“Bin Laden doing a spot of shopping in the Bullring?”
God, was she still banging on? Bev opened her mouth then buttoned it. Might say something she’d not regret. But if Frankie mentioned lucky...
“Lord Lucan in Mothercare?”
“That is so old.” She sniffed, folded her arms “Fell asleep, didn’t I?”
Wind. Sails. Then another gust. “Why’m I not surprised? Look at you. You’re knackered.” She curled a lip. “Christ, Bev, you can barely look after yourself...”
“Let alone a baby?” she hissed. “That what you think?”
Frankie was a head taller, but stepped back a couple of paces. “Bev... I’m ...”
She lifted a palm. Heard it all before. Told herself the same thing enough times. How could she care for a newborn? Christ, in Year 9 she’d dropped an Encyclopaedia Britannica on the class hamster. A little knowledge might be dangerous, but not as lethal as a lot.
Frankie drew closer, stroked Bev’s hair out of her eyes. “I’m not doing it for the good of my health, Bevy.”
“I’m not asking you to do it at all.” The soft delivery reinforced the body language: it seethed with unspoken resentment. It was Frankie, guilt trip gun in hand, who’d stood over Bev as she reluctantly made medical appointments. It was Frankie who insisted on the health food drive. It was Frankie who never missed an opportunity to extol the joys of motherhood. Maybe it was the Italian blood, but to Frankie bambinos were what life was all about. Bev scowled. Bloody woman should go and buy one. “Let it go, mate.”
“Let what go?” Frankie snapped.
Bev shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I’ll get round to it.” But would she? She suspected that once she’d seen a tiny blob on a monitor, there’d be no turning back. Which was exactly what her friend wanted. But unlike Frankie, Bev saw shades of grey, had no idea what the future would hold if she went ahead.
“Cool.” Frankie perked up, checked her watch. “The 12.45 was cancelled. Florence Nightingale on the desk said if...”
Bev raised a finger, other hand scrabbling in shoulder bag searching for the ringing phone.
“My friend...” Frankie shook her head, reached a restraining hand. “Don’t answer it.”
Bev listened, nodded, asked for an address to be repeated, hit the end button, looked round for her mate. Frankie was about to turn the corner. Bev could have shouted, run after her, tried to justify it. But Bev had made her choice and Frankie had got the message.
Powell was sitting in an unmarked police Vauxhall a few doors down from the property in Sparkbrook. Bev cruised past, scanning both sides of the street. Bath Road and its environs were redbrick territory. Identical rows of terraces eyed each other up through tall sash windows, front doors opened straight on to narrow pavements. Tenants customised the look with colour schemes, the residential equivalent of go-faster stripes. She raised an eyebrow at some of the more lurid combinations, nosed the Midget between a Harley Davidson and a Reliant Robin.
Not that she could talk. A dodgy black-on-mustard re-spray meant the MG resembled a podgy bee when the doors or boot were open. Bev still loved it though. She stroked its battered leather soft top as she walked past.
The DI made a big show of checking the time. “Where you been?”
Uranus. “Sat in traffic. What we got?”
He nodded at a property with grimy windows, dull black front door. “Someone in there’s called the murder room hotline nine, ten times. All hang-ups.” So? “The number’s listed to Wally Marsden’s ex-wife.”
Ah. Inquiries had revealed that Gladys Marsden did a moonlight flit from the marital home in Wolverhampton shortly after Wally’s conviction. They’d had no joy tracking her down.
“Thought you could try your Mother Teresa bit – she might talk to you.”
“With you here?” And where was Mac?
“Cheeky sod.”
The door opened a hand’s span. A woman’s face appeared inches above the chain, and stayed there as she raked an uncertain gaze over her uninvited guests. Her papery skin had a yellow tinge; the eyes were the colour of dirty dishwater. If this was Gladys Marsden, Bev reckoned smoking wasn’t the only thing bad for your health: marriage to a paedophile came pretty damn close.
“Mrs Marsden? We’re police officers.” The warrant card could’ve been a library ticket for all the notice she took. “Can we have a word?” Fifteen, twenty seconds passed, again the only thing moving was the old woman’s eye-line. “Inside, perhaps?” Bev prompted.
Realisation didn’t dawn, nothing so rapid. But eventually the woman drew back the chain, turned on down-at-heel tartan slippers and traipsed listlessly down a narrow unlit hall, fumbling both hands along the walls as she went.
Bev and Powell exchanged bemused glances. The back sitting room – small, square, cluttered – was in semi-darkness. Heavy maroon damask curtains were drawn, half a dozen red candles flickered on a black marble grate, others cast gothic shadows across the ceiling. Bev glanced behind, half expecting Vincent Price to appear, all pointy canines and swirling cape.
Whoever said a woman could never be too thin had never come across Gladys Marsden. Skeletal limbs, sunken cheeks; the long horsey face was draped with lank, salt and pepper hair shot through with nicotine. Big yellow teeth reinforced the equine impression. The shiny black polyester dress didn’t.
Bev clocked faint movement from a rocking chair in the corner. From Mrs Marsden or a more recent occupant? Had the not-so-merry widow noticed it too? Either way, she scuttled over, lowered herself gingerly on to a huge squashy cushion covering the hard seat.
“Mrs Marsden?” Bev prompted. Is there anybody there? “Mrs Marsden?”
The woman stared into the distance, frail fingers fluttered at her lips. Her other fist balled a scrappy piece of tissue. A cheap faded carpet muffled the rhythmic rock from the chair. When the voice came it was flat, matter-of-fact.
“He’s not a bad man.” Present tense. Common confusion among the recently bereaved. Relieved the woman was talking at all, Bev didn’t pick her up on it. “He needs help, treatment...”
“Castration.” Powell’s snide aside wasn’t helping. Bev glared, nodded at the furthest armchair. He rolled his eyes, mouthed get a move on.
“He knows it was wrong... knows he should...” She could’ve been talking to herself; Bev suspected Gladys did a lot of that. She moved in, knelt close, reached out. The woman recoiled, clamped her hands under her armpits.
“When did you last hear from your husband, Mrs Marsden?” The woman’s glance – maybe involuntarily – darted to the left. A round table was covered with a scarlet tasselled cloth, a tumbler and white cards lay splayed in the centre, letters not suits. Strewth. If Bev’s reading was right, they’d be having a word with Henry the Eighth in a minute, never mind Wally Marsden.
“Walter can’t get through now. He’s in limbo.”
Aren’t we all? Bev’s heart sank. The woman was off her fucking rocker. Compassion vied with contempt. In a way, Gladys was another of Marsden’s victims. But his only apologist.
“Why did you call, Mrs Marsden? Is there something you’d like to tell us?”
“Too late...”
“What’s too late?”
The woman’s lips moved constantly but no words emerged. Bev tried every tack in the tin. Nothing. Pins and needles finally forced her to her feet. She suspected the woman was on medication, must have a care assistant, home help, something of the sort. Maybe they could tackle it through a third party. “I’ll leave this with you, love.” Bev put a card with her phone numbers into the woman’s hand. “Call me if you want to talk.”
“Waste of time,” Powell muttered in the hall. Bev sniffed. Most plod work was: leads that turned into dead ends, lines that went nowhere. Maybe the woman was a fruitloop, or maybe she’d had call to contact the hot line. Either way, Gladys wasn’t sharing. Her wavering voice reached them as the DI opened the front door.
“He lied to me. He said he’d help W
alter, or I’d never’ve...”
9
Bev slurped the dregs of a tepid Diet Coke, eyed Powell’s Big Mac and mammoth fries. She’d already seen off a not so Happy Meal. Half two and ravenous by the time they’d finally wrapped up Gladys’s interview, they’d stopped for a bite. They had more than food to chew over.
A man in a suit had apparently turned up on Gladys Marsden’s doorstep flashing cash. For a hundred and fifty quid the old woman had parted with Wally’s phone number. Thought she was doing her ex a favour. Fair exchange? No robbery. But had it led to murder? Full of remorse and self-reproach, Gladys clearly suspected it had. It was the reason she’d called the hotline so many times. She’d hung up because what could she tell them?
Through tears and gritted teeth, she’d given Bev what little she had. She couldn’t remember the man’s name, wasn’t even sure he’d divulged it. She couldn’t provide much of a description, and hadn’t asked for identification. Given the cursory glance she’d cast at Bev’s, he could have shown her a picture of the Prince of Wales and she’d have let him in. At first she thought he was from the social, then the probation. Maybe even the police. All Gladys knew was that the ‘nice young man’ had promised to get Wally off the streets, off the pop and into a job.
Bev sighed, fiddled with a straw, watched as Coke drops splattered the table. She couldn’t get her head round the fact that Gladys still had feelings for a child molester. Marsden had rolled up out of the blue at Bath Road just after his release from Featherstone prison three months back. He’d not asked to stay, just told Gladys he’d like to phone from time to time to let her know he was still alive. Ironic or what? Bev’s mouth twisted as she recalled the woman’s words spluttered through racking sobs: Marsden had been a good father, never harmed a hair of their kids’ heads. Yeah right. Wally junior was now in Wandsworth nick. Colin farmed sheep in New Zealand. Go figure. There was denial, and there was delusion.
The depressing train of thought was derailed when a couple of kids at the next table started chucking bits of lettuce. Bev glared at the ringleader who was probably all of ten. Years and stones.
“Hey, doughboy. Knock it on the head.”
“Why? What you gonna do ’bout it, slag?”
“Find out, fatso.” She leaned across the divide, gave a lazy smile. “Go on. Lob a bit at me. Make my day.” Please don’t. It’d mean five hours’ paperwork, and he wouldn’t even get his wrist slapped with an ABC. Acceptable Behaviour Contract? Arsie Bastards’ Club. He needed a slap with something solid – and not on the wrist.
Buddha Boy dropped the stare first. “Sorry, miss.”
She closed her mouth. “Better be.”
“What you say to him?” Powell whispered.
“No big deal.” She sniffed. “Treat kids with a bit of respect. S’all.”
The DI had trouble swallowing a chip too. He managed to spit out something about Marsden’s mobile. That the paedo had owned a phone hadn’t occurred to anyone on the squad. Not that it would have led them anywhere. It was missing. Bev had even rung the path lab to get one of Overdale’s underlings to go through Marsden’s multitudinous layers of clothing again.
“Think it’s worth sending Picasso round?” Powell gestured to his fries, slumped back, appetite spent, long legs spread.
“Ta.” She grabbed the carton, considered the question. Al Copley was Highgate’s best police artist. The verbal information he drew from eyewitnesses was as detailed as the likenesses he sketched. Word was, Al could get a self-portrait out of Stevie Wonder. In Gladys Marsden’s case, he’d have to be that good.
“I reckon her sight’s shite.” Bev bit a chip in half.
“How’d you work that one out?”
“Wavy eye-line, trouble focussing, fumbling her way along the walls. And what was with the candles and sitting in the dark?” Light probably hurt her eyes.
“Nah,” he scoffed. “Old bat’s away with the fairies.”
Bev shrugged. “Maybe.” The confusion could’ve been genuine or was there method in the madness?
“Meaning?”
“It doesn’t add up.” Instinct? Intuition? Either way inexplicable. Eyes creased, mouth twisted, her thoughts had clearly moved on.
“Share.” Powell said, pointing at her face. “That’s an idea you’re having – or a stroke.”
She hunched forward, elbows on table. “Assume whoever visited Gladys was lying, right?”
“Goes without...”
“He’s not from the social or the probation. And he’s definitely not out to give Marsden a make-over.”
“Life Swap?”
Incredulous frown. “Anyway, moving on... what sort of drongo goes round with a fistful of cash asking people questions?”
If he said Chris Tarrant, she’d bop him. There was a dip in the surrounding buzz. She could almost hear the DI’s mental cogs clicking. Then it dawned.
Two minutes later they were in the car park at the back of McDonald’s. Given that the DI’s Matt-Snow-copybook was well blotted, they’d decided Bev should have a go this time. Gentle probing – nothing heavy. Tintin wasn’t the only journalist with a fat chequebook. Just the only hack who’d arrived at the crime scene before the cops.
“Shame Mac’s not around,” Powell said. “I hear he’s good at tossing in the odd googly at an interview.”
“No prob.” She paused, key in the MG’s door. “I’ll pick him up on the way.”
“From Matlock?” She frowned. The DI elaborated. “He took off like a bat out of hell before lunch. Got a bell from his ex. One of the kids was rushed to hospital this morning.”
“Kids?” Mac Tyler? Talk about being decked by a feather. “Mac’s got...?”
“How long you worked with him?” The criticism though tacit was cutting. Four months they’d been partners, he’d not breathed a word about having brats. Worse than that, caring sharing Mother Superior Morriss hadn’t even asked.
The Evening News building is as central as it gets. Listen hard outside and Bev reckoned you’d hear the city’s heart beat. Hemmed in by towering structures, the austere grey 1970s fascia was broken up by huge gleaming panes of glass. Catch the light right and it was like a wide-screen showing Cityscape the Movie. Right now, bits of blue sky acted as backdrop to the plush law courts opposite, the foreground was criss-crossed by streams of extras. Having left the Midget in a multi-storey, Bev had a walk-on part herself. A glimpse of her ruffled reflection – the look was hedge-backward not wind-tossed – meant a hasty digital comb-through as she lingered a few seconds taking stock.
She loved the buzz here; most of the second city’s cultural, legal, financial and commercial gems were within walking distance of where she stood. She grimaced; bummer if you were a journo on expenses. Mind, Shanks’s pony’d be a damn sight faster than horsepower given the traffic. Bars of music blared through gaping windows as cars crawled by: hip-hop, heavy rock, Hank Williams. Exhaust fumes vied with fried onions, hot fat, vinegar. Pavement traffic was chocker too: shoppers, office workers, a Big Issue seller with purple dreds, a pencil-skirted Blackberry Woman clacking along barking orders saving at least one planet, a couple of briefs on the corner having a smoke, Rumpole wigs tucked under their arms. When a tourist with a branch of Jessop’s slung round his neck asked in shattered English the way to the beach, Bev reckoned it was time to move on.
The news agenda had moved on too. Billboards sandwiching the paper’s main entrance screamed Killer Winter. Killer Winter? How’d that work? Yeti axe murderers storming Broad Street? Christ, it was early October, barely autumn, and the rag was full of reports forecasting the Big Freeze and freak blizzards. And on that hot topic, she’d not called Snow before turning up. Forewarned was forearmed. Seemed to her, Tintin had enough people tipping him the wink.
“He’s out. Sorry.” A blowsy middle-aged receptionist lifted an indifferent glance though a long scarlet fingernail marked her spot in a Cosmo article on multiple orgasms. Bev had heard more sincere apologies from
Bill Clinton. She cast a withering glance at the athletic poses illustrating the centre page spread: that’d be the G-spot the talon was covering. Bev’s testiness could just as easily have been targeted at the Marge Simpson lookalike relishing every word. Bev stared in awe at the woman’s wobbling lilac beehive. It defied every known law of gravity. Must be some serious underpinning going on in there. “Any idea when he’ll be back?” Polite, friendly.
The woman licked a finger, turned a page, held an imaginary piece of string between outstretched hands. Bev wouldn’t have been surprised to see her take off given how the bingo wings were flapping. Rocket up the rectum would do the trick too. She was half-tempted just to go find the newsroom, but even a cursory glance registered the high-level security: turnstile, swipe cards, CC cameras recording every blink. She tapped a foot on the tiles; Marge still didn’t pick up the cue. Maybe she’d forgotten her line. “P’raps you’d like to ask someone?” Bev’s tone was dangerously sweet.
“Been there, done that. No one on the desk knows where he is. And he’s not answering his phone.”
Bev frowned, wondered who else had been sniffing round. Marge reached to flick another page found a hand in the way. “Who else has been asking?”
The woman stared at the hand; Bev slowly retracted it. “People are always after him. He’s a reporter. Certainly not my job to keep track...”
“’Xactly what is your job lady?”
“Is there a problem, Rita? Perhaps I can help?”
Bev took her elbows off the desk, turned to find a young woman – early- to mid-twenties – hovering at her shoulder. The face was pleasant, the voice placatory but Bev’s hackles had yet to fall. “And you are?”
“Anna Kendall.” Wide smile. “I work here. I’m a writer. On features?”
Bev shrugged. “Good for you, love. How about getting Rita here to pull her finger out and...”
Anna quelled the flow with a raised hand. And was that a wink? “Let’s find somewhere to talk.”
Somewhere was round the corner of the L-shaped foyer where four chunky faux leather armchairs were arranged round a glass-topped coffee table. Anna Kendall hauled a seat out for Bev, before sinking into one herself. Rita was out of sight and earshot, if not mind.
Bad Press Page 6
