Blood Money Read online

  Eventually voicing assent, Charlotte stepped back. “Yeah, sure.”

  The living room was off a pale terracotta hallway. It was Habitat meets Pier with lots of taupe and light wood, vibrant splashes of teal and scarlet courtesy of a shed-load of scatter cushions and tasselled throwbacks. Bev caught a smell of joss sticks: jasmine? vanilla? And a more pungent undertone. If her suspicion was correct it could explain a lot.

  “Take a seat.” Charlotte slung the coat over a chair. “Get you a drink?”

  “Thanks, no.” Bev answered for both of them. “We’ll ask a few questions then shove off.” They’d share the interview load this time, good cop, good cop.

  “Fire away.” The laidback stance on the opposite sofa seemed deliberately exaggerated. The faded blue denims and cheesecloth shirt were casual to the point of slack. Bev hadn’t noticed before how plain she was: if ever a girl needed a touch of slap... The hair was again scraped back in a ponytail, and still looked as if it could do with a wash. The contrast with her mother was acute. Unlike Diana Masters, Charlotte clearly thought grooming was something to do with horses.

  Bev had intended opening with a bridge builder but given the girl’s more amiable attitude plunged straight in. “Tell me... have you noticed anything odd near your parents’ house in... say, the last two or three weeks?” Charlotte pouted, apparently casting her mind back. A clock ticked, water pipes gurgled; Bev nudged. “A stranger hanging round? Cars you’ve not seen before?”

  More pondering then she shook her head. “I’d like to help. Thing is I’m rarely there these days. I moved out four, five years back.”

  “College?” Mac cocked a casual eyebrow.

  “University of life.” With a smile the girl looked almost pretty. It wasn’t just her softer features. Charlotte seemed a different woman: chilled, no hard edges. Home territory, perhaps? Or spaced-out? The dope smell was stronger in here. Bev reckoned a spliff or two could explain Charlotte’s mellower mood and earlier confusion. Not so much losing grip as deliberately letting go. Emotional pain relief? Cannabis as coping mechanism? Each to their own. Bev sniffed, filed the discovery under F for future use and L for leverage. She pressed on: “I guess you visit from time to time?”

  “Hardly ever.” Not unfriendly, though the smile was thin. She spread her arms wide. “I love this place. And value my independence.”

  “What do you do for a living, Miss Masters?” Sounded like polite interest rather than pointed question. Bev was glad Mac had broached it.

  The girl hesitated slightly before giving a careless shrug. “Bar work. The Hamptons? Brindley Place?” Cool, upmarket bistro down by the canal. Either Charlotte earned a fortune in tips, or she’d won the lottery. This house certainly didn’t come cheap. Head down, the young woman picked a loose thread on her jeans. “My parents help with the mortgage.”

  Ah. Say no more. Bev’s lip curved. That’d be the bank of dad: Diana didn’t earn pin money at Oxfam. Would mummy be as generous now she held the purse strings?

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your parents?” Mac still had the baton.

  Her head shot up. “You said the burglary had nothing to do with my father.” Smarting eyes sought assurances from them both.

  Mac gave what he could. “We always look at every possibility.”

  Charlotte’s hand shook as she reached for a scuffed patchwork bag, pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboro. Empty. Scowling, she chucked it on the table, tapped twitchy fingers on thigh. “I don’t understand,” she murmured. “Who’d want to hurt Daddy?” She must know how ridiculous that sounded; someone had killed him. Charlotte’s father may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time – he was no less dead. The young woman scrabbled in the bag again, found a crumpled tissue, dabbed her eyes. “She says he wasn’t even due home.”

  Who’s she? The cat’s mother? The old saying sprang unbidden to Bev’s mind. She’d mull over the implications later maybe: right now there were more obvious points to pursue. “What about your mother, Miss Masters? Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm her?”

  “How would I know? I’d be the last person she’d confide in.” Bev’s interested was piqued. She watched, waiting out the silence, as Charlotte tapped a finger against her lips. “Look, I may as well tell you... we’re not exactly... close.” Bev’s jaw gaped involuntarily. “I’m sorry if that shocks you.” Charlotte sounded anything but. “Diana doesn’t really approve of me, you see.” The smile was bitter and didn’t reach her bloodshot eyes. “I don’t fit her image of beautiful dutiful daughter. I’d rather you know so she can’t play the emotional blackmail card again.”

  “Emotional blackmail?” Bev prompted.

  “Happy Families.” She sighed. “What a joke. I only went to see her because she said it’d look bad if I wasn’t there. Diana and I don’t get on, we have zilch in common and now daddy’s dead... I don’t have to pretend any more.” Tears glistened on her cheeks and though she was shaking her voice was steady. “I’m OK. Carry on.”

  “Were your parents happy, Miss Masters?” Mac voiced the question that was on the tip of Bev’s tongue.

  “From what I could see – they adored each other.” Did the couple only have eyes for each other? Was that why Charlotte flew the nest when she was so young? Was she jealous of her mother? Bev filed more thoughts as Mac showed the girl photographs of the other burglary victims. Even from the extensive media coverage, Charlotte didn’t recognise the women. “I’m sorry. I’d help if I could.” Releasing the ponytail, she ran both hands through lank tresses then re-tied it even tighter. Subliminal message? Get out of my hair.

  Bev settled back in the chair, crossed her legs. The interview lasted a further twenty minutes – went nowhere. Frustration wasn’t in it. She’d known cases where one inspired line of questioning had led to the breakthrough; this had been a series of dead ends. Signalling a wrap to Mac, she rose, reached for a card in her bag. “If anything comes to mind – call me. Any time.”

  At the door, she glanced back, gave an ostentatious sniff. “Good turns and all that...”

  19

  Google honour killings UK, and you get over four hundred thousand hits in 0.29 seconds. Slice of quattro formaggio pizza in one hand, can of Red Bull pending, Bev was tapping into some of the more credible posts. After the Charlotte Masters interview, she’d dropped Mac at the Prince, managed a pit stop for food and air freshener at Sainsbury, and was now taking a crash course in a subject she knew too little about. To have any chance of connecting with Fareeda she needed at least an idea where the girl was coming from. She sniffed. Probably overdone the air spray; office smelt like a cheesy pine forest. Better than cow heart though. Taking a slug of Red Bull, she glanced at the clock on the monitor. Ten minutes before Sumi was due – best make the most of it.

  Elbow on desk, chin in hand she focused on the current screen. The Independent article should be pukka given its source. According to ACPO, the association of chief police officers, seventeen thousand women a year were subjected to honour related violence. And they were talking iceberg tips. Bev took another slug, tossed the fringe from her eyes, hit another link. Young women with Pakistani, Indian and Bangladeshi backgrounds were three times more likely to kill themselves than the national average. Then another link. Victims of violence are likely to suffer thirty-five attacks before reporting to the authorities. And yet another. Police estimate there could be up to twelve honour killings a year in the UK. And the hits kept coming...

  She blew her cheeks out on a sigh, rolled back the chair, drained the can. Stats and facts; people and pain. The figures didn’t tell a fraction of the real story, didn’t show livid bruises, shattered bones, broken spirits. Or dead bodies. Closing her eyes, she recalled a Met inquiry she’d been on the periphery of a few years back. A young Kurdish-born woman raped and strangled, body crammed in a suitcase, driven to Birmingham for burial. In a Handsworth back garden. Killing ordered by her own father. Why? She’d walked out on an arran
ged marriage, fallen in love with another man. Bev sniffed. So why’d all the reports carry quote marks round the phrase, honour killing? Like there was any doubt. The cops hadn’t exactly covered themselves with glory either. Bev could still see the grainy mobile phone footage of the victim warning police she was in danger. The media had dubbed the video evidence from beyond the grave. Much fucking good it did the victim. Bev’s fingers crushed the can. God, she needed a smoke. If Sumi didn’t show soon, she might nip...

  Or not. There was a tentative tap on the door. It certainly wasn’t Mac.

  “Sorry I’m late, sarge,” Sumi said. “I couldn’t get away.” The young DC had been fielding calls in the squad room, the lines were going crazy.

  “No prob.” Bev was the same, couldn’t resist a ringing phone. Never knew if it was the big one, the witness with the case-cracker. Daft to think cutting edge detection and forensics skills solved every crime, the majority of success was down to intelligence from the public. Not that it was all quality gen. “Anything earth shattering?” Bev offered a slice of pizza, tried not to notice there were only two left, she’d bought the family size.

  “Not for me thanks.” Sumi smiled. “As to earth shattering – you know what it’s like after a media appeal.”

  “Sure do.” Loony tune central. Byford had apparently done turns that afternoon for local telly and radio, the Park View footage had also received a few airings. Bev frowned. Come to think of it, the local rag’s claws had been sheathed lately. She reckoned Toby Priest’s cop-out poll must’ve gone in the guv’s favour – or it would’ve been plastered all over the front page.

  “People mean well mostly, but...” Sumi held out empty palms.

  Did they? Bev wished she had Sumi’s faith. Or maybe not. Given her recent reading matter. She opened her mouth to get down to Fareeda business, but Sumi hadn’t finished.

  “Have you heard about Byford?” He’d decided to go ahead with Crimewatch, announced it at the late brief apparently, and according to Sumi it was about the only positive step that had emerged. Bev turned her mouth down. Not sure she’d describe network exposure as a move forward. “Hey sarge, do you think...?”

  She thought Sumi was stalling. “Enough already. What’re we going to do?” No need to clarify. Sumi knew the situation as well as if not better than Bev.

  The animation dropped from Sumi’s features. Bev noticed feathery lines at the edges of her fine eyes. “I wish I knew, sarge.”

  “It’s Bev, OK?” She rose, walked round, perched on a corner of the desk, closing the gap between them. “And course you know, Sumi. It needs reporting.”

  “What does?” Her voice rose, she straightened, crossed her legs. “She won’t even tell me what ‘it’ is?”

  Secrets and lies; fear and despair. Bev held the other woman’s gaze. “She didn’t walk into a door, Sumi. Whoever did it will likely do it again. Prob’ly worse next time.” What was it she’d just read? Victims are likely to suffer thirty-five attacks before... “This isn’t the first time, is it?”

  Sumi bit her lip. Bev winced at the teeth marks. She clenched a fist. Unfair maybe but she saw these walls of silent protection as complacent complicity. Sumi was a cop, westernised, but under the skin...

  “I think it may have happened before.” She dropped her head. “She just won’t talk about it.” Sumi had phoned her cousin four or five times during the day, tried getting Fareeda to open up. The girl wouldn’t even say why let alone who. Bev sighed in sorrow and anger. After the net search, she knew vicious beatings could be down to something as innocuous as a girl taking off her scarf in the street, wearing hair gel, having an unknown number on her mobile.

  “Tell me about Fareeda. What does she do, what’s she like?” Sumi relaxed slightly. Fareeda was shy, quiet, bright, an A-star science student, into music, reading and TV. “You know, sarge, usual teenage things.” Sumi gave a tired smile. Bev didn’t return it, she’d learned squat. “Beatings aren’t the norm, Sumi.” And she’d uttered not one word about Fareeda’s family set-up. The girl was Muslim: it struck Bev this was all about family. She pushed herself off the desk, paced the office. “You had a word with the parents yet?” Fareeda was old enough to leave home, but somehow Bev didn’t think that would cut much ice with mum and dad. And the age of consent wasn’t why she’d asked. She suspected the father was implicated in the attack. Why not come out and say so – instead of pussy-footing round what Bev saw as the women’s misplaced sensibilities?

  Sumi shook her head. “I phoned to tell them she’s OK, safe, but she’s begged me not to make contact again.” She looked down at her hands. “She doesn’t want to go back.” Inadvertently she’d said it all.

  “Where’d they live?”

  Eyes wide, Sumi hesitated. Made no diff. Bev had already done a bit of homework, knew Fareeda had four brothers and the family lived in Small Heath. Sumi knew how easy it was to get hold of information. She gave Bev the address. “Don’t go round, sarge. It’ll make it worse if you get involved.”

  If? “Fareeda’s holed up in my spare room, Sumi.” And how much worse could it get?

  “She needs a bit of space so she can get her head together.” Sumi held out her palms. “Just a few more days where she feels safe. Please, sarge?”

  Maybe it was the stink of air freshener that brought it back: the unwanted gift on her doorstep. Shit. “Sumi.” She aimed for casual. “Last night? When you and Fareeda came over to my place? Is it possible you were followed?”

  Sumi hadn’t been aware of a tail, but neither had she been checking assiduously. Fareeda had texted the previous evening begging for help. Sumi had driven to Small Heath and collected her cousin from a bus shelter several streets from the family home. They’d motored round aimlessly for twenty minutes or so before heading for Bev’s. This was some of what Sumi shared with Bev before they left Highgate at a rate of knots in separate cars.

  God knew what went through Sumi’s mind, but Bev’s unease increased en route. Before hitting the road, they’d called her landline and Fareeda’s mobile several times, no one had picked up.

  “Come on, come on.” Bev tapped the wheel. Seemed every sodding light was against them, and dense fog was no help. She flicked on the wipers again, rubbed the windscreen with a sleeve. The smear reduced visibility even further. Nice one, Bev.

  She’d not seen the possible Saleem connection either. Outside chance maybe, but it was there: the dumped heart could be down to one of Fareeda’s relatives. A warning to Bev to back off. That could mean a clear and present danger. She’d not given the thought house room when she’d compiled her list of likely suspects. Quite a few of the crims she’d nicked had featured Neanderthals who grunted predictable watch-your-back warnings from the dock. Even Dorkboy had made the cut on the basis their run-in was recent, more than that, he’d lost face with his crew. Briefly she’d considered the Sandman, but only because he already occupied so much of her headspace. If any cop was in the Sandman’s sights, Byford had the big media profile.

  A guy ran across the road just as the lights changed. Cutting it fine or what? She muttered wanker under her breath. Actually going on the gait and natty gear, he looked vaguely familiar. Driving away, she clocked him in the mirror. Yep. Jagger lips. Mick, was it? Rick? She knew he lived off Moseley’s main drag; it’s where they’d ended up that night. She’d had no duvet action since. Cop’s life was a great contraceptive.

  Baldwin Street was just up ahead. Sumi was right behind. Bev indicated left, scanned both sides of the road. She was locking the Polo when Sumi pulled up in an unmarked Astra. It was just after eight. The house was in darkness.

  20

  Sam Tate stared into the small oval mirror and toyed with the idea of giving the Sandman a little fun. Up-lit in the beam of a torch, his benignly smiling alter ego seemed to concur with the notion. Tate wouldn’t have believed it possible but, disembodied and cast in monochrome shadows, the clown mask was even scarier. Good. Tate cocked his head, expanded his chest,
liked what he saw.

  Inexplicably, an old Beatles song leapt to mind – I am the Walrus. In his head, he changed the lyric to Sandman. It appealed more to his already inflated ego. The media had bestowed the title, but he liked it, got a thrill seeing it on billboards, hearing it on the radio. The Sandman had something of the dark about it. And not the Michael Howard variety. He sniggered under the mask. Muffled, the malevolent sound spooked the rich bitches even more. That’s why he did it. Look at this one: eyes like dinner plates, trembling so much the bed was shaking, wheezing like an old biddy on forty-a-day. Fully aware of the effect his eyes had, he met her terrified gaze in the glass, then drifted towards her, loomed in so close he felt her warm breath through the slits. A pitiful moan escaped as she tried to move her face. “Please... please... don’t.”

  “Shut it,” he snapped. “I won’t tell you again.”

  Biting down on her lip, she nodded compulsively. He skimmed the Maglite over her body, made sure it lingered on the pert boobs, the slight swell of her belly and the pubic – now public – arena. Spread-eagled, her thighs were open to the slow stroke of the torch. He broke out in a sweat, felt the stir of a hard-on. Naked and tethered she was at his mercy. He could do whatever he fancied and no doubt about it, Libby Redwood was a looker. Not like the crones Dee usually picked. Face it, he’d be doing the poor cow a favour. Sure looked as if she needed loosening up a bit. He pinched her nipple with gloved fingers. Stupid tart flinched. Next time he used the knife. He narrowed his eyes. Surely, a quickie would do no harm? The rucksack was already packed with rich pickings. He’d be in and out in no time. Another inane snigger. Or maybe not. If Dee found out she’d kill him. On the other hand... if no one was left to spill the beans. He played the beam on the blade of the knife.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she whimpered. “Please don’t hurt me...”