Security had done a great job, then.
Bev could still picture the scene back when a sprawling Victorian hospital had stood here. Built on over the years, the structure had turned into an architectural hodgepodge of Palladian windows, ornate chimneys and fancy cupolas, rubbing figurative shoulders with post-war prefabs and 1960s steel-and-glass monstrosities. It had started out as a pauper’s workhouse and she still sensed a kind of desperate air lingering about the place. No wonder it was reputed to be haunted. Despite the heat, she shivered, felt goose bumps down her spine. As a school kid she’d been dead familiar with the place. Visited countless times to sit with her dad, watch him die from cancer. ‘Got another tissue, gaffer?’
‘What for?’
‘What do you think?’ she snapped. ‘Sorry. Ta. Bit of grit in my eye.’
‘You’re lucky it’s just a bit. Place is a bloody dustbowl. Look at that.’ Stepping into his suit, he’d just clocked the state of his fancy footwear.
‘Shame.’ Like she gave a monkey’s fart.
He was right, though: dust, bricks, rubble, shed-loads of general rubbish and rotting greenery lying round.
So how come …?
‘I know that look,’ Powell said. ‘What you thinking?’
Still pondering, she returned her gaze to the body. ‘Why not go the whole hog and bury him properly? It’s not like there’s a shortage of stuff at hand to do a proper job.’
‘Nothing dodgy’s visible from off-site – I’ve checked.’
She presumed ‘dodgy’ was Powell-speak for mouldering carcass. ‘I still don’t get it, gaffer. Why chance it?’ If the corpse had been concealed, the murder might never have come to light.
He shrugged. ‘Ran out of time? Broke the spade? Couldn’t be arsed? Scared he’d get caught in the act?’
‘He?’ More likely they.
‘Her, then.’
Hilarious. ‘Look at the size of him, gaffer. And he’d be a dead weight to lug around.’ She reckoned it’d take at least two to manoeuvre the body into position, and given how far the locus was from the perimeter fencing, without some means of transport they’d have a bloody hard job on their hands. She narrowed her eyes. Assuming he was killed on site.
‘You’re doing that thinking thing again. Okay, lads?’
Bev gave a distracted nod at the forensic team as they walked past. ‘Any indication this is where he was killed?’
‘Not yet,’ Powell said. ‘Doubt it, though. Look at it. Bit public, innit?’
Theatre-in-the-round sprang to Bev’s mind, what with passing traffic, lots of footfall, plus nearby housing.
‘The evil deed could’ve been done in the dead of night,’ Powell mooted as they walked towards the grave. ‘Not so many folk around and it’d be dark.’
‘What do you think they are?’ Tilting her head towards the nearest floodlight. ‘Place would’ve been lit like a stage.’
‘Ah, yeah, well they’ve not been in use for a week or so.’
‘As in switched on or fucked?’
‘The security guard I spoke to – Ken? – didn’t live up to his name. Didn’t know either way. He’s looking into it.’
Bev nodded, reckoned she could take a guess. ‘Is he the guy who found the body?’
‘Yes and no.’ Her testy sigh acted as a prompt. ‘Okay he is. But only after being told exactly where to look.’ Via a voicemail on the company’s answer phone. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ – Powell anticipated her next question – ‘another anonymous tip-off.’
Or not. ‘Yes and no,’ she murmured. He didn’t have a monopoly on ambiguity.
‘Meaning?’
‘Okay, we don’t have a name, but who’d be privy to that kind of intel? And so damn keen – yet again – to make sure we’re in on it?’ Her eyes shone. Of course. That was the reason the body hadn’t been buried. The killer wanted it found. Wanted the cops to know how clever he was. Cocky bastard was probably pissed off it had lain undisturbed as long as it had. The more she thought, the surer she was that the perp had also killed Hobbs.
Far as Bev was concerned, he’d as good as left a signature.
Just one drawback. It only read ‘Smart arse’.
29
Bev allowed herself a small smirk behind her sunglasses. Not that Mac – on the end of a smartphone – could see her smug mug. He’d called to report back on the Khalid front. The absentee landlord was living up to his reputation. Not seen at the office for three days, not at home, not answering calls. Not particularly out of character, apparently. Terrier Tyler didn’t need telling not to drop the lead, he’d pursue it to the bitter or otherwise end. Instead, she’d proceeded to bring him up to speed on the latest murder and the factors that convinced her the perp had claimed a second victim. Sounded damn good to her.
‘Well who’s a clever dick, then?’ His voice held a smile. ‘I’ve always said you ain’t just a pretty face, boss.’
Shuddering, she lost the smug pose pronto. The back-handed compliment was bad enough, but far worse, the F-word had prompted mental flashbacks. Even with eyes squeezed tight she saw the vic’s face: shattered bone and bits of teeth, a viscous pool of near-black blood. She took a swig of tepid water, ran a hand across her lips. ‘You should see the damage, Mac.’
‘I was at Darwin Avenue. I can well imagine.’
‘Yeah, well get your ass over here quick enough, you’ll not have to.’ The body still lay in situ. She glanced up at it again from the tree stump where she’d perched to take stock and a quick breather. The Blond had sloped off to some meeting, leaving her in charge. She’d been running round like a blue-arsed blowfly, dishing out tasks to the squad, liaising with Doc King the pathologist, and overseeing officers in blue overalls currently fingertipping the site. They’d sectioned the ground into more manageable grids and, surveying the scene from her rustic throne, Bev reckoned it could almost be gardener cops tending their allotment crops. ’Course she might have a touch of sunstroke.
She took another swig of water, swilled it round to moisten her mouth. Forensics finally had the body to themselves now. One guy hunkered down at its side using tweezers to lift stray fibres, hairs, eyelashes, anything that could conceivably hold DNA; another FSI was on her knees scouring the immediate area for trace evidence. A discarded fag-end, an apple core, a snotty tissue could contain a key that’d unlock the case. Depending who’d dropped it, of course. Joe had certainly let slip a helpful hint or two before leaving her to it.
‘I’ll head out now, boss,’ Mac said. ‘Want anything picking up?’
Champagne? Chocolate? Chivas Regal? Sod that. ‘Sure thing.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Pop into Perps ’r’ Us – if our man’s there, run him in quick as you like.’ Or ‘men’, more like.
She flapped her collar, trying to circulate some cooler air down her chest. Surely the body’s disposal, if not the actual murder, had called for more than one pair of hands? Feet were aplenty around here, the site was crisscrossed with footprints. Same went for tyre tracks. Not much mileage taking casts, though. Way too many to sort the potential wheat from riffraff chaff.
‘Copy that, boss. Cuffs at the ready. Ciao a bit.’
‘Ditto, mate.’ Frowning, she slipped the phone in her pocket. For a second there she thought he’d said ‘copycat’. Could he inadvertently have hit on something? Nah. Joe had been almost as sure as she was that they were dealing with the same perp – similar injuries inflicted, same areas of the torso targeted by the same means as those on Dean Hobbs. In other words: blades, plural; fists and kicks. Needle marks on the vic’s neck would clinch the theory, but until the skin had been cleaned up, nothing so minuscule could be detected among all the muck and gore. With a bit of luck, the proof would come out in the wash.
Not that it would establish ID. Identifying the stiff, as with the first victim, could be a heck of a struggle.
Catching sight of a piece of hessian sacking sent a sudden shiver down Bev’s spine. She realized why almost instantly. Byford had tol
d her often enough how he’d found baby Fay’s body under a dusty frayed sack on a building site: presumably, she thought glancing round, pretty similar to this one. Recalling her chat last night with Charlie Silver, she reckoned he’d be landing at Birmingham Airport any time now. She tightened a fist. How brilliant would it be if he came up with the goods? Quality intel that led to a collar. Knowing how much laying the case to rest meant to Bev, the old boy would definitely do his best. She’d bet he’d go out of his way not to let her down. Mind, she’d best hope he’d not go too far and tread on anyone’s toes.
Hauling herself to her feet, she hiked her bag, then walked the forensic red carpet to snatch what would probably be her final gander at the body before it was loaded onto the waiting meat wagon. One of the FSIs acknowledged her with a nod, the other raised a palm. If they’d come across anything vital, they’d have piped up. Obviously the body had given away nothing, so far.
Mind, as well as dignity, decency and the majority of the features, it had been stripped of anything personal, including most of the clothes. Not that the victim was of an age when his mum would still be sewing in name tags. Joe’s best guess had been late-thirties, early-forties. Good few years older than Hobbs, anyroad. Main question now? Were they employed in the same shady business? Pimps and company.
Looking on the bright side, the amount of blood in and around the makeshift grave confirmed thinking that this couldn’t be the kill site. ’Course that meant squad detectives now had to locate the primary crime scene and trace where the corpse had been kept in the interim. No sweat. Yeah, right. Where the hell were they supposed to start when they didn’t know the first thing about the guy? And that was looking on the bright side. She gave a wry smile. Oh, yeah, and don’t forget, the corpse being shunted about had muddied the inquiry waters time-of-death-wise.
Wise? She snorted. They hadn’t got a bloody clue.
‘Sarge!’
Shoot. If a shout could raise the dead, their stiff would be up and about by now. . Where the hell had it come from?
‘Sarge!’
Spinning round, she whipped off the shades, trying to pin down the source of the voice. God knows why. It was her hearing that needed sharpening, not her vision.
‘Over here.’ In the distance, she spotted an arm in a blue overall giving the sort of wave that could land a plane.
Best take off then. Way too hot and sticky to run, she broke into a trot towards a clump of trees by the roadside on the far side of the site. She jammed on the anchors just as a second officer stepped from behind a tree. Well, well, well. Long time no see, or not. Little and Large had teamed up again. Quick glance at the name badges put her right: Blunt and Pollard. Christ, you couldn’t make it up.
Flicking glances between the two, she waited for at least one of them to explain the all-fired hurry. The bigger guy, Blunt, was either having a hot flush or about to have a cardiac arrest. His mate couldn’t look any shiftier if he’d been to shifty school.
She folded her arms. ‘And?’
‘I’m really sorry, sarge.’ Pollard lifted a tentative hand. Yep. Like a naughty kid in class. ‘I needed a leak real bad, like.’
Like? She very much doubted it.
‘I didn’t see it till it was too late.’
‘Show me.’
‘I didn’t move it, like.’
She tailed him round the trunk of a massive oak tree, then stared to where his finger pointed to grass and weeds growing round the base. Squatting now, she spotted something small and shiny nestling among the not so dew-kissed tufts. Nope, Pollard hadn’t touched it. Not with his hand, anyway. Not trodden on it, either. The effing numpty had only gone and pissed all over it.
Top bleeding marks, son.
She tightened her lips, peeled on latex gloves then gently teased from the drenched foliage a dripping wet driver’s licence.
30
‘What you saying, Morriss? That the stiff is this landlord bloke?’ Powell sounded even more crotchety than Bev was inured to. Then again, he was hacked off that her call had dragged him from an allegedly top-level meet with the chiefs. Personally, Bev would’ve welcomed any excuse: cutting toenails, great-uncle’s funeral, dog ate her parrot.
‘Words, mouth, gaffer. Leave it out, eh?’ She rolled her eyes at Mac, seated alongside listening on speakerphone. Drumming his thigh.
What she’d actually told him was that Karim Khalid’s driving licence had turned up and where it had been found. She’d omitted the role Pollard’s pressing need for a pee had played in its discovery. If it leaked out, though, he’d be in for no end of urine-extraction round the nick. Fact remained that without the daft twerp’s call of nature the licence might never have come to light and they’d still be whistling – or make that pissing – in the wind. Her top lip gave an involuntary twitch. Not funny, Beverley. Besides, by itself, the licence wasn’t particularly illuminating. Apart from anything else, Pollard’s ammonia shower had compromised any prints.
‘Well, what are you saying?’ Powell snapped. ‘Come on: get a move on.’
‘Chop-chop, woman,’ Mac whispered, wagging a finger.
She flicked him the bird. ‘I can’t see how Khalid can be the vic.’ Not when she’d watched him walking round five days ago fit as a flea on steroids. Okay, the body and face had sustained extensive injuries, but surely she’d have spotted if there’d been any resemblance to the landlord. Eyes narrowed, she brought the image back to mind. Actually there had been a fair bit of bloating, mostly round the torso, and come to think of it the hair shade wasn’t a million miles. She’d best check with Joe how quickly decomposition could take hold in high temperatures. ‘But don’t quote me on that, gaffer.’
‘Okay, say Khalid’s not the vic.’ Powell sighed. ‘Unquestionably, he was loitering at the crime scene. Guess what that makes him in my book, Morriss?’
‘Someone we need talk to pretty damn fast.’ Which was why they’d just parked outside Khalid’s Cheapside office.
‘Exactly. A prime suspect. For this and the Darwin Avenue murder. Why’s he not in custody?’
She stifled a sigh. Did The Blond ever listen properly? ‘I told you gaffer, Mac had no joy reaching him earlier.’
‘So you try again, harder this time.’
‘You don’t say,’ she mumbled.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, Morriss. Stands to reason, don’t it? He’ll have gone to ground.’
‘If he’s the perp.’ And literally, if he was the victim. The possibility it was his body in the half-assed grave couldn’t be completely ruled out. Damn shame, because Khalid’s murder would put the kibosh on her theory that pimps were targeting other pimps.
Hold on a min … Not necessarily.
Not if Khalid was involved in the vice trade. The squad needed to establish PDQ any links the guy might have with prostitution. Specifically, did he run a stable of girls?
‘What you talking about – if?’ Amazing how Powell rarely let a minor detail like lack of proof derail his blithe assumptions.
‘Think about it, eh, gaffer?’ Khalid’s driving licence being found at the site didn’t automatically make him the killer. For sure the guy had questions to answer. Loads. And the quicker the better. He might be guilty as sin, but Bev was keenly aware that this was an inquiry where evidence had almost certainly been planted before. The licence could turn out to be another duff signpost pointing any which way but where the cops needed to go.
‘Well, I reckon he’s done a runner,’ Powell said. ‘And given he’s up to his armpits in blood, no wonder you can’t track him down.’
Really? She reckoned he’d be pretty noticeable running round immersed in that much gore. Struck by another thought, she narrowed her eyes. What if the cops weren’t the only ones hunting Khalid? What if he’d taken off because he knew he’d been stitched up? Maybe running scared that the same individual was out to get him. And maybe Khalid had a morbid fear of needles. That’d make him neither
killer nor vic. At least not this time.
‘Listen, Morriss, I think—’
‘Sorry gaff … what … say—? … nah …breakin—’ She cut the call, winked at Mac and tossed the phone in her bag.
‘Prick or what?’ Mac mooted.
Mouth turned down, she waggled a hand. ‘Prick.’
Three hours later and it sounded as if Mac had changed his tune a crochet.
‘Reckon Powell might have a point after all?’ he asked, peering sceptically into a sausage sarnie. ‘Pass the sauce, boss.’
‘Christ, mate, how much more do you need on it?’ Scowling Bev used the tips of her fingers to nudge the tacky bottle across the even tackier Formica. Glancing round, she reckoned the ketchup if not the whole premises should come with a health warning. A wrinkled nose was no defence against reeking onions. As for the sight of Mac’s burnt bangers floating on a red lake, it made her cheese and pickle bap look positively haute cuisine. A concept not fully, if at all, grasped by the Kozy Kaff’s kitchen staff.
Needs must, though, and they’d badly needed a pit stop after traipsing fruitlessly round south Birmingham on Karim Khalid’s less-than-fresh trail. On the bright side, along the way she’d brought Mac up to speed on the interview at SWAT. He was now as conversant as Bev on what Sonia Abbot had told her. Ditto Powell, who’d asked Jack Hainsworth to get onto his snouts, see if they’d picked anything up along similar lines.
‘Jealous, are we?’ Mac cut Bev’s late lunch a pitying glance before chomping down on his cholesterol-fest. So much for his own healthy diet – hypocritical sod.
‘Well jell, me,’ she drawled. ‘Always fancied a bout of botulism.’
Chewing slowly, she turned her head. Thank God she’d nabbed a window seat. View out there had to be better than watching Mac masticate. Yep, Balsall Heath’s main drag in all its glory. Seedy flats over rundown shops; buses, bikes, Beemers; flashing blues. Fire engines racing past, barely noticed by blasé locals who’d seen it all before and then some. People of all ages, shapes and sizes strolled along, garbed in various items: turbans and trackies; flowing robes, ripped jeans; kaftans, crop tops; saris and sun frocks. Watching the world go by? Yeah, that just about covered it.
Overkill Page 15
