Bev had lost her appetite. As she returned from the motor toting her fish supper, something in the gutter caught her eye. A car headlight picked it out again as she approached. Even before she knelt, she knew it was a knife. Was it Dorkboy’s? Mostly youths only tooled up for protection. He’d probably dumped it when he realised she was a cop. Not as moronic as he looked then. Cos carrying was the only offence she could’ve have had him on. If it had prints, she still might. No gloves, nothing to wrap it. Unless...The old woman had wandered across. Smiling, Bev stood and handed her the chips. “Mind if I borrow your scarf, love?”
Fair exchange. No robbery.
Bev in Madame Pompadour gear – all red lace and low cleavage – held a dagger at the Sandman’s throat. “Come on, joker. Show us the colour of your money.” With the other hand she yanked off the clown mask. “Guv?” While she struggled to get her head round that, Byford’s features morphed into the Black Widow’s. Bev blinked, rubbed her eyes. When she opened them again, a machete-swinging Toby Priest advanced towards her sprinkling holy water. And she was wearing the mask. Screaming she teetered back and fell into a sand pit full of tiny bodies.
Gasping for breath, Bev bolted upright, flung off the duvet, sweat trickling down her spine. Byford, Black Widow, the Bishop. No prizes for guessing where that lot came from. Freud’d have a freaking field day. Make that month. Of Sundays.
She reached for the glass on her bedside table, took a few sips of water, glanced at the time. Great. Quarter past two. It’d taken ages to drop off anyway. She’d been wrestling with thoughts of Dorkboy. The youth had been lucky in one way. It was only his age that had held her back from inflicting serious damage. What really bothered her was that for a while she hadn’t given a toss either way.
An hour later she was still propped up reading the latest Janet Evanovich, wishing her own love life featured a testosterone-fuelled lead called Ranger. Bev gave a wry smile. On her track record that’d be the Lone Ranger. The phone didn’t wake her. She answered before it rang twice. “Bev Morriss.” And waited. “Hello?”
It wasn’t a breather, but she was pretty sure someone was on the line. “Is there anybody there?” Ouija board silly voice. Suit yourself, mate. Maybe a dodgy connection? Mind, there’d been a couple of hang-ups on the answer phone when she got back. She shrugged, gave a wide-mouthed yawn, stretched her legs and laid Ranger on top of the duvet.
The next call did wake her. It was just after four a m. It was Highgate. And Operation Magpie had now become a murder inquiry.
TUESDAY
7
“Victim’s an Alex Masters, fifty-five years old.” The cop on the door – PC Steve Hawkins – consulted his notes, his partner Sergeant Ken Gibson was on a mobile. They’d been the first uniformed officers to respond to the triple-nine. A DI and DC who’d arrived just after were now inside the property. Bev tightened her belt: it was brass monkeys out here with frost white-tipping the lawn and diamond-studding the drive. Could be why the MG failed to start; she’d had to grab a lift from Mac.
“How’d she die?” Mac rubbed a flaky patch of skin on his neck.
“She’s a he,” Hawkins enlightened them, “as in Alexander. Control got it arse about face.” Call had been garbled apparently and whoever took it assumed a female victim because the Sandman targeted lone women. “Anyway, the guy died from stab wounds.” Hawkins’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Blood everywhere.”
Bev glanced round. The crime scene was close to the Blenheim Avenue burglary, and not far from Baldwin Street – in distance. Not that she could see herself stretching to a plush mansion-ette in Park View. The cost-a-packet properties backed on to a fair-size private park and lido. Come first light, a search team would be finger-tipping the area. FSI were already hands-on upstairs, the body was in situ in the master bedroom.
“Who called it in, Hawkeye?” Bev asked.
“The wife. Diana. She was screaming, hysterical. No surprise given what’s gone on.” Also helped explain the initial confusion. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s in there now with a neighbour. She took a couple of flesh wounds. Lucky really. The bastard probably panicked, legged it...”
Bev flapped a hand. “Ta, Steve.” Tad early for a speculative heads-up when she hadn’t even seen the body.
Hawkeye gave a please-yourself shrug. “GP’s on the way, sarge.” Bev nodded. Ditto the pathologist presumably. Gillian Overdale always took her time. Then she’d bang on about the weather, the welfare state, women newsreaders. You name it... Bev turned a scowl into a cheery wave as Overdale cruised past in an aging Land Rover. She’d be whingeing about having nowhere to park in a minute. The road was chocker with police motors and a meat wagon waiting to transport the body to the mortuary. Despite the circus, Bev clocked only a couple of twitching curtains. This was posh-ville, residents didn’t stand in the street and gawp.
“DI Talbot’d like you to have a word with the widow,” Hawkins told Bev. She nodded, that figured. Pete Talbot, who’d taken on much of Mike Powell’s duties, was a good cop, but at six-six and near on fifteen stone, his sheer bulk could intimidate some witnesses. A short fuse didn’t help either. Course that was a plus when dealing with hard men.
“Pete still upstairs?” she asked. He was, and according to Hawkeye happy to hang around and liaise with Overdale. Top man: saved Bev a brush with Doctor Death. Through the door she caught a glimpse of polished panels, stained glass, stately home staircase. She nodded at Mac. “See what we’ve got, eh?”
The wife was in what Hawkeye had been told to call the drawing room. It had the feel of a genteel though slightly seedy drinking club with William Morris walls and heavy dark furniture, brass lamps cast dingy glows, stags and foxes gazed soulfully from gilt-framed misty landscapes. Dimpled copper scuttles gleamed either side of a huge fireplace, embers glowed in the grate. All it needed was a brace of flatulent black Labs and the tableau was complete.
It took Bev a second or two to locate the source of the noise – and what the sound was. Against the wall to the right of the double doors, Diana Masters was curled in the foetal position on a gold velvet chaise longue. The back of her neck was exposed: slender, white, vulnerable. Her narrow shoulders shook, heartbreaking sobs muffled by an oyster satin nightdress stained with blood. Bev halted momentarily. It was evidence; she should’ve been told to change. She bit back commenting. The husband wasn’t the only victim here. Bev had witnessed this sort of pain too many times, countless lives ruined in the fall-out from violent death.
As she and Mac drew near, an elderly matron type homed in from the left. The neighbour presumably. Her bulky tweed-skirted hips straddled the approach path, and Bev caught a whiff of wet dog and dry sherry.
“I really don’t think she should be disturbed right now.” Her bulbous pale blue eyes shot glares between Bev and Mac. No one reacted to the sound of ash falling in the grate.
“You a doctor?” Bev asked.
“No.” Wattled neck flesh quivered. “Dr Gannon should be here any minute.”
“Best get a move on, then.” Bev strode forward.
“I don’t think so, young lady.” Lady? Bev caught Mac scratching his nose.
“What is it, Joy?” Diana Masters lifted her head, looked as if she was trying to focus – not just bleary eyes. There were a couple of defence wounds near the knuckles on both hands, another thin red weal on a well-toned arm.
“Don’t worry, Diana dear, they’re police officers and they’re just leav...”
Bev barged in, hand outstretched. “Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss, Mrs Masters. This is my colleague, DC Mac Tyler. If you feel up to it, we need to ask a few questions.”
Fleeting touch of fingers as the woman straightened. “Of course. I understand. Joy...?” Looked less than ecstatic. “I’m sure the officers would appreciate a hot drink.” It was polite but it was a dismissal.
“White coffee, two sugars. Thanks.” Bev gave the order. There was a Norwegian wood moment while they glanced
round for a chair. Mac spotted a couple of uprights against a wall, carried them across the faded sage Wilton. Doing the interview standing was out of the question, but the seating arrangements felt a bit like an audience with a minor royal. Bev instantly dismissed the notion. Diana Masters had done nothing to warrant it.
“This is Alex’s favourite room.” She gave a deep shuddering sigh. “I feel close to him here. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No worries. It’s fine, Mrs Masters.” Looking at her now, Bev reckoned pop princess was nearer the mark. The glossy hair with caramel highlights curved razor sharp under a firm jaw-line. Even without make up, the amber eyes were slanted, feline. Put Bev in mind of that singer: Sophie something? It’d come to her. Like a shed-load of other info, some of it useful.
At this stage, she knew squat about the Masters. Initial interviews were about feeling the way, laying down broad brushstrokes, fine detail being filled in by subsequent sessions. By the end, the cops would probably know more about Diana and Alex than their own mothers.
She led Diana gently through the easy ones, full name, age, occupation, family members, anyone who had access to the house. Mac’s note-taking meant Bev was freer to register the non-verbal signals; in Diana Masters’s case, licking the lips a lot, fiddling with earlobes. Bev was surprised to hear the woman was forty-one, she’d have guessed thirty, thirty-one. There was a daughter, Charlotte, twenty-three, who had her own place in Selly Oak and was on the way over. It was no shock to learn that apart from a few hours’ voluntary work, Mrs Masters didn’t have a job. Didn’t even do her own cleaning, the hired help came in four times a week, young woman called Marie Walinski. Judging by the set-up, it was pretty clear Diana didn’t need to earn a crust; the Masters family didn’t look short of a bob or three. Then Bev clocked a photograph on top of a baby grand that confirmed her impression. Alex Masters on the steps of the Old Bailey, black gown billowing. No wonder the name had rung a bell. Masters was barrister to the rich and famous. Made Mr Loophole look like Judge Jeffries.
“And of course, Alex is very traditional. He’s the breadwinner, I’m...” Early days, easily done. Diana Masters had lapsed again into the present tense. She’d do it for a while yet, certainly until after the funeral. It wasn’t denial – sudden death took time to sink in. Soon as it hit home this time she dropped her head in her hands, rocked gently backwards and forwards.
Bev counted to twenty before clearing her throat ready. The widow took the cue. She dashed away tears with the heel of her hand then stared ahead, eyes narrowed as if trying to see sense in events that held none. “I still can’t believe it. I was asleep, you see. I’d taken a pill. The noise woke me. I was groggy. Not really with it.”
“Any idea what the time was, Mrs Masters?” Essential to establish a timeline or Bev wouldn’t have halted the flow.
“I rang the police around a quarter past two, so a little before then, I guess. I thought I was dreaming. A nightmare. A clown! Wrestling with Alex at the foot of the bed. Ludicrous.” Her glance sought Bev’s agreement, approval. “Then the knife. Jab. Jab. Jab. And the blood.” She squeezed her eyes tight. “I screamed and screamed and...”
Sound of clinking crockery. Gentle prompt from Bev. “What happened next, Mrs Masters?”
“Alex saved my life.” Head high, she laced her fingers in her lap, spoke with absolute conviction. “The intruder would have killed me too but even badly injured Alex clung to his arm, wouldn’t let him go, gave me vital seconds.” A lifetime. “I hit the panic button. I couldn’t see his face of course but I could tell the alarm had startled him. He stabbed Alex again. I could see that my husband was...”
Dead. Dying. “And then?” Bev said.
“He came towards me. I saw dark glittering eyes through slits in the mask. I knew he wanted to kill me but presumably was desperate to get away too. He came for me with the knife. I held my hands over my face. I thought, this is it – it’s all over. I heard a police siren. He called me a... fucking bitch... then I fainted.”
Prime witness passes out. Brilliant. “And when you came to?”
“Alex was on the floor. I went to him...cradled him in my arms.” She was shaking, sobbing, barely able to get the words out. “But it was... too late. I’m so sorry...”
Bev glanced at Mac, tapped her watch. “You’ve been a great help, Mrs Masters.” Tactful as she could, she told the woman the nightdress would have to go to forensics, said a colleague would sort it. “Try and get some rest now. We’ll talk later.”
The neighbour came in with the coffee as they took their leave. That didn’t halt their progress. It was the widow’s remark as they reached the door.
“The irony is, Alex stays in London three evenings a week. He wasn’t due home last night. Until the fight broke out, I didn’t even know he was here.”
8
“What d’you make of it, then?” Mac’s focus was on his plate but the question didn’t relate to the state of his breakfast. He and Bev were in the canteen, grabbing a bite before the brief. She’d opted for the full Monty, too. Giving away last night’s fish and chips might’ve been good for the soul, but her body had paid for it. Since the early shout she’d been running on empty, felt dizzy and nauseous at one stage. Though that could’ve been the sight of Masters’s body when she’d nipped upstairs to have a word with Pete Talbot.
Not normally given to spouting Shakespeare, soon as she’d entered the bedroom a quote had sprung to mind. Now it just slipped out. “Who’d have thought the old man had so much blood in him?” Well it was close enough.
Mac jabbed an admonitory sausage. “Masters was fifty-five. That’s not old.” Mac was fifty-two.
Bev rolled her eyes. “Ignorant pillock.”
He shrugged. “I see where you’re coming from, though. What was it Overdale said? Fourteen, fifteen wounds?”
“She reckons the post mortem might reveal more.” Bev spread Daddies’ sauce on a fried slice, added bacon, egg and tomato. “Frenzied attack is what the papers’ll call it.”
“They’d be right, wouldn’t they?” Mac hadn’t seen the body. There’d been no point both of them entering the crime scene.
“First time for everything.” Satisfied with the filling, she topped it with another piece of bread. They ate in silence for a while. The place was filling up: uniforms, support staff, plastic plods – dick-lites as Bev called them. She spotted Sumitra Gosh at the counter, lifted a fork in greeting. Maybe Sumi hadn’t noticed. Maybe Sumi had other things on her mind. Mac clearly had. “The press’ll crucify Byford.”
That they would. She’d spoken briefly with the guv earlier. The big man looked as if he was weight-lifting as in world on shoulders. “He’ll cope.”
“Reckon the wife’s away with the Mogadon fairies every night?” Mac asked.
“Uh?” Byford’s missus had been dead ten years. Then the penny dropped. Diana Masters. Maybe she only needed help sleeping when she was alone in the house; maybe she was a chronic insomniac. Bev shrugged; who knows? It was on a growing list of things to find out. She gulped a mouthful of tea, scraped back the chair.
“Where you off to, boss?” Mac glanced up. There was still half a pig on his plate.
“Catch you at the brief.”
“Hold on. ’fore you go.” He offered her a napkin.
She scowled. “And that’s for...?”
He pointed at her chin. “Out, out damn spot.”
Mac quoting Lady M. There’s a thing. Bev was still smiling when she sat at her desk, tapped a few keys and waited for the screen to come up with the goodies. Stone me. They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but by God Alex Masters was no oil painting. And she was studying a pic on the barrister’s own website. Even in the rudest of health he was an ugly squat little bloke. Savile Row’s classiest pin-stripe three-piece wasn’t gonna disguise the pot belly. The head looked too big for the body, the hair was like wire wool, the squashed nose needed re-setting and the face could do with ironing. OK, beauty was
skin deep but Bev bet the bloke had a hell of a big... bank balance.
She hit a few keys, waited for a page to download, mused a bit more. Was it money that made guys like Masters attractive? Or was it Henry Kissinger’s theory about power being the ultimate aphrodisiac? The widow’s grief had seemed genuine enough, maybe she saw beyond the surface. Not Bev, though. Give her a looker any time. Like the guy in the Fighting Cocks. If he didn’t do drugs and it didn’t go against her recently adopted rules of engagement she’d see Jagger lips again, no sweat.
Bingo. Here it was. She remembered seeing the article before. According to The Times on-line, Alex Masters had power, presence, charisma, call it what you will, in spades. Skimming the article, she reckoned you could make that pick-up trucks. Before marriage to Diana Scott, he’d sown more oats than the Archers. Professional strike rate was on a par. In legal circles he was known as The Raptor: razor tongued, cutting wit, sharp suits. Nowadays he was mostly associated with high profile court cases where A-list celebs were fined peanuts for offences ordinary mortals mostly got sent down for. In the past though he’d been a top criminal prosecution lawyer. Big bank balance? Masters was minted.
Footsteps in the corridor, banging doors, busy buzz building up. The brief. Shit. She grabbed her bag, put on a topcoat of lippie, gathered the stuff she’d printed out. “Sorry, mate – gonna be late.” Masters’s coarse features vanished from the screen as she closed the page.
Lucky to get a seat, or what? Bev glanced round a packed incident room, spotted a spare next to Carol Pemberton by the window. Bag dumped at her feet, she had a closer butcher’s. It wasn’t quite standing room only – two-thirds of the available officers were out in the field. Or the park.
One theory had the burglar gaining access by scaling the railings at the back of the Masters property. No CCTV coverage there. Luck or judgement? Bev knew where she’d put her money. The perp had certainly entered the house through a kitchen window. A pane had been removed with cutters, glass covered in perfect dabs and DNA. Yeah right.
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