Bev’s eyes reflected the glow from the screen. This was cutting-room-floor stuff. Only digital. At first it was more of the same: exteriors and gvs. The fluffed pieces to camera were a hoot. They fast-forwarded after a few duff takes from the Beeb’s boy wonder and nearly missed it.
“There!” Her finger was almost on the monitor, heart racing. No wonder this hadn’t made the final cut. The interview was just getting under way; Marty was in mid-shot and full flow, oblivious to the figure behind.
She was on her feet, jabbing at the screen. “That’s what I want.” The next second it had gone; her groan was involuntary. She raked a hand through her hair, glanced despairingly at the editor.
Steve was already rewinding the tape. He punched a few buttons and nodded at the right-hand screen where the crucial clip, brief and tantalising though it might be, was materialising. He winked at Bev. “Don’t worry, petal. I can play with it now.” The finger-flexing was a tad over the top but she gave a weak smile. For the moment Steve was the maestro and she needed a touch of magic.
Half an hour on, the magic tricks were more Tommy Cooper than David Copperfield. Bev bit her lip, fury vying with frustration. A face with pale skin and dark hair, almost filling the monitor. Was it the youth they were after? She stared, muttering obscenities under her breath. The picture quality was so poor, Bev doubted the youth’s mother would pick him out of a line-up, let alone Sadie or Tom Marlow.
It wasn’t Steve’s fault. He’d tried every which way. Enlarging the image was easy. But the quality was crap; all definition gone. She screwed her eyes, willing regular features to emerge from the distortion. Talk about blurred vision. No wonder pixillation was used to disguise identity. Ironic or what?
Steve played around with the image a while longer, then sat back, fingers linked behind his head. “That’s the best I can do, Bev. At the end of the day, I can only work with what was shot.”
She nodded, bitterly disappointed. “Let me have a copy anyway, will you, mate?” He’d wire her the file. There was an anorexic chance a police techie might have a bigger box of tweaks.
Apart from a few sighs, the silence lasted till they were at the motor. She shrugged as she unlocked the door. “Sod it. I thought we had a goer there.”
“Still might.” He turned to fasten the seat belt, but not before she caught the look on his face. She hated it when he went all enigmatic.
“Christ, Oz. He’s not a miracle worker. We just viewed everything they shot.”
He was doing it again, with eyebrows this time. “That’s right. They shot.”
A slow smile spread across her face. Of course. It hadn’t exactly been an exclusive. The media, to coin a phrase, had been out in force at Cable Street.
“Come on, Einstein. Let’s hit the phones.”
24
“You’d best look at this, Sarge.” The door very nearly took the Dulux off the wall as Darren New strode in to the incident room.
Sod it. It was home time. Bev’s feet, figuratively speaking, hadn’t touched the floor tiles since the trip to the Mailbox. Her size sevens were currently taking a short break on a desktop while she lounged back with a Curly Wurly Her smile was down to the call Tom Marlow had just returned. Saying he’d be happy to meet with Sadie any time – and Bev. Like tomorrow for a drink.
Reluctantly she swung her legs down and took the tape Dazza was thrusting in her face. She was impressed with the quick turnaround. It was only a couple of hours since she and Oz had put the requests in. All the picture desks had promised help, though none had given it priority. “Where’s it from?”
“It’s not from anywhere. It’s one of ours,” he said.
She licked chocolate from her fingers, waiting for enlightenment. It didn’t arrive.
“Come on, Daz. It ain’t Twenty Questions, what’s on it?”
Why was he looking at his feet? “I went to fix that puncture of yours.”
Puncture? “No diss, mate, but it’s been a long day…
“There’s a chunk of glass there. The tyre was slashed.” He nodded at the tape. “It’s all on that.”
“DC New sussed it, guv.” Bev hit pause on the remote, froze the tape. They were in Byford’s office, having just viewed it for the third time. So much for an early out.
Dazza’s assertion that it was ‘all on that’ was unfounded. The CCTV footage was not a complete picture. A furtive hooded figure crouched at the bike’s front wheel. There was no doubt what was being done. As to who was doing it…? There was no mug shot and due to the high camera angle there was no sense of the youth’s size. Christ, it could even be a girl. Not that Bev thought so for a second.
“And there’s no other damage? Nothing else touched?” Byford tapped a finger against his top lip.
She shook her head. The implication was clear. It wasn’t random vandalism. It was a deliberate act. As she saw it now, there’d been a shadow on her tail far longer than she’d suspected. Shame she hadn’t seen it back then. By walking home that night, she’d inadvertently played into his hands. It was as good as opening a door with Sadie’s name on it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Byford said. “It doesn’t necessarily follow.” She watched as he adopted his favourite stance by the window. Shame. She was dying for a drink and the booze was in his bottom drawer. “We’re cops. We’ve all had run-ins with kids. It could just be little Johnnie’s idea of payback.”
Nice try. She’d given it a passing thought herself. It didn’t stand up. “I don’t buy that, guv. Not given the timing.” The big question was why they’d targeted Sadie. Byford asked it.
Bev ran a hand through her hair. It sounded fanciful even to her. “I think it was a trophy thing, guv. Bag a cop’s gran, show the pigs how smart we are.”
His face said it all. She hadn’t finished yet. “Look. What if we’ve been going about this the wrong way? We started off looking to nail a gang of toe-rags who duff up old dears for a few quid –”
He sighed. It seemed a lifetime ago. “Operation Streetwise.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it should be Street sodding Genius.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I don’t think we’re dealing with a bunch of brain-deads. We’d have got a fix on them by now. Yobs into granny-bashing are stupid. They’re cowardly. But they’re not killers.” She caught a flicker in those grey eyes, pressed on with the argument.
“We’ve never really got to grips with this case, guv. There’s no evidence, barely any forensics, a serious lack of witnesses and descriptions so vague they couldn’t catch cold. Christ, we don’t even know how many perps we’re after.” Her outstretched palms underlined the point. “Strikes me that’s either a run of fucking good luck or someone’s way ahead of us at every point.”
He raised a hand. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” She frowned, closed her mouth. “Shouldn’t you be asking Lewis and Fraser if they feel lucky?”
“And what good’s that going to do? They’ve been in custody four days and haven’t uttered so much as a prayer. Why’s that, d’you reckon?”
He started circling the room. She swivelled to keep him in sight, restraining her impatience.
“Whatever they say is going to incriminate them,” Byford countered. “They’re scared to open their mouths.”
“Come on, guv. They could spout the complete works of Shakespeare, they’re still going down.”
Byford halted, sat on the corner of the desk. “So tell me.”
“They’re scared. You got that right.” She held his gaze. “They’re scared because they’re ASBO kids. Not killers. And I reckon right from day one that’s what this has been about. It’s about Sophia Carrington – and everything else is a smokescreen.”
Byford closed the pages, laid down the book and drew his dressing gown tighter. It was cold and he was dog-tired. He should never have gone. “Drinks on me, guv,” Bev had trilled. Boy, was he paying the price now. It hadn’t even been a late night. Bev had been keen to get back to Sadie, taking the old gir
l a tin of Roses and a Des O’Connor CD. Painful.
The cramps had worsened the minute Byford’s head hit the pillow. It was now 2.11 and he’d spent more time in the loo than under the duvet, eventually decamping downstairs where it was easier to read.
She’d handed him the journal as they were leaving. It hadn’t taken long to get through. Not your average bedtime story. He wondered what today’s kids would make of it. Laugh their designer socks off, most like. Or wouldn’t believe a word. Not now, when women avoided marriage like the plague yet went out of their way to get pregnant. Anyway, who needed a man? According to Bev, all you needed these days was an empty yoghurt pot. He wondered vaguely whether the flavour mattered.
He took up the journal again, flicked through the entries. Poor Sophia. She’d had a love-child and spent a lifetime hiding the shame. Had it come back to haunt her? Bev seemed to be heading that way. He wasn’t convinced. There were no photographs of Sophia’s daughter after her sixteenth birthday. Besides, it was all so long ago. Tracking anyone involved back then was a fine-needle-in-a-field-of-hay job.
He stretched his legs, winced at a sharp pain in the gut. He’d felt the first twinges late afternoon. Bev had picked up on it in The Feathers. She’d been incensed about the continuing delay at the General. He smiled as he recalled her nagging. With hindsight, he reckoned she’d manoeuvred the session just to give him a grilling. She’d wanted the low-down on the tests, slipped in casual remarks about early retirement and wondered idly about Powell’s disciplinary. She’d even asked if he’d heard her latest nickname. He’d not given much away, certainly not what a few of the men had started calling her behind her back.
25
The sun had got its shades on. It was more mid-June than late March. Bev closed the door and looked out, relishing the early rays. Baby-blue sky, clean air, dew glistening like fairy lights. She rolled her eyes and suppressed a grin. Much more of this and she’d launch into her Julie Andrews: not that there were many hills in Highgate.
The moment lasted till she clocked the MG. A young bloke in black jeans and a dark bomber jacket was bent double, peering in through the driver’s window. Bev halted alongside, arms folded, tapped a Doc Marten.
The figure unfurled and flashed a smile across the top of the car. “Hi. I was hoping I’d catch you.”
It wasn’t a stranger. And it wasn’t a bloke. The trademark hair was scooped up under a baseball cap but this close the face was unmistakeably female. Bev nodded. Apart from a feeling of having been wrong-footed, she was trying to work out how Grace Kane knew where she lived. As to the doorstep approach, Bev had a hunch already.
She watched as the writer made her way round the car, stroking the bonnet with a finger as she passed. “Low mileage. Good bodywork. You must look after it. I wish I’d held on to my Midget. I loved it to bits.”
Bev narrowed her eyes. Top Gear auditions she could do without. Though an explanation for the small bunch of freesias the reporter was carrying would be nice.
“I heard what happened to your grandmother… I thought she might like these.”
So that was it. Grace and favour. Under that flawless skin and wide-eyed flattery, the reporter was little better than Matt Snow. Presumably it was the dog turd’s exclusive in the Evening News that had pointed Grace in the right direction. Bev was struggling to keep a civil tongue. It was bad enough for reporters to go round dabbling in the souls of strangers but no one, not even Grace Kane, was getting anywhere near her gran’s.
“Thanks,” Bev said briskly. “I’ll make sure she gets them.” She took the flowers and turned to exit, aware it wasn’t in the script. Not Ms Kane’s copy.
“Actually…” A winning smile.
“Yes?” A straight face.
“I was rather hoping to talk to her.” She was doing that Princess Di thing with her eyes.
“Really? Why’s that, then?” Surely Kane knew she was taking the piss?
The Di eyes darkened. Pique? Anger? Bev couldn’t tell. The writer held her hands out. “Look, I hate intruding. But sometimes it helps, talking it through… with a stranger like me. It can be really cathartic.”
“Helps?” The word struggled through clenched teeth. “Helps who? It certainly won’t help my gran. Your bank balance, maybe.”
“This isn’t about money.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. “Don’t make me laugh. Next thing it’ll be ‘I’m only doing my job.’”
“I am. I believe I can make a difference.” There was something in the voice; she’d quit laying verbal bait. “Have you even bothered to read the stuff I sent?”
What stuff?
“You haven’t, have you? Look, I know you don’t like what I do. But we’re not all Matt Snows.”
Bev ran a hand through her hair. Had she been quick to judge? Maybe. “It’s not you personally, Grace. But Sadie’s not up to it at the moment. It’s a shit time. I’ll have a look through your stuff, let you know. Maybe in a few days?” If she could find it.
The writer looked ready to argue but didn’t. “Of course. I understand. It must be awful.” She held out a hand. “Thanks for your time anyway.”
Grace Kane set off towards an Audi convertible parked a few doors down, then turned. “How about if you have a word with Sadie about me? At least give her the option. If she says no, fair enough… You’ve got my number. I’ll be moving on at the weekend. But feel free to call me. Any time.”
The phone box stank as usual. It had better be a quick call. He already had the number for the cop shop. No point talking to the bint on the switchboard. He drummed his fingers, waiting for connection to the incident room. He told the posh tart at the other end to listen up.
“The old lady who bought it down Cable Street? Got a pen?”
Bev’s desk was covered in large brown envelopes sent from news desks all over the Midlands. But had Christmas come early? She slung her bag over the back of a chair and set her coffee on a beer mat. Oz was already making inroads into a mountain of calls he’d lined up. Cherchez la femme, Sophia’s mystery daughter, was the name of the game. Except it was deadly serious.
Oz shook his head. No joy yet. Daz appeared to be the only one else around. He was hunched over a computer, two fingers worrying the keyboard. Bev took a seat, mental fingers crossed, while the real ones started on the morning’s mail.
Five minutes later the bin was full of junk. She sat back, angrily brushed her fringe from her eyes. Christ. It had been bugging her for days now. There was barely time to wash it, let alone cut it. Sod it. That was one thing she could do. She headed for the loo, pocketing scissors en route.
The mirror confirmed she was no Nicky Clarke. But at least the eyebrows were evident, even though Caz, her regular crimper, would throw a hissy fit when she saw the effects. Bev stood in front of the glass, pulled her hair into a minuscule ponytail and posed, turning her head from side to side. She gave a pout or two, aiming for the elfin effect. She missed. More heartburn than Hepburn. Mind, her Quasimodo was to die for: she crossed her eyes, stuck her tongue out, hunched a shoulder and swung a lifeless arm.
“Nice one, Sarge.”
Bev swirled round. DC Mansfield was just disappearing into a cubicle.
“Catch you later, Carol.” She put as much authority into the voice as she could muster and headed back.
It was the first thing she saw on her return: an edge of brown envelope poking out from under her desk. The missing link? She snorted. Given the results so far, the weakest link was more likely. The cappuccino was cold but she swallowed a sip anyway and opened the envelope. Among the twenty or so stills there were two glossy black and whites that had her heart racing. The smile spread slowly until it covered her face. “Gotcha!”
If she was right, she had a killer in her sights.
The police lab worked fast. Mainly down to having Bev on their back. She refused to leave until they came up with the goods. And they were very good indeed. The techies had done their tweaking and a shadowy figure lurking on
the edge of the originals was now in the limelight. Make that candlelight. The mug shots were well grainy, not perfect by any means, but both pics showed a youth with a pale face, black spiked hair and piercings. The last thing Bev needed was to go off half-cocked, so she’d popped back to let Sadie see the photos just to be on the safe side. Which was why, by the time she finally made the briefing, she didn’t even apologise.
“Where the hell have you been?” Shields snapped. The DI had adopted that Annie Oakley pose again but this time Bev was calling the shots.
Maybe if she hadn’t been so focused she might have picked up on the atmosphere, the tone in Shields’s voice. She didn’t. She headed straight for the murder board and pinned up both prints. “That’s the bastard we need to nail.”
She swirled round, not exactly expecting applause. But why the blank looks and open mouths? Except for Danny Shields. The DI was smiling, an amused glint in her caramel eyes. Bev glanced round, at last sensing the uneasiness. She’d misread the signs. The faces weren’t blank; they were embarrassed. For her.
“And what makes you so sure, Sergeant?” The amusement had spread to the DI’s voice now.
Bev felt a trickle of sweat race cold down her spine. She looked again at the dark hair, the pale skin and the piercings. She was right. She had to be. Anyway, Sadie was sure. As sure as an old woman shaking like an orchard could be. Bev stuck to her guns. “He’s been identified. We just need a name.”
Shields gathered her papers from the desktop. “Oh, we have a name. In fact we have the killer. He’s in a cell. I’m just about to charge him.”
Bev felt the flush rise. No wonder people were sniggering. She’d produced a black and white print when apparently the original was banged up downstairs.
“Just one tiny anomaly, Sergeant Morriss.” Shields was halfway to the door, didn’t even turn to finish the sentence. “The youth we’re holding bears as much resemblance to your pin-up boy as I do to Jordan.”
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