Diffident smile from the young woman. Bev watched her pull the collar of her sheepskin coat tighter. It was nippy out here. “I’m just waiting for someone.” Hesitant, wary. “Is that OK?”
Bev waved a magnanimous hand. “Feel free.” Then flapped furiously at the resultant clouds of smoke. “Whoops.”
Nervy giggle this time. “No worries. It doesn’t bother me.”
“Kushti.” Bev took a few covert glances; shame about that chipped tooth. Other than that she was the spit of Sumi: high altitude cheek bones, dark chocolate eyes. They could almost be twins. The gene pool penny dropped. Stunning detection powers, Bev. “Are you Sumitra Gosh’s sister?” Triumphant beam.
She shook her head. Nice one, Clouseau. “We’re cousins. I’m Fareeda. Fareeda Saleem. It is OK if I wait here?” The girl cast a wary glance round the car park.
“Course it is.” Must be cop shop syndrome. Like white-coat syndrome. Only without the white coat. “She knows you’re here?” Bev asked.
“Oh, yes. I called first.” A gust of wind caught her hair: it was like a curtain opening. For the first time, Bev had full view of the girl’s face. And the damage. She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, stuck out her hand. “Bev Morriss. I work with Sumi.”
Thin bangles jangled as she reached to return the gesture. “Are you a police officer?”
“Detective Sergeant.” Matey smile. It was pretty clear why the girl needed to chill. And have a cousinly chat. “Want to wait in the canteen? I’ll take you up if you like. Lot warmer there.” If nothing else, Bev fancied grabbing coffee en route to the news conference.
“No, it’s OK. Sumi’ll be here...”
“Talk of the devil.” Bev used her baccy as a pointer. DC Sumi Gosh was unfolding impossibly long legs from a squad car. Enviable effortless grace. Well impressive. When Bev extricated herself from the Midget it came close to indecent exposure.
Sumi locked the driver’s door, headed over, couple of files under an arm. “How’s it going, sarge?” Her smile faded when she clocked Fareeda. “Why are you here?” Anger? Concern? Impatience? Nope. Bev could read neither expression nor intonation. Sumi was giving nothing away. Except the lie to her cousin. Oh, yes. I called first. Like hell. No way was Sumi expecting to see her. “What do you want?
The glance Fareeda cut Bev didn’t need an interpreter. Butt out just about covered it. Desperate plea rather than rude dismissal. She took a final drag, shoved the glowing end in the sand-bin. Fareeda wanted a private chat, no skin off Bev’s nose. Though she wouldn’t mind betting the fist-sized bruise on the girl’s face would be up for discussion.
Bill Byford was also in line for a battering. The hostility emanating from the gathered media was almost palpable. The superintendent’s taut knuckles and tight lips spoke volumes, though Bev reckoned the tone of the news conference had been set before he even opened his mouth. Since news broke that a serial burglar was at large, early editions of the regional papers and hourly bulletins on local radio and telly had been of one voice: cops’ latest cock-up. The decision to withhold information had been described as a cop-out. Abdicating responsibility was one interpretation; Bev’s doodle of Byford’s neck on a block was another.
For ten, fifteen minutes he’d done little more than issue bare bones and was now wrapping up with a bland appeal for witnesses. The journos’ body language screamed: enough already. What they wanted was names of the other victims. More human-interest sticks to beat the cops with. Bev added a pool of blood to her graphic execution, peeked through her fringe at the pack, tried to spot who was wielding the sharpest axe.
Jack Pope was sprawled in a seat on the back row. A former cop, Pope now ran the Sunday Chronicle’s crime desk, a distant deadline could explain the laidback stance. Tall, dark, and a serious looker, he was an old mate of Bev’s – in every sense of the word. In pole position, centre front was Toby Priest, aka the Bishop. Priest, Bishop, Pope? What was it with these news guys? God’s sake. They’d be taking confessions soon. Or giving last rites.
Priest was straining at the leash. He’d stepped into Matt Snow’s scuffed Hush Puppies as Evening News crime correspondent. Snow had a place in the sun nowadays. Well, on The Sun. He’d been poached by the red top’s news desk three, four months earlier. The hack had hit the headlines himself back then when he was targeted by a killer with exclusives to die for. Several unfortunate sods had, and being on the inside track opened national doors for Snow. He’d penned a book off the back of his lead role, been hawking it round ever since. Far as Bev knew there’d been no takers.
The vertically-challenged Mr Priest clearly felt the guv’s offerings weren’t up to much either. When Byford threw the conference open, the reporter tossed in spin of his own. “So, bottom line’s a psycho’s out there and women in the city aren’t safe in their own beds.” Priest lifted a languid glance from admiring his nails. The pretty-boy features did nothing for Bev, with the ponytail loose he’d look well girlie. “That cuts to the chase, wouldn’t you say? Inspector.” Surely he was taking the piss? Priest was new-ish as crime correspondent, but he’d been round the block a few times. His demotion of the guv had to be deliberate. The big man didn’t take the bait.
“If that’s the best you can come up with, son.” He gathered his papers to reinforce the point.
“How’s this?” Priest shot back. “I understand the guy’s out of control, the attacks are getting worse and...” Bev stiffened. Had the Bishop already tracked down other victims? Or had the squad developed a leak? “...that it’s only a question of time before he kills.” She glanced at the guv, whose lips had virtually vanished. Priest hadn’t finished the sermon. “Where’s the police warning in all this?” He sniffed. “However late in the day.”
Byford rested his elbows on the table’s shiny black surface, laced his fingers, and weighed up the loaded question. “Personal safety is an issue.” Cynical hacks accustomed to cop-speak straightened backs and sharpened nibs. The guv waited for the buzz to die down. “For all of us. At all times.”
Not the admission of failure they’d anticipated. Geed on, Priest played to the gallery, upped the game. “So you’re calling Faith Winters a liar?” Bev stifled a snort. That was a leap and a half. Priest stood, waved his rag around, open at an inside page. “You’re saying there is no serial burglar, no clown mask, no sand, no rape threat?”
Byford lowered his voice, another sign he was riled. “When exactly did I say that, Mr Priest?”
“You didn’t.” The reporter had a glint in his eye. “That’s the point. If this woman hadn’t come forward we’d all still be in the dark.” Probably aiming for the guv, Priest slung the newspaper on the table then slumped back in his seat. The paper glided straight past Byford, ended up in front of Bev who now stared down at Faith Winters’s picture. The photographer had taken a moody shot through a window, the woman stared out dolefully, hand pressed against her cheek.
“In the interests of the inquiry, I took the decision to withhold...”
Cheek. Bev frowned. Unbidden, Fareeda’s image had sprung to mind. Nasty bruise that. The damson shade meant the damage was no more than a few hours’ old. And that chipped tooth? She toyed with the idea of having a word with Sumi, or keeping her nose out? Pensive, she started adding a noose to her drawing.
“Interests of the inquiry?” Priest sneered. “What about the public’s interests?”
Byford’s voice couldn’t get much lower. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Mr Priest. Operation Magpie’s had top priority since day one. It has major incident status, I’ve assigned...”
Yada, yada. Bev stifled a yawn. Not just down to the late night. The guv was now lobbing stats in the hope it would throw the hounds off the scent. Mind, the good guys were seriously outnumbered: three rows of journos to just three cops, if you counted Bernie, the police news bureau chief. Ex-Fleet Street, ex-alcoholic, three ex-wives, Bernie Flowers cultivated the John Major look; even his specs were grey. An optical delus
ion given the guy’s past had more colour than a paint factory. Bev’s doodle was almost complete, just needed a...
“Sergeant?” Her pen stilled. The guv’s raised eyebrow was expectant.
“Guv?” What had she missed?
He tapped the table. “I said is there anything you want to add?”
To what? Better safe than sorry. “Not a word, guv.”
“That has to be a first,” he muttered.
“If she hasn’t – I have.” Priest was on his feet again. Regular hack-in-the-box. “When the Sandman kills, will you be resigning? Inspector.”
The hard-bitten copper with a bottle of Bells in a drawer of his desk was a cliché. That’s why Byford kept his Laphroaig in the filing cabinet. It was getting an airing now. A crystal tumbler held a generous measure, Byford’s grasp so crushing the glass was in danger of cracking. He only wished his fingers were round Priest’s scraggy neck. He took a calming breath, downed the whisky in one, felt the burn.
Unlike all those cops he watched on the box, Byford wasn’t an emotional cripple; he didn’t do depression, like he didn’t eat junk food, chain smoke or drink too much. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a drop in the office. Given the late brief, he certainly wasn’t celebrating. Not with leads going nowhere, zero from the house-to-house, ditto on the hotlines, apart from the odd offensive remark. The big man refilled the glass, walked to the window. He sipped the liquor this time, savoured it, let it linger in his mouth.
Will you be resigning, Inspector? Five hours since the news conference and Priest’s words still rankled. Of course Byford would go if he felt responsible for someone’s death. But that wasn’t the case here, nor would be, he assured himself. He wasn’t the joker dressed as a clown terrorising women. His job was to track down the sick bastard.
Grim-faced, Byford gazed out at the car park below. A prison van was pulling in; security lights flooded the area giving it the look of a film set, special effects provided by raindrops glittering in the beams. Or maybe it was sleet, hard to tell from up here. A couple of uniforms got out of the vehicle, walked across the yard, chatting. Byford took another sip. Shame it wasn’t a shoot for The Prisoner with the Sandman in the eponymous role. A muscle tightened in the big man’s jaw. What he wouldn’t give to see the guy in custody.
Was Bev right? Was the perp getting off on it? She had a knack of hitting the nail – among other targets – head-on. The big man turned and perched on the sill. She’d seemed mellower at the late brief, but she’d really gone for Darren New at lunchtime. Problem was the more she opened her mouth, the likelier Darren and some of the others would clam up. A good squad was all about communication and connection. Everyone had to feel they could contribute without a verbal clobbering from Bev or anyone else.
How many times could he let it go? How much slack could he cut? No way could he risk her harming the inquiry. Shame the days were gone when he could just pick up the receiver, have a friendly word. He couldn’t seem to get through to her – with or without the aid of a phone. That was another thing... had she really lost her mobile?
He lifted the glass, surprised to see it empty. Another? No. His sleep was shot to bits as it was, and the headaches – a legacy of a near fatal attack two years back – still plagued him. One of his bosses had touched on the subject this morning. A regular update session with Phil Masters, the operations assistant chief constable had turned – however civil the tone – into a snipe-fest. How are we coping, Bill? Don’t be afraid to ask for support, old man. Even tighter-lipped now, Byford placed the glass out of arm’s way, loosened his tie. He wouldn’t put it past Masters to engineer a permanent post for Kenny Flint. DCS Flint had only just returned to Wolverhampton after covering Byford’s sick leave. Flint was a cop who played by the book. After the last disciplinary, if he’d had his way, Bev would’ve been demoted – and shown the door. Byford sighed, couldn’t stand the thought of losing her completely.
Sod it. He’d get a cab home, pick up a curry. He poured a single measure, sat at the desk, caught his reflection in the monitor. Wished he hadn’t. The bags under his eyes were pack-able. Like the emotional baggage he refused to acknowledge: professional and personal. In denial – isn’t that what they call it? The glass went flying when he raised it in ironic toast. Shit. Was he squiffy? Drunk, morose, and an Indian takeaway. He gave a lopsided smile, could see the cop show now: Byford’s Beat. It’d make Rebus look like a wimp.
Fish and chips or a big Mac? No contest. Bev had already turned down a big Mac. Tyler had invited her for a quick half down The Prince after work but she couldn’t be arsed. Told him she needed an early night. True enough. She’d set up a meet first thing with Donna Kennedy.
The silver Beamer alongside the Midget at the lights had a budding Hamilton at the wheel; prat was revving the engine, giving Bev the glad lamp. She couldn’t resist it. Soon as the green showed, she hit the gas, left the Lewis wannabe standing. The MG was like a starting pistol to boy racers. Bev stroked the dusty dash. “That’s my girl.”
Shame the case didn’t have as much oomph.
The squad had been phone-bashing brick walls all day. As for the guv’s idea of getting the victims together, it wouldn’t happen any time soon. Beth Fowler was staying at her son’s place in Brighton. Sheila Isaac refused point-blank to come to the station.
Bev flicked on the wipers though it was more drizzle than downpour. She peered through the smear. Highgate’s main drag was lit like a poor man’s Blackpool, all ethnic grocers and greasy caffs, private hire cab firms and second hand clothes shops. And just ahead was the best chippie this side of Neptune. And a space right outside.
She was back within a couple of minutes, goodies on the passenger seat. Two portions plus mushy peas was maybe going it, but she was a growing girl. Her smile froze, her hand stilled at the ignition. No. She wasn’t. Not any more. Head bowed, she hunched over the wheel, the emotional pain as sharp as the Black Widow’s blade in her belly. She gripped the wheel, took steadying breaths, willing the hurt to subside. Her best mate Frankie had witnessed a few flashback episodes, told Bev she needed counselling. Frankie had been told to fuck off. She’d packed her bags, left Bev to it. Baldwin Street now had a spare room. Bothered? She’d get a lodger, a stranger, someone who’d not give her a hard time.
The scream came from down the street. Bev’s head shot up, vision blurred; she dashed away a tear with the heel of her hand. Scumbags. She was out of the motor in the blink of an eye. Five hoodies were circling a little old lady outside Threshers off licence, prodding, jostling, name-calling. Sods could easily have snatched her bag and buggered off. Seemed to Bev loads of kids involved in low level street crime only did it for the buzz, the kicks. Generally speaking, they got away with it. Police dished out cautions to save on paperwork. Punters looked the other way. Not this frigging time.
“Leave her alone, you little shits.” She’d be on Strepsils in the morning. “Back off. Now.” A handful of passers-by did exactly that, the five thugs turned as one, contemptuous leers on every spotty face. They couldn’t have been more than fifteen, sixteen, stuffed full of swagger and strut. Seeing Bev hurtle towards them halted the granny baiting for all of two seconds. Clearly they didn’t consider a lone woman a threat, all but one returned to hassling the old dear. The probable ringleader, dork with a death wish, bared his lips, barred Bev’s path. “What you gonna do about it?”
Everything but Dorkboy was a blur: her focus was absolute, momentum unstoppable – even if she’d wanted to. The defiant wide-legged stance meant his groin was an open goal. She scored – he took the penalty. Bent double, he clutched his crotch, gasped for breath. She was an inch from kneeing him in the face, controlled it just in time. Eyes blazing, she spun round, fists balled. The others had legged it. Shame.
“You’re nicked, sunshine.” Hissed in his ear. “Don’t move a muscle.” Not that he could.
The old woman was leaning against the offie wall for support. Bev placed a gentle hand
on her shoulder. “You OK, love?”
“Will be when I’ve got me breath back. Thanks for stepping in like that. I only nipped out for a bag of chips.” Sparse white hair framed a face that still showed traces of prettiness, the hand clutching her chest was scrawny and liver-spotted.
“Any time, love,” Bev smiled. “Hang on here a sec.”
Dorkboy was snivelling in the gutter. She nudged his arse with the toe of her boot, flashed a warrant card. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Police brutality. I’ll have you.”
“Tell someone who gives a shit. On your feet.” She counted five, grabbed his hood, hauled him up. “Pockets. Empty. Now.” Another count of five. “Please yourself.” She rubbed her hands, reached for the front of his jeans.
“’Kay, OK.” Ineffectual fumble.
“Turn them out, dumbo.” She tapped her foot. “What’s your name?”
“Craig.”
“Craig what?”
“Foster.” He spread the contents on the damp pavement. The fags were probably nicked. Ditto the iPod. Gum, keys, comb, bus pass were fair enough; God knows why he was carrying condoms. Face like an arse was contraceptive enough. None of it was book-able. She took a note of his address, phone number then poked a finger in his chest. “Listen up, moron. One toe over the line and I nail you. Clear?”
“’Kay.” More nose wiping. Not so full of it without his mates.
“Say you’re sorry.” She nodded at the old woman.
“Wot!”
“Now.”
“Sod off.”
“Suit yourself. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Disneyland.” She reached for her phone. “Where’d you think?”
“OK, OK.”
After a grudging apology, he strode off into the night muttering under his breath. Bev turned to the old woman. “Still hungry, love? Hang on there a sec.”
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