Death Wish

by Maureen Carter

‘And as a quid pro quo, did you shove his mum downstairs? Sebastian lend you a key, did he?’

  ‘Please … don’t.’ Sally sobbed.

  ‘No. I’m genuinely interested how you decided who killed who? Draw lots? Pick names out of a hat?’

  ‘How dare you? This is ridiculous.’ Langley shot to his feet.

  ‘For God’s sake, sit down.’ Sally’s voice broke. ‘Can’t you can’t you see it’s all over?’

  56

  Sally Cash was no fat lady, but boy could she sing. Nearly a week down the line and her canary-like vocals had been music to Bev’s ears. In protracted police interviews Cash had pointed more fingers at her co-conspirators than an audience of five-year-olds at a pantomime villain. Not so much, He’s behind you as They’re behind it. Little good it did her. Cash would go down with the other two. Their testimonies had led to murder charges and all three had been remanded in custody. And led the usual suspects to a celebratory night out at The Station, though Mac’s gig might have had something to do with it – and with Stacey’s beaming presence at the top table.

  Sipping a lime and soda, Bev cut the pair a covert glance, reckoned they looked jolly cosy, pallying up to each other on the banquette. Course it could be wishful thinking on the part of Bev’s inner Cupid.

  ‘We were just talking about Sally Cash, sarge,’ Stacey called. ‘We reckon she coughed ’cause she couldn’t live with the guilt.’

  ‘Aye,’ Mac wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘As a greater man than me put it: conscience doth make cowards of us all.’

  ‘Coward?’ Bev gave one of her snorts. ‘That’s rich. Conniving more like. She’ll bank on giving Queen’s evidence getting her a reduced sentence.’

  ‘Not that you’re cynical or anything,’ Mac winked as he raised his glass to her.

  ‘Come on, mate. She’s as culpable as her buddies, and as grasping. Blood thicker than water? Yeah, right. Try telling Cash, Gibbs and Langley that.’ Christ, it sounded more like a firm of hot-shot lawyers than a bunch of scheming slime balls.

  ‘Cash by name, cash by nature.’ Powell gave a sage nod.

  Bev raised an eyebrow. Wondered how long it had taken him to come up with the line. ‘Nice one, gaffer.’

  He sniffed. ‘True what they say about money, though.’

  ‘Please don’t.’ Bev rolled her eyes. If anyone else came out with the ‘root of all evil’ line she’d swing for them. Mind, Josh Manners’ evil deeds had come down to lucre in the end. If Chloe was right, he’d acted as accessory to murder so as not to be left penniless by his nearest and not so dearest. He’d neither confirm nor deny – he’d died in hospital two days ago. Either way, poor Shannon Henderson and the old dosser had certainly paid a hefty price. The post-mortem mutilation had been unnecessarily cruel and vindictive. As for shaving Shannon’s head, Bev wondered if the Manners saw it as sheer humiliation for a girl who’d brought shame on the family.

  Sighing, she glanced at her watch. ‘When you on, Mac?’

  ‘About nine. Why?’

  ‘Sod it. I’m gonna have to love you and leave you in a min. Promised my mum I’d nip round.’

  ‘No worries.’ Fibber. He looked more crestfallen than a cockatoo with dropsy.

  ‘Sorry, mate.’ She raised a placatory palm. Hated lying to him at the best of times and this was anything but. She’d had a word earlier with Nina Night Nurse – asked if she could drop by to see Curran, say goodnight.

  ‘Hey, sarge, before you go.’ Stacey dug a hand in her jeans pocket, then slipped her a fiver.

  Bev frowned. ‘What’s this for, then?’

  ‘Your share of the winnings.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘The lottery. I bought a ticket with that change from the coffee machine. Like you said.’

  There were a couple of whoops from round the table and Daz came out with a few bars of ‘Money, Money, Money’.

  ‘Ta, Stace.’ Bev gave a lopsided smile. ‘I’ll be able to splash out now.’

  ‘Don’t spend it all at once, boss’ – grinning, Mac held her gaze – ‘and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  57

  Had Mac deliberately taken a life? Bev’s jury was out. Maybe she’d just read too much into what her partner-in-crime had only meant as a throwaway line. Or given what she had in mind, he’d hit a raw nerve bang on the head. Fact was, Mac might be the only one who’d ever know the truth about how Josh Manners died. Whether Mac had killed or not, Bev had no doubt as to what she was about to do: she’d decided to let Curran live. Byford junior had seemed happy to go along with her decision, once she’d told him about the baby. For Bev, it mostly came down to realizing she couldn’t live with the guilt.

  With absolute hate in her heart she stood at Curran’s bedside, gazing down. So aren’t you the lucky one, sunshine?

  Not that she’d told him yet. Like he’d never answered the questions she’d asked repeatedly over the weeks. Asked again tonight. And like all the other nights he’d just lain there apparently comatose. Bev scowled. She’d swear blind he was sneering up his metaphorical sleeve.

  ‘Well, scumbag, the time has come. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Eyes narrowed, she lifted the syringe to the light, drew in just enough air to scare him shitless. He’d feel shortness of breath, nausea, even a tight chest, but he’d live to die another day. Worse luck.

  Steeling herself to touch his clammy skin, she searched for a vein in his arm, cut his face a glance and depressed the needle just out of harm’s way. ‘See, I told you. Just a little prick.’ And a definite flinch and eyelid flicker.

  Keeping her gaze fixed on Curran, she slipped the syringe in her bag, then stood back, arms folded. ‘Not faking it, are we, Paulie?’ She very nearly jumped when he slowly turned his head to the side and snapped open his eyes.

  ‘You’ll regret this, cop bitch.’

  Bev forced a lazy smile. ‘Not as much you though, loser. Ciao.’ Christ, she was sorely tempted to stay and give him another grilling, but – unlike Curran – she knew he wasn’t about to die. Using every scrap of will-power she hiked her bag, fluttered her fingers and slowly walked backwards towards the door. ‘Have a good death, y’all.’

  Bev groaned as she stretched an arm out from under the duvet, knew a phone ringing in the middle of the night was rarely the harbinger of good news.

  ‘Bev?’

  ‘Nina?’ She shot up from the bed faster than she ever had in her life. Dear God. Surely the news couldn’t be that bad. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m really sorry.’

  She felt her heart pound, scalp prickle. Felt like she’d hurl any minute. ‘What is it? He’s not …?’ Say he’s not, say he’s not.

  ‘I’m afraid Paul’s dead.’ Nowhere near as petrified as Bev. She couldn’t stop shaking; a million thoughts raced in her head. Prime notions: had she miscalculated the amount of air and misjudged the distance from his vein. ‘Are you still there, Bev?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, just a bit shocked.’ As in absolutely frigging stunned.

  ‘Course you are, it’s only natural. We tried reviving him, but in the end there was nothing we could do.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ She’d been so careful: 20 ml was a tiny dose.

  ‘As I say, we tried our best but he’d lost too much blood.’

  ‘Sorry, Nina.’ Bev frowned. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘He died from blood loss. He’d slashed both wrists.’

  Bev closed her eyes, murmured a silent prayer; her relief so great, it barely registered that Nina had started talking again.

  ‘… so there’ll have to be an inquiry.’

  ‘An inquiry?’

  ‘Yeah, as I say we’ve no idea how he got hold of the razor.’

  ‘Right.’ Bev had little doubt Curran had been compos mentis and mobile enough to nick whatever he fancied from other patients. Unless? Oh, shit. Richard. He wouldn’t have, would he?

  ‘Nina. There’s absolutely no doubt Curran killed himself, is there?’


  ‘None, trust me. Besides, he left a note.’

  Bev breathed again, then: ‘What did you say?’

  ‘He left a note of sorts. Well, a few words, really.’

  ‘Can you remember them?’

  ‘Yeah: “Hey, bitch, who’s sorry now?”’

  She’d wished him dead: in one way he’d done her a favour.

  Not me, loser.

  Epilogue

  A month later

  The church was awash with navy-blue serge and shiny black shoes. Everyone from top brass to canteen folk had turned out in force. Even the odd villain could be spotted among the sea of faces. Bev sat on the front pew, proud she’d managed to contain an ocean of tears. Alongside sat Richard, looking so like his dad it was almost possible to believe Byford himself had put in a posthumous appearance.

  Which in a kind of way he had.

  Bev didn’t have the baby in mind; no point counting chickens before they hatched. No, she meant the life-size cardboard cut-out of the big man that graced the altar. She’d no idea where it had come from, but every time she looked at it she couldn’t help but smile. Not that she’d even be here if Richard hadn’t more or less begged. Every so often he’d reach for her hand, give it a gentle squeeze. She wasn’t sure who it was meant to comfort most. But the fact he was still drawing breath was a good sign.

  The service was nearly over now, thank God: tributes paid, songs slaughtered, stories told. Powell, Pembers, Truss and even Daz had said a few words. Bev knew she’d break down; so Motor-mouth Morriss had kept mum. Ironic, or what?

  Mac must’ve heard her sigh. He turned his head and gave her a wink. She curved her lip to indicate she was fine. She’d never seen him in a suit before, but her partner scrubbed up good. Stacey didn’t look too shabby, either.

  Nor Bev. She wore her cornflower-blue shift dress. Byford’s favourite. He’d told her ages ago the colour brought out her eyes. She remembered saying, ‘Bloody hope not, guv. Wouldn’t be much of a cop without ’em.’

  He’d laughed and asked what made her think she was up to the mark anyway. Fact was he was the first boss to make Bev believe she really did have what it takes, the first to recognize her abilities, the first to tell her she should put in for inspector.

  Head held high, she gazed at Byford’s image on the altar. Well, guv, you know what they say? Be careful what you wish for.

  God knows whether she’d get the promotion and Oz could even pip her at the post, but for better or worse the papers were in.

  Here’s lookin’ at ya, big man. Bev smiled and tipped an imaginary fedora. Wish me luck.

  Maureen Carter has worked extensively in both print and broadcast journalism. She worked on newspapers and commercial radio before joining BBC TV News and Current Affairs. As well as being a reporter, Maureen co-presented BBC’s flagship Newsnight programme and went on to become the first woman news producer outside London when she edited Midlands Today. She is now a freelance writer and narrator. Her work has been short-listed in the Crime Writers’ Association’s New Writing Competition. Maureen lives in Birmingham and is married with one daughter.

  The Bev Morriss series

  Working Girls

  Dead Old

  Baby Love

  Hard Time

  Bad Press

  Blood Money

  Death Line

  Grave Affairs

  Death Wish