Frowning, he picked up the envelope, looked at the picture postcard inside: idyllic village green, blue sky, cricket match underway.
‘Big fan of the game are you, Mr Hayes?’
He glanced up, ‘Am I balls.’ The frown deepened when he turned the card, read the typed label on the back:
Many happy returns
Thirty-two not out
Catch you soon.
Marty
‘I don’t get it.’ He ran his gaze over her face as if looking for a clue. ‘I’ve never seen this before in my life.’ The gormless look appeared so genuine she was almost tempted to believe him. But then this was a guy who turned lying into an art form.
‘Really? It was stuck to the side of your fridge.’ With the crack, dope, Es and Charlie chilling in the freezer.
‘Not by me it bloody wasn’t. Can’t stand cricket. Stupid bloody game,’ he sneered, chucking the card on the table. ‘As for the crap on the back, what’s all that about?’
The message seemed pretty clear to Bev: Cox wanted a catch-up with Hayes. And not over a cosy cuppa cha. She raised an eyebrow. And she’d thought Hayes needed to worry about not having a paddle. If Cox caught up with him, he’d not have a prayer.
‘You tell me, Mr Hayes.’
‘Nah. This is all bollocks,’ he sneered. ‘Your lot must’ve planted it. How long you been following me?’
‘Following you?’ What planet are you on, mate? The guy was either denser than he looked or in total denial.
‘Don’t come the innocent with me, copper. How else would you have taken that photo?’
Jesus wept, the guy was more than dense: he was deluded. ‘I don’t think you quite understand, Mr Hayes.’ Neither did Bev, but she clearly had a head start on Hayes. ‘The police haven’t been tailing you and we’ve certainly not photographed you, but … somebody took that shot. Seems to me whoever it is has you in their sights. And that means next time they might be armed with something more lethal than a camera.’
He ran both hands through damp greasy hair. ‘Why’d anyone want to frame me?’
Bev stifled a sigh. ‘Still not with me, are you? What I’m saying, Mr Hayes, is that whoever’s on your tail … well, stitching you up may be the last thing they have in mind.’
She could almost see cogs whir as he cottoned on to the implications. ‘So you think …?’ His Adam’s apple took several dives. ‘You think …?’ He swallowed again, still couldn’t spit it out.
Without a word, Bev lined up visual aids on the desk: three images, three crime scenes, three bodies. ‘Victim one’s Dean Hobbs. One of the others is Karim Khalid – as you can see, it’s difficult to be precise.’
Eyes popping, he slapped a hand to his mouth, gagged a couple of times.
‘Bin’s there if you need it.’ Bev edged it nearer with her foot. ‘Thing is, Mr Hayes, the perp’s still at large, so if you know anything I’d suggest now’s the time to tell me.’
‘Don’t talk rot. Minute I open my mouth, I’m dead meat.’
‘Whether you do or not, Mr Hayes, I’d say you’re on borrowed time.’
‘Not while you’ve got me banged up, I’m not, copper.’ He sat back smirking. ‘And you can’t force me to talk.’
‘You’re dead right. I can’t.’ She nodded at Carol who took her cue and wrapped the interview. ‘On your feet, sunshine. It’s your lucky day.’ Standing now, Bev gathered the files, grabbed her bag, then glanced at Hayes. ‘Still here? DC Pemberton? See Mr Hayes gets off the station premises safely, would you? As of now, matey, you’re on police bail.’
43
‘Bit risky, wasn’t it, Morriss?’ Sleeves rolled up, top three buttons open, tie hanging like a skinny scarf, Powell perched on the sill in his office. Bev had dropped by for a quick catch-up before heading out to see Sonia. They’d already raked over the post mortem findings, and Powell had agreed to get the dental DNA samples fast-tracked. Good move, that. Bev had just précised her sessions with Sam Hayes.
‘Trust me, gaffer, the risk was minimal.’ She’d had a subtle nose round for the parcel, too, but it looked as if the lazy beggar hadn’t picked it up from reception yet.
‘Easily said, but what if he’d taken you at your word and buggered off?’
‘Nah, he was scared shitless,’ she drawled, brushing crumbs off her lap. Having caught Powell breaking into a pack of Bourbons, she’d done the decent aiding-and-abetting thing. ‘Besides, you don’t really think I’d have let the scrote walk, do you?’
Not that the prospect hadn’t been sorely tempting. Chucking Hayes in deep water, then maintaining close tabs, could’ve paid off big in the mackerel-catching stakes. The police budget would never have run to it, though. Providing 24/7 surveillance to keep his sorry ass safe from a shadow, albeit one Bev would dearly love to net, would cost an H-bomb. Much cheaper to keep an eye on Hayes in the cell where he was currently under lock and key. Next door to Ricky Finch, as it happened. Such delightful bedfellows. Mind, Finch was due before the Bench first thing on a raft of charges, and the chances of him being granted bail were less than Bev being bedded by the hunk who played Poldark.
‘Given Hayes’s loose concept of veracity,’ – Powell paused, scratching his chin – ‘I don’t see how we can take anything he says as gospel.’
Bev shrugged. ‘Benefit, doubt, check it out.’ Least they had a few pointers to work with now. Soon as Hayes had realized he could be out on his ear he’d started singing. Not at canary level, and not all of it from Bev’s hymn sheet. Went without saying that Hayes lied as easily as he took breath, but assuming it hadn’t all been a load of bollocks, he had confirmed Marty Cox’s expansion plans. Apparently the crime boss didn’t just want a bigger share of the vice market, he was pushing for a monopoly. Or, as Hayes had heard it described: Marty’s out to make a killing.
‘Shame we don’t know where “out” is, eh?’ Bev sniffed.
‘Damn right. Reckon Hayes has any idea where he’s holed up?’
‘Nah. Hayes is a bit player, gaffer; nothing but a gopher, if you ask me.’ She seriously doubted the prat had even been in the same room as Cox, never mind the same league. ‘No way on God’s earth would he be privy to gen like that.’
Everything Hayes knew or had been told he’d picked up second-hand – mostly from Karim Khalid, for whom Hayes had finally admitted doing the odd job. As in rent-collecting, including late payments, plus picking up the girls’ takings. Which was presumably the reason Cox had bowled him a postal-delivery googly.
‘Well, you were bang on about the landlord.’ Powell jumped off the sill, sat at his desk, plaited his hands behind his head. ‘Nice one, Morriss.’
‘Aw, ta.’ Smiling, she leant across to nick another biscuit. ‘Yeah, Khalid turned out quite the dark horse.’
‘Help yourself. Oh, you did.’
‘Share and share alike.’ Flashing a grin, she snapped the biscuit in two and chucked over the smaller piece.
He rescued it from the floor, blew on it then sneered. ‘Call that a throw?’
‘Stop whinging. It’s only a bit of fluff.’ Had to admit she felt pretty chuffed the Khalid theory had panned out. Hayes had eventually confirmed the brothel-keeping side of the lettings business. In fact, Hayes had been collecting rents the night Hobbs bought it in Darwin Avenue. Which explained how his wallet came to be stuffed with so much dosh. Not, alas, who’d nicked it or shoved it through the letterbox – assuming, again, that Hayes had told the truth about not having a hand in the murder.
As far as his innocence on that score went, Bev was mostly convinced, but she still didn’t trust the little shyster not to manufacture tales to throw the squad off the scent. He’d claimed, for instance, that Khalid was a front man for a behind-the-scenes operator, a guy more ambitious and cut-throat even than Cox. According to Hayes, when this bloke told Khalid to jump, Khalid said, Of course, sir, which window? Did Hayes know anything that would help identify said bastard? ’Course not. Mind, he had a long night ahead to t
hink on it.
‘What was Hayes doing at Khalid’s? Did he say?’
‘Playing office boy. He got a call telling him to collect a file pronto. Apparently Khalid was in a meeting but needed the paperwork to seal some sort of deal.’
‘So he spoke to Khalid?’
‘No, some woman in the office. Hayes assumed she was the landlord’s PA, secretary, whatever.’
‘How was Hayes supposed to get in? Don’t tell me he—’
‘Has a set of keys? Yeah. Didn’t need ’em, though. When he gets there, the front door’s open. He reckons there could be a burglar in there, goes barging in ready for action.’
‘And?’
‘He checks the place top to bottom. Nothing amiss. No one around. Gets another call saying don’t bother about the file – Khalid had found it after all. We’ll check the phone’s history, natch.’
Powell nodded. ‘Not quite “No one around”, though. Don’t forget David Bailey’s loitering outside, ready to capture the moment.’
Loitering? She grabbed another biscuit for later. ‘Yeah, you may be right. Hayes could’ve been lured there rather than tailed. Still, he doesn’t know that, does he?’ She winked as she reached for her bag. ‘Keep him in blissful ignorance, I say. Anyway, I’m off. Let me know how the brief goes.’
‘Hold on a min – what if Hayes works it out?’
Already at the door, she turned back. ‘You having a laugh? He’s thicker than pig shit.’ Besides, they weren’t short of incriminating evidence.
‘Yeah, but the fact is somebody did snatch his pic.’
She nodded, smile fading. ‘Yeah, and made damn sure we got a copy.’ They’d little idea who or why, but without it they’d still be fumbling lead-less in the dark. ‘Makes you wonder, that, doesn’t it, gaffer?’ She mulled it over more as she walked down the corridor. Just who – in the current set-up – was manipulating whom?
‘Hey, Morriss?’
Eyebrow raised, she glanced back. ‘You called, master?’
‘Yeah, forgot to say …’ He stepped outside his office, holding up a pink blouse, size 18; pussy bow. ‘Fits like a glove. Ta, petal.’
‘Candy pink. Not too girly? Good-oh.’ Tapping a mock salute she walked away, struggling not to laugh. A shirt to replace the one she’d ruined with wine should arrive in the next day or two. She’d decided against special delivery; the rather natty ivory-coloured Ralph Lauren had already cost more than enough.
44
Bev was bang on time, but according to Little Miss Scowly Chops, who’d opened the door, Sonia Abbot wasn’t even in the building. Tight-mouthed, Bev tapped a mental foot. ‘I’m going nowhere, matey. We made a definite arrangement. Has to be a place where I can kick my heels.’ Not a question, not a request, she’d be damned if she’d budge before seeing Sonia. Not on the say-so of one her minions, anyway.
‘Nah, don’t think so. Security, innit?’ Sniffing, Sonia’s gatekeeper cut a cursory glance at Bev’s ID. ‘Sonia’s dead particular who we let in.’ Not that picky, if the young woman’s personal hygiene was anything to go by. The whiff of unwashed flesh and pickled-onion breath was a stunning combo. The dreadlocks and nose ring didn’t add a lot to her allure, either.
‘You’re cracking me up, love. What’s your name?’ Holding the comedienne’s sly, slightly boss-eyed gaze, Bev slipped the card back in her pocket. She knew some working girls, even after they’d left the game, weren’t always the biggest fans of cops. Tough teats. She’d no desire to go out clubbing with the girl, had more important things to do on a Friday night in the middle of a triple murder inquiry.
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s Kelly Hunt. And yeah, you’re right, cop, I’m a laugh a minute, me. Anyways, nice seeing ya.’ She made to close the door, found a Doc Marten in the gap, quickly followed by a softly-spoken Bev in her face.
‘What’s your problem, funny girl?’ Bev was in no mood for jokes or Kelly’s unwarranted hostility. She felt like hitting back in kind. Actually, she felt more like just giving her a slap in the face, but opted to play nice cop instead. ‘All I’m after is a place to wait, Kelly. Not a lot to ask, is it?’
Kelly didn’t have a lot to say, either. She let a curled pierced lip do the talking, then led the way to a door at the end of a narrow passageway.
‘Anyone else around?’ Bev asked.
‘It’s a daytime drop-in centre, not a doss house.’
‘I take it that’s a no?’
‘Take it any way you like. I ain’t going far. Don’t get too comfy, will you?’
Fat chance, going by the look of the place. Bev grimaced as she glanced round a cramped, windowless room that had less appeal and little more space than a broom cupboard. She hiked her bag. At least she was in and left to her own devices. She took a quick shufti into virtually empty packing cases, cardboard boxes, crates. Other stuff lying around looked mostly like recycled crap: bin liners chock-full of cast-off clothes, piles of old mags, such as heat, Chat, Closer; stacks of second-hand stuff for kids, in the form of board games, soft toys, a Barbie doll with a wonky leg. Bev swept a pile of dirty towels off a rickety old bentwood chair, took the weight off her pins and pulled out her phone.
Three texts from Powell. First, ‘No movement on Cox.’ She shook her head. With some of the finest cops on the force searching, how the hell was the bloke evading them? Maybe he’d taken flight literally, swanned off abroad – Costa del crime, somewhere like that. Mind, his business affairs didn’t strike her as the sort you could run online. Pimping, protection, porn – kind of callings, surely, that cried out for the personal touch?
‘Dazza’s all fired up for tonight.’ Oh, yeah. The drug raid had almost slipped her mind.
‘Fancy a jar when your done petal? Im off to the prince.’ She shook her head; should’ve bought him a fool’s guide to grammar as well as the big girl’s blouse. Lip curved, she typed a reply: ‘Only if you wear your present, flower.’ He’d rather run a mile than risk being seen dead in that. Especially in his favourite watering hole. Wouldn’t happen anyway – Bev craved an early night.
She was sliding the phone back when a message pinged in: ‘You around tomorrow evening? I’ll call you. Charlie.’ Bet your butt I am. Day off, wasn’t it? ‘Deffo.’ She replied: ‘How about I come over?’ She narrowed her eyes, then added: ‘We can have a proper catch-up.’
Rummaging in her bag she located the Bourbon, polished it off in two bites. So, Beverley, what now? She took another scout round. Could always kill a bit of time playing Cluedo. Nah. Too much coals to Newcastle for her liking. She snorted. Sod this for a game of soldiers. What the feck was she doing twiddling her thumbs in a glorified junk hole when Sonia Abbot’s lair lay not a million miles? Presumably the woman kept records – girls’ names, background, current circs. Gen on pimps, too? A cop’s job to show initiative, wasn’t it? Besides, ‘detect’ was only posh for ‘snoop’.
Stealing down the passageway, she kept an ear open just in case the delightful Miss Hunt was on the prowl. Apparently not. All Bev heard was some poxy radio station playing pop music pap. Finding the office unlocked came as a bonus: Sonia couldn’t be that hot on security. Must have a damn good memory, though, ’cause five minutes later Bev had yet to uncover any significant paperwork. Either there was nothing to find or the finer detail was all on the laptop.
Lips pursed, she eyed it pensively for a second or two, then gave the mouse a quick tap. Good job her hopes hadn’t been high. Of course the bloody computer was password-protected. She typed in a few guesses: soniaswat, soniastrong, swatsonia, swatAbbot. ‘Now you’re just being silly,’ she murmured to herself.
Pointless exercise, anyway. Accessing locked computers only ever worked in cop shows or crime fiction. And even then, Bev ended up groaning at the screen or page and calling it a right swizz. Nah, unless the magic word was jotted down round here somewhere, she was on a hiding to sweet FA.
Tapping a finger against her lips, she recalled the photo that had stoo
d on Sonia’s desk, wondered where it had vanished to. Team SWAT on a night out, she’d surmised at the time. She started going through the drawers again in case she’d missed it first time round. The contents were a bit of a jumble, what with loose papers, old shopping lists, receipts, Post-It notes, pens, pencils, hand cream, hairgrips. Sonia wouldn’t miss a Polo, would she? Sucking a mint, Bev carried on the search, making sure everything went back in its proper place. No sense pissing Sonia off unless she had to. She’d reached the bottom drawer now, and her eyes lit up when she glimpsed a flash of glossy white paper. Come to momma. No wonder she’d not spotted it before. The photo, now out of its frame, lay face down under an old newspaper and a bunch of cuttings. She lifted out the pic, ran her gaze over a line-up of five women, Sonia in the middle. Bit of a shit shot considering the faces were in soft focus and mostly obscured by the glasses they were holding up to the camera. Bev turned the print over, tried making out a few faint indentations on the back. Initials? O W S C and …
‘Well, she’s certainly not here now, Kelly.’ Familiar voice, footsteps approaching. Bollocky-bollocks. Sonia on the warpath in high heels as well as high dudgeon, by the sound of it.
Bev snatched out her phone, reeled off shots of the pic front and back, shoved it under the papers, closed the drawer. By the time Sonia had opened the door, Bev stood at the sink, filling a kettle. ‘Wotcha.’ Cheeky grin in place, she turned her head. ‘Want one?’
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Frowning, she slung her keys and bag on a chair.
‘Making a cuppa.’
‘You shouldn’t have to do that.’ Her face softened into a smile. ‘Kelly could’ve sorted you a drink, and heaven knows why she exiled you to our storeroom. Actually, I do have an idea. I’m afraid she has rather a problem with authority.’ No shit? ‘Sit down, Bev, let me.’
‘Okey-dokey, ta.’ She took a perch on the sill, folded her arms.
‘I’m sorry you had to wait. I had to make a mercy dash.’ Her father had had a fall at home, apparently; she’d hared out to Moseley to help. ‘Still,’ she added, ‘you’d know all about emergency call-outs in your line of work, wouldn’t you?’
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