Blood Money Page 3

  “I’m sorry, OK?” Arms splayed. “Got a splitting head.” Not to mention the hangover, and multiple post-attack hang-ups. Her verbal strikes were defensive, but they were a pain in the butt for anyone in the firing line. She knew they needed curbing. Easier said than...

  “Sarge?” She turned to see PC Rees jogging towards them. “Pretty damn good, eh, sarge? Think the perp dropped it running away?”

  She reckoned Danny was from the Labrador puppy school of policing: boundless enthusiasm, not much nous. DC Darren New was a founder member. “Makes you say that, Danny?”

  Frowny face. “He cut her, didn’t he?”

  Given the number of blades on the street, so what? With a knife crime every four minutes in the UK, Danny’s assumption was a tad premature. “We’ll see.”

  “Come on, sarge. So close to the scene?”

  Dead convenient that. It bugged her. Coco hadn’t put a foot wrong so far. Now they find a bloodstained weapon within spitting distance of the latest burglary. Seemed to Bev the only thing missing was the gift wrap. Course, she could be wrong. And there was no sense ruffling more feathers. “You’re prob’ly right.” She gave a lopsided smile, buttoned her coat, brought out a card from the pocket. “Give this to Mrs Winters, Danny. Tell her she can call me any time.” She crossed out one of the numbers. “Say I’ll get back to her soon as there’s news.”

  Mac tilted his head towards the crime scene. “Vultures moving in, boss.”

  A lanky guy clad in denim and toting a camera was just entering the Winters place, a big-haired blonde in killer heels brought up the rear. Remainder of the colony would doubtless be on the flight path, though a few would be circling Highgate nick.

  Bev pursed her lips. The guv wouldn’t like that. Byford loathed having his back against the wall, ’specially when it had been pinned there by the media. Tough. Though Bev hadn’t warmed to Faith Winters, the woman had a point. If she’d been better informed, she might have been better protected. Now they were all in spilt milk mode. Pass the Kleenex.

  They were alongside the MG when Mac reached into a back pocket. “Here y’go, boss.” She frowned. He’d dropped a blister pack in her palm. Fact it was still warm was not a thought to hold. “What’s this?”

  “Paracetemol.” Blank look from Bev. “Splitting headache?” he reminded her.

  “Top man.” She peered closer at the pack, felt her lip curve as she fumbled in her bag for car keys. “Sort the door-to-doors for us, Mac?” Police teams needed briefing, pointing in the right direction. Blenheim Avenue being a well-known insomnia hot-spot whose residents had nothing better to do at four in the morning than gaze through windows, note car numbers, video neighbourhood thugs. Yeah right. She unlocked the Midget.

  “No prob,” Mac said. “Where you off?”

  “Carphone Warehouse.” Casual. “Need a new mobile.” Throwaway remark.

  Mac caught it, reddened slightly. “’bout that, boss...”

  “’s OK, mate.”

  “Yeah, but...”

  “No sweat.” She gave a mock salute. “And no worries – the lips are sealed.”

  Mac’s brow was plough-able, the lines deepened as she slipped him the blister pack. He clocked the word, Viagra, and screwed his eyes. “Shit!”

  “Makes you come – and go?” Her mouth developed a speculative pout. “Well I never.”

  5

  The big man was running late. Half a dozen squad members were gathered in the Magpie incident room at Highgate nick waiting for him to show. The extra curricular brief was supposed to kick off at midday. Wall clock showed 12.10. Weak sunlight glinting on smeared glass suggested the window cleaners were overdue as well. At least the snow hadn’t put in another appearance.

  DC Darren New leant against a side wall, nose buried in the local paper. “Hey, sarge, seen what the News is calling the perp?”

  Seated at one of a dozen cluttered desks, Bev squinted as she glanced up from her new toy. The latest high-tech Nokia had Hangman installed. She’d lost three times so far. Given the extent of the phone’s menu, she was only surprised it didn’t do espresso. Shame. With the guv imminent, nipping to the canteen was a non-starter and she was well parched. “Don’t tell me, Daz...” Index fingers pressed to temples, she feigned profound thought. “Is it... the... Sandman?”

  “That’s a swiz. You’d seen it.” He was miffed. A truculent frown marred what he referred to as his Tom Cruise looks. Daz was in a minority of one there.

  “Piece of piss, mate. To a comic like that, sand plus man equals Sandman. The stuff’s hacked out. It’s not exactly Hemingway.”

  Puzzled face. “Hemingway?”

  “Google it, Einstein.” Head down, she missed Darren’s dagger look. DC Carol Pemberton clocked it, which was why her snigger rapidly morphed into a coughing fit.

  “Nice recovery, Caz,” Bev murmured, focus back on her phone. Bastard Hangman. Stuffed again. She shoved the sodding thing in her bag.

  “Anyway Little Miss Smart-Butt, that’s not all they’re saying.” Daz being enigmatic. He was about to close the paper.

  “Gissa look.” She reached out a hand.

  “Buy your own.” The lopsided smile was down to the tongue in his cheek. He sauntered over, dropped the rag on her desk, added: “Front page. A pop at Byford. They reckon he should’ve issued a police warning.”

  Nothing new there then – or news, Bev mused. She skimmed the lead: same old same old. Cops can’t put a boot right. On the other hand...

  “I think they’ve got a point.” Carol who was tapping a keyboard next desk along, took the words out of Bev’s mouth. At thirty-six, she had five years on Bev who frequently wished she looked as fit. Pembers bore a fleeting resemblance to Victoria Beckham during her Posh years. Except Carol was a head taller and had class. “As a punter, I’d want to know if some nutter was out there.”

  “Guv’s call,” Bev countered. “Think yourself lucky he’s the one making ’em.” Where did that come from? A second ago she was with Carol, now she was batting on Byford’s side. Loyalty? Or lust? Don’t, Beverley. She and the guv had been there – not done that, not bought the T-shirt. For years, they’d pussy-footed around then, after the attack, he’d asked her to live with him. Timing could’ve been better. They’d given it a go, but she’d been in no shape for intimacy – physical or emotional. She’d left just before Christmas. Ho sodding ho.

  “Lowly DC me, sarge,” Carol drawled. “We don’t get to do decisions.”

  Bev arched a knowing eyebrow. She was well aware Carol could walk the sergeant’s exams, but it was academic, her kids came first. Come to think of it, Carol never mentioned the kids nowadays. Another verbal no-go area. Bev sighed, saw barbed wire, broken egg-shells.

  Mac almost broke the desk; she felt it tip when he parked his butt. “Feeling peaky, sarge?”

  “Peachy’s the word, mate.” His scrutiny was a tad too close for comfort. She reversed the chair, crashed into a tub containing what could’ve been a baby triffid. Some Monty Don manqué had donated a load of greenery recently, thinking it’d brighten up the wall-to-wall greys. She sniffed, strolled blithely to one of four whiteboards. “Damn peachy.”

  Unlike these poor sods. Eyes narrowed, Bev ran her gaze along the Sandman’s expanding hit list: Beth Fowler, Sheila Isaac, Donna Kennedy and the latest pin-up Faith Winters. Their ages ranged from thirty-nine to fifty-five. All lived alone in posh houses: one in Edgbaston, one in Harborne, now two in Moseley. The pictures’ high profile in the incident room was supposed to keep the team focused, allow them to put faces to names, see the victims as people not crime numbers. Guv’s call again. Good one, given most of the squad hadn’t even met the women, let alone interviewed them. Bev had. So why wasn’t it helping? Where was the famed Morriss insight? The lauded empathy? Down the pan probably, with a load of other shit. Arms folded, she paced up and down, studied the victims’ faces. Come on, Beverley, think. What was the link? Apart from the haunted look? And a pound sign carved in th
eir flesh?

  “I’m late. Sorry.” Byford ferrying a steaming mug strode to the top of the room. Thank God he was on coffee. Peppermint tea and it meant his IBS was playing up. Bev caught a whiff of Calvin Klein aftershave too. He’d converted after she told him Old Spice was for wrinklies. Why he had a thing about his age when he had a George Clooney smile was beyond her.

  Grabbing a pew, she watched the big man shift a pile of files, before perching on the corner of a desk. He paused briefly while Mac finished a phone call, then with no preamble: “We need fresh impetus. The inquiry’s not moving fast enough.” Rocket up rectum time, then. Bev wondered if the guv was in the firing line as well. “It’s three weeks since the first burglary,” he said. “Each attack’s more violent than the last and we’re up to four. My big fear is he’s losing control and if we don’t stop him we’ll have a murder inquiry on our hands. All this Sandman stuff in the papers isn’t helping. As for the blow-by-blow account...” Deep sigh. No need to spell it out. Villains loved column inches; assuming they could read. Byford ran both hands through his hair. “We need a result, pretty damn quick.”

  Bev wouldn’t mind betting the brass was on his back as well as the media. A top-floor bollocking could explain the tardy arrival, Byford was fanatically punctual. “Hate to say it, guv.” She was counting on her fingers. “January fifteenth today, right? First burglary was Beth Fowler’s place, Moseley, Christmas Eve.” The bastard had nicked presents from under the tree as well as every piece of jewellery she owned. “Ten days between that and the break-in at the Isaac place, in Edgbaston. Seven days after that he turns over Donna Kennedy’s pad in Harborne.” She raised splayed fingers. “Latest gap’s five.”

  They got the picture. Attack frequency as well as ferocity was increasing.

  “What if it’s not a bloke?” Daz speculating, hesitant.

  “You having a laugh?”

  “Sergeant.” Soft warning from the guv. “Go on, Darren.”

  “No one’s seen a face,” he argued. “Voice is easy enough to disguise. Plenty of women wear dark gear.”

  “Like it, Daz.” Bev nodded. “Why didn’t I think of that? And what with rape threats being a girl thing... case closed. Let’s all sod off down The Prince.”

  New reddened, looked as if he’d been out in the sun without protection. But no one laughed, the silence was uneasy and Byford took his time before breaking it. Bev stared straight ahead, arms tightly crossed. She might’ve said sorry but her mouth was full of feet.

  “Keep the thoughts coming, Darren.” Byford in face saving mode. “He may have a female accomplice. Who knows? There’s no evidence either way, so no one rules out anything. Clear?” Bev sensed the guv’s glare. It was eight seconds before he spoke again. “The knife found near the scene could be our best bet, but there’s no sense pinning all our hopes on it.” You can say that again, guv. Bev sniffed. She still felt the discovery was either coincidence or overly convenient. “Either way,” Byford continued, “it’ll take several days for the lab to come up with anything. That’s time we can’t waste. Right now, we need to go back to the beginning, look for what we’ve missed. There have to be connections we’re not seeing.” Pause to let that sink in then, “Bev, I want you to re-interview the victims. They may have come across each other without realising it. If need be bring the women together here. Get them talking. See what comes out.” She nodded, opened her mouth to speak, but he’d moved on. “Remind me – who was checking stolen property?”

  Carol and DC Sumitra Gosh had been trawling jewellers and pawn shops with photos of some of the items. Sumi wasn’t at the brief, but Carol had a list in front of her. Not all the names had ticks. “We’ve still got a few to get to, sir, but...” She held out empty palms. Not so much as a nibble.

  Odd that. Bev mulled it over while Mac reported progress on mask shops. Suppliers were ten a penny, he reckoned. There’d be better odds tracing the invisible man in Ikea. But the more Bev thought about the stolen goodies...

  “Guv? What if he’s not doing it for the money?” Her question drew dubious frowns all round, but she’d had longer to toy with the idea.

  Byford slipped a hand in his pocket. “Go on.”

  She sat up, tucked an errant strand of hair behind an ear. “How much stuff’s he nicked? Gotta be getting on for a hundred items, yeah? Sixty, seventy grands’ worth?”

  “At least,” Carol confirmed.

  “He’s had some of it three weeks. We’ve not had so much as a sniff. Even Marty can’t give us a steer.” Marty Skelton, otherwise known as Boney M, was a veteran snout, or CHIS as cops were supposed to call them these days: covert human intelligence source. If a load of hot stuff was on the streets, Marty would’ve heard a whisper.

  “Where are you going with this, Bev?” The key jangling suggested she’d best get on with it.

  “What if it’s a power trip? Not the cash. The control. The rape threat scares them shitless. Creams his jeans.”

  “The assaults haven’t been sexual,” Byford said.

  “Yeah, well, maybe he can’t get it up.” Mac wasn’t the only guy on Viagra. Pursed lips suggested Byford wasn’t on board. “Come on, guv. He loves it. It’s why the attacks are getting worse.” Faith Winters had been stripped, the knife run over her body, and he’d whacked her in the face. He’d not gone that far before. “As for the mask, the sand, the pound sign? He’s a clown. It’s a game. A mind fuck. Cos he can’t...”

  “Thank you.” Byford raised a hand: point taken. He gave it some thought, then: “If you’re on the right track it moves things on, means more digging.”

  A new motive – if that’s what it was – widened the operation’s remit. Continuing checks on known thieves and burglars would have to be extended to cover convicted and suspected sex offenders: flashers to full blown pervs. Squad members would examine MOs looking for patterns, similarities, however vague, however small. It was a mammoth ask. It meant raking over scores of cold cases as well as looking again at God knew how many current inquiries. And it meant cross-checks with forces all over the UK. Coco could well be with a travelling circus.

  Byford delegated the bulk of the work, made it clear he wanted Bev to concentrate on the victim interviews. “OK, let’s get on with it. See you back here this evening.” He stopped by her desk on the way out. “Press conference. Three o’clock. I’d like you there.”

  She curled a lip, it was news to her. The big man swirled his mug, glanced round for a tub, tipped the dregs. “Need more than a drop of Nescaff, that, guv. It’s plastic.”

  The Pound Shop was in a one-size-fits-all Black Country high street: Warley, Walsall, Wednesbury – they were indistinguishable to the man in black. He was after a new knife and he rather liked the irony of pound signs plastered over the grubby windows. Not that they were a patch on the ones he left behind. He gave a sly grin. Bitches ought to be grateful. Body art was a skill. Looked at one way, he was throwing in a free tattoo. Last night was the best yet. The grin turned into a smirk as he recalled events at the Moseley pad, fancy the old biddy pissing herself then passing out. Before the fun had even begun.

  He smoothed his hair in the glass, batted away smoke from a couple of fag-ash Lils hogging the doorway and entered the store. When he spotted the display, his dark eyes gleamed. He gave a quick glance round before approaching it. Place was full of lard-arse cheapskates stinking of chips and stale sweat. No way would he run into anyone he knew. He’d driven out of town just in case though, better safe than sorry. Like as if the plod were going to trace the sale. “Bleeding pigmies,” he muttered.

  Shoot. For one moment this morning, he thought they’d never find the knife. He’d sat in the back of the van watching the search team, wondering if he’d have to point the silly sods in the right direction. He’d killed a cat to get the blood. Not that they’d come across the carcass; he’d buried it well.

  And planted the knife. What a hoot. It was part of the joke, wasn’t it? And worth the risk. Nothing better than se
eing woodentops race round like headless chickens. That reminded him. He took out his phone, replayed the action. Pics weren’t brilliant, but it looked as if the bird in blue was calling the shots. He ran his tongue over his teeth. For a cop she wasn’t in bad nick. He wondered what her name was; easy enough to find out. If he wanted to. He zoomed in on the face, took a final appraising look, nice eyes, shame about the job. He shoved the mobile back in his pocket. Duty called.

  There wasn’t a lot of choice. He selected a similar one to before, balanced it in his palm: good feel, excellent fit. He ran the blade lightly over his thumb, watched a thin pale line appear. Yep. It’d do. He’d sharpen it at home.

  6

  It was DI Mike Powell who’d dubbed the smokers’ patch at the back of Highgate nick Death Row. Bev was out there now taking a well-earned breather. The last three hours had been non-stop, the next three would be all-go. Leaning against the wall, she pictured Powell as she lit up, a lazy smile spreading across her face. The DI was a tall, sarky blond who fired from the lips. They’d worked together for nearly ten years, had more run-ins than Ford motors. She missed the pops and verbal sparring. Still, his three-month stint at Hendon would soon be over, she’d probably feel like swinging for him before he’d been back a day.

  Silk Cut midway to mouth, Bev paused, eyes creased. Sumitra Gosh. What was she doing here? Life member of ASH was the delectable DC. “Slumming it, are we, Goshie?” She realised her mistake the instant the woman turned. Though tall and willowy, with waist-length blue-black hair, she wasn’t Sumi: close but no cigar. Should’ve realised. The DC usually kept her luscious locks under wraps at work, this girl’s small delicate face was framed by sleek black curtains.

  “Beg pardon?” The voice was similar, too, though not the nervy grin. Goshie wasn’t short on confidence.

  “My mistake, love. You’ve got a double.” Bev glared as a traffic cop gunned an Astra, shot off in a cloud of spewed fumes and sprayed gravel. Petrol dick. “They all think they’re Jeremy Clarkson round here,” she quipped.