Overkill

by Maureen Carter

  ‘You’re not even listening, are you?’

  Christ. Was Mac still droning on? ‘Hanging on your every word, mate.’

  ‘Sarcasm’s the lowest form of wit, y’know.’

  ‘Suits me down to the ground then, don’t it?’

  ‘By the way, Bev’ – a beaming Stacey heading them off at the spat – ‘Joan wanted me to say ta. Not often she has flowers delivered to the door.’

  ‘She’s welcome.’ Bev flashed a smile. She’d almost forgotten sending the things.

  ‘Yeah, she loves freesias.’

  Freesias. Friesians. Freezers. Fuck. The milk, all the nosh, still in the boot. It’d probably be cooked to a turn by now. Turn as in rancid, not spit-roast. Oh, bugger. She’d thought the car smelt a bit funny. Fucking hilarious come to that.

  ‘Another peace offering, was it?’ Mac snorted. ‘Must cost you a bloody fortune. Why not try—’

  ‘Hey, sweetheart, I wouldn’t say no to a drop more brandy. Would you mind?’ Stacey handed her glass to Mac. ‘We ought to think about food, as well,’ – capitalizing on the diversion – ‘I’m flaming starving, me.’

  Had he just blown Stacey a kiss? Bev curved a subtle lip. The woman was wasted as a cop. Ought to be running the diplomatic corps.

  ‘And I dunno about you two’ – still smiling, Stacey rubbed her hands together – ‘but I could murder an Indian.’

  Murder an Indian? Bev pictured Karim Khalid’s burnt remains, felt her stomach lurch, then churn. Still, she’d been spot on about Stacey’s subtle tact.

  Couldn’t get much more diplomatic than that.

  ‘Mia madre. What the hell have you got in there?’ Frankie wrinkled her Roman nose as she pointed at the Midget’s open boot. ‘Whatever it is stinks to high heaven.’ Diplomacy had clearly passed the Italian by.

  ‘I told you.’ Bev sighed. ‘I stocked up on food first thing and it’s been sitting there stewing all day.’ She’d more or less decided to leave the shopping in the car overnight: it was late by the time she’d arrived home and she still felt a tad wobbly, but Frankie, after getting back and hearing the story, had insisted on lending a hand in disposing of the morning’s now well-past-their-best goodies.

  ‘Besides,’ Bev added, ‘you offered to help. I said I could manage.’

  ‘Yeah, you manage everything on your own. Any fool can see that.’ Frankie’s sneer rivalled a Maggie Smith special as she stared fixedly at the dressing round Bev’s neck. Bev had had little choice but to give the Italian a potted version of how she’d come by the wound. Voicing dark warnings about the baby, Frankie had hit the roof. Despite Bev’s genuine promise that she’d see a doctor first thing, Frankie still couldn’t let the argument go. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ she chided as she grabbed a couple of bags. ‘And as for chucking wine at Powell? I suppose that was all your own work, too.’

  ‘Come on, mate, we’ve been through it once.’ Again she’d had no choice: Frankie had caught Bev browsing online for shirts. Bev had ’fessed up to put a stop to the Italian’s endless speculations as to who the lucky guy was. Frankie’s odds-on favourite being Byford junior, of course..

  ‘Yeah, well you’d best hope it’ll save you from getting the old heave-ho,’ Frankie said, laden with bags and trooping towards the wheelie bin. ‘Or you’ll definitely be on your own.’

  Similarly burdened and bringing up the rear, Bev pulled a face at the Italian’s back.

  ‘I saw that,’ Frankie drawled.

  ‘What?’ she squeaked.

  ‘The face.’

  ‘You couldn’t have.’

  ‘I have an excellent imagination, my friend.’ Smirking, Frankie dumped the bags in the bin.

  Following suit Bev gave a wry smile, wondered if Frankie’s imaginative powers could conjure up a way to hide the neck wound from prying eyes tomorrow.

  Saturday

  35

  The mandarin collar hadn’t done the trick, and with scorchio centigrade predicted a polo neck had been out of the question. In the end, Bev had taken up Frankie’s generous offer and borrowed a rather fetching blue silk scarf to camouflage the damage. Frankie hadn’t actually made the offer, but no point splitting hairs. Had the Italian dragged her ass out of bed first thing like Bev, doubtless she’d have helped out with a loan. They’d both had a bit of a late night. Thanks to Stacey’s milk donation they’d stayed up drinking hot chocolate and listening to music. Bev had waited until her housemate hit the sack before making a couple of online purchases.

  In her office now, Bev again checked her reflection in the window. Gingerly, no carefully, turned her head this way and that. Yeah, a nice touch of sartorial class, artfully and skilfully draped, successfully masked both wound and fresh dressing. She sniffed. All right, it wasn’t Armani, but it’d do. Anything to stem a flow of sympathy or snides from cop colleagues about last night’s less than edifying events. She curled a lip at the memory of the encounter. Ginger had somehow managed to conceal his hairy butt, too. There’d been no news so far on the little shite’s whereabouts.

  For the second day running, Bev had put in an early appearance at the nick. Made sense given the creeping backlog and the fast-mounting workload that three murders entailed. Not to mention Powell’s three-line whip for a powwow. Thanks for that, chief. Heap big fun.

  After a final adjustment to the scarf, she set off for the gaffer’s office, making a mental note to buy one of those air-freshener dangly things for the car. While she was at it, she might as well restock some of the now discarded goodies she’d acquired for her mum and Sadie. Bev had a date with them tomorrow, but the box of Black Magic she’d bought Sadie had lost its spell. Unless a disappearing act into the bin counted.

  Wow, she thought, how much more excitement could a girl take?

  ‘Hey, sarge! You heard yet?’

  Bev glanced over her shoulder. Chad Wallace, flushed and focused, strode her way brandishing a piece of paper.

  Heard what? Bells? Voices in her head? The celestial choir? ‘Nah, Chad, I’ve not.’ Chance would be a fine thing, she’d been on the verge of knocking Powell’s door. ‘Why not put me out of my misery?’

  ‘He’s been nabbed. Uniform collared him. The bastard who tried …’ The words petered out. The newbie’s flush deepened as he toed the grey carpet with a colour-coordinated loafer. ‘… Y’know, tried …’

  ‘Raping me? Yeah, I do,’ she said, absently taking the paper from his hand. It was only the initial report, just a few lines. Ricky Finch, 26, NFA. Found drugged-up in a Digbeth doorway.

  ‘Nice scarf, by the way. Is it hiding the wound?’

  That worked, then. She rolled mental eyes. ‘Nah. I’m wearing it for a bet.’

  He laughed. ‘Best hope you didn’t put your shirt on it.’ Then saw her expression. ‘Sorry, sarge.’ He cleared his throat, straightened his tie. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you seem dead laid back about the guy being arrested.’

  She met his gaze, eyebrow raised. ‘Better ways to phrase it, Chad. ’Besides, how’d you expect me to react? Jump for joy?’ Crack open the bubbly, string up the bunting?

  He shrugged. ‘Relieved? Happy?’

  ‘I’ll wait till he’s banged up for that, Chad.’ Way she felt right now, she wanted to beat the little prick to a pulp, stamp on his head, gouge out his eyes with a rusty fretsaw, then shove his genitalia up his rectum. Not that she was vengeful, didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  ‘You’ll not have long to wait, then. He’s due any time.’ Chad looked round, lowered his voice, moved a step closer. ‘From what I gather, sarge, he resisted arrest.’

  ‘Oh?’ She cocked her head. The newbie looked earnest, too earnest to be true. Pretty fit, too, in a blond, fine-featured sort of way. Shame he batted for the other side. ‘Took a fall, did he?’

  Chad’s pause spoke volumes, then he nodded. ‘Landed on somebody’s fist … if you get my drift.’

  She turned her mouth down. ‘Careless, that.’

  ‘Or K
arma. For messing with a cop. He shouldn’t have done that. ’Specially not with you, sarge.’ He dropped his head, did that thing with the carpet again. ‘Just so’s you know … I think you’re a bloody legend.’

  ‘Thought you were gay, mate,’ she quipped. Come on, he’d asked for it: hero worship she could live without. ‘Not turned you, have I?’

  By the gasp and the look on his face, it was a definite no-no. Not that she waited for an answer.

  36

  ‘Bloody hell, Morriss. I thought you hated people just barging in like that.’

  ‘Sorry, gaffer, I did knock.’ She had her fingers crossed behind her back, so the fib didn’t count. Powell’s ankles had been crossed, too, on top of his executive desk. Bev had never seen him shift his legs off furniture so fast. He sat poker-straight now, tightened the tie, smoothed already immaculate hair. Probably had a dressing-down in mind or he’d have kept the casual mode going.

  ‘Yesterday I was not born, detective.’ Fixing her with a steely stare. ‘Nor am I deaf.’

  That crossed-finger trick? Pile of poo. ‘Glad to hear it, gaffer.’ The unintended pun hadn’t gone down well: his clenched jaw told her that.

  Staring through narrower eyes now, he asked, ‘Are you trying to piss me off?’ She turned her mouth down. ‘Nah, don’t answer that’ – flapping his hand – ‘you’re always sodding trying.’

  ‘Trying to solve a few cases, for sure.’ Not waste time by stringing out proceedings. Still unsmiling, she added, ‘You wanted to see me.’

  He rose slowly, strolled to the window, opened it as wide as it would go, then leaned against the sill, folding his arms. He waited until she met his gaze before speaking, then: ‘What the hell do you think you were playing at last night?’

  Say no more about it, huh? Sigh suppressed, she said, ‘Look, I’m sorry about the wine and that—’

  ‘Stuff the bloody wine, Bev. I’m talking about putting your neck on the line again. You went into Darwin Avenue with no back-up, not so much as a word to anyone. I doubt you had a baton, and I’ll lay odds you weren’t wearing a vest.’ Stab vest. Kevlar. ‘No course, you weren’t. That’d be too much to ask.’

  ‘Didn’t need one.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘What’s that bloody thing doing round your neck, then? And don’t tell me it’s a fashion statement.’

  ‘Look, gaffer—’

  ‘No, I won’t look. You’ll hear me out. To enter a recent crime scene like that was damn foolhardy. End of. There’s a bloody nut job out there somewhere.’ Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s already wasted three blokes, so killing again isn’t gonna make a shadow of a shit’s difference to him.’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘But nothing. I realize the guy last night probably has no connection with Operation Lynx, Bev, but either way’ – he ran both hands through his hair – ‘… for Christ’s sake, you could easily have got yourself killed. And Stacey Hardy, if it comes to that.’

  She shrugged again. Futile saying anything – he’d only close her down. Besides, basically he was right.

  ‘The fact you both came out of it relatively lightly was more by luck than judgement.’

  Mouth clamped, she struggled not to tap a tetchy foot. True, she’d not foreseen some puny two-bit low-life would be there chancing his arm, but Powell’s points had the benefit of twenty-twenty hindsight. She toyed between arguing the toss and standing her ground. She’d rarely seen The Blond so riled, so she’d probably be on a hiding to nothing. Best keep her trap shut.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Won’t happen again, gaffer.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Realizing he’d aped her words, the ghost of a smile played on his lips. ‘You had me really worried, Bev. I find you frustrating, exasperating, infuriating; the mouthiest, most pig-headed woman on the planet. But if anything happened to you …’

  Crikey. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d gone all moist-eyed. The earlier brusqueness must’ve been masking real concern. ‘Ta, gaffer, ’preciate it. But, hey, you know me … I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Yeah, that I do.’ He gave her the once-over again, this time smiling. ‘But it’s not just you needs taking care of these days, is it?’

  The jaw-dropping nerve of the man.

  ‘For crying out loud, woman, there’s a bus coming – close your mouth.’ He peeled himself off the sill and walked towards her, arms held wide. ‘Look, I was way out of line last night. The news came as a bit of a shock, that’s all. But it’s great. Congratulations and all that. I’m well pleased for you, Bev. Straight up.’

  She frowned. Benefit, doubt? Actually, she was quite touched. ‘Yeah, okay, but you ain’t getting a hug, if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘I’m not that stupid. Anyway, Morriss’ – smiling, he nodded towards the door – ‘it’s brief o’clock. Toodle-pip.’

  Standing on tiptoe, she pecked his cheek, walked out without a word.

  ‘I could have you for that, Morriss,’ he called. ‘Sexual harassment in the workplace.’

  ‘Hey, gaffer?’ She popped her head round the door, caught him loosening his tie. ‘In your dreams.’

  He sniffed. ‘Shit scarf, by the way.’

  37

  Hovering in the doorway, Bev clocked a spare berth on the left near the front, next to Mac. Half-standing, he beckoned her over. Must’ve bagged the seat specially, ’cause as she wove a path through the ranks it was pretty obvious they’d recently swollen. Leaning his weight on one haunch, Mac pulled a crumpled hankie from his pocket, started dabbing sweat off his brow.

  ‘Like a Turkish bath in here, it is, boss.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, mate. Everyone’s got their kit on.’ Mind, she’d ditched the scarf by now: talk about neither use nor ornament.

  Glancing around, she picked out a few new faces among the fold. Tapped her temple at a couple of old hands: Carol Pemberton and Sumi Gosh; nodded at newbie Chad. Powell’s request for more live bodies to cope with three dead bodies had clearly been approved by the brass. Come to think of it, Powell was supposed to be running the brief but had yet to show.

  ‘Want some?’ Mac proffered a bottle of water. ‘You’re welcome to a drop.’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’ She winked, then sank a few mouthfuls as she totted up the extras: half-a-dozen DCs, similar number of plods, admin back-up as well. Office Manager Jack Hainsworth was on the phone, probably trying to sort bigger quarters. Bev pressed the bottle against her clammy forehead, sorely hoping the new workspace would have air conditioning. The kind that functioned.

  ‘Had your fill, boss?’ Mac asked.

  She looked at the bottle: empty. Whoops. ‘Sorry, mate.’

  Taking it without comment, he lobbed it in the nearest bin; his resigned expression said it all.

  Best change tack. ‘Hey, Mac,’ – playfully nudging his elbow – ‘how’s that woman of yours today?’

  A warm smile spread across his features, damn near melted them. Unless it was the heat. ‘Fit as a flea. Top banana. I tell you, boss, Stace is a tough old—’

  ‘Word of advice? Don’t say bird.’

  ‘That’s rich.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You telling people how to talk nice.’

  ‘Up yours, Tyler.’

  ‘I rest my case.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ She mirrored his crooked grin. ‘Good point.’

  ‘Well made. Talking of cases.’ Mac nodded towards the murder boards. ‘It’s about time we cracked on. Where’s the DI?’

  ‘Powell?’ The cop sitting Mac’s other side chipped in. Burly bloke, thinning hair, time-server. Bev could never remember his name. ‘I hear he’s closeted with the new super. She’s probably pissed off with progress, or lack thereof.’

  ‘You’d make a better fist of it, would you?’ Bev snarled, hackles up on The Blond’s behalf. Ironic given her pop-rate at the DI. Give him his due, though, no matter how often he tried passing the buck, ultimately he ca
rried the can. She curved a lip. One more cliché and it’d be a hat trick. But seriously, given the operation’s current scale, it was a heck of a lot of pressure for anyone to bear.

  ‘Not me, sarge. I know my place.’ The guy smirked. ‘But I wouldn’t mind betting Jessica Truss reckons she could.’

  ‘Talk of the devil.’ Mac dipped his head.

  ‘It’s ma’am to you, buster,’ Bev murmured. Not that Detective Superintendent Truss needed anyone leaping to her defence, either. Bev studied the woman who now strode to the front. She was wearing the sort of vertiginous heels that Bev struggled to step into, let alone walk on. The nude leather shade coordinated with the ivory linen shift dress, which had probably been chosen to showcase a light tan, caramel colouring and toned arms.

  Did Bev have a touch of the green eye? Perish the thought. Truss seemed to have it all, though, blessed with the sort of features that grace the cover of Vogue, a stunning figure to boot, effortless elegance, a sharp brain, four kids, and an old man who was rolling in it. And she was tipped as a future Chief Constable. Nah, Bev felt dead sorry for the woman. Truss took centre stage and slowly ran her gaze over the troops before flashing a winning smile. ‘Relax, everyone.’ Even her voice oozed class. ‘DI Powell’s dealing with an unexpected issue. I offered to take the brief for him.’

  Just a one-off, then. Bev breathed a mental sigh of relief. Better the devil you know, and all that. And Truss was still pretty much an enigma to most of the squad. Partly because a detective superintendent’s role was less hands-on than that of a senior investigating officer, and partly, it seemed to Bev, because Truss generally kept her distance from the day-to-day stuff. Being charitable, she was probably still finding her feet.