After a few seconds pause, he emitted that strange cackle again. ‘I assume you’re alluding to the pitiful specimen who tried to blackmail us.’
Us? Presumably the dosser had seen father and son in action at the school. ‘How’d you work it, then?’ she asked. ‘Were you the brains and Josh the brawn? Go on, tell me … which of you actually carried out the murders?
‘She did.’ Chloe hissed, pointing a trembling a finger. ‘Despicable old cow.’
Bev risked a glance over her shoulder, saw Katharine Manners leaning in the doorway, dressed head-to-toe in black again.
Chloe narrowed her eyes. ‘She did all the dirty work. They just cleaned up after her.’
‘Well, well.’ Bev said. ‘Talk about keeping it in the family.’
‘Oh, do shut up, both of you.’ The matriarch’s drawl dripped disdain. Indifference. ‘The girl brought it on herself.’
‘And the old man was just collateral damage, I suppose,’ Bev said.
‘Wrong place. Wrong time.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Anyway, it’s over now. Go and get the flex from the car, Roger.’
‘Wrong again,’ Bev said. ‘There’ll be the little matter of a trial. I think you’ll find you’ll both be going down for murder.’
‘You’ll be hard pushed to find us, sergeant. I’ll take that, Roger.’ Smiling, she relieved him of the knife as he scuttled past. ‘By the time they find you and that pathetic excuse for a woman, we’ll be with darling Aiden again.’ The suicide plans were laid, she said, affairs settled, wills written.
‘In your dreams, lady,’ Bev snorted. ‘Do you really think God’s gonna let in a murdering scumbag like you?’ And how long did she think it would take to untie a few knots?
‘We’re not bad people, sergeant.’
‘She’s mad, Bev,’ Chloe said. ‘They both are.’ They’d bribed and browbeaten Josh to help, apparently, threatened to leave him without a penny if he didn’t do what they said.
So what? Like being deprived of his birthright was just cause for depriving someone of his or her life? Bev rubbed both hands down her face. Felt like she was only sane person in the room.
‘Here we are, darling. I got the can for you, as well.’
Ah. Bev peeped through her fingers, had the distinct feeling he wouldn’t be handing his missus a soft drink. Nope.
Katharine Manners unscrewed the lid, took a dainty sniff. ‘Perfect. I love the smell of petrol, don’t you?’
51
Mac tried Bev’s mobile again. It wasn’t like the boss not to pick up. He sat in his motor outside Sandra Pitt’s pad, tapped the wheel. The sooner he shared the development the better. For one thing, Powell would go ape-shit if they kept him out the loop any longer. Especially now they had a loop to work with, or at least Mac did. When he’d voiced his suspicions that Ray’s dodgy deal had led to a man’s death, Sandra had loosened her tongue big-time. Glancing up at the balcony now, he saw her gazing through the window, fag in mouth, toddler on hip. Mac sniffed his shirt. Yeah. A shower and fresh gear beckoned. He’d try Bev when he got home. Give Stacey Hardy a bell, too. Only fair given this had started off as her baby.
Driving back, Mac let his thoughts roam on how much credibility Sandra Pitt merited. Hitched to a smalltime crook who regarded petty crime as a career choice, she was certainly no stranger to the dark side of the law. But even Sandra appeared to have limits, had a moral compass, however wonky. The way she’d described it, nicking a few bits and flogging them down the pub was small beer. Ray acting as some sort of shady assassin went way beyond the realms.
Oblivious to the pun, she’d told Mac guilt might even have pushed Ray over the edge. He’d not been himself for a while, she said. Snappy, secretive, moody as shit, most of the time pissed as a wheel. Conveniently or otherwise, she now wondered if the man’s death had played on his mind and he’d topped himself in atonement. Mac’s word, not hers. Hers had been monosyllablic four-lettered.
Mac was hard pushed to see her motive. He wasn’t blind, knew Sandra was no angel. Okay, Ray was a fuckwit but, by laying all the blame on him, Sandra might be trying to distance herself from the crime. Either way he needed her on board and, as he’d told her, the biggest villain in the piece was the man who’d hired her husband as Mr Fix-it, or as it turned out, Fuck-up.
Mac remembered holding his breath when he’d asked if the name David Langley meant anything to her, the sinking feeling when she’d shaken her head, said no.
‘Told me his name was Drew.’ She’d laughed. ‘What sort of a name’s that?’
A diminutive for Andrew, that’s what, love. The hairs had risen on the back of his neck when he’d pulled up a pic on his phone.
‘Yeah, that’s him,’ she’d said. ‘Poncey git.’ A poncey git who could’ve arranged his father’s murder.
On the way out, he’d slipped her a few quid along with his phone numbers. Told her to spend it on the kids. Felt sorry for her more than anything. Now he could hardly wait to hear Bev’s take. Soon as he parked, he tried her number again. Come on, boss. Nah. The call went straight through to voice mail. He sighed, got out and locked the car. He knew a visit to Chloe Manners had been on Bev’s cards. Presumably she was still tied up there.
‘Expecting guests, are we, Chloe?’ The question was rhetorical. Chloe had given an audible gasp when the doorbell rang. Bev cut Katharine Manners a contemptuous glance. ‘I’d hang fire if I were you, love.’
The chiming from the hall had halted Manners in her petrol-laying tracks, anyway. She’d already splashed probably half the can’s contents around before screwing the cap back in place. Grimacing, she smelled her fingers, wiped them down her jacket. She still had the upper hand as far as the knife went, but by now Bev had Roger’s neck in a tight arm-lock and wouldn’t think twice about using him as body armour. If he carried on struggling, she’d be tempted to throttle him either way.
With a black belt in kickass, Bev hadn’t for a second considered the old boy posed a serious threat. Delivering a rock-hard kick to his balls when he went to tie her to the chair had bent him double, trying to catch his breath. If Chloe had been on the ball, his missus should have been no match either. Bev had hoped the young woman would’ve had the nous to pass her the scissors. Chloe could’ve taken over arm-lock duties, freeing Bev to tackle the old bat. On the other hand, the bell might save them all a load of grief.
‘You going to get that, Chloe?’ asked Bev.
‘I guess.’ She placed the glass on the table, took a step towards the door.
‘If I were you I’d stay where you are, dear.’ Katharine pulled a slim gold lighter from her pocket. ‘Dying in a fire is a terrible way to go.’
Chloe juddered to a halt. Rabbit trapped in headlights didn’t come close to the stance.
‘Don’t be cowed, Chlo, she’s bluffing.’
‘Am I?’ Katharine asked. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Come on, Chlo, can you really see Lady Muck going out in a blaze of glory?’
‘Believe me, dear, I really don’t care. One way or the other Roger and I will die today. Either by our own hand later or right here, right now – it matters to me not one jot.’
How could she argue with such stunning logic? Bev tightened her mouth. As for Chloe, apart from casting nervy glances, she’d not moved an inch. Surely the old bat was stalling? She’d be banking on the caller getting hacked off and giving up. Worked, too – up to a point. The caller got so hacked off he or she took to hammering the door instead. Whoever it was out there couldn’t fail to hear Chloe’s subsequent scream.
‘You stupid fat bitch,’ Katharine spat.
Bev felt like bursting into a few bars of ‘True Colours’. Except the woman had just struck the lighter and red-orange flames flickered in both dark brown pupils.
Summer Raynes was convinced there were people in the house. For one thing she recognized a car parked outside. The sight of Bev Morriss’s MG hadn’t exactly filled her heart with joy. The reporter had a fresh
news angle to pursue with Chloe Manners and had hoped it would be just the two of them discussing the finer points. They’d got on pretty well before and there was nothing like trading on the past. Summer tightened her mouth. Bev Morriss’s presence could prove a right dampener.
She turned, gave a thumbs-up to her mate-stroke-minder, who was doing the driving honours. He’d be back to pick her up when she gave him a call. Ear pressed to the door, she rang the bell again. Nothing. She looked through the bay window. No one. Tapped a finger against her lips. She supposed it was feasible the two women had nipped out to grab some fresh air. On the other hand, they could just be in a back room. Or playing hard to get. Yeah, well, sod that for a game of soldiers.
Once more unto the breach …
That was when she hammered the door with her fist. And stepped back smartish. The scream had answered one question, raised a shed-load more. Like what the hell was going on in there? She sank to her knees, peered through the letterbox. If this was a movie, she’d be getting a bird’s-eye view of the action. In the real world all she saw was a door ajar at the end of an empty hallway. Then she heard a voice, caught a strong smell of petrol. That can’t be right. Jumping up, she hammered wildly on the door this time and heard a second scream that turned her blood to ice.
Still clinging onto Roger Manners, Bev watched in horror as events spiralled out of control in front of her eyes. Later, much later, she told herself many times there’d been nothing more she could’ve done. Renewed banging at the door acted like a wake-up call on Chloe, who with an almighty grunt lunged forward. The lighter fell or was knocked from Katharine’s hand. The flame brushed against Katharine’s jacket, instantly igniting the material. The more she batted at it, the more the flames spread. Seemingly in seconds her upper body was engulfed, hair catching alight. The air was thick with her blood-curdling screams. Why the hell didn’t she move, try to get away?
Chloe appeared mesmerized, rooted to the spot; staring at Katharine’s blackening face. Bev screamed at her to get out. She’d already started manoeuvring the old man towards the back door. He begged her, voice breaking, to let him go to his wife.
No effing way. ‘Chloe,’ Bev shouted to make herself heard over the screams. ‘Get away from her.’
If live sparks hit the petrol-sodden carpet they were all dead. Grappling desperately with one hand behind her back, she tried to budge the door handle. ‘Chloe, I need help here. Chloe.’
Bev stumbled backwards, almost lost her footing as the door swung open.
‘Christ, what’s going –?’
‘Take him. Just take him,’ Bev yelled. There’d be time later for Raynes’ questions.
She ran back inside, grabbed Chloe, who collapsed sobbing in her arms. Staggering under the weight, Bev dragged her outside. Watched in horror as Roger Manners broke loose from Raynes’ grasp. Bev reached out to stop him, but once inside he slammed the door. She heard the click of the lock. Then nothing.
52
‘No point beating yourself up, Morriss. I don’t see what else you could have done.’
Bev had waited until she’d had a word with one of the fire crew before calling Powell. She’d already given a statement to attending officers from West Mercia police. Now she felt wiped out, empty, drained. She hadn’t long stopped shaking. Chloe had been whisked off to hospital with an asthma attack brought on by smoke inhalation. Bev reckoned shock might also have played a part.
Sitting in the MG, Bev watched the action wind down. Hoses that snaked around the back of the house were being re-coiled; final checks on the property were being carried out. The fire engines and cop cars had arrived in record time, thanks to Raynes’ triple-nine call. The reporter had gone in the ambulance, doubtless hoping Chloe would help flesh out the story.
The fire itself had been no Towering Inferno. Contained to the kitchen, the blaze hadn’t spread much beyond the bodies, apparently. Katharine and Roger Manners died in each other’s arms. Bev had taken the fire-fighter’s word for it. She’d seen enough. Even averted her gaze when the body bags were ferried to the meat wagon.
Clenching and unclenching a fist, she told Powell she should’ve picked up on Katharine’s guilt a damn sight sooner.
‘How? The bigger the liar, the more plausible they come across. Practice makes perfect, Morriss.’
She snorted. She’d sure been taken in by the woman. Bev narrowed her eyes. What was it she’d said that day at the house? If you imagine I had anything to do with that girl’s murder … you’re on a hiding to nothing. Yeah, well, smack my wrist. Then, to exacerbate matters when Katharine Manners did finally tell the truth, Bev had pooh-poohed it. Told Chloe she was bluffing. Like hell. When Manners said she didn’t care about dying, she’d meant every word. Bev could see her now toying with the lighter, a glint in her eye, smirking when she’d said: One way or the other – it matters to me not one jot.
‘Are you still there or what?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Come on, then, give yourself a break. It’s job done.’
For you maybe, matey. Powell sounded gung-ho because he regarded it as a result. They had the killers’ verbal confessions. Doubtless a forensics team would ferret out corroborating evidence at the family home, the squad would soon put Operation Twilight to bed. Four dead didn’t strike Bev as much to crow about. That assumed Josh Manners made it. Stifling a sigh, she told him she’d head back.
‘Nah, you sound whacked.’ He told her she could get a report in first thing. ‘Go home, get some rest. And just for once, Morriss, do as you’re told, eh?’
‘He’s right, you know, boss.’
Bev shot Mac a glance as she cut the speakerphone. ‘Don’t you start, Tyler.’
‘I don’t mean about going home, I’m saying you did everything you could in there.’
He’d told her the same on the phone when she finally got round to returning his calls. If she was honest, the real reason she’d given him a bell was to hear a friendly familiar voice. Mac was at least half-sane. Knew he’d give her an honest take on the entire effing fiasco. He must’ve heard something in her tone – he turned up at the scene twenty minutes later bringing supplies of Big Macs and chocolate milkshakes.
‘Did I, though, mate?’ He’d not been there. He didn’t have Katharine Manners’ image in his head, hadn’t gagged at the stink of burning flesh. Bottom line was, would she have gone back in to try and save them if the old boy hadn’t locked the door? Risked hers and the baby’s life? Truth be told, she doubted it.
‘Bev, just get over it. They made the decision. They’d determined to die anyway.’
‘Shit way to go, mate.’
‘Shannon Henderson’s wasn’t?’ He challenged.
Point taken. Outstanding reservations could go on the back burner. Cringe. Make that back of her mind, for the time being. ‘Come on then, Mac, this Pitt–Langley link. What’s the score?’
She’d heard edited highlights on the phone. Main one being that it looked like Andrew Langley had arranged his father’s death. Mac hadn’t much to add, he told her. He’d given Stacey Hardy a bell, got her working on it now.
‘She said when I tracked you down she’d like a meet soon as, boss.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Reckons she’s come up with a lead or two of her own.’
53
A lead? Bev reckoned there were enough here to open a dog-walking school. ‘Here’ was Stacey’s small but perfectly formed kitchen in Moseley. She’d been off-shift when Bev and Mac finally pulled out of Worcester, so she asked them to drop round when they got back. They’d called on Lorraine Henderson first. Bev reckoned she had a right to know who’d killed her daughter before hearing it on the news.
By the time they arrived chez Stacey, she had everything laid out across the table. Notes, print-outs, photocopies, photos, yearbooks. She’d even found space for orange squash, beers and a bowl of crisps. Job done, she now leaned against the sink, observing.
Like Mac, Bev had yet to
take the weight off her feet. Both had been examining the fruits of Stacey’s labours. Glancing up, Bev smiled. ‘This is shit-hot, Stace.’
Mac tilted his bottle. ‘Copy that.’
‘Appreciate it, ta. I’d not have done it without pointers from you pair, though.’
‘Stop right there, matey.’ Bev raised a palm. ‘Never sell yourself short.’ Women like Stacey needed to learn how to toot their horn. The nick had a surfeit of self-aggrandizing knobs with far less cause for showing off. Stacey had put in the hours, on her own time – in effect, moonlighting. And boy, had she shed some rays.
‘The uni thing really set things going.’ She took a slug of beer. Once she’d discovered Sally Cash had been at Exeter, it had been easy to find out Andrew Langley and Sebastian Gibbs were fellow students. Not just the same alma mater, but the same course, same time frame, graduated the same day. The grinning threesome had even made an inside page of the Exeter News. Bev held a copy of the photo now. It captured them leaping in the air, hands linked, gowned-up, and with their mortar boards about to rain down.
‘And they denied knowing each other?’ Bev asked.
‘Never heard of each other, had they?’ Stacey sniffed. So it was either a case of communal amnesia or they had something to conceal. Bev knew where her money lay.
‘It’s pointless trying to cover anything up these days,’ Stacey said. With social media to tap into as well now, she’d found it even easier to track the trio’s continuing links. Among other items she’d printed half-a-dozen images off Facebook showing the pals living the high life. Wisely she’d not pushed any of them too hard until she had more gen to go on. And now she had.
Namely the antiques dealer Greg Yeats, whom Hilary Cash had taken a shine to in the latter months of her life. The man the lawyer Miriam Riley was convinced her old friend had been set on marrying.
Bev took a perch. ‘How’d you get him to open up, Stace?’
‘Just showed up at his house earlier.’ She shrugged. ‘He still adores Hilary. Misses her like crazy. I think he was keen to talk.’
Death Wish Page 23
