Death Wish

by Maureen Carter

  ‘She was lucky not to get done for time-wasting,’ Powell said, ‘perverting the course of justice and all that. Vicious thing to do.’

  Bev nodded even though he couldn’t see. She recalled Shannon’s photo, now lying on the kitchen table. Not so much Alice as malice in Wonderland: a vindictive kid with an industrial-strength crush on a teacher. Unforgivable what she’d done, but if she’d been killed out of revenge, the punishment far outweighed the crime. Even murderers didn’t get the death penalty.

  ‘Dunno about luck, gaffer, fact she got off was mostly down to her age.’ Fifteen back then. And her dad hadn’t long died. The defence had played the sympathy card big time. Aiden Manners had been fresh out of finer feelings. He’d stood on the steps of the court calling for her to be named and shamed. In the same way he’d been vilified in the media every day until the case was chucked out.

  Bev was under no illusion: Manners could well have moved on in every sense since then, but they needed to establish that for sure. Besides, they weren’t exactly drowning in suspects.

  ‘Pembers had any joy tracking Manners down yet, gaffer?’

  ‘Still on it far as I know. I’ll keep you posted.’

  He’d also update her with any progress on the interviews with Shannon’s mates. Darren and a couple of other DCs had already made a start on the list emailed by Mac. The priority was to establish latest sightings and last known movements, crucial in any inquiry, particularly in this one. The squad was playing catch-up on a trail that was two weeks old.

  ‘Okey-dokey, gaffer.’ Rolling mental sleeves, she jumped up. ‘Listen, if you –’

  ‘Blow me, Morriss.’ She heard more clicking of a keyboard, then a low whistle on the line and then Powell muttering: ‘Well, well, well.’ Get on with it, for Christ’s sake. He’d found another interview on the web, he said. Manners pictured at home with his family. ‘Have you seen him, Morriss? He’s well fit. Not surprised she fancied him.’

  Bev rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, gaffer, don’t mess about.’

  ‘Keep your hair on. Yeah, here it is: life in ruins, marriage wrecked, reputation in tatters, never work with kids again.’

  Yadda, yadda. Bev shrugged. She’d read more or less the same stuff herself. ‘Same old.’

  ‘Yes and no. The piece is in The Sun. And guess who wrote it?’

  The Sun? Shit. ‘Summer Raynes?’

  ‘Got it in one, Morriss.’

  Deep in thought, Bev jumped a mile when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Tyler,’ she snarled. ‘Don’t do that to me.’

  Unsmiling he flashed his phone. ‘Just spoke to Pembers. She tried you first, but …’

  ‘Spit it out, mate.’

  ‘Manners? He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead? How friggin’ come?’

  ‘Topped himself, didn’t he?’

  27

  Old wives’ tale, eh? Stacey Hardy squatted some distance from the body and rubbed a hand over her face. She’d get no pleasure telling Bev Morriss that her oh-so-flighty ‘only buses come in threes, Stace’ was a pile of poop. The portly bloke slumped in a pool of blood on the chequered tiles was Stacey’s third suicide call-out in less than a week. She was beginning to feel like the Grim Reaper on Groundhog Day. Dead funny, constable. Not. Nor true, given the current circs couldn’t be more different from the previous two. Just Stacey attempting to lighten a dark mood. Shifting her not inconsiderable weight a little, she turned her mouth down. No two ways about it: dealing with death was a bloody depressing business. Not that topping yourself was the act of an eternal optimist.

  Henry Gibbs certainly hadn’t been playing around. The retired accountant had left a note on the front door instructing his next-door neighbour Vera Hartley to ring the police, let them in, but under no circumstances go upstairs. Mrs Hartley apparently popped round most days for a friendly word, especially since the old boy’s wife had died. Handily, she’d held a set of keys for years. Kept an eye on the place when it was empty.

  Stacey sighed. Shame someone hadn’t kept an even closer eye on Henry, because at some point he’d made his way to the bathroom, stripped to his underwear, placed neatly folded striped pyjamas on top of a wicker laundry basket, and picked up a razor.

  She curled a lip. Selfish old git. Yet considerate, too, telling the old lady not to go looking for him.

  Gibbs probably hadn’t realized he’d lose control of his bowels, but he’d have been in no doubt about the blood flow. Stacey had detected the distinctive iron tang even before reaching the landing. Having some idea of what she might find, she should’ve been better prepared for the scene confronting her. She wasn’t. It looked as if Jackson Pollock had gone ape-shit with a gallon of scarlet paint.

  The sight alone would’ve knocked his neighbour for six. Crouched down and gazing round at the unintended mural, Stacey didn’t exactly feel rock solid herself.

  Henry’s old-fashioned cutthroat razor had done exactly that. Judging by the blood splatter and positioning of the body, it looked to Stacey like he’d stood in front of the mirror and watched the blade slice through the flesh of his neck. She placed an unwitting hand round her own throat. What the hell drove anyone to do something like that? How desperate would you have to be? She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

  If she hoped anything might have changed when she looked again, she was out of luck. The gaping wound still resembled a second mouth – only slacker and grinning like a demented clown’s.

  Struggling to her feet, she rubbed a twinge in the small of her back. She’d heard the doorbell ring. Denny would let in whoever it was. He’d stayed downstairs with Mrs Hartley so he could elicit more info.

  ‘Stacey.’ Denny’s dulcet tones carried up from the hall below. ‘The doctor’s here.’

  Too late, love. ‘Send him up.’

  ‘Her actually, officer.’ The middle-aged GP didn’t sound amused. Appearing at the curve in the banister a few seconds later, she didn’t look a barrel of laughs either. The thin lips were pursed so tight they looked in danger of splitting.

  Waiting outside the bathroom, Stacey gave her a brisk nod. ‘It’s a bit tight on space in there.’ Surprising, really, given how big the rest of Eaton Lodge was. ‘Shall I leave you to it?’

  Doctor Feel Bad brushed past, muttering something that sounded like ‘Fine by me’.

  Suit yourself. Stacey strode down the corridor. Sunlight streamed through stained glass at the far end, casting a harlequin effect on the plush cream carpet. The ivory-and-sage striped walls were adorned with the sort of artwork people paid to see hanging in The Louvre. Mr and Mrs Gibbs couldn’t have been short of a bob or two.

  Stacey popped her head round five doors before striking gold. The fifth led to what must be the master bedroom. Lingering in the doorway, she let her gaze do the walking. Blimey. They’d certainly not shopped at IKEA. The classy furniture was more family heirloom than flat-pack. The Chinese vases and porcelain what-nots would get the Antiques Roadshow toffs salivating. Not to mention the Cash in the Attic lot.

  She stepped in further, paused at the foot of a four-poster bed, all carved panels and heavy brocade swags. She reckoned it’d sleep six at a push, but gave a sad smile when she noticed that just the one pillow bore a slight indentation. Poor old sod. He’d probably been lonely rattling round the place on his tod. ’Specially when him and his missus had clearly been big on family. Framed photographs of the couple stood on just about every polished surface. There were even more of their son. He’d been snapped at every stage from bouncing baby right through to handsome brute.

  Stacey wandered around, stopping now and then to pick up a photograph. Smiling, she reached for a shot of the doting parents. Looking good, Henry. Proof he’d not always been a dead ringer for the pompous old prat off Dad’s Army. As for Mrs G, she’d been a bit of a stunner in her day.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Shit. The frame slipped through her fingers
as she swirled around. Thank God for shag-pile. Replacing the photo on an oak chest she said, ‘No harm done. Sorry about that. I’m PC Stacey Hardy, I –’

  ‘I know who you are: I asked what you’re doing.’

  No need to ask who the guy was. Not such a handsome brute in the flesh, though. Or maybe it was just the current ugly sneer. Denny must’ve filled him in that she was upstairs, but why the hell hadn’t he told her the son had turned up?

  ‘I’m investigating your father’s death, Mr Gibbs.’ What had Vera Hartley called him? Stephen? Sebastian? Something beginning with an S.

  ‘Really?’ Whatever his name was, he folded his arms and arched an eyebrow. ‘Seems to me you’re snooping round my father’s bedroom, constable.’ Tall, dark, swarthy, he looked to Stacey like Heathcliff clad in a sharp suit and tie. Had the sharp tongue to go with it, too.

  And it wasn’t really a fair cop. ‘I think he may have left a note, sir. Explaining why he took his own life.’

  ‘You won’t find it in here.’ He slipped a hand inside his breast pocket. ‘This arrived this morning.’

  Frowning, Stacey took the envelope from him. No stamp, no postmark, just the name Sebastian written across it in black ink. ‘Your father’s writing?’

  He nodded, bit his lip.

  She took out a single sheet of paper, read a few lines written in the same hand.

  Dearest Sebastian. It’s easier this way. I welcome death and seeing darling Jane again. Try and understand. Don’t feel too bad. Your loving father, Henry.

  ‘It was on the mat when I came downstairs. He must’ve … ’

  Stacey glanced up, saw he was struggling not to show his emotions. ‘I’ll have to take this with me, sir.’

  Brisk nod. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Me too.’ He rubbed both hands down his face. ‘He had health problems. Bowel cancer. Dreaded the prospect of gruelling treatment, surgery, chemo, whatever. I guess it tipped the balance,’ he mused almost to himself. ‘It’s not just that though, officer. I don’t think he’s really been the same since my mother died.’

  ‘Jane?’

  Another nod. ‘He found her lying at the bottom of the stairs. The fall split her head open. There was a lot of blood.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I can’t imagine how it must’ve been for him. Anyway, a month or so ago he told me he’d had enough, didn’t see the point of going on without her. They both believed in the afterlife, you see.’

  Did she hell. Stacey didn’t have much faith in this one, let alone the next.

  ‘Truth to tell’ – he dropped his head, toed the carpet – ‘I’d been a little afraid he might take the easy way out.’

  Easy? Shit. He’d not been told, had he? ‘Are you aware how he died, sir?’

  ‘I imagine an overdose. I know he was on antidepressants and sleeping tablets.’ Frowning, he lifted his gaze. ‘Where is he? I’d like to see him.’

  Trust me, you wouldn’t. ‘The doctor’s with him.’ Stacey made to steer him towards the door. ‘Shall we wait downstairs, sir?’

  ‘I’ve finished, actually.’ The doctor stood in the doorway, coat over her arm, medical bag in hand. She nodded at Gibbs. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Sebastian. I saw your father only last week in surgery. He seemed a little down, but if I’d had any idea … ’

  ‘Will there have to be an inquest, doctor?’ Gibbs asked. ‘I can’t stand the thought of anyone cutting him open.’ Stacey bit her lip. If only he knew. Poor sod.

  ‘I’ll have to inform the coroner, of course, but given the circumstances.’

  ‘So tell me, doctor, how did he die?’

  Stacey met the medico’s glance. If looks could kill …

  28

  ‘Hear that, Morriss?’

  Powell headed Bev’s way across the car park. Forcing a smile, she tapped a Doc Martens waiting for him to catch up, knew by the gleam in his eye he was dying to enlighten her.

  ‘Do tell.’ Quick as you like.

  ‘The sound of another brilliant idea biting the dust. Still, I guess you’re used to it by now.’

  Sod off, twat-man. She very nearly voiced the thought. How was she supposed to have known Aiden Manners hadn’t so much shuffled as wrenched off his mortal coil? Hanged himself, according to his mum. Less than a year back, Pembers reckoned. Found a secluded spot on Cannock Chase, slung a length of rope over a tree and … game over. He’d got the secluded bit right. The body hadn’t been found for months. What was left of it.

  ‘Even I can’t win ’em all, gaffer.’ Bev shrugged. Stacey Hardy had already pointed out the error of Bev’s pontificating about bad things not coming in threes. Mind, a suicide hat trick was nothing to brag about. Cheeky mare had left a note on her desk, reckoned Bev owed her a drink.

  ‘Now and again might help,’ Powell said.

  He could bloody talk. At least she had ideas. ‘Remind me: what’ve you got?’ Apart from a personality disorder. Straight-faced, she chucked her keys in the air, caught them without breaking eye contact. Christ, she could kick herself: another minute and she’d have been out of this joint.

  ‘High hopes, Morriss,’ Powell said, tapping the side of his nose, ‘high hopes.’

  Pie in the sky, more like. She’d just come from the late brief and certainly hadn’t heard any startling revelations, let alone amazing developments. Could all change, given they now had a name and face to work with. The match had come through mid-afternoon via Shannon’s dental records. The press office had issued a news release to go with the girl’s Alice in Wonderland photo. Both pic and appeal had been getting a good airing in the media. Shares on Facebook, Twitter retweets. Powell had done a turn on local telly. Calls had trickled in so far, but, as every cop knew, it only takes one to crack a case.

  ‘Did you have a word with Raynes, by any chance?’ Bev chucked the keys again.

  ‘Tried her a couple a times. Can’t see much point now – not with Manners dead. Besides, he gave more interviews than I’ve cooked hot dinners.’

  She turned her mouth down. The blond was probably right, but they still needed to find out who’d been feeding the reporter tips. ‘I’ll maybe have a word.’

  ‘Said she’d be in touch, didn’t she?’

  Bev threw the keys again. God, I’m good. ‘Yeah, I’m curious what she made of Manners, though.’ Wondered for one thing if she’d pushed him to reveal Shannon’s name.

  ‘You’ve got enough on your plate tomorrow.’

  She nodded. She had a bunch of Shannon’s mates to interview. Plus she was due back at the girl’s home first thing, to have another go at her mum.

  ‘You’re right there. I’d best get off. Early to bed …’ The keys went up again. Four in a row?

  ‘How ’bout a swift half? My shout?’

  Powell’s shout? Shit. Missed them. Still, three out of four ain’t bad. Stooping to retrieve the keys, she said: ‘Nah, sorry, gaffer. I owe Pembers a curry.’

  He sniffed. ‘Your loss, sunshine.’

  I’ll live. Besides, after Pembers she had a hot date.

  With a cold case.

  ‘Chuck in a Diet Coke as well, mate. Plenty of ice. Ta.’ Smiling, Bev handed back the menu, wiped sticky fingers on her jeans. There were smoother accompaniments to a lamb balti but, hey babe. Anyway, she needed a clear head.

  Pembers glanced across the table, frowning. ‘You not drinking?’ Way she said it anyone would think Bev had given up oxygen.

  ‘Yeah, turned vegan an’ all.’

  ‘Course you have,’ Carol murmured. Raising her gaze, she flashed the waiter a warm smile. ‘I’ll have the chicken biriyani and a Cobra, please.’ The look on his face suggested he’d snatch the shirt off his granny’s back if madam desired.

  Carol settled back, tapped a finger against her lips. ‘How come you’re on Coke?’

  ‘Fancied a change.’ She sincerely hoped that wasn’t one of Caz’s knowing smiles. The woman could make a sharp cookie look like marshmallow. ‘Not ill
egal, is it?’

  ‘Not last time I looked.’ She turned her mouth down. ‘Mind you …’

  Bev smiled, cast a quick glance round. Apart from a table of student types, she and Carol had the place to themselves. Early yet, though; another hour, it’d be chapati-packed and even more sweltering. Spice Heaven in Selly Oak had barely changed in the fifteen years Bev had been eating there – all maroon flock walls, dimpled gold velvet chairs, cheap chandeliers and far too many mirrors. Good job they served ace food.

  Grand to see her mate outside of work, too. Carol usually had too much on her plate at home.

  ‘How’s it all going?’ Bev fanned herself with a poppadom.

  ‘Good, ta. Yourself?’

  ‘Ditto.’ Ish. She’d been thinking about Carol’s comment at one of the earlier Twilight briefs. Something about teenagers not wanting to spend time with their parents.

  ‘Kids okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ Her eyes said, leave it.

  ‘I’m here if you ever want to talk. ’ Pausing. ‘Just so’s you know.’

  Carol paused too, held Bev’s gaze.

  Message received. Discussion over. Fair enough. Their chat always got back to work eventually, anyway. Bev did most of the talking while they tucked into the dishes. Powell’s cheek; Mac’s need for a new squeeze; how Truss was shaping up. Operation Twilight mostly, though. Bev reckoned Caz deserved a pat on the back.

  ‘You were dead right, y’know.’ She jabbed her fork to underline the point, hid the spillage with a napkin. ‘No wonder the girl wasn’t reported missing sooner when her ma was off sunning herself.’

  ‘Bugger of a thing to get home to.’

  ‘She don’t know the worst yet.’

  They ate in silence for a while, probably digesting unpalatable images. Bev took a sip of Coke. ‘How did you find Aiden Manners’ mum?’

  Carol glanced up. ‘As in track down or get on with?’

  ‘Both.’

  Aiden’s parents still lived at the old address in Worcester, she said. As for getting on with her, she didn’t. The woman hated cops almost as much as she loathed Shannon Henderson. Reckoned her son would still be alive if the cops hadn’t given the girl’s lies the time of day.