Blood Money Read online

  The Hamptons. Bev’s antenna twitched again. It was the bar where Charlotte Masters worked. Coincidence? Significance? Her mental notebook needed more pages.

  The interview lasted a further twenty minutes, turned into more general conversation as they made their way to the car park. The rain had stopped, thank God, but they had to skirt swimming pool size puddles. There were more people around, car park beginning to fill up. Place was coming to life. Though not for everyone.

  “This is me.” Kate halted at a gleaming black Audi. “Know something, sergeant? Libby and I should be landing in Paris now.” Her eyes were unnaturally bright but the voice brisk as well as clipped. “If there’s any more I can do, you know where I am.” Sutton Coldfield. Private estate. Kate was a career woman, had her own interior design company.

  “Appreciate it.” Bev raised a palm. Had no doubt they’d be in touch. Pensive, she carried on walking towards her wheels. A church clock somewhere was striking the hour. She counted eight, stepped up the pace. If not a breakthrough, at least the inquiry had a few more lines to work on. And if she hit the gas she could throw them out at the brief. Shit. She pulled up sharp. The Polo’s windscreen had taken a direct hit from what had to be a flock of sodding seagulls. Adding injury to insult, some fascist traffic warden had slapped on a ticket as well.

  God, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Mac was humming Always Look on the Bright Side. For the zillionth time. Life’s a piece of doo-doo. Yeah right.

  “Not funny, mate.” She tapped fingers on thigh. They were waiting for the big man to show. Squad room was packed to the gills, windows running with condensation, eau de after shaves and canteen bacon. Bev gave a surreptitious sniff to her own outfit: faintly medicinal. That day’s shower was still on hold.

  “S’posed to be lucky you know, boss.” Mac was slumped back in a hard chair, podgy hands nestling on paunch cushion. “Bird poop.”

  Not for the birds. If she got hold of them she’d be wringing a few necks. “Give it a rest, eh?”

  “Think they were from Special Branch, sarge?” Darren New – all feigned innocence – was getting in on the act now.

  “Wise up, Daz.” Mac again. “It’d be the Flying Squad.”

  “When you on stage next, Tyler?” Bev studied her nails, knew he had a comedy gig coming up in Digbeth. Standing in for Eddie Izzard. Not.

  “End of the month. Want a ticket?” He shifted a buttock, reached into a back pocket.

  “Going cheap, are they?” Daz tittered. Mac pulled a cheeky sod face.

  “Not cheap enough,” Bev drawled. “I’d rather eat...” Mental eye roll. She swallowed the s-word, but they pissed themselves laughing anyway. Byford staunched the flow when he bustled in file under elbow, mug of something in hand. Bev caught a whiff as he passed. He was on the mint tea.

  There was a synchronised straightening of spines and ties, everyone’s focus on the guv. Without so much as a “morning troops” Byford perched on the edge of the desk, opened fire. “I hoped we’d catch the bastard before he struck again.” Expletive not deleted. That bad. “I’ve just come from the latest crime scene.” Bev lifted a curious glance from her notes. He’d not mentioned it when she’d phoned him the gist of her Kate Darby interview.

  The pause was deliberate as the superintendent ran his steady gaze over every officer present. “This one has to be the last.” Yeah right, guv. If personal conviction led to collars, the Sandman would’ve been banged up weeks back. Then there was the real world...

  “DI Powell’s still at Kings Heath,” Byford said. “As of when I pulled out there was nothing significant.” She listened as he filled in forensics, detailed actions going on in and around Knightlow Road, and responded to lacklustre questions that didn’t amount to a bean, singular. “Closest we’ve got to a decent lead is what Bev’s brought back from the General.” He pointed to the front, asked her to run the latest past the squad. Gathering her notes and the victim’s address book, she took centre stage.

  Not everyone knew how Libby Redwood had died. That the life-saving inhaler had been just inches away. When Bev disclosed what the Sandman had done – and failed to do – heads shook, mouths tightened, a few muttered, “Callous bastard.” Most officers glanced at the photograph she’d blu-tacked to the latest murder board. The image had only been there five or ten minutes and wasn’t the best shot. It was the happy snap taken in The Hamptons. Kate Darby would be looking out a better pic in the next day or so. Bev talked them through Kate’s concerns and contributions: the stranger who’d allegedly followed Libby home, the name whispered in what turned out to be the last traumatic moments of the victim’s life. Bev had already checked for a Dan or Stan among the woman’s contacts. Nothing doing.

  “Known associates of the dead woman.” Bev waved the dog-eared book in the air. “Anyone volunteering?”

  “I’ll have a look, sarge,” Carol Pemberton offered. “It’s quiet on the jewellery front. Do we know if anything was stolen last night?”

  Bev cocked her head at the guv who shrugged a don’t know. “Should get a heads-up on that later today, Caz,” Bev said. She’d arranged for Kate to visit the house that afternoon, an FSI guy would hold her hand while she looked round. She’d not know everything but was sure to have more idea about missing items than anyone else around, and spot anything alien. Bev tossed Carol the book on the way back to her seat, knew it was in a safe pair of hands.

  Byford tasked Daz with rounding up CCTV of Libby Redwood’s route home from work. She’d had a part-time job at a Kings Heath florist, more to get out the house than cash flow problems. Paddy Redwood hadn’t left her short. The guv asked Sumi to talk to the dead woman’s workmates, find out if she’d mentioned her concerns. Even if – long odds – they’d seen anyone hanging round outside the shop?

  Byford pulled a face when he slurped the tea. “Thoughts, anyone?”

  Yeah, why drink the stuff? Bev kept that one to herself, nodded at the victims’ portrait gallery; “Another widow, guv. Is that the link we’re after?”

  “Beth Fowler’s divorced. Sheila Isaac’s single. Diana Masters was married.” Byford retained facts, rarely needed to check.

  “Yeah, I know.” Her gaze was still on the line-up. “But three of them are. Maybe something there...?”

  “Let me know when you come up with it.” Was he being sarky? “Anyone else?”

  “We have another dark-haired guy,” Mac said. “Young. Thin.”

  “Narrows it down then. Only a few million of them around.” The pop was from Jack Hainsworth; the information officer was tapping a keyboard. He’d turned sneering into an art form. Art. Picasso. The little girl’s cat thief. Another dark-haired mystery man. And Bev was with Mac. When there wasn’t a shed-load of evidence around, you built on what you had.

  “You gonna release the kid’s visual, guv?” The media were already milling round Highgate. At Byford’s instigation, Bernie had called a news conference for nine. The press pack was hungry; it’d need feeding a scrap or two.

  “I’ll issue it this morning. With caveats.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “I’m meeting the Crimewatch people after lunch. We need all the help we can get.” She raised a sceptical eyebrow. “What’ve you got on today, Bev?”

  “I’ve pencilled in a follow-up visit to Alex Masters’s chambers.” A couple of DCs had already talked to some of the barrister’s associates. But not everyone had been around; a few names were still outstanding. More background they could gather the better.

  Byford nodded. “Mention it to Mike first.” Powell was SIO on the murder inquiry. “He may have something more pressing.” Fair dos. “Don’t get despondent, guys. The perp’s luck will run out.” The guv rose, gathered his belongings, issued a late rally. “Stay focused. Keep sharp. Be positive.”

  Mac waited till the guv was out the door, nudged Bev’s elbow. “There y’go boss. What’d I tell you?” He leaned in close, started crooning, Always Look On The Bright Side...

  Bev curle
d a lip. Tyler was a crap comic. And he couldn’t sing to save his life.

  24

  Masters and Burns’s chambers were in Newtown Row: Victorian, redbrick, shiny brass name plaque on matt black front door. Indoors was bronze marbled pillars and Minton tiles, dark panelling and dusty parlour palms. It was all a bit Victorian: definitely more Dickens than Damages. Bev was a tad disappointed, had expected a sharper set-up from the legal eagle they called The Raptor.

  She was in reception sitting cross-legged on a cracked leather corner sofa flicking desultorily through a well-thumbed copy of the Law Gazette. Why couldn’t they have Heat or Hello! lying round like the hairdressers? She’d had a word with a couple of juniors and a legal secretary, now hoped for useful ones with the elusive Evie Jamieson: Alex Masters’s PA was in work after two days’ sick leave.

  “If you’d like to follow me?” A short dumpy woman beckoned from a side door. Bev pegged her as the tea lady, probably down to the polyester frock being the shade of weak PG. Thick tan tights, scuffed lace-ups and tight beige perm furthered the impression. Dumpy didn’t say a word as she led the way up a wide staircase then along a dimly-lit corridor. Tobacco-coloured walls were dotted with framed facsimiles of newspaper front pages: Masters’s most celebrated cases as covered in The Times and Telegraph. Dumpy held open a heavy oak door on the right, waited for Bev to finish nosing. “Please go through.”

  Bev’s quick scan registered more panelling, dark wood floorboards, heavy shelving, half-drawn blinds. Stale air smelt of ink and cheap scent. It was difficult to hide her surprise when Dumpy took up pole position behind a desk that was a cop’s dream: empty in-tray, nothing pending.

  “Do sit down, sergeant.”

  Bev’s nascent inquiries about the PA’s health were dismissed with a flap of the hand and a tight smile. Jamieson launched straight in. “You’re investigating my former employer’s murder. How may I help?”

  Aware she was under sharp scrutiny, Bev shifted slightly in her seat. “We’re trying to build a picture of Mr Masters. Learn a little background.” Encouraging smile. “You must’ve known him well, Ms Jamieson?”

  “Miss.” The single word said a lot. Bev watched closely as the PA steepled fingers displaying ugly bitten nails. She’d put the woman’s age at fifty, fifty-five. “I worked for Alex Masters for nineteen years. He was a consummate professional, a highly intelligent man with one of the sharpest legal brains in the country. A great raconteur, cultured, sensitive...” Yada. Yada. Yada.

  “Did you like him?” The question appeared to take the woman by surprise. There was a fractional widening of dishwater eyes, a tightening of already thin lips.

  “He was my employer...”

  “You said.”

  “I had enormous respect for Mr Masters.” Car horn blasted in the street. No reaction. The ticking clock in the silence that Bev again let stand had more leverage. “No one could wish for a better... employer.”

  And employee? Evie Jamieson personified efficiency. She reeled off names, dates, small detail with almost total recall, only once did she wander over to a filing cabinet to check a fact. It was enough for Bev to lean across, sneak a look at the framed pictures on her desk. As the PA waxed lyrical about one of her boss’s greatest hits, the animation enlivened her plain features. Bev shaved ten years off the original guesstimate of her age. Even so, Diana Masters wouldn’t have lost any sleep. If Alex had ever felt the itch, Bev couldn’t see him asking Evie to scratch it.

  When Bev moved on to ask about possibly disgruntled clients, threatening defendants, Jamieson was adamant there’d been none, her shock at the line of questioning seemed genuine. “I can’t see why you’re asking these questions, sergeant. If the press is to be believed, surely the murder was a burglary that went horribly tragically wrong?” Bev spouted the usual police-speak about exploring avenues, unturned stones and face values. The last phrase gave her pause for thought. Taking Jamieson at face value had been a big no-no.

  Recognising the cliché-spiel, the PA raised a hand. “Are you saying there’s a possibility Alex was the intended target that night?” Alex? First time she’d used his Christian name. As to the question, it was one Bev had asked herself. The Sandman hadn’t put a foot wrong until he entered the Masters property. So was that debacle down to a copycat clown who wanted the barrister dead? Or was it – as Powell and most of the squad thought – a case of Masters being in the wrong place at the wrong time? “We can’t rule anything out of court, Miss Jamieson.” She winced inwardly at the unintended pun.

  Evie Jamieson crimped her lips. “If there’s nothing else...”

  “Did you ever meet the boss’s wife?” Bev asked, hoisting her bag as she rose from the chair. The throwaway line appeared to cast a flicker in the woman’s eyes.

  “Once or twice. Why?” Her stare was unwavering, but Bev heard a foot tapping under the table.

  “Just wondered what you made of her?”

  Slight pause, then: “It’s not my job to make anything of Diana Masters, sergeant.” Why the dry ice? Disapproval? Resentment? Diana had everything Jamieson didn’t: style, beauty, bank balance and until recently, Alex Masters as bed partner. “If that’s all...” The hands she placed palm down on the desk trembled slightly; sweat beads were visible in the fine hair over her top lip.

  “That’s all.” Bev held the PA’s gaze for several seconds. “For now.” She turned at the door. “Tell me, were you surprised to learn Mr Masters was home that night?”

  Zero hesitation. “No. He phoned from the Old Bailey. The case had collapsed. He rang to say he was coming back.”

  He’d called his PA but not the wife. What did that say? If anything? “Were they happily married, Miss Jamieson?”

  “How should I know, sergeant? Shouldn’t you be asking her?”

  Bev couldn’t read the glint in the woman’s eye, but knew this: whatever Dickens thought about the law, and despite Jamieson’s professed ignorance – the PA was no ass.

  Perched on a high stool in the window of Caffè Nero, Bev stared out into lunchtime New Street. The steamed-up glass was still bordered by fake snow and fairy lights. Motley crews streamed past: shoppers laden with Primark bags, city suits, loud school kids, wannabe WAGs, chavs pushing buggies. On the pavement opposite, a bedraggled busker in a Sergeant Pepper jacket was mangling Flowers In Your Hair.

  Unseeing, distracted, Bev had been stirring an Americano for a minute and a half. The espresso she’d stumped up for was getting cold. Mac was running late or she’d be hitting him with a few ideas; her thoughts were eddying, too. Adding more sugar, she stirred again, picturing the dowdy Evie Jamieson. The PA certainly seemed to hold no brief for the wife. Was that down to jealousy? Jamieson’s feelings for the barrister clearly went beyond the professional. Why else keep his picture on her desk? OK, it was in with a bunch of others, but was that normal? Seeing your boss’s mug every time you glanced up from your key strokes? And why had the woman bent over backwards to stress the professional nature of their relationship? Except for the one time she’d let slip his Christian name, it had been Mr Masters this, Mr Masters that. Mr Masters bit-of-the-other? In Jamieson’s dreams maybe; Bev couldn’t see any monkey business going on there. She gave a lopsided smile. Imagine if she kept a picture of Byford on her desk: Highgate’s funny looks brigade would go into overdrive.

  Grotesque features were suddenly pressed into the glass inches from her face. Some street nutter was gurning, swinging his arms like a demented windmill. She mouthed Fuck off, pointedly turned her back. Why’d she always attract the fruitcake? Same on buses. The loony latched on to her every time.

  “No way for a lady to talk, boss.” Mac approached with an innocent grin. Shame about the tell-tale grime on his nose.

  “Stick to the day job, eh?” Lips tightened, she pointed to his coffee. “How’d it go?”

  She saw him cast a greedy glance at the counter before answering. “On a scale of one to ten? Minus two.” He’d been lending a hand with house-to
-house at Kings Heath. Two major incident teams were actually covering six ongoing inquiries. Uniform and the squad were stretched thin, thinner than they ought to be. Straining at the bit, he asked if she was eating. Mac sure wasn’t in danger of fading away. Her lip twitched. “Just coffee, ta mate.” She’d already downed a BLT. He came back with a ham croissant, two wraps and a slice of apple pie.

  “Glad to see you’re still on the fruit.” The pie was apparently a treat to go with her coffee. He stuffed his face while she gave him the gist of the Jamieson interview. They finished about the same time. Pushing his plates away, he said: “So where you coming from on this, boss? Are you saying there’s more than meets the eye to the merry widow?”

  “Wish I knew, mate.” They’d known since the get-go Diana stood to inherit, but that alone was no reason to view her as a suspect. She shrugged. “Know where we’re going though.” She had a copy of Libby Redwood’s photograph in her bag. It needed showing to the Sandman’s other victims: Diana was first on the list. And given where the pic had been taken, Charlotte Masters came pretty high. “You got wheels, mate?” He told her he’d cadged a lift into town. “Come on, then. The Polo’s in Temple Street.” Mac wrapped the apple pie in a couple of napkins, shoved it in his donkey jacket pocket. “Waste not, want not.”

  As they walked to the car, a shop window full of TVs showing the news brought them to a halt. “The guv released the e-fit then?” Mac stating the bleeding obvious. A man’s face was plastered over a bank of monitors: dark hair, deep-set eyes, wide mouth. Bev bit her lip. Getting Picasso to work with the little girl had seemed like a good idea at the time, seeing the result she wasn’t too sure. Every time a visual was given airtime there was risk of duff info overload. The phones at Highgate would soon be red hot again. Byford looked none too happy either. The guv’s grim face now filled every screen.

  “I hear he got a mauling at the press conference,” Mac said. “Concerted attack. Media want to know why more officers haven’t been drafted in.”