Blood Money Read online

  “Mrs Fowler,” Bev intervened gently. “Why don’t you sit down a minute?”

  Haunted amber eyes seemed suddenly to register she wasn’t alone. She slumped on the bench opposite, bony fingers reaching for a pack of B&H. After watching the woman’s feeble attempts to spark up, Bev took the box from her, held a flame to her cigarette. “There y’go.” Warm smile.

  “Thanks, sergeant.”

  “Bev, please.” She was working out how to play the scene; interviewing trauma victims was par for the course but several weeks after the attack this woman hadn’t moved an inch. Mac came up with an opening quicker. “How many grandchildren d’you have, Mrs Fowler?”

  “Three.” She stubbed out the baccy even though it was barely touched.

  “Hey! And me.” An enthused Mac edged forward on the seat. “Smashing, isn’t it? Like having your own all over again but without the hassle.” The severe thin line of Beth Fowler’s mouth softened fractionally. Bev masked incredulity at Mac’s whopper. His kids hadn’t reached puberty never mind parenthood. She listened as the doting pair swapped stories for a couple of minutes. Mac’s fairy tale hadn’t waved an emotional magic wand over Beth Fowler – transformation like that took years in therapy – but at least the woman wasn’t wound so tight she was in danger of snapping.

  “D’you have children, Bev?” The question threw her momentarily. She stiffened as the automatic internal barrier came down, knew displaying it here would get them nowhere.

  “No, Mrs Fowler.” Forced smile. “Not yet.” Hell’s still hot isn’t it?

  “You really...”

  Bench scraped slate as Mac jumped to his feet. “Can I get a drink of water, Mrs Fowler?”

  The woman waved him down told him to stay where he was. “I’ll see to it. Or perhaps you’d both like coffee?”

  Coffee was good, and it gave Mrs Fowler something to do as Bev led her gently through the steps the police were taking. Going by the occasional nod and right noise while she fixed then poured the drinks, the woman was obviously taking it in. She sat opposite now, cup clutched in both hands. “So what do you want from me?”

  A tap dripped as Bev took a couple of seconds to find the words. She wanted the victim to try to dredge up a forgotten detail. Aye, there’s the rub. To do that, she had to ask Mrs Fowler to relive mentally the experience she was desperate to forget. Bev didn’t have to open her mouth, the woman knew what was needed.

  “I’ve gone over it again and again in my mind.” A hand went to her neck, the brittle laugh echoed again in the cavernous kitchen. “I wish I could get it out of my mind. I see his eyes, that gross smile everywhere I go.” Reaching for a cigarette she had second thoughts, angrily pushed away the pack. “I wish it weren’t so, but there’s nothing, absolutely nothing I haven’t already told you.”

  Further gentle probing proved futile. Going through the motions, Bev took out the envelope of victims’ photographs from her bag asked Mrs Fowler to take another look. Libby Redwood and Alex Masters were the only new faces. “He’s the barrister, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah.” Bev exchanged keen glances with Mac. “D’you know him?”

  Still gazing at the pic, she shook her head. “I’ve never met him. But if you see Diana, pass on my condolences.”

  “Diana Masters knows Beth Fowler.” Bev slammed her palm against the steering wheel. “Why’d she lie about it?” They were still parked outside the Fowler property, Bev more fired up than Mac. First snowflakes were drifting on to the windscreen, she flicked on the wipers.

  “Maybe she didn’t recognise her. It’s not a brilliant picture. And it doesn’t sound like they’re bosom pals.” Mac gazed at the photograph while Bev tried thinking through the implications. During follow-up questioning, Mrs Fowler had told them she’d met Diana twice, on both occasions when the divorcee had dropped items at Oxfam. The relationship was hardly intimate but why had Diana denied it? “Even if she’s seen her before – what does it prove anyway, boss? Could’ve just slipped her mind. You don’t think you’re making too much of it?”

  “Yeah, cos we’ve got so much to go on.” She sighed. OK, it wasn’t a sworn confession signed in blood. But it was a lie, a discrepancy. “Makes you wonder what else she’s lying about though, mate.” Bev turned the engine.

  “If she’s lying, boss.”

  “Everybody lies.”

  “Yeah, well.” He shoved the pictures back in the envelope. “We heading out there, now?”

  “What you think?” She checked the mirror; saw the twinkle in her eye. “Granddad.”

  29

  Diana Masters answered the door wearing a black funnel neck coat, a classy brooch added a bit of light relief; Bev could see her reflection in the silver. Unlike the widow’s, the Morriss bob could have done with a comb. Every shiny strand on Masters’s head appeared in perfect place, the expression seemed a tad strained. “What is it, Sergeant Morrison? I was just on the way out.”

  “It’s Morriss, Mrs Masters.” Patient smile; either she got the name wrong on purpose or the widow had the memory of a goldfish with Alzheimer’s. “Just a few questions.”

  “Of course.” The glance at her Rolex was intended to be noticed.

  “Won’t take a minute,” Bev said. “Cold out here though.” Her shiver was as subtle as the widow’s time check. They were allowed in, but no further than the hall. The roses were just beginning to shed a few petals, still stunning though.

  “Off to Oxfam are you?” Bev asked, smile still in position.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oxfam. Must meet quite a few people there.”

  “Is there a point to this?” The question was addressed to Mac.

  “Beth Fowler,” Bev replied.

  “Who?”

  “One of the Sandman’s victims? You were shown her picture? Said you didn’t know her?”

  “As you say, sergeant, I meet a lot people through my work. I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

  Mac had the photo ready. “Take another look if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Masters.” The snap had been taken before the Sandman’s attack, it bore little resemblance to the wreck she’d turned into. “Have you met her before?”

  Masters traced a finger along her jaw line as she studied the likeness. “I could have... I’m not sure.”

  “She knows you,” Bev prompted.

  “She may well, sergeant.” The cat eyes narrowed. “I’m out back a lot. I don’t notice everyone who comes in.”

  “She says you passed the time of day a couple of times.”

  “Then I’m sure she’s right.” The smile seemed fake and revealed lipstick on a front tooth. Hallelujah, the widow’s grooming wasn’t perfect. “Is there a problem with that? Is it a crime to speak with someone and not be able to recall it months later?”

  “See, here’s the thing: I’m wondering if there’s anyone else you haven’t been able to recall? Cos that could really help us with our inquiries.” One slip-up from the widow would be understandable, but what if the other victims used the shop? What if Diana Masters had lied about not knowing those women, too? Was that the link the inquiry had been looking for? And what the hell would it mean? Bev kicked herself for coming here half-cocked. She should have checked with the other victims first, thought it through better.

  “I’m under a lot of strain, sergeant. I can’t be expected to remember every little thing. And quite frankly I can’t see that it matters. Not when I have so many other... matters on my mind. I wasn’t on the way to work.” She took a handkerchief from her coat pocket, dabbed her eyes. “If you must know, I was on the way to choose a headstone for Alex.”

  Best conversation stopper Bev had heard in a while. “Sorry to hold you up.” She hoisted her bag. It was time to hit the road anyway, see what light the other women might be able to shed, before coming back better prepared. Bev was at the door when she turned. “Almost forgot... I need a word with your daughter. Any idea where she is?”

  “She fucking
knows, Diana. That cop knows something.” Sam stood in the kitchen doorway, arms spread-eagled against the frame for support. The word crucified came to Diana’s mind. His face had an unhealthy sheen, sweat beads oozed above his top lip. The police visit had spooked Diana Masters too, not that she’d show it. She shucked off the coat, draped it over the banister. “Get me a drink.”

  He threw his hands up. “Perfect. Get plastered. Why not?”

  “Water.” Face screwed in contempt she spun on her heel. “I’ll be in the drawing room.”

  “What did your last servant die of?”

  God. So original. “Stab wounds,” she muttered. No mileage debating finer points with Sam until he’d calmed down. The room was cold, she hadn’t bothered to light a fire. She crossed to close the heavy velvet curtains, gazed at the falling snow for a few seconds. It wasn’t settling yet, please God it stayed that way. She couldn’t afford to mess up timings tonight. She pressed her head against the glass. How much longer could she keep her cool? It had been mere luck spotting the cops’ car from an upstairs window. She’d warned Sam, slipped on a coat and at least semi-psyched herself for the stand-off. Looking on the bright side, it had probably been more useful to her than the cops.

  She felt Sam’s touch on her shoulder, turned and took the glass from his trembling fingers. “Thank you.” Hers were steady as she drained it.

  Hands on hips, he slowly shook his head. “How do you do it, Dee?”

  She shrugged. “The cops know nothing, Sam.” Or very little. “Obviously they haven’t got a clue about Charlotte. Or we’d hardly be standing here, would we?” She led him by the hand to the chesterfield.

  “I know that.” He pouted. “I’m not stupid. But that other stuff, the Fowler bitch...” She stroked his hair as he laid his head in her lap.

  “So? What does it prove? I’ve got a shit memory? The cops were on a fishing trip is all.” Diana had kept well out of sight in the shop while making her assessments, was ninety-nine per cent certain none of the other women had spotted her. Morriss might, just might, work out how the victims were selected. But none of that was going to unmask the Sandman or link him to Diana. She looked at him now. Shivering, smelling faintly of sweat it was difficult to believe he’d put the fear of God into a string of rich bitches. Her smiling face masked complex emotions, harsh judgements: her fate was with this man. At least for the foreseeable.

  “Aren’t you scared they’re closing in, Dee?” She couldn’t meet his desperate gaze. “Not even a little?”

  No. Sherlock in a skirt could dig as deep as she liked, it wasn’t the great detective that bothered Diana. It was a faceless voice on a phone. “It won’t be long now, Sam. We just have to keep our nerve.” At least, I need to keep mine, she thought; yours is shot to shit.

  “It’s in there somewhere, guv.” Slightly flushed, Bev pointed at the report that Byford was now scrutinising for the second time. It was a hastily cobbled resumé of the visits she and Mac had made that afternoon. For Bev, the realisation had struck home even before the checks were complete, which was why she was hitting Byford with it before the brief. Seemed to her time was running short. As he read, she wore out his carpet, slowly shaking her head. “I so should have seen it sooner.”

  Oxfam. Dead men’s clothes. It was what widows did. Shit. In what seemed another life, Bev had even dropped the Black Widow’s bin bags at some fundraising do. Talk about irony. The crazy who’d nearly killed her had unwittingly helped lift the eye-scales. “The pointers were there all along, guv.” She re-ran them in her head: Kate Darby saying Libby Redwood had only recently got round to sorting her husband’s clothes, bin liners Bev had actually stepped over at Faith Winters’s house. Jesus wept. Donna Kennedy had actually used an Oxfam pen to write the sodding suicide note. Even Mac had mentioned bagging his old gear and still she’d not put two and two together.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Bev. It’s not exactly in-your-face, is it? Beth Fowler and Sheila Isaac aren’t widows.” No, but she now knew they’d both been regular visitors to the Oxfam shop where Diana Masters worked as a volunteer.

  “Still should’ve spotted it sooner, guv.”

  “The Oxfam link’s here. That’s a given.” The big man traced an eyebrow with a finger. “But I’m not sure where it gets us.” Frowning he glanced up. “Sit down, will you, Bev.” She perched, foot still tapping. “I’m not disagreeing,” Byford continued. “I can see how the shop fits with the victim selection process. Question is who was doing the selecting? You say none of the other victims could ID Diana Masters?”

  She shrugged. “Said herself she spends a lot of time out back. They may not have seen her, but she was well placed to clock callers.”

  “The shop has surveillance?”

  “Betcha.” Mac had sussed it, called in from the premises not ten minutes ago.

  Byford rose, walked to the window, perched on the sill. “What about other staff? Could anyone else be in the frame?”

  “Mac reckons there’s no one under sixty in the place. My money’s on Masters, guv. We ought to pull her in.”

  “On what?”

  A sodding skateboard. She unclenched her fists. Why couldn’t he see it as well? “Come on, guv. She had to be feeding this information to the Sandman. You said yourself he didn’t just flick through yellow pages.”

  “Where’s the proof? And there’s no point rolling your eyes. If she’s involved, you ran the risk of tipping her off today.”

  “Yeah, well. She wasn’t exactly shaking in her boots.” She pictured Masters in her widow’s weeds, dabbing that refined little nose. Off to select a headstone. Course she was.

  “She’d hardly show she was rattled, would she?” He tapped a finger against his lip. “If you’re right Bev, it makes her an accomplice.”

  “More than that, guv.” She held his gaze. “Makes her accessory to murder.” Through the window snow was falling, Bev thought of covered tracks, sands of time. “She needs bringing in.”

  “We still need evidence, Bev. We can’t hold her without that. And while she’s out there, she could lead us to the Sandman.”

  “You thinking a tail?”

  He nodded. “I’ll run it past Phil soon as I can get in to see him.” Phil Masters. ACC Operations. Even if he gave it the green light, it wouldn’t happen until first thing. “What we need now is intelligence; talk again to the people who know her.”

  The sitting still was getting to her, she jumped to her feet. “D’you need me at the brief, guv?”

  “Why?” He glanced at his watch: 5.05. “Where are you...?”

  By 5.06, she’d gone.

  Bev slipped half a bitter in front of Mac, slumped in the seat opposite then tilted her head at his glass. “Not much call for that stuff round here.” Here was The Hamptons, poncey bar on the canal-side down Brindley Place. The wall-to-wall monochrome including furnishings and fixtures gave it the feel of a set for a black and white movie. Not that there was much action. Charlotte Masters hadn’t shown since before her father’s murder. Bev hadn’t really expected to find her there, the girl was grieving for God’s sake, but she’d wanted a word with the boss, a tall lanky guy in dark suit and designer sun glasses. Pretentious prat. She’d discovered that Charlotte’s attendance had been patchy for weeks. More to the point, none of the staff could suggest where the girl might hang out. Certainly wasn’t Selly Oak; her pad had been their first port of call.

  “Cheers, boss.” Mac slurped half the contents then pulled a gnome-having-stroke face. “No nuts?”

  “Empty calories, mate. Think of the figure.” She winked, slung him a pack from her pocket. “Don’t eat ’em all at once.”

  Just the one palmful, then: “I can see why you want to talk to her – but what d’you want out of it?”

  Bev sipped Pinot, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Come on, mate, you sat in on the interview at her place. We weren’t even prompting when she came out with how she feels about her ma.”

  “Ge
t the thumbscrews out next time, eh?” Mac waggled his eyebrows.

  “We need someone to dish the dirt.” She sighed. With the exception of Charlotte, no one had uttered a bad word against Diana Masters. During the inquiry the widow had emerged from interview after interview smelling of chocolate roses. Bev had also wanted to lean on Evie Jamieson. The PA hadn’t actually badmouthed the boss’s wife, but she’d sure not joined the chorus of effusion. Mind, it was academic at the moment, getting hold of Jamieson had proved as difficult as the daughter, the PA hadn’t shown at the chambers today.

  Bev took another sip, glanced round as a blast of cold air entered bringing in a stream of what looked like office workers. The drinkers headed for the bar, snow dandruff glistened briefly on coat shoulders, people shook flakes from their hair, stamped wet footwear, cracked feeble one-liners about the weather. Mac was about to open his mouth when Bev’s mobile chirped. She read the text, smiled, shoved the phone back on the table. “You were saying...?”

  “I was wondering if the girl’s OK.” He brushed salt off his shirt front. “She was pretty cut up about her dad.”

  “Hopefully she’ll see the note we left, get back soon as.” Bev turned her mouth down. “Prob’ly staying with a mate. Blood’s not always thicker than water.”

  “Talking of which.” He lifted the glass. “This is gnat’s piss. Fancy a big boy’s drink at the Prince?”

  “Nah. I’m thinking of swinging round Evie Jamieson’s place when we’re done here.”

  Judging by the falling face, she bet he had a hot date. She shook her head, wry smile curving her lip. “Where’d you want dropping, Romeo?” The old girl probably wouldn’t be in. Even if she was Mac didn’t need to be there.