“When’s the next one, Snowie?” Jack wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Next what?”
“Bin collection. Come on, Tintin. Don’t be a wanker.” His beer-laced burp hit Snow in the face. “Your new best buddy. When’s he sending another paedo packing?”
“Like I’d tell you.” Snow snorted. “If you were on fire, I’d piss the other way.”
“Cruel.” Jack pouted, all hurt. “Might drown one of your Hush Puppies.”
“Snigger away, dickhead. I’ll have the last laugh.” Snow’s fist was balled.
“Oh?” Jack cocked his head. “Gonna piss on the opposition again, Snowie?”
“Buy yourself an umbrella, Pope.”
“Tell me more.”
Snow had already said enough. “Fuck off, pretty boy.” He turned his back.
“Tut tut, Tintin. Swearing’s sign of a shit vocabulary. Still, anyone reads your crappy column knows that.”
Snow had never seen red mist before. Never attacked anyone either. He smashed the Stella bottle against the wall, took an almighty swing. Jack instinctively protected his face but jagged glass ripped the skin open on the back of his hands. Shocked gasps and women’s screams. Rough hands dragged Snow away; others restrained Pope from retaliating.
Two blokes frogmarched Snow through the crowd. At the door, the reporter shook them off and turned. Spittle flecked his lips. “Next time you’re dead.”
“Ballistic wasn’t in it, babe.” Jack Pope looked pale and sounded shaky. “I’d never’ve thought the slimy runt had it in him.”
Arms folded, Bev tapped a toe, watched a young casualty nurse at the General bandage Jack’s ragged wounds. Beyond the cubicle curtains, a depressingly familiar Saturday night drama played: binge drinkers and street brawlers, fuckwits in fisticuffs, blacked eyes, bleeding faces, broken bones. Soundtrack was slurred snatches of Danny Boy, and Angels. Bev sighed, felt like punching out a few lights herself.
Jack had got off lightly. No stitches, no permanent damage. She thanked the big man in the sky Jack hadn’t lost an eye. Right now both were ogling the earthly angel wielding the lint.
“Hey, Jack, tell me: what part of ‘give me a bell if you find him’ didn’t you understand?” Bev’s anger was directed at herself more than Pope. Her call had unwittingly endangered the guy. She’d enlisted him in her pathetic little hunt for Snow. They’d divvied out the reporter’s haunts and watering holes. Jack had struck lucky. Or not. With hindsight it had been madness. She’d never have asked if he hadn’t been an old flame. And she hadn’t had something to prove. Or better things to do on a Saturday night. Screw Byford.
“Come on, babe,” Jack cajoled. “You weren’t exactly expecting this?” He lifted a bandaged hand. She shook her head. Never in a month of Sundays. “Exactly,” Jack said. “I was just having a friendly little chat with the guy before bringing you in.”
“You pressing charges?” Bev asked.
“Pressing a knee in his nuts next time I see him.” The nurse giggled. Bev gave a token smile. Typical Jack. Should’ve known he’d cock up. Being a team player was an alien concept to the guy. She snorted. Hark who’s talking. Bev had been out on a forest of limbs in her time. But Jack wasn’t a cop any more, didn’t share her priorities. She wanted a word with Snow; Jack would’ve wanted a story.
“What sparked him, Jack?”
“Search me.” Reckoned she’d find something too. Jack had a guilty glint in his eye. Pound to a penny, he’d wound Snow up. But to blow like that? Big questions: was Snow on a knife-edge? Or had the capacity for violence always been there?
“Wait till we get home, shall we?” Jack asked.
Bev was miles away. “What?”
“Before you search me.” Suggestive eyebrow. Kiss-kiss lips.
“Hey, love,” Bev addressed the nurse. “Sure his brain’s not damaged?”
Snow lay on the leather settee, throbbing head clutched in bloodstained hands. Felt as if a chainsaw was hacking his brain. Painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet. Couldn’t counter the booze, perhaps. A bottle of Grouse stood on the carpet, half its contents swirling round the reporter’s gut.
How had he got home? He frowned, dredged vague memories of stumbling out of a cab into the gutter. He chuckled. No idea why. Get a grip, man. Couldn’t afford to lose it again. Why had he let Pope needle him? If the guy pressed charges, Snow would be out of a job. Christ, was he already out of his mind?
Snow felt like a schizo, but wasn’t cut out for the double life. Pretending everything was normal when he shat himself every time the phone rang. Price was high considering he’d never even met the man at the end of the line. Course the pay back was appealing. But the pressure was patently getting to him.
Why else had he shot his mouth off to Pope? Snigger away, dickhead. I’ll have the last laugh. Hilarious. Snow groaned. Talk about showing your hand. Hopefully Pope wasn’t quick enough to pick up the drift. Or was the booze adding to Snow’s paranoia?
He staggered to stockinged feet, stumbled to the window, pressed feverish forehead against cool glass. “It’d be Pope’s word against mine.”
A piss-head weaved across the pavement. Snow’s thin lip curled in contempt. He didn’t see the dark figure against the oak tree. The nearest streetlight was out, the slight form was barely distinguishable from the bark. The watcher was aware of Snow’s every move, had been most of the night, and was sober as a stone cold judge.
Byford tugged the cashmere scarf more snugly round his neck, dug gloved hands deep into fleece pockets. Silver light danced across the surface of the dark ocean, the moon a perfect milky circle against midnight blue velvet. Silhouettes of three, no, four small fishing boats were just visible from the shore, tiny red lights twinkling from the masts.
The big man gazed out from the shoreline. He loved the sea, loved the ever-present sound of the waves; always there, constantly changing, soothing, reassuring, hypnotic. Never jarring, like the cacophony of city noise. He loved the water too, a moving palette with a million shades. Dark now, dark dramatic landscape too, except for the moon’s stage lighting.
His son’s phone call had come out of the proverbial blue. Richard’s marriage was falling apart, Stephie needed space, she’d taken the kids. Byford couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Rich cry. It was a tough call: Bev or the boy? The big man had packed a weekend bag, headed to his youngest son’s home in Cumbria, a village on the coast, Silecroft.
Well-oiled and emotionally drained, Rich had drifted off to sleep around midnight, the big man had slipped out for air, exercise, a little solitude. He wanted to wave a wand, take away his son’s pain. That wasn’t going to happen. From what he gathered, it looked as if Rich and Stephanie needed a miracle, not magic, to avoid divorce.
He sighed, pondered his own little domestic difficulty. The silence from Bev was pretty predictable, he supposed. Stroppy was her default mode. Even so, it wouldn’t have hurt her to give him the benefit of the doubt. As it was, she wasn’t picking up the phone, hadn’t returned his calls. Was she hurt? Fed up? Furious? All three probably. And down had crashed the emotional shutters – up had clanged the personal drawbridge.
Maybe he should’ve been more explicit when he left the message. But whatever he said boiled down to the same thing: my kids are more important. She’d love that.
Did she love him? He didn’t know. Maybe his sudden dash was the excuse she needed. He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. Maybe it was the excuse he needed. He cared for Bev, of course he did, but boy could she be prickly. She made Naomi Campbell look a model of reason. He took a nip of malt from a hip flask. God, he was too old for all this soul-searching. Anyway, he was a bloke, he was from Mars.
SUNDAY
20
As venues go, the back room of the Dog wasn’t big, more comedy stall than store. Produce-wise, a few of the gags were past their sell-by. Who cared? Bev had sunk a few bevies, spirits were high. Good job there was no comedy equivalent of karaok
e or she’d be up there. Wouldn’t even need a friendly shove from the girls. Bev, Frankie, Sumi Gosh and Carol Pemberton had bagged the table nearest the front, prime spot to catch Mac’s act.
Caz, looking tasty in red, strolled back from the bar, dished out roasted peanuts and pork scratchings.
“Ta, mate.” Bev smiled. There was only so long you could wallow in self-pity. By Sunday lunchtime, she’d had enough. Byford could go screw himself. As for Jack Pope, she’d given the cheeky sod a lift home from hospital, been sorely tempted by his lech proposal she should be his night nurse. She’d gone back to her place instead, slept for England.
After a late lazy breakfast, the Bullring was calling her name. She’d nipped into town for a bit of retail therapy: books, more bubble bath, earrings, two skirts, three pairs of trousers and a new bra. Needed bigger sizes but hey! Pregnancy’s a growth market. She’d finally popped in to break the baby news to her mum and gran. Emmy and Sadie were chuffed to bits. Good mood must’ve been catching. Bev had raced home, rounded up the girls for compulsory fun at the Crack House. Mind, the wit-smith who’d come up with the club name needed a smack.
Swigging shandy, she gazed round. Décor was cream and sepia and despite the baccy ban smelt smoky-stale. When Mac had said not to expect a lot, he wasn’t kidding, though he’d better be any time soon. They’d already sat through five funny men routines. The Highgate posse made up half the audience; the rest looked as if it had strayed in off the street, probably expected Paul Merton or Russ Noble to be on the bill. So not happening. The Crack House (thanks to Mac, she was an instant expert on these matters) was open-spot slots, a gig for unknown up-and-coming comics. Close but not quite comedy karaoke. Eventually, most of the turns wanted to make it big on the circuit. That wasn’t Mac’s motivation. The stand-up was his antidote to the stress of being a cop. DC Tyler wasn’t about to give up the day job.
Timely reminder. It was work first thing. Bev grimaced. Best switch to the soft stuff.
“When’s he on, sarge?” Sumi hadn’t got the hang of this off-duty lark.
Bev shrugged. “Haven’t got a clue.”
“Nothing new there then.” Frankie smirked.
“Should be on stage, Francesca.” Bev made a show of checking her watch. “Next one leaves in ten.”
“God. You’re sharp.” She tilted her glass.
They hushed it when the compère tapped the mic. He reminded Bev of those little rubber trolls that kids used to attach to the top of their pencils: small, pot-bellied, frizzy hair sticking out round a bald spot. Bloke raised a few sniggers though with a sarky take on celebrity boob jobs.
Caz leaned in, confided sotto voce. “Only time I ever had great tits? When I was carrying.”
“Carrying what?” Sumi sucked Saint Clement’s up a straw.
“Cases. What d’you think?” Caz put her arms round an imaginary bump. Her kids had reached junior school stage. “No shit. Thirty-eight double dee. My old man thought he’d died and gone to heaven.”
Exaggerated sniggers. Bev narrowed her eyes. Sumi was a touch green, not dark vert; Caz had a glint in the eye. Frankie was suspiciously silent. They were up to something.
“Getting pregnant’s a bit drastic.” Sumi grinned. “Can’t see it catching on.”
“What do you think, Bev?” Caz, all innocence.
Bev reckoned she’d been rumbled, that she wasn’t just imagining the sideways glances going round Highgate, that her expanding waistline was indeed the subject of growing speculation and juicy goss. Hands in mock surrender, she confessed. “OK you got me. I’m pregnant. Couldn’t afford the boob job.”
Squeals of delight round the table. “Bev, that’s brill.”
“Nice one, sarge.”
Nice two, actually. But she’d not go that far yet. Frankie already had bubbly on ice at the bar. Bev watched as she sashayed back with a laden tray. “Stitched me up good and proper,” she smiled. “Didn’t even get a sniff.”
“Here’s to the great detective.” Frankie raised a glass.
“Finished, ladies?” Troll Man inquired, eyebrow heading for non-existent hairline. “Next up’s a guy who knows his way round the comedy block. A legend in his own north Midlands neck of the woods... the Crack House is proud to host his Birmingham debut.” He glanced at something scribbled on his wrist. “Put your hands together please for... Mick Taylor.
Stage name? Or was Troll Man too vain to wear specs? Anyone’s guess, but Mac entered through a side door, stepped up to the mic. And the crowd went wild. Well, the Highgate contingent did. Their wave of whoops and wolf whistles almost drowned the sound of Bev’s ring tone.
She caught the odd phrase from Mac: observational stuff on crime and the police. They all missed the punch line. Powell was on the phone asking for backup. Major incident in Balsall Heath. Looked as if it could turn nasty.
Mac cottoned on quick. He joined the exodus to the door. The four people left clapped desultorily. Maybe thought it was part of the act.
21
Blue lights. Braying mob. Balsall Heath. The drama was unfolding as Sumi dropped the others close to the action. Bev, Mac and Carol ran from the car, leaving Sumi to park wherever she could. Wouldn’t be easy. Space was at a premium. Five fire engines idled, generators hummed, crews on standby. Ambulances, paramedics similarly primed. Mounted police and foot patrols in riot gear were poised at both ends of the street chomping at literal and metaphorical bits. An angry chanting hundred-plus crowd probably imagined it was keeping the cops at bay. Bev reckoned DCS Flint was actually holding his officers back, afraid of provoking violence. Further violence.
En route, she’d picked up unconfirmed reports via a call to Highgate control. An unknown source had rung police claiming demonstrators had dragged a man from a detached house. The hapless victim had been badly beaten and now lay in the middle of the road.
Bev clocked Powell and Flint in the front line. The DCS had binoculars to his eyes. She doubted he could see much through the wailing wall of protestors. Flint’s instinct would probably have been to go in, save the poor bloke from further harm. But as every officer knew, more than one life was at stake.
The detached house, Victorian redbrick, double-fronted, was a probation hostel. Milton Place was one of more than a hundred similar establishments operating in England and Wales. They accommodated around two and a half thousand released cons. Anyone who read the papers knew forty per cent of the hostel population comprised sex offenders. Hand-painted posters suggested the protestors were well read, and in this case two plus two equalled big trouble, potential tragedy.
As well as the stats, the press was wont to run scare stories about sexual predators living in the community. The emotive prose stirred anger among outraged residents. Hostels in other parts of the country and the city – though not Milton Place – had been targeted before. Bev recognised action group acronyms on some of the homemade banners. SOB: Sex Offenders Out of Birmingham; CAP: Campaign Against Perverts; MAD: Mothers Against Deviants.
Previous demos had been generally peaceful. Had saturation coverage of the Disposer added fuel to an ignorant free-for-all fire? Had the protest been hi-jacked by a handful of mindless yobs? Or more sinister activists with vested interests?
Questions for later. She reckoned Flint’s current priority was working out how to defuse a rapidly escalating and explosive situation. The mass of bodies had parted to reveal a chilling tableau. Four or five protestors swathed in scarves and balaclavas circled their injured prey. A big guy, almost certainly the ringleader, goaded the crowd: torch the bastard? Or the building?
Through Flint’s binoculars, Bev saw twelve, maybe thirteen forms silhouetted in the few remaining windows that hadn’t been smashed. Trapped men. Scared to flee, terrified to stay.
“Both. Both. Both,” the herd chorused.
“Bastards,” Powell hissed, jaw clenched, fists tight.
“Cool it, Mike,” Flint warned.
Bev had never seen the DI so edgy. Unsurprising
perhaps. Only four months back a young constable and two other men had been killed in an arson attack on a halfway house in Selly Oak. It happened on Powell’s watch, and though he wasn’t responsible, Bev reckoned he still carried a heavy burden of self-imposed guilt. She offered a Polo, registered his haunted features, trembling hand.
Curious onlookers were gathering beyond the police cordons. Bev spotted Mac and Carol circulating trying to elicit information. The noise had probably brought out the neighbours. Or maybe the light show was the attraction. A high-powered beam from a police helicopter intermittently strafed the scene, augmenting the streetlights’ orange glow. Two, maybe three TV crews recorded the action. Police cameras captured the evidence. All the cops had to do was catch the villains. Bev couldn’t see the bad guys getting away. Vine Street was virtually sealed.
“What now, boss?” Her breath emerged in white puffs. She stamped her feet, rubbed her hands.
“Pray that bloke’s got more than one brain cell.” He nodded towards the gobby guy goading the crowd. The one-word chant had changed. Still four letters, a world more menace.
“Burn. Burn. Burn.”
A mile or so away in Moseley, a young woman in designer tracksuit and trainers took a shortcut down an alleyway to reach her Mazda. The passage ran between two rows of shops, brick walls either side were daubed with graffiti, dusty determined weeds struggled here and there through the mortar. The alley was unlit, stinking of cat pee, littered with empty lager cans and junk food cartons. At that time of night most people would walk round several blocks to get to the car park. Jodie Mills was blasé, had no intention of allowing fear of crime or anything else to restrict her life or movements. She also ran self-defence classes in the church hall opposite, held a black belt in judo. And clutched a very large torch.
A bulging black bin bag almost blocked the narrow path. Jodie scowled, mumbled something about bastard litter-louts, kicked out angrily as she passed. The resultant split in the plastic revealed more than household waste. The face was human, and male. One wide-open eye stared as if shocked at the kick in the teeth. But the blow was post mortem. No doubt about it, given the smell.
Bad Press Page 14
