“Here you go.” Marlow placed a tray with coffee and Amaretti biscuits on the table between them. “Shan’t be a tick, I left something in the kitchen.”
She took a seat on one of the chesterfields.
“There’s an ashtray on the side,” his voice drifted through. “You can smoke if you like.”
He re-emerged carrying a crystal vase. She watched, stunned, as he placed it in the centre of the tray. But it wasn’t the daffodils alone that stopped her in her tracks. Marlow was talking again. The voice she’d likened to a Silver Ghost had gone. In its place, a nasal twang she’d recognise anywhere.
She had it on tape in the back of her MG.
“Letting you spark up’s a nice touch, right? Everyone’s entitled to a last request, aren’t they?” He sat opposite, casually crossed an ankle over a knee.
“Sorry?” An uncertain smile.
“A last request.” He flicked a speck of dust from his immaculate trousers. “As in before they buy it.”
He knew. It changed everything. Think. Feet. On. She forced herself not to show a reaction, felt her heart hammer her ribs. Split-second decisions, a million darting thoughts. Contain and control. How to play him? She tried an indifferent shrug. The arrogant shit didn’t like that. Fury flitted across his face. For a split second she saw him for what he was. And for what he’d done.
“Did Sophia have a last request?”
“I guess that’s something you’ll never know.” He gave the half-smile she’d found so appealing. She wanted to rip his face off. Images of his victims – battered, brutalised old women – flashed in her mind’s eye. Christ. This was the sick bastard who’d hacked off Sadie’s hair. The horror increased with each passing second, each realisation like acid in an open wound.
“Why did you do it?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“You can do better than that. Clever bloke like you.” He might fall for it; he was ego-on-a-stick.
Her mobile rang. She jumped a mile. Marlow didn’t bat an eyelid. “Answer it, you’re dead.”
“Piss off.” She took the phone from her pocket, recognised Oz’s number. She shouldn’t have taken her eye off the pus-ball. Marlow rammed the table into her shins and shot out of his chair. She gasped in pain as he snatched the phone from her grasp. He towered over her now, face distorted in hatred, fist raised. She braced herself for the blow, still trying to free her legs. It didn’t come. Marlow slowly lowered his hand, hurled the phone against the wall and sauntered back to his seat. What the fuck was he playing at?
She rubbed her shins, flesh already swollen. Hurt like shit. Her eyes shone in defiance. “Don’t come near me again.”
He ran his gaze over her body. “You should be so lucky.”
“Too young?” she snarled. “Old women more to your taste?”
He sniffed. “Whatever.”
“What I can’t work out is why someone so shit-hot cocked up big time.” She sensed a first glimmer of interest.
“My mistake was not taking you out earlier. You and your stinky grandmother.”
She counted to ten. Then twenty. “You are so going to regret that.”
“Am I? Your time’s running out, babe.”
She snorted. “I’m trembling in my boots.”
But she stiffened as he extracted a black-handled knife from a sheath strapped round his ankle. A blade put a different complexion on things. She needed to keep him talking, preferably at arm’s length.
She made a big play of examining his face. “Yeah. It just might work.”
“Fuck you on about?”
“The insanity plea.” She pursed her lips, making out it actually mattered. “Mind, you can’t always tell with juries.”
“Mad? Don’t be ridiculous. Killing that old bag was the sanest thing I’ve ever done. The bitch killed my mother.”
“I’m listening.”
Maybe he liked an audience. He circled the room as he spoke. He’d idolised Sara. She was young and beautiful. It had been him and her against the world. Make that against the Collisons. And the quack who killed her. Bev followed him with her eyes. It was clear he’d created a fantasy around Sara; he’d lost the real thing when he was a small child.
His grandparents told him he’d been abandoned. It was years before he discovered the truth. He forced it from George and Hannah before they perished in the flames. He considered it a suitable death for religious fanatics who’d shown his mother no mercy and made his life hell. They’d thrown her on to the streets when she got pregnant again. She’d been forced into an abortion and butchered by an incompetent doctor. Anyway, he needed his inheritance. Revenge would be sweet but it wouldn’t come cheap.
Bev listened, unmoving and unmoved. It was a tragic picture. But inaccurate and incomplete. An abortion hadn’t killed Sara Collison. Her heroin addiction had done that. Had the Collisons lied? Was a so-called medical blunder more palatable than a drug overdose?
“And the other attacks –?”
A smokescreen to save his pathetic skin, ditto Davy and the Shreks. Bev shook her head; being right was no consolation. She had a zillion questions, asked just one.
“Why the daffodils?”
“Week after week, I had to stick fucking daffodils into a poxy vase at the grave while my mother rotted under the earth.” The half-smile was revolting. “Seemed a nice touch.”
She’d listened carefully to every self-serving word. Not heard a syllable about adoption. He had no idea what he’d done.
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
He stopped pacing, focused on her. “What is?”
“Doctor Carrington didn’t kill your mother. She didn’t do abortion. She gave her own baby up for adoption rather than get rid of it.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’ve read her diaries.”
“Congratulations.”
“Why do you think Sara went to Sophia Carrington? A doctor practising miles away?” She waited, hoping the words would sink in. “Sophia wasn’t just another medico. Sara sought her out. Sophia wouldn’t have recognised her. How could she? Sara was only a few days old when they took her away. Think about the irony: the daughter Sophia gave up for adoption coming back to ask for an abortion.” She searched his face. “One thing I’m not clear on is whether Sara told the old lady about you. Because, at the very end, while you were sticking her like a pig, she’d have worked out you were her grandson.”
He was there already. A case of shoot the messenger. Thank God he wasn’t carrying a gun. Still had the knife, though. She leapt to her feet, better prepared this time. During the talk show, she’d worked on moves. He slashed out wildly, maybe hoping she’d panic. But Bev was icy calm. He wouldn’t be the first knife-wielding maniac she’d disarmed.
The training kicked in. She kicked out. Collison made a grab at her. Missed. He circled; she sidestepped. He thrust; she parried. He feigned a lunge; she mirrored it. It was a deadly pas de deux, badly choreographed with no music. Panting and the occasional gasp punctuated the tension. She was out-stepping Collison at every move.
Frustrated and in blind fury, he took a sudden run, lunging at her with the knife. She stuck out a foot. It was all it took. He fell badly, on to his knees, in obvious pain. She kicked the knife across the floor, then lashed out and sent him flying.
“Bitch.” He tried to get up.
She kicked again; heard a crack. Hoped it was a rib.
“Is that what you called your gran when you stuck the blade in? How much of a fight did she put up, big man?”
She could have left it there, slapped on the cuffs, walked away.
“Fuck you,” Marlow snarled.
She snapped. In a second she was straddling him, smashing a fist in his face. “That’s from Sophia, arsehole.”
She could have left it there.
“Fuck you.” He spat blood, flecks spraying with the words. Angrily she dashed them away, swung another punch. And another. And another.
She was vaguely awar
e of a presence behind her; guessed Oz had finally arrived. She took a final swing at the fucker…
And couldn’t work out why her head was exploding with sudden agonising pain.
As she went down, she caught a glimpse of a vaguely familiar face. Couldn’t put a name to it.
Was the hammering in her head? Bev opened an eye; the one that still worked. How long had she been out? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Collison was still down, his battered face a hand-span from her own. He was bleeding heavily. She tensed. Another sound. Close. Mustn’t move. Not sure she could. Hammering again, louder. Not in her head. She tried the other eye. Daffodils lay strewn, water pooled on the floor; her clothes were drenched. No broken glass.
“Police! Open up!”
Oz. Thank God. She risked a slight movement of her head towards the door. Well, well. Collison’s lady friend was standing there. Another distraction, another dupe. The band of merry men included the delectable Grace Kane.
Bev watched as she turned the handle and stood back to admit Oz. He barely gave her a glance, certainly didn’t register she was clutching a vase, as he dashed across to Bev. Kane’s approach was stealthier, armed with the same lethal weapon that had knocked Bev out cold. Oz was about to get the same treatment. Unless Bev headed it off. Timing was all. She waited till the last second, then tripped him. Sorry, mate.
Oz’s fall left Grace Kane open to attack. Bev rolled on to her back, brought her knees to her chest and kicked out. Kane doubled over. A Doc Marten in the stomach does that. But her recovery was swift; she swung the vase up and let fly. It shattered against the table, showering Bev’s face and hair with splinters of glass. She never knew how it missed her. It had missed Collison too, although he looked as if his face had taken the full force.
Bev sat on the floor, head in hands, while Oz cuffed and cautioned Kane. It didn’t stop a verbal attack. “That woman should be locked up,” Grace screamed. “Look at him. Look what she’s done. She’s insane.”
“Shut it,” Oz snapped. “What happened, Bev?”
I lost it. “I don’t know.”
The broken bleeding skin across her knuckles told Oz what she couldn’t. Collison’s shattered face added detail. She glanced up, registered a revulsion Oz couldn’t hide. Directed at her.
“Oz, I –”
He lifted a hand. “I don’t want to know.”
She heard him call it in to Highgate. She knew what she had to do; she took a long hard look at what she’d already done. Collison’s face was a bloody mess: not dissimilar to how his grandmother had looked.
34
The letter hadn’t taken Bev long to write. Byford took even less time to read it. He folded the single sheet of paper, laid it on the desk between them.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” he said.
Bev shook her head. They’d been through it before. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought; she couldn’t fool herself. It had taken nearly a week to make up her mind, the longest of her life. She’d been going through the motions, acting a role: Detective Sergeant Normal.
“It was self-defence, Bev. The man had a knife.”
She snorted. It was self-control. Lack of. And if Collison had pressed charges, she wouldn’t be sitting here now.
Byford leaned forward. “There were extenuating circumstances.”
This time. Maybe.
“You have my support. You know that.” He’d already spoken up for her; she’d been hauled over more coals than a pit pony. That’s when supposed mates weren’t shit-bagging her or taking the piss. She knew what they called her now, it wasn’t behind her back any more.
Lonely. Fucking felt it, too.
“Yeah, right.” She examined her nails. “That’ll be your full backing from some beach in Bermuda?”
An envelope had appeared at the front desk. She’d added a tenner to the leaving collection. She couldn’t blame him. Take the money and run. The only bright spot since the Collison debacle had been the guv’s relatively clean bill of health. The tests had revealed IBS. He’d even joked the B stood for Bev.
“Are you really packing it in, guv?”
“Are you?”
She’d asked herself the same question a thousand times. She wanted to talk it through with Oz, but had barely seen him since Bloody Sunday. He was keeping his distance. Or was it her imagination? Her judgement was shit at the moment.
“I’ve had enough.” She was knackered, barely sleeping; like Sadie, just different nightmares.
He brought out a bottle of malt and a couple of glasses from the filing cabinet. Bev took the largest measure and swallowed half. A belated Cheers was anything but. She slumped in the chair, legs stretched out in front. The body language said a lot and Byford was listening.
“It was a result, Bev. He’ll go down.”
“He’d have gone down for good if his girlfriend hadn’t decked me.”
She was scared. Scared how far she’d gone; scared there’d come a time when she wouldn’t stop.
“We’ve all been there, Bev. We’re only human. We get pushed to the limit. It’s not surprising we falter now and again.”
“Falter? Is that big boy for fuck-up?
He held his hands out. “You went too far. It happens. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”
“Can’t imagine you taking a pop, guv.”
“I’ve taken more than a pop.”
She sat up, folded her arms. “Go on.”
He shook his head. “One day, maybe.”
Another snort. “Saving it for your memoirs?”
He held her gaze. “At least I’ll have something to write. You won’t. Not if you go now.”
She shrugged, drained the glass.
He leaned forward. “You’re a good cop, Bev. Don’t beat yourself up.”
She bit back a line about beating up other people. It wasn’t the only stick with which she’d hit herself. “I let him take me out, guv. How dumb was that? I must be the only cop in history to get wined and dined by a serial killer.”
He turned his mouth down. “Jodie Foster? Hannibal Lecter?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Come on, Bev. Marlow, Collison, whatever you want to call him, was entirely plausible. He faked his own stabbing, for God’s sake. He pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes.”
She sniffed. “Cashmere.”
“There you go, then. If you hadn’t stopped him, he might have got away with it. He had flights booked, cases packed. Him and his ladyfriend.”
That was another thing. She hadn’t even run a check on Grace Kane. The woman had lied through her teeth. She was no more into journalism than Bev was into anger management. It had been a ruse to try to get an inside track on the inquiry. Kane and Collison were lovers. Bev put her head in her hands. Talk about being wrong-footed. Christ. She should be walking with a limp.
“What I can’t work out is how he got them to do his bidding.” Byford swirled his glass. Tea-leaves would have been a better bet. “He had them all in the palm of his hand.”
“Tell me about it.” She shook her head. Charisma? Cash? Fear? He’d certainly given Davy Roberts the shits. With good reason. Jake had told him if he ever opened his mouth, Gert was dead meat. For the Shrek boys, Kevin Fraser and Robert Lewis, silence was golden. Jake had promised them megabucks to keep shtum.
He could afford to. He wouldn’t have been around for the pay-off. He only existed when Collison adopted the persona. None of the lads had even heard of Collison, let alone Tom Marlow.
“Mind,” she said, “they can’t drop him in it fast enough now. They’re still dishing the dirt.”
Even Marty Skelton had come forward with a shovel. Soon as the story broke on the telly news, Marty offered a witness statement. He could identify the bloke he got the dog from – for a small fee. He eschewed payment after being threatened with a charge of withholding.
“And with the forensics,” Byford said, “even if Collison changes his plea, he’ll still get
life.”
“Damn sight more than his victims.”
The ‘lucky’ ones had been damaged irrevocably. Even the indomitable Sadie jumped at every sound; she was scared staying in, hated going out. It could become a real problem when Bev moved to Baldwin Street next month. Sadie was already begging her not to go. An eight-week-old golden retriever wasn’t much of a substitute for a kick-ass cop.
“There’ll always be victims, Bev. All we do is keep the numbers down.”
“We?” A vision of Byford lolling around on a beach flashed before her tired eyes. “Christ, guv, it’s bad enough when you’re here…” The Byford eyebrows were on alert. “You know what I mean. You’re a good bloke, but the thought of working under Shields…
Words petered out; she studied her nails again. She’d always imagined there’d be some short of showdown; pistols at noon, that sort of thing. The DI hadn’t exchanged a word with Bev since Collison’s arrest. It hadn’t stopped her submitting a damning written report that would stay on file. Bev was under no illusion that her every step would be closely monitored for the foreseeable.
“You wouldn’t be working under her,” Byford said.
“What?” She reached for her drink but the glass was empty.
Months before hitting Highgate, he explained, Shields had been interviewed for a DI post in Devon. It had been close but no cigar. But now the candidate appointed had quit unexpectedly and Shields had been offered the job.
Bev punched the air under the table.
Byford shook his head. “Very mature.” He poured a couple of refills and pushed her glass across the table. “Come on, Sergeant, you can’t run out on us now.”
There’d be an acting DI post up for grabs, she’d had two large Laphroaigs on an empty stomach and the guv was in a good mood. And she was a cop. What the hell else could she do?
“Tell you what, guv.” She paused. “I’ll stay if you will.”
She held her breath as he rose, watched him pace the room, then perch on the edge of the desk. Could be the Leapfrogs or an oxygen shortage, but she felt dizzy.
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