Blood Money Read online

  “But he was there, Dee! He saw me. It’s all right for you.”

  “Can’t you see he’s tightening the screw?” Maybe she’d thought about it longer or Sam was nowhere near sharp as she’d thought. She hoped that wasn’t going to become a problem. As to the broadcast, far as Diana was concerned the plod had been duped into delivering a subtle personal message from the blackmailer. “That crap on the news was a veiled threat.”

  “Veiled? Thank God it wasn’t pointed.”

  She rolled her eyes. “There wasn’t even a vague description, Sam. Our friend’s on a power trip. He wants us running scared. He’s saying he’ll shoot his mouth off so we pay up.”

  “Is the cash ready?”

  “Sure, I went to the hole-in-the-wall this morning.” She stifled a sigh. “What do you think, Sam? I can’t just whistle up half a million. Getting hold of that sort of money takes time.”

  “We haven’t got time, Dee. He wants it within forty-eight hours.”

  “What?” Chipped ice. Why had Sam kept her out of the loop? The glass was empty, she topped it up, took a slug. A shaft of weak sunlight fell across Alex’s portrait on the wall. Diana raised a mock toast, turned her back.

  “He called just before I rang you.” There was more, she heard it in the voice. “He still wants you to make the drop.” She swallowed. Thank God for that. Less chance of it being cocked up.

  “No problem.”

  “There is. He’s tightening the screw all right – he claims he’s holding Charlotte.”

  The glass almost slipped from her fingers; grabbing it she tightened her grip, took swing and hurled it at the wall. Shattered fragments glistened where they lay like a sprinkling of ice.

  Evie Jamieson’s Arran cardigan was buttoned to the neck, the ancient radiator blasted out heat, still the PA shivered. Someone walking over her grave, she told herself. Picking up Alex’s photograph from her desk, she gazed at the face of the man she’d loved for nineteen years. “Is someone trampling over yours, darling?” The murmur emerged through barely parted thin dry lips. The endearment wouldn’t have escaped when Masters still drew breath.

  It wasn’t the first time Evie had asked the question in the last day or so. The young detective’s visit had unsettled her in more ways than one. DS Morriss had raised – however obliquely – the spectre of foul play. Like everyone else, Evie had believed that Alex died when a burglary went wrong, a simple though tragic case of being in the worst place at the worst time. That could still be so, of course. But what if it was premeditated? Evie had posed the question directly, but Morriss hadn’t given a straight answer. She tapped a thigh with testy fingers. What did ‘exploring every avenue’ mean exactly?

  Sighing, she took a key from a Snoopy penholder, walked across the office to a grey metal filing cabinet. Knees creaked as she squatted, then fumbling with clumsy fingers released a brown envelope taped to the underside of a drawer. Only she, Alex and one other person knew its contents. Evie fancied she could almost hear the bomb ticking.

  Rising unsteadily, she had to lean against the wall for support, clutching the package to her breast. What should she do? Alex had sworn her to secrecy. She could still hear his wonderful voice in her head: not until the time’s right, Evie, not until the time’s right. Now he was dead and the time would never be right. And she could be so wrong. She screwed her eyes tight. Releasing the contents would destroy reputations, sully memories. But would Alex rest in peace if she let sleeping dogs lie? Sleeping dogs? One such sprang to mind immediately: Diana Masters. Evie barked a mirthless laugh, mouth twisted in contempt. She loathed the woman. Diana had never been good enough for Alex, and, who knew... if the bitch hadn’t come along?

  Torn, fighting tears, she carried the package to her desk. Once more her hand went to Alex’s photograph. Her lips had kissed his a thousand times – through the glass. Life and death separated them now, and she didn’t know what to do. Her glance fell on a card near the phone. DS Morriss had left it, telling her to call if anything came to mind. Narrowing her eyes, Evie reached for it now, ran it between her fingers, tapped it against her teeth, then tore it into tiny pieces.

  Hands behind her head, eyes closed, Bev was as horizontal as it gets when you’re in a swivel chair using a desk as a footstool. KitKat wrappers and empty coke cans littered the surface, a handful of M&Ms had escaped to the floor. The caffeine and sugar kick had fuelled a marathon afternoon session: she’d phone-bashed for China, written a stack of reports, reviewed about a third of the inquiry’s statements, re-examined every Magpie item in the exhibits office. Evening now and wheat and chaff whirled in her brain, grey cells trying to sift and sort a cerebral dust storm. The missing link was in there somewhere.

  “This you ‘working on it’, boss?” Actually, it sounded like the missing link had just lumbered in. She’d been waiting for Mac to show. At the late brief, Powell had tasked them with following a tip-off. Hopefully it would be a piece of piss. The first weekend off in a while beckoned; Oz just might put in an appearance and on Sunday her mum was getting out the fatted calf – well, pig. Still reclining, Bev opened a mock resigned eye. “Don’t you ever...?” Sod it, no point. She knew he never knocked. “This is me thinking, mate. It’s heady stuff.”

  “Thoughts racing, eh?”

  “Flat out. You should try it sometime.” Stifling a yawn, she swung her legs down, cut him a glance as she shucked into her coat. “Won the pools or something?”

  He spread empty palms, industrial strength beam still in place. “A guy can’t smile round here these days?”

  “’Gainst the law, mate.” She grinned. “Come on, Mr Happy, give.”

  “You’ll take the piss.” His bottom lip jutted.

  “Prob’ly.”

  “I’ve met this woman.” Gazing down, he toed the carpet with a desert boot. “She makes me feel like a kid again.”

  “Shoot, mate, how old is she?” Her lip twitched as Mac’s mouth tightened.

  “I knew it...”

  “Genuinely happy for you, Mac.” She grabbed her bag, headed for the door. “You’ll make someone a wonderful wife.”

  “So’d you.”

  She froze, spun round hackles rising. “See that, mate.” Pointing to the floor. “That’s a line. And you’ve just crossed it.” Diva or what? Even to her ears it sounded OTT.

  “Get over it, Bev.” Casual, matter of fact, but his eyes were intense. She knew the Morriss ring fence wasn’t what he had in mind. He’d been there the night of the stabbing, seen the Black Widow’s fatal lunge. Mac was telling her to move on from that. Like she didn’t want to? Blue eyes blazing she was about to give him a mouthful then paused. The pram was currently out of toys. “I’m trying, Mac.” Her lips attempted a smile.

  “Very.” He winked as he passed her to get the door. “Come on, boss.”

  “Be a waste of time, mate.” They fell into step as they walked the corridor. An anonymous caller had left a name and address on one of the squad room’s hotlines. Liam Small from Newtown was allegedly a dead ringer for the e-fit released yesterday. Anonymous caller said it all: probably some loser trying to stitch up a guy who’d nicked his girlfriend. “Trouble with this job,” Bev moaned. “Most of the punters who ring in haven’t got a clue.”

  Diana Masters was slightly tipsy. A liquid diet was all she could face at the moment. Frantic and furious, her gut was churning, mind racing. The nausea would pass, she was sure of that. In the same way she knew she’d stop drinking before losing control. Diana had never been drunk in her life. Sipping the vodka, she rolled it round her tongue. If ever she needed a clear head, now was it.

  Slipping off her coat, she chucked it over the arm of a chair, smoothed her hair, then stood in front of the mirror. She was surprisingly pleased – and relieved – to note the inner turmoil wasn’t evident, the immaculate mask was intact. Diana had just returned from a fact finding tour: Charlotte definitely wasn’t in any of her usual haunts. The discovery had dashed Diana’s faint hope t
hat their friend’s CV had ‘lying bastard’ writ large, as well as blackmailer. She realised now he almost certainly wasn’t bluffing.

  Swaying slightly, she dimmed the lights, drifted to the CD player, decided she could do without musical distraction. Charlotte’s abduction complicated matters. Diana was hardly in a position to go to the police. Her lip curved at the understatements. Hugging herself she paced the faded carpet, the pay-as-you-go clutched in her fingers. Think, woman, think. There had to be a way round it. Could her original plan still work? Sam shadowing her on the drop, pulling a knife at the handover, only this time forcing the bastard to reveal Charlotte’s whereabouts before he was taken out. Taken out? Such a civilised euphemism. The thin smile turned skeletal. Call it what the hell you like, the idea was the best she could come up with.

  Yet so much could go wrong. She ran her fingers through her hair. Maybe the cops were the only option? No. She was a damn sight smarter than the slime-ball who was holding her daughter. Scowling, she threw a log on the fire, curled up in Alex’s armchair, willed the phone to ring. Pay-as-you-go? Oh, yes. The bastard would pay all right. Before being permanently despatched. For several minutes, deep in thought, she watched the flicker of flames and curl of smoke as the fire took hold. Charlotte would be fine. Diana closed her eyes, told herself again: Charlotte would be just fine. Failure was not an option.

  Bev awarded herself ten out of ten for prescience, perfectionism and all round good-eggism. As she predicted, Liam Small had emerged squeaky clean from his grilling. The anonymous caller’s stitches had come adrift: Small’s alibi was tighter than a cat’s rectum not to mention he had the colouring of an anaemic albino. By way of a slap on the back, she’d treated herself to a cheeky little Pinot which even now lay winking from the passenger seat. She’d swung by Oddbins after dropping Mac at the nick. Hopefully it’d be the last she’d see of him until Monday. Unless there was a major break, she’d not be called in. And if there was – she’d want to be there anyway. Win-win situation.

  She slapped in a Kinks CD to celebrate, sang along to Sunny Afternoon. Moseley was gearing up for Friday night, flash motors were parked bumper-to-bumper either side of the main drag, music spilled out of wine bars and pubs, boobs spilled out of lace and lurex. Bev’s goose bumps were rising in sympathy: it was minus five on the street. She lowered the window a tad just to take in the smells of pizza and curry: oregano, cardamom, cinnamon, coriander. She’d already decided on an Indian, fancied Rogan Josh tonight but it was early yet, she’d ring later. It’d be a bit coals to Newcastle for Fareeda but the girl could always fend for herself. Maybe she wouldn’t even bother coming down if the migraine was as stonking as she’d made out on the phone.

  “Thanks, Raymondo.” Smiling, Bev cut the Kinks, grabbed bottle and bag and fished out the new key. House felt warm, even though no one was on hand with the nibbles and red carpet. She guessed Fareeda was still nursing a sore head. Coat and bag ditched, Bev nipped upstairs, peeked into the spare room. Ten out of ten again. Give that girl a gold star. She dithered on the landing but only momentarily. Her mum suffered migraines, reckoned the only cure – apart from death – was silence and a darkened room. She’d leave the kid to it. And being brutally honest, she fancied having the place to herself for a night.

  Five minutes later, she was curled up with Johnny Depp. Well, Depp was on the DVD, swashbuckling and timber-shivering, Bev was supine on the sofa, glass in hand, bowl of Quavers balanced mid-trunk. Would she walk his plank? Any time, matey. Her lascivious leer morphed into a testy frown. Was that the bloody door? Using elbow as prop, she listened out for the bell. Knowing the erratic hours she put in, the few mates she had outside the job never turned up on spec, cold and casual callers could go get stuffed; on past experience it was probably Jehovah’s Witnesses trying to save her soul. Her lopsided smile suggested they’d have their work cut out.

  The bell rang again, a persistent finger on the buzzer. Her eyes widened. What if...? Heart skipping a beat, the Quavers took a tumble as she shot up, swung down her legs. She had a mad idea it was Oz. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d turned up unannounced, Khanie had a habit of springing surprises.

  It was that all right. Confusion reigned. For a split second she thought she’d phoned Spice Avenue. But she hadn’t called for an Indian and the grey-haired guy wasn’t delivering a takeaway. He wouldn’t need two henchmen for that.

  Two seconds later the rupee dropped. It had to be a Saleem family outing. Had they come packing? If so, what were they carrying? Heart pumping, bowel on ice, she aimed for a disarming smile, made damn sure it didn’t reach her eyes, detected not so much as a lip twitch in return.

  The old boy could’ve been carved from fissured rock; the hooded eyes were expressionless, certainly illegible. Quick scan showed the brothers had inherited the father’s genes with time on their side: dark-haired, early twenties, tasty except they so knew it. Part of her wanted to slam their faces into a wall; part of her was bricking it.

  “My name is Malik Saleem. I think you know why I’m here.” He was in off-white shalwar kameez and a zipped blue nylon jacket. The brothers-in-arms wore street uniform: baggy denims, loose fitting hoodies, Nike trainers. Calculating the odds went like this: she despised bullies, was well able to look out for herself but if push came to shove it was three against one. Could be asking for trouble inviting them in?

  “Best come in.” Standing to one side, she fought not to flinch when the old man raised a gnarled hand. It was only to turn down her offer.

  “I want you to tell Fareeda she must come home.” He who must be obeyed or what?

  “No.” Not even if he said please. How’d they found out where she was though? Had they put a tail on Sumi?

  “I am not looking for trouble.”

  Arms folded, she held his gaze. “You ain’t getting any.”

  “Evening, Bev.” A loud yell from across the road. The old man who lived opposite was standing outside his house. “Everything all right, girl?”

  “Hunky, thanks, Mr Yates.” Alfie looking out for her improved the odds; the Saleems wouldn’t do anything stupid in front of a witness.

  “I want my daughter back.” Like there’d been no interruption. “Tell Fareeda we can work it out. It will be better for her if she comes home.”

  “Better than what? Getting beat?”

  That stepped up the heat. She watched him cool it with a couple of jaw clenches. “You should not interfere. You don’t understand.”

  Her turn to see red bullshit. “Damn right I don’t.” She was sick of hearing it. “I don’t understand how anyone can pummel a girl’s face till it breaks. I don’t understand why a girl’s scared shitless to open her mouth. I don’t understand why sadistic pieces of work get away with it time after time.”

  “You are a police officer. Do you really think I would be here if I had done this terrible thing to my own flesh and blood?” She didn’t know. He could be on the level or lying through those stained teeth. Unless Fareeda testified the old man was home and dry. He must know she hadn’t spoken out or the police would be knocking on his door, not vice versa. If the girl returned home, Saleem could make sure she kept her mouth shut. Maybe permanently.

  “Who did then?”

  His eyes darkened. “I will make it my job to find out.”

  “Think you’ll find that’s my job.” Sunshine. “And when I do, he’s going down.”

  “If that’s an accusation...?” He didn’t elaborate and she let it hang. Oz was right: she’d not a thread of evidence. On the other hand it looked to Bev as if the old man was having a hard time keeping a lid on it. He clearly didn’t take to being challenged let alone contradicted. “Fareeda does not belong here. Her mother misses her. She cries herself to sleep every night.”

  “And your daughter doesn’t?” She glanced over his shoulder. Alfie was sweeping the pavement. In the dark. Whistling. You’ll Never Walk Alone.

  “May I speak with her please?” Saleem senior was doing all
the talking. The brothers knew their place: on the sidelines cracking the occasional knuckle.

  “She’s not up to visitors. Got a migraine.”

  “You are lying to me.”

  Cheeky sod. She’d had enough. “G’night.” She made to close the door. They could be there till the cows came home then left on a world cruise. Unless Fareeda had a change of heart, it wasn’t going to happen.

  “My daughter does not belong here.” She recoiled at his garlic breath as he took a step closer, tried to put a foot in the door. “Send her home. Soon.” The voice was low but had a sharper edge. “Then we can forget about it.”

  You might. “Are you threatening me, Mr Saleem?”

  “Good night, officer.” Bouncing on the balls of their feet the sons moved aside so he could leave first. “I hope it won’t be necessary to trouble you again.”

  Diana Masters stroked Sam’s brow, ran her fingers through his damp tousled hair. His cheeks were flushed, he felt fevered. They stood face to face in the kitchen. She suspected his heightened emotion was down to fear. That he was running scared. More than ever they needed to stand strong, to stand together. A weak Sam was ornamental but no use, dangerous in fact. “Sam, Sam, it will be OK.”

  “How can you say that, Diana?” His eyes pleaded with her before he turned to cup his hands under the cold tap to take a drink. Observing, calculating, she waited until his focus was again on her.

  “He won’t kill Charlotte, Sam. It’s just big talk.”

  “And that’s what?” The package he’d brought was on the table. Gone midnight, but he’d driven straight over when he found it pushed through the door of his flat.

  “It’s hair, Sam. It might not even be Charlotte’s.” Stupid. Of course it was.

  “You’re in denial, Diana. It’s her in the photograph.”

  That was more... disconcerting. It was definitely her daughter gagged, blindfolded and bound to a chair. “At least we know she’s alive.”