Blood Money Page 2

  Byford stroked his chin as he read. Without lifting his glance, he raised a hand to still Mac’s fidgeting. The toe-tapping was getting on the big man’s nerves. It was one of several habits Mac had picked up from his sergeant, the spiky Bev Morriss. Byford looked up half expecting to see her. “Bev not back yet?”

  Mac kept his gaze on Byford’s reading matter. “Identical MO. Has to be the same guy. What you reckon, guv?”

  Byford reckoned Mac had ducked the question. He let it go for the moment, handed back the printout. “Certainly fits the pattern.” A pattern he’d been re-tracing before Mac’s entry. He’d re-read every report and victim statement, replayed video interviews and studied crime scene stills – hoping to establish a link between the women. Other than suffering humiliation and abject terror at the hands of a vicious sadist.

  “There is a difference this time, guv...” Pausing, Mac rubbed the back of his neck. The gesture was his usual precursor to breaking bad news.

  “Go on.” Byford had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.

  “The vic wants the press in on it.”

  “Oh, what joy.” Realistically, he’d known it was bound to happen sooner or later. Until now, media coverage had been reasonable, restrained even, but only because the police had withheld privileged information, and the victims hadn’t wanted their identity released. The papers had run stories, but even local reporters – generally more inquisitive and tenacious than national hacks – had failed to dig out the more sensational details: the mask, the sand, the £ sign carved in the victims’ flesh. “Where is Mrs Winters?”

  “Still at the house, wouldn’t go to hospital.”

  “And Bev?” The interview would need particularly sensitive handling: Bev could still tease intimate details from a Trappist nun. When she set her mind to it.

  Mac’s hesitation was barely detectable. “Said I’d hook up with her there, guv.”

  Byford detected both the delay and the divided loyalty. “Sure about that?” He suspected Mac Tyler was a lifeguard when it came to hauling Bev out of professional deep water. And he was pretty sure the DC had dipped a toe already this morning. She’d not shown at the early brief, chasing a lead – according to Mac. The big man watched and waited in silence, observed beads of sweat appear above the DC’s top lip.

  Mac lifted a palm, started backing towards the door. “I’d best make tracks, guv. I’ll get it in the neck if I’m late.”

  He watched Mac lumber down the corridor, jabbing numbers into a mobile’s keypad as he went. Byford sighed, got up to close the door. Clearly, Tyler’s skills only extended to opening the damn things. He’d no doubt who Mac was trying to call. He clenched his jaw, hoped if Bev needed saving the water wasn’t too hot or too deep.

  4

  “Took your time, didn’t you?” Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss pushed herself up from the bonnet of a black MG Midget, and flicked a butt in the gutter where it joined another also ringed with crimson lipstick. Riled, Mac bit back a barb, then stared open-jawed as she hoisted a bag the size of Surrey on her shoulder and strode off casting a caustic, “Come on, mate, we ain’t got all day,” in her wake.

  Her five-six-size-12-ish frame was encased in ankle-length leather coat and knee high boots. The gear wasn’t black, or Mac reckoned he’d be goose-stepping to keep up. The coat, he noted, was dark blue. Her entire work wardrobe was blue, every shade in the solar system, though none matched the vibrancy of her eyes, even when she was well knackered, like now. Dark circles and drawn features were easily discernible under the warpaint. And Bev had clearly daubed it on. Talk about heavy. It was like a bloody mask these days.

  Mac switched focus as they strutted down the damp pavement. The snow had melted and though the wide tree-lined road wasn’t exactly bathed in light, a watery sun was doing its best. Blenheim Avenue, like much of Moseley, was neat verges, clipped hedges, manicured lawns. Imposing double-fronted redbrick Victorian properties were detached – and then some. Milton House had company: three police motors were parked outside, though only one was marked.

  Bev reached the metal gates first, bowed ostentatiously as she ushered him in. “So what kept you?”

  He tightened his lips. “I was on the job, boss. How about you?”

  “You could say that.”

  It was her wink that did it. The proverbial straw on Mac’s already buckling back. “Grow up,” he hissed. “I’m telling you, sarge, I’m not happy.”

  “Get over it.”

  “I had to lie to the guv this morning to cover your back.”

  “What d’you want? A gold star?” Childish, churlish. She didn’t need telling she was in the wrong.

  He kept pace as she headed towards the door. “A bit of communication would do. I hadn’t a clue where you were. I called the house, left voice mail, tried your mobile a million...”

  “Yeah, sorry ’bout that, mate. Phone’s gone AWOL.”

  As if. He stayed her hand as she made to ring the bell, forced her to make eye contact. “Don’t Bev. Not that. Please.” The ‘Bev’ was a rare enough personal touch to know he meant business.

  “What?” The defiant glint in her eye was a warning. Maybe he couldn’t read it.

  “Lie to me.” His pause was deliberately long. “We’re partners. I have to know you tell me the truth.”

  “Moral high ground?” she snapped. “Get off your sodding stilts, mate.”

  “Shall I leave it on the latch – or are you coming in?” The young officer who’d opened the door looked like a member of a boy band wearing the uniform for a bet: dark-haired, smooth-skinned, clean-cut, PC Danny Rees was only a couple of years out of Hendon, but fancied himself as son of Morse. Given Danny’s decidedly un-cool blush when his gaze met Bev’s, Mac fancied the lad harboured the hots for more than promotion.

  “Ta, Danny.” Bev wiped her boots on the mat, dodged a couple of bulging bin liners, handed the rookie her coat. “How is she now?”

  He smiled. “Don’t know what you said to her, sarge, but she seems calmer.”

  “I listened, Danny. Showed her a bit of respect.” Mac’s mouth could have garaged a bus. Double-decker. “Ask DC Tyler. He knows all about that don’t you, mate?” She paused at the end of the hall. “You coming or what?”

  A woman in her mid-fifties sat stiff-backed on a squashy three-seater sofa in a spacious L-shaped lounge. Not everything around her was beige, it just seemed that way. Soft furnishings the shade of weak tea, washed-out sepia walls, dried flowers in butter-coloured vases book-ending a marble fireplace. The woman herself was no shrinking violet. Faith Winters appeared to be into purple in a big way, from patent leather kitten heels to casually-draped pashmina. Even close-cropped grey hair was dusted with lilac. She was leafing through the local rag, laid it to one side when Bev – rehearsed smile fixed in place – entered.

  “Me again, Mrs Winters.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “This is my partner, DC Mac Tyler. Think you can tell him what you told me? Two heads and all that?” Bev cocked hers in hope.

  “Of course.” If there were qualms, the woman hid them well. She crossed slim legs at thin ankles, smoothed slightly trembling fingers over an already crease-free velvet dress, blackcurrant. Whether the moves were to skirt Mac’s proffered handshake was anyone’s guess.

  “Appreciate it.” Bev resumed her place alongside the victim. She’d motored straight here after catching breaking reports of the incident on her police radio. In a toss-up between late arrival at the Highgate brief ball and heads up at a breaking crime scene it was a no-brainer. Bev needed the brownie points, and could get by without colleagues’ questioning looks. Again.

  When she’d first arrived the woman had been in a state of shock. Now Bev had the shakes. The tremor, she knew, was DC- as much as DT-induced. That Mac had accused her of lying about the phone was so far below the belt, it was ground-breaking. She might come out with the occasional white one to oil the wheels, but whites-of-the-eyes whopper? No way. Not to a professional par
tner.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Mrs Winters?” Mac was in gentle-coax mode. He’d opted for a chunky armchair facing the woman, adopted a non-threatening stance and wasn’t overdoing the eye contact. He was pretty good at the victim-interview stuff. Bev had seen him in action; it was Mrs Winters she observed closely now.

  Asking the victim to run through the story again wouldn’t just bring Mac up to speed. Few witnesses have total recall when they first relate an incident – if ever. This time round, the woman might dredge up a nugget or two, a little extra detail. Bev took a metaphorical back seat, clocking body language, listening for discrepancies, contradictions, nuances, ready to pounce on anything that needed elaboration and/or follow up.

  Mrs Winters fidgeted incessantly but the story emerged fluently and coherently. A man wearing dark clothes and a clown mask had entered her room, tethered her to the bed, subjected her to verbal abuse and physical attack. He’d ransacked the house, stolen property, left his mark. Bev had seen it: a £ sign traced on the woman’s belly with a knife. Not deep, not life-threatening. Just because he could. And like he’d done before. Three times.

  At previous crime scenes, he’d not shed so much as a skin cell. The cops hoped for bigger things here. Uniforms were on the streets, others were finger-tipping grounds at the back of the house. The odd muffled bump overhead signalled the presence of forensic scene investigators: FSI. The name change from SOCOs was still fairly recent. Why the West Midlands service hadn’t adopted the more common initials, CSI, Bev hadn’t a clue. Hopefully they did by now – they were upstairs videoing, dusting, lifting, fine-tooth combing, bagging and tagging anything with potential.

  “I lay there for hours.” Mrs Winters picked loose skin at the side of her thumb. “I was... it was...” She swallowed. “Then June found me... called you people.” The cleaner. Bev had spoken briefly. June Mason had been adamant the back door was locked. There’d been no sign of forced entry anywhere. Begged the question did the intruder have a key? The alarm hadn’t needed deactivating. It hadn’t been switched on.

  The sequence of events was easy to picture, Bev had witnessed some of the aftermath: the shredded wedding photograph, the shattered glass, four thin cords still dangling from bed posts. Imagining what the woman had gone through was more difficult. Mrs Winters had her voice under tight control, but the twitching and fiddling told a different story. The upper lip was starched but Bev reckoned Faith Winters was a quivering wreck inside. Took one to know one. As for the woman’s attitude – there was a slight shift, something Bev couldn’t quite pin down. It was more the way she spoke, rather than what was said.

  The narrative – though not word-for-word – was close enough to the original for Bev to know the woman wasn’t making it up as she went along, adding spice, aggrandising her ego, or even just pleasing the cops. Amazing how many punters did, fantasists getting off on their own fiction. People lied all the time. Lied. Bugger Mac. Bev balled a fist. Her mobile was missing. Only doubt was whether she’d lost it for good or it would turn up where she least expected it. Sodding nuisance either way.

  “Any questions, sarge?” Mac’s snide tone suggested he thought she’d tuned out.

  Finger still on the button though. “How many keys are there to this place, Mrs Winters?”

  It looked as if she was totting them up in her head. “Six.” The cleaner, a neighbour and the gardener had copies, which left Mrs Winters’s plus two spares.

  “And they’re still around?” Nonchalant query from Bev.

  “Of course.”

  “Check recently?”

  “Well, no...” It didn’t take long. She was back in a couple of minutes. “I keep them in the kitchen drawer normally.” Normally. “Maybe I moved them?”

  “P’raps you could have a search round later, Mrs Winters?” Mac urged gently.

  The missing keys added to Bev’s growing doubts that the burglary was random. “You say the intruder knew your name, Mrs Winters. Any chance you’d come across him before?”

  She drifted back to the sofa, shaking her head. “I’ve thought about it but can’t see how or where. I don’t know many young men.”

  The woman and the burglar didn’t have to be bosom buddies. Their paths could have crossed casually in any number of places: supermarket, garage, restaurant, coffee shop. Mrs Winters wasn’t an agoraphobic hermit. On the other hand, the letter rack in the hall contained household bills, correspondence – all addressed to Mrs Faith Winters. Bev had spotted it, likely Coco the frigging clown had as well. Best keep an open mind for the mo.

  “What makes you say young man, Mrs Winters?” Mac asked.

  “His clothes.” The description boiled down to man-in-black. “The swagger. What he said, how he said it.” She traced an eyebrow with an aubergine fingernail.

  “Tell us about the voice,” Bev prompted. “Did he have an accent?”

  “He may have...” Hesitating, she circled the finger where her wedding ring had been. Bev spotted the slight indentation in the flesh. “I had the feeling he was disguising the way he speaks. He sounded just a little different every time he opened his mouth.” She shuddered, closed her eyes. The word must have revived an image of the gross red lips. Bev was freaked and she’d only heard about them.

  “So you’d not recognise the voice again?” Bev asked.

  “That’s not what I said.” Tad sharp. “At the moment I can’t get the damn thing out of my head.”

  “Anything else you can think of, Mrs Winters?” Soothing interception from Mac.

  “The worst thing was when he ordered me to close my eyes... the sand... then the pillow over my face... I thought... I was afraid... I...”

  “It’s OK now, Mrs Winters.” Bev’s outstretched hand was rebuffed.

  “But it’s not, is it? I was utterly humiliated. He made me feel worthless, insignificant. And I was so very afraid. If Rod were alive...” She closed her eyes, visibly trying to compose herself. Bev mouthed, husband, at Mac. The uneasy silence was shattered when the widow whacked the arm of the sofa. “And he’s still out there. He could come back.” The attitude shift was more pronounced, the growing hostility unmistakeable.

  “We’ll put a police guard on the house, Mrs Winters,” Bev said. “There’s no way he’ll...”

  “And how do you stop him attacking someone else? I’m not the first, am I?” She grabbed the paper she’d been reading, thrust it at Bev. “Page thirteen, sergeant.” The headline in the week-old copy of the local rag read POLICE SEEK BURGLAR.

  It wouldn’t set Wolverhampton alight let alone the world. Nor the bland bog-standard story that appeared below the fold. The guv had wanted it down-played. That it was.

  Mrs Winters rose, paced the carpet, arms folded. “I vaguely remembered reading the article before. When you went out, I retrieved that from the recycling box.” The finger pointing at the paper was none too steady. “It’s him isn’t it?” She didn’t sound certain, there wasn’t much to go on in the story, but her conjecture was smack on. Bev reckoned she deserved the truth.

  “Yes. It could be.”

  “Why no mention of the mask? The torment he puts his victims through?” She flapped a dismissive hand. “That’s no warning to vulnerable women. Any woman. If I’d known...”

  Bev stood, met the woman head-on, tried peacemaking. “It’s a fine line, Mrs Winters: alerting people, alarming them, causing unnecessary panic.” Fine line and the guv’s official line, another one Bev didn’t much care about toeing.

  “Unnecessary panic?” she sneered. “What a great comfort, sergeant.”

  “We’ll catch him, Mrs Winters.”

  “Then what?” She threw her head back. “A few months in jail? Time off for good behaviour? And me? I’ll be looking over my shoulder every day, too scared to sleep at night. The man who did this should go to prison for life – and it still wouldn’t be long enough.”

  Big Ben chimes broke the silence. There were muffled voices in the hall. PC Rees popped his head rou
nd. “It’s the television people, Mrs Winters. Do you want to speak to them?”

  “What do you think?” Defiant glare. “I asked them here.”

  “And, sarge?” Rees cocked an eyebrow. “Something you need to see.”

  Bev and Mac trailed Rees to a large detached white house just round the corner. One of the uniforms had spotted it: a small black-handled knife under a hedge. Crime scene manager Chris Baxter was just about to bag it.

  “Hold on a min, Chris.” Bev got down on one knee, gently nudged the knife with the tip of a Bic to turn it over. Except for blood on the blade, there was nothing to distinguish it from a zillion others. Nada. Worth a look before it entered the black hole of the labs though. She rose, brushed a dead leaf and damp grit from her Levis. “All yours, Chris.” The sigh she’d tried stifling escaped.

  “What’s up, Bev?” Baxter joshed. “Hoping there’d be a name on it?” Sandy-haired, freckle-faced Baxter fancied himself as a bit of a wit.

  Tad distracted, Bev’s quip was on auto-pilot. “Address, phone number, inside leg. Y’know me. I’m easy.”

  “I’d heard that, babe.”

  Easy or babe? Nerves. Raw. Touched. “Don’t friggin’ babe me. Savvy?”

  “Joke? Hello?” Was that a flush of embarrassment or anger? Baxter wasn’t a bloke to get on the wrong side of. He mirrored her glare with one of his own. She broke eye contact first, raised a palm in token appeasement-stroke-apology, headed back up the road, coat-wings flapping. Mac kept pace. If not peace.

  “How to win friends and influence people. Nice one, boss.” The tuneless whistling of Happy Days Are Here Again didn’t help: she’d got the message.