Death Wish

by Maureen Carter

  ‘I’m surprised she let you in.’ Bev said.

  ‘We only spoke on the phone.’

  She turned her mouth down. Not good, that. ‘Did you tell her Shannon’s dead?’

  ‘Wanted to know where’s she’s buried so she can dance on the grave.’

  ‘Nice.’ She sniffed. Mind, who was she to talk? Bev knew a grave she’d take pleasure pissing on. Soon as it was dug.

  Caz took a swig of lager. ‘Dunno. I kinda get it. By the time they found her son, there wasn’t much to bury. She insisted on seeing him, though, ignored all advice. Can you imagine that?’

  ‘Rather not, thanks.’

  ‘Crikey, I’m stuffed.’ She pushed her plate to one side, watched Bev dig in for a while, then: ‘Mind if I ask you something?’

  Her hand stilled for a sec. Course she would. The ‘mind’ guaranteed it. Keeping her head down, she mopped up the last dollop of sludge-coloured sauce, then popped in enough naan bread to feed an army. Tactical manoeuvre.

  ‘Okay.’ Caz smiled. ‘Point taken.’ But not to heart. Almost immediately she came back with: ‘Look, tell me to butt out if you like, but –’

  ‘Everything all right, ladies? Anything else I can do for you?’ The waiter shone a beam on Carol that could light up cliffs; bestowed a little bow for her benefit, too.

  ‘No, ta, mate. We’re ready to settle up.’ Bev wiped a napkin round her mouth, masked a smirk at the same time. Saved by the bill. Who’d have thought it?

  ‘Leave your bag where it is, Caz. Told you this one’s on me.’ She slapped a few notes on the table, pushed back the chair. ‘Fit?’

  They were hardly through the door when Caz piped up again. ‘All I’m saying, Bev, is … you’d be great, I think you should go for it.’

  Saved by the bill. Should’ve known Caz better. She’d either picked up baby rumours. Or read too much into the Coke. Course, Bev could be barking up the wrong forest. One false verbal step and she might have a mouth full of feet. She tried a laugh. ‘What you on about, Caz?’

  ‘The DI post. I hear you’re thinking of putting in for it.’

  ‘News to me, mate. Where’d you hear, as a matter of interest?’ Blabbermouth Powell had mentioned it in the canteen. There’s a surprise.

  ‘If Oz can you can, Bev.’ She’d also been told about Khanie sniffing round the same job. Something else the blond had let slip.

  ‘I’m saying nothing, Caz.’

  ‘Makes a change.’

  ‘Ho-de-ho-de.’

  Still chatting they strolled along the pavement, dodging the odd drunk and dog walker. Caz asked after Bev’s mum. Bev wondered if Caz had any holiday booked. Neutral territory; safer ground.

  Until Caz dropped a bombshell. She’d just unlocked her car. ‘I meant to ask: did you know a date’s been set for Byford’s memorial –?’

  ‘Yep.’ She didn’t want to go there, or the service. She could think of a million better ways of remembering the big man.

  ‘It’s just Truss is asking for people to say a few words and obviously you …’ La, la, la. ‘Okay. I can see you’re not keen. Just thought I’d …’

  ‘No worries. I gotta dash, Caz.’ Smiling, she raised a palm and walked away backwards. ‘See yas.’

  ‘Take care, Bev. Catch you later.’

  Over my dead body, Caz.

  29

  Bev adopted her usual stance in the Sunrise Nursing Home. She leaned against the wall in Curran’s private room, arms folded, ankles crossed, staring at the guy’s recumbent form.

  ‘I could waste you right now, y’know that?’

  She bloody well hoped he knew. She’d been talking just loud enough so he could hear. Her hawk-like gaze hadn’t left his face. The murdering bastard lay on his back, eyes closed, apparently out of it. But then, Bev suspected he might be faking. Fooling people was one of his specialities, like killing. He’d certainly had enough practice. Had a frigging PhD in passing himself off as a decent bloke.

  ‘Instead of the useless piece of shit you really are, eh, fucktard?’ Scowling, she wiped saliva from her mouth with the back of a hand.

  Nina had tipped her the wink about Curran’s periods of consciousness becoming longer, more frequent, that he seemed to be responding more to aural stimulation. Emerging from a vegetative state was never an exact science, Bev was well aware of that, but the nurse’s phone call had prompted tonight’s vigil. She’d give Curran aural stimulation, all right. And it wouldn’t be Robbie Williams singing ‘Angels’.

  She peeled herself off the wall, walked to the bed, stood as near as she could bear to the stinking shit-bags – plural.

  ‘Let’s think now – how am I going to do it?’ Had the eyelids flickered? She snatched one of his pillows, held it against his face. Counted twenty in her head. ‘Nah, too easy.’ Yanking his head up, she jammed the pillow back into place.

  ‘How’s about I spice this up a bit?’ She rattled the drip-stand. The banana-coloured emulsion ran down the sides of the bag. ‘Tell me, Curran, what’s your poison? I could bring it in next time. Potassium. Touch of arsenic. Warfarin. All you need do is say.’ God, it was tempting just to rip the frigging feeding tube out of his nostril.

  She’d already rejected the idea of introducing some sort of toxin into the food or injecting a lethal dose via the cannula. Both methods carried detection risks. To do the job properly, she’d need to pump in a huge amount of potassium, and assuming there’d be a post mortem … She didn’t fancy getting banged up. Especially if she had a baby to consider.

  ‘Nah. I’ve got a better idea. Let me show you.’ – reaching into her bag – ‘See this? It’s a syringe.’ Waving it in front of his face.

  He barely flinched when she stuck the tip in his neck. ‘No worries. Empty, innit?’ She pressed the plunger a tad harder. Maybe he was steeling himself. Mind over matter. Unless he’d slipped back into his semi-conscious pit. Either way, she’d not finished filling him in.

  ‘Course full of air’s a different matter. Any idea what happens when air gets in a vein? Depending on how much, it’s fatal. Stops the heart, see. Embolism. Cardiac arrest. Curtains. ’Fore that, though, pain like you wouldn’t believe, chest feels like it’s caving in, desperate gasp for every breath, and this weird sense of doom descends. You know you’re gonna die, and there’s sod all you can do about it.’ She pressed the plunger a tad more.

  ‘Hey, I wonder if your life flashes in front of your eyes? Yours would make pretty shit viewing, wouldn’t it, Curran?’ And another tiny plunge.

  She released the pressure, slipped the needle back in her bag. ‘Course if you play ball, we could maybe do a deal.’ Squatting at his side now, she lowered her voice even further. ‘Listen up, fuckwit. I want a full confession. How you killed Josh Banks. And why the hell you shot a cop.’

  Talk you bastard, talk. Nothing but the curtain rustling in the soft breeze. Breath of fresh air. What irony.

  ‘Give me what I want and you can rest in peace.’ RIP on a headstone should cover it. ‘If not …’ Next time, I swear you’ll beg me to let you die.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Bev whipped her head round. A tall stooping woman stood in the doorway. The plain blue garb and the simple cross round her neck marked her out as one of the nuns on the staff. The look on her face was pretty cross, too. ‘Visiting hours are over, young woman.’

  ‘Sorry, Sister. I was just about to leave.’ Rising to her feet, Bev offered the nun a rueful smile. ‘I always like to share a final prayer with him. Honest to God, I swear sometimes he can hear me. Isn’t that right, Paulie?’

  The soft soap didn’t wash with the nun.

  ‘That’s as may be, you still shouldn’t be here.’ Her outstretched arm brooked no argument. ‘Come along, I’ll show you out.’

  ‘Of course. Bye, Paulie.’ Bev lowered her voice. ‘Catch you soon.’ Busy explaining to the nun about working shifts and how her visits had the blessing of one the night nurses, Bev left the bastard to stew in his own mental jui
ces. Shame she didn’t look back.

  She’d have seen his sly smile. Maybe even have read his lips.

  ‘In your dreams, cop bitch.’

  Reaching a sluggish arm from under the duvet, Summer Raynes groaned as she fumbled on the bedside table for her mobile. How long had the bloody thing been ringing? It was still dark outside, for God’s sake. Her cat, Rupert, was equally unimpressed with the rude awakening. It shot off the bed and slunk towards the door swishing its tail.

  Raynes peered at the clock’s glowing green digits. They read 04.13. She bet a pound to a penny it was one of her news editors on the line. ‘Have you any idea what time it is?’ she moaned.

  ‘Time you woke up, sunshine.’

  The reporter lost her stake and her cool. The voice had the same effect as a cold shower. Perched shivering on the edge of the mattress now, she took a calming breath. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘Think of me as your personal alarm call, pet. As to what I want? I fed you solid info. You work for The Sun, don’t you? Why’s it not seen the light of day?’

  ‘It’s not down to me. I’m not the editor.’ She switched on the lamp, watched goose bumps rise on her thighs, could barely stop shaking but managed to keep a steady voice. ‘Besides, I can’t get the police to stand it up.’

  ‘Not calling me a liar, are you?’

  ‘No.’ Frigging nutter would be a better description. He’d already talked longer than in previous calls. She listened intently, trying to detect telltale clues in the voice. Didn’t stop her pressing the record button, though.

  ‘Lucky that. Or you’d live to regret it. Well, when I say, live …’ The snigger sent ice down her spine. ‘Anyway, since when’s the filth known anything about anything?’

  ‘You tell me.’ The longer he spoke the more there’d be for her and Bev Morriss to mull over.

  ‘I’ll tell you this, pet. Open your mouth to the bastard cops again, and I’ll rip your tongue out and feed it to Rupert. Great name for a cat, by the way.’

  Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak. ‘How … how … ?’

  ‘I know everything about you, Summer. Like I know you’re going to write the story.’

  ‘I can’t. There’s no point. I told you, the editor won’t print it.’

  ‘He will if you show him the pictures.’

  She frowned. ‘Pictures?’ Plural. Christ, if they showed anything like the eyes.

  ‘They’ll be with you in a jiffy. No need for them to go in the paper – as you’ll see, they’re not exactly family viewing. But I expect to read the girl’s full story any time soon. Forget no name, no pack drill. I want the full Monty. I really do hope you’re clear on that. And, pet?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t forget what I said. Go blabbing to the cops and Rupie’ll have a sudden change of diet.’ He paused. Then, ‘Now sleepy tight, pet. Don’t have nightmares.’

  Heart thudding, pulse racing, Bev leapt out of bed. She flicked on the overhead light, darted nervy glances all round the room. Why the hell she then peered under the bed before yanking back the curtains she’d never know. Of course no one was in there. Even asleep, she realized it had to be a dream. Byford hadn’t come back from the dead, the baby hadn’t been born, and Curran was in no fit state to stand, let alone prowl round brandishing a pair of handguns.

  Shoot. Her shudder morphed into a shiver, sweat cooled as it trickled down her spine. How could a dream be so hellishly realistic? Even now with eyes squeezed closed she saw madness in Curran’s gaze; heard his words, malevolent and taunting, echo in her mind.

  Hey, you like playing God. Deciding who gets to die. Who’s it to be? Who goes first? Cop or kid?

  She’d opened her mouth, desperate to talk him round, but nothing emerged. Frozen with fear, she’d been unable to lift a finger. Not unlike Curran when she’d left him earlier.

  Five seconds to choose, bitch. One, two, three … I lied.

  Grinning manically, he’d pulled both triggers. Twice. She’d woken screaming.

  Now she grabbed her dressing gown, raced downstairs. Needed distracting fast. Knew she’d be lucky if she slept again that night. Not due to the images in her head, more the soundtrack.

  You like playing God. Deciding who gets to die.

  No. Not listening. La, la, la. She glanced round the kitchen. Hot chocolate, that’d do it. Pan on stove, she stood watching while the milk came to the boil.

  You like playing –. No, I don’t, Do. Don’t. Do. Don’t. Christ’s sake, Bev, put a lid on it.

  Easier said. She sighed. Added milk to the chocolate and stirred for way too long. Great distraction technique making cocoa. Not. Whichever way she looked at it, uneasy feelings must be lurking in the murky depths of her subconscious. Involuntarily she’d projected her own thinking onto Curran. Thinking or suppressed misgivings? She snorted. Bloody great. Guilt-tripped by a bad dream. It had taken a sodding nightmare psycho to prick her conscience.

  Drifting towards the sink, mug in hand, she pulled a face at her reflection in the window. Who was she trying to kid? Of course she harboured qualms. Mostly about getting caught. Not so much that she’d be an ex-cop banged up with a load of crims, more what it would do to the baby’s life. Imagine the poor little mite growing up knowing her mother had killed in cold blood.

  Just thinking about it brought Bev out in a hot sweat.

  Way she saw it, cold might be the best way to serve revenge, but wreaking it meant having the hottest passion. A burning need for payback had to outweigh every other thought, every other emotion. Did she still feel that way? God knows.

  Frowning, she glanced round, saw Frankie’s favourite pan still on the stove. ‘Oh, shit.’ Burned to buggery. She could’ve sworn she’d turned off the heat.

  30

  Lorraine Henderson had probably had as good a night’s sleep as Bev. Mocha smudges round her eyes looked like faded bruises, fine lines seemed to have deepened in a day. Doll-like, she sat shivering in a huge wing chair, staring into the log fire. Apart from the obvious reason for the shakes, Bev reckoned Mrs Henderson must feel the cold after nigh on three weeks in the sun. Bev, on the other hand, sat as far back on the frayed velvet settee as she could get. Reckoned a sauna would be cool by comparison.

  ‘I keep thinking it’s all a dream. That I’ll wake up and she’ll come walking in like a breath of fresh air, all smiles and full of life.’

  Fresh air? Full of life? Debatable, that. Even so, Bev very nearly glanced round on the off-chance Shannon had showed. Her mental image of the girl’s body lying on a slab told her it couldn’t happen. Judging by the haunted look on Mrs Henderson’s face, she knew it too.

  ‘Feeling that way is understandable, Mrs Henderson. It’ll take time.’ Bev didn’t normally do trite, but the woman still appeared so frail. Tiny frame lost in a baggy pink tracksuit, feet barely touching the floor; as for mentally …

  ‘I just can’t understand who’d want to harm her.’ Pale tracks appeared in the tanned skin when she scratched her cheek. ‘She’s such a good girl.’ Bev and Mac exchanged glances. ‘Do anything for anyone. Has loads of friends.’ Was. Did. Had. No mileage pointing out the error. She was nearer the mark, in a manner of speaking, about mates. Pembers was currently trawling through six hundred plus on Shannon’s Facebook page.

  ‘Was Shannon seeing anyone, Mrs Henderson?’ Bev asked.

  ‘What?’ She glanced up, frowning like it was a trick question. ‘You mean a boyfriend?’

  Bev nodded. Who else?

  ‘Why ask that?’ The scowl suggested she didn’t like the question either way. ‘It won’t be anyone she knows. It’ll be some crazy out there roaming the streets.’

  It’d be futile quoting stats about stranger killings. But the chances Shannon didn’t know her murderer were on a par with Bev walking on water just before turning it into Merlot. She asked again if Shannon had a boyfriend.

  ‘No. Told me she didn’t want to feel tied down. Not with going to uni later in
…’ That she’d gone for good hit home. The woman dropped her head in her hands, sobbing.

  Bev had little choice but to let her cry it out. Stifling a sigh, she ran her gaze over the sitting room. Décor put her in mind of marshmallow, all pastel pinks and white, feminine fripperies and frills. One of them didn’t half fancy flamingos. Each perched on one leg, there were dozens propped around the place. All sizes, every shade of pink, china ones, glass, all sorts of fabric. Made Bev think of a street girl she knew who bought a stuffed pig every time she screwed a cop. Couldn’t move for the bloody things in big Val’s gaff.

  She felt the cushion shift when Mac leaned forward and gently pushed a box of pink tissues across the coffee table. Voice softer than silk, he said: ‘Try not to cry, Mrs Henderson. I know it’s hard, but if you can answer a few more questions for us?’

  Bev twitched a lip. Tyler could be a real smoothie at times. Maybe he ought to lead the interview. She’d considered offering the role on the way here, but it seemed like a cop-out. Bev hadn’t exactly bonded with the woman before and more than that, interviews with distraught mothers didn’t come much tougher than this. But if Mrs H warmed to Mac again …

  ‘You’re right.’ Straightening, Lorraine blew her nose, chucked the tissue in the fire. Bev fancied she heard loins girding, sinews tightening. ‘Let’s get on with it. Anything to catch the bastard.’ She snatched another tissue, wiped away her tears, missed the twin mascara trails.

  ‘Good for you. Well done.’ Mac turned to Bev, mouthed: ‘Shall I?’ Be my guest. She commandeered his pen, happy to make notes for a change.

  ‘The name’s Mac, by the way.’ Giving her a little smile.

  She sniffed. ‘Lorraine.’

  ‘Lorraine. Okay.’ He nodded, then kicked off with the easy ones. How did Shannon seem before Lorraine went on holiday? Had she talked about anything odd or unusual happening to her? Expressed any fears? Mentioned strange phone calls? Weird messages? Any dodgy stuff on social media? Bev flexed her fingers. She’d get writer’s cramp at this rate. Not that the answers were taxing: Fine. No. No. No. No. No. No.