Bad Press (19 page)

“Sure is.” She turned, surprised, as if she’d not already clocked him. It was uncanny, like seeing the guv airbrushed, computer-enhanced. No lines, wrinkle-free zone, grey hair back to black. Maybe not so much warmth in the grey eyes. Unless it was her imagination. “You must be...”

“Richard Byford.” Thin smile as he shook her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Shoot. “All good, I hope.” She tilted her head; he didn’t elaborate. What had the big man told him? “You look just like your...”

“Old man. Yeah, I know.” He flapped a dismissive hand. “Everyone says so.”

She forced a smile. “Dead original, me.” Awkward silence. Vibes were bad, distinct impression the guy didn’t like her. Jealous? Resentful? Territorial? Get real. He couldn’t know she wanted to jump his dad. Yet disapproval was coming off him in waves. If Byford had let anything slip, maybe junior didn’t like the age gap? There was more than twenty years between her and the guv. Like she cared. No point responding in kind.

“How long you down for?”

He shrugged. “Haven’t decided.” Like it was any of her business.

Struggling for small talk now let alone common ground. “Vince looking after you?” Nice one, Bev. What a dumb question. Richard Byford didn’t answer but the raised eyebrow was as eloquent as the guv’s. Must be genetic.

“Look after everyone, me, Bev.” Vince approached with an envelope. “This it?”

She managed to mask her surprise, couldn’t hide the shock when she recognised the handwriting. No stamp. Just her name. Personal delivery?

Footsteps behind, Byford approached, shucking into a trench coat. “Sorry to keep you, Rich.” The guv had been grilling Joshua Connolly again, reckoned any connection between Connolly and the Disposer killings could be ruled out. Gut instinct wasn’t always spot on. “You lunching, Bev? Welcome to join us.”

Given baby Byford’s churlish scowl, she almost agreed. “Up to here, guv.” She swept a hand over her head. Had food for thought though. Her other hand clutched a letter from Oz.

Not that she had time to read it. Even before she’d parked her backside, an agitated Mac burst into her office. The fine white powder round his mouth meant he was either developing a nasty habit or he’d been at the sherbert. The line didn’t go down well with her DC.

“We’ve got a body. Churchill estate. Just been called in.”

She cast a rueful look at her desk. There was a shed-load on; messages were piling up, million calls to make. She grabbed her bag and bits. “I’ll drive.”

It’d be quicker.

Matt Snow reckoned he was on borrowed time. Soon as the early edition of the
News
hit the streets, he knew the cops would come running. Which was one reason he’d decided to go to them. Keeping a low profile in baseball cap and bomber jacket, the reporter was watching his flat from the lobby of the building opposite. He was keeping an eye open for the Bill. He wanted to get in, grab a few things, without getting nabbed. Look better if he turned up at Highgate off his own bat, and the more proof he could take, the easier it would be to persuade Flint he was telling the truth.

Jittery, nerves jangling, Snow had barely slept last night. Mind in turmoil, thoughts racing, he knew he couldn’t take any more shit from the Disposer. He’d jumped his last hoop that morning. He shuddered, gagged when he recalled touching the body on the Churchill estate. He’d gone there expecting a meet with the killer – not to come face-to-face with a victim. Should’ve known it was more of the psycho’s mind games. Yeah, well, no more Mr Nice Guy. Snow intended turning the Bad Guy over to the cops.

The reporter had no worries about his mother. She was on the way to her sister’s place in Spain. A check with the airport confirmed she’d boarded the flight. As for his own back, Snow would ask for police protection until the mad bastard was under lock and key.

A limp cordon of police tape protected the Churchill crime scene. Not much was visible through clumps of sightseers. Residents were gathered on the patchy grass and crumbling asphalt at the rear of Asquith Tower. Smoke drifted from cigarettes and slack mouths as gossipers loitered. Focus appeared to be a line of wheelie bins. Several heads whipped round, briefly distracted by a screech of tyres. The Mäkinen manoeuvre provoked whoops and high-fives from a gang of youths.

Mac sniffed. “Very Sweeney.”

Bev winked. “Showing your age, mate.” Locking the motor, she addressed him over the roof. “Still owe me a fiver.” She’d broken the eight-minute Highgate to Churchill police record.

“Get lost.” Mac’s remark was addressed to a dog with a lopsided grin that was cocking its leg against the back tyre. Least she thought he was talking to the dog.

Even crisp sunlight couldn’t put a sparkle on the estate. The back of the flats was the pits, a dumping ground for rusting bikes, burnt out cars, off-white fridges, tellies with shattered screens. Rotting leaves lay like drab moth-eaten carpets. Through aviator shades, Bev scanned the dreary surroundings for a uniform, spotted Steve Hawkins in the distance having words with a young lad.

“You’re a bit late, sarge.” Hawkeye’s partner Ken Gibson had clocked the detectives. The constable rushed over, smoothing his hair. Tad breathless, they’d missed the excitement, he said. Air ambulance had just flown the body to the Accident and Emergency hospital.

“You’d not credit it, but the bloke still had a pulse.” Gibson was firing on full cylinders. Must be a first – a helicopter landing on the Churchill. Sight more stirring than the usual vista of clapped-out Corsairs.

“Bad then?” Bev asked.

Gibbo nodded. “Pulped.”

She exchanged glances with Mac. Déjà vu or what? It was Philip Goodie all over again. Only this time...

“Mate, we need a...”

“Police guard at the hospital. On to it, boss.” He already had phone in hand, wandered off to make the call. The temperature dropped rapidly as the sun went behind a bank of cloud. Bev slipped the shades in a pocket, drew the coat tighter.

“What else we got, Gibbo?” ID. Witnesses. Murder weapon. Killer cuffed. Dream on, babe.

“Sarge!” The yell came from Hawkeye, dragging the now sullen kid towards them. “You need to hear this.”

Short and skinny, the boy toed the ground, hands deep in pockets. The street gear all looked too big for him, the face he was putting on didn’t fit either. “Cash up front, copper. Deal?”

“Shut it, Ryan,” Bev drawled. She’d come across the lad in court; most cops had. She felt sorry for him more than anything: druggie mother who beat the shit out of him, feckless absentee father. Ryan had a touch of the Billy-no-mates. He wasn’t cool enough to be in a gang let alone part of the culture.

“Or what?” Feisty little plucker though.

“Or you’ll get a clip round the ear. From your ma. When I grass you up.” Cruel but fair.

“Just tell her what you saw, Ryan,” Hawkins prompted.

“What’s it worth?” Jutting bottom lip.

She stepped forward, sank a hand in a combat pocket, pulled out a packet of fags. “Remind me, kid. What age are you?”

“They’re me mam’s.”

“Yeah. And I’m your fairy godfather.” She slipped the baccy into her bag.

“Hey!” he shrieked. “That’s nickin’, that is.”

“Got that right, kid.” She walked away. “Search him, officer.”

Shocked silence, then Ryan spluttered. “There was this dude rifling the dead geezer’s gear.”

“What did you say?” The hairs rose on the back of her neck. She turned as slowly as she spoke. “If you’re lying...” Her eyes narrowed as she advanced.

He thrust a mobile towards her. “Look if you don’t believe me.”

It was her own eyes she had trouble crediting. Christ on a bike. She reran the few seconds of footage. No wonder none of the patrols had picked up Matt Snow. They’d been looking in the wrong place. “Be hanging on to this for evidence, Ryan.”

He gave a resigned nod.

“Hey, boss,” Mac shouted. “Seen this?” Irritated at the distraction, she glanced across to the cordon. She couldn’t make it out, but Mac was pointing at graffiti on one of the bins. She looked down at the screen, viewed the final frame, read the single word, Disposed.

“Snap,” she muttered, reaching for her own mobile. Snow was toast.

Ryan tapped her on the arm. “Can I have me fags back, miss?”

“Let’s think. No.” She scowled. His face dropped. Relenting, she handed him a fiver. “You did good, kid. Don’t spend it all at once.”

He looked askance at the note, lip curled. “Sure you can spare it?”

“Now you come to mention it...” She snatched it back. “Sod off.” She pocketed his Motorola as well. Assuming it was his. He’d probably nicked that too.

Matt Snow’s flat looked as if it had been turned over. It had. Several times. A radiator was off the wall in the hall, kitchen and bedroom drawers had been pulled out, contents scattered around floors. The reporter’s search had become increasingly desperate. Frantic now, he ran his hands through his hair, surveyed the mess, horrified at the possible fallout.

His insurance policy was missing. Insurance against a life sentence. Without the evidence he’d accrued, he couldn’t prove the Disposer’s existence. It was Snow’s word against a man no one had heard or seen, and even Snow had only caught a glimpse of dark eyes in a driving mirror.

Wired and jumpy, he needed a drink. Where’d he left his glass? Couldn’t be arsed to find it. Had to quit this place before the cops came calling. He took several slugs of Grouse from the bottle. Blunting the edges? Not even a dent. He’d thought he’d been so sharp, building up material that would support his story, secreting it in various places around the apartment. Now everything had gone: his laptop, the photographs and notes sent by the Disposer, the last two conversations Snow had recorded with the psycho. Even the naffing pay-as-you-go had gone. He patted his breast pocket again. Knew it had been there earlier when he was on the Churchill. It had been an unwanted umbilical cord these last few days. Snow had long wanted to cut the connection. Now it looked as if the Disposer had got in first; this break-in had to be down to him. Not that he believed the killer’s intention was to cut him loose.

Snow pinched the bridge of his nose. Think, man, think. He had another drink, then another. Even with the pay-as-you-go, the cops might not believe a word he said. But without it he hadn’t a leg to stagger on. Maybe if he went back to the estate, tried to locate it? Yes. Nice one, Snowie. He weaved a path to the bedroom, the unsteady gait exacerbated by mounds of clutter. The weekend bag was on top of the wardrobe. He blew off a layer of dust, threw in a change of clothes, few toiletries. If he couldn’t locate the mobile he’d just have to bail out for a few days. Till the heat died down.

Five minutes later he was stowing the bag in the boot of the Fiesta. The tap on the shoulder came from behind. Hard to tell from which cop. The one with the bull neck spoke first: “Going somewhere, Mr Snow?”

News of Matt Snow’s arrest broke in the nick of time. An increasingly hostile press conference was underway at Highgate. DCS Flint was feeling the heat, cold sweat trickled down his spine as he wiped his face with an already moist handkerchief. He leaned to his right, muttered in Bernie Flowers’s ear: “Bloody Jerry Springer show in here.”

The boardroom did resemble televised bearbaiting. It was the only space big enough to accommodate the media turnout, let alone the cameras, mics, tripods. The fourth estate was in communal maul-mode. Most reporters carried copies of the
Evening News
, pointedly and prominently displaying the Serial Killer Taunts Cops headline. That, and the Disposer’s threat to strike again had brought the journos here in force. And they hadn’t heard the full story yet.

When Flint released details of the latest attack on the Churchill estate, the noise level rocketed. Journalists shouted over each other, fired questions like arrows. Poisoned.

“Is this another police failure?”

“Are you considering your position?”

“How many more mistakes?”

“Will you resign over this?”

“Will there be more killings?”

“Have you been in contact with the Disposer?”

“Are you liaising with Matt Snow?”

Even now they hadn’t been given the complete picture. Flint was withholding the fact that Snow had been filmed at the crime scene, that every cop in the city was hunting him. Questions were still being thrown. Flint raised a hand to quell the flow. It didn’t. The door opening had more effect. There was a brief lull as DC Darren New strode in, headed for the top table, whispered a few words to Flint.

The detective got to his feet. Hacks sensed the story was moving too. Lenses focused, lights flashed, cameras rolled. Flint took a few sips of water, before speaking. He must’ve lost a litre in perspiration. “A man’s been detained following an attack earlier today on the Churchill estate in Ladywood. While in custody, he’ll also be questioned about the recent killings of paedophiles in the city. At this stage, we’re not looking for anyone else in connection with the inquiry.”

Which as everyone in the room knew was police-speak for we’ve got the bastard.

Matt Snow had sweated two hours in a police cell before being escorted to Interview Room 2 where he was left alone for a further sixty minutes. Solitary confinement could work wonders getting suspects to open up. When Bev and Flint joined the reporter just after four o’clock, it was like walking into a distiller’s. Whisky fumes clung to Snow’s unwashed clothes, emanated from his stale breath. He was sober now, sober and subdued. His brief was stuck in court in Manchester; Snow just wanted to get on with it. Bev thought he was off his head not to wait.

“Give me a chance to explain.” The reporter tugged at his fringe. “It’s not how it looks.”

“From where I sit,” Flint said, “it can’t look any worse.”

Far as the DCS was concerned, Snow was in the frame for four murders, one attempted. They had a search team at his flat; Flint was convinced Ryan’s movie would turn out to be the tip of the evidence iceberg. Snow was going down. Flint had no doubt. If the chief was right, neither did Bev.

She took Flint’s cue to press buttons, ran through the spiel for audio and video recordings. Given the scale of the inquiry, Christ knew where he’d start.

“Where were you today between ten a m and twelve noon?” Confident, casual, Flint lounged back, legs crossed at the ankle.

Snow frowned. “Hold on. Just trying to think.”

Flint tapped a slow beat on the table. “If this is you explaining...”

“Whatever I say’ll sound bad.” Snow would pull the fringe out if he didn’t stop messing with it.

“It is bad,” Flint told him. “We have film of you on the Churchill estate. You and a man who’s now on life support. You going through his...”

“Wrong.” Snow tightened his mouth, shook his head. “I was checking...”

“Checking what? Another story?” The explanation for his premature presence at crime scenes was wearing thin.

“Checking for a pulse, Mr Flint. The guy was in a bad way.”

“Still is.” The unidentified victim was actually off the danger list and out of intensive care. Flint saw no reason to share the news with Snow.

“It wasn’t down to me. Not this morning. Not any of it. I’ve not killed anyone. I’ve been stitched up from the word go. Only thing I’m guilty of is being a complete dummy.” Convincing. Calm. Contrite. If Bev didn’t know better she’d believe him.

“That why you were doing a runner?” She sniffed. His packed bag was with the custody sergeant.

“I was on my way here. I was going to ask for police protection.”

“You taking the piss?” Bev asked.

“Protection?” Flint laughed out loud. “Who from?”

“The psycho who says he’s the Disposer.” Calm? Rational? Clinical? Calculating?

“Would that be the invisible psycho?” Flint sneered. “The psycho with the juicy exclusives? The psycho who selected Matt Snow from every hack in the country to write about his so-called mission?” Flint shot forward, raised his voice. “The psycho who’s killed four people?”

“God, this is what I was scared of.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “I had evidence, Mr Flint. In case I was being set up. Photographs he sent, e-mails, notes, tapes.”