Bad Press

by Maureen Carter

  Quit while you’re not ahead, Beverley. She turned at the door. “Hope it taught you I don’t jump hoops. Not for you. Nor anyone.”

  “Oh go on, sweetheart.” The plea was from Bev’s mum asking her to Sadie-sit. Emmy rarely asked a favour, but she had tickets for a Cliff Richard concert, the regular sitter had pulled out and Bev’s gran was throwing a wobbly. Mobile tucked under chin, Bev was rifling her knicker drawer. She’d only just chilled since the Flint altercation. The drive home helped, as had the passion fruit smoothie.

  “Any other night, ma, I’d be there in a flash.” She’d already said no, twice. She heard a querulous Sadie kick off in the background, pictured her mum’s lovely face, saw the disappointment. Bev tightened her lips, knew the scumbag who’d attacked Sadie was to blame for all this. Three years on and her gran’s nerves were worse. The old lady rarely ventured out, was petrified staying in, especially on her own.

  “’Kay, love. No worries. What are you up to? Something exciting?” Pollyanna Emmy versus Bev-the-heel-Morriss. No contest. Her mum reckoned Cliff was the bee’s bollocks.

  Bev closed the drawer. “Time you want me, ma?”

  It was Byford’s fault. He’d phoned earlier, said he’d try to book a table this evening at San Carlo to celebrate passing the medical. Hadn’t phoned back to firm anything up. She was pulling faces in the mirror a minute later when Frankie strolled in with the phone.

  “Good God, Bevy, you’re never gonna wear that, are you?” A pink leopard print thong dangled from the drawer. She took the phone, gave Frankie the finger. “Hey, guv. Sorry ’bout this...”

  Not tonight, Joseph.

  “Don’t turn round. Do exactly as I say.” The crap line in a Marlon Brando mumble was from a B-for-bad movie. Matt Snow had more sense than to show his derision. But he’d expected something original from the Disposer. The reporter shot an involuntary glance in the driving mirror. And froze. That was original all right. No wonder the voice was muffled. Dark eyes glinted beneath the grille of a burqa. Snow looked away but not before split second eye contact in the glass.

  Almost midnight now, the reporter had hit a few dives after the cops let him go. Hadn’t been too hammered to spot a back seat passenger in the Fiesta as the cab dropped him outside the flat. The reporter had no doubt who his uninvited guest was. No point walking away from it, they had to deal sooner or later. Didn’t stop Snow cacking himself though. In a weird way he was partly relieved. During the latest police grilling, he’d begun to doubt the killer’s existence himself.

  “I think we need to talk, don’t you, Matthew?” Less muffled this time. Male. Educated.

  “Sure. That’d be good.” It sounded as if Snow had a pond of jumpy frogs in his throat.

  Rustling from the back, sudden movement. “On edge, Matthew?” Snow felt cold steel at his neck, hot breath in his ear.

  Jesus Christ. No. Not like this. Whirling thoughts. Darting fears. Body immobile. Warm blood trickled already where the blade bit into skin.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Matthew. We still have work to do, don’t we?” Terror and the knife’s pressure paralysed Snow. The Disposer used the blade to underline the point. “Don’t we, Matthew?” Snow winced. “I’ll take that as yes. When I remove the knife, don’t open your mouth unless I tell you. If you turn round, I kill you. Clear?”

  Another wince. The pressure eased. The fingers Snow ran round his neck came back sticky, stinking of blood. “Flesh wound, Matthew. Nothing to worry about.” An opened box of tissues landed on the passenger seat.

  Snow cut another glance in the mirror. Imagined the bastard had a sly grin under the headgear. Not that he could tell. He could stare at the reflection until the cows left home, and still be unable to provide a decent description. Shame that. Because this time the psycho had gone too far.

  “So... current state of play? I’m pleased, Matthew. I think I can trust you.” Snow clenched his fists. “Between you and me, the mission’s almost over and as we know, that’s when your work really begins.” Snow’s frown deepened. “Come, come, Matthew, you must have realised that once the project’s complete my part is over. I’ve no intention of getting caught, going to prison, being punished for doing the world a favour. The plan was always to kill myself. Don’t look like that, Matthew! I’ll make sure you have everything you need: the biographical material, the photo albums, we can still tape the interviews. You were always going to be the writer.” He paused. “Think of me as the ghost.”

  He talked for five minutes. Paedophiles had destroyed his childhood, he told Snow. Gave chapter and stomach-turning verse. There were two monsters he still wanted to kill, then he’d take his own life. When he named names, Snow would realise just how big the story was. As well as the glory, he promised the reporter a cool half-million.

  A brown envelope appeared at Snow’s shoulder. “A little advance, Matthew.”

  Bloodstained fingers trembled as he tore the envelope. Snow gasped; beer-laced bile caught in his throat, tears stung his eyes. The photograph showed Snow’s mother, naked, stepping out of the shower.

  “Advance warning, Matthew. Fuck with me.” The blade appeared, skewered the print. “I fuck with her.”

  Snow dropped his head in his hands, bony shoulders shook as he sobbed. Any idea of talking to the cops vanished in that instant. He was way out of his depth. It had been a dangerous game. And he was no longer playing.

  TUESDAY

  26

  “Matt’s phoned in sick.” Anna Kendall’s opening words. Bev had put in the call from her office hoping to arrange a newsroom snoop, keep up the pressure on Snow if only for an hour or so. There’d be no round-the-clock tail. Flint had vetoed it at the early brief, couldn’t get it past the bean counters. Brief ’s only bright spot had been Flint’s announcement that the guv would be back at his desk tomorrow. Bev knew already, didn’t stop her cheering with the rest of the squad.

  “What’s up with Snow this time?” Feet on desk, she was checking her hair for split ends, decided to book a trim.

  “Dicky stomach, I think.”

  Knew how he felt. Twice she’d thrown up in the middle of the night; so much for thinking the baby barfing was over. How much longer did it go on, for God’s sake? She sniffed. Pigging out on Belgian chocolate and Bailey’s with Sadie last night probably hadn’t helped.

  “Why the call?” Anna was breathy, expectant. “Is it the interview? Are you coming in?”

  Anyone would think it was a royal visit. Telling Anna it wasn’t worth the trip without Snow’s presence wouldn’t be the smartest move. “Love to, Anna. Bit tied up at the mo.”

  “Stupid of me. You must be so busy right now...” She tailed off uncertainly. Her question unanswered. “So why...”

  The call? Feet. On. Think. Beverley. “Fancy a drink, tonight?” Shit. Sounded like she was hitting on her. “Be useful, like, before getting down to business.” Another double entendre. Double shit. “God, that sounds...”

  “A great idea.” Anna laughed. “You’re right. When it comes to big interviews, it’s dead useful to feel you know someone a little beforehand. There’s hardly ever time in this business, but on the odd occasion I’ve gone down that path, it’s really paid off.”

  Time and bar sorted, inspiration struck. “Anna? One other thing you might be able to help with...”

  “Call for you, boss.” Mac Tyler waved a phone in the air. Bev had been prowling the squad room, pacing up and down in front of the whiteboards, gazing into dead men’s eyes, rueing another dead-end day. Follow-up calls leading nowhere, run of unreturned answerphone messages and e-mails, same old. Most of the afternoon had been spent on what she un-fondly called recycling: rereading police and pathology reports, reviewing key witness statements, rewinding video footage. Trying to join the dots – see the picture. They weren’t even close: dots or cops. Hundreds of officer hours, shed-loads of shoe leather, so much graft, so little to show. Make that nada.

  “Who is it, mate?” Better be good.
She’d been necking Red Bull, dying for a pee now.

  “Bad line, sorry, boss.” Could be something to do with the wire dangling from his ear. She scowled: probably listening to Five Live.

  “Bev Morriss.”

  “Sergeant... you said to phone...” A woman’s voice petered out. Bev frowned, couldn’t place it. Not surprising. She’d given her numbers out more times than Directory Inquiries.

  “Yeah?” Pained expression, crossed legs.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sergeant.” Sounded like she had a cold. “It’s Mrs Graves. Madeleine Graves.”

  Bev’s mental Google came up with: swanky pad, husband topped himself, brownies to die for. “Mrs Graves. Thank you for calling. How may I help?” The simper turned heads with incredulous faces: Mac, Darren New and Caz Pemberton’s.

  “So sorry... I’m still not thinking straight. It’s such as shock.” Another anonymous letter? The widow didn’t have a cold. Bev heard it now: she’d been crying. “Slow breaths, Mrs Graves. Take your time.”

  In the background, a grandfather clock chimed the half-hour. Bev’s watch had 5.20. Snuffles and sniffs then: “I discovered it when I returned home. I just don’t understand how anyone could do such a thing.”

  Break-in? Place trashed? Stuff nicked? There’d been a fair few valuables knocking about, family obviously worth a euro or two. Bev ran her gaze down a list of local cop shops stuck on the wall. Tudor Grange was Handsworth’s patch. “Mrs Graves, best thing...”

  “I wouldn’t ask, but... you were so... kind.” Catch in the throat. “Please, dear, please can you come round? I’m on my own. I don’t know what to do.”

  Quick calculation. It’d mean missing the late brief. She scowled. More barely disguised flak from Flint. On the other hand her time sheet was in rude health. And the woman was in obvious distress. “With you in...” She frowned. Click on the line. “Mrs Graves?”

  Pensive, she dropped the phone back on its cradle. Mac was mangling a keyboard with two fingers. “OK, boss?”

  Not if she didn’t get to the loo. “Gotta dash.” She turned at the door. “Mac, tell the chief I’m out interviewing witnesses.”

  “Straight up? Someone seen something?”

  She waggled a hand. Madeleine Graves must’ve seen something.

  Madeleine Graves stared at her late husband’s portrait. Her face was a wreck of mascara and tear tracks; his was obliterated by a recent coat of red gloss. The stink of paint overpowered any lingering pot pourri.

  “It’s completely ruined,” Madeleine sobbed. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Bev turned her gaze from the painting. “Did your husband have any enemies, Mrs Graves?” One. Obviously.

  “Everyone loved Adam.” She shook her head, dabbed her face; the handkerchief had an embroidered A. The widow’s make-up was patchy now. Like her recall. Chucking a can of paint over a portrait was hardly a loving act. Loathing maybe.

  Especially since nothing else appeared to have been touched. Madeleine had been at a friend’s house playing bridge, arrived back around five pm, found a side door forced, fumes hit her soon as she stepped inside. Couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw the damage. Not just the paint. The canvas had been badly hacked about with a blade of some sort.

  “Sure nothing’s missing?” Bev asked.

  “Of course I’m not sure.” Snappy. Bev waited out the silence. Madeleine took a deep breath. “Forgive me, dear. I’m still in a state of shock.”

  “You had a look round?”

  Brisk nod. “As far as I can tell nothing’s gone, but...” She held out empty palms. “I may have missed something, I’m not...” Herself. Not with trembling hands and shaking knees.

  “Sit down, shall we?” Bev tucked an arm under Madeleine’s elbow, steered her gently to the kitchen. “Hot drink?” Small rituals. Big comfort. It would give the woman something to do, help her focus.

  “Coffee. Thank you, dear.” The widow struggled on to a stool, lavender silk skirt riding up her thighs.

  Bev gave a lopsided smile. The latte machine was beyond her. She fixed instant, kept the voice casual. “Noticed any strangers hanging round? Anything suspicious?” Had to ask though they always struck Bev as daft questions. If someone clocked something iffy, surely they’d call the cops? Or maybe not. According to the tabloids, the police can’t put a flat foot right these days. Any days.

  “No, dear, nothing.” She twisted the hankie in her hands.

  “Burglar alarm on?” Madeleine’s face was answer enough. “Sugar?” Bev added two spoons. “Was your son home?”

  “No. Thank God.” That was heartfelt. Scared Lucas might’ve been attacked? Or that he’d have a go? Could mean trouble either way. Ask Tony Martin. “He’s staying with a friend from college.” Mrs Graves stared into space, still fiddling with the hankie. “Bristol, I think he said.”

  “Here y’go.” Bev smiled, pushed the Gold Blend Madeleine’s way, hopped on to the next stool. “I know this is difficult, Mrs Graves...” Sure was. Asking a grieving widow if her bloke had any dirt on him. As well as a can of Dulux. “Did your husband have any problems at work?” Medical profession attracted lawsuits like moths round candelabra. Maybe a whingeing patient...

  “Nothing.” Lipstick had bled into the fine lines round her mouth. “Never.”

  No ambiguity. Unless he hadn’t told her. People went to extraordinary lengths to keep secrets from their partners. Mind, suicide was a tad over the top.

  “We told each other everything.” Fond smile. “It’s why our marriage was so strong.”

  She gently patted Mrs Graves’s arm. “Sure.” Sure she’d put in the checks. If litigation had been pending, presumably paperwork would still be in the system. Assuming the problem was professional.

  Bev cleared her throat. “Attractive man, your husband, Mrs Graves.” Posh for totty magnet.

  “Yes. He was.” The smile vanished as the implication sank in. “What are you saying?”

  Maybe some besotted patient had read too much into his bedside manner. Hell hath no fury like a stalker scorned. Or maybe Dr Graves had a habit of stringing women along. Delicate territory. Best tread carefully. “Was he having an affair?”

  Colour drained from the widow’s face. For a second or two it looked as if she might keel over. “Women tended to throw themselves at my husband, sergeant.” Cold stare. Yes. And? “Adam never gave them a second glance.”

  Not talking quick looks. “Fine.” Bev smiled, made mental notes. Mrs Graves was in the dark or in denial. Or the doc was pure as the driven snow.

  Every breath you take... every move... Bev’s favourite track. She was driving back from the Graves’s place, helping The Police with the chorus, volume almost loud enough to drown out the Nokia’s ring tone. She glanced at caller ID. Penalty points or pull over to take it? Points she’d risk but not the ensuing bad press. She parked the Midget near a hole-in-the wall on the Alcester Road. Needed cash anyway to get in a round or two with Anna Kendall.

  “Guv. How’s it going?” A rocket lit up the night sky, stars cascading like a mini Niagara. Firework season started earlier every year. They’d have Easter eggs attached soon.

  “Milky Bars are on me, kid.” She heard the smile in his voice.

  “Miss your mouth again?” Her lips curved.

  “Oh, how they laughed. Table’s booked. San Carlo. Seven o’clock.”

  “For?”

  “Tonight.”

  Shit. Silence. Broken by Byford. “I thought we said...”

  “Sorry, guv, something’s come up.” She told him about the meet with Anna Kendall. More silence suggested the big man was underwhelmed. “Problem with that?” she asked.

  “She’s a journalist, Bev. Can you trust her? Are you sure she’s on your side? Not sniffing for a story that’ll drop you in it?”

  “Gee, guv, never thought of that.” Course she’d considered it. Like she’d considered the strict guidelines on evidence gathering. She wasn’t brain dead. “What you
take me for?”

  “Not for dinner, that’s for sure.” The joke, like the laughter, was weak. The warning was implicit. Sure no one’s taking you for a ride?

  The cab dropped Bev in Broad Street just after seven. Lights were bright, buzz was muted; in a couple of hours the area would be heaving. People out for a good time on cheap booze in noisy bars. Some ending the night behind bars on drink-related charges. Yep. Quick check. Police surveillance vans parked in the usual places.

  Bev dug gloved hands in pockets, glanced at the sky. Starry starry night. No wonder it was parky. Glad of the winter coat, she headed for the Hard Rock café. Glad too she’d nipped back for a quick shower and costume change. She’d eschewed the blue look for a loose-fitting, long-sleeved blackberry frock. This was its first outing. Doubtless she’d grow into it.

  A group of lads gave her the eye en passant. She masked a smile. Go, girl. Not lost it yet. Jack Pope once said, you scrub up good, babe. His subsequent limp only lasted an hour. Still smiling she arrived at the bar, without thinking ordered Southern Comfort. Force of habit. Used to drink here with Oz. The smile faded slowly. Fled completely when she clocked Jagger strutting his stuff on the wide screens. More Oz memorabilia. He was a Stones’ groupie, knew the words to every song, and the moves. Painful memories. She didn’t want to go there.

  A hand waved gently in front of her. “Come in, Captain Bev.”

  She turned, forced a smile. “Anna. Hi. Miles away.”

  “Never?” She shucked off a black trench coat. Looked great in a purple smock and pixie boots. The gear wouldn’t do anything for Bev. She’d resemble a club-footed aubergine. “Drink?”

  Anna asked for orange juice, wandered off in search of a decent table. A few guys followed her with lecherous eyes. Kendall was sexy without being obvious.

  Glasses in hand, peanuts in pockets, Bev made for the corner. She reckoned they’d be in for some preliminary small talk. Be a bit unsubtle asking the girl straight off if she’d struck oil.