A patrol car had picked up Doyle as Bev and Mac were leaving the house. The fat man had spent a couple of hours at Highgate alongside Al Copley, the imaging unit’s sharpest operator. Copley had listened and elicited carefully, painstakingly laid out images, tweaked, honed, fine-tuned, cropped and finally come up with: white male, average height, thin, late-twenties-early-thirties, collar-length dark blond almost mousy hair, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, bar piercing through the left eyebrow.
Whichever way she turned it, however hard she looked, Bev just couldn’t see it. Until last night, the Disposer hadn’t put a foot wrong – why run headlong into trouble now? “What you reckon?”
Mac’s copy was on the windowsill beside him. He glanced down, shrugged. “Who knows? Might hear something soon.”
The likeness had been issued to the media just after lunch via a hastily arranged news conference. Bev had leaned against a back wall as Flint read a statement, ducked a few pointed questions. It was a difficult pitch. However the DCS played it, the press would put on its own spin. A routine ‘Have you seen this man?’ appeal was too bland. But ‘Is this the face of the Disposer?’ was well over the top given nascent doubts about Doyle’s integrity.
Bev sighed, moved to the chair, picked up a biro. The attack had happened around midnight in a badly lit street, round the corner from Doyle’s Stirchley bungalow. He claimed to have yanked off his assailant’s hood, but admitted catching only a fleeting glimpse of the face. How come Doyle had recalled so much detail? As for the passer-by who allegedly gave chase, he hadn’t come forward despite an appeal on local radio. Bev’s scepticism wasn’t restricted to the scenario. She had the fat man down as a flaky, self-pitying shit.
Mac glanced over her shoulder, shook his head. The doodle taking shape looked like a cross between two Jags and Jabba the Hutt. “Come on, boss. Give the bloke a bit of credit.” He paused deliberately. “It’s not just Doyle’s best shot.”
Got that right. It was the cops’ as well. “Fair dos.” She screwed the paper, lobbed it at a bin already ringed with apple cores, crisp packets and sweet wrappers. “But why’d he do it, Mac?”
“Lost me, boss. Why’d who do what?” He pushed himself off the sill, bent down to pick up the rubbish.
“The Disposer.” She took several slugs from a bottle of Malvern water, wiped her mouth on a sleeve. “He’s run rings round us. We ain’t got a skin cell to go on. Suddenly he’s leaping outa bushes, wielding a knife, telling Doyle he’s in for the big sleep. That’s a hell of a risk.”
“Maybe he’s losing it?” Mac stood hoisted his jeans. “Pressure getting to him?”
What pressure? She scowled. “Yeah right.” Or maybe Doyle was a fantasist. After all the fat man had engineered the attention, seemed to revel in the spotlight. “Doyle’s wallowing in it, if you ask me.” Mac didn’t need to. He’d heard it before. “All that fingering the scar,” she sneered. “Blubbing like a baby. Talk about diva.”
Mac sighed. “Cut him some slack, boss.”
“Why?” The eyes held a warning he habitually ignored.
“You get an idea in your head and sometimes you won’t let go.”
“Called having the courage of your convictions, sticking to your guns.”
“One way of putting it,” he muttered.
“Meaning?”
“What if your aim’s wonky?”
“Nice line, mate.” She turned her back, started typing. “Shame it’s total bollocks.” She heard his strut to the door, sensed him loitering with intent in the frame.
“Yeah. Well you’re off beam with diva. That’d make Doyle female.” He shoved a hand in his pocket. “As in the fat lady sings. Must’ve heard that one, boss.”
“Only hearing bum notes, me, mate.” She frowned; caught the innuendo. Cheeky sod. “Saying I’m fat?” She glanced round. Into empty space. Going by the volume, he was halfway down the corridor. She recognised the song he was mangling. Even though Mac had changed the lyrics. She doubted Sinatra had ever done anything Her Way.
By the late brief, they had a name. The e-fit of Roger Doyle’s attacker had gone out on network TV bulletins. The Evening News front page looked like a wanted poster, Matt Snow’s byline conspicuous by its absence. Pensive, Bev shoved the paper in her bag as Flint strode in with an update. Among the calls to the hotline, he told the troops, three people had now come up with the same ID: Wayne Pickering. The latest tip-off had come from a neighbour; a squad car was on its way to a house in Acocks Green to bring Pickering in. The murder room buzzed like a honey farm. Jubilant, Flint stood centre stage. Bev wouldn’t be surprised to see him take a bow. Final curtain? Somehow she didn’t think so.
“We got anything on him?” she asked.
“Nothing criminal.” Flint licked his lips. The but was tacit. “According to one of the callers, Pickering told anyone who’d listen how he had a cousin who’d been serially abused by a neighbour. Not here. Up in Burnley. He was very close to her apparently, more like brother and sister.”
Mac asked Flint if the caller had left a name. Bev turned a snort into a cough. Course they did. Flint cut her a glance it was probably best she didn’t see.
“And an address. Darren New and Sumitra Gosh are there now seeing what else he can give us.”
Bev swung a foot. “When’s this abuse supposed to have happened?”
Flint folded his arms. “Twenty years back. They were just kids.” Her downturned mouth said it was a hell of a long time to bear a grudge. Flint must’ve read the message. “The cousin killed herself six months ago.”
Bev nursed a solitary hot chocolate with extra sprinkles. Coming up to seven, she was in the canteen waiting for the guv to clock off. The late shift was on digging duty, delving into Pickering’s background, uncovering anything that might tie him to the other murders. Two squad members were en route to re-interview Doyle. They needed to establish if there was history between the fat man and his assailant. And if so, why he’d not mentioned it. Thank God she was on days. Doyle gave her the creeps.
Bev had been flicking through Carol Pemberton’s copy of heat, but fatuous anorexics and C-list nonentities weren’t doing it for her. The dog-eared mag lay open on the table as she gazed at the night sky. No stars there either. Dark and stormy wasn’t in it. Rain hammered the glass, windblown leaves skittered the surface. Winter was on its way. All they needed was snow. You can say that again. Matt Snow.
She licked chocolate froth off the spoon. The reporter’s sick note had turned into a journal. Snow had gone to ground. Again. Only upside was it’d be easier for Anna Kendall to swap shorthand notebooks. The first batch was ready to go back. Pembers had dropped them off; sorry for not coming up with anything.
“Cheer up, sunshine. Might never happen.” Powell loomed carrying a sausage roll and a steaming cup of Bovril. He looked remarkably perky.
“Dog died last night.”
“Shit, Bev.” A picture of concern, he perched tentatively in case she wanted time to grieve. “Sorry. I’d no idea.” He must’ve clocked the curve of her lip. “You haven’t got a dog, have you?”
“Nah. Worth it for the look on your face though.” Keira Knightley in a backless strapless number stared up from the centre pages. Bev closed the mag, added a couple of sweeteners to the chocolate. Probably time to cut back.
“What you doing here, then?” He took a slurp. “Thought you’d be on the Wayne Pickering reception committee.”
Sore point. Flint had made it clear that when Pickering was brought in he wanted Mac as number two on the interview. She’d not asked why; the DCS hadn’t explained. She suspected he didn’t appreciate her scepticism. Tough. No sense getting further up his nostrils though. With a bit of luck when Operation Wolf was history, he’d bugger off back to Wolverhampton.
She tapped his mug. “Acquired taste, Bovril. Like me with Flint.”
“Not flavour of the month, then?” He bit into the pastry.
She snorted. “On Planet Flint, any month
.” The doors opened. She glanced round. Just a brace of uniforms. Where was Byford? She was hoping for dinner à deux.
Watching Powell wolf the sausage roll was giving her stomach ideas.
“Sure about Flint?” he asked.
“Does poo pong?” She ducked flying crumbs; caught something in the DI’s delivery. “What?”
“He told me how you lobbied on my behalf. Didn’t have a bad word to say about you, Bev.”
News to her the DI and Flint had exchanged any words on her – or the lobbying. She’d assumed her conversation with the chief had been confidential. Open-mouthed she watched as the DI dunked the last inch or so of sausage roll in the Bovril. “He told me you showed loyalty, integrity, discretion...”
“You winding me up?”
He flashed a grin. “Said I’d no idea there were two Morrisses knocking round Highgate.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she warned. “I could double that.” She nodded at the damson bruise yellowing round the edges at his temple.
“Chill, Bev. He rates you. Just doesn’t show it the same way as...”
Line. Cross. Don’t. She narrowed her eyes. “Watch your...”
“Just like old times, you pair cosying up.” A Fedora appeared on the Formica. She’d not seen the guv in his trademark headgear for months, nor the suit and tie. Mind, the hat looked spanking new. The old one had that battered look. Right now so did Byford: mauve smudges ringed tired grey eyes, lines there she’d never noticed before. Maybe they should just grab a pizza. Get an early night.
“The DI was just leaving actually,” she said brightly. “Weren’t you?”
“Was I?” Couldn’t the guy take a hint? “Oh yeah. Have you got my cut?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What cut?”
“The sweepstake.”
Shit. Daz must’ve ratted on her. She scrabbled in her purse, pulled out a note. “Only got a twenty. Sorry, mate...”
“No worries.” He plucked it, gave it a twirl. “I’ll get some change.”
Her eyes were slits, teeth clenched. “Tomorrow’ll do.”
“You bet.” He winked, backed away. “Mañana, right?”
Byford ran the hat between his hands. “What was that all about?”
“You don’t want to know.” She slipped her coat on. “I’m famished. I’ll eat anything. What you fancy?”
“Is your car out back?” It was no answer. They talked in the lift, chatted in the corridors. She asked about his day, heard the top lines on the Joshua Connolly interview. Chewed over everything but the topic of food. As they hit the stairs and he started spouting about the foul weather, she knew dinner was a no-no.
“Sorry about this, Bev. Rich is down for a few days. I said I’d meet him for dinner.”
She forced a smile. “That’ll be a rain check, then.”
Kids? Who’d have ’em?
The MG smelt like a chippie. The fish supper from Oceania was on the passenger seat sending out wafts of vinegar. Bev was in a line of shuffling traffic on Kings Heath High Street. Rain was still sheeting down. She flicked the radio, caught the eight o’clock news. The Wayne Pickering angle led the bulletin. West Midlands police are seeking a twenty-nine-year-old Birmingham man in connection with...
Simultaneously the e-fit was on a bank of TV monitors in a showroom on the left. Surreal. How weird was that? Fingers tapped the wheel. Almost as weird as Flint’s decision not to use her on the Pickering interview – whenever that might be. The officers sent to bring him in had found the Acocks Green bedsit empty; neighbours hadn’t set eyes on the so-called, self-proclaimed Disposer for twenty-four hours.
Fifty miles away on the outskirts of Shrewsbury, Matt Snow had the Disposer in his sights. The reporter couldn’t tear his gaze from the TV screen. Flicking through channels, he’d caught the D-word on News 24. As in...
Police say the man is wanted for questioning in connection with the so-called Disposer killings...
“Are you all right, Matthew?” Lydia Snow sat in a chunky armchair near the coal fire, knitting needles clicking. She’d been keeping a closer watch on the son she rarely saw these days than what she considered the rubbish on television. Tall and elegant with an immaculate silver chignon, she lived in rural chic on a teacher’s pension and her late husband’s life insurance. The old farmhouse, surrounded by Shropshire countryside, was low-beams-meets-Laura-Ashley. A touch twee for Snow’s city tastes.
He lifted a shushing hand. “Fine, ma, absolutely fine.” If the bastard on the news was the Disposer, Snow was more than fine. If an arrest was imminent, his mother was safe. The flying visit to drop subtle warnings looked as if it was a wasted journey.
He hunched forward, knuckles white round a tumbler of Grouse, took in every detail of the psycho who’d broken into his flat, lain in wait in the motor, fucked with his head. The smirking face beneath the burqa; the evil eyes that had scared Snow witless.
“Is this a story you’ve been working on, Matthew?”
He gave a thin smile. “You could say that, ma.” He upped the volume but the voice-over was journalese meets police-speak. He’d ring the desk in a while, get the inside story.
Sighing, his mother rose, stowed the knitting. “Can I get you anything, Matthew?”
“No thanks, ma. I’m cool.”
She stooped, pecked him on the cheek. “Good night, darling. If you’re gone before I get up, take care.” She turned at the door. He was reaching for the remote. “And Matthew. Don’t work so hard. No one’s indispensable.”
He wasn’t listening. Reckoned Sky News could be carrying the Disposer story as well. He hit the button. They were teasing the item in a strapline running across the bottom of the screen. The reporter sat through packages on climate change, teenage pregnancies, latest figures on obesity. Barely took in a word, trying to work out the ramifications. Would he lose out if the Disposer were sent down? Where was the mad bastard now?
Right in front of the reporter, his face full frame on screen. Snow narrowed his eyes, shuffled further forward. Didn’t look like a psycho: Average Joe – apart from the eyebrow piercing. Snow scratched his ear. Please God let it be over soon. The e-fit was running on all channels, it’d be in every newspaper. The psycho couldn’t hide forever; a collar couldn’t be far off.
For the first time in days, Snow felt a slight ease in the tension. When the picture cut to an easy-on-the-eye blonde, he sat back, stroked his neck. Blondie was urging viewers to ring the number on the screen if they had information. “Police say the man could be dangerous. They’re warning people not to approach him.”
As if. Snow sucked the scotch between his teeth. A smile spread slowly across his pasty face. It had barely reached his eyes before the pay-as-you-go vibrated against his chest.
29
“Hello, Matthew.”
Snow’s heart pounded, the phone shook in his clammy hand, his mouth so dry he could barely speak. Apart from his mother, only one person in the world called him by his full name: a homicidal freaking maniac. “Where are you?” Nervous glance over his shoulder, half expected to see the bastard lurking behind the settee.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Calm, cool. “Have you been keeping up with the news, Matthew?”
Snow rose, padded to the window, drew the heavy damask curtains tighter. Stupid. Irrational. What good would that do? Close to tears, he raked fingers through his fringe. “Look, mate, I think the game’s over. If I were you, I’d give myself up.”
“Would you?” Amused sneer. “Why’s that, Matthew?”
“It’ll go easier for you. The cops might cut a deal.” Like hell they would. “I’ll come with you if you like. I know how to talk to them. Give you a bit of support.” He knew the gabbling made him sound nervous. He was.
The disembodied laugh was loud in Snow’s ear. The fact it sounded genuine made it more unnerving somehow. “I suppose I should be flattered.” Superior. Insouciant.
Snow paced barefoot in front of the open fire. “I mean it,
mate. I know most of the cops at Highgate. Pally with quite a few as it happens. If you want, I could meet you there.”
“Still after the scoop, Matthew? Silly question. Don’t answer.” Sly snigger.
Snow crept into the hall made sure the door was locked, bolts drawn; set the alarm.
“I’d check upstairs as well if I were you, Matthew.”
His bowels loosened; his voice a whimper. “Please... don’t...”
“Joke. I know you so well, you see. I bet you just set the alarm, didn’t you? Don’t worry, Matthew. Right now, I’ve got better things to do than amuse myself with your old lady.”
The reporter bit down on his knuckles, drew blood. “What do you want?” A drink. Snow craved a stiff drink.
“What I’ve always wanted.”
What the hell? The mad sod’s cover was blown. Like as not he’d be recognised soon as he set foot on the streets. “How’d you mean?” Hands shaking too much to pour, Snow swigged from the bottle, scotch dribbled down his chin.
“To complete the mission, of course. Don’t you remember what I told you, Matthew?” Kindly head teacher to dense boy.
Every word was branded in Snow’s brain. The bastard said he’d take out two more paedophiles then top himself. “But... this guy... Doyle... he...”
“You really didn’t get it, did you, Matthew?” Get what? “When I said I should be flattered?”
Ice in the spine. Acid in the throat. Snow clamped his mouth with a hand. Holy Christ. The cops had cocked it. “This guy, Pickering...?” The nutter who claimed he was the Disposer.
“They say it’s the sincerest form, don’t they? Imitation.” He paused, making sure Snow comprehended. “Know what I call it? I call it a fucking infringement by a fucking impostor. A useless amateur.” Shrill sharp tone suffused with menace. “I don’t make mistakes.” Silence. “What don’t I make, Snow?”
“Mistakes.”
“Precisely. I want a correction.”
“Sorry?”
“Your hearing fucked?”
“No.” Snow frowned. Slang. Swearing. Pickering’s claim must’ve really rattled the psycho’s cage. Bad news if a serial killer was losing it.
Bad Press Page 20
