Bad Press (5 page)

11.30!!! Miss it – you’re dead!!!!! XXXX

The death threat was on the kitchen table when Bev moseyed downstairs in her Snoopy dressing gown. She read it, yawned, chucked it in the bin and popped two slices of Mother’s Pride in the toaster for breakfast. The note was Frankie’s – never a girl to mince her words. The appointment was for the antenatal clinic that morning. Pressure of work meant Bev had missed two already. At least that’s what she’d told Frankie who’d turned up both times, and hung round the women’s hospital fuming while her Manolo Blahniks cooled.

Bev pictured it now: a finger wagging Frankie in full-blown maternal hen mode. Christ, she was worse than Bev’s mum. A half-smile twitched her lips as she poured boiling water on a ginger tea bag. Frankie had moved in months back to help Bev through a bad patch that had turned into a quilt. She sighed, couldn’t see her best mate leaving any time soon. Which was a mixed blessing.

Frankie was bossy, self-opinionated, and gobby to boot. Lucky Bev was a self-effacing shrinking violet. She smiled, munched dry toast. OK, Frankie Perlagio could be a pain in the butt, but she was closer than a sister. Mind, Bev didn’t have a sister. Lips puckered, she took another bite. Cardboard was caviar compared with this stuff. It was one of a long list of bland foods suggested on a medical website to curb nausea. Spooky really, cause if Bev hadn’t already put in the net-checks, Overdale’s missive would have been all Greek to her. She’d opened the pathologist’s note late last night and it had put the wind up her a damn sight more than Frankie’s early morning missive.

Overdale had written:
Tell me to mind my own business but I’ve been there... Nausea gravidarum is a bitch. Try Phenergan. Lots of ginger. And congratulations!

Nausea gravidarum, medico-speak for morning sickness. The doc’s words alone had been enough to make Bev gag and dash to the loo. Overs had rumbled the pregnancy – would she keep mum or mouth off? Still hunched over the porcelain, hot tears had pricked Bev’s eyes as she realised that Gillian Overdale – a woman she barely knew – was the only person who’d used the word congratulations in relation to the pregnancy.

When Matt Snow threw back his duvet and discovered the note, he knew skin-crawling fear for the first time. His bowels quickened, heart raced, hands shook as he held the paper. Sleep had hardly come at all, let alone easily. The reporter had wrestled with theories, each less likely than the last. Facts were these: the Disposer had been in Matt’s home, driven his car, knew his private number, tipped him off about a murder, observed him at a crime scene. It scared Snow witless. Had he been singled out by a nutter? A crazed fan of his column? Or a killer?

Twelve hours on, the reporter’s overriding emotion was fury. He was back in the real world, a vast crowded newsroom, cocooned and comforted by the familiar paraphernalia of his professional life. No joker was going to jerk him around. Snow didn’t do puppet. As for the message – who did the arrogant toe-rag think he was?

Keep the phone with you.

No cops.

Burn this.

The Disposer.

Yeah right. He’d chucked it in the bin. Not the phone. That was in his breast pocket. May as well hear the sad sack out before telling him to sling his hook. Anyway... Snow tugged his bottom lip: could be a story in it.

There was sod all in the one he was working on now. He glanced at his shorthand; the mugging details he’d gleaned off the police press office voice bank weren’t doing it for him. Kids snatching an old biddy’s handbag didn’t have the same clout as the thoughts whirling round Snow’s head. The Disposer crap had to be a wind-up, didn’t it? But there was a niggle that wouldn’t go away.

There’s more where Marsden came from?

What was that all about? More paedophiles? More murders? More exclusives?

“How’s it going, Scoop?”

Snow lifted his glanced, dropped the scowl. “Great. Great.” Even managed a smile. Anyone but Anna Kendall would have got a mouthful; calling him Scoop was so old. But Snow had been trying to get into Anna’s thong for weeks. He ogled as she sashayed towards the features desk, took her seat just past a column covered in prize-winning front pages. Snowie rubbed his chin, imagined the pert little bum under the shapeless orange frock. With her cheekbones and that hair, he reckoned she’d look a million dollars in a classy suit, stockings, suspenders, stilettos...

“Grow up!” Snow ducked. The paper missile could’ve been launched by anyone on the subs’ desk; they all had their heads down, butter wouldn’t melt. They were jealous; everyone fancied their chances with La Kendall. Snow had already had a couple of goes. He strolled over, casual hand in trouser pocket. “What you working on?”

“A woman in Selly Oak.” She rolled her eyes. “Writes to guys on Death Row.”

“Why?” Her irises were a blue-grey shade he’d not seen before.

“Cause she’s barking?” Snow liked a woman who made him laugh. He watched as she twirled a strand of shiny caramel-coloured hair. “I think she’s hoping one of the sickos will propose so she can make a packet flogging the story. You know the kind of thing...” Anna adopted the urgent tones of a telly ad for the
Sun.
“...I married a serial killer...”

“...now I can’t sleep at night.” God, she had beautiful teeth. “Fancy a drink tonight?”

“Sure. Why not? As for Mrs Barking Mad – I suppose it’s human interest, isn’t it.” She licked her top lip as she opened her notebook.

Personally, Snow had more interest in the bottom of a colostomy bag. But at that moment, he’d have agreed with every word Anna Kendall said.

Highgate. Mid-morning. The early brief had been exactly that. No developments, no leads, not even close. Powell was angling to do another telly appeal, but the media weren’t biting. Darren New and Sumitra Gosh were still trawling doss houses and soup kitchens. Mac was on the Churchill with the rest of the squad mopping up outstanding door-to-doors. Bev had headed straight for her desk clutching a list of calls as long as a phone book, not many names had a tick. Eddie Scrivener on the other hand had rung back in response to a message she’d left yesterday. Scrivener’s daughter had been one of Marsden’s victims. Right now, the receiver was six inches from Bev’s ear; given the man’s volume, the phone was probably superfluous.

“I’d a taken ’im out soon as look at ’im. Shame someone got in first.”

Fighting talk, but there was a catch in the man’s voice. She studied Scrivener’s face on her screen, the image grabbed from an on-line archive. It was a snatch shot, taken as Scrivener stormed out of Wolverhampton Crown Court on the last day of the Marsden hearing. It didn’t do Eddie any favours. His distorted features gave Munch’s
Scream
a run for its money.

The conversation had been painful. Until she’d broken the news, Eddie Scrivener was unaware the paedophile was dead. Her subsequent questioning resurrected memories. Not that the trauma had ever gone away. For three years Marsden had systematically abused little Tanya Scrivener. The damage had been a catalyst for the girl’s later self-harm. According to Eddie, she’d fallen in with a bad crowd, started running wild, was eventually taken into care. Eddie hadn’t set eyes on his daughter for months. Nor his wife. The marriage broke up a year after Marsden’s conviction.

“So when you nail him, duck, let me know. I’ll be first in line to buy him a pint.”

Her heart went out to the man. It didn’t stop her eliciting where Scrivener had been on the night of the killing. He’d be eliminated after the alibi had been confirmed. Or not. The same went for Tanya who was now eighteen. Everybody lied – even coppers.

Dispirited and a tad depressed, she hung up. Even if they caught the killer, it wouldn’t end the suffering. As it stood, they had no witnesses, no CCTV, nothing back from forensics. Could be they’d never track down Marsden’s murderer. Could be no one’d give a toss. She yawned, stretched, flexed fingers ready for another bout of phone bashing. After a few abortive calls, she nipped to the loo, came back, made a few more. Exciting, this detecting lark. Just for a minute she laid her arms on the desk, rested her head, closed her...

“Don’t do that!” Eyes wide, she shot up. She hated being touched. Mac shoulda picked up on that by now. Giving her shoulder an ostentatious brush, she snapped: “What?”

Mac stepped back, palms held high. “Sorr-ee. Thought you’d like to know Powell’s on the warpath. And that’s before he catches you comatose.”

Hiding the panic, she glanced at her watch. 11.35. Frankie. Shit. She couldn’t have slept that long. “Gotta dash.” She grabbed bag, phone and keys. “Cover for me, Mac?”

“What with? A marquee?”

“Improvise.” She flashed him a grin. “You’re good at that.”

“I’m a shit friend, Frankie. And I’m truly deeply sorry.” Eyes down, Bev toed the dusty pavement, fingered the car keys in her pocket. Gridlock traffic on the Highgate Road had eked a ten-minute journey to thirty, the appointment was history and Perlagio was having a hissy fit. Pacing up and down like an expectant father, she turned, eyes flashing, hands on hips.

“Don’t try that shit thing again,” she snapped. “Forty minutes I’ve been hanging round. Smiling. Simpering. Making excuses.”

“Like I did it on purpose, mate.” Unlike the previous occasions when she’d watched the appointed hour arrive and turned her back on the clock. Why was that? She’d thought about it afterwards. Still wasn’t sure, but fear was in there somewhere.

“What was it this time?” Frankie sneered. “Shergar sighting?”

Bev shrugged, stepped back to let a woman waddle past with a buggy. The toddler looked angelic. Until it stuck its tongue out.

“Bin Laden doing a spot of shopping in the Bullring?”

God, was she still banging on? Bev opened her mouth then buttoned it. Might say something she’d not regret. But if Frankie mentioned lucky...

“Lord Lucan in Mothercare?”

“That is so old.” She sniffed, folded her arms “Fell asleep, didn’t I?”

Wind. Sails. Then another gust. “Why’m I not surprised? Look at you. You’re knackered.” She curled a lip. “Christ, Bev, you can barely look after yourself...”

“Let alone a baby?” she hissed. “That what you think?”

Frankie was a head taller, but stepped back a couple of paces. “Bev... I’m ...”

She lifted a palm. Heard it all before. Told herself the same thing enough times. How could she care for a newborn? Christ, in Year 9 she’d dropped an Encyclopaedia Britannica on the class hamster. A little knowledge might be dangerous, but not as lethal as a lot.

Frankie drew closer, stroked Bev’s hair out of her eyes. “I’m not doing it for the good of my health, Bevy.”

“I’m not asking you to do it at all.” The soft delivery reinforced the body language: it seethed with unspoken resentment. It was Frankie, guilt trip gun in hand, who’d stood over Bev as she reluctantly made medical appointments. It was Frankie who insisted on the health food drive. It was Frankie who never missed an opportunity to extol the joys of motherhood. Maybe it was the Italian blood, but to Frankie bambinos were what life was all about. Bev scowled. Bloody woman should go and buy one. “Let it go, mate.”

“Let what go?” Frankie snapped.

Bev shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I’ll get round to it.” But would she? She suspected that once she’d seen a tiny blob on a monitor, there’d be no turning back. Which was exactly what her friend wanted. But unlike Frankie, Bev saw shades of grey, had no idea what the future would hold if she went ahead.

“Cool.” Frankie perked up, checked her watch. “The 12.45 was cancelled. Florence Nightingale on the desk said if...”

Bev raised a finger, other hand scrabbling in shoulder bag searching for the ringing phone.

“My friend...” Frankie shook her head, reached a restraining hand. “Don’t answer it.”

Bev listened, nodded, asked for an address to be repeated, hit the end button, looked round for her mate. Frankie was about to turn the corner. Bev could have shouted, run after her, tried to justify it. But Bev had made her choice and Frankie had got the message.

Powell was sitting in an unmarked police Vauxhall a few doors down from the property in Sparkbrook. Bev cruised past, scanning both sides of the street. Bath Road and its environs were redbrick territory. Identical rows of terraces eyed each other up through tall sash windows, front doors opened straight on to narrow pavements. Tenants customised the look with colour schemes, the residential equivalent of go-faster stripes. She raised an eyebrow at some of the more lurid combinations, nosed the Midget between a Harley Davidson and a Reliant Robin.

Not that she could talk. A dodgy black-on-mustard re-spray meant the MG resembled a podgy bee when the doors or boot were open. Bev still loved it though. She stroked its battered leather soft top as she walked past.

The DI made a big show of checking the time. “Where you been?”

Uranus. “Sat in traffic. What we got?”

He nodded at a property with grimy windows, dull black front door. “Someone in there’s called the murder room hotline nine, ten times. All hang-ups.”
So?
“The number’s listed to Wally Marsden’s ex-wife.”

Ah.
Inquiries had revealed that Gladys Marsden did a moonlight flit from the marital home in Wolverhampton shortly after Wally’s conviction. They’d had no joy tracking her down.

“Thought you could try your Mother Teresa bit – she might talk to you.”

“With you here?” And where was Mac?

“Cheeky sod.”

The door opened a hand’s span. A woman’s face appeared inches above the chain, and stayed there as she raked an uncertain gaze over her uninvited guests. Her papery skin had a yellow tinge; the eyes were the colour of dirty dishwater. If this was Gladys Marsden, Bev reckoned smoking wasn’t the only thing bad for your health: marriage to a paedophile came pretty damn close.

“Mrs Marsden? We’re police officers.” The warrant card could’ve been a library ticket for all the notice she took. “Can we have a word?” Fifteen, twenty seconds passed, again the only thing moving was the old woman’s eye-line. “Inside, perhaps?” Bev prompted.