Bev made mental notes as she listened to more negative feedback: no headway with mask suppliers from Mac, ditto stolen jewellery from Carol Pemberton and Sumi. One of Bev’s notes made it on to paper: exhibits, check.
“Stick with it, everyone.” Byford rose, retrieved his jacket. It was almost a wrap. “If there’s no early break, I might take the Crimewatch option. I had a producer on the phone last week wanting to send up a researcher.” There’s a surprise. Bev could see the reconstruction now. Man in clown mask, terrified woman tethered to a bed, low light, menacing shadows, sprinkling sand, spooky soundtrack. Good telly, wasn’t it? Long as you don’t have nightmares.
“Want me to look after that, guv?” Powell casually stroked his neck.
“Mike. Sorry. I got sidetracked.” The guv cracked his first smile of the day. “Should have welcomed you at the start. Good to have you back on board.” Bev raised an eyebrow. A sidetrack now, was she? “Just so everyone knows,” Byford continued, “soon as DI Powell’s up to speed, he’ll take senior investigating officer role on the murder inquiry. Pete Talbot’ll remain SIO on the burglaries. I’ll stay in overall charge, and I’ll be looking to split the squad into two teams.” There’d be joint briefs, he said, and smaller strategy meetings with the SIOs and other key players as and when.
The reasoning was sound. The inquiry was already becoming unwieldy. With more and more information being gathered it was increasingly vital to prioritise and disseminate it properly. As Tony Blair didn’t say: communication, communication, communication.
Byford slipped into the jacket. “Anyone want to add anything?”
Not a word apparently.
15
It didn’t happen often. Bev was speechless. As in goldfish.
“Don’t be under any illusion,” Byford said, “she’s this close to slapping in an official complaint.” Bev glanced at the guv’s finger and thumb – they were butt-joined. Post-brief, she’d tailed the big man to his office expecting a dressing down. Now they faced each across his executive desk, he’d not even asked her to sit. Charlotte Masters had phoned Highgate first thing apparently. She’d seen Byford’s name in the press, knew he was the officer in charge. Currently he was only just keeping a lid on his anger. “Objectionable, amateur and incompetent were among the adjectives she used.” He glanced at a Post-it note on the desk. “Not forgetting a disgrace to the force.”
Four or five screaming gulls patrolled a roof opposite. Sodding racket. Shame she hadn’t got a gun. She waited until Byford closed the window. “Charlotte Masters wants me off the case, that’s all.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Thanks for listening, guv. “She found you obnoxious.”
“Obnox...” The voice couldn’t get any higher. She cleared her throat. “Obnoxious?”
“She said it – not me.” He jammed a hand in his trouser pocket. “The girl’s upset, for God’s sake, her father’s been murdered.”
“Turn on the waterworks did she?” Bev studied her nails.
“If that’s your attitude, no wonder the girl’s got a grievance.” And thanks for the vote of confidence, guv. Byford took a deep breath before ploughing on. “I assured her you were one of my best officers, experienced, sensitive, dedicated, professional.”
“’preciate it.” Sheepish mutter.
“I’ve not finished. Ms Masters doesn’t share my view. If she goes ahead, sergeant, it won’t just be the interview you’ll lose.” She followed his glance to a fat personnel file on top of the out-tray. Her name wasn’t visible but she’d seen the file often enough. She’d faced so many disciplinaries, she should have a seat on the board. Meant Byford had already been on to Human Resources for her paperwork though.
She toed the carpet. “I did apologise to her.”
“Not always enough, is it?” He walked to the water cooler, poured himself a cup, drained it. “What did you say to upset her?”
Guilty as not even tried. She objected loudly. “Make out like I deliberately pissed her off, why don’t you, oh you did.”
“I won’t tell you again, sergeant.” The voice was dangerously low. “Don’t answer back.”
She licked dry lips before giving him a précis of the exchange with Charlotte Masters, then: “It was six of one and half a dozen of the other. I was out of line maybe but she could’ve put me straight.”
“It’s not down to a witness to ‘put you straight’. Sort yourself out, sergeant.” He reached for the phone. “I’m asking Mike Powell to go out there this morning.” She shrugged. Being Powell’s second fiddle was better than sitting on the subs’ bench. “Carol Pemberton can go with him.”
She stopped just short of stamping a foot. “Putting someone else on it’s playing into the girl’s hands. Sir.”
“D’you really think I’m so easily manipulated?” He shook his head. “And it’s not a game.”
Course not. But Diana Masters was a key witness. Pleading her case didn’t come easily to Bev, but she rated Powell’s interview skills as patchy to middling. “Me and the widow are like this, guv.” It was pushing it a tad to show crossed fingers. Not that showing closeness was why Bev usually employed the gesture. “Look, if I run into Charlotte, I’ll give her the full-on Morriss grovel.” Her eyes shone. “One more chance? Please?”
“I gave you one.” He stared at her for five, six, seconds. He’d missed a bit shaving, but now wasn’t the time to mention it, she reckoned she knew what was coming. “You threw it back in my face.” At the brief.
Yep. She raised both palms, felt a blush rise. “I was totally out of order there. I apologise. It won’t happen again.”
“Damn right it won’t. Consider this a verbal warning. Next time it’ll be in writing.” He nodded at the door.
His eyes were harsh as the words. There was no leeway however hard she searched. “Sir.” She turned, walked away, head high. Pleading was one thing, but she’d not get on her knees. Halfway out of the office, she heard the receiver hit the cradle.
“Bev.” Eyes brimming, she glanced back. “One last chance. That’s it.”
He held up a single finger to drive home the point; her vision was blurred, she was seeing double.
PC Danny Rees was on one knee in the middle of the pavement head-height with a little girl who looked like Alice in Wonderland’s kid sister. Bev raised a curious eyebrow as she drove past. Following the action in the wing mirror, she parked the Polo a few doors down from the Masters place. Flushed and frowning, young Danny looked a little out of his depth. The kid was in floods of tears, clinging to the hand of a whippet-thin, thirty-something blonde, presumably the mother. They were all rabbiting on, but from where Bev sat it was a silent movie. A grey winter blanket sky added to the monochrome impression, Park View seemed leeched of colour bar the little girl’s scarlet coat, and a couple of magpies arguing the toss over a dead rat in the gutter. Two for joy? Yeah right.
For all of a second or three, she considered giving Danny a hand. Nah. She lit a Silk Cut instead. This was the rookie’s deal and he needed the practice. More to the point she was itching to interview Diana Masters. Soon as Mac rolled up, they’d get the show on the road. Fanning smoke through the window, she glanced at the clock on the dash, tutted. The rush hour was over: trust Tyler to get caught in traffic. Normally they’d have travelled together, but after the blistering encounter with the big man she’d ached for her own space. Last thing she needed was Mac coming over all paternal, trying to get her to open up.
Frowning, she glanced in the rear view mirror. The silent movie now had sound effects. What was that kid’s problem? Talk about throwing a wobbly. Mind, Bev knew the feeling. Since the guv’s bollocking, her mood swings made an emotional rollercoaster look flat. The hurt and gratitude had morphed into self-righteous pique. She took a deep drag. Frig’s sake – she was hunting a murderer not looking for a best mate. Course she’d be civil to Charlotte Masters, but she’d not be cowed by anyone. If she had to watch every word she said, the suits might as well
gag her. It’d go with the straitjacket. Fighting crime was crazy enough without both arms tied behind the back. Anyway bottom line was this: if push came to shove they could stuff the job.
“All in a day’s work, eh, sarge?” Danny was squatting at her window, nodded at the kid and woman as they strolled past the motor.
“What’s up? Someone nick her jelly babies?” Bev cracked a half-smile. Danny was easy on the eye, and had a decent line in banter – a rare breed at Highgate.
“Nah. She wants me to look for Crumpet.”
“Thought you had a girl?”
The blush was endearing. “Missing cat. Me being a policeman she wants me to get a search party out. I told her I was a bit busy, like.” Bev nodded, knew Danny was now on the team mopping up house-to-house inquiries, not everyone had been at home during the first wave. “Said they should get posters up, see if...”
“When’d it go AWOL?” She took another drag, eyes creased against the smoke, toying with a notion.
“Couple of days, why?”
“Where’d they live?”
He nodded up the road. “Big place round the corner, with the hedge?” Close to where uniform had found a knife stained with animal blood. A discovery Bev had always seen as dead convenient. “What’s up, sarge?”
“Dunno yet.” It was a hell of a leap from missing moggie to master criminal. She frowned, trying to think it through.
Danny removed the helmet, smoothed shiny dark hair. “Her mum was giving her a hard time as well, reckoned she was telling porkies.”
“Lost me there, Danny. This cat missing or what?”
“Yeah, it’s missing, but the little girl says someone ran off with it. Wants me to put the bad man in prison.” Indulgent smile, shake of the head.
Bev stiffened. “Did the kid actually see a bloke take the cat?” Curt.
The smile faltered slightly. “The mother says she makes things up all the time.”
“Did she see a bloke take the frigging cat? Christ, Danny, you were here when we found the knife.”
“You think...?” She’d never seen blood drain from a face so quickly.
“I don’t know what I think, ’cept there’s an outside chance the kid might have clocked the perp. You’d best...”
“On it, sarge.” Like a bat on speed. He was halfway down the road before she’d hit fast dial for forensics. The tests needed narrowing down. If it was cat blood on the knife, they needed to know pronto. Busy line. “Damn.”
“Where’s the boy wonder off to?”
Jeez-us. Mac was at the window now. Not such a pretty sight. “Tell you later.” She’d get on to the lab after the Masters interview. The cat thing was probably a wild goose chasing red herrings down a dead end. No sense wasting even more time now Tyler was here. She stubbed the baccy, grabbed her bag. “What kept you, mate?”
He pointed at the ashtray. “Could have you for that. The Smoke Free Exemptions and Vehicles Regulations 2007 states quite...”
“Nothing in the known universe could you have me for, mate.” She locked the motor, headed towards the house. “So? What kept you?”
He hitched his denims. “D’you never listen to the radio?”
It’d been on; she’d not been tuned in. “Just give, eh?”
“Some nutter’s on top of Selfridges.”
“Pissed off at the prices probably.” Cynical snort.
“Police cordons, traffic diversions. It was like a circus down there.”
He’d come from Highgate to Moseley via town? “Took the scenic route did you?”
“I fancied a quick nose. Powell’s there calling the shots.”
“Why Powell?”
“The guy on the roof’s dressed as a clown.”
The Selfridges building is a Doctor Who spaceship fashioned by Steven Spielberg out of Salvador Dali. A massive blue whale covered with silver discs, it’s beached in the Bullring and dwarfs neighbours including the faux-gothic Victorian church of Saint Martin’s. Powell reckoned it was surreal enough without a clown mincing along the top. Gazing upwards, he also reckoned Dali would’ve appreciated the spectacle. The crowd certainly was: scores of shoppers, office workers and the odd wino were enjoying a free show. Uniform was doing its best to keep everyone back, but the thin blue and white line was severely stretched. Powell slipped through the police cordon and headed for the action.
“Eh, you!” A burly uniform grabbed the DI’s shoulder. “Where’d you think you’re going?” The loud Birmingham accent set Powell’s teeth on edge. Eyes blazing, he shook off a ham-sized fist, flashed his warrant card. The lack of recognition was mutual.
The older man eventually gave a token salute. “Sorry, sir. PC Knowles. Andy.” They were getting heavy with the crowd, he explained, because there’d already been a couple of public disorder arrests, two youths hacked off with the disruption chucking their weight around – and their fists. A few sickos had even been yelling at the guy to get a fucking move on.
“Tossers.” Powell clenched his jaw, recalled an incident in a neighbouring force when a baying crowd acting like animals, goaded a teenager to jump to his death from a multi-storey car park. It was the last thing they needed. “Negotiator here yet?”
“On the way, sir.” Knowles added that more troops and a uniformed inspector were inside liaising with maintenance people, having a look at the building’s layout. Knowles ran a fat finger round his collar. “God knows how he got up there.”
Powell shuddered. He was acrophobic. Just looking at the bloke gave him palpitations.
“Has he said anything?”
“Barely a word. Being honest, I reckon he’s pissed.” The PC sneezed into his hankie, sounded like a horny elephant. Someone in the crowd yelled, Bless you. Knowles scowled. “Some of this lot seem to think it’s a joke.”
Laughter and cheers broke out as if on cue. Powell’s gaze followed craned necks and pointing fingers. And froze. The guy had a gun. “Shit. Get everyone...”
“It’s a water pistol,” Knowles snarled. “He was blowing bubbles a while back. Playing up to the cameras, isn’t he?” There was a nearby line of snappers and wannabe auto-cuties with clipboards – as well as the world and its aunt taking mobile phone footage.
Powell finger-combed his hair then took a closer look where the lenses were trained. The figure on the roof was in full clown costume: loud yellow-checked jacket, red baggy half-mast strides, striped black and white socks. The fun guy even sported a spotted bow tie. And Powell would be surprised if the bloody thing didn’t have flashing lights and whiz round. He was beginning to think the only thing linking this nutter to the Sandman was spin.
Control had taken half a dozen triple-nines from anonymous callers. Punters who’d have read the papers, seen the telly, spotted the clown mask and maybe triple-jumped to conclusions: two plus two equals a pile of garbled Chinese-whispers. Powell sighed. It happened a lot. Mixed messages, mischief makers, genuine mistakes. Either way, he reckoned this was a waste of CID’s time. He’d have a word with his uniform opposite number then pull out. Turning to leave, he caught a yellow flash in the corner of his eye. Just for an instant, he fancied the spread arms of the jacket resembled a canary’s wings. And though Powell would always recall the incident in slow motion, the clown then took a running jump.
16
Diana Masters opened the door herself. Her chic black suit was probably Chanel; the row of shimmering pearls accentuated the classy image. She looked pretty good for a recent widow, or maybe she knew how to mask the grief. Close up it didn’t work. Bev noted mauve shadows under the artfully applied concealer, puffiness around the kohl-lined feline eyes. “Sergeant Morrison, isn’t it?” She stroked the necklace, her Sloane Ranger voice slightly hoarse.
“Morriss, Mrs Masters. This is my partner, DC Tyler.” Bev’s was a tad hesitant, unsure what the reception would be.
“Morriss, of course, forgive me.” Ghost of a smile, fleeting handshake. “Charlotte’s had to go out, so if you want to talk to h
er as well, I’m afraid...”
“We’ll catch her later, no worries.” Phew. Bev wiped her feet – and her mental sweaty brow – then told herself not to be a wuss. It only put off the inevitable. The hall smelt of beeswax, the banister gleamed. A crystal vase with stunning red roses had appeared on the dark wood console table since the last visit. Someone had been busy.
A few steps in and Mrs Masters halted, raised her voice. “Marie? Can you rustle up coffee for three, please?” She tilted her head until the order received muffled confirmation from Marie who was likely in the kitchen. Nothing seemed to have changed in the room where they’d first met, though this time the widow eschewed the chaise longue, drifted towards the fireplace, gestured wordlessly at a pair of green leather wing chairs. She slipped off kitten heels, and with shapely black-stockinged legs tucked neatly beneath her, nestled into the arm of a matching chesterfield. “I seem to spend most of my time in here.” A sad-eyed glance took in the surroundings as she circled her wedding ring. “Alex loved this room. It’s where I most feel his presence.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “If that doesn’t sound too cheesy.”
She’d made the same point last time. Bev still couldn’t see it. The space was dark and depressing, the deer-laden landscapes dire; she’d junk the lot in the nearest ditch. As to proximity to the dearly departed, the aesthetically-challenged Alex Masters was right beside his widow – in photo form. A leather-bound picture album lay open on the settee, four or five more lay scattered on the faded carpet. The current spread showed the couple’s wedding, traditional post-ceremony poses, wall-to-wall smiles, lots of tender touches, loving looks. Diana Masters had clearly been leafing through the past. They needed to edge her into the present.
“I know this is a painful time, Mrs Masters, but there are questions we have to ask.”
She folded lightly bandaged hands in her lap, neat nails were Barbie pink. “Of course.”
They’d decided to press ahead with the interview despite the circus kicking off in town. Not that Bev thought the rooftop stunt amounted to a row of beans. Soon as Mac told her the guy was prancing about in full clown costume she’d more or less dismissed him as a serious contender for the Sandman. The perp they were hunting was sadistic, calculating, professional. No way would a cold-blooded killer pull a crazy trick that guaranteed prison and a porridge diet. Even if she was wrong, however events in the Bullring panned out, the woman opposite had vital information. All Bev and Mac had to do was draw it out.
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