Her skin crept at the thought of touching the guy. Needs must. She pulled on a latex glove from her bag, then, lip curled in revulsion, knelt to check the pulse in his neck. Yep, he’d gone.
Shame it had been so quick.
Eerily calm, she carried her cup to the kitchen, cleaned it thoroughly, and hung it on a hook. On three grounds the precaution was probably unnecessary. Given underlying medical conditions, Silver’s demise would hardly come as a shock. A stun gun rarely left telltale marks and without suspicious circumstances, there’d be no need for a post mortem.
Without a backward glance, Bev hiked her bag and left the house. At the moment, she felt guilt-free; as for the future, she was pretty confident there’d be no conviction. Time would tell. Right now, Byford was the only person she’d answer to.
Whichever term the medicos used to describe Silver’s death, in Bev’s book it would always be unnatural causes.
Epilogue
Dressed to kill, Bev glanced round the car park, feeling a tad fish-out-of-water. Dropping by Green Lodge en route to the register office might not have been her brightest move yet. The happy couple’s request had been pretty unequivocal, though: they wanted everyone to sport a dash of yellow; apparently a hat or a hanky would do the job. Bev, natch, had gone the whole canary: bag, shoes, frock, fascinator, tights. Checking her mug in the mirror, she curved a lip. From a distance, she probably looked like a mutant banana. Mind, if it were true that ‘We are what we eat’ she ought to resemble a bunch of the bloody things by now.
Anyway, business before pleasure, Beverley …
She grabbed her bag, locked the motor and, still musing, shoved her shades down her cleavage. Looking on the bright side, the colourful ensemble made a welcome change from the head-to-toe black rags she’d worn recently while paying what might be called her first respects to Marty Cox, Oliver Ward, Karim Khalid and Dean Hobbs.
Four funerals in the space of a fortnight. She-oot. It would have been five, had she not given Charlie Silver’s a wide berth yesterday. Instead, she’d kept one of her promises to the guv and was now keen to bring him up to speed. Hoped he’d appreciate her presence a bit more this time.
There was no audience around so first she treated Byford to a twirl. ‘What you think of the get-up, then?’ No answer. ‘That bad, huh?’ Smiling, she knelt at the graveside and started sprucing up the sunflowers Richard had brought over last week.
‘Come on, guv. Don’t hold back. You’re thinking terminal jaundice, right?’ Still no response. No laugh to humour her, either.
‘Suit yourself.’ She sniffed. ‘Anyway, breaking news …’ Leaning forward, she tissue-dusted the cross. ‘I found Fay’s grave okay. Took the flowers just like you used to.’ Pink roses in tight bud. ‘I reckoned she’d like a little pink teddy to go with, so I took one along. Oh yeah, I gave the angel a good wash and brush-up, too. What with all the muck and moss, she’d got in a right state. By the time I finished, she looked … well … nice.’
Bev’s bright smile faded. Not a peep. The big man hadn’t uttered a word since she’d revealed her role in Charlie Silver’s demise. She wasn’t completely doolally, knew Byford didn’t actually spout. Their conversations had all been in her head. No surprise given they’d once been so close she could predict his every word. Crikey, in days gone by they used to finish each other’s sentences. No longer.
Far as the Charlie Silver score went, the guv’s silence was deafening. In life he’d been straighter than a steamrollered die, and Bev had the distinct impression that he not only condemned her actions but was horrified. Speechless, in any case.
She swallowed hard. As if she found it easy to live with.
Easier by far, though, than another thought that had struck her recently. What if the guv’s radio blackout was down to the fact that his unfinished business re baby Fay had now been put to bed? He’d have no cause to hang round any more, would he? The prospect of losing him completely scared Bev shitless, but if he’d at last found peace … her head told her it would finally be time to let him go. Though her heart told her losing him for good would hurt like hell.
Straight-faced, she sat back on her heels. ‘Nothing to say for yourself?’
Birdsong, and a heartbeat in her ear.
‘Okay, guv,’ she murmured. ‘Have it your way.’ Eyes brimming, she kissed two fingers and laid them gently on the heart of the cross. She held the pose a while, head down, then hauled herself to her feet, ready to take her reluctant leave.
Hold on a minute. She narrowed her eyes. Assuming everything panned out with the baby, what the heck was she getting all het up about? There’d always be a part of the guv in her life. Gawd, if she gave birth to a boy and if Richard went ahead with his plans to move to Birmingham, there’d be no getting away from Byfords junior, or otherwise. Barmy though the thought was, it perked her up no end.
Smiling, she gave Byford senior a proper salute. ‘Laters, guv.’ You ain’t getting rid of me that easy.
She needed to get a move on, now, and stepped up the pace back to the motor. Wouldn’t do to be late, would it? Not given she was Stacey’s nominal matron of honour. Powell had wet himself laughing when he found out. Bev could hear him now: ‘Matron? Honour? Shum mishtake, shurely.’
Cheeky sod.
Give. Good. Get. She’d ripped the piss royally when Powell had let slip he’d taken Tyson off the RSPCA’s hands. Fair dos to the guy, though – if he’d not given the mutt house room, it would’ve ended up in the great kennel in the sky. Bev had been threatened with a similar fate when she presented Powell with the dry-cleaning bill for her skirt.
Her hand stilled as she made to turn the key in the ignition. The Blond had better not bring the damn dog to the nuptials – she’d bloody kill him if he did. She gave one of her best snorts. That’d be another service she’d have to attend, making a grand total of five funerals ... and a wedding.
Clocking the gift on the passenger seat – a toaster, obs – Bev smiled then hit the gas, humming softly under her breath.
Get Me To The Church On Time.
What else?
The Bev Morriss series, by Maureen Carter
Working Girls
Dead Old
Baby Love
Hard Time
Bad Press
Blood Money
Death Line
Grave Affairs
Death Wish
Overkill
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Overkill Page 27
