Blood Money

by Maureen Carter

  WEDNESDAY

  14

  Bev’s nose twitched, a lazy smile spread across her sleepy face. Proper coffee. Was there a better smell in the universe first thing? Arms above her head, she stretched full length in bed cogitating. Cut grass? Sweet peas? The sea? Suntan skin? Chips and vinegar? Bacon sarnie? Strawberries? Bread baking? Candy floss? Dark chocolate? Rive Gauche? Yeah yeah yeah: point taken. But dark roast Kenyan came pretty damn close. Eyes wide, she bolted upright. However pukka it was, coffee didn’t brew itself.

  Almost tripping over the duvet, she was halfway downstairs before last night’s events fell into place: the caffeine fairy had to be her house guest Fareeda Saleem. As Bev entered the kitchen, the teenager peeked through long glossy black hair, then pushed a mug across a work surface. Service with a shy smile.

  Bev winked. “Could get used to this.” Her Snoopy jim-jam bottoms were at half mast; she hauled them up with one hand, concerned gaze covertly raking the teenager’s damaged face. “How you doing, kid?”

  “Fine.” Knee-jerk response. Touchy subject. Far as Bev could see the swelling on her bottom lip had gone down a fraction overnight, bruised eyes still resembled over-ripe damsons. Emotionally she seemed to be holding it together, and was evidently keen to change tack; two slices of bread were on standby for the toaster. “Ready for breakfast?” Given the crumbs and buttery knife on the table she’d already had a bite. Kids!

  “Definitely get used to this.” Bev flashed a smile, grabbed the coffee. “Give me five mins, yeah?”

  It was nearer ten when she came down suited, booted and abluted. On the basis she still looked like an extra from Shaun of the Dead, she’d opted for a sharp blue skirt suit. Hopefully some sartorial edginess would rub off on its wearer, unlike the hastily applied slap that just about concealed two broken nights’ sleep.

  Bev paused at the door, loath to disturb Fareeda who stood at the sink gazing through the window, miles away. The girl wouldn’t be admiring the garden; nothing there to write home about, even when it wasn’t ink-black outside. It didn’t seem as if Fareeda was studying her haunted reflection either. Bev reckoned her mind’s eye was watching an action replay, a mismatched big fight. Dwarfed by one of Bev’s white cotton nighties, the girl looked featherweight.

  Bev checked her watch, gave a rueful sigh. At 7.22 there was no time for small talk let alone big issues. The guv’s eight o’clock brief wasn’t optional, she had to get a move on. Fareeda must’ve caught movement in the glass, she turned to face Bev. “Thank you so much for letting me stay.”

  “No sweat.” Her hungry glance fell on breakfast. “Ta for this, kid.” She snatched a few sheets of kitchen towel off the roll, wrapped it round the toast. “Have to eat on the hoof. If I don’t hit the road...”

  “You said one night.” Unwittingly perhaps, Fareeda’s fingers stroked a swollen discoloured cheek. “Do you want me to leave?”

  Despite what was probably emotional blackmail, Bev had already made up her mind. She wanted Fareeda to be safe, untouched by inhuman hand. That meant knowing where she was. “Make yourself at home, eh? We’ll take it a day at a time.” She cocked her head at the table. “And get rid of those crumbs. This ain’t a flaming hotel, you know.” A warm smile and wink took the heat out of her words.

  The girl nodded, eyes brimming, fingers kneading a slender forearm. “Thank you so much, I...”

  “Later.” She raised a palm. “We’ll talk then.”

  Later. Like she’d deal with the sodding parcel on the doorstep. After nearly tripping over the damn thing, she scooped it up, glanced at the tag and tucked it under her arm. It’d be the desk clock she’d spotted on eBay: the flashing blue light would give her Highgate mates a laugh. Mind, she’d have another word with Postman Pat, he was lucky the bloody thing hadn’t been nicked.

  “Hey, Morriss! This is your lucky day.” The familiar voice shouting across the car park was almost drowned out by contractors digging up the road at the back of the nick. They were replacing water mains or something, drilling seemed to have gone on for weeks.

  Bev reached into the Polo’s passenger door, a smile curving her lips. She knew who was predicting her fortune without looking round. It wasn’t so much the quasi Delboy delivery, more the sarky, “Morriss”. The only guy she knew who didn’t call her Bev or sarge was Mike Powell. The DI wasn’t a sexist git just because of that. There were loads of reasons. Was it good to have him around? Betcha.

  “Mystic Mike.” She yelled back, not even trying to hide the smile in her voice. Still without a backward glance she locked the motor, then juggling shoulder bag, files and parcel headed for the rear of the building. This time of morning the air was chocker with exhaust fumes, aftershave trails and wafts of perfume. She always reckoned her nose could detect Highgate’s early birds. Quick sniff, quirky frown. Not that one though. Powell was just behind her now. Had he finished at Hendon? Or had the guv requested his early release? Given Operation Magpie’s increasing complexity, the squad’s workload was growing fast – same as the pressures. If she was the guv she’d split the inquiry, have one team concentrate on the burglaries, the other focus on the murder, pool everything at joint briefs. “You back with us then, sir?”

  “Can’t keep a good man down, Morriss.” He upped the pace; fell into step beside her.

  “Yeah, but what about you?” The cheeky wink finally established eye contact. And boy was he looking good. She might have told him if her teeth weren’t clenched against the cold. Sod it, if the temperature didn’t buck up she’d soon be investing in thermals. Heated bra would be good.

  “God. You look rough.” Mike Powell: Mr Charmer. Or was that snake? She opened her mouth to bite back then stopped. There’d been no edge to the remark, his concern was probably genuine. Even more reason to ignore it.

  “Equality awareness course, was it, at cop school?” She was wide-eyed innocence, knowing full well Powell had been tutor not trainee. Lecturing in Intelligent Management, Mac had heard. Sounded like an oxymoron to her.

  Powell could’ve got the door but held back deliberately. She gave an exaggerated sigh as she struggled to open it. “Glad you passed. A* was it?”

  “Patronising, isn’t it? Blokes holding doors for wimmin.” He’d purposely crossed his what-women-want wires to wind her up.

  “Patronise ahead.” She nodded at the first fire door, arms still laden. This time Powell did the honours, even stooped to pick up the parcel and a file she’d dropped. She had to admit he looked almost tasty. His skin glowed, the blond hair a tad longer now, curled at the neck. The dove grey suit swelled in all the right places. “Joined a gym, have we?” She sensed his appraising gaze as they walked; he’d be limping if he didn’t watch what he said.

  “I have.” He left it at that: subtle for Powell. Perhaps he’d learned something in class after all. Their catch-up chat was intermittently put on hold as colleagues passing in the corridors welcomed the DI back with Hi Mikes and the odd high-five. Hendon had been badly hit by a flu outbreak, he told her. So many people were down with it loads of sessions had been cancelled, including his. Either way he’d have been back next week, his three-month stint was up this Friday.

  “And you just couldn’t wait to get back in the saddle, eh?” They’d arrived at Bev’s office.

  “I know you can’t live without me, Morriss. Heard you were pining away.”

  “Get the hearing aid checked if I were you.” Her fingers closed on the door handle.

  “Pardon?”

  She rolled her eyes. “That is so old. Try a refresher course next time.”

  “Touché, mon babe.” He tapped his forehead, walked away, whistling what sounded like I heard it through the grapevine.

  Still smiling she bummed the door, off-loaded files and bag, shucked out of her coat. What was Bob Dylan doing on her keyboard? Of course, last night’s phone call. She’d told the guv she wanted her CD back. She sniffed. He could at least have given it to her in person. She lifted the case, turned it
over. Big of him, he hadn’t even left a note to say thanks. Actually. Eyes creased, she tapped the desktop. Felt the hint of a blush. Her greatest hits were at home. This had been a present for the big man. A present. Like the package on the doorstep this morning. Powell had waltzed off...

  He walked in without knocking, dumped parcel and file on her desk, loosened his tie. “Must be getting as ditzy as you, Morriss.”

  “Time of the month, sir?” Deadpan, she grabbed bag, file, notepad, water bottle. “Brief’s in five. Don’t be late. First day back and all that.”

  Byford had clearly been busy. Still was. The big man was up at the front, back to the squad, standing towards the end of a row of five incident charts. His sleeves were rolled back and a charcoal grey jacket was slung over the nearest swivel chair. Bev headed for a seat by the window, glanced at the guv’s handiwork in passing. The first four charts covered sequentially the Sandman burglaries, the fifth was devoted to the murder. In the centre of each board was a close up of the victim: Beth Fowler first, Sheila Isaac, Donna Kennedy, Faith Winters, finally, Alex Masters. Each pic was circled in thick black marker, lines led off to smaller circles. In his distinctive italic script, Byford had added names, locations, main players, key points. And a crop of question marks. He was still working on the murder chart.

  Byford’s headmaster stance might have subdued the atmosphere, or maybe Donna Kennedy’s suicide had dampened the team spirit. Whatever was to blame for the downbeat vibes, it was so quiet you could hear the guv’s felt tip squeak.

  Bev slouched back, hands on head, legs crossed, and sussed out the action. Mac was texting, Pembers was biting a nail, Powell leaned against a wall leafing through one of the zillion files he needed to catch up on, Peter Talbot and Jack Hainsworth were shuffling printouts, the two new-ish DCs were reading through their notes probably in the hope they’d be word perfect when it came to delivering input, Daz was doing The Sun crossword. Bev sighed, circled an ankle. Byford still had his back to the gathering, pen still squeaking. She spotted Sumi Gosh behind a desk a few rows back, gaze fixed on a computer screen. They needed to get their heads together, sooner rather than later. After signally failing to attract Sumi’s attention, she tried air mail. Missive scribbled on a sheet of A4, she folded it into a paper plane, sent it flying into Sumi’s air space. It crash landed into Darren New’s who re-modelled a wing tip before re-launch.

  “What are you playing at?” If the guv had yelled, it would’ve been less ominous. Everyone in the nick knew the softer his voice the harsher the sentence. A pointer tucked under his arm, Byford was replacing the top on the marker pen, steely glare on Darren.

  “Sorry, guv, I was...” The words petered out, but the bobbing Adam’s apple said a lot.

  “Being puerile,” Byford sneered. Bev’s ankle was like a windmill in a force ten. What was bugging the big man? He’d be handing out detentions in a minute. “If I could afford to lose an officer you’d be off the squad.”

  That was well over the top. Bev straightened, bristling. “Daz didn’t start it. If you need to take it out on someone – have a go at me.” Her eyes blazed, heart raced. It was as good as calling him a bully who needed a whipping boy to cover his own failings. As if that wasn’t enough, she’d issued a public challenge for him to take her on. In the diss-the-boss stakes, it was a double whammy: insubordinate – and insolent.

  Byford clenched his jaw two, three times. She stared, arms folded, aware the squad was holding its collective breath. Talk about sailing close to the wind; this was more like the eye of the storm. When he spoke, the words were little more than a whisper. “When we’ve finished here, you report to my office.”

  “Sir.” Loud and clear.

  “Donna Kennedy committed suicide last night.” Business mode, normal delivery. Byford’s roving gaze took in every officer present. “Her death – far as I’m concerned – is as much down to the Sandman as Alex Masters’s murder.” No one argued. “We stop him before there’s another.” Earnest. Unequivocal. And total bollocks. They were no nearer an arrest than they were on the first day of the inquiry. Byford walked the line of charts, used the pointer as he named each victim, paused a few seconds to let the incident’s import sink in.

  Facing the squad he said: “The targets weren’t selected at random. He didn’t just flick through yellow pages. There have to be links between the women. We’ve looked before. Clearly we’ve not looked hard enough. We dig deeper. I want ideas.”

  The sound of a pneumatic drill shattered the silence, broke the still uneasy tension. There was the odd laugh, a weak one-liner. Byford nodded at the open window, the nearest DC took the hint and closed it.

  “How about a property angle?” Mac scratched his cheek. Bev frowned. Burglars often had a favoured point of entry: louvred windows, french doors, whatever, they rarely deviated from an MO. The Sandman wasn’t fussy how he got in; they’d already dismissed this line of inquiry. “Maybe the victims have had dealings with the same estate agent?” Mac had a different line in mind. It was a reasonable next move. Up to now they’d concentrated on establishing personal connections: family, friends, neighbours, colleagues. Same with any case: start small, work out. If the women had thought of selling their houses, it meant keys could be floating around. Not the likeliest scenario but at least the ball was rolling. The team ran with it.

  “What about banks? Building societies? Do they use the same branch?”

  “Motors? They all drive. Maybe they visit the same garage?”

  “Go to the same gym?”

  “Hairdresser? Library?”

  “Callers to the house? Gardener maybe?

  “Window cleaner?”

  “Milkman?”

  Potential leads or clutched straws – they’d all have to be checked if only for elimination purposes.

  “Volunteers?” Byford lifted an eyebrow. A couple of DCs raised their hands.

  “Don’t bother calling Diane Masters.” Head down, Bev jotted notes on a pad. “I’m seeing her this morning.”

  “You’re not,” Byford said.

  She looked up smartish. “It’s arranged.”

  “I’m not getting into it here. See me later.” Open-mouthed she watched as he perched on the edge of a desk, rolled down the sleeves. “Chris? Forensics, please.”

  She glowered through her fringe as the FSI manager Chris Baxter took a sip of tea, coffee, whatever, from his Buffy mug. A slight flush highlighted his freckles as he swallowed, then dabbed thin lips. “As you know, we lifted fibres from the railings at the back of the Masters property.” Black cotton. Didn’t amount to much until they nailed the Sandman and got a match. If they nailed...“We’re still waiting on a few test results but apart from that it’s more of the same.” Which meant SFA. Sweet forensic all.

  Byford’s lips tightened. Frustration wasn’t in it. Each crime scene had yielded an embarrassment of potential goodies, they could run donkey rides on the sand alone but not a grain had been traceable. Or rather it was – to any builder’s yard in the UK. Ditto the tethers. The three-ply nylon cord was manufactured by the mile and available in almost every hardware store across the country.

  “Any joy with the knot man?” Daz asked. Bev stifled a snort. She doubted Prof Ed Mclean would appreciate being referred to as the knot man. It made him sound like a bondage act on Britain’s Got Talent instead of Europe’s leading forensic knot analyst. They’d found Mclean via the National Crime Faculty at Bramshill. Cops used the NCF register when they needed input from expert witnesses or behavioural investigative advisors – posh for profilers, or the Freud Squad. Either way, soon as the cords had been through the local forensic mill they’d gone down to Southampton for Ed Mclean’s specialist take.

  “Talked to him briefly last night.” Baxter ran fingers through thinning ginger hair. “Like with the previous cases, the knots used on Faith Winters are simple half-hitches, and were tied right-handed. Though that could be to disguise the fact he’s left-handed.” Chris’s blush had deepe
ned a shade. No wonder. The local forensic ace had come up with identical info days ago. She’d like to know how much the pro was being paid. Talk about old rope and easy money.

  “And that’s it?” Byford asked.

  “He’s cross-checking burglaries with similar MOs, but...”

  “Best not hold our breath?” The guv sighed. It wasn’t the inquiry’s only instance of hopes being raised then dashed by forensic let down. Way back at the first crime scene, traces of sweat and skin had been extracted from one of the cords, knots were usually a good place to lift DNA. Only snag? Lab tests showed it was Beth Fowler’s. Bev wouldn’t be surprised if the Sandman had planted the bloody stuff. He could be a cop, he knew so much. She frowned. No way. Yes way? Either way – given her current standing, it wasn’t an idea she’d be sharing any time soon. She plumped for safer ground. “Anything back on the knife you bagged at Blenheim Road, Chris?” Knife. Shoot. She’d not handed in Dorkboy’s blade from the other night. Must still be in the Midget. Mental note: get on to it, Beverley.

  “It’s in the initial report. There’s a copy on your desk.” Must’ve missed it under all the other stuff. She spread empty palms. “Tests aren’t complete,” Chris said. “But the blood’s not human.” Coincidence more than convenient discovery, then? Couldn’t really say the news was a shock; Bev had never shared Danny Rees’s rose-tinted theory. “Shouldn’t take long to determine what animal it’s from,” Chris added. “Not sure where it’ll get us though.”

  Movement on the CCTV front was equally disappointing. A couple of DCs had interviewed owners of vehicles parked overnight in the vicinity of the Masters place; every one checked out. Of the five people who appeared on the tapes four had come forward after media appeals. All four had been eliminated. Which left one mystery man.

  “Get on to the news bureau,” Byford told one of the detectives. “Tell Bernie I want the CCTV frames issued to the press by midday at the latest.”