‘I was asking your opinion on Sam Hayes,’ he said. ‘The guy might be sitting on intel. I say we push. Hard.’
She shrugged. ‘Could do.’ She still regarded Hayes as a cerebrally-challenged bit-part player. Trouble was, she now had no leading man in mind. Maybe it was time for a complete re-think.
‘I take it you have a better idea?’ Powell said. She shook her head. ’Then don’t turn your nose up at mine, detective.’ Powell pointed a pen at one of the murder boards. ‘Hayes named Ward as a major player. Whatever else he might be privy to …’ – the DI paused – ‘we need to know. And we need to know now.’
‘Mac, I want you in on the interview with me.’
Bev pursed her lips, tried not to show it, but the slight bridled a tad. Mac was more than up to the job, but she’d brought Hayes in. Yeah, and look where that had led them. Maybe the whole shebang needed a fresh pair of eyes. She listened as Powell recapped where the case stood before dishing out tasks to the squad. They were more or less back to square one – again. He wanted every statement, every report, every scrap of evidence painstakingly picked over and pulled apart. All witnesses re-interviewed; every step retraced. Standard procedure with a static inquiry. Especially when the only ongoing aspect was the body count.
Bev rubbed a hand over her face. The Blond had touched on something earlier that niggled at her. She’d reckoned it a line that could be worth pursuing, but still couldn’t pin the thought down. The more she chased, the more elusive it became. Oh, sod it. What’s the saying? If it’s important, it’ll come back.
‘Why don’t you sod off home?’
Bev glanced up from her desk, hadn’t even heard Powell enter. With his jacket finger-hooked over his left shoulder, it looked as if he’d clocked off himself. She’d spent hours poring over witness statements, police reports, Forensics feedback – keen, if not desperate, to find … what? She still felt convinced answers lay here somewhere, probably staring her in the face: she just wasn’t seeing them.
Sticking her pen behind an ear, she scooted the chair back. ‘That’s nice. Ta, gaffer.’
‘I’m serious, Bev, it’s supposed to be your day off. You look wiped out. I need you here bright and early in the morning, firing on all cylinders.’
‘You do?’
‘’Course. You’re not on light duties yet, y’know.’ Nah, but she’d be taken off the front line pretty damn soon if Jessica Truss had her way. Anyone’d think pregnancy was a terminal illness, not a natural condition, for crying out loud.
‘Good to hear, gaffer.’ She broke eye contact. ‘I thought you were …’ Pissed off at her for leading the squad down a blind alley.
‘What? Pissed off at your wonky thinking?’
‘Close.’ Remarkably so. ‘Can’t say I’d blame you.’ She turned her head to look at the montage of pics on her wall. Back when she’d cobbled it together the four men had been people of interest. If she’d shown the right sort of interest, would they still be alive? Had she not shown enough interest because subconsciously she’d classed them as low-life pimps? Four pairs of eyes seemed to stare back accusingly. Bollocks. No they don’t, Beverley. Best thing she could do was to drop the diva act and take the scales off her own bloody peepers.
‘Get over yourself, Morriss. Last time I looked, I was SIO. I could’ve reined you in any time. Give yourself a break now and again. For Chrissakes, you’re not the only one in the history of mankind—’
‘Womankind.’
‘And that.’ He frowned. ‘Shouldn’t that be humankind, anyway?’ She masked a smile: Powell on the niceties of inclusive language. Wonders would never … ‘Whatevs,’ he said, hand flapping, ‘you’re not the first and you won’t be the last cop to misread the signs. At least you try looking for ’em, Morriss.’
‘You’re right, gaffer. But, even so, my bad. I feel pretty gutted, if you must know.’
‘You’ll live.’ He smiled. ‘Come on, home time. I’ll walk you down.’
She glanced at her watch. Coming up to eight. Might as well call it a day. ‘Let me grab my bits and you’re on.’
‘And I’m banning shop talk, okay?’
‘Works for me.’
She cut him a glance as they walked down the corridor. Dare she? Could she? Hey, why not? ‘How’s your love life, then?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why? You at a loose end?’
Cheeky sod. ‘Nah, all tied up me, mate. Just wondering if you’re on the lookout, I could maybe fix you up with someone.’
‘You? Fix me up? God, you’re a scream, Morriss.’
The conversation stalled while they took the stairs down, resumed in the car park with Powell saying, ‘Put your bow and arrow away, petal. I’m spoken for.’
‘Wow, that’s great’ – giving his arm a playful punch – ‘so who’s the lucky—?
‘Nosy bugger, aren’t you?’
‘Trick of the trade, innit?’ Asking questions, eliciting info people don’t want to give. ‘Gonna tell me who she is then?’
‘Who says it’s a she?’ What?! ‘Hell’s teeth, Morriss, for heaven’s sake shut your mouth.’
Was he winding her up? She pumped for more, but he wouldn’t budge an inch. Ah well, tomorrow is another day. They’d reached her motor before it occurred to her to ask how he and Mac had got on in the Hayes interview. Despite what Powell had said, a copper banning shop talk was like a vicar vetoing prayers: it wasn’t going to happen.
‘You were right about the guy, Morriss. He’s a total scrote.’ Apparently Hayes had denied even knowing Oliver Ward, let alone naming him as the next big thing. ‘I tell you, ’Powell sneered, ‘you’d get more use out of a chocolate firelighter.’
‘I’d have no use at all for one of them,’ she drawled, getting into the hot seat, ‘All gas, I am.’
Powell winked as he leaned down to close the door. ‘You said it, petal. You said it.’
50
Powell’s parting shot struck home as Bev stuck a child-sized portion of chips in the oven to keep warm. It wasn’t that she’d fallen off the health-food wagon, but she felt she’d earned a little treat. The brainwork at the nick had whetted her appetite and provided an excuse for a mini-pig-out – in Bev’s opinion, anyway. Whatevs, her synapses fired and her eyes lit up as she made the connection with the DI’s final words. You said it, petal. You said it.
Bev had said it, but Sam Hayes definitely had not. That’s what had bugged her at the brief earlier. When the DI asserted that Hayes had given them Oliver Ward’s name, he’d put words into the guy’s mouth. Bev distinctly remembered now that during her interview with Hayes, although he alluded to a Mr Big muscling in, he’d not actually named names.
Tapping a lip, she wandered over to the bread bin. So who had supplied the all-important info? Of course. The SWAT queen, Sonia Abbot. She’d tipped the wink when she caught Bev on the snoop, found her with her fingers almost in the till – okay, drawer. Bev’s hand stilled as she buttered another round of Mothers Pride. Come to think of it, Sonia had been more than helpful on a couple of occasions. First time Bev met her, she’d talked about pimps battling it out in a turf war, and she’d dished the dirt on Dean Hobbs, describing how he’d sliced up several working girls. Never went so far as to name any victims, though.
Bev grabbed a towel to wipe her fingers, reckoned it was about time she looked at the pics she’d snapped on her phone that night. Perched on a work surface, legs dangling over the side, she flicked through the shots. Great line-up of wine glasses, dear. Had the women deliberately obscured their faces she wondered? The only woman really on show was Sonia, slap-bang in the middle. Still frowning, Bev studied the back of the print this time, again tried making out the faint indentations. She turned her mouth down. They were even less clear than on the original and even there, they could just have been a bunch of random letters.
Scrolling back through the previous images, she registered lots of hair, corners of mouths, ear lobes. And? Eyes narrowed, she altered the zoom, focus
ed this time not on the pic itself, but on the newspaper on which she’d hastily placed the picture before grabbing the shots. She’d captured only an inch or so of an inside page, which showed the title and date and a little of a headline. The squiggly bits remaining looked like hieroglyphics.
Lowering the phone, she frowned. Why hang on to an old copy of the Wolverhampton Echo? If she remembered correctly, there’d been a bunch of yellowing cuttings clipped together in the drawer as well. Squinting hard, she tried reading the dateline again, but boy, she needed her Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass. Frankie had presented it to her a couple of years ago as a joke present. Bev seemed to remember chucking it in a drawer, along with the pipe and deerstalker.
She hopped off the side to ferret round. ’Course, it had to be in the last place she looked; but hey, if the glass did the trick. Magic! So what earth-shattering news had been reported on 14 April 2010? Only one way to find out – and there was no time like the present. Mind it’d be a lot easier to read online archives on the laptop screen, and she may as well do it in comfort on the sofa. En route to the sitting room, Bev clocked the flashing green light on the answerphone in the hall. Voicemail. Could she be arsed? Only people she knew who used landlines were cold-callers.
Why not? She was passing anyway … ‘Hello Bev, Charlie Silver here. Thought you were coming over tonight?’
She groaned. Sod it, sod it, sod it. The arrangement had gone completely out of her head. She checked the time on her watch: quarter to nine. By the time she’d driven over to Dudley it’d be time to head back. Last thing she wanted when she finally got to tackle the old boy would be to rush him.
She grabbed the laptop, took a seat and shook her hands at the wrist. Time to fire up the Quattro – okay, the Toshiba. While it booted up, she dashed off a message to Charlie, promising to make it over to see him tomorrow evening. A text pinged in at the same time. ‘The romper suit rocks. It’s so you! R xx’
She sniffed. Yeah, right.
She’d have words with Junior later – the Echo’s website had appeared on screen. So, Beverley, let’s try and find out what it’s all about. She tapped a few more keys, shuffled back in the seat, ready for the ride.
51
New bid to find girl’s killer
Wolverhampton police are to stage a reconstruction of murder victim Clare Cooper’s last known movements. Clare (17) was found almost five weeks ago, bludgeoned to death outside her home in the Morden Vale district of the city. Despite a large-scale manhunt and several witness appeals, police still have no clues to the killer’s identity.
Detective Inspector Pete Naylor hopes that a reconstruction will jog people’s memories and prompt more witnesses to come forward. ‘This was a vicious attack on a defenceless young woman,’ he said. ‘I’m asking for the public to help my officers catch a callous killer.’
The reconstruction will take place early next week and it is understood that a former school friend will take Clare’s place on her final fateful journey.
Bev drummed the cushion next to her. It had to be this piece about a police search. Nothing else in the Echo that day resonated. She couldn’t see Sonia’s interest being piqued by falling house prices, perilous pot-holes and parks full of dog-poop. Not enough to hang onto the paper all this time, anyway.
But what was Sonia’s connection? Bev couldn’t work it out, but she’d clearly missed the start of the story and had some catching up to do. The report’s down-page placement made it more of a holding piece. The murder itself would’ve been headline news when it happened. Pete Naylor wouldn’t have sanctioned a reconstruction unless they needed the coverage to keep the crime in the public eye. He’d clearly either run out of ideas, or was desperate for a lead. Probably both.
So. Given that every running story had a start-line, Bev entered a search term. E-digging being a damn sight quicker than plod work, seconds later she was reading the first report, from Saturday, 13 March 2010:
Police hunt girl’s killer
West Midlands police have launched a murder hunt for the killer of a teenage girl from Wolverhampton. Clare Cooper’s body was found by her mother on the doorstep of their home in the Morden Vale district of the city in the early hours of this morning.
Clare, who is believed to have been unemployed, is understood to have been out with friends on the night she was attacked. Details of how the teenager died have not yet been released, but Detective Inspector Pete Naylor, who is leading the hunt for the killer, is appealing for help from the public. He is urging anyone who was in the vicinity of Queen Street, Manor High Road, Walsall Way and Drayton Close from eight o’clock onwards last night to come forward.
DI Naylor said, ‘It’s vital we establish Clare’s last known movements. We need to speak to anyone who saw Clare or who noticed anyone acting suspiciously. This was a vicious attack on a defenceless young woman and the killer is still at large. I urge anyone with information to contact the police immediately.’
Clare’s mother, Mrs Eve Cooper, aged 39, was too distraught to comment. A neighbour who did not wish to be named told our reporter: ‘Clare was a lovely girl, vivacious and outgoing. She always seemed to have a smile on her face and a kind word for everyone.’
A special police hotline has been set up for members of the public to call in confidence.
Bev studied the accompanying pics: an exterior of the family home and a single-column head-and-shoulders of Pete Naylor. The reporter obviously hadn’t been able to get hold of a victim photo, or Clare’s smiling face would doubtless have been staring back from the screen.
She hit a link to a later article and, yep, Clare’s image had made the front page. Not that she seemed too happy. She had about her the gaunt white look of a Goth: long, jet-black hair, heavy eye-liner, dark lippie. The sharp features set in an unfortunate scowl.
Bev clocked the accompanying headline and raised an eyebrow.
Murder victim a ‘regular user’
A post mortem has revealed traces of heroin in the body of murdered teenager Clare Cooper. Clare (17) was found dead four days ago on the doorstep of her home in the Morden Vale district of Wolverhampton. She was discovered by her mother, Mrs Eve Cooper. Although police say the drug was not present in life-threatening quantities, they believe Clare may have been a regular user.
DI Pete Naylor, who is leading the hunt for Clare’s killer, is appealing for anyone with information to contact the police. A special hotline has been set up and calls will be treated in the strictest confidence. DI Naylor said, ‘This is not about Clare or her friends taking illegal substances: it’s about tracing and questioning whoever supplied the drugs. Clare’s killer is still at large – any information that could lead to an arrest is vital.’
Mrs Cooper (39) has so far been too distressed to talk to the media. She is due to appear at a news conference later this week. It is believed that Mrs Cooper will make a direct appeal to the public for help in finding her daughter’s killer.
Good. Should make interesting reading. A few minutes later, after a shed-load of searches, Bev reckoned Mrs Cooper must’ve changed her mind. Second thoughts? Cold feet? Still too distraught? People said every parent’s nightmare was to have a child die. How much worse when that child has been murdered? And as for discovering the body on your own doorstep … Bev shuddered, couldn’t begin to imagine how that would feel.
She traced finger and thumb along her jaw line, then shifted the laptop to the space alongside on the sofa. A little background music usually helped the brain cells function. Frankie had recently converted Bev to vinyl, and flicking through the sleeves she curved a lip at a memory of the guv, who’d had a sizeable vinyl library of his own. His go-tos had been Bach and Beethoven, whereas Bev saw herself as more of a Beatles and Beach Boys girl. They’d tried educating each other – but with only limited success. She sighed. Whatevs. She definitely needed a few good vibes tonight.
Laptop in situ again, she flexed her fingers ready for another news trawl. After a while, i
t seemed to Bev that the initial saturation coverage had pretty soon given way to an occasional trickle. Because of Clare’s alleged drug use? Surely not? More likely a question of there being no major developments. Either way, Bev could easily see why the DI in charge of the case had resorted to a reconstruction. Naylor certainly hadn’t lived up to his name. She glanced at his photo again, put him in his late-forties, early-fifties. Made a mental note to check first thing if he was still stationed out there.
The next link took her to the reconstruction story.
Friend retraces murder victim’s final steps
A former school friend has taken part in a police reconstruction of murder victim Clare Cooper’s last known movements. It is now almost six weeks since Clare’s body was found by her mother on the doorstep of their home in the Morden Vale district of Wolverhampton. Clare (17) had been beaten to death. Since then, appeals for information have failed to lead the inquiry any further forward. Police hope the reconstruction, with Katie Granger standing in for the murder victim, will prompt people with information to come forward.
Katie Granger, who was in the same class as Clare when they attended Hill Crest Academy, bears a striking resemblance to the dead girl. Katie, who was also a neighbour of the dead girl, told the Echo, ‘Clare was my best friend and I’ll do anything to help the police find her killer. Prison’s too good for men like him.’
Detective Inspector Pete Naylor, who is leading the murder hunt, said, ‘Somebody out there must know who’s responsible for Clare’s death. The killer is somebody’s son, maybe somebody’s husband, somebody’s father or brother. I’d ask anyone with information or who harbours suspicions, however insignificant or slight they think those suspicions may be, to contact the police.’
When asked if he feared the killer could strike again, DI Naylor refused to comment.
Overkill Page 24
