Blood Money Read online

  “For how long?” He threw his hands into the air. “There’s no option now. You have to go to the police.”

  Diana fought to conceal her contempt. It was vital not to lose him but he was acting like a lily-livered wimp. “Get real. You’re the Sandman for God’s sake. If it comes out you’ll go down for the rest of your life.”

  “If he keeps his mouth shut it won’t come out.” God. How could he be so dense? There was only one way to make sure the blackmailer kept his mouth shut. And she had every intention of taking it.

  “You’re not thinking straight, Sam. Watch my lips. There can be no police involvement. We get her back. We do what he says.”

  She watched as he pulled at his bottom lip, working out where she was coming from. “Pay the ransom you mean?”

  “If that’s what it takes.” Over Diana’s dead body. She needed time to get Sam on track.

  “It’s too risky, Dee.” He ran both hands through his hair. “He could take the cash and still kill her.”

  “But we won’t let him, will we?” She’d rather die than go down as Sam’s accessory. Scrub that. She’d prefer to kill. Anyone who got in her way. He wasn’t completely convinced. But there were lots of ways to make him come round. She held her arms open. “Come on, Sammy. Let’s go to bed.”

  Bev slammed the door on the Saleems’ departing backs, but not before hearing the old man hawk then spit on the ground. She leaned against the wood, slamming fist into palm. I hope it won’t be necessary to trouble you again. Sounded like a veiled threat without the veil. Bring it on, gobshite.

  But was it a warning? Realistically, how’d she know? Maybe he genuinely wanted his daughter back with no hassle. Drifting back to the sitting room, she took a few pensive sips of wine. It was just conceivable Saleem hadn’t laid a finger on Fareeda. It was the girl’s word against... Hold on? She frowned. Fareeda still hadn’t uttered a syllable of any import on the subject. Fact was Bev knew no more now than the night she’d found Fareeda and Sumi huddled outside. Correction. The predictor kit was pretty telling. Not that there’d been opportunity to tackle the girl about it. Lips pursed, she glanced at the ceiling then mental sleeves rolled headed for the stairs. Migraine or not – it was time to take issue. And there’d be no standing on ceremony.

  “Need a word, kid.” Bev stood at the bedside, tapping a foot. She’d done the decent thing leaving off the light, but even in the shadows she saw Fareeda had pulled the duvet over her head. Natch. More comfortable than burying it in the sand. “Sooner we talk – sooner I’ll be out of your hair.” Big brush off. Feigning sleep was child’s play: Fareeda was a big girl now. Mouth tight, arms crossed, Bev pushed a toe against the mattress. “I ain’t going nowhere, kid.” Not a murmur. Bev pushed again, harder this time. Nothing. She narrowed her eyes, hair rising on the back of her neck. No one slept that deep. Suddenly alert, scalp crawling, she took a step closer, looked for the gentle rise and fall of shoulder under duvet. Holy Mary. It wasn’t.

  Dear sweet Christ. Not dead, please, not dead. Heart pounding, hand shaking Bev flung off the cover, muttered obscenities under her breath. Fareeda wasn’t dead. Fareeda wasn’t there. Just well-placed towels, pillows and a few lines on a post card.

  Please don’t try and find me. It’s better no one knows where I am. I have a friend and we’ll be fine. Thank you for being there, Bev. Xxx

  Weak with relief, eyes brimming with tears she dropped to her knees. “You stupid, stupid girl.” It wasn’t only Fareeda she had in mind.

  MONDAY

  27

  Seven a m. Highgate. A business-suited Bev had the squad room almost to herself, ploughing through a backlog of printouts and police reports, catching up on detail that might have slipped her net. She’d monitored news bulletins over the weekend, knew nothing major had kicked off in the Sandman inquiry or Powell would’ve called her in like a shot. Blowing on a cup of steaming canteen coffee, she reckoned a summons would have been welcome given how much downtime she’d spent on domestic stuff. House was cleaner than an operating theatre now: not difficult. Mind, it had needed a seeing to, she’d had to dust the board before doing the ironing.

  Shuffling the paperwork into a neat pile, she knew the chores-fest had been displacement activity. It had stopped her obsessing over Fareeda, and a bunch of other stuff. Sumi had been as much in the dark over her cousin’s whereabouts; Bev had called Goshie the minute she found the girl gone. Later – much later – she’d left voicemail telling Oz not to bother coming up. Hadn’t realised till then how much she’d been looking forward to seeing the guy. What with that and low-level all round antsy-ness it had been a pretty shite weekend. Anticipation greater than the event? Got that right. Nipping a tin of ta-very-much Roses across to Alfie and whizzing round Sainsbury hardly qualified as social whirls. She pursed her lips: what did it say about her life when her mum’s roast pork and crackling had been the highlight?

  She needed reminding what it was all about. Rising, she drifted cup in hand to the victims’ picture gallery, keen blue eyes lingered on each face in turn: Faith Winters, Beth Fowler, Sheila Isaac, women terrorised and terrified by the Sandman; Donna Kennedy and Libby Redwood, dead; odd man out Alex Masters, killed. Taking a sip of coffee, it occurred to her that if the timing of previous attacks was anything to go by, another strike was overdue.

  Moving across to one of the whiteboards, she stood in front of the e-fit, stared into what could be the perp’s dark deep set eyes. Maybe the Sandman had been too busy of late making silent phone calls? After receiving another half-dozen silent hang-ups, she’d asked BT to check the line.

  “You’re early.” How long had the guv been watching her? He was in the doorway Fedora and attaché case in hand. She spotted a shaving nick on his neck. “Good break, Bev?”

  “Brill.” Bright smile. “The best.” Like she’d admit Boot Hill had more life.

  His finger traced a quizzical eyebrow. “What’d you get up to?”

  “Y’know how it is, guv.” Mouth turned down, she made a wave of her hand. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that.”

  “That quiet, uh?” Deadpan delivery, voluble gaze. The big man could read her better than anyone she knew.

  “Rubbish.” She sniffed. “Glad to get back to work.” Lesser of two evils. Saturday night was the first in a long time she’d not gone on the pull, the very thought had turned her stomach. Least here there was company she didn’t have to get rat-arsed to keep.

  He paused a beat or two then: “Always glad to have you back, Bev.” Ambiguous smile, mock salute and he was gone. Had she read something deeper in those eyes, the way he’d said the words? Or had she just wanted to? Miles away, she tapped a pen against her teeth.

  “Earth to Morriss. Come in please.” The moment had passed. Mike Powell bemused grin, arms folded, leaned against the doorframe.

  “DI Powell.” Eager smile. “How may I help?”

  “You taking the piss?”

  “Would I?”

  He rolled his eyes, jammed a hand in his pocket. “You didn’t miss much, Morriss.” He’d been in all weekend. She listened as he talked her through a couple of ticked boxes: the house to house in Kings Heath had finally been completed, checks on whether there was a property link between the victims had drawn a blank. There’d been no further contact from the grasping bastard after a non-existent reward.

  “That it?” she asked.

  “Have to sharpen our spades, won’t we? See you at the brief.” He turned at the door. “Oh yeah, a woman phoned here for you a couple of times.”

  “Oh?” Not likely to be anyone she’d already spoken to, she always gave out a bunch of numbers she could be reached on.

  “Wouldn’t leave a name. Said it wasn’t urgent. She’d try again.”

  She shrugged. “Get a number?”

  “I’m not your sodding secretary.” He disappeared then popped his head back. “Course I did. It’s on your desk.”

  Bag and coat dumped, Bev dug out the number from under a
pile of files and post-its. It didn’t ring a bell, frowning she reached for the receiver, tried it twice, would’ve left a message but no answerphone kicked in. She glanced up, some joker was playing a drum solo on the door. Not hard to guess who. She gave a resigned sigh. “Come in, mate.”

  Mac ambled in humming Knock, knock, knocking on heaven’s door. Subtle. The song choice was no surprise compared with the shock on clocking his new look. He’d ditched the lumberjack gear for blue shirt and charcoal chinos.

  “My God.” She lifted an imaginary jaw from the floor. “Give us a twirl.”

  “No more barging in, boss. Turning over a new leaf, me.”

  New woman more like. “Hold you to it, mate.”

  “Not just that. I’ve bagged up a load of old clothes. Splashed out on a new wardrobe. Nothing like a fresh start.”

  Mental eye roll. Must be part of Mac’s one-man move-Morriss-on campaign. She let it go; his heart was in the right place somewhere under the paunch. And maybe he had a point.

  One eye closed, Byford took aim and launched the Fedora at the hat stand. His muted Yes was accompanied by a triumphant air punch. Hitting the target didn’t necessarily mean a good day ahead, but success gave the big man a childish thrill. It wasn’t part of the morning routine he shared with anyone. Sighing he sat at the desk, tugged his bottom lip. Like the weekend – that had been pretty solitary too: long solo walk in the Malverns, dinner alone in a restaurant, single bed in a soulless hotel. Throughout, Bev hadn’t been far from his thoughts. Why the hell couldn’t they get their act together?

  If he’d decided nothing else over the last two days, he’d decided this: when Operation Magpie was concluded he’d ask if she wanted to give it another go. Find out once and for all if they had a joint future. He reached for his briefing notes. All they had to do now was nail the Sandman.

  Sam’s hand shook as he passed the phone to Diana. “He wants to speak to you.”

  Thank God for that. There’d been little contact for two days. Edgy herself, she’d kept Sam with her most of the time trying to convince him the blackmailer was playing mind games. It hadn’t worked. Her lover was pale, sweaty, barely eating. He’d not touched breakfast, just pushed scrambled egg round with a fork. Diana shoved away her empty plate, any nausea she felt stemmed from having to be the strong one all the time. Taking a deep breath she held the phone to her ear. “Diana Mast...”

  “I know who you are, lady. I’ve been pissed around enough. Where’s the cash?” The voice was metallic, distorted, not as menacing as Sam described it. Maybe she was better prepared, or less easily intimidated.

  “It’s not been easy...”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck. I want it tonight or the deal’s off.”

  A flash of fury lit her eyes. “You don’t get a cent until I know my daughter’s alive.” What little colour there was drained from Sam’s cheeks. It wasn’t how they’d decided to play it. Her role was supposed to be desperate mother, willing to do anything the blackmailer asked. Fact was, she hated being jerked round by scum.

  “Sure about that, lady?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “You have two minutes to change your mind.”

  “Or?” She curled a lip. Bastard had hung up.

  Eyes wide and staring, Sam ran both hands through his hair. “You’re out of your tiny. You may as well ring the cops yourself.”

  “Shut the fuck up. I’m trying to think.” She closed her eyes, index fingers pressed against temples. The current predicament was down to her. She should’ve stuck to the role. Much as she resented the whole sorry mess, until they saw the whites of the blackmailer’s eyes, they were over a fucking big barrel. Cocking her head, she tried to locate the source of a strange sound. Sam was kneeling on the floor, sobbing, tears running down his face.

  “I can’t take any more, Dee.”

  She grabbed the phone before its second ring. “OK. Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything you say.”

  “OK, we re-interview everyone we’ve spoken to since day one.” It was Byford’s response after an increasingly uneasy silence to a request for input at a brief that had been both uninspired and uninspiring. He’d held centre stage for the better part of half an hour, but it was more up-sum of where the inquiries had been than where they were going: review rather than foresight. Bev had cast the odd covert glance at the team, heads were generally held down, fingers flicked through notebooks. Sumi Gosh wasn’t the only officer taking a metaphorical back seat keeping her mouth clamped. Bev had never known it before, not so much as a naff suggestion being thrown into the pot let alone a bright idea. The squad’s slumped body language said more than anyone was prepared to voice: most officers were as exhausted as the lines of inquiry. Eroded spirits rather than physically knackered. Cops were human, too. There were only so many brick walls the communal head could bang, an inquiry team needed a break, and she wasn’t talking bacon roll and cup of tea.

  Break. Brighton. Mental light bulb. “Beth Fowler should be back this morning.” Blank look from Byford. “She was the first victim. Been away for a few days?” Bev had called last week, left a message on the answerphone. Byford nodded. Not exactly overwhelmed but at least it broke the silence.

  “What about a reconstruction, guv?” DC New’s puppy-dog eyes shone. Bev masked a smile of wry amusement. When all else failed, Dazza always came up with that one. He’d clocked himself on the regional news once.

  “Of what, Darren?” Byford sounding more patient than he looked. “With five crime scenes, it’d be like re-making Ben Hur. We’ll leave it to the professionals, eh?” Crimewatch presumably.

  “Ben who?” Dazza looking hangdog.

  The guv flapped a hand. “Next?”

  Not that a bacon roll and cup of tea weren’t a welcome break too. Mid-morning and Bev was in her favourite seat in the canteen halfway through both. The way the interviews she’d been lining up were spaced there’d be no chance of grabbing a bite later. Munching reflectively, she glanced through the window, reckoned the forecast was right. The sky had that pearly sheen which presaged snow. Good excuse for buying the new coat she had her eye on, she was going off the leather look. Her lip curved. Maybe it was new man Mac’s sartorial example. She glanced round at the sound of footsteps; Sumi was approaching with the glimmer of a smile on her face.

  “Hey, sarge, I got a postcard this morning.” And it looked as if she was about to share.

  Mouth full Bev pointed the roll to usher DC Gosh into the seat opposite. Even if Bev had been able to get out the words, there was no need to ask who’d sent the card. From where could be useful though. “It’s postmarked Manchester.” Sumi perched, off-loading apple juice and a banana on the table.

  Bev licked greasy fingers, wiped them on a napkin, took the offering.

  Everything is fine. I am with a friend. Please don’t try and find me. It is better you don’t know where I am. Love, Fareeda xx

  It was very near verbatim to the lines left on the pillow. Lack of imagination – or had the girl been taking dictation? Assuming she’d had a hand in it. Bev drew her lips together. However casually posed, she suspected her question would have the same effect. “Definitely her writing, is it?” It did. Sumi’s smile faded.

  “Yes.” She didn’t sound too sure. “I think so.”

  Bev shrugged. “Got any old cards or letters from her?”

  Sumi nodded, not stupid. “I’ll check when I get home.” She was probably on the same page as Bev now: why, when it was so much easier, hadn’t the girl texted or phoned? It could just be that Fareeda didn’t want two-way communication. Or the card could be a signpost shrouded in fog pointing them down a blind alley. Fact was, even if had been written by the girl, anyone could’ve posted it.

  Bev aimed for casual again. “She been in touch with her parents?”

  Sumi held Bev’s keen gaze. “She hadn’t when I saw them on Saturday.” She’d offered to speak to her uncle, put him in the picture. That had been fine by Bev, she wasn�
��t the old man’s biggest fan and he’d definitely crossed her name off his Eid card list.

  “Best have another word, eh?” Catching the time, she drained the tea, wrapped what was left of the roll and scraped back the chair. “What did he say when you told him Fareeda had gone?”

  “Nothing,” Sumi said. “Not a word. But I don’t think he believed me.”

  Bev didn’t know what to believe either.

  28

  Beth Fowler’s house had a For Sale sign outside. No. Make that three. As Bev locked the motor she spotted two other upmarket estate agents’ boards in the grounds. The mock Tudor’s splendid isolation in Moseley had turned into lonely desolation the night the Sandman broke in and subjected its owner to a nightmare ordeal. As they walked up the drive, Mac voiced Bev’s thoughts: “Is she keen to get out or what?”

  Not going by the number of locks and bolts that had to be released before Mrs Fowler opened the door on a chain. Bev hadn’t seen the victim since interviewing her in hospital the day after the attack. If they’d passed in the street now, Bev doubted she’d have recognised her. Grey roots showed in unkempt mousy hair, the face was a gaunt make-up free zone though no amount of slap could have hidden the stress lines. The divorcee was forty-four going on sixty. It was only after she let them in then went through the Fort Knox routine in reverse that Bev could see the woman’s weight loss. The sludge-coloured two-piece suit was hanging off a frame that must have dropped a stone or more.

  “Have you caught him yet?” She threw the question back as she traipsed down a tiled passageway to a stone-flagged kitchen. Bev supplied the same answer she’d given on the phone earlier that morning. “Doing our best, Mrs Fowler.”

  “I’ll take that as a no. Still. Sit down.” Peremptory. They perched on one of the bench seats at a dusty trestle table; a cut glass vase in the centre held dead flowers, the water had a greenish tinge and was probably the source of one of the less than fragrant odours pervading the house. There was no preamble or social nicety, the woman launched into brusque monologue. “I could’ve stayed in Brighton. My son was happy me being there.” She was wringing her hands oblivious to the pressure marks it left in the skin. “But he’s got his wife and kids and I’m not what you’d call good company right now.” She gave a brittle laugh. “Useless in company, useless on my own. They say I’ll get over it but...”