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  DEATH WISH

  by Maureen Carter

  DEATH WISH

  First published in 2016

  By Creative Content Ltd, Roxburghe House, 273-287 Regent Street, London, W1B 2HA.

  Copyright © 2016 Creative Content Ltd 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 or binding or cover other than that in which it is published

  In view of the possibility of human error by the authors, editors or publishers of the material contained herein, neither Creative Content Ltd. nor any other party involved in the preparation of this material warrants that the information contained herein is in every respect accurate or complete and they are not responsible for any errors or omissions, or for the results obtained from the use of such material.

  The views expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinion or policy of Creative Content Ltd. or any employing organization unless specifically stated.

  Cover design by Daniel at HCT Creative

  Typesetting by Creative Content Ltd

  eISBN 9781908807373

  Praise for Maureen Carter’s witty, gritty Bev Morriss series:

  “British hard-boiled crime at its best.” - Deadly Pleasures Year’s Best Mysteries (USA)

  “Bev Morriss is a strong character inhabiting an energetic and compelling series of stories that would work well on TV. It’s only a matter of time, surely.” - Tangled Web

  “A strong narrative voice and easy to understand slang...” - Publishers Weekly (USA)

  “Carter writes like a longtime veteran, with snappy patter and stark narrative.” - David Pitt, Booklist (USA)

  “Carter has mastered the art of the crime thriller to ensure a page turner which will catch you out no matter how hard you try to second guess her.” - Diane Parkes, Birmingham Mail

  “[W]ritten in a no-nonsense pared down style which combined with an action filled plot leaves the reader gasping for breath and turning the pages...” - Karen Meek, Eurocrime

  “ ... a cracking story that zips along... “ - Sarah Rayne, author of Tower of Silence

  “Crime writing and crime fighting: Maureen Carter and her creation Bev Morriss are the Second City’s finest!” - Mark Billingham, author of the acclaimed Tom Thorne series

  “ If there was any justice in the world she’d be as famous as Ian Rankin!” - Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  By its nature, writing is a solitary occupation, but getting the book out there is down to some pretty amazing teamwork. I couldn’t wish for a more professional, supportive and inspirational team than the wonderful people at Creative Content.

  My huge thanks go to publisher-editors Ali Muirden and Lorelei King; to Andrew Nash, copy editor extraordinaire; and to the awesomely talented Daniel Raven-Clift, for creating consistently stunning cover designs.

  Big thanks also to my police, media and medical contacts. They furnish me with the facts to go with the fiction.

  And last but certainly not least, I thank my readers. This one – as always – is for you.

  In memory of my father-in-law, Fran

  the dearest and truly gentle man

  Contents

  Praise for Maureen Carter’s witty, gritty Bev Morriss series

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Epilogue A month later

  About the Author

  The Bev Morriss series

  1

  Long lace curtains billowed gently in the room’s soft lighting; the sharp tang of antiseptic in the private nursing home vied with the sour reek of human waste, and lost. Inured to the stench but alert to the rustling sound, Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss flicked a sideways glance from the bed to the casement window. Almost subliminally she likened the flimsy material wafting in the half-light to an outsized pair of lungs. The flight of fancy wasn’t so bizarre, given how long she’d been picturing the real things.

  From an ostensibly casual stance leaning on a wall, she refocused on the object of her intense scrutiny. The man lay on his back, unconscious; head and shoulders drunkenly slumped against a mound of pillows. Bev’s normally mobile features were in lockdown as she observed the steady rise and fall of his chest, imagined the inner workings beneath the all too solid flesh: lungs expanding and contracting, heart pumping, blood flowing through arteries and veins.

  Outwardly unmoved, she shifted her gaze to take in his face, the beige skin mottled by ginger freckles, the lank hair a shade or two darker than sand; a line of saliva that glistened from slack lips to weak chin. Like the leavings of a slug.

  Sleeping Beauty, not, appeared dead to the world. Bev knew Paul Curran would be dead within weeks without the feeding tube in his gut and the catheter bag hooked onto the metal bedstead. Fake food and forced faecal collection – the F-factors that kept him ticking over. Oh, yes, and round-the-clock medical care provided by the Sunrise Nursing Home.

  Sniffing, Bev peeled herself off the wall, uncrossed her arms and approached the bed, flexing both fists to ease the pins and needles in her fingers.

  ‘Come on, wake up.’ The soft murmur barely parted her lips, though had she thought for a second it would have the desired effect, she’d scream blue murder down his ear.

  ‘You can do it,’ she breathed. ‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine, you piece of crap.’

  As per, she glanced round just in case before prodding him savagely in the ribs. On the last few visits, she’d taken to administering stinging slaps to his face as well. Neither did any good. As if she did it for his benefit. Looking down at the guy, she reckoned she’d eat cat sick before helping him so much as one iota. Fact was, if she knew what was good for her she needed to beat a hasty retreat this minute: harm’s way, out of, all that.

  If a staff member hadn’t raised the alert, Bev wouldn’t be lingering with intent now. Nina Night Nurse, as Bev thou
ght of her, felt it was just a question of time before Curran came out of the comatose state. Generally, she tipped Bev the wink whenever he showed signs other than reflex motions. Tonight’s summons had been premature: crying wolf. Again.

  More than almost anything in the world, Bev wanted Curran to regain consciousness and register her looming over him, watching, waiting. She’d give her right arm to witness comprehension dawn in his eyes as he recalled who she was and worked out why she was there. Sod that. She’d throw in a leg as well, even a molar or two. After all, there’d been times since it happened when it was all she could do not to tear him limb from limb with her bare hands.

  What matter a few body parts when Curran had robbed at least three people of their lives, including Detective Superintendent Bill Byford, Bev’s boss and the man she’d loved with all her heart, loved him to bits – literally, after Curran’s bloodbath. Balling her fists, she took another step back, briefly closed her eyes and shuddered.

  Six weeks down the line, the flashbacks were less frequent but even more vivid: Byford held at gunpoint tied to a chair; armed response officers surrounding his home; Bev persuading the bosses to let her go in and negotiate. It had so worked. In her dreams.

  In her dreams they all lived happily ever after.

  In the nightmares, not so much. Not with flashing blues, blaring sirens, her voice begging Curran to spare Byford’s life and the first bullet ripping apart his beautiful face. Watching him bleed to death in her arms had almost broken her.

  As for the waste of skin now taking up a bed, he’d run into the road waving a gun in the air. Good as asking to be taken out.

  ‘Suicide by cop’ they call it in the States. But Curran’s cowardly exit strategy hadn’t paid off, or rather it had gone off half-cocked: a bullet in the head left him lying in state – persistent vegetative. ‘Pea-brain,’ she sneered.

  If only. The pun was unintended and neither funny nor remotely true. Curran was anything but stupid. He’d successfully combined a post as police press officer with his self-appointed role of undercover killer. For months the evil conniving bastard had conned Bev and her cop mates into thinking he was one of the good guys.

  ‘Hey, loser. Wake up.’ She grabbed his hair, slammed his head into the pillow. ‘Do it or so help me God …’ Nothing. Sighing, she let his head drop, backed off again.

  Gone were the days when she prayed Curran would do the universe a favour and croak. Now she wanted him compos mentis so he could answer the questions that gnawed at her soul. Why kill a man like Byford, who’d spent his life trying to make the world a better place? And had Curran also snuffed out ten-year-old Josh Banks’ short existence? The boy’s murder – and Byford’s final case – remained unsolved, but not in Bev’s head. She was convinced of Curran’s guilt. If she could elicit his confession, it might go some way to helping Josh’s mum find closure. As for Bev?

  ‘Everything okay here?’

  Bev stiffened, caught a whiff of a familiar fragrance. How long had Nina been standing there, she wondered.

  ‘I’m hunky, ta.’ Forcing a smile, Bev made eye contact with the nurse. ‘Miles away.’ In the past they call a foreign country.

  ‘You didn’t look delirious about it.’

  ‘Ah, that’s my resting-miserable-sod face.’ She turned her mouth down. ‘Known in the trade as I.S.S.’

  ‘I.S.S?’

  ‘Irritable Scowl Syndrome.’

  Nina laughed. ‘That’s you down to the ground, that is.’ Her smile lit up a pretty, if tired-looking, face. The strawberry blonde hair, the knowing gleam in her grey eyes and her enviable curves embodied most of the Carry On clichés about nurses – except Nina was sharper than a scalpel. She tilted her head towards Curran. ‘Sorry for the false alarm.’

  ‘No harm done.’ Bev shrugged. Unless looks can kill.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll pull through one of these days.’ Nina patted Bev’s arm before heading for the business end of the bed. ‘Try not to lose hope.’

  ‘Doing my best,’ Bev said, ‘but it’s hard.’ Dead hard not to gag as Nina leaned across to wipe the drool off Curran’s face. Sooner you than me, mate.

  ‘He’s lucky to have you.’ Smiling, she cut Bev a glance. Nina had been led to believe Bev was a distant relative of Curran’s. Pile of doody, natch, but lying had been the only way Bev could get near the scrote. Lip curled, she watched Nina gently lift his head and plump the pillows. Still making him comfortable, she said, ‘When no one’s around, you could do this for him if you want, Bev. He won’t bite. And don’t be scared – you can’t hurt him.’

  Wanna bet? She’d seriously considered smothering him with a bloody pillow. Problem was it left too many tell-tale signs.

  ‘Maybe next time.’ Bev smiled, raised a palm and headed for the door. ‘Catch you later.’

  DEATH WISH COP KILLER, the headlines had screamed. The wording had always struck Bev as ambiguous. For cop killer read homicidal detective. As for the dying wish … bring on the wand.

  2

  Harriet Langley was fairly sure she’d peeped inside her mother-in-law’s bedroom only once in the eight or so years since knowing her. Seeing Margot hanging over the side of the mattress with her hair liberated from its normally perfect chignon was a definite first. Eyes wide, hand pressed against the doorjamb, Harriet dithered on the threshold. Go in? Speak to Andrew first? Damn it. If he’d not been away on business, he’d be the mug checking up on her, not Harriet. She had quite enough on her plate this morning, thank you very much. It was just then that a glint of green glass caught her eye. The bottle lay on the carpet just beyond Margot’s reach and, if it had been full when she started drinking, she’d probably downed enough Gordon’s to sink a gin palace.

  No wonder she’d not been picking up the phone.

  Mighty fallen, or what? Margot rarely touched a drop of alcohol, looked down her patrician nose and flared nostrils on those who did. Harriet’s sigh lifted her heavy fringe. Okay, so her mother-in-law had been going through a rough patch lately, everyone knew that, but the answer wasn’t mother’s ruin. Mentally rolling up her sleeves, Harriet flicked on the overhead light and strode into the room, clapping her hands like the primary-school teacher she used to be.

  ‘Come on, Margot. This isn’t doing anyone any good.’ Gazing down, she folded censorious arms. What a state to get into. The woman was absolutely blotto, out for the count. Her hair hung in lank grey curtains, exposing a slender nape and an unaccustomed vulnerability. Courtesy of one of her customary long cotton nightgowns, more intimate parts were still under wraps. Thank God for small mercies.

  Harriet tutted loudly as she stooped to retrieve the bottle. Spotting a book on the floor, she picked it up at the same time. Great Expectations? She puckered her lips. Give Harriet a Dick Francis to a Dickens any day. Still, each to their own. After placing both book and bottle on top of an antique tallboy, she walked back to the bed and its out-for-the-count occupant.

  ‘Margot.’ Harriet raised her voice. ‘Wake up, please.’ Foot tapping, she gazed down, wrinkling her nose against the smell of old lady laced with liquor. Boy, could she live without this. She’d left her baby downstairs in the carry cot. Daisy could wake any minute. Unlike her granny.

  ‘Right. Let’s get you sorted.’ Harriet shuddered at how cold Margot’s flesh felt through the thin fabric. Too cold? With the first faint stirring of unease, she felt her own skin creep. Both sensations increased when she manoeuvred Margot onto the bed and laid her on her back.

  ‘Shit.’ Harriet slapped a hand to her mouth. Not dead drunk: dead, period.

  The clues were in the floppy head and the arm dangling towards the floor; the clincher was the eyes: pale blue, wide open, sightless yet seeming to stare straight through Harriet.

  She took a faltering step or two back: damn, damn, damn. She couldn’t just leave Margot like this, but dealing with the immediate fall-out of her death was the last thing Harriet wanted. She bit her lip, felt momentary shame, until she realized h
ow red-faced Margot would be if she’d not already popped her clogs. Harriet suspected the old dear would die all over again from the ignominy if it turned out she’d drunk herself into an early grave. I mean, what would the neighbours say? And the toffs at the bridge club, not to mention the high command at the WI. Lady Muck hitting the hard stuff?

  ‘Well, well, well. Who’d have thought it?’ Not bothering to stifle a snort, Harriet turned to go downstairs to make a start on the inevitable round of phone calls. It was then she spied a sheet of ivory notepaper on the bedside table. Even without the personalized stationery, she recognized the writing and saw who it was for. Her hand hovered over the letter. Should see? Shouldn’t she? Better not. ‘Stuff that.’

  My darling boy

  I love you very much, but life without your father is hard. Indeed, latterly it’s more than I can bear. I’ve tried to cope and were it not for your unstinting love and support I’d never have made it this far. But I can go on no longer.

  I’m not afraid of dying, indeed I welcome it because I’ll see David again and, as you know, being reunited with him is my dearest wish.

  Goodbye in this world, darling Andrew, and forgive me.

  Love to Harriet and the baby

  Patronizing old bag. Harriet curled a lip, dropped an imaginary curtsey along with any pretence she’d ever had any time for the woman. The postscript relegated her and Daisy to an afterthought. Bloody cheek. She resented the thinking behind it, while at the same time realizing it was Margot down to the ground. She’d long held the idea that the sun shone from her darling boy’s rectum whereas Harriet – well, she wasn’t the brightest bulb on the Golden Mile, was she? Not that Margot would be seen dead in Blackpool. Seen dead? Harriet gave a brittle laugh. It was just the sort of remark she’d come out with and Margot would pounce on. Well, not any more, dear.

  Harriet ran her gaze over Margot’s face: small features, classic bone structure, a few wrinkles but not too deep. Apart from the obvious, she wasn’t in bad nick for a woman in her seventies with diabetes and a dicky heart. Having a loving husband with a healthy bank account wouldn’t have hurt. Not that she’d outlived David long. Three months. Harriet had been too busy giving birth to go to her father-in-law’s funeral. It hadn’t stopped Andrew attending it, though. Not that she was bitter or anything.