‘Hello?’
‘Mr Manning? Bev Morriss here. Detective Sergeant. Mac Tyler gave me your number?’
‘Oh aye? ’Bout our swinger, is it?’
All heart then. ‘Brian Tempest. Yes. I wonder if you can help. It might sound a daft question but—’
‘Get to the point, love. Me dinner’s on the table.’
Lucky you. Mine’s in the bin. ‘D’you happen to know if he had any newspapers in his cell?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘Radio? Telly?’
‘Might have. All I ever saw him do was lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. Right bundle of laughs was our Mr Tempest.’
Bev pulled an unfunny face. ‘Any visitors? A lawyer, perhaps?’
‘Not on my watch, love. Why? What’s it got to do with—?’
‘Sorry, someone at the door.’ Go eat your dinner, you miserable old git. ‘And Dolly, give us a break.’ Bev zapped the sound down, tried thinking it through. OK, Manning’s answers hadn’t been conclusive: Tempest might still have read or heard about Daisy’s kidnap. And though the baby’s birth didn’t appear to be on the web, it was just conceivable Tempest had picked up on it elsewhere. But if he hadn’t, and he didn’t know …
Who the hell? Tutting, she grabbed the phone, snapped. ‘Bev Morriss.’
‘Wow! Is this a bad time?’
Her scowl morphed into a lopsided smile. ‘Sorry, Nina. My bad. What can I do for you?’
It was more what Nina could do for Bev. Five minutes later, Dolly had been put out of her misery and Bev was firing up the Midget.
43
So much for a night off from hospital visiting. OK, the Sunrise was a nursing home, but same diff. As soon as Bev stepped into reception, she spotted the nurse waiting to greet her. ‘He’s still here, Bev. I called when I saw him park the car.’
‘Ta, Nina. Appreciate it.’ So fifteen, twenty minutes in with Curran; ample time for … what?
‘I checked, by the way.’ Nina shouldered open a fire door. ‘You must’ve got it wrong ’cause we’ve got him down as Richard Banks.’
Bev flashed a fake smile. ‘My bad again.’ Close but no cigar. Josh Banks’s murder had been the last case Byford worked. Paul Curran had almost certainly smothered the ten-year-old the same day he killed the big man. Richard Banks? What the hell was Byford junior playing at?
Bev kept the chat light as they walked in step, heatwave stuff mostly, the latest Morriss culinary triumph. The first floor was all sage green and pale creams; white curtains wafted at tall windows, not that the slight breeze took the edge off the stink of stale flesh and ammonia. How the staff put up with it, Bev would never know; she’d hop in the shower soon as she got home.
‘Shall I leave you to it, Bev?’
‘Yeah, that’d be good. I’ll just give Mr Banks another minute or two.’
Bev had a watching brief in mind, initially at least. With the coast clear, she observed the so not touching scene through the porthole. She needn’t have worried about Richard clocking her; he only had eyes for Curran. He stood near the head of the bed, fist balled at his side, staring down intently at the worthless piece of shit who killed his father. Bev only had a side-on view and the movement of his lips was barely perceptible but she’d give her eye teeth to hear what he was saying. His clenched jaw and the flexing fist suggested he wasn’t asking about the food. And he’d certainly not brought flowers.
Just a bunch of hatred, bitterness, resentment. And a burning desire for revenge? Get in line, sonny. Bev scoped out the room as far as she could, and unless a weapon was concealed, it looked as if he’d come unarmed. Like that mattered? She snorted, knew that if or when it came to it, she’d happily tear Curran apart manually.
The very sight of the bastard made her want to puke.
She stiffened, eyes creased, as Richard fumbled in a breast pocket. She placed both palms on the door, ready to push. With bated breath, she watched him take out something shiny, something that glinted in the light. Soon realized it was a less than lethal hipflask. She rolled her eyes. Cheers, dude. Another second or two and Richard wouldn’t have known what hit him.
But why the booze? She couldn’t see him drinking to Curran’s health any time soon. Was he even aware that before Curran fired the fatal shots, he’d forced a toxic amount of scotch down Byford’s throat?
Mouthing more unintelligible words, Richard now raised the flask. Bev pursed her lips. If he thought he’d send Curran on his way with a farewell toast, he’d have to think again. If anyone had that to look forward to, it was Bev. Still glaring at Curran, Richard took a good few slugs then wiped the back of a hand across his mouth. He made to screw the cap back on, had second thoughts, swigged a few more. She frowned. There couldn’t be a lot left.
Then it dawned. Whatever he’d come for needed more than a drop of Dutch courage.
And he might have overdone it. He tried to pocket the flask but fumbled so much it slipped from his fingers, dropped on the carpet. He kicked it across the room, then advanced on the bed. She took a deep breath. Time to make an entrance, methinks.
So why freeze when she clocked him snatch the pillow? Why hang fire when she watched him place it on Curran’s face, hold it down, press. For what seemed like hours she stood there, picturing the bastard’s airwaves narrowing as his oxygen was cut off; blood flow slowing to a crawl before the dead end of a cardiac arrest. And he couldn’t struggle, couldn’t move a single muscle.
Nah. Too easy.
When she flung the door open, Richard glanced round, hands still pressing down on the pillow. ‘You’re not stopping me.’
‘Believe me, I’m helping.’ Bev strode towards the business end of the bed. ‘Let go now.’ It was an order. Non-negotiable. Maybe he read it in her eyes. Hands cupped to his face, he staggered backwards, hit the wall, slid slowly to the floor. Lip curled at such close proximity to the killer, Bev lifted the pillow out of harm’s way.
‘Needs straightening, plumping up a tad. You were only making him more comfortable.’ She waited until Richard met her gaze. ‘Weren’t you?’
44
Richard slumped at the table, swirling tepid dregs round a Tardis mug Bev had given his dad for a laugh. She’d found it tucked in a kitchen cupboard – one of the few things Richard hadn’t packed. Perhaps sonny didn’t find the in-joke funny. Either way he looked to have weightier matters on his mind right now.
‘I’d’ve killed him, you know.’
‘Yeah, and spend the rest of your life in prison. That’d work.’ She watched him stretch long legs across the quarry tiles, heard the wince. Little wonder: the Midget didn’t have a lot of limb room.
‘Get that down your neck.’ She plonked a fresh black coffee in front of him. The third since running him home. In the next life, she reckoned she could come back as a barista.
He glanced up. ‘Where’s yours?’
‘Coffee-ed out, me, mate. Besides, I’m not pissed.’ Neither was he now, thanks to a loaf of Mother’s Pride she’d found in the bread bin. She’d finally got round to the toast she’d promised herself. Made enough to keep the neighbourhood going; certainly enough to sober up Byford’s son. And he needed a clear head, because she was keen to set a few things straight.
‘Yeah, sorry about that thing in the car park, Bev.’
That thing? He’d thrown a right strop. She’d threatened him with cuffs and a drunk and disorderly. Still, silver lining … the Sunrise wouldn’t be welcoming him back with open arms any time soon.
‘That’s OK, Mr Banks.’ She treated him to a Morriss eye-roll. ‘What was that all about?’
He sat back, fingers laced on top of his head. ‘I thought if they knew who I was, they might not let me in.’
‘What? Let a homicidal maniac stalk the wards?’ She peeled herself off the fridge, flopped onto a seat opposite and folded her arms. ‘Yeah, I can see they might have a problem with that.’
‘I’d have wasted the creep if you hadn’t come along
. And no one would have been any the wiser.’
She sniffed. ‘Yeah right.’ Fact was, he just might have got away with it. Homicidal smothering was notoriously difficult to detect: often little or no external sign of injury. And given Curran’s medical condition, there’d probably be no post mortem. But. You had to know what you were doing. Too much pressure left telltale marks: bruising to the gums, paler skin round the nose, petechial haemorrhaging. It only took one keen-eyed doc to spot those tiny red dots and … it’s a fair cop, m’lud.
That was without a pillow teeming with saliva and tissue cells.
Bev’s more or less timely intervention had nothing to do with saving Curran’s miserable skin, everything to do with saving Richard.
‘How come you were there, anyway?’ He gave a one-shoulder shrug.
Two could play at that game: she lifted both. Drummed her thigh until he broke the silence. He dropped the laid-back pose, hunched forward across the table.
‘You’re keeping an eye on him too, aren’t you?’
‘An eye?’ She snorted. ‘A pillow over his breathing gear’s what you had on him.’
And right now his knowing gaze was fixed on her. She glanced round the kitchen, dead casual. Inside she was anything but. It was unsettling enough that the subdued lighting made the guy look even more like his dad; the fact he’d cottoned on to their shared agenda rang all manner of alarm bells.
‘You want him dead too, don’t you, Bev?’ He moved his hand closer to hers.
She snatched it away. ‘What I want … is for you to ditch any stupid ideas about revenge.’
‘Revenge? I call it justice.’
Couldn’t argue with that. But she would. She leaned forward, fingers poised to tick off points. ‘One: he killed your father – don’t let him take you down as well. Two: he’s gonna die anyway.’ One way or another. Preferably not naturally and definitely not peacefully. ‘Three: you can’t take the law into your own hands.’
He nodded like he agreed with every word. ‘So how come it’s one law for me and another law for you?’
She ran her gaze over his face. Thought about fobbing him off with a load of old bollocks but his searching grey eyes saw the truth.
‘You hate him every bit as much as I do, don’t you, Bev?’
She nodded. ‘With every blood cell.’
‘Then why …?’
‘Stop you?’ She sighed. ‘You’d have got caught.’ And she’d no intention of making it easy for Curran. Shuffling off his mortal coil in his sleep? No way. She wanted him fully awake, compos mentis, scared shitless.
‘And you won’t?’ he asked.
‘Look, Richard, get it out of your head, I’m not—’
‘Don’t lie to me, Bev.’ His hand was in close proximity again.
She briefly closed her eyes. The less he knew the better, but he deserved the truth. ‘Let’s just say when the time comes, I’ll take care of it. Leave it at that, eh?’ His eyes searched her face again; he knew exactly what she wasn’t saying.
He moved to take her hand again but she jumped up smartish, jangled the car keys. ‘I’m off – early shout and all that.’
‘You sound just like Dad.’ Unsmiling, he rose too and held her gaze. ‘You don’t have to go, you know, Bev.’ The invitation couldn’t be clearer. Tempted? To wake up next to him in bed? Does a bear poop in the woods?
‘I think I do, Richard.’ She stood on tiptoe and pecked his cheek. ‘Catch you later.’ Lip curved, she turned at the door. ‘And don’t take that literally.’
Like father like son, for sure. Maybe just not alike enough. Either way, she wasn’t ready to find out. Before she was even out of the Midget, Bev spotted the flowers on her doorstep. Shit. What a shame. She must’ve missed Frankie on a peace-making mission. Bag hoisted, she locked the door, headed for a closer look. Talk about pushing the boat out: the bunch of lilies was twice the size of Bev’s offering. She sniffed. That’d be commensurate with the size of her mate’s guilty conscience then. Chuffed to bits anyway, Bev gave them a one-armed hug, made her way to the kitchen. Even through the cellophane, she caught a whiff of the bouquet. OK, it always reminded her of funerals but she could live with that.
Smiling, she stood them in the sink, then scouted round for a vase. Five minutes later, thought she might have to make do with a bucket. Richard’s final words kept popping into her head. He’d come to the door, called out: ‘If you ever change your mind …?’
She smiled. Never say never. Tearing open the envelope, she wondered what bon mots Frankie had to say. Her lip curled as she read the message. Cheeky toad. What a bloody nerve.
Can I buy you dinner? Oz x
I’d rather eat shit, mate. She tore the card into tiny shreds, stomped over to the bin, sprinkled them in. They sat like confetti on top of the corned beef hash and baccy ash. Marriage made in heaven, she thought. She frigging hated lilies anyway.
Standing there, tapping a foot, she creased her eyes. Hang fire a minute, Beverley. Simpson’s in Edgbaston would set him back an arm and two legs, especially if she ordered the most expensive nosh on the menu plus a bottle of bubbly or two. In return, she could give Oz bloody Khan a few home truths. She pursed her lips. It’d mean spending a couple of hours in his company. Could she handle that?
She sniffed, rammed the flowers head first in the bin. Yeah, why not?
Old times’ sake and all that crap.
45
Monday morning found Bev and Mac in Moseley, mooching round Saint Anne’s churchyard. She’d given Powell a call first thing to get the nod, and Mac had dropped by to pick her up. The main priority was to have a word with the witness who’d scared off Stella Rayne’s attacker. No one had been home so they were killing time.
‘Powell was happy to let us off the leash then, boss?’ Mac dug both hands deep in his denim pockets.
‘Took a bit of persuading. As in: “Some people’ll do anything to get out of an early brief, Morriss. But yeah, OK. Don’t be all day.”’ Her accents weren’t brilliant, but she had the blond’s mockney down to a tee. Practice made perfect.
‘God, it’s like he’s standing right next to me.’ Mac gave a crooked smile.
She rolled her eyes, nodded towards a boundary hedge. ‘I reckon that’s where our perp was standing.’ Or squatting, crouching, lying in wait, whatever.
‘Then when she’s about here—’ he pointed a desert boot ‘—he makes his move?’
She nodded. That was the way the attending officer’s report read. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Bev glanced up at the row of shops opposite, more interested in the flats above. Someone living up there might have seen something dodge. Uniform had knocked doors yesterday, but not yet found a witness. As well as that, even on a Sunday the street the other side of the hedge carried a fair amount of traffic and footfall. Mac had been right about the guy taking a hell of a risk. And that was without the chance of running into someone turning up to tend a grave. Though given the state of the graveyard, there might not be too many living relatives around. One or two plots looked newish but most of the headstones harked back generations. Centuries of moss and grime obscured a lot of the lettering. Bev could just about make out an Edith and an Ebenezer. Not names that would come back in a hurry.
‘Gawd, these places don’t half give me the creeps, boss. All the “here lies blah-blah” and “in loving memory of whats is name”, and as for the angels …’ He shuddered. ‘Don’t get me started.’
Bev masked a smile, having never had Mac down as an easily spooked kind of guy. Mind, what with the lichen and chipped wings, one or two did look like they’d just walked off a Doctor Who set. ‘You’ll be fine, mate – long as you don’t blink.’
Eyes peeled, they started a second complete circuit of the grounds. Bev read a few names on the newer headstones, spotted a condom and a couple of syringes lying around. Shame the attacker hadn’t dropped his calling card.
Mac frowned. ‘Is that your phone, boss?’
Shit. She
scrabbled in her bag, forgot she’d changed her ringtone. ‘Bev Morriss.’
‘Mo Iqbal here, bab. I said I’d call if I saw the girl again?’
Brill. ‘And?’
‘I had her in the back of the cab last night.’
A vision of tangled limbs and bare butt cheeks sprang to mind, but she knew what he was driving at. ‘And?’ She motioned to Mac for a pen.
The girl had hailed him in the street so he didn’t have a name but he had an address. Bev jotted it down on her hand. ‘Top man, Mo. Ta.’
Mac grabbed his pen back before it disappeared in the bowels of her bag. ‘Was that Dolly Parton on your phone?’
‘Might be.’ She’d changed her alarm call as well: Nine to Five, if he must know. ‘Come on, mate, I think we’ve seen enough.’
They’d maybe pay a visit to Rayne’s lady friend, once they’d bearded Stella’s hero of the hour.
Alfie Burke was no Charles Atlas. With the dark toothbrush moustache and shiny black lace-ups, he looked more Charlie Chaplin. The little guy wasn’t big on mime, though. From the minute Bev and Mac stepped into his poky flat, they found it difficult to get a word in. The detectives perched on a lumpy sofa in a room that smelled of cat and screamed beige: fixtures, fittings, floors, four-walls. Towers of dog-eared Stamp Magazine and Railway World suggested the incident in the graveyard was the most exciting thing life had thrown at Alfie. Christ knew how voluble he’d be if he’d actually nabbed the attacker.
Bev wondered if he wasn’t over-egging the pudding as it was. She let him rabbit on until he reached what she thought the end. ‘So did you—?’
‘I’d have taken him down like, if I’d not tripped. Sure as eggs is eggs.’ He nodded sagely, chest puffed out like a pigeon on steroids. ‘Fancy a cuppa, love?’
‘Ta all the same.’ She stifled a sigh, tried again. ‘You didn’t perhaps catch a fleeting glimpse of his face?’
‘I think it was a tree root. Could’ve been a stone or something, I s’pose.’ Shoe-lace more like.
Grave Affairs Page 21
