Blood Money

by Maureen Carter

  Also by Maureen Carter:

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  Praise for Maureen Carter’s gritty Bev Morriss series:

  Many writers would sell their first born for the ability to create such a distinctive voice in a main character.

  - Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence

  ... a cracking story that zips along...

  - Sarah Rayne, author of Tower of Silence

  British hard-boiled crime at its best.

  - Deadly Pleasures Year’s Best Mysteries (USA)

  ... a first-rate book... Carter did an excellent job of showing the pressures... I have ordered the first books in this series!

  - Maddy Van Hertbruggen, I Love a Mystery Newsletter

  Though it’s a grim story-line, there is also plenty of humour... The authentic... setting was a bonus, there are few books set in Birmingham

  - Karen Meek, Eurocrime

  ... shows us another side of the hero and encourages us to connect with her on a deeper personal level than ever before.

  - David Pitt, Booklist (USA)

  ... it is good to see a publisher investing in fresh work that, although definitely contemporary in mood and content, falls four-square within the genre’s traditions.

  - Martin Edwards, author of the highly acclaimed Harry Devlin Mysteries

  Crème de la Crime... so far have not put a foot wrong.

  - Reviewing the Evidence

  First published in 2009

  by Crème de la Crime

  P O Box 523, Chesterfield, S40 9AT

  Copyright © 2009 Maureen Carter

  The moral right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typesetting by Yvette Warren

  Cover design by Yvette Warren

  Front cover image by Peter Roman

  ISBN 978-0-9557078-7-2

  eBook ISBN 978-1-906790-90-5

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

  Printed and bound in the UK by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

  www.creativecontentdigital.com

  About the author:

  Maureen Carter has worked extensively in the media. A journalist and writer, she lives in Birmingham with her family.

  www.maureencarter.co.uk

  It’s a great pleasure and privilege to work with Lynne Patrick and her inspirational and gifted team at Crème de la Crime. Huge thanks to everyone there – as always. I’m grateful, too, for the knowledge and expertise given so generously by Detective Sergeant Chris Elliott and Lead Forensic Manager Robin Slater. Their contribution to Blood Money is immense and goes far beyond answering my numerous questions. I thank both for their valuable time and expertise. Any error of interpretation is mine.

  Writing – as I’ve noted before – would be a lonelier place without the support of some special people. For ‘being there’ even when they’re sometimes miles away, my love and affection goes to: Peter Shannon, Veronique Shannon, Corby and Stephen Young, Paula and Charles Morris, Suzanne Lee, Helen and Alan Mackay, Frances Lally, Jane Howell, Henrietta Lockhart, Anne Hamilton and Bridget Wood.

  Finally, my thanks to readers everywhere – as always, this is for you.

  For Sophie and Dan

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  1

  The woman is a bad sleeper at the best of times. Now it is the dead of night. She’s drifting off when she’s convinced she hears a faint sound on the landing. Her scalp crawls as she shoots upright, trying to identify the noise. After thirty, forty seconds hearing only her heartbeat, she sinks back under the duvet, chides herself. Without Rod’s reassuring presence, it’s easy to let the mind play tricks. She hates being a widow, vows to stop watching the news, reading the papers, always full of scare stories.

  Then the door inches open.

  Rigid with fear, she hardly dares breathe. Silhouetted in the threshold is an intruder, moonlight glinting off what she’s sure is a knife in his right hand. She feigns sleep, desperately hopes it’s a figment of her imagination, knows the dark figure will still be there when she opens her eyes. Another sound. She strains her ears. Footsteps pad closer. A smell wafts towards her. Lemon? Lime? Not sure.

  Grab the phone. Call the police. Thoughts instantly dismissed. Reaching out would be futile. She fights an almost overwhelming urge to scream, to flee. Alone and afraid, she prays. Harder than she’s prayed in her life. Sweet Lord, please make him go... sweet Lord...

  “Turn over.” The whisper is soft in her ear, his minty breath warms her cheek. The sweat feels clammy on her spine. Paralysed with fear, her pathetic whimper escapes involuntarily.

  “On your back.” It’s an order. Barked. Spittle hits her face. “Now.”

  In slow terrified motion she obeys, then gasps in shock, confusion. A grinning clown face looms over her, thick scarlet lips silvered by the full moon, shaggy ginger curls either side of a smooth pale pate. Dark eyes glitter through slits in latex.

  “Please... don’t... hurt me,” she pleads. “Take whatever...”

  “Shut it.” With a gloved hand he switches on the bedside lamp, the other strokes her jaw with the knife. Their glances lock: prey and predator. It’s no contest. She has neither will nor means to protect herself let alone counter-attack. Who is he? What does he want? The voice is muffled slightly, but the cadence suggests a young man: twenties, thirties, perhaps. The woman swallows hard; she’s old enough to be his grandmother.

  The clown’s inane grin is fixed as the intruder ogles the contours of her trembling body. Despite her long white nightdress she feels naked, acutely aware how the flimsy cotton flutters in pace with her wildly pumping heart. Her breaths are short, shallow. She cuts a glance to the bedside table, a glass. He reaches for it. “Drink?”

  “P... p... please.” She parts dry lips, forces a wary smile. Maybe if she talks to him? Makes him see her as a human being? When she struggles to sit up, he flings the water in her face.

  “I said don’t move, dumb ass. What did I say?”

  The tepid liquid runs down her cheeks, drips from her chin, her hair. “Don’t m...”

  “Including that.” He taps the blade against h
er mouth. She shrinks back. “We do things my way or my way. Get it? Faith?”

  Hearing her name from those mocking lips stings like a slap. She stiffens as the implication sinks in. “How...?”

  He whacks her face with the back of his hand. “What part of ‘shut it’ don’t you understand?” He hurls the duvet to the floor, hitches up her nightdress with the knife. With the tip of the blade, he strokes her naked breasts, the spread of her belly. She crosses her legs, tries to cover her chest; hot tears cool and pool under her ears. Mind-numbing fear? Would that it were. The woman’s only too aware she’s at the mercy of a callous thug in her own home. She knows she won’t be able to live here after this – assuming she lives.

  “Make a sound – you’re dead. Clear?” Wide-eyed, she nods. He reaches a hand over his shoulder, and for the first time she notices the rucksack. She watches as he removes four lengths of thin cord which he places beside her, then a small velvet pouch which he slips into his jacket pocket.

  Dark eyes still glittering, he flexes theatrical fingers, bounces on the balls of his feet. “Coming, dear... ready or not...” The sing-song taunt’s more menacing than the snapped directions. When he straddles her, she loses control of her bladder.

  “You should be so lucky,” he sneers, shuffles forward, pins her arms with his knees, leers for what seems a lifetime. “’Kay, listen up. This is what’s gonna happen.” He wants cash and jewellery, keys to drawers and cabinets. If she co-operates he’ll leave her in peace. If she doesn’t... he thrusts his crotch in her face. Through racking sobs, she tells him what he wants to know.

  “Good girl.” He pats her head before snatching the rings from her fingers and the crucifix around her neck. He crams these in another pocket before reaching for the first length of cord. She’s spread-eagled to the bed where she lies shivering on a urine-soaked sheet.

  Prowling the room, he opens cupboards, rifles drawers. She watches as her favourite brooch and earrings are jammed into the rucksack followed by a silver jewellery box where she keeps Rod’s watch and cufflinks. She likes to take them out each day; look, touch, remember. Unwittingly perhaps, her glance falls on a gilt-framed photograph on the dressing table. So does the intruder’s.

  She steels herself as he picks it up. “This the old man, love?” She imagines his sly smirk under the grinning mask. Closing her eyes, she pictures instead her good and gentle husband. The sound of cracking glass startles her. Suspecting what will happen next makes it no easier. Her heart hurts as he tears the wedding photograph, scatters tiny pieces confetti-like across the bed.

  “Crap host, aren’t you? Where’s my drink?” She recoils as he reaches towards her but he only checks the knots. At the door, he lifts a hand. “Nah, don’t get up.” Sniggering, he sneaks downstairs. Ears strained, she traces his movements as he further invades, infests her home: floorboards creak, door handles click, drawers are yanked open. She imagines him fingering her possessions, thieving anything he can sell, anything he can get a good price for. What he’s already taken can’t be bought: dignity, confidence, self-esteem.

  Slowly she turns her head, gazes out of the picture window where the sallow moon’s now skulking behind the oak tree’s bare branches. Rod often teased her about not drawing the curtains, but she used to love watching her tiny slice of world go by, the slow changes wrought by the seasons. Now she screws her eyes tight, bites her lip, tastes blood.

  Then she feels it again: a tiny spark of defiance. She sensed the first flicker when he ripped the photograph – a needless spiteful act. Tears well but she blinks hard, urges herself to get a grip. White knights charge to the rescue in fairy stories – not a waking nightmare.

  “I’ll be off now, love.” The clown face appears round the door. “Nice seeing you.” He touches finger to temple in mock salute, bows out. Faith jerks her hands; the cords bite tighter into her wrists.

  “Whoops.” Back again, he saunters towards her. “Almost forgot.” She watches terrified as he takes the velvet pouch from his pocket, opens the drawstrings, tips the contents into his gloved palm. “Close your eyes, love.”

  “Please...”

  “Close your fucking eyes.”

  She hears the lamp switch click, feels a sprinkle of sand, dust, something light settle on her eyelids. There’s a draught as he leans across, lifts something from the bed. She smells fabric conditioner, knows where from, even before the pillow’s placed on her face. Please, God. No! The pulse whooshes in her ears and through her own muffled moans, she hears his final words. “Said I’d leave you in peace, didn’t I?”

  Though barely conscious, Faith feels the blade’s cold steel rake her belly... then all is silent as well as dark.

  MONDAY

  2

  Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss opened one strikingly blue eye and glanced warily round before snapping it shut and stifling a groan. Next to this, death warmed up would feel good. The quick scan had registered empty wine bottles, overflowing ashtrays, foil tins with lurid leftovers from an Indian takeaway and twin trails of cast off clothes that ended at the bed. Big question: whose bed? She’d need to open the other eye to answer that. And remember the guy’s name.

  Gingerly turning her throbbing head, she took a peek at the naked bloke snoring slack-jawed gently beside her: blue-black hair, Jagger lips, long eyelashes. Rick, was it? Dick? Mick? Whatever. Nose wrinkled, she peered closer. Last night’s healthy tan now held a tell-tale pale streak or two, and a saliva trail weaved through dark stubble. This time Bev’s groan escaped. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply to try to quell the gut-wrenching nausea. Not that it was entirely down to lover boy.

  To be fair, when she’d spotted him in the pub he’d fitted the bill OK. Unintended pun. Mental eye roll. Then she cast her mind back to the crowded bar. As per, she’d not revealed the Fighting Cocks was her local, or told him her real name. Who’d she been this time? Laura? Lorna? Something beginning with L. No matter. She’d come on to him because he was fit, well fancy-able and she could give him a good ten years. More to the point, there wasn’t a string or ring in sight. These days she didn’t do relationships, lost enough already; close was a no-go area. If tempted down that path again she’d buy a budgie. And staple its beak.

  As for last night, they’d both known the score, and the condom on the shag pile indicated the result. Dead funny, Bev. Not. Come to think of it, hadn’t he asked to see her again? Or was that a dream? Hard to tell after a vat of Pinot. Either way, it wasn’t going to happen. Emotional baggage? She had more than Relate.

  Her sigh lifted a Guinness-coloured fringe; her heart took its well-worn sinking path. Last night had just been another escape bid. Away from the flashbacks of the stabbing that killed her unborn twins, away from nightmare images of the bitch responsible, the so-called Black Widow. Away from herself? You bet. The casual sex and copious booze was meant to blunt edges. So how come reality always kicked in even before the hangover got a grip? Five months she’d tried blanking it all out – and nothing worked.

  Work! Shit. Daylight through curtain. It was past late-o’clock. The mother of all bollockings beckoned. Swallowing a Balti-laced burp, she slipped soundlessly out of bed, struggled into last night’s gear, scrabbled round for her bag. Turning at the door, she blew Sleeping Beauty a goodbye kiss. He was out for the count; he’d smoked several joints when they got back last night. As a cop, she’d probably not have hit on him if she’d known he went in for the wacky baccy. Wasn’t the greatest career move. Even Bev knew the line had to be drawn somewhere. Still, live and learn...

  As she came down the stairs, a mirror caught her unawares; her reflection unavoidable and barely recognisable: mussed hair, panda eyes, pasty complexion. Flashing a too bright smile, she gave a mock salute. “Nice one, Bev.” Her aim had been upbeat. It hit brittle.

  3

  The pretty smiling woman in the photograph bore little resemblance to the cowed individual Bill Byford had seen in the flesh. Diminished would be the detective superintendent’s
verdict on Donna Kennedy. He took a final look before dropping the print on his cluttered desk, then swivelled the black leather chair a hundred and eighty degrees towards the window. The big man raised an ironic eyebrow: the forecasters’ promise of a white Christmas was only three weeks late.

  He watched as skittish flakes flounced across a sober red-brick backdrop. The scene reminded him vaguely of the glass snowballs he collected when he was a kid, bought them on holidays mostly. He gave a wry smile. Highgate-nick-snowball-souvenir? Somehow, he couldn’t see it catching on. Most people who spent time here couldn’t wait to get away.

  Like the Kennedy woman.

  Sighing he swung back to his desk, tugged a pensive top lip as he recalled the only time he’d met her. He visualised lank fair hair, haggard features and eyes shot through with fear. It had been within hours of her ordeal and – of all the victims – Byford thought she’d been worst hit, psychologically as well as physically.

  He reached for her file, flicked through the police interviews again, then closed his eyes, tried to imagine himself in the place of a small slight female. Not easy given he was six-five, well-covered and more than capable of fighting back, barring the odd bodily scar. Even so, when the door was flung open, a startled Byford scowled and snapped a peremptory, “Do you ever knock?”

  “Got another, guv. It’s just come in. Moseley this time. A Mrs Faith Winters.” DC Mac Tyler, oblivious to – or ignoring – Byford’s glower strode towards the desk brandishing a printout. Fifty-something and slightly flushed Mac stood across the desk, paunch straining at least three buttons on one of the red-checked shirts he generally wore. The Monty-Python-lumberjack look was deliberate. It fooled many a villain into a false sense of superiority. Though Mac did stand-up comedy in his spare time he was nobody’s fool – as Byford was keenly aware.

  The superintendent’s gut tightened as he took the sheet of paper without comment. Questions were superfluous. Mac’s body language and verbal shorthand must mean there’d been a development in Operation Magpie. That morning’s brief – like several others over the last three weeks – had been dominated by the ongoing inquiry: a series of increasingly callous burglaries in which three, now possibly four, already vulnerable women had been left tethered and traumatised in their own beds. Every member of the squad had known it was only a question of time before the perp struck again.