Blood Money Read online

  “...and your mouth zipped.” She gave a disingenuous grin. “’less you’ve got something worth saying.” Powell opened his for a comeback but Bev got in first. “’specially when you’re eating. Sir.” She winked at Danny, drained the mug, scraped back the chair.

  Powell muttered, “Lippy tart,” as she walked away. God, it was good to have the DI back. He was PC as a Playboy mag. She smiled then remembered the Bullring fiasco, turned back. “You got the short straw this morning, sir. Sorry to hear that.” Couldn’t have been a barrel of laughs. You’d not wish it on your worst enemy. Tight-lipped, he waved the fork in what she interpreted this time as dismissal. She stepped back smartish but not before noticing his eyes. It looked very much to her as if the DI was tearing up. She walked away without another word. On rare occasions, even Bev knew when to button it.

  Soon as she dropped her bag on the desk, Bev opened the office window, breathed in deeply. She could still smell Powell’s liver. Lips puckered, she sniffed her jacket. Picked up traces of almond body lotion but that was about it. Bloody stink was clinging to the back of the throat. Like a bad crime scene.

  Powell on the verge of tears, though? She narrowed her eyes. Maybe he was mellowing in his early middle age. She gave a thin smile. Nah. It was probably the onions. Snorting, she sat down, recalled an incident from DI Powell’s glory days as a PC, his Silence of the Lambs moment. She’d dined out on the story for months; even now there was a smile on her face. Super-cool Powell had seen the movie when it first came out and watched Jodie Foster dab Vick under her nose to mask the reek of corpses. FBI technique, wasn’t it? Course the DI slathered it on at the first rank opportunity. A pungent PM if she remembered rightly. He’d come in next morning with a top lip like he’d done ten rounds with Rocky. Station wags called him Vicky for years. She preferred Clarrie.

  Enough of this. She sighed, surveyed her desk. The paper mountain looked more like the Urals. Get the old crampons out, girl. She fumbled in her bag, took out breakfast-lunch-high tea and pulled a face. Covered in fluff, hair and bits of tobacco, the toast lost what little attraction it had held. A further scrabble elicited an almost full pack of Polos. Her eyes lit up: beggar’s banquet. After half an hour at the admin rock face, the door nudging open was a welcome distraction. She knew who was there without looking up. “Don’t you ever...?”

  Mac bustled in. “Couldn’t, could I?” Closing the door with his bum he ambled over, bags in hand. Top man.

  Arching her back in a lazy stretch, she gave an unwitting flash of lacy black bra. “God, you know how to treat a woman, Tyler.”

  Hastily redirecting a lecherous ogle, Mac slipped the goodies in front of her. “Choc chip muffin and a caramel macchiato? Must be where I’ve been going wrong.” Perched on a desk corner, he told her he’d been chasing mask suppliers, nipped in to Starbucks on the way back.

  “Catch anything?” Mouth watering, she peeled the paper from the cake, licked the crumbs.

  “Nah.” He’d shown an image of the mask lifted from CCTV footage, but none of the outlets stocked it. “Gave me a few places to try though.” She muttered something through a mouthful of muffin. “Say again, boss.”

  Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she told Mac they had a date for later. “Charlotte Masters. Fixed it on the phone.” Surprisingly easily as it happened. Maybe the girl had seen sense or Bev’s grovel master-class had paid off.

  “Back at Park View?” Distracted, Mac cast uneasy glances round the office.

  Bev breezed on regardless. “You’d-a thought. Dutiful daughter caring for grieving momma and all that. But she wants the meet at Selly Oak...” Bemused, Bev paused as Mac hopped off the desk, made for the bin, gave it a good shaking, studying the contents. “... she’s got her own pad there.” She finished the sentence though she might as well have been talking to herself. “Lost something, mate?”

  “No offence, boss, but there’s a funny smell in here.” Mac spotted the brownish stain first, pointed a stubby finger at the package on her desk. “Hell’s that?”

  She frowned. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten the parcel; she’d been keen to break the back of the paperwork first. Looked on it as a carrot after the stick. Mouth down, she pulled the box nearer, tore open the paper. Whether it was the sight or the smell that greeted her, she slapped a hand to her mouth. “What the fuck?”

  It was animal rather than vegetable. And it certainly wasn’t a novelty clock.

  18

  The heart wasn’t going anywhere. Bev had her back to it gulping fresh air through the now wide open window. “Where is she, mate?” Querulous. “Thought you said she was in the building?”

  “She is,” Mac said. As luck would have it he’d clocked the police pathologist chatting to Vince Hanlon at the front desk no more than ten minutes back. Gillian Overdale popped in on path business from time to time, but it was pure happenstance she was around when they needed expert opinion. Paging her had seemed the best and quickest way of finding out exactly what they had on their metaphorical hands. “She’s on her way.” He peered into the box again: fat, muscle, valves, ventricles. Mac was no medico but it looked human. “Chill.”

  “Chill? Chill?” She lowered the volume. “How chilled you be, matey, if someone left a bleeding heart on your doorstep?”

  She’d never know. There was a rap on the door then the pathologist poked her head round. “What have you got for me then?”

  Thank God for that. Arms folded, foot tapping, Bev nodded at the opened box on the desk. “You tell us, doc.”

  Overdale barged in looking as if she was on the way to a Cotswold shoot. The tweeds, brogues, distressed Barbour were typical of her habitual county look. The pudding basin steel grey bob did nothing for her shiny moon face. Through gold-framed bifocals, Overdale took a good look at the heart. “You don’t need me, sergeant.” Was that thin lip twitching? “You’d be better off with a butcher.”

  Bev didn’t see the funny side, her fists were balled. “Perhaps you’d like to be more specific.” Ultra polite.

  She sniffed. “It’s a cow’s. They look human but they’re bigger.”

  “A cow’s? You sure, doc?” Mental cringe. Dumb question, or what?

  “I can’t tell you her name and address, sergeant, but yes, pretty sure.”

  “Anything useful you can say?” Thin smile.

  “It’s past its sell-by but not by much or the smell would be worse. So it’s fresh-ish or it’s been frozen.” Was she taking the piss? “Seriously, sergeant. It was probably kept in a fridge until whoever it was did whatever they did.” She retrieved her steel case from the floor. “But as I told you – it’s not my territory. Try Waitrose.” She was still sniggering when she reached the door. “The meat counter.”

  “Boss.” Mac’s low warning and extended arm halted Bev in her tracks. Gritting her teeth, she slammed a fist into her palm. “Cool it, sarge.” Mac in placatory mode. “Here y’go.” He proffered a bottle of Highland Spring. Body temperature. Where’d he keep these things? Pulled a second from a different pocket. She drank greedily, wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. Chances of tracking down where the organ came from, or more to the point who left it, were on a par with discovering weapons of mass destruction in the Vatican.

  Mac perched on the desk, arms resting on beer belly, genuine concern in his warm brown eyes. “So who’d pull a trick like that, boss?”

  She’d given it serious thought since first setting sight on the bloody thing. Someone obviously wanted to freak her out. Was it a warning, a message, a sick joke? But who? And why? Pound to a penny it was someone she’d pissed off big time. She affected a who cares shrug. “Where shall I start?”

  The dark-haired man sat on a velvet kidney-shaped stool studying his gym-toned physique in the dressing table mirror. Light bulbs round the glass were switched on Hollywood style; heavy gold velvet drapes were drawn against both casement windows though it was only mid-afternoon. An older woman, her back to the man, lay on the king-si
zed bed behind, an ivory negligee revealed lightly tanned and slightly parted thighs.

  The man was naked – apart from the clown mask. Preening this way and that, he admired his taut lean body, repeatedly flexed well-defined muscles. He shuffled forward, adjusted the mask, called the woman’s name to make sure she was watching, then ran a moist pink tongue along the red rubbery lips. Their glances met in the mirror. An observer might have found the man’s lascivious gesture faintly ridiculous. For Diana Masters it was almost the ultimate turn on.

  “Do stop that, Sam.” The lazy smile was indulgent, her normally sleek hair damp and mussed, perfect make-up smudged. “I have to get ready.” She pointed a mock schoolma’am finger. “And you, Mr Tate, should not be here.” Plus, if he felt anything like her, he’d be shagged out.

  “Always time for a quickie, Dee.” Confident bordering on arrogant, the young man rose, padded slowly towards her, flicked a long black fringe from eyes that were nearly as dark. “You know you want it.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him, everything about him was beautiful. And growing more so. Teasing and playful, he flaunted the fastest growth area inches from her open mouth.

  Slowly she turned on to her back, deliberately flashing her inner thighs. “No more than you do, darling.” Diana meant the refusal though. It was a risk Sam even being here. They’d kept the affair secret for six, seven months. They’d met during one of her stints at Oxfam; he worked in the hair salon opposite. The attraction had been instant, unstoppable. They’d come so far – a cock-up now wasn’t an option. Though deadly serious, she smirked at the unintended mental pun. Obviously the house wasn’t crawling with cops any more, but there could be a knock on the door any time, that dreadful Morrison woman back again with the fat man, or any of the interchangeable woodentops. There’d been so many. Imagine! They’d wanted her to have a family liaison officer around the place. Ludicrous. Risible. On the other hand, wasn’t the risk part of the thrill?

  She knew the answer when he tried to enter her. Her laughing protest was merely token; both knew she could never say no. His dark sensual eyes glinting through the slits turned her on even more. But now she wanted the complete picture. Careful not to cause damage, she gently removed the mask, laid it on the bed; both aware it would be needed again – business and pleasure. Parting her lips and legs, she drew his beautiful face towards her. There was nothing in the world that Diana Masters wouldn’t do for the Sandman.

  Byford squinted as he held the image at arm’s length. “I don’t know, Bev. Releasing it could be more hindrance than help.” Thank God he’d dropped calling her sergeant, but more than that she hoped the guv’s verdict on the e-fit was down to dodgy eyesight rather than Daisy Towbridge’s vision. For the better part of two hours, the little girl and her mother had been ensconced with Al Copley and a child witness officer working on a composite of the cat thief’s features. Byford now held the image – and its future – in his hands.

  Over his shoulder, Bev studied the face again. “It’s not bad, guv.” Unlike a lot of visuals produced by over-anxious or over-avid witnesses, Daisy’s effort didn’t resemble half the population, and if Bev’s instinct was smack on it could depict the Sandman. The likeness was the end result of patiently-posed, carefully-constructed open-ended questions aimed at not making the kid feel prompted or pressurised into coming up with something just to please the grown-ups. Bev had popped her head round the imaging suite door and reckoned the chances of Daisy doing or saying anything she didn’t want were slimmer than Bev’s of landing Johnny Depp. What the little girl had delivered was this: a guy in his twenties, not bad-looking, long black hair, dark, deep-set eyes, wide mouth, prominent cheek bones.

  Byford sniffed. “Looks like that chap who used to knock about with Kate Moss.” Bev pulled a face. That narrows it down. “Pete something or other...?” he expanded.

  She mirrored the guv’s squint. Couldn’t see it herself. She leaned against the filing cabinet, ankles crossed. “So what you going to do?”

  He slipped the image on to his desk and wandered to the window. “Hang fire, I think.”

  “But guv...”

  A screech of tyres from the car park below as much as Byford’s raised palm halted her protest. “She only caught a glimpse, Bev.”

  “Under a streetlight. With a good pair of young eyes.” Twenty: twenty, she’d checked.

  Perched on the sill, he looked at her without speaking. The big man wasn’t convinced. Was it worth pushing the forensic tack again? The stain on the knife was definitely cat blood, she’d found Chris Baxter’s updated report on her desk. Along with... she blinked, censored a flashback of the cow heart. She’d mentioned the gross gift to the guv. With nothing to go on, he agreed there wasn’t much they could do, apart from Bev keeping an even closer eye on her back than normal. Cops don’t win the popularity vote. What she wanted was the superintendent’s authorisation.

  “How ’bout the tests on the knife? Don’t they swing it, guv?”

  He shook his head. “It’s still a load of ifs and maybes, Bev.”

  She held his gaze. “All we’ve got, guv.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s worth having.”

  She sighed, knew the score. She was probably clutching short straws in a basket with too many eggs. And if the guv was right and they released a misleading image, it would likely provoke a load of duff intelligence from the punter. The cops would then end up being pointed in the wrong direction – which had to be even worse than their current position of not having a clue where to go.

  “Third left after the Queen’s Head, boss.” Mac cut a sideways glance through the passenger window then bit off a chunk of Granny Smith. Dodging the juice, Bev raised an incredulous eyebrow. Wonders would never cease: Mac scoffing fruit. “That one of your five-a-year, mate?”

  “Sarge made a funny,” he drawled. “Ho ho.” Progress was slow. The Bristol Road was rush hour chocker, traffic stop-start, headlights picking out greasy puddles from an earlier shower. Patchy fog was hovering now, clouds of the stuff swirled round the tops of streetlamps, diffusing the orange glows.

  Sneaky smile still playing on her lips, Bev checked the mirror, flicked the indicator. “What’s with the apple then? You on a health kick?”

  Fidgeting slightly, he subtly loosened the seatbelt. “If you must know, I want to shift a bit of weight.”

  “Hire a crane.” The snort was unstoppable. She caught a glimpse of stony profile. “Sorry.” Whoops. “Hey, mate, there’s nothing wrong with being... cuddly.” Her search for a mollifying alternative took a smidgen too long. Mac gave it a short shrift sniff. She wondered idly if he had a new woman in tow. His divorce must be going through any time. Had to be rough living miles from your kids, must get lonesome now and then.

  “Hey, Twiggy.” He tilted his head to the right. “Over there. House with the baskets.”

  “Touché, Tyler.” There was a tight space up ahead. She reversed the Polo, applied the handbrake. “Finish your apple, mate. I’ll take a breath of air.” Leaning against the motor, she scoped out the street. Bank Avenue, Selly Oak, was Edwardian villa territory: bow windows, low redbrick walls, stained glass fanlights over solid front doors. Good nick mostly, except the odd multi-occupancy: Birmingham uni was in walking distance. She turned her mouth down, reckoned Charlotte Masters must be doing all right. The only pad Bev could afford at the same tender age was a one-bedroom maisonette over a Balsall Heath laundrette.

  She glanced at her watch: half five. Coming here meant they’d miss the late brief. The guv was cool about it, even cracked a wan smile when she described it as time off for bad behaviour. Best not put a foot wrong in this encounter with Ms Masters. And she hoped it wouldn’t take too long. She needed to pop back to Highgate before calling it a day. A spot of unfinished business on the Fareeda agenda. Still, two birds with one stone: she could pick up breaking developments on the Sandman front at the same time. Assuming there’d be any. The car gave a sudden lurch as Mac shifted his weight getting ou
t. Still feeling a tad mean over the crane crack, she hoisted her bag and bestowed a full wattage beam. “OK, mate?”

  “Yeah. Let’s get it over.” He sounded as thrilled as her. Mind, she’d given him the back story, Charlotte’s complaint and the subsequent bollocking. As Mac opened the gate, he nodded at a brace of baskets hanging either side of the door. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Bev peered closer. “Not weed is it?”

  “Doh.” He rolled his eyes. “Looks like leylandii to me.” Her blank look made it clear: gardening was a foreign country. “Think beanstalk,” Mac enlightened. “As in Jack – only it grows quicker.”

  She raised the brass knocker, left it pending. “Didn’t he nick a golden goose?”

  “Hen. And it laid gold eggs. Didn’t you learn anything at school?”

  Their eyes met, lips twitched in sync. Both knew the trivial pursuit was only putting off the serious tack. “Go on, boss, get on with it.”

  She rapped the door a couple of times, tightened her belt along with a mental girding of the loins. Despite the earlier bravado she felt an unaccustomed edginess. Bev didn’t do timid, but Charlotte Masters had marked her card. And not with a dance request. The door opened in a heartbeat.

  “Bollocks.” The girl slapped a hand to her mouth. She wore a scruffy Afghan coat and was now knotting a leopard print scarf round her neck. “I thought you said tomorrow. My head’s all over the place. Sorry.”

  Bev had her doubts: the girl’s father had been murdered. Was it likely she’d forget details of a police visit? Maybe the grief was getting to her? Maybe she was losing her grip? Or maybe she was just being arsey? “As we’re here...?” Bev forced a smile; she’d give a month’s salary to read the girl’s thoughts.