‘Usual, bab?’ It was.
‘Didn’t know you lived round here,’ Bev said, slipping the phone in a pocket. Flat just off Wake Green Road, five years she’d been there. They swapped a few favourite haunts and Bev mooted going out for a swift half one night. ‘You single, Stace?’
‘Footloose and fella-free, me.’ She smiled. ‘I might just go look at the cakes. Fancy one? The caramel brownie’s to die for.’
‘Nah. You’re all right.’ She needed to save some room for dinner and she’d already scarfed a load of ginger biscuits. Mind, with the lawyer due in five, Stacey would have to get it down her neck fast. Bev watched her exchange a bit of banter with Gio and the girls. The loose cotton gear did a lot more for her than the serge uni. The pink suited her, too.
‘Sure you don’t want to try a bit?’ Smiling, Stacey plonked herself down again.
‘Go on, then.’ Well it’d be rude not to. Doing her a favour really. They demolished it in three minutes flat.
‘You might’ve saved me a taste.’ The warm Irish accent held the hint of a smile. Bev didn’t need to turn her head to know the legal eagle had landed.
Courtesy of a couple of websites, she also knew what the woman looked like, where she’d been born, what year, degrees held, area of expertise. Dare say with a bit more digging she’d have come up with her bra size. Wiping sticky fingers down her jeans, Bev stood and offered what had to be a still gooey handshake. ‘Ms Riley?’
‘Miriam.’ No doubt about the smile this time. The fact she shook hands without a visible wince earned her a couple of Bev Brownie points.
‘Bev Morriss. This is Stacey, Constable Hardy. Thanks for seeing us at such short notice.’ The brief’s eyes were the shade of a dark rain cloud and Bev had a feeling they didn’t miss much.
‘I’m more than happy you’re looking into the matter. Please. Sit down. Can I get you another drink?’
Orders taken, she walked briskly to the bar. Bev and Stacey exchanged bemused glances. A defence lawyer shelling out on coffee for cops? Quite a turn-up for the law books. She didn’t look your typical brief, either. If Bev had to come up with a word to describe her it would be funky: razor-cut white hair, alabaster skin, slash of scarlet lippie same shade as the linen shift dress. If she didn’t already know Riley’s age – fifty-six – she’d put her in her early forties.
‘Here we go. Help yourselves to a bite.’ She’d exceeded orders: bought another plate of brownies. Bev stifled a groan. At this rate she’d have sod all to wear tonight.
Soon as Riley sat down she offered to kick off. ‘I’m a dab hand at talking and eating at the same time. Years of practice.’
You and me both. God knew how often Bev had scoffed lunch al desko or in the motor, simultaneously chatting up forensics on the phone for an early steer. ‘Be our guest.’
Bev made the occasional mental note but didn’t interrupt the flow. As befitting a brief, the delivery was clear and concise, the argument sound. She backed it up with flamboyant hand gestures, expressive features, and a voice so animated it sounded like it came with italics. Bev had heard the bare bones of the story from Stacey; the lawyer added some flesh. In a nutshell, Hilary Cash was no more likely to commit suicide than Miriam Riley would make next Lord Chief Justice. Didn’t mean she was right, though.
‘I attended the scene,’ Bev said. ‘We both did.’ Stacey was chewing cake or might have added more than a nod.
‘We read the note, saw the empty blister packs. Given the amount of pills she popped, it struck us both she meant business.’
Riley smiled as if in agreement, then: ‘And if that’s what you were meant to think?’
‘Go on.’ They hunkered forward in sync.
‘You’re aware of Tom’s accident?’
‘Fell off a ladder, died from his injuries. I wondered if that’s what maybe pushed her over the edge? Said the same to the daughter.’
‘Hilary never believed for a minute it was accidental.’
Bev started telling her about the police inquiry, the cameras at the footie match.
‘I’m aware of all that.’ Dabbing her lips with a napkin. ‘I know it had nothing to do with the neighbour, but Hilary was convinced she saw someone out there.’
‘And you?’ Bev asked. ‘Do you think the death was suspicious?’
‘The more I’ve thought about it, the more convinced I am they both were. My belief is they were both murdered.’
Thank God Bev didn’t have a mouth full of coffee. ‘That’s quite a statement. Have you got any grounds for it?’ As in motive.
‘That’s more your territory.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Sorry I only have a few more minutes.’
What a cop-out. ‘Have you spoken to the daughter?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
Bev noted the slight hesitation. ‘She’s pretty sure her mum wouldn’t do away with herself. But then, they were very close.’
‘Is that what she told you?’ Riley raised an eloquent eyebrow.
‘Are you saying different?’
Another pause. ‘When it suited Sally they were.’
‘For instance?’
‘When Tom died, Hilary virtually begged Sally to move back home, if only for a month or two. Hilary was lonely, vulnerable, at a low ebb. It wouldn’t have hurt the girl to stay there for a while but she refused. She’d just started living with someone and didn’t want to risk harming the relationship.’
‘She’s back there now, though,’ Stacey said.
Riley’s eyes widened a tad. ‘It’s news to me.’
Bev felt like she had a brand new bulletin to contend with. ‘How did Sally feel when her mum started seeing someone?’
‘Told her she was making a fool of herself. You’d think she’d have been pleased, wouldn’t you?’
Bev turned her mouth down. Maybe thought it was too soon after her dad’s death. Could be she saw the bloke as some sort of gold-digger.
‘Hilary and this guy?’ Bev took the last sip of coffee. ‘You think it was serious?’
‘I know it was. But why not ask him?’ She had a card in her bag ready to hand over. Greg Yeats, antiques dealer. Bev knew the company. He’d not exactly be short of a bob or two. When Bev glanced up, Riley was standing.
‘Let me know how you get on.’
Hold your horses, love. It was a hell of a lot to take in and she suspected the lawyer knew more than she’d let on. ‘Just for the record, Miriam, are you suggesting they were killed for their cash?’
‘As I said,’ – she cocked her head – ‘motive’s your territory. If I can help further, you know where I am.’
Bev nodded. Also knew the lawyer’s speciality was litigation. Mostly family disputes; mainly over wills.
And what was the old saying about money?
Root of all evil, wasn’t it?
35
‘Toss you for it?’ Stacey eyed the solitary brownie languishing on the plate.
Bev shook a preoccupied head. ‘It’s all yours.’ No way could she even force it down. Too busy digesting a belly full of food for thought. She watched Stacey wrap the cake in a couple of napkins, slip it in her bag.
‘You done here, Stace?’
‘Sure am.’
‘Fancy a wander?’
Five minutes later they were strolling down the pavement, dodging market traders who were dismantling stalls or flogging off last bits of produce cheap. Bev spotted a Del Boy lookalike offer an old dear a couple of knobbly parsnips, the kind that used to make it big on That’s Life back in the day. She’d watched the show as a kid, her mum and dad pretending they couldn’t see anything funny in root veg masquerading as willies.
Root, again. She must have it on the brain. Along with money, evil, all.
‘What do you make of Riley?’ Bev said slipping on her shades. ‘Think she’s pukka?’
‘I can’t see why she’d make it up. Got nowt to gain, has she?’
Not that Bev could work out. Kicking a manky apple into the
gutter, she mused almost to herself, ‘I suppose the bigger question’s: who has?’ With the Cashes no longer around, who stood to benefit?
Bat-ears Stacey chipped in: ‘If you’re talking dosh, presumably the daughter. Only child and all that. I guess she’d inherit the lot. Usual state of affairs, isn’t it?’
Bev nodded. ‘Riley sure didn’t have a lot of time for Sally.’ Regarded her as selfish, good as accused her of lying over how close she was to her mum. Mind, they only had Sally’s word on that. Only had her say-so she’d been out the night Hilary died. Ditto the fact she actually lived under the same roof. The news certainly hadn’t reached Riley’s ears. ‘Her implication being that the girl’s a tad parsimonious with the verity.’
‘True, sarge, but you saw the state Sally was in.’ She swapped the bag into her other hand. ‘Christ, she was nearly as gutted as that bloke I told you about. The one you reckoned had necro whatsit.’
Bev played an imaginary violin.
‘You serious?’ Stacey cut her a glance. ‘You’re thinking it was an act?’
‘Who knows?’ Bev had been a detective long enough even to suspect her own granny of money-laundering for Columbian drug barons.
Stacey’s frown could’ve been drawn on by Disney. ‘But why? Surely you don’t suspect Sally of having a hand in her mum’s death?’
Bev shrugged.
‘Come on, sarge, Sally herself didn’t believe it was suicide. Why’d she raise doubts in our minds? She’d have been better off letting sleeping dogs lie.’
‘You’re probably right, mate.’ She shrugged. Shame Riley had gone all coy after shooting off her mouth. She’d a feeling the lawyer had a bunch more cards up her sleeve. Short of her laying them on the table, Bev saw only one way to find out if Sally Cash had anything to hide.
‘Fancy doing a bit of detective work, Stace?’
If she’d won a Euro rollover, she couldn’t have looked more chuffed.
Actually, scrub that. As Bev walked away after suggesting a few pointers, she remembered something and called back, ‘Hey Stace, Mac Tyler said to give you his regards.’
‘Right, ta, thanks.’ Her blush nearly matched the shade of her top.
Bev still had a smile on her face when she turned into Barlow Street. Mac had a gig on next weekend, didn’t he? She wondered if Stacey was big on stand-up. Might just message Cupid. Hi mate, I need a spare bow and arrow.
36
Forget the fact Bev had spent two hours tarting herself up, slathered on more slap than Eddie Izzard and wore a silk dress. Even in the sales the price had made her eyes sting. Oh, no.
‘Get it straight, Khanie, this is not a date. So don’t go getting any ideas, savvy?’ Standing with a hand on one hip, she pointed a finger in the mirror. ‘You’re only here out of the goodness of my heart.’ God, she gave good kick-ass.
‘Bevy? You all right in there?’ Frankie tapped the door.
Spinning round, Bev almost tripped over a mound of damp bath towels. Only having one sling-back on didn’t help. Nor its three-inch heel.
‘Hunky, ta.’ What was the lodger from hell doing here, anyway? ‘Thought you were out?’
‘Had to pop back, pick up a few bits. Ta for the pan, by the way.’
‘No worries.’
‘Can I come in a min?’
She glanced round. Yes worries. Apart from Bev’s spurned underwear scattered over the carpet, if she let Frankie in she’d take one look and start with the Italian inquisition – similar to the Spanish only more intrusive. And excruciating. On the other hand, if Frankie was refused entry her antennae would twitch like a field of tall poppies in a force ten.
‘Sorry, mate, I’m really pushed for time.’ Bev kicked a couple of bras under the bed. ‘What you w–?’
‘Ooh, la la.’ Frankie took two steps in, sweeping Bev with a searchlight gaze.
‘Not got the hang of it yet, have you?’ She’d have tapped a foot but with just the one shoe it was tricky.
‘Give us a twirl, my friend.’
Bog off. ‘See, generally speaking, in polite society, people ask a question then wait till –’
‘Yadda, yadda. Where you going?’ Arms folded round her waist, head cocked, she circled Bev like she was the Venus de Milo. ‘Lurve the low back. Très sexy. And I like the teal shade – makes a change. Where’d you say you’re off to?’
How the frig should I know? Oz was booking it. ‘Church.’
‘Yeah, right.’ She sniffed. Arms still folded, she parked herself a tad shy of Bev’s personal space. ‘Come on, don’t be mean. Where you going? Who’s the lucky man?’
Bev gave a laboured sigh. If she said she was waiting for Khan to turn up, Frankie would put two and two together while pole-vaulting to a million conclusions. She’d have her wedding hat knitted and the hen party sorted before the week was out.
‘It may have escaped your notice, Perlagio’ – drawing herself up to her full height – ‘but I am not the sort of woman who needs a man to validate my existence.’ Cringe-worthy or what? Even Bev reckoned she couldn’t sound any more up her own her bum if she tried.
‘Get you.’ Frankie laughed, then narrowed her eyes. ‘You batting for the other side these days, then?’
‘Watch your lip.’
‘My lip? That’s rich.’ Eyebrow arched, she turned to go. ‘It’s behind you, by the way.’
‘What is?’
‘Unless you’re auditioning for Cinderella – your other shoe. Ciao.’
Cheeky sod. ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Bev shouted, limping over to the wardrobe. Why’d she come barging in anyway?
‘Right-oh.’ Her head appeared round the door. ‘Oz is downstairs. I hear The Botanist does brill food. And they have a piano player in on Saturdays. That do ya?’
Bev’s aim was pretty good: the shoe whacked a dent in the frame. A second earlier and funny girl wouldn’t have been laughing either side of her face.
Shutting down the laptop, Summer Raynes glimpsed an old woman in the black screen staring back at her. Wondered for a nanosecond who it was. Felt even rougher when the truth dawned. Little wonder. Given how many cylinders she wasn’t firing on. It had never taken the reporter so long to bash out a news story. Agonized even now whether to email it to the editor.
She’d not run a comb through her hair all day, hadn’t showered, hadn’t set foot outside the door. Her only trips had been to the fridge. Trips? She cracked a thin smile. Yeah, you could say that. She’d just cracked open a third bottle of wine.
She still needed more to blot out the sick images. Raynes poured a refill, leaned her head back against the chair, closed her eyes. What must it be like for cops? Seeing stuff like that all the time in the flesh, making a living dealing with death. Had to get hardened to it, she supposed. If she’d had the balls to answer the door earlier, she could’ve asked. Not that Bev Morriss had looked in the mood for idle questioning.
The note she’d shoved through the letterbox made that pretty plain, too.
Know what the penalty is for wasting police time?
Raynes had laughed when she read it. Certainly didn’t take it seriously. In the threats’ stakes, Morriss was a rank amateur compared with the creep. Besides, Raynes’ real crime was withholding evidence and she still didn’t have a clue what to do about it.
The Jiffy bag might be stuffed at the back of a kitchen drawer, but that didn’t stop it burning a metaphorical hole in the reporter’s mental pocket. Way she saw it, the creep could do her real harm, whereas the cops might offer better protection. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo.
Given the odds, she might as well toss a coin.
‘Got any change?’ Oz asked, pocketing his debit card.
‘Sure thing.’ Bev reached down for her bag. A few quid tip wouldn’t break what was left of the bank of Morriss. The posh nosh they’d seen off and Oz’s Prosecco just might have pushed the limit, though. Bev stifled a burp. Blamed the chicken wings and sea bass. What you might call flying fish. Oz had made
short work of pimped-up mushrooms and steak and chips. Friendly waiters ferried everything around on dinky garden tools: trowels, wheelbarrows, plant pots, watering cans. The place wasn’t called The Botanist for nothing.
Oz had waved away her offer to go Dutch, adding magnanimously, ‘Your shout next time.’
‘Oh yeah?’ she’d drawled. ‘What makes you think there’ll be one, Khanie?’ But there might. By now she’d just about forgiven him for colluding with Frankie in the Great British Let’s Stitch Up Bev Show.
She pulled a fiver from her purse, laid it in the mini seed tray. Who says money doesn’t grow on trees? ‘Shall we hit the road then, Mr Khan?’
‘Two ticks. Just need to turn the bike round.’ Pushing back the chair, he gave her a smile. ‘Don’t go away.’
‘Missing you already.’ She twitched a lip when she clocked most of the women and a few of the men check out the bum as he swivelled snake hips in tight slacks to the Gents. Oz looked good in black, always had. She sniffed. Not bloody fair. His lustrous sable locks still hadn’t sprouted a single grey strand. And, boy, had Bev looked. Same went for the lack of laughter lines: clearly he didn’t find as many things in life as hilarious as she did.
Still, the evening had gone better than she expected. After a frosty start caused by Frankie’s shenanigans, they’d got on fine, not house-on-fire fine but warm enough. He’d mentioned her outfit, told her she looked good. Ever the charmer, Oz, as well as being the tastiest bloke Bev knew, not to mention one of the few who could make her laugh. And cry. Wasn’t his fault Frankie had dicked her around.
She traced a finger round the rim of the glass. On reflection, she reckoned the Italian for some weird reason had been angling to catch her out in a lie. Yeah, well, Frankie should join the force. Cops played the same game all the time, gave crims just enough rope to tie up their porkies in knots. If Bev had learned one thing over the years, everybody lies.
Like the mendacious text Summer Raynes had sent an hour so back. Pull the other one, love. Bev knew the reporter wasn’t on assignment in Glasgow. When she’d peeped through Raynes’ letterbox earlier, she’d spotted a shadow flicker at the end of the hall. The clincher was the muffled sound of jingling bangles. Whatever. The not-so-subtle subterfuge had backfired. Bev was all the more determined to winkle out what cards the hack had super-glued to her chest.
Death Wish Page 16
