Bev sat tight, refused to take the bait. Wow. She curved a lip. Byford would be proud of her.
‘Way I see it, Sergeant bleeding heart Morriss, Tempest was a vicious piece of shit who took the easy way out.’ Another knuckle cracked. ‘So pardon me if I don’t shed any tears.’
The body spin nearly took the skin off the back of her thighs. ‘You’re talking bollocks. Ever asked yourself what if Tempest didn’t do it? And Lucy Rayne’s killer’s out there laughing up his sleeve at us?’ She heard another crack, turned back to see Powell clutching two halves of his pen.
‘What did you say, Morriss?’
She swallowed, guessed this wasn’t about to go down too well. ‘Tempest swore his innocence time and time again. What if he was telling the truth?’ And what if they continued to write off those repeated denials? She narrowed her eyes. If Lucy’s murderer was still at large, there was nothing to stop him being the kidnapper as well, especially with blinkered cops blundering along on the wrong track. She leaned forward, eyes shining, voiced her thoughts to the squad.
Good job she’d not been expecting applause. But metaphorical iced water? She glanced round, saw tight lips, folded arms. In the silence a car backfired. She knew the feeling. Shame Mac wasn’t in yet, he’d give her a bit of moral support. ‘Don’t you see, gaffer?’ She spread her palms. ‘There could be a link. A link between the murder and the kidnap. Surely we oughta—’
‘She’s right, sir, I think—’
‘No, I don’t see it.’ Nor give a toss what Pembers thought. He could stare, though. Several uneasy seconds passed. Bev shifted in her seat again. Surely Powell was big enough to admit he might have made a mistake, consider reopening the case?
‘Let’s get this straight, Morriss. Tempest knew full well he’d be sent down. Knew full well what he’d done. The guy was a congenital liar who’d swear blind black was white to save his own scrawny …’
‘Neck?’ Bev raised an eyebrow. ‘That worked well then, didn’t it?’
38
‘He wants you out, sarge – you know that, don’t you?’
Bev checked the mirror. ‘A fuckwit like Hainsworth ain’t gonna stop me doing my job, Caz. Whatever way I see fit.’ Bev glanced at Pembers’ profile, clocked half a downturned mouth. Made a change having a woman ride shotgun, but clamming up wasn’t Carol’s normal MO. Though junior in rank, she was a good few years older and normally told Bev straight. Both were well aware Pembers could walk the sergeant’s exams if she’d a mind to, but caring for two kids – three, if you counted her old man – came first.
‘You not with me then, Caz?’ Squinting, Bev pulled the visor down, added the Ray-Bans as backup. They were en route to Rayne’s place. Powell had passed them the interview baton, said he had a meeting or something.
‘There’s ways and ways, sarge.’
She shrugged, took the next left. ‘Meaning?’
‘Telling a bloke like that he’s talking bollocks in front of his buddies? Not a thing I’d recommend.’
Bev sniffed. ‘So he’s the arsehole and I have to zip it?’ She wished the bloody church bells would pipe down. Good job Rayne wasn’t a God-botherer or they’d be turning up at an empty house. She’d not tipped him off about the visit; ignorance is bliss. Nothing to do with catching him on the hop. Amy was in the picture, though.
‘If I were you, I’d just temper it a bit.’
‘Temper? Come on, Caz, tell it like it is.’
‘OK.’ She turned to face her. ‘Quit gobbing off all the time.’
‘That’s more like it.’
They shared a wry smile. Carol unscrewed the cap off a bottle, took a few sips of water. Pembers’ perfume whiffed a bit, though DKNY Woman beat Mac’s Diesel fumes any day. Bev lowered the window, wondered idly if Frankie liked the smell of her chrysanths. If the Italian was round at Rayne’s place, maybe she’d thank Bev in person ’cause she sure as hell hadn’t bothered in last night’s text. What was it again? Yeah. Nice try. Should’ve sent snapdragons. Cheeky mare.
Out of the corner of her eye, she clocked Pembers running through the interview notes. She’d asked Caz to take the lead: a bit of fresh blood might stir Rayne’s memory bank. Bev would chip in as and when from the back seat. As for Stella Rayne, this time they’d try and tackle her separately – divide and rule. Seemed like a plan.
Shame the prison guard hadn’t come up with anything new, though. Bev thought Manning had sounded a tad defensive on the phone. He was adamant he’d heard Tempest right, but adding ‘given the circs’ hadn’t filled Bev with confidence. He had her numbers now, just in case, but she’d not hold her breath.
Caz had certainly been holding her tongue. Probably rehearsing her lines. Bev cut her a quick glance then turned into the lane leading to Rayne’s estate. ‘All set, Caz?’
‘One thing, sarge …’ The pause and something in Pembers’ voice made Bev glance across again. ‘When I said he wants you out, what makes you think I meant Hainsworth?’
‘Powell?’ They’d had their moments, but surely the blond …? She forced a laugh, tried making light of it. ‘Know something I don’t Caz?’
‘They’re all boys together, aren’t they? She smoothed a non-existent crease in her skirt. ‘It’s still a man’s world out there. Watch your back’s all I’m saying.’
Bev frowned, again heard something that rang a faint alarm. ‘Is it, Caz? All you’re saying?’
‘It’s all I’m saying.’ There was a tacit but.
‘Hit me, Caz. I’m a big girl now.’
She shrank inside as Pembers filled her in, gripped the wheel like there was no tomorrow. Apparently a whisper was doing the rounds at the nick that Powell was under orders from on high to keep close tabs. The main concern being that Byford’s death could have caused Bev psychological damage.
‘Nah, took it in my stride, didn’t I?’ She waved an airy arm, thanked God for the sunglasses. ‘’Course it fuck—’
Pembers held up a palm. ‘Lasting serious damage.’
‘Great.’ There was no blood flow in her fingers; she loosened her grip on the wheel. ‘So now I’m some sort of psycho.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She took another sip, screwed the cap back on. ‘No more than before, anyway.’
Bev flashed a thin smile, knew the dig was good-humoured, well-meant. She had cause to thank the woman. At least she’d been upfront. Unlike Powell, the two-faced shit, monitoring her every move behind her back and not saying a sodding word. It wouldn’t have hurt to drop a subtle hint. ‘You said “main”.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Main concern. I take it there’s more.’ She flexed her fingers to ease the pins and needles.
‘Come on, sarge.’ Carol turned her head away.
‘I know it’s not fair, Caz, but I won’t drop you in it honest.’ And make it snappy. She was about to park the Astra.
Clearly reluctant, she sighed; then: ‘They’re worried about your attitude, lip, insubordination, rubbing people up the wrong way. That kind of thing. You don’t need me telling you, sarge.’
Bolshie Bev. Motormouth. Morriss the maverick. She’d heard them all before. It’s not like she’d morphed into the baddie role since getting back in the saddle. She switched the engine off, sensed Carol’s gaze, couldn’t meet it. If she blinked hard enough, she’d be OK. Blind fury more than anything.
Caz had her hand on the door. ‘I guess the problem now, Bev, is they’re not sure anyone around’s big enough to rein you in.’
Big enough. Ain’t that the truth? Bev snorted as she got out the car. Powell hadn’t even been big enough to admit the wrong man could’ve been charged with Lucy Rayne’s murder. And he queried whether she was up to the job? If it was the last thing she did, she’d prove the bastard wrong.
Assuming after that she’d still want the sodding job.
‘Thanks for telling me, Caz. ’Preciate it.’ She locked the motor, gazed up at the house.
Forewarned is forearmed.
&nb
sp; 39
Net curtains were too naff for Rayne’s neighbourhood, the only twitching on the Tudor Rise estate involved warblers and tits. Crested or otherwise. People in designer togs were out manicuring lawns, buffing car bonnets; in the distance kids screamed, water splashed. Must be nice to have your own swimming pool. Bev patted her high horse and took Shanks’s pony up the drive. The heavy front door swung open as Caz reached for the knocker.
‘OK, Amy?’ Bev lodged the shades tiara-like in her hair. ‘You know Carol Pemberton, yeah?’
The FLO nodded, ushered them in. ‘He’s in the garden. Says he had a bad night. Stella’s out for a walk. I’m not sure where your … friend is, sarge.’
Something bugging the equable Amy? Bev made a mental note. ‘We’ll find our own way, ta. Catch you later.’
Even seeing Rayne from the back Bev might have guessed he’d not had the best night. Shoulders bowed, he stood gazing down at the slimy pond, hands deep in trouser pockets. Hearing their approach, he turned his head, sleep deprivation showed in his face too: flaky grey-tinged skin, deep lines, dull sunken eyes. Lack of sleep, loss of baby. If the kidnapper’s goal was to break Rayne, he’d scored. The man was in bits.
Raking fingers through lank hair, he flicked wary glances between the detectives, clearly trying to read something in their expressions. ‘What is it?’ He cleared what sounded like gravel from his throat. ‘You’ve found her, haven’t you? Please … please don’t tell me she’s—’
‘Daisy’s alive as far as we know, Mr Rayne.’ Bev nodded towards the sliding glass doors. ‘Go inside, shall we?’ Her simpatico faded a tad when he traipsed past stinking of stale booze and a hint of sweat. No wonder he looked like shit. Hitting the bottle into the early hours will do that. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he’d been drinking to blunt the edges.
The detectives trailed behind to the kitchen where Rayne headed straight for a gleaming double sink, poured water into a tall glass and sank it staring through the window. Impressive though the space was, they weren’t here to gawp at the Smallbone and Smeg. Bev signalled Carol to take a seat. By the time Rayne deigned to face them they were perched on stools, notebooks at the ready on the marble top.
He leaned against the sink, arms folded, ankles crossed. ‘So why are you here?’
‘How well do you know Brian Tempest, Mr Rayne?’ Caz’s curveball clearly caught him out.
Eyebrows knotted, he glanced at Bev. ‘What is this?’
‘Just answer the question, please, sir.’ Carol smiled, crossed her legs.
He sighed his disapproval. ‘I don’t know him well. He means sod all to me. I bumped into the guy at a few gigs years back. Forgot he existed ’til he tapped me for cash.’
Carol tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘And that was the first time you’d seen him in … ?’
‘Years. I told you.’
‘You’re sure? You couldn’t be mistaken? Other occasions maybe slipped your mind?’
‘There’s nothing to slip. Look, can I get you coffee or something?’
‘I’ll do that, Nat. I can see you’re tied up.’
Bev bristled. How long had Frankie been earwigging? The Italian drifted into view, belting a dressing gown round her waist. The bed hair hinted at a long lie-in. Sleeping off a hangover, perhaps?
She opened her mouth to tell Frankie to butt out when …
‘We’re all busy actually,’ Carol said, smiling. ‘Would you mind … Miss Perlagio?’ Charm school or what? Bev could maybe learn a lesson or ten.
‘Nat?’
He smiled. ‘Not now, thanks, babe.’
‘I’ll leave you to the grilling, then.’ She nodded at Bev who took it as a greeting. ’Course, Frankie could have been indicating the head chef.
‘She’s been an absolute rock.’ Still smiling, Rayne dragged his hair back into a ponytail. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Thank you, no.’ Caz said. ‘You see, I find it strange you say you barely know Brian Tempest,’ she continued, like there’d been no break, ‘when the last thing on his mind before he died was you.’
It took several seconds for him to process that googly. ‘He’s dead?’ Carol nodded. Bev kept her gaze on his face. Puzzled shock, then a lazy smile: light glinted in dull eyes. ‘Good. Excellent news. The bastard killed Lucy – he deserved to die.’
‘He killed himself,’ Caz said evenly.
‘So what?’ He shrugged. ‘Guilt can do that to a man.’
‘Swearing he’d never met your wife.’
‘Then he’s lying.’
‘And if he’s not?’ She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
His narrowed gaze searched her face for clues, but surely Rayne was smart enough to work out the corollary himself? That Lucy’s killer could be roaming the streets – and holding the baby. The wall clock ticked ten times, then: ‘No, I don’t believe it.’ He shook his head. ‘Tempest killed her and he hadn’t got the guts to stand trial, let alone admit it. I don’t even see why we’re discussing the scumbag. For crying out loud, my baby’s missing. Why aren’t you asking about her?’
‘That’s why we’re here, sir. Again, strangely, it’s what Tempest said before he died. “Ask Rayne about his kid.” They were his final words. Why would that be, do you think?’ Carol cocked her head, her tone more curious than accusatory.
Bev had to hand it to Caz. She was playing a blinder. The model looks might help, of course. Rayne had certainly been eyeing her keenly, until he suddenly flung a hand to his mouth, spun on his heels, and gagged seemingly uncontrollably into the sink.
Caz made to stand, lend a hand. Bev stayed her with the shake of her head. He was a big boy now, didn’t need mothering. Sooner he sorted himself out, sooner he’d answer the bloody question.
The dry-retch dramatics had certainly done the trick as a distraction technique. But was it just a con? Bev would have felt happier or at least more convinced if he’d actually thrown up.
She added to her notes while Rayne stood at the sink, taking deep breaths, and his time. Eventually he moved to tear off a few sheets of kitchen towel, dabbed his eyes and wiped his mouth.
‘Forgive me. That … lowlife talking about Daisy … the very thought …’
Wasn’t enough to make you vomit. Bev sniffed. If that was the best he could come up with it didn’t say much for his creative juices. On the other hand, unless it was down to last night’s vat of scotch, she was pretty convinced something in Caz’s question had prompted Rayne’s bout of nausea. She’d seen the look on his face the split second before he turned. Damned if she could read it, though.
Carol nodded. ‘It must have been quite awful for you, Mr Rayne.’ Warm smile. ‘Now, do you need me to repeat the question?’
‘No.’ He tilted his head back, stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. Seeking divine guidance? ‘Look, officer.’ He held Carol’s gaze, arms spread. ‘I haven’t a clue what went on in what passed for Tempest’s brain. He was a smackhead, wasn’t he? I guess he must have developed some weird fixation, a crazy obsession. But really, how am I supposed to know? I can’t even see how he knew I had a daughter.’
‘Really, Mr Rayne?’
Caz’s incredulous tone spoke volumes. Bev was on the same page. It’d be well surprising if Daisy’s arrival hadn’t been marked by the media, social or otherwise. Bev made another note. Carol pushed Rayne again, but it was patently obvious he couldn’t or wouldn’t be budged. A couple more questions from Caz then Bev glanced at her watch, closed the notebook: wrap-up time.
They were in the hall when Bev spoke. ‘You still got my numbers, Mr Rayne?’
‘I think so.’ Rubbing his neck.
‘Anything comes back, give us a bell?’
‘Of course.’ He nodded towards the exit, clearly keen they use it pronto.
Bev was unmoved. ‘Can you round up Amy? I need a word.’
‘That’s another thing, sergeant. I want her to leave.’
‘It’s yo
ur decision, Mr Rayne.’ They could hardly force him to hang on to her.
‘I really don’t want a stranger in the house anymore.’
Bev shrugged. ‘As I say, it’s your call. I can see your point, though.’
Who’d want a stranger around, with a good mate on tap?
40
‘How long’s Frankie been staying at the house, sarge?’ Carol bit a chunk out of a sausage sandwich.
‘Couple nights.’ Bev matched the casual delivery. She cut Caz a quick glance before squeezing more Daddies onto her bacon bap, then lined up the sachet with the rest of the empties on the bench. ‘Why’d you ask?’ As if she didn’t know.
‘Just wondered.’ Yeah, right. And seeing the size of the latest ladylike mouthful, Bev reckoned Caz had plenty of time to cogitate. They’d bought the fast food at a caff round the corner, dithered whether to eat in or al fresco. The Greasy Fork – yes, really – versus Kings Heath park? The clue was in the question.
They’d been lucky to get a seat, given all the people swarming around. Actually Bev had repossessed the bench from a gang of cheeky little oiks. They’d been bloody lucky to get off with a warning. Smoking, at that age? She’d confiscated the baccy, natch.
Licking sauce from her fingers, Bev glanced at Caz. Yep. She was still weighing up whether to push the Frankie point. They’d already discussed the Rayne interview at length. Both were of a mind: something in the questioning had hit home. Just wished they knew what. Even though Rayne hadn’t given them anything solid, Bev was generous in her praise for the way Caz had handled him. She’d called it her charm offensive, only transposed the words.
The detectives ate in companionable silence, threw the odd crumb to a skinny one-eyed pigeon as they watched world go by. At one point, they shuffled along to make space for an old dear with a stick, but she took one look and carried on walking. Bev had to fight the urge to peep into every pram, every pushchair; check out the baby slings. Like the kidnapper was going to parade Daisy in public.
Bap finished, she sat back, closed her eyes, tilted her face to the sun. Sounds drifted from other parts of the park – bowling balls clicking on the green, high-pitched screams from the lido, the tinny Just One Cornetto from the ice-cream van. Family fun time.
Grave Affairs Page 19
