Bad Press (4 page)

The Printers’ Ink was a journos’ pub in a narrow side street near the law courts. Bog standard red-brick-dusty-green-woodwork exterior, décor in the saloon was black, white and read: three walls lined with newspapers. Big stories like the death of Diana and 9/11 appeared alongside golden weddings and skateboarding ducks. Brian the landlord was a news junkie. If he fancied a change, he’d paste new pages over old. In places the papers were an inch thick. The latest addition was the lunchtime edition of Birmingham’s
Evening News,
courtesy of its crime correspondent who was currently elbowing the bar.

Matt Snow’s normal tipple was Banks’s bitter; he was now on his third Grouse. But then his news editor was doing the honours.

“I’ll say it again, Matt. Bloody good work.” Rick Palmer was early fifties, but liquid lunches and late nights had left a legacy. His face wasn’t lined, it had trenches. The unruly blond thatch looked like a wig, except for the roots.

“Cheers, Rick.” Snow had been basking in bonhomie and backslaps for the better part of two hours. It almost compensated for the fact that some bastard had nicked his motor off the Churchill. He’d cabbed it to the estate soon as he’d been released from Highgate nick but the Fiasco had gone. Talk about insult to injury.

Still, the
News
had shat on the competition from a great height. And Snow was flavour of the lunch hour. The other hacks had drifted back to the newsroom, but Palmer had hung back. Snow had an idea why, and he didn’t think it was small talk, or to discuss Toby Priest’s feedback from the news conference. Snow hadn’t covered it himself on the grounds he’d get a frosty reception.

“Toby reckons the police presser was a complete waste of time,” Palmer said. “No new info. Just a witness appeal. Yawn. Yawn.”

Not quite. Powell had issued Marsden’s ID as well. The confirmation had come as a huge relief to Snow. When he’d rung his copy in from the nick he’d been ninety-nine per cent sure, but naming the victim as Wally Marsden had still been one per cent punt.

As well as the front-page splash, there’d been a stack of follow-up stuff inside. Virtually the whole coverage had gone under Snow’s by-line including a backgrounder pulled together by one of the staffers. Natch, Snowie had bigged up his own role in the incident, and he’d taken a major pop at his police treatment. Not a bad night’s work. The reporter savoured a sip of Grouse. Mind, if he’d cocked up, pear-shaped wouldn’t be in it. His face would be an eggplant.

Palmer sidled a little closer. “Come on, lad. You can tell me.”

“Tell you what?” As if he didn’t know. He scratched an ear.

“Who tipped the wink?” The news editor rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

Snow resisted the urge to tap the side of his nose. “Can’t reveal my sources, Rick, you know that.” Couldn’t have been Skippy though. Snow had caught up with newsroom gossip: the Aussie intake editor had been fired a fortnight ago, buggered off back to Sydney. On sober reflection, Snow wasn’t even sure the caller’s accent had been antipodean.

As he suspected, trotting out the sources line on his news editor was a no-no. Palmer sidled closer, lowered his loud Brummie accent. “I won’t breathe a word, lad. But I do need to know.”

So did Snow. “Give me a day or two, Rick. I need to think about it.”

“But you do have a name, lad?”

“Sure.” It wasn’t the first lie he’d told. But could turn out to be the one he’d most regret.

“Snowed under, Sergeant Morriss?” Detective Chief Superintendent Kenny Flint’s bullet head appeared round Bev’s door. She was flicking through
heat,
dipping languid fingers into a family pack of Maltesers. What’s a girl to say?

“Rushed off ’em, sir.”

“Yes.” He stretched it to three syllables. “So I see.”

She snatched Docs off the desk. “I was...”

“Save it, Bev. I’m aware of the hours you’ve clocked up today.” He waved copies of her reports. Given it was now half-three, she was already into overtime. She was only hanging round to have a word with Mac.

“I’ve got a favour to ask,” Flint said. “Nothing to do with the Marsden inquiry.” They’d chewed the cud on the case earlier. The DCS was normally based in Wolverhampton; he’d been lead detective when the paedophile was last sent down. Flint had thrown a few suggestions into the inquiry ring, people it might be worth interviewing.

Bev watched as he took the swivel chair opposite, tugged his trousers to protect knife-sharp creases. If central casting was asked to supply a hard-nosed detective it’d deliver Kenny Flint: craggy features, cool blue eyes, greying buzz cut, think middle-aged Action Man. In a single-breasted suit. The guy sure looked the part, but that was about all Bev knew.

Flint had been brought in four months back to investigate an arson attack that killed three people including a young police constable. The brass had asked him to stay on as cover for the guv. DCS Flint held higher rank than Detective Superintendent Byford. Far as Bev was concerned Flint had yet to earn his stripes.

“What d’you make of this?” he asked. “Don’t worry about prints.” It was melted chocolate that worried Bev. She licked her fingers before taking the small sheet of paper from his hand. The words were typed – just four. Doctor Adam Graves. Suicide? “The envelope was addressed to Bill Byford,” Flint told her.

She nodded. Guessed admin was passing everything on. “Name rings a bell.” Where’d she seen it? She narrowed her eyes. Bingo. “Inquest report. Piece in the local rag.” One of those she’d flicked through in Powell’s office. Picture too. Good looking guy.

“Right,” Flint said. “Family’s local but the body was found in Hanbury Woods, so West Mercia have been dealing with it.”

As she recalled, the inquest returned a suicide verdict. “Topped himself, didn’t he?”

“Almost literally.” Flint had liased with the investigating officer in Worcester. Graves had apparently downed a scotch and sedatives cocktail before slashing his throat with an open razor. “Nasty.” Flint rubbed his chin. “No amount of pills and booze’d take the edge off that.” Then saw her face. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

Sorry? She knew clowns round here who’d consider the remark cutting edge comedy.

“What’s your reading of it, boss?” She shoved the paper across the desk. The original and the envelope would be at the lab. Mind, anyone with a telly knew not to leave dabs and/or DNA. Even she picked up forensics snippets from
CSI.

“I think the writer wants us to have another look,” Flint said.

She shrugged. Why not say so? And give a name. She couldn’t be doing with this cryptic anonymous crap. Cranky or what? The sleep deprivation was catching up. “Not our case, is it?”

“That’s where the favour comes in. Bill has an interest too.”

Byford? Unwittingly, she straightened, smoothed her hair. “Go on.”

Flint explained how he rang the guv a couple of times a week. Didn’t have to, just knew how he’d feel if it was him stuck at home twiddling his thumbs. Anyway, among a load of other stuff Flint had mentioned the note and it turned out Byford vaguely knew the family. “Or his wife did,” Flint said. “Margaret Byford was a friend of the doctor’s wife, Madeleine Graves.”

Byford’s wife had died of cancer eight or nine years back. Bev had never met the woman. “And?” she prompted.

“Look, Bev, the note’s likely from a nutter. Prob’ly nothing in it... but I’d like you to have a word with the widow. Suss out her thoughts on it.” She opened her mouth to protest; Flint hadn’t finished. “It’s on your way home.”

She couldn’t see the point, not that she had a choice. Favour? Yeah right.

“It’s not just that.” He rose, smiled. “It needs sensitive handling. And Bill reckons that’s your baby.” Oh, God. Not the B-word. “You all right, Bev?”

“Peachy, boss.”

“I scribbled the address on the back.”

She turned it over, recognised the street name, kept her glance down. “So the guv reckons I’m big on empathy?” She was fishing.

“Huge, he says. I wouldn’t know, would I?” He popped a Malteser in his mouth. “Not been here long enough.”

Touché. At least she had the grace to smile.

DC Mac Tyler looked like a bulldog chewing a lemon soaked in vinegar. “Tell me again, boss.” He slunk into Bev’s office, leaned both hands on the desk. “Why’d I get all the good jobs?”

“Jeez, mate.” She grabbed the air freshener from her drawer. “Get outa my face.”

“You any idea what the contents of a wino’s insides smell like?”

She sniffed and sprayed. “Course I have.” Floral Glade met rotting flesh and formaldehyde.

“Me? I could do a thesis on it.” He lifted his arm, smelt the sleeve. “The stink’ll never come out.”

“Get over it; could be worse, you know.” She pointed to a leaning tower of police files tottering in the in-tray. She’d told him it was a toss-up between Wally Marsden’s PM or three hours marshalling crime stats for a Powerpoint presentation to the police complaints commission. She also said she’d take the post mortem any day, but it was Mac’s call.

He snorted, slumped in the swivel chair. “How’s the police complaints thing coming on?”

“Dandy.” Her fingers were crossed under the desk. “So give.” She listened as Mac delivered the post mortem’s top lines. Overdale had confirmed conjecture at the scene that the stab wound killed Marsden. Close run thing though given the beating he’d taken, not to mention the state of his liver.

“Any tighter on the timings?” Bev asked.

“You know Overdale.” He rolled his eyes. ”‘This isn’t an episode of Morse, DC Tyler. And Ai’m not Mystic Meg.’” The impression was spot-on, even down to the cocked head and finger jabbing. Bev’s grin softened her tired features.

“She wondered where you were, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Thought you might’ve gone off sick?” There was a question in his eyes as well.

“Fit as a Strad me, mate. Timings?” The eye contact was a tad longer than she liked but he didn’t push. He consulted a dog-eared notebook. “She reckons he’d been dead at least ten hours. Body was like an aubergine terrine, boss. Huge great purple blotches...”

She lifted a hand. “Enough already.”

“And she found marks round the wrists and ankles.”

“Defence wounds?”

“Ligature. Thin cord, she reckoned. Like he’d been trussed up.”

“Held in a confined space, then?”

“That’ll narrow it down,” Mac quipped.

“Yeah right.” Bev wandered to the window, perched on the sill. It was a complication they could do without. A second crime scene widened the inquiry beyond the confines of the estate. Where did the murder take place? Where was the body held? Could they be looking at more than one perp? Marsden was no heavyweight, but it wasn’t easy manoeuvring a dead weight.

“Told Powell?” she asked. The DI got snotty if he thought he was missing something.

“Yeah. Bumped into him in the corridor. Overjoyed, he was.”

She stifled a yawn. It was only four, but they’d been on the go for fourteen hours. “Come on, mate.” She grabbed phone, bag and jacket. “Early bath.” There was a twinkle in her eye. “Though in your case...”

“Don’t even go there.”

They chatted through tomorrow’s actions as they wandered down to the car park. Bev would continue tracing relatives of Marsden’s young victims; she’d only spoken to two so far. Mac could maybe concentrate on the names Flint had suggested, mainly former associates of the paedophile. Doubtless there’d be follow-ups to the news coverage. Punters generally rang in after a witness appeal. In this case, she suspected, a trickle rather than a flood. And on past experience, loony tunes would muddy the inquiry water.

“Catch you later, mate.” She was almost at the Midget when Mac shouted.

“Boss! Almost forgot.” He lumbered towards her, hand in a back pocket of his jeans. “Overdale said to give you this.” The envelope was crumpled, stained and a little too warm for comfort.

“Ta, mate.” She frowned. Not at the misspelling of her name (the second ‘s’ caught most people out) but the word Personal written top left and underlined. Twice.

Quentin Hawke’s sharp eye was on the penthouse door as he stroked the smooth desert of Scarlett’s silken thigh...

Silken or satin? Early evening, and Matt Snow, head down, hands in pockets, wandered along the Hagley Road, kicking aimlessly at an empty Coke can. Even he could tell the line didn’t have blockbuster written all over it. Mind, the reporter was still half-cut from the lengthy liquid lunch, the creative juice wasn’t flowing. And the fresh air and exercise wasn’t clearing the mental mist. The sight that greeted him as he turned into Cavendish Close did.

“Stone me.” Face in cartoon frown, the reporter stood stock-still for a second or two. What the hell was the Fiesta doing outside his flat? He approached slowly, hand spiking tousled fringe. He hadn’t got round to reporting the motor stolen so the cops couldn’t have dropped it off. He tried the door: unlocked. Had to have been hot-wired. Nah. That was kids’ stuff. Joy-riders didn’t have their wicked way then return the goods. Whoever stole it must’ve had a key.

A quick rifle through the glove compartment confirmed Snow’s belief: nothing in it identified him as the owner. He straightened, scalp tingling as the significance dawned. The thief must have been at the crime scene. And known whose car it was.

Tiny hairs rose on the back of Snow’s neck. For several minutes he sat racking his brain for scenarios that fitted. None did. Sober and seriously spooked now, he was halfway out of the door when he spotted a note on the driver’s mat. The paper was creased and soiled from the sole of his shoe. Not that it mattered, the words were easy to read. It was the meaning Snow couldn’t get his head round.

There’s more where Marsden came from.

Don’t talk to the police.

Hope you like the present.

The Disposer.

Present? What present? And who the hell was the Disposer?

Tudor Grange was a massive half-timbered pile on the edge of Handsworth Wood. It was the address Flint had given Bev, and from the outside it was all she expected. She’d done jigsaws of places like the Graves’s pad. She locked the Midget, ran her gaze over lead windows, intricate chimneys, rambling roses. Hoisting her bag, she headed for the heavy oak door, Doc Martens crunching gravel.

Smells suggested a barbeque somewhere close. Her mouth watered at the thought of a hot dog. On the way here, she’d fitted in a quick dash round Sainsbury. The food she’d bought wasn’t fast though, the boot was a junk free zone. Bev’s housemate Frankie would scrutinise every purchase. No point cheating, the fall-out wasn’t worth it.

The knocker weighed a ton. She rapped it twice. Either the house was empty or the occupants aurally-challenged. Once more with feeling. Nothing. Might as well have a butcher’s round the back. The walled garden was more jigsaw fodder: massed ranks of flowers, emerald lawn, spouting fountain and a well-endowed Greek dude in bronze. The warm redbrick outbuildings had presumably been stabling for horses. As for the barbie action – it wasn’t here. She turned to leave, glanced up, thought she caught movement at an upstairs window. She strode to the front, hammered the door again. Nothing. Maybe she’d imagined it. Should she slip a note through? Nah. The subject was difficult enough to broach face-to-face.

Okey-dokey. She’d have to make a return visit. She strolled to the Midget, deep in thought. Maybe she should do a bit of homework first. Talk to someone who knew the family. The thought perked her up. Good thinking, Beverley. She smiled. Not that she needed an excuse to pop round or anything. She already had a bunch...

The jiffy bag was propped outside Matt Snow’s third floor flat. Brown A5, no name, nothing to indicate its origin. The reporter picked it up gingerly, darted wary glances round the lobby: four identical navy doors, a couple of terracotta pots sprouting plastic palm trees. No mystery Santa lurking in the greenery. If indeed this was the so-called Disposer’s so-called gift. Snow lifted the package to his ear: at least it wasn’t ticking.

The Disposer? What kinda...? Feeling like a character in a Bond movie, he slipped into the flat, checked out every room. It didn’t take long. The selling point had been compact bachelor accommodation. Cramped was nearer the truth. He grabbed a cranberry smoothie from the fridge, drank it standing at the breakfast bar, tried processing a few thoughts. No sign of an intruder so the guy only had access to the communal areas. The low-rise block’s security system wasn’t exactly hi-tech. Maybe he’d blagged his way in, but could get no further without a key.

Please don’t let him have a key! That the joker had access to the motor was bad enough; the thought he’d been in the flat...

Snow rattled the Jiffy bag again, clutched it in both hands, fingered the contents. Open it or call the cops? Should he bring the law in on this? Whatever this was. It was a mobile phone. Presumably pay-as-you-go. Everyone knows they’re that much harder to trace. He upended the bag. No clue. No message. No directions. He found those later. In the bed.

Months of pain were etched on Byford’s face as he opened the door. His six-four frame was leaner than it had been and his hollow cheeks just this side of gaunt. Never a denim and trainers man, he wore moleskin trousers and a pale blue shirt open at the neck. When he saw who’d come calling, the slate-grey eyes lit up and a warm smile diluted the detective’s deliberately doom-laden delivery. “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”

“I ain’t Greek. And what makes you think they’re for you?” Bev, eyes shining, peeked round a sheaf of sunflowers.

“Can’t imagine,” he drawled. Except his house was full of them. Every time she came she brought more. The place looked like an Impressionist painting. Byford stepped back, followed her through to the kitchen. “I might’ve run out of vases.”

“Nah.” She glanced round, grabbed a glass spaghetti jar. “Don’t eat a lot a pasta, do you?”

“Not now.” He raised an eyebrow as she jettisoned a few sad-looking strands bin-wards. Frowning and tilting her head, she positioned the flowers this way and that. Van Gogh couldn’t have done a better job. As Byford watched, a smile tugged his lips. Something he couldn’t or wouldn’t name tugged other parts. The big man valued these visits more than he’d care to admit. In the early days he wasn’t sure how he’d have coped without Bev. He could have stayed with Rich or Chris, but his sons lived miles away, had families of their own to look out for. Byford’s physical scars were bad, but weeks in hospital on life support had left his confidence shot to bits. Bev had been there for him through the darkest days of deep depression. Was that why she gave him sunflowers?

“Where’d you want them?”

“Kitchen window?”

“Kushti.”

Either way, they were a big improvement on her erstwhile floral offerings. His wayward sergeant used to present cacti by way of apology when she crossed the line; was a time his office had more succulents than the Sahara. In recent weeks he’d finally confessed he couldn’t stand the sight of the things. It wasn’t the only confession they’d shared since the attack that almost killed him. They expressed it differently. He found her attractive: she wanted to jump him. Either way, a spark was there that had yet to be ignited. As Bev would say: close but no cigar.

“Have you eaten?” Byford said.

“Thought you’d never ask.” She winked. “Burgers? Chips? Pizza at a push.”

He shoved her on to a stool, fixed omelettes and salad while she brought him up to speed on Highgate’s inside track. If laughter was the best medicine, Bev was a pharmacy. Her face registered every emotion as she talked, and she had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Part of him wanted to take her to bed, wake up with her in the morning. Every morning. The senior-officer-in-his-mid-fifties-who-ought-to-know-better-bit couldn’t get past the complications if he returned to work. Not
if,
he told himself,
when.

And then there was the other little matter...

“Anyone said anything yet?” he asked.

“All them trained observers?” She forked half a tomato. “Not a dickie.”

“Someone will. It’s only a question of time.” He forced eye contact. “Unless...”

She lifted a hand. “Don’t. Please. Not now.” A termination. They’d been there before. He thought she should have the baby. She was still undecided: to be or not to be. He ate in silence, cast the odd covert glance. She looked tired or tense, likely both. It was probably the toughest personal call she’d ever have to make. And one with an imminent deadline.

“Top nosh, boss.” Plate pushed away, she sprawled back. “Gawd. I could murder a ciggie?”

“Again?” He’d never smoked, but knew the craving kicked in after a meal. Far as he was aware she wasn’t even sneaking the odd drag at work.

“What’s all this about Matt Snow?” He’d read the press coverage, but she needed a distraction. He washed, she dried as she told him about the reporter’s heads-up on the Marsden inquiry, the one-liners going round the nick. Byford didn’t see the joke.

“Keep an eye on him, Bev.”

“Tintin?” Her voice couldn’t get much higher.

He nodded. “I wouldn’t trust him far as I could throw him.” He knew what she was thinking, it was written on her face. “I’ll just say this: don’t underestimate the guy. He’s no clown.”

She shrugged, aimed the cloth at a hook on the wall. “Try telling that to Powell. He’s spitting feathers.”

“I’m not surprised.” The cartoon in the
News
was the DI to a tee, save for the SS leathers and jackboots. Byford retrieved the cloth from the floor, chucked it in the Hotpoint. “But since when’s Snow let the facts get in the way of a good story? He’s ambitious. Wants to go places.”

Another shrug. He sensed she was miffed, maybe she resented the input. No. She was usually happy to use him as a sounding board. Probably just knackered. “Fancy a nightcap?”

“Best hit the road.” Were the yawn and stretch a tad forced?

“Before you go.” He disappeared, returned seconds later with a photograph. “After Kenny Flint’s call, I rooted this out. That’s Madeleine Graves.” He pointed to a stunning-looking woman, one of five adults shepherding a crocodile of little kids. Bev had never seen so many gappy smiles and half-mast socks. “It was taken a few years back now,” Byford explained. “She was married to a man called York then. Adam Graves was her second husband.”

Bev studied Madeleine’s image: long chestnut hair, wide smile, open friendly features. “How well did Mrs B know her?”

Mrs B? Margaret would be turning in her urn. He masked a smile. “Not well. Mums at the school gate sort of thing, PTA evenings, sports day.” He nodded at the picture. “End of term trips.”

“Did you meet her?”

“Once or twice. Bit scatty; pleasant enough.”

“Adam Graves wasn’t on the scene back then?”

He shook his head. “As I say she was Madeleine York when we knew her. I can’t remember her first husband’s name. She was cut up when he died though. Heart attack, I think.”

“And the note? Still want me to check it?” Not enthusiastic, she clearly had doubts.

“Humour me.” He smiled. “I’ve just got a feeling about it.”

“That’d be your feminine side coming out.” Deadpan tongue embedded in cheek. She took a final glance at the picture before handing it back. “Fair enough. I’ll give it another whirl. Can’t do any harm, can it?”