Death Wish

by Maureen Carter

  Leafing through the other prints, she detected a similar dark outline in one more. She couldn’t be sure if it was just a trick of the light, but the police had experts, techies with specialist enhancing equipment. She tapped a finger against her lips. Dare she take the risk? Could she trust the cops? Which reminded her. She pulled the phone from her pocket, listened to Bev Morriss’ latest voice mail. What joy. If she didn’t get back, the detective would be standing on the doorstep later.

  What if the killer was watching the house? If he found out she’d had a visit from a cop, let alone passed on evidence, he’d made patently clear what would happen and she’d no doubt the threat would be executed. She glanced again at the Jiffy bag, proof already he was a man of his word.

  Bloody good job the MG had a wing mirror. Bev could barely see through the back window for sunflowers. She’d stopped for gas and bagged three huge bunches from the forecourt. Three foot tall, with heads the size of dinner plates: it had been a right pain fitting them in the Midget. So much so she suspected it could moonlight as a mini-hearse. Should feel right at home here, then. She gave a lopsided smile, flicked the indicator, turned into the gates of Green Lodge cemetery. Apart from having an hour to kill before getting out to Worcester, she reckoned a quick word with the big man was overdue.

  This time in the morning she had the car park to herself. Opted for a spot in the shade near the church, grabbed her bag and reached into the back for the flowers. Breathing in what she fancied was fresher air, she locked the motor, eyes scanning the grounds. Sweeping lawns, spreading trees, baby blue sky and birdsong. Dead peaceful here. She gave an inward groan. Nice one, Einstein. Since when had a graveyard been synonymous with a rave party?

  Shades on and grappling with an armful of sunflowers, she headed for the guv’s plot. Even blindfolded she’d home in on it, no sweat. Surprised, really, the Doc Martens hadn’t worn a trail across the grass. Bev did most of the chatting, natch, but never had any doubt what Byford would come back with. To her way of thinking, he did anyway. Not that she was loopy or anything, just knew him well enough to know what he’d say. Christ, she’d finished enough sentences for him when he was alive.

  Except now, she wasn’t so sure. She’d even rehearsed various ways of telling him. Teasing, tongue-in-cheek, straight out no messing.

  Smiling she reached forward to stroke the wooden cross. ‘Wotcha.’ Probably best to break it gently. ‘I’m having a kid.’ Silent as the proverbial. Her smile faded. ‘Did you not hear? I’m up the duff. You’re gonna be a dad.’ She laid the flowers on the grass, then stood hand on hip. ‘Well, are you chuffed or what?’ Maybe he needed a bit of time to take it in. ‘I’ll just get some water. Back in a min.’ Tight-lipped she grabbed the vase, strode to the nearest tap. If he was pissed off, she’d k–.

  ‘Shit.’ She’d turned the tap too far; water sprayed everywhere, including down the front of her denims. Looked as if she’d wet herself. Brushing it off only spread the damage. Aw, sod it. The sun’d soon sort it.

  ‘See that, guv?’ Laughing, she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Don’t know my own strength, me.’ Not a dicky bird. Suit yourself. She knelt at the graveside, started sorting the flowers. Two can play at that game. Mind, in the silence stakes, the guv had a big advantage.

  Job done, she squatted back on her haunches, hands on thighs. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I prob’ly shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. Came as a bit of a shock to me too, you know.’ She folded her arms, waited for a response. And waited.

  ‘You better not be sulking.’ Tears pricked her eyes. ‘It’s not like I’m asking you for anything. It’ll be me doing all the hard work.’

  Dear God. Don’t say she’d lost him all over again. Sometimes coming here listening to Byford in her head was all that kept her going.

  ‘Come on, guv. Don’t be like this. All I want’s a kind word.’

  Curran.

  She stiffened. ‘Come again.’

  Curran.

  Might have known it. Never missed a trick, the guv. She’d deliberately withheld that bit of news. Knew exactly what he’d say. You’re a cop, Bev, blah blah.

  You’re a cop, Bev. Told ya. How can you even contemplate taking a life?

  ‘He’s a lowlife, guv. Besides, the bastard took more than one. Not exactly eye-for-eye territory, is it?’

  An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.

  Bollocks. ‘Look, guv –’ She dropped her gaze. Couldn’t even meet him in the metaphorical eye.

  Don’t do it, Bev. Don’t go there.

  ‘But, guv … sodding hell.’ She blew her cheeks out on a sigh. Who was she trying to kid? This time it wasn’t Byford putting thoughts into her head. They were hers – there already. Subliminal, subconscious, call it what you like. Okay, if he was here, he’d say the same, but – in reality – she was arguing both sides. Talk about delusional. Blimey, what with channelling the guv’s voice and manufacturing Curran’s nocturnal blathering, maybe she was going doolally after all. Sod that. She knew what she was doing. Didn’t she?

  ‘Look, I hear what you’re saying.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I’m promising nothing, but I’ll give it a bit more thought. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

  He was playing schtum again. Hadn’t even mentioned the baby. Be like that, then. She gathered the wrappings and loose petals, screwed both into a ball, and rose to her feet. ‘I’d best be off.’ She walked away fluttering her fingers. ‘Laters, guv.’

  Hey, Bev. She smiled, turned back. Bring a bottle later. Champagne to wet the baby’s head.

  Beaming now, she said, ‘You betcha, guv.’ She’d not argue over that – by then she’d be bloody parched. Still, a gallon or two of bolly would help make up for lost time.

  33

  If Hollywood remade Men in Black with an all-female cast, Bev reckoned Katharine Manners would be a go-to for lead role. It looked as if she’d been to a funeral without the upside of a wake. Tall and painfully thin, she’d teamed a sharp trouser suit with a crisp white blouse and wore her hair in a suspiciously dark bob. Whether the real deal or a dye job, the shade didn’t go with the pasty haggard face, which she could’ve been wearing in for a woman twenty years older.

  ‘Mrs Manners?’ Bev gave her ID the usual flourish but the woman took it from her, studied it. Could have passed an A-level in small print by the time she handed it back.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure why you’re here, but come in if you must.’ Posh drawl, tad patronizing. Bev followed her into a tiled hall, lined with polished antiques, that ended in a wide sweeping staircase. They hived off before then into what Bev bet they’d call the drawing room. Drawing room, lounge or whatever, it was well swish: plush carpet, four squashy leather sofas, marble fireplace; décor all taupes and ivories.

  ‘Lovely room. Great proportions.’ Cringe. Stop gawping round for gawd’s sake. And stop sounding like a sodding estate agent.

  ‘If you’re asking for a guided tour, I don’t.’ The thin eyebrow lifted in sync with the superior smirk. Hoity-toity mare. Forget, tad patronizing.

  Bev kept her face straight, tone even. ‘I’m here to ask about your son’s death, Mrs Manners.’ She tilted her head towards a portrait hanging over the grate. ‘That must be him?’ The pics online hadn’t done Aiden justice. The glossy black hair, even white teeth, twinkly blue eyes gave him a touch of the movie star, too. Bev could easily picture him buckling swashes alongside Johnny D. or astride a black horse galloping along a rugged coastline. The guy in the painting alongside must be the brother. Josh, if she recalled right. His looks were decent enough, but a paler version of the original.

  Smiling fondly, Mrs Manners’ gaze was still fixed on Aiden’s face. Bev recalled Pembers saying how the woman had gone against all advice to view his remains. Took guts, that. And a strong stomach. Not to mention a mother’s love.

  ‘Mrs Manners?’ Gentle prompt.

  The smile was history when she turned to Bev. ‘You want to talk about
my boy’s death? I think you mean his murder, don’t you?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  She nodded towards a couple of cream chesterfields either side of a low pale wood table. Bev took her cue and perched opposite. Hoped to God her jeans wouldn’t leave grass stains. She watched the woman cross long legs and casually pick a loose thread from the linen trousers. Bev suspected the cool posturing was stage-managed, carefully controlled. Hoped the restraint didn’t extend to her thoughts.

  ‘Aiden was as good as killed by that malicious little madam.’

  No worries on that score, then. Bev shuffled forward a fraction. ‘The coroner recorded a verdict of suicide, Mrs Manners.’

  ‘Be that as it may. In my view she took his life.’ To hear the woman talk, the girl had taken everything. Her son’s reputation, career, future, peace of mind. Shannon Henderson’s lies had felled Aiden as effectively as a bullet in the brain. As she listened, Bev observed the elegant pose, the snooty manner and cut-glass vowels, and heard sorrow and bitterness in every word. Clearly still grieving, Katharine Manners’ conviction was absolute, the adoration for her son evident, and yet … Bev couldn’t help think Aiden Manners must’ve been a bit of a wuss.

  Shannon was clearly no angel, but her lies had been laughed out of court. Manners, a thirty-four-year-old intelligent bloke had walked out fit, healthy, articulate, good family behind him. Why allow a schoolgirl’s malice to destroy him? Unless he’d already been damaged goods.

  His mother had alluded to lost peace of mind. Bev glanced again at the portrait. Maybe his mental equilibrium had long been shaky? And how come he’d waited two years before topping himself? She stifled a sigh. More to the point, what the hell had any of it got to do with Operation Twilight?

  ‘Are you listening, sergeant?’

  She frowned. ‘Sorry, say again.’

  Mrs Manners gave a laboured sigh. ‘I said I still don’t really see why you’re here.’ You and me both, lady.

  ‘I will say this though, sergeant: if you imagine I had anything to do with that girl’s murder, you’re on a hiding to nothing.

  ‘Don’t get the wrong impression. I rejoice in the fact she’s dead. Like I told your colleague, I’d happily dance on her grave and there’s a time I’d have killed her myself, but …’

  ‘But?’

  She drew her hands together in her lap. ‘Nothing’s going to bring Aiden back, is it?’

  Bev hung fire five, six seconds, then: ‘Were you ever tempted to contact her? Maybe ask why she’d done it? Did Aiden, or anyone you know, consider having a word?’

  ‘You are joking?’ The woman looked as if she’d been asked to streak down the fast lane of the M6 with a tray of hot cross buns. ‘What earthly good would that have done?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Bev shrugged. ‘It might have given you –’

  Palm raised, Mrs Manners gave a sneer Maggie Smith would have been proud of. ‘If you even breathe the word “closure …”’

  Bev had the idea she’d be out on her ass. Probably only allowed in because she was with West Midlands police, not West Mercia. ‘People did contact her, though, Mrs Manners.’ She talked her through some of the shitty things they’d done.

  ‘Good. I’m glad. I hope they made her feel ashamed.’ Eyebrow arched again, she held Bev’s gaze. ‘If you’re expecting me to feel sorry for her …?’

  She got the picture. Intractable. End of. Bev knew pushing till she was blue in the face wouldn’t elicit more on that tack. There were others. ‘Did Aiden ever give any indication he was suicidal?’

  Mrs Manners looked down, fiddled with her rings. ‘If only. He’d seemed so much better.’ He’d decided to go backpacking for a year, she said. Travel the world, meet new people. It had been great to see him so excited, full of plans. But he’d made it clear he wanted space: they weren’t to worry if they heard nothing for a while.

  Thanks for that. It saved Bev asking a few questions: the body hadn’t been found for months – because no one realized the guy was missing. Sounded like he’d planned that as well.

  ‘You say “seemed so much better”, Mrs Manners. Had he not been well?’ Aiden had always been the sensitive one of her two sons, apparently. The court case had taken months to get over, and then there was the blow of divorce. He’d mostly lived with his parents after that.

  ‘But I really thought he’d moved on, that he’d come back raring to go. Oh God, I’m sorry, I can’t –’ Mrs Manners closed her eyes, swallowing hard.

  ‘I rather think that’s enough, don’t you?’ Bev turned her gaze. The grey-haired bloke standing there ramrod straight and tight-lipped had to be the hubby. ‘Surely you can see she’s upset?’ Bev doubted he could, though. Not with the white stick and dark glasses.

  ‘I’m about finished, Mr Manners.’

  ‘No. I want you to leave now.’ She’d done her homework. Mind, even if she didn’t already know Roger Manners was a retired headteacher, the guy’s gravitas and bearing would probably have given it away.

  ‘Of course.’ She reached for her bag. ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Manners.’ Had no choice really. Besides, she’d more or less established what she came for. Apart from … turning at the door she asked: ‘Did Aiden leave a note?’

  When Katharine lifted her head, her cheeks were wet. ‘He left one word, sergeant. Sorry. Repeated over and over again. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.’

  34

  ‘Sorry for what, boss?’

  ‘Crystal ball’s in for a service, mate. How’d I know?’ Bev licked cappuccino froth off her spoon. She’d phoned Mac mainly to keep him posted, not to mention kill a bit of time waiting for Stacey to show. Spotting the big lass, even in mufti, shouldn’t be a problem. The corner window table in Café Gio had a great bird’s-eye view on the street, almost panoramic. The indie coffee bar in Moseley was the lawyer’s call. Lived round the corner, apparently. Suited Bev, her place being a ten-minute walk.

  ‘Don’t feel bad about it though, Mac,’ she said breezily, ‘I just thought it was your time of the month.’

  ‘What the hell you on about?’

  She smiled, could almost see the knotted brow, Elvis lip. Mac did a good flummoxed.

  ‘Come on, Tyler.’ She teased. ‘Don’t be coy. That one when you’re due a bright idea.’

  ‘You cheeky git. I’m on a day off here, you know. I’m not even getting paid to be insulted.’

  She laughed. ‘Bloody good job you’re not in or you’d be up on a disciplinary. Cheeky git? Get it right – cheeky git, ma’am.

  ‘Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots.’

  ‘I should coco.’ Going by the noise of chinking glasses, he was sinking a jar somewhere. ‘Nah, mate, far as Manners’ dying word goes your guess is as good as mine. Well, nearly.’ Bev’s guesswork included: sorry for killing himself; sorry for how crap his life had panned out; sorry for causing his family untold grief. Course, it could be a blend of all three plus any number of reasons they’d never be privy to. The simple fact was, only Aiden knew why he’d written the word ‘Sorry’. The cops would likely never find out the answer – given he wasn’t around to ask.

  ‘Ready for another, our Bev?’ The offer came from the barrista beaming at her over the counter. Giovanni had a Birmingham accent louder than a Hawaiian shirt shop.

  ‘Twist my arm any day, Gio.’ She threw in a wink and thumbs up.

  ‘Twist your what?’ Mac asked, all innocence.

  ‘You’re so funny, Tyler.’

  ‘Better be. Got a gig next weekend.’

  ‘Moving on,’ Bev drawled. ‘ I still think Worcester was worth the trip. Lady La-di-dah made no secret how much she loathed Shannon. If there’s anything dodge going on there I can’t believe she’d have been so vitriolic.’ Or candid, given she’d brought the name up first. Bev mouthed a ‘Ta’ as Gio brought the coffee over.

  ‘And the husband?’

  ‘He wasn’t exactly in a mood to take questions, mate. But as I say he’s blind or at least partially-sighted.
So go figure. There’s a bro who lives abroad. Might be worth a quick check call.’ She couldn’t see Powell stumping up for a flight to Biarritz. Mind, she couldn’t see the blond subbing the bus fare to Balsall Heath.

  Eyes narrowed, Bev clocked Stacey elbowing her way along the pavement. The farmers’ market always brought the locals out in droves. ‘Right-oh. Enough of this jawing. I’ve got people to probe, places to recce. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, pet.’

  ‘That gives me oyster carte blanche, then.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Oyster card. Carte blanche. Geddit?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Mac.’ Peter Kay can rest easy. ‘I see where you’re coming from, but you might want to work on that a bit.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch. Hey, give my regards to Stace.’

  ‘Laters.’ Chuckling, she ended the call while still in a good mood. The boost was mostly down to a spot of retail therapy. Frankie was now the proud owner of a new pan and Bev had bagged not one but two frocks in the John Lewis sale. If Oz Khan played his cards right, she might even christen one tonight. She gave a slow unwitting smile. Come to think of it, he’d already had a bit of luck. If she’d not been at a loose end when he phoned, she’d have told him where to go.

  ‘All right, sarge? It’s bloody heaving out there.’ A hot and sweaty Stacey stowed a shopping bag full of fruit and veg under the table, flopped onto the next chair and fanned her face with both hands.

  ‘Peachy, me.’

  ‘Yeah, the grin was a bit of a giveaway.’ She gave Gio a friendly wave.