Bad Press

by Maureen Carter

  “Matt Motormouth Snow?” Powell sneered. “Anyone who reads the News knows Tintin’s name.”

  Yeah. But not his private number. Nor the right buttons to push to drag a journo out of his pit in the middle of the night. The mystery caller had editorial nous. And smart enough, probably, not to have left a telecom trail. They’d check Snow’s phone records but Bev doubted they’d lead anywhere. Not that the tip had done the reporter any favours. He’d ended up in police custody, the so-called exclusive unexploited. It’d be a media free-for-all in a couple of hours, especially when the DI released Marsden’s ID.

  She added lines to her mental checklist as Powell assigned actions. Apart from the news conference that Mike Media-Tart Powell was keeping for himself, the straws were all short. Carol and a young officer whose name Bev could never remember would take the shelters. Dazza and Goshie would talk to rough sleepers on and around the estate. Thinking went that if Marsden had any mates, they’d be street people, fellow dossers who might be able to point the inquiry in the right direction. The priority was to try to establish Marsden’s last known movements, but anything that shed light on the man’s lowlife routines would help. Given they’d nada to go on...

  Like any sex offender, Marsden had been on a register. In theory it meant tabs were kept. In practice, there were loopholes; Marsden had sleazed through the net. He’d not appeared on any official radar for weeks. That was the DI’s third problem.

  Powell jumped to his feet, clapped his hands. “Right. Someone out there knows something. Find them. Talk to them. I want this sewn up by the end of the week.”

  “Just like that,” Mac muttered. The quip barely raised a smile, the squad’s mood was still downbeat. Bev was musing on ways of extricating herself from Marsden’s post mortem. Mac volunteering would be good, especially if she could persuade him it was his idea in the first place. Nah. He wasn’t that stupid. She sighed, crushed the cup, lobbed it in a bin. Everyone was making leaving noises when the door hit the back wall.

  The head of the police news bureau made a late entrance, and did not look ecstatic. Bernie Flowers was John Major’s double: dapper grey suits, neat grey hair, glasses too big for his face. The bland image was misleading: Bernie had edited a national tabloid before a booze problem forced him out. Now sober and sharp as a scalpel, he had a better handle on the media than Max Clifford. Bernie didn’t suffer fools at all, never mind gladly.

  “Who the fuck leaked this?” ‘This’ was the lead on the front of the Evening News. Bernie brandished the paper like a red flag – and he was the raging bull. The headline ran: VILE MONSTER MARSDEN BUTCHERED IN BACK ALLEY. Alliteration v accuracy? No contest. Either way, Snow had his scoop. And the DI a fourth problem.

  6

  The Printers’ Ink was a journos’ pub in a narrow side street near the law courts. Bog standard red-brick-dusty-green-woodwork exterior, décor in the saloon was black, white and read: three walls lined with newspapers. Big stories like the death of Diana and 9/11 appeared alongside golden weddings and skateboarding ducks. Brian the landlord was a news junkie. If he fancied a change, he’d paste new pages over old. In places the papers were an inch thick. The latest addition was the lunchtime edition of Birmingham’s Evening News, courtesy of its crime correspondent who was currently elbowing the bar.

  Matt Snow’s normal tipple was Banks’s bitter; he was now on his third Grouse. But then his news editor was doing the honours.

  “I’ll say it again, Matt. Bloody good work.” Rick Palmer was early fifties, but liquid lunches and late nights had left a legacy. His face wasn’t lined, it had trenches. The unruly blond thatch looked like a wig, except for the roots.

  “Cheers, Rick.” Snow had been basking in bonhomie and backslaps for the better part of two hours. It almost compensated for the fact that some bastard had nicked his motor off the Churchill. He’d cabbed it to the estate soon as he’d been released from Highgate nick but the Fiasco had gone. Talk about insult to injury.

  Still, the News had shat on the competition from a great height. And Snow was flavour of the lunch hour. The other hacks had drifted back to the newsroom, but Palmer had hung back. Snow had an idea why, and he didn’t think it was small talk, or to discuss Toby Priest’s feedback from the news conference. Snow hadn’t covered it himself on the grounds he’d get a frosty reception.

  “Toby reckons the police presser was a complete waste of time,” Palmer said. “No new info. Just a witness appeal. Yawn. Yawn.”

  Not quite. Powell had issued Marsden’s ID as well. The confirmation had come as a huge relief to Snow. When he’d rung his copy in from the nick he’d been ninety-nine per cent sure, but naming the victim as Wally Marsden had still been one per cent punt.

  As well as the front-page splash, there’d been a stack of follow-up stuff inside. Virtually the whole coverage had gone under Snow’s by-line including a backgrounder pulled together by one of the staffers. Natch, Snowie had bigged up his own role in the incident, and he’d taken a major pop at his police treatment. Not a bad night’s work. The reporter savoured a sip of Grouse. Mind, if he’d cocked up, pear-shaped wouldn’t be in it. His face would be an eggplant.

  Palmer sidled a little closer. “Come on, lad. You can tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” As if he didn’t know. He scratched an ear.

  “Who tipped the wink?” The news editor rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

  Snow resisted the urge to tap the side of his nose. “Can’t reveal my sources, Rick, you know that.” Couldn’t have been Skippy though. Snow had caught up with newsroom gossip: the Aussie intake editor had been fired a fortnight ago, buggered off back to Sydney. On sober reflection, Snow wasn’t even sure the caller’s accent had been antipodean.

  As he suspected, trotting out the sources line on his news editor was a no-no. Palmer sidled closer, lowered his loud Brummie accent. “I won’t breathe a word, lad. But I do need to know.”

  So did Snow. “Give me a day or two, Rick. I need to think about it.”

  “But you do have a name, lad?”

  “Sure.” It wasn’t the first lie he’d told. But could turn out to be the one he’d most regret.

  “Snowed under, Sergeant Morriss?” Detective Chief Superintendent Kenny Flint’s bullet head appeared round Bev’s door. She was flicking through heat, dipping languid fingers into a family pack of Maltesers. What’s a girl to say?

  “Rushed off ’em, sir.”

  “Yes.” He stretched it to three syllables. “So I see.”

  She snatched Docs off the desk. “I was...”

  “Save it, Bev. I’m aware of the hours you’ve clocked up today.” He waved copies of her reports. Given it was now half-three, she was already into overtime. She was only hanging round to have a word with Mac.

  “I’ve got a favour to ask,” Flint said. “Nothing to do with the Marsden inquiry.” They’d chewed the cud on the case earlier. The DCS was normally based in Wolverhampton; he’d been lead detective when the paedophile was last sent down. Flint had thrown a few suggestions into the inquiry ring, people it might be worth interviewing.

  Bev watched as he took the swivel chair opposite, tugged his trousers to protect knife-sharp creases. If central casting was asked to supply a hard-nosed detective it’d deliver Kenny Flint: craggy features, cool blue eyes, greying buzz cut, think middle-aged Action Man. In a single-breasted suit. The guy sure looked the part, but that was about all Bev knew.

  Flint had been brought in four months back to investigate an arson attack that killed three people including a young police constable. The brass had asked him to stay on as cover for the guv. DCS Flint held higher rank than Detective Superintendent Byford. Far as Bev was concerned Flint had yet to earn his stripes.

  “What d’you make of this?” he asked. “Don’t worry about prints.” It was melted chocolate that worried Bev. She licked her fingers before taking the small sheet of paper from his hand. The words were typed – just four. Doctor Adam Graves. Suicid
e? “The envelope was addressed to Bill Byford,” Flint told her.

  She nodded. Guessed admin was passing everything on. “Name rings a bell.” Where’d she seen it? She narrowed her eyes. Bingo. “Inquest report. Piece in the local rag.” One of those she’d flicked through in Powell’s office. Picture too. Good looking guy.

  “Right,” Flint said. “Family’s local but the body was found in Hanbury Woods, so West Mercia have been dealing with it.”

  As she recalled, the inquest returned a suicide verdict. “Topped himself, didn’t he?”

  “Almost literally.” Flint had liased with the investigating officer in Worcester. Graves had apparently downed a scotch and sedatives cocktail before slashing his throat with an open razor. “Nasty.” Flint rubbed his chin. “No amount of pills and booze’d take the edge off that.” Then saw her face. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  Sorry? She knew clowns round here who’d consider the remark cutting edge comedy.

  “What’s your reading of it, boss?” She shoved the paper across the desk. The original and the envelope would be at the lab. Mind, anyone with a telly knew not to leave dabs and/or DNA. Even she picked up forensics snippets from CSI.

  “I think the writer wants us to have another look,” Flint said.

  She shrugged. Why not say so? And give a name. She couldn’t be doing with this cryptic anonymous crap. Cranky or what? The sleep deprivation was catching up. “Not our case, is it?”

  “That’s where the favour comes in. Bill has an interest too.”

  Byford? Unwittingly, she straightened, smoothed her hair. “Go on.”

  Flint explained how he rang the guv a couple of times a week. Didn’t have to, just knew how he’d feel if it was him stuck at home twiddling his thumbs. Anyway, among a load of other stuff Flint had mentioned the note and it turned out Byford vaguely knew the family. “Or his wife did,” Flint said. “Margaret Byford was a friend of the doctor’s wife, Madeleine Graves.”

  Byford’s wife had died of cancer eight or nine years back. Bev had never met the woman. “And?” she prompted.

  “Look, Bev, the note’s likely from a nutter. Prob’ly nothing in it... but I’d like you to have a word with the widow. Suss out her thoughts on it.” She opened her mouth to protest; Flint hadn’t finished. “It’s on your way home.”

  She couldn’t see the point, not that she had a choice. Favour? Yeah right.

  “It’s not just that.” He rose, smiled. “It needs sensitive handling. And Bill reckons that’s your baby.” Oh, God. Not the B-word. “You all right, Bev?”

  “Peachy, boss.”

  “I scribbled the address on the back.”

  She turned it over, recognised the street name, kept her glance down. “So the guv reckons I’m big on empathy?” She was fishing.

  “Huge, he says. I wouldn’t know, would I?” He popped a Malteser in his mouth. “Not been here long enough.”

  Touché. At least she had the grace to smile.

  DC Mac Tyler looked like a bulldog chewing a lemon soaked in vinegar. “Tell me again, boss.” He slunk into Bev’s office, leaned both hands on the desk. “Why’d I get all the good jobs?”

  “Jeez, mate.” She grabbed the air freshener from her drawer. “Get outa my face.”

  “You any idea what the contents of a wino’s insides smell like?”

  She sniffed and sprayed. “Course I have.” Floral Glade met rotting flesh and formaldehyde.

  “Me? I could do a thesis on it.” He lifted his arm, smelt the sleeve. “The stink’ll never come out.”

  “Get over it; could be worse, you know.” She pointed to a leaning tower of police files tottering in the in-tray. She’d told him it was a toss-up between Wally Marsden’s PM or three hours marshalling crime stats for a Powerpoint presentation to the police complaints commission. She also said she’d take the post mortem any day, but it was Mac’s call.

  He snorted, slumped in the swivel chair. “How’s the police complaints thing coming on?”

  “Dandy.” Her fingers were crossed under the desk. “So give.” She listened as Mac delivered the post mortem’s top lines. Overdale had confirmed conjecture at the scene that the stab wound killed Marsden. Close run thing though given the beating he’d taken, not to mention the state of his liver.

  “Any tighter on the timings?” Bev asked.

  “You know Overdale.” He rolled his eyes. ”‘This isn’t an episode of Morse, DC Tyler. And Ai’m not Mystic Meg.’” The impression was spot-on, even down to the cocked head and finger jabbing. Bev’s grin softened her tired features.

  “She wondered where you were, actually.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thought you might’ve gone off sick?” There was a question in his eyes as well.

  “Fit as a Strad me, mate. Timings?” The eye contact was a tad longer than she liked but he didn’t push. He consulted a dog-eared notebook. “She reckons he’d been dead at least ten hours. Body was like an aubergine terrine, boss. Huge great purple blotches...”

  She lifted a hand. “Enough already.”

  “And she found marks round the wrists and ankles.”

  “Defence wounds?”

  “Ligature. Thin cord, she reckoned. Like he’d been trussed up.”

  “Held in a confined space, then?”

  “That’ll narrow it down,” Mac quipped.

  “Yeah right.” Bev wandered to the window, perched on the sill. It was a complication they could do without. A second crime scene widened the inquiry beyond the confines of the estate. Where did the murder take place? Where was the body held? Could they be looking at more than one perp? Marsden was no heavyweight, but it wasn’t easy manoeuvring a dead weight.

  “Told Powell?” she asked. The DI got snotty if he thought he was missing something.

  “Yeah. Bumped into him in the corridor. Overjoyed, he was.”

  She stifled a yawn. It was only four, but they’d been on the go for fourteen hours. “Come on, mate.” She grabbed phone, bag and jacket. “Early bath.” There was a twinkle in her eye. “Though in your case...”

  “Don’t even go there.”

  They chatted through tomorrow’s actions as they wandered down to the car park. Bev would continue tracing relatives of Marsden’s young victims; she’d only spoken to two so far. Mac could maybe concentrate on the names Flint had suggested, mainly former associates of the paedophile. Doubtless there’d be follow-ups to the news coverage. Punters generally rang in after a witness appeal. In this case, she suspected, a trickle rather than a flood. And on past experience, loony tunes would muddy the inquiry water.

  “Catch you later, mate.” She was almost at the Midget when Mac shouted.

  “Boss! Almost forgot.” He lumbered towards her, hand in a back pocket of his jeans. “Overdale said to give you this.” The envelope was crumpled, stained and a little too warm for comfort.

  “Ta, mate.” She frowned. Not at the misspelling of her name (the second ‘s’ caught most people out) but the word Personal written top left and underlined. Twice.

  7

  Quentin Hawke’s sharp eye was on the penthouse door as he stroked the smooth desert of Scarlett’s silken thigh...

  Silken or satin? Early evening, and Matt Snow, head down, hands in pockets, wandered along the Hagley Road, kicking aimlessly at an empty Coke can. Even he could tell the line didn’t have blockbuster written all over it. Mind, the reporter was still half-cut from the lengthy liquid lunch, the creative juice wasn’t flowing. And the fresh air and exercise wasn’t clearing the mental mist. The sight that greeted him as he turned into Cavendish Close did.

  “Stone me.” Face in cartoon frown, the reporter stood stock-still for a second or two. What the hell was the Fiesta doing outside his flat? He approached slowly, hand spiking tousled fringe. He hadn’t got round to reporting the motor stolen so the cops couldn’t have dropped it off. He tried the door: unlocked. Had to have been hot-wired. Nah. That was kids’ stuff. Joy-riders didn�
��t have their wicked way then return the goods. Whoever stole it must’ve had a key.

  A quick rifle through the glove compartment confirmed Snow’s belief: nothing in it identified him as the owner. He straightened, scalp tingling as the significance dawned. The thief must have been at the crime scene. And known whose car it was.

  Tiny hairs rose on the back of Snow’s neck. For several minutes he sat racking his brain for scenarios that fitted. None did. Sober and seriously spooked now, he was halfway out of the door when he spotted a note on the driver’s mat. The paper was creased and soiled from the sole of his shoe. Not that it mattered, the words were easy to read. It was the meaning Snow couldn’t get his head round.

  There’s more where Marsden came from.

  Don’t talk to the police.

  Hope you like the present.

  The Disposer.

  Present? What present? And who the hell was the Disposer?

  Tudor Grange was a massive half-timbered pile on the edge of Handsworth Wood. It was the address Flint had given Bev, and from the outside it was all she expected. She’d done jigsaws of places like the Graves’s pad. She locked the Midget, ran her gaze over lead windows, intricate chimneys, rambling roses. Hoisting her bag, she headed for the heavy oak door, Doc Martens crunching gravel.

  Smells suggested a barbeque somewhere close. Her mouth watered at the thought of a hot dog. On the way here, she’d fitted in a quick dash round Sainsbury. The food she’d bought wasn’t fast though, the boot was a junk free zone. Bev’s housemate Frankie would scrutinise every purchase. No point cheating, the fall-out wasn’t worth it.

  The knocker weighed a ton. She rapped it twice. Either the house was empty or the occupants aurally-challenged. Once more with feeling. Nothing. Might as well have a butcher’s round the back. The walled garden was more jigsaw fodder: massed ranks of flowers, emerald lawn, spouting fountain and a well-endowed Greek dude in bronze. The warm redbrick outbuildings had presumably been stabling for horses. As for the barbie action – it wasn’t here. She turned to leave, glanced up, thought she caught movement at an upstairs window. She strode to the front, hammered the door again. Nothing. Maybe she’d imagined it. Should she slip a note through? Nah. The subject was difficult enough to broach face-to-face.