‘What did Bev say about selling yourself short?’ Mac popped the cap on another beer. ‘Greg Yeats didn’t just talk, it’s what he came out with.’
He’d told her Hilary had decided to rewrite her will. Leaving Sally with diddly squat. Only Hilary Cash hadn’t got round to it. Which meant Sally still stood to inherit the lot. Just like her old uni mates were sole beneficiaries in their parents’ wills. That little nugget had been mined on Stacey’s behalf by Riley, who’d called in favours from a couple of lawyer chums.
Bev reached for a crisp. ‘And Yeats reckoned Sally was always bumming off her mum?’
Stacey nodded. ‘I just can’t see her killing to get her hands on the cash. It’s not like it’s a fortune. Not compared with the Langleys and the Gibbs. They were well minted. Must have been worth millions.’
‘Still are,’ Mac said, licking salt off his fingers. ‘It’s just passed down a generation.’
‘In the suicide notes’ – Bev pointed to copies on the table – ‘they all talk about wanting to die.’ Flicking her glance between Stace and Mac, she said, ‘What if it was the kids who had the death wish?’
Only took Mac a few seconds to cotton on. ‘With you. As in, they wished their parents dead.’
Stacey nodded. ‘So they could get their mitts on the lolly.’
‘Makes a weird kinda sense, doesn’t it?’ Bev asked.
Mac turned his mouth down. ‘Means they’d have to murder their own flesh and blood.’
Like that had never happened before in the entire history of the universe?
‘The blokes might,’ Stacey said. ‘I just can’t see Sally bumping off her mum.’
Bev narrowed her eyes, tapped a finger against her lips.
‘I know that look. What you thinking, boss?’
‘Maybe she didn’t have to. Maybe none of them killed their own parent.’
Mac raised an eyebrow. ‘They phoned a friend? Is that what you’re saying?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve no idea who did what. Or for who. But I’m pretty sure it’s how they worked it.’
‘Like a sort of chain reaction?’
‘Exactly, Stace.’
All they need do now was find the weakest link.
54
Bev, Mac and Stacey sat in a row opposite Powell, doing their best not to look like the three monkeys – wise or otherwise. Apart from Bev’s brief scene-setter, none of them had uttered a word since the blond started ploughing his way through Stacey’s paperwork. They’d cut several voluble glances at each other and Powell had emitted the odd grunt.
After what seemed like hours, he slung the last sheet on his desk, sat back and ran his gaze along the trio. ‘How come this is the first I know about it?’
Bev made a superhuman effort not to shuffle. Could be worse. He could’ve shot the whole thing down in flames. ‘We weren’t sure it would stand up till last night, gaffer.’
Late last night. By the time they’d bashed ideas around and brainstormed it was gone twelve. The nibbles had been augmented with an Indian takeaway.
‘Is that the royal “we”, Morriss?’ Powell tilted his head at Stacey. ‘Strikes me she’s done the plod work.’
‘With you there, gaffer. Stacey’s done a bloody good job,’ Bev said. She could remind him the Twilight inquiry had kept her fully occupied, but shouldn’t need to. Besides, whichever way you looked at it Stacey deserved every scrap of recognition going. If she’d not smelt a rat or three, the deaths would almost certainly have been written off as suicide.
‘We’ve not gone anywhere yet,’ Powell countered. ‘ Don’t get carried away.’
True. What they had so far was circumstantial and speculative: not much more than educated guesswork. ‘We know that,’ Bev said. ‘There’s a bunch of stuff still needs working on. ’
‘Best get on with it, then, hadn’t you?’
In for a penny. Fingers crossed. ‘We couldn’t half do with a few more bods on board, gaffer.’
‘Bloody hell, Morriss. Talk about pushing your luck.’ Sighing he shook his head. ‘Okay. What else do you need?’
Powell gave Bev a corner of the squad room and a team of dedicated detectives. Well, it was one way of describing Daz and Pembers. Mac had wandered over to the lab to chase forensics. Exhibits collected from what now looked like crime scenes warranted much closer examination. Powell and the bulk of the troops would concentrate on Twilight in the aftermath of the Manners deaths.
Priority for Bev and the others was checking out Cash, Langley and Gibbs. If one of them had so much as farted in church, she wanted to know how loud. Didn’t stop there, though. Backgrounds, criminal records, finances, the police statements they’d made on the days of the alleged suicides were all being fine-tooth combed. Stacey had picked up where she’d left off yesterday on the car-hire angle. Hell of a thankless task. Records could show Ray Pitt or Andrew Langley as the lessee, assuming they’d not given false names.
Bev glanced up from her screen. ‘You okay, Stace?’
She cut a furtive glance round. ‘Feel a bit of a fraud, actually.’
Clever dicks looking down on uniform again? She suspected Stacey had overheard one or two macho old guards whingeing about woodentops. ‘Bollocks, matey. You’ve earned a place at the table.’ Christ, if she’d had pulled as much weight as Stacey she’d kill to be in at the end.
Talk about wishful thinking. Hours later the end still looked way off to Bev. Arms stretched high towards the ceiling, she took in for the first time the desks cluttered with paper cups, crumb-strewn plates, empty crisp packets, a half-eaten Mars bar, a plethora of Post-It notes and papers. By way of contrast, the suspects had come up squeaky clean and smelling of roses.
Bev wrinkled her nose. Wished she could say the same for the odour in here. L’air du cheesy feet didn’t do a lot for her. What could you expect when the temperature was scorch degrees? Even the ever-cool Pembers looked to be feeling the heat, though in her case the sheen of sweat on her forehead looked quite fetching. Ditto the hint of cleavage when she opened another button.
If Bev took off any more clothes she’d get arrested. As for Daz, if he wasn’t the wrong age and a bloke she’d swear he was having a hot flush.
‘There you go, boss.’ Mac handed her a bottle of water. He’d just come back from a canteen run and was dispensing goodies: M&Ms, Polos, Smarties. She clocked a banana in his pocket and bit back the obvious line.
‘Ta, mate. When you’ve done, can you get that window?’ The only one not already gaping.
Sighing, she unscrewed the cap, took several swigs. She wished they had more to show for nigh on a day’s work. Apart from finding out Langley’s missus had left him, she could only conclude that the main players had covered their tracks. Either that or she was way off course. And she really didn’t want to go there.
Maybe Mac didn’t want to get the sodding window, either. ‘Hey, mate!’
He turned round, finger raised.
Whoops. How was she meant to know he was on his mobile? Going by the glint in his eye he wasn’t on a cold call. Curious, she watched him scribble a note or two, then slip the phone in his breast pocket. Ambling towards her, shaking his head he said, ‘Well, blow me.’
Brain him more like. ‘Give, mate.’
‘You know I slipped Sandra Pitt a few quid?’
‘No, but get on with it.’
‘I’d say they’ve paid off nicely.’ He handed her a sheet of paper. ‘She had another think, apparently. Reckons that’s where they dumped the motor.’
Bev frowned. ‘Sandra helped get rid of the car that killed David Langley?’
‘No. Andrew did.’
‘Oh, boy.’ She saw her smile reflected in his eyes. That upped the arrest ante several gears.
‘Sarge?’
Bev turned her head to see Daz scurrying over in Labrador puppy mode. ‘Want the good news, or the bad?’
‘I ain’t got time for games, Daz.’
He’d made a few more credit c
hecks, he told her, then called Company House. ‘Langley and Gibbs are in financial shit up to their eyeballs. Owe cash all over the place.’
‘Exa-bloody-lent, Daz. And the bad?’
‘Sorry, sarge.’ He dropped his head. ‘I made that bit up. Y’know, light relief and all that.’
She laughed, called him a daft sod. Wondered how funny Andrew Langley would find it when she knocked on his door.
55
Uniform found the motor – what was left of it – down an embankment off the M6 just south of Birmingham. The burned-out shell had been stripped of anything even remotely identifiable except for its vehicle identification number. Stacey had emailed an image from the scene. The bad news? The six-year-old Peugeot wasn’t registered in Andrew Langley’s name. The good news? The car had had one not-so-careful lady owner. Sally Cash.
‘I’ve got motorway traffic control trawling camera footage, but I thought the pic might come in handy.’
‘Timing couldn’t be better, Stace.’ Bev and Mac were parked just up the road from Langley’s modest pad in Shirley. The driveway had been empty when they arrived, but the man himself had pulled in ten minutes ago behind the wheel of a shiny new Audi. Bev had decided to let him catch his metaphorical breath before the confrontation. Not that he was expecting guests.
‘Let me know how it goes, eh?’
‘Ditto, Stace. Laters.’
‘She’s a good lass,’ Mac said as Bev slipped the phone in her bag. Damn right. She’d accepted without demur not being in on the interview. Bev felt bad about Stacey missing out, but the veto had come from Powell. Two cops turning up would put Langley on edge, never mind three. And Bev considered Mac’s presence non-negotiable.
Hand on the door of the car, she cut him a glance. ‘Are we fit, then?’ Nah, don’t answer that.
‘Hold it. Look.’
She followed his finger with her gaze. A Mini Cooper had pulled up outside the house. Bev’s eyes widened as she recognized a woman exiting from the driver’s side. ‘Well, well, who’d a thought it?’
‘It’s Sally Cash, isn’t it, boss?’
‘It sure ain’t the Avon lady,’ Bev murmured.
And then a passenger emerged.
So Langley was expecting guests after all.
Bev glanced at her watch. ‘Time’s up, Mac. You ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
They’d hung back a while in the motor. She’d granted the trio a fifteen-minute parley before going in to join the party. Thanks to Stacey’s picture gallery, they’d easily identified the tall dark late arrival as Sebastian Gibbs.
Knowing why they’d all gathered this evening was the tricky bit. Not to mention how to play the interview. To Bev, to any cop, the circumstances were virgin territory. It seemed likely that three people, for monetary gain, had plotted together to cause not one death but six. But given the amount of time elapsed, how cold the trails were and how little hard evidence the cops had to go on, the murdering threesome might just get away with it. Unless one of them cracked under the pressure.
Dressed casually in dark chinos and open-necked shirt, Andrew Langley opened the door, showing not so much as a hairline fracture. ‘Harriet’s not in at the moment.’ Then he caught sight of Bev’s ID.
‘It’s not your wife we’re here to see, Mr Langley.’ It’d be difficult anyway, given she’d left him.
‘Sorry, I thought you were from …’ Frowning, he swept a hand though his heavy fringe. ‘Look, if it’s about that parking ticket.’
‘It’s not,’ she said.
‘Can it wait? The thing is, some friends have just arrived.’
‘Yes. We saw them.’
‘So you’ll understand why –’
‘We can do this here or down at the station, Mr Langley.’ She held up her phone, showed him the image of the burnt-out car.
Lips tight he turned, led them into a lounge that was all a bit fifty shades of bland. Not that décor was uppermost in Bev’s mind. Her glance fell on Sally Cash, who sat on a sofa next to Sebastian Gibbs. Bev had never seen the colour drain so fast from a woman’s face.
‘Ms Cash.’ Bev nodded.
‘Sorry, I … don’t remember your name.’
‘Bev Morriss. Detective Sergeant.’
‘What’s going on?’ Gibbs said.
‘Your friends can wait in another room, Mr Langley,’ Bev said. But please stick around.
‘I’d like them to stay.’ Langley perched on the arm of a chair, gestured Bev and Mac towards the spare sofa.
Bev sat back, crossed her legs, ran her gaze over each face in turn. ‘You must be pretty close, you three? All losing both parents suddenly and in such similar ways. I guess you must have formed a tight bond?’
Gibbs opened his mouth, but Langley told him to shut it. Bev carried blithely on.
‘Only I’m wondering why you lied to a colleague of mine. Told her you didn’t know each other?’
‘Where are you going with this? Do we need legal representation?’ Unlike the others, Langley didn’t do shifty gazes, shuffling feet. Holding eye contact, he casually circled an ankle. He was cool, she’d give him that.
‘It’s your call. You’re absolutely entitled. As I say, we can do this at the nick if you prefer?’
‘No.’ He flapped a hand. ‘Just get on with it.’ Cash and Gibbs nodded acquiescence.
Bev swiftly switched focus. ‘Tell me, Sally, is the lying habitual? Or just when there’s something to hide?’
There’d been no time for Sally to mask the startled-rabbit look. ‘I … I … don’t know what you mean.’
‘Really?’ Bev turned her mouth down. ‘Seems straightforward enough to me.’ She reckoned if Sally wrung her hands any tighter, they’d come off at the wrists.
‘Talking of hiding something, that motor I showed you, Mr Langley? The burned-out Peugeot. If I asked you how it came to be dumped?’
‘Sorry.’ He glanced up casually from studying his nails. ‘That’s not something I can help you with.’ Bev nodded. ‘No, I guess not. I suppose it was more a case of doing a friend a favour. Isn’t that right, Sally?’
‘Me? Why ask me?’
‘Let’s think. The car was involved in a fatal accident. You’re the registered owner. If you were driving …’
‘This has nothing to do with me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Hush, Sally. Try not to get upset.’ Langley smiled. ‘You told us months ago the car had been stolen. Don’t you remember?’
Bev had to stifle a snort. The guy had balls, she’d give him that. He also thought Bev was born yesterday, which was a big mistake.
‘Yes, of course,’ Sally said. ‘It slipped my mind.’ Her relieved expression was short-lived.
‘Report it missing, did you?’ Bev raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes. No. Actually I can’t remember now.’
‘Did you put in an insurance claim?’
Sally cut what she probably hoped was a covert glance at Langley.
‘I wouldn’t bother, love,’ Bev said. ‘Your mate’s memory’s not always a hundred per cent is it, Mr Langley?’
He shrugged. ‘I get by.’
‘And yet you don’t recall dumping Sally’s motor?’
‘Look, I told you –’
‘Does the name Ray Pitt mean anything to you, sir?’ Mac jumped in.
‘No.’ But it had. The glint in his eyes told a different story. For the first time, Bev saw a crack in Langley’s façade.
‘And if I was to say we have witnesses who saw you together in a pub in Stirchley?’ Doing a bit of business.’ Mac again.
‘They’d be mistaken, wouldn’t they?’
‘See, the thing is’ – Bev sat forward and spread her palms – ‘we have it on good authority the motor was involved in the hit-and-run accident that killed your father.’
The temperature plummeted. Langley and Gibbs exchanged glances. Bev thought she heard a low moan from Sally.
‘I take
it you have proof?’ Langley asked.
Bev held his gaze for five, six seconds. ‘Forensics will find something – you can trust me on that.’ His casual shrug really pissed her off. Time to cut the pussy-footing.
‘How much did you pay him?’
‘Who?’
‘Ray Pitt,’ Mac said. ‘To drive the car.’
‘That’s an outrageous slur.’
‘Is it?’ Bev again. ‘Only his widow’s given us a statement and is more than happy to stand up in court and give evidence. We’re building a case, you see. We know you and Mr Gibbs could do with some extra cash.’ She turned to Sally. ‘We know your mother had it in mind to write you out of her will.
‘We’ve lifted prints from items found at all three scenes. The suicide notes your parents left are being examined by a handwriting expert. I’ll be honest with you – we don’t yet know how you worked the ins and outs, but it’s only a matter of time.’
‘Stop it, stop it.’ Sally dropped her head in her hands. Bev cut a glance at Mac. She could be their weakest link.
‘She’s bluffing, Sally.’ Bev heard the warning in Langley’s voice. ‘Don’t pay any attention. Listen to me.’
‘No,’ she screamed. ‘Listening to you two is what got me into this mess in the first place.’
‘Don’t try shifting the blame,’ Gibbs said. ‘You knew what you were getting into from the start.’
‘Can’t you see what she’s trying to do?’ Langley shouted. ‘Shut it, both of you.’
‘You shut it,’ Gibbs said. ‘You’re the one who took it too far. I never thought for a moment –’
‘I’m warning you.’ Langley glared.
Never thought for a moment there’d be so much blood? Bev busked it, ‘Was it Mr Langley who killed your father?’
Gibbs swallowed hard. ‘I never wanted him to die like that. I thought pills, maybe, like –’
‘Go ahead, you two,’ – Langley swept an arm in their direction – ‘do the cop’s job for her.’
‘So, Sally,’ Bev said, ‘who toppled your dad off the ladder?’
She cut a telling glance at Gibbs.
Death Wish Page 24
