Bad Press (21 page)

Highgate. Seven a m. Good on you, guv. Byford had responded to the message she’d left on his answerphone. The photograph of the school trip was on Bev’s desk. It was the first thing she saw through admittedly bleary eyes. The blurred vision was down to an almost sleepless night. She’d thrown on her sharpest Prussian blue suit and boots in sartorial compensation. Bag dumped on the floor, coat slung on a hook, she picked up the snap for a closer look. The big man had stuck a post-it note on the back, indicating where the kid was in the line-up. Shame she’d missed the guv. He must’ve been in at the crack of dawn; maybe he’d had a crap night as well.

Wasn’t just Oz’s bolt from the cobalt that had left her tossing and turning, thoughts on the case had been – still were – in overdrive. Shots in the dark? Flashes of inspiration? Or so off-field she was out of the game?

She chewed the inside of her cheek, turned the snap over, ran her gaze along the smiley gap-toothed kids. And focused. One notion had hit the mark. She’d been right about Madeleine Graves having an older child. A daughter. Was she also right about who that daughter was? Bev studied the little girl’s face. Couldn’t tell from this. The image was too small, taken too long ago.

She reached for the phone, dialled the imaging unit. “Al, I’ve got a favour to ask.”

“So what’s new?”

Mac was in the canteen, ploughing through a full English. Bev pulled up a chair, straddled it, legs jigging.

“How’s it going, Mac?” Disarmingly sweet smile.

He stared open-mouthed for a few seconds before answering. “Off to babysit. Thought I’d stoke up first.”

Plate like that he’d be in charge of a crèche. “Oh?” She twirled a spoon between her fingers.

He told her Flint wanted him down at the Accident and Emergency hospital. Yesterday’s attack victim was compos mentis, might be up for questioning some time that day. If the man could identify Snow as his assailant, they’d have eyewitness evidence on top of the forensic. Enough to throw away several keys.

“Enjoy the bash last night?” Her fingers drummed the table, legs still pumped.

“Flint’s do?” Mac burst egg yolk with a crust. “I wasn’t there.”

Great. Might be easier if he shared reservations. “Reckon he’s counting chickens...?”

“Doubt it.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t go... I was looking at houses.”

“Course you were.” She should’ve remembered; he’d told her often enough he wanted out of that bedsit.

Mac raised an eyebrow. “Why you asking about Flint?” Her nonchalant shrug didn’t go with the tapping foot, drumming fingers, darting glance. “Come on, boss. Out with it.”

“What?”

“Either you’re working up to something, or you’re sat on an ants’ nest.”

Quick calculation: the guv was otherwise engaged, she needed a sounding board, might as well take the plunge. Hunched forward, she lowered her voice. “I don’t buy Snow as the killer.” She outlined what bits of theory she’d come up with, the rest was too sketchy to share. She told Mac she believed the Graves family held Matt Snow accountable for Adam Graves’s death. That the doc had been so scared of bad press he’d topped himself. That his wife and son had set up the reporter to take the rap for the murders. “Revenge pure and simple. What you reckon?”

“I reckon you’re sat on an ants’ nest. Where’s the evidence?”

She snorted. “With exhibits.” All the items the Graves had planted in Snow’s place. “Thing is Mac, the story’d been spiked anyway. Snow couldn’t stand it up. The doc’s suicide wasn’t down to Tintin.”

“I’ll say it again: where’s the evidence?”

She flapped a hand. “It’s a family affair, Mac. Don’t know the detail, who did what, when, but they’re in this together. Heartless arrogant bastards. Wasting what they see as a few losers to trap a fall guy like Snow.” Both fists were tight now. “Think they’re so smart they’ll get away with it. And if we don’t do something...”

He studied her face for a second or two. “You’re out of your tiny.”

“It makes sense, mate. We always believed there had to be more than one killer.” She held his gaze. “I think it’s three.”

He pushed his plate away. “You can’t go flinging wild accusations round, boss. Not without...”

“Evidence.” She tightened her lips. “I know. I’m working on it.”

“What’s Flint say?”

She shrugged. “He’s got his killer.”

“What you going to do?”

“Working on that as well.” Thin smile. “Might need a favour...”

Seemed to Bev her office clock was on go-slow. Probably because she’d asked Al Copley for a rush job. Bev didn’t do patient. With endless paperwork and phone calls, the morning had dragged interminably, her brain the only thing on fast-forward. One minute the Graves scenario was sound as a bell, the next it had more holes than a sieve shop.

The twenty-minute break around midday had been for fresh air as much as food. No one at the nick to play with anyway: Mac still at the hospital, Byford at the magistrates’ court for the Joshua Connolly remand. At a pinch, Powell could’ve filled the social gap but the DI had swanned off to Brighton on a few days’ leave. That and the blue sky made her realise how much she needed a break. Most of the people she’d passed on the streets round Highgate looked as if they were on a permanent breather. Youths hanging round offies, single mothers pushing double buggies. Bev didn’t go down that mental path, concentrated instead on where the Graves connection was going. One solid link was all she needed.

She fancied running a few points past Snow, but Flint had left her out of the latest interview. Didn’t think she had the right attitude. Mid-afternoon now, and the chief was still in Interview 2; Carol Pemberton was sidekick. Bev’d sneaked several butchers’ through the spy hole during the day. Every time she looked, Snow was slumped further in the chair. Sullen-faced, tight-lipped, it looked as if the reporter was letting his brief do most of the talking. Wise move.

She stifled a yawn, ambled to the window, spotted the guv walking to his motor. Actually, rewind. On second glance, it was Byford junior. She’d made that mistake before. She breathed on the glass a few times, drew a smiley face, stepped back, head cocked, to admire the handiwork.

“Busy day then?” Al Copley. Imaging unit’s Picasso-man. He put Bev in mind of Harry Potter on stilts.

“Stops RSI, this, mate.” She winked. “Think of the money I’m saving the brass.”

He raised an eyebrow, stepped in carrying an A4 envelope. “There’s a point in there somewhere?”

“Bashing that keyboard for hours on end?” She nodded at the desk. “Ever know me slap in an industrial injury claim?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure the brass’ll be jolly touched.”

She almost snatched the envelope from his hand. He pushed his glasses up his forehead. “With a bit more time, Bev...”

Al had worked magic anyway. She’d asked for a rush job, and he’d delivered. Seeing Richard Byford that first time – that airbrushed computer-enhanced version of his dad – had given her the idea. Only she’d asked Al to do the opposite. In seven hours, he’d added twenty years to the little girl in the school photograph. And she’d grown into Anna Kendall.

“I’m going out there. Tudor Grange.” Bev was parked at the back of Highgate in the MG talking to Mac on the phone. He was up to speed though still stuck at the hospital. Her thinking was that Madeleine was the easy first target, the family’s soft underbelly.

“You’re not.” Adamant. “Not on your own.”

“Do me a favour.” Like she’d go in without backup. “When can you get away?”

The eye roll was audible. “Tell Flint. See what he says.”

“Tell him what, Mac?” Her hand gripped the wheel. “There isn’t enough to go on.” All day she’d speculated with ideas, possible scenarios. “I need to get her talking.”

“Have you spoken to Kendall?”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, honey. Guess what? You’re nicked.” Despite the scorn, she’d lifted the phone seven or eight times to call the cow before deciding against. Tips-offs were more Kendall’s baby than Bev’s. She’d given Rick Palmer a bell though, discovered among other things that Kendall was out on a job. Business as usual then.

Waves of fury had washed over Bev, as she’d taken on board the full depth of Kendall’s duplicity. Reckoned she could drown in Embarrassment Ocean. “Needs a face-to-face, Mac.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I’m wrong.”

Rustle on the line. “It’s six o’clock now.” Checking his watch. “Flint’s sending a replacement any time. I’ll call soon as...”

“Meet you there.”

“No, boss.”

“Place needs an eye on it.” Her biggest fear was that they’d do a flit. Then again, they were so effing cocky they probably thought they could walk the Channel.

“Don’t go in on your own.”

“As if.”

Bev had no intention of going in on her own. She was getting the lie of the land. Through the sitting room window, she spotted two liars softly lit by lamps, chatting, drinking red wine. Very cosy. Mother and son reunion. She scowled: as if Lucas Graves had ever gone away. Snide sod’s hair still looked as if it had been dipped in red paint.

Bev felt like a theatregoer watching a play. Instead of the stalls, she was keeping a low profile from the Midget.

Parked opposite – the profile wasn’t that low. Deliberate? Maybe.

Twenty minutes on, it started tipping down. Rain hammered the soft top, ran down the windscreen. She watched through a soft focus waterfall, as Madeleine drifted to the window, drew the curtains. End of act one

Bev flicked the wipers, wished she’d brought something for the interval. Could be some time... There were only two cars on the drive. Probably meant no one else was in there. Shame. She itched to confront La Kendall; she smacked her palm against the wheel. More she thought about it, stronger the mortification. She’d been jerked round by the same puppet masters as Snow. How dumb can you get? She hadn’t been stringing Kendall along at all. Kendall had wanted to get near the inquiry, engineered it herself. And Bev had swallowed the arse-licking lies, hook line and sodding sinker:
Oh Bev, you’re a great role model. Oh Bev, I hope the head start helps. Oh Bev, you’d be ace. Sergeant Morriss! Are you asking me to be your snout?
She groaned. Fuck’s sake. She’d even let the frigging woman have a nose round the incident room. She dropped her head in her hands.

And almost missed Lucas Graves’s exit.

DC Mac Tyler pulled out of the hospital just gone seven. Shucking into his coat, he ran towards the car park, hit fast dial on reaching the Vauxhall. The boss would think she had a heavy breather on the line. He gave a grim smile: the quick dash wasn’t entirely down to the cloudburst.

Mac had finally been given the medical green light to talk to the Churchill estate attack victim. He’d spent the last twenty minutes interviewing the thirty-year-old who’d been left for dead. Paddy Jarvis had revealed more than his own identity.

PJ had been a fighter, he told Mac. Literally. Won medals as an amateur boxer; knew how to roll with the punches, how to land a few. During an almighty struggle, Jarvis had whacked his attacker in the face, not sure exactly where because he’d worn a hood. Fired and furious Jarvis had yanked it off for a closer look. It was at that instant a syringe was plunged into Jarvis’s arm. But the glimpse he’d caught of his assailant before hitting the ground was enough.

Whatever crimes Matt Snow may have committed, he hadn’t attacked Paddy Jarvis. Not unless the reporter dressed like a member of the Adams family.

“Come on, boss,” he muttered. “Pick up will you?”

The sound of crunching gravel alerted Bev. She lifted her head to catch Lucas Graves, dandy-strutting in a long dark coat, towards the silver BMW. Nasty bruise on his cheek. Good. She hoped he’d walked into a wall. Madeleine, framed in the heavy oak door, blew kisses as he got into the car. Bev curled a lip, felt like spitting. She watched as the taillights disappeared, tapped tetchy fingers on the gear stick. Couple minutes later, a light came on upstairs. Madeleine again. Was she alone in the house?

Bev snatched the phone on the first ring, listened as Mac filled her in on the development. Paddy Jarvis’s description of the attacker fitted Lucas Graves in every detail, even without the clincher bruise. She felt her palms tingle. It had been worth freezing her ass off. If nothing else, Lucas Graves could be brought in for questioning. She’d pass the BMW’s registration to Highgate control; Graves wouldn’t get far.

“Have a word with Flint, will you, mate? Fill him in on what’s going on.” Mac was always on at her to delegate more.

“Gee thanks, boss.” Short straw in poisoned chalice.

Bev checked the clock on the dash: 7.10. “How long’ll you be?”

“Ten mins max. Boss... don’t go in...”

“Mac. I know.”

Meant it too – had Madeleine Graves not emerged minutes later with a Louis Vuitton in one hand, car keys in the other.

The gravel did its early warning act again. Madeleine Graves spun round on kitten heels before Bev was in spitting distance. She registered the flash of contempt in the widow’s face before the practised warm smile was smoothed on. Unlike the patchy heavy-handed make-up.

“Sergeant.” Arms wide. “As you can see, I’m on...”

Slow head shake. “I’d like a word, Mrs Graves. Got some news.”

Peachy lips tightened. “It’s really not convenient.”

“Wet out here.” Bev’s flat palm underlined the rain check.

Without speaking, the widow stowed the cases in the Audi’s boot, nodded towards the house as she stormed past. Bev brought up the rear, tugged her forelock. Inside, she noted the huge gilt mirror replacing Adam Graves’s damaged portrait. Madeleine gazed at her own reflection; droplets of rain fell on the tiles as she ran a hand through her hair. Eye contact with Bev in the glass was fleeting and hostile. “News, you said?”

“Not here.” Not in the hall where Bev had left the door slightly ajar. The widow had no choice, followed Bev to the sitting room. Virgin territory to Bev. Her quick glance took in dark woods, deep reds, tapestries, tassels. She perched on the edge of a chesterfield opposite a fireplace big enough to burn tree trunks. Madeleine Graves, still wearing a navy swing coat, posed in front of it.

Grandfather clock ticked, rain needled windowpanes. “Caitlin Finney,” Bev began.

Deep sigh. “I told you on the phone I’ve never heard of the wom....”

“Bollocks.” Time for faffing round had long gone. These people had plotted meticulously, executed ruthlessly, presumably had an exit strategy in place; some sort of confession was needed. From a woman who dished out lies as easily as she took breaths. And a woman Bev believed had blood on her hands. Figurative if not actual.

“How dare you.” Hard face. Clipped voice.

Easy shrug. “Finney was a threat to your husband; she went to the press.”

The eyes darkened. “Don’t be absurd.”

“All those allegations. Nasty.” Bev pursed disapproving lips, shook her head. “’Nough to get him struck off.”

“This is outrageous.” Madeleine bit her lip, a quivering hand went to her throat. Maybe lying was second nature. “Adam was the most... wonderful man...” Except where her husband was concerned. She’d protect his memory at any cost.

“Phoned the editor just for a chinwag, did you?”

The widow’s foot stopped tapping. She loosened her coat. “Editor? I... don’t...”

“Heard you gave him a right rocket.” Car engine? Bev pricked her ears. “All those smears, accusations.” She turned her mouth down. “They’d have destroyed your old man. Know what they say? No smoke...”

Madeleine clamped her hands over her ears. “Stop it.” If the widow had an Achilles heel it was called Adam.

“You stop it, lady,” Bev hissed. Time she heard some home truths. “Stop lying through your teeth. Stop the charade. Stop...”

“All right! I phoned the editor.” She swallowed, cooled it. “So what? I had every right. The exposure would’ve ruined Adam. Ruined us. There wasn’t a single word of truth in what that cheap trollop was saying. Yet still that muck-spreader kept digging for sleaze that didn’t exist.”

Bev creased her eyes. She’d not heard, then. Didn’t know the paper had dropped the story. That Snow had told Adam Graves they’d not run with it. Think. Feet. On. What did it mean? Didn’t know yet. She sniffed. Casual. “Whose idea was it?”

“What?”

“To stitch up Matt Snow. Make him pay. Bump off a few paedo-losers along the way.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But she did. The warm brown eyes held chips of ice.

Bev shrugged. “No one gives a toss anyway. Scum of the earth.” The widow kept shtum. “Who came up with the Disposer? Good game, eh? That down to Anna, was it? Her and Lucas do the strong arming? You a dab hand with the needle, are you, Maddie?”

Flared nostrils, tight fists. “You know nothing.”

“I know this, lady.” Straight delivery. “You’re going down.”

“Wrong again, ace detective.” Condescending drawl. “Isn’t she, Mummy?”

Heavier the rain, slower the traffic. Slick roads, slack driving. Mac reckoned it was closer to twenty minutes by the time he turned into Tudor Grange. Peering through the screen, wipers on max, he spotted the Midget two-thirds the way down. Couldn’t see the silhouette of a driver. He drove past slowly. Where the hell was she?

He parked the Vauxhall behind the MG, tapped his fingers on the wheel. Impatient, pig-headed, bolshie, Bev was all that. But she’d not have gone in without good cause. Maybe she wasn’t inside at all? Just taking a closer look from the street? Yeah. Right. In this pissy weather.

Resigned, he got out, locked up, wandered towards the house. Eyes peeled, ears pricked, he walked on by the first time, dodged spray when a passing car hit a puddle. On the second pass he registered the tiny line of light where the door wasn’t flush. That settled it then. His duty as a cop to tell the householder, wasn’t it?

The boss had been right about the gravel. Dead noisy? Too noisy? Frowning, he turned his head. Just a fraction too late.

Bev didn’t react, continued talking as if Anna Kendall had been there since the get-go. The devious cow would never wrong-foot her again. Bev thought she might have heard the cavalry approaching as well. The gravel was better than a burglar alarm.

“See, I know this is a family affair,” she said. “But I can’t work out who did what when.”

“Never were much of a cop.” Kendall sauntered in wearing frock coat, slouch boots, elitist sneer. She dropped a peck on her mother’s cheek, lowered herself into a leather armchair. “Hannah York, by the way. Anna Kendall’s my professional name.”

Bev so wanted to slap off the smirk. She unclenched tight fists. Woman had a point though. Bev should’ve seen a lot of things sooner. Eyes were beginning to open now, pieces slotting into place. Kendall was the only member of the Graves family who could’ve known Matt Snow was no longer a threat. Why maintain the delusion? Unless it served her self-interest.

“Help me out here.” Bev spread her hands. “Who wrote the note?”

“What note?” Madeleine asked. Bev sensed Kendall, York, whatever the hell her name was, watching closely.

“The suicide note, lady. The one you destroyed.”

Exasperated, Madeleine showed plump empty hands. “There was no...”

“Let’s think, what would it say?” Bev cocked her head like she was working on a form of words. “Something like: I can’t stand the pressure? I’m being hounded? Matt Snow’s destroying me?”

“Guttersnipe with his tawdry accusations.” The widow’s face twisted in ugly hatred. Bev had hit the true colours button. “That pathetic little man drove Adam to his death. What my husband did, he did out of love for his family to save us the shame, the...”

“Pile of shite. Your old man wasn’t under pressure from Matt Snow. The guy couldn’t stand the story up. The paper was never going to run with it.”

“But... Adam...” Bemused frown.

“Knew all about it. Soon’s Snow found out it was a no-no he did the decent thing. Told your old man he had no worries.” She turned to the woman she still thought of as Kendall. “But he did, didn’t he, love?”

Kendall yawned. “Sorry. Did you say something?”

The interchange had gone over Madeleine’s head. Mind on recall. “But the note... Adam was afraid...”

Yes! Bev hid her elation. Little more than inspired conjecture had just been confirmed. Stack more needed verifying. “The note was written by someone else, Mrs Graves.” She paused to let it sink in. “Cause it sure as hell wasn’t the one your old man left.”

Madeleine frowned, whispered, “What?”

Kendall casually adjusted a boot. “We’re really not interested in your infantile suppositions.”

“She didn’t mention it then, Mrs Graves? The real note.” Wing. Prayer. Busk.

“You bitch,” Kendall hissed. “Shut your stupid mouth.”

Bev dived at the last minute; knew she should’ve kept her eyes on the younger woman. She dodged the blow’s full force. Frigging lucky, that. Kendall hadn’t lashed out with a fist. The black-handled knife had come from her pocket, maybe a boot. The blade had ripped into Bev’s sleeve, nicked the upper arm. It’d sting like crazy later but the adrenalin kicked in same time as the training.

Bev aimed just above the wrist, heard the crack as her foot made contact with the bone; the knife flew across the room. Kendall screamed, clutched the wrist close to her body. Bev grabbed the injured arm, twisted it up Kendall’s back. Twisted it higher. Kendall gasped in pain. “Don’t fuck with me, love.”

Bev had taken more self-defence courses than Bruce Lee. Without a weapon, Kendall stood no chance. Bev stood behind Kendall, positioned her so she faced her mother, still holding the injured limb in a vice-like grip. “Go on, love. Talk to Mummy. Tell her the truth.”

Mac didn’t see what hit him. Heard the sickening crunch as a missile whacked his right temple. He caught fleeting movement in the corner of his eye, sensed a dark form in the shadows behind. Angry accusing noises were coming from the house. Pain was so bad it hurt to think. Knew he only had seconds to make a move. Dizzy and nauseous, he sank to his knees. He covered his face with his hands, not sure how long he could keep it together. Please God, let the bastard show himself soon.

The split second the figure emerged Mac hurled a fistful of gravel at the guy. Paddy Jarvis’s description had been spot on. Lucas Graves. The movement sent shock waves through Mac’s head, spasm after spasm of pain. Police sirens in the distance undoubtedly saved him. Lucas Graves snarled, aimed a last vicious kick at Mac’s face then fled. The backup Mac had called was closer. Not close enough. Slowly, wincing with every move, Mac staggered to his feet, inched forward, felled once more by waves of sickness.

The piercing scream from inside drowned the sirens’ wail. Mac forced himself to stand again, lurched forward, arms flailed for balance. Blood ran from his nostrils, streamed from the head wound. Swollen eyes were almost closed by the time he reached Bev. It was too late then anyway.

Madeleine Graves was like a marble statue. “Tell me what, Hannah?”

“Don’t listen to her, Mummy. She’s...” The words were lost in a scream as Bev ratcheted the arm.

“Tell her, Kendall. Tell her about the note her old man really wrote. The one you found and thieved.” The writer struggled; Bev tightened her grip. “Cause if your ma found it – she’d have known, wouldn’t she?”

“Known what?” Madeleine asked. Cool.

“Killed to stop it getting out, didn’t you?” She gave the arm a vicious twist.

“Stop what getting out, sergeant?” The widow couldn’t have known, or she’d not have gone along with the murders. The paedophiles had been wasted so Snow would get life. Madeleine wanted him behind bars because she believed he’d as good as killed her husband. But the reporter had no longer been a threat to Adam Graves’s precious reputation. The threat was closer to home.

“The secret of their sordid affair,” Bev sneered. Shame she was holding Kendall from behind, she’d like to see the cow’s face. “Shagging your mum’s old man, weren’t you, love?” Bev narrowed her eyes. Something Rick Palmer said sprang to mind. Conjecture took a leap in the dark. “Got you knocked up, didn’t he? You’re having his kid. See, lady, your precious husband was screwing a girl young enough to be his daughter. His fucking stepdaughter. That’s why he topped himself.”

Preternaturally calm, the widow stared into space: the sham of the past, shame of the present.

“Tip him over the edge, did you, love. Threaten to tell the old lady if he didn’t leave her? Set up with his bit on the side?”

Police sirens. Guttural roar. It was over in seconds. The widow’s arctic eyes had calculated the distance between hand, knife, Kendall’s distended belly. Course was set, momentum unstoppable. Light flashed on the blade as Madeleine swung it over her head, charged.

Scalp tingled, heart raced, Bev screamed at the widow to stop. Futile. The weapon was trained on Kendall, the unborn baby. Bev still held the writer shield-like from behind. She had to release her. Had to push her away. Had to protect her. Had to get out of the...

Bev barely felt the blade enter her body, caught a glimpse of Mac as she passed out. Poor sod looked in a bad way.