done good.’ OK, the majority was routine stuff, no car chases, dawn raids, drug busts. He’d gone round to see the Fosters, who’d now been eliminated from the kidnap inquiry; looked after Mo Iqbal; and put a call through to Winson Green. The last two hadn’t really gone anywhere yet but even so … Mac tackled everything thrown his way diligently, reliably, and mostly whinge-free. Mostly. Everybody needed a pat on the back with a gold star from time to time.
‘Get a prize, do I?’
‘Yeah, Nobel.’ She nodded at the door. ‘Pick it up on your way out.’
‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone.’ Five seconds later he popped his head back. ‘Sure you don’t want a quick jar? You might regret it later.’
‘Nah, you’re all right. Hey, Mac, I nearly forgot … friend of yours asked me to pass on her regards.’
‘Oh?’ He scratched the back of his neck.
She hesitated slightly, had intended going for a gentle tease but given the ructions last time played it straight. ‘Yeah, Rachel Howard. Bumped into her in Kings Heath this morning.’
‘Good-oh. Bearing up, is she?’
‘Seemed peachy enough to me.’ She frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Told you. She lost a kid. Few months back.’
Had he? Her frown deepened. Must be the Alzheimer’s kicking in. ‘What? Like in a baby?’ It would explain why she’d banged on about the search for Daisy.
‘Nah. I got the impression late teens. She didn’t really want to talk about it. Still too raw.’
‘Yeah, I can see that. What happened?’
He held out empty palms. ‘Search me.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Nah, think I’ll pass.’
‘Yeah, and you might end up regretting that an’ all.’
She fluttered her fingers. ‘Ciao, big boy.’
Still smiling, she tapped the mouse, brought up yet another report. Half an hour later, she could’ve done with Windolene and a chamois leather for her eyes. Her brain was fogged, too. No mileage pushing it. Or the pen. She gave a jaw-breaking yawn, logged off, and strolled to the window, opened it as wide as it would go. Elbows on sill, she leaned out, breathed in. Air wasn’t much fresher. Not laced with exhaust fumes and hot city.
She sighed. Regrets, Mac had said. Bev was no Piaf but she certainly wished she hadn’t rowed with Frankie. She’d even been tempted to nip round to Rayne’s place, try making peace with the woman. Bev wasn’t into grovelling but couldn’t stand the thought of being on non-speakers with her best mate. She’d opted to call Interflora instead. Hoped the language of flowers would do the talking. According to one website, chrysanths were supposed to say ‘You’re a wonderful friend’; white equalled forgiveness. ’Course, the fact Frankie could barely distinguish a daffodil from a dipstick might put the kibosh on Bev’s grand floral gesture. Maybe she should just turn up at the door with an olive tree? And a white flag?
Nah. Best see how the flowers went down first. Her wry smile faded when she remembered what the website said about daisies.
Innocence.
Said it all really.
36
‘Tempest still swears he didn’t do it, boss.’
Bev grabbed the remote, hit pause; the DVD froze on a close-up of George Clooney’s smile. She gave a wry one of her own. There were worse places to park.
‘Had a miraculous recovery, has he, mate?’
‘Trez am-ooze-mon. I mean they found a note.’
‘Let’s take it from the top, eh?’ She swung her legs down from the settee, reached for her wine. Had to be worth sitting up for, Mac wouldn’t have called her at home else. On the other hand he’d not be in first thing; he was taking a couple of hours off.
‘I know it’s a bit late, but Trevor Manning – guard at Winson Green? – he got back to me. Powell reckoned I should give you a quick bell.’ The gaffer insisted on hearing everything first. No skin off Bev’s nose.
‘I’m all ears.’ She sipped the wine, a cheeky little Pinot. Just for a change. The sausage-and-chips supper, currently digesting, she’d picked up after visiting Sadie.
‘Whether by luck or judgement, the incident happened during a shift change.’ Eyes off the ball, in other words.
‘Bad luck. Shit judgement.’
‘Depends where you stand, boss. It was a result from Tempest’s point of view. Turning your pants into a noose and diving off the top bunk’s no cry for help.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Prison governor’s not jumping up and down with undiluted joy though.’
‘I bet.’ She swapped the wine for a cold chip.
‘Anyway this guy, Manning, and another screw lowered him down, worked on him ’til the ambulance arrived, then it all went a bit headless chicken. The note wasn’t found for a while. Turned up under the bed. Must’ve slipped off when—’
‘I get the picture. So what did it say?’
‘Bear in mind Tempest was barely literate. But basically: he’d be buggered if he was taking the rap for something he didn’t do. Said he didn’t know Lucy Rayne, never met her. Swore on his mother’s life he didn’t kill her.’
‘Mother? Where’s she then?’
‘Dead. Ten year.’
‘Right. And that’s it?’ Talk about damp squib.
‘He had another go at bent cops. Ended with a line saying how sorry he was about Cath Gates. Begged her to forgive him.’
Bev dunked a chip in ketchup. ‘I’m sure she’ll be only too delighted – if she pulls through.’ The fact the woman was still alive, actually making progress, was a bloody miracle. ‘So apart from Tempest’s posthumous plea for a pardon, it’s a case of nothing new there, then?’
‘Not quite, boss.’
She perked up a tad, heard in Mac’s voice he’d left the best bit ’til last. ‘Give, Tyler.’
‘You know Tempest was still breathing when they got him down?’
‘Come on, mate, don’t milk it, eh?’
‘Well, Manning pulled the short straw.’
Took her a second then, ‘Mouth-to-mouth? Yuckerooney.’ That was not a close-up on which to dwell. ‘Lucky Manning.’
‘Lucky us as well, boss.’
‘Go on.’
‘Had a few dying words, didn’t he?’ She heard Mac take a slug of something. If he didn’t spit it out any second, she’d kill him. ‘Last thing he said before croaking? “Ask Rayne ’bout his kid.”’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that verbatim, Mac?’
‘I’m quoting Manning, boss. But I guess—’
‘Best give me his number.’ Guesswork wasn’t good enough. ‘What’s Powell’s take?’
‘Hadn’t got one. I think he’s hoping you’ll come up with something.’
37
‘Need to go straight to the horse’s mouth then, don’t we?’ Perched on a desk at the front, Powell started rolling a shirt sleeve; top two buttons were already undone. No surprise, given the sun had a hat shop on for playing out today. It was Sunday all right, whichever way you looked at it, and it seemed to Bev the dozen or so bods in the room were feeling both kinds of heat.
Summertime, and the living ain’t easy? She sighed. The inquiry was no pushover either. For the second night running nothing had moved on the kidnap case. The only potential new lead, via the prison, didn’t appear to have legs.
‘Ask Rayne about the kid.’ Powell tapped a pen against his teeth. ‘I still don’t see what he was getting at? It’s beyond me why he couldn’t just come out with it rather than talk in riddles.’
Beyond the squad too. They’d spent the last twenty minutes or so of the early brief thrashing out Tempest’s valedictory words. Bev had had hours to wrestle with them and had still not come up with anything that made a bunch of sense. Ask Rayne about his kid? Ask what? They already suspected Rayne knew more about Daisy’s disappearance than he was letting on, but Tempest seemed to be implying it went further than that. She g
lanced at her watch. Quarter to nine. Far as Bev was concerned, the sooner they tackled the main man the better. Though she wanted a word with Trevor Manning first.
‘Puts a new spin on Gordian knot though, don’t it?’ From his desk at the back, Jack Hainsworth cracked a knuckle. Inspector Morse strikes again. Not.
Bev exchanged eye rolls with Carol Pemberton before sighing audibly. ‘Have you seen what hanging does to a body?’ Bev had. Been there, done that; could easily picture Tempest: head lolling, eyes bulging, protruding tongue, piss and worse slithering down bare flesh. Tempest’s dying throes had flitted in and out of her dreams last night; in her subconscious imaginings the ligature had been made of barbed wire as if the neck tattoo had taken on a life of its own.
‘His choice, detective,’ Hainsworth drawled. ‘Far as I recall he didn’t extend the same privilege to his victims.’ She heard another knuckle go.
‘Fine.’ She shuffled, wished she hadn’t. Clammy thighs, hot plastic – not the best combo. ‘I can still live without cheap cracks.’
Tempest sure couldn’t have been more serious. To top himself that way, he must’ve been at rock bottom. Bev reckoned Mac’s observation had been spot on; the suicide hadn’t been a cry for help. The only light at the end of Tempest’s tunnel had been self-induced agonizing death. Whatever your opinion of the man, it was a sobering thought.
‘Strikes me Tempest’s had the last laugh,’ Hainsworth sneered. ‘Comes out with a pile of poo then shuffles off his mortal coil.’ Bev clenched a fist at her side. ‘Dunno about pulling strings, detective, I reckon wherever he is, he’s pulling your plonker.’
‘Don’t rise, sarge.’ Pembers placed a restraining hand on Bev’s forearm. ‘Twat’s not worth it.’
Grave Affairs Page 18
