Blood Money (10 page)

Night and day his eyes menace me, follow my every move from behind that grotesque clown face. Everything scares me now. I trust no one. I’m weak and lost and life is
worthless...

The Sandman had imposed a death sentence – and as good as executed it. Bev squeezed the bridge of her nose. The poor woman hadn’t been ditzy. Donna Kennedy had been driven to
despair, clinically depressed and dying inside. So she’d swallowed enough happy pills to externalise the process. And made sure she’d never feel anything again. Bev placed the note on
the hall table, raised an ironic eyebrow at a charity shop pen near the phone. Charity sure hadn’t begun at home here. She knelt at the dead woman’s side and gently stroked
Donna’s fine fair hair from her once-pretty face. She hoped to God the woman had finally found some peace.

Bev’s was shattered by more bars of
Greensleeves
. Bloody racket. She rose and walked to the door half expecting to see the police doctor she’d called. You didn’t have to
be Quincy to know Donna Kennedy wasn’t going anywhere under her own steam. The death still had to be certified by a medico.

“You looked as if you could do with a drink.” The neighbour who’d let Bev in hovered on the doorstep offering hot chocolate. Small, round, twinkly-eyed, grey-permed, a Mrs
Tiggy-Winkle made flesh.

Touched by the kindness of strangers, Bev managed a weary smile. “You’re a star, Mrs Wills.” Latex gloves peeled off and pocketed, she wrapped chilled fingers round the warm
mug. “Thanks a mill.”

“Reckon you can polish this off?” Bev’s eyes lit up; a Penguin nestled in her palm. Talk about bird in the hand...

“Do bears sh...sing in the woods?” Whoops.

“If you need me – you know where I am. And I think you’ll find what bears do is shit.” Cheeky wink.

Bev watched open-mouthed from the door as the little woman scurried through a gap in the hedge, herbaceous short cut. Maybe she was missing Strictly Come Something Inane on the box. Bev narrowed
her eyes. Missing something. A notion niggled that she was failing to spot something as well. When she bit into the Penguin, her mouth watered. Maybe the sugar hit would kick-start the mental
juices too. As for Mrs Wills – the telly addict aspersion was unfair. The woman had just done her a good turn. And Donna Kennedy. The mutual key holding arrangement had emerged during
Bev’s initial interview with Donna. Thankfully it had sprung to mind before she forced the door.

Closing it now, Bev leaned against the wood, took a few sips of chocolate, studied the layout, the body. Why was Donna’s final resting place the hall? Surely it made more sense to pop your
pills – and clogs – in bed? Had she been heading for the stairs when she collapsed? Bev had found empty blister packs scattered across a kitchen surface, half-full tumbler of water on
the draining board. Christ. The poor woman hadn’t even used booze to blur the edges. Had she miscalculated the dose and the dying time? Sense? Calculations? Logic? Hello! The woman was
topping herself, not auditioning for
Countdown
.

But why call to rearrange the interview? Was it a cry for help? Chewing it over with the last bite of Penguin, she wondered if the final act had been spur of the moment madness. Or if Donna had
hoped to be found before the pills took effect. Bev swallowed hard: frigging screwed that up then. What a futile waste of a life. She closed her eyes, clenched her jaw. The sympathy was fused with
anger now. Why couldn’t Donna have clung on just a gnat’s longer? Could she see no light at the end of the tunnel? In the darkest of Bev’s dark days, ending it all had never
crossed her mind. Homicide, sure. Suicide, never. She still dreamt occasionally of blowing away the mad bitch who’d killed her babies. Snuffed them out before they’d drawn breath. She
took a calming one of her own.

Maybe if Donna Kennedy’d had kids she’d not have cut the mortal coil. Far as Bev knew there were no close relatives. Not that finding out was down to her. The death wasn’t
suspicious. No one had forced Donna’s hand, doors or windows. Apart from uniform, Bev had called off the troops. Soon as officers arrived she’d shove off. They’d tidy up here then
dig into the family tree, see if anyone needed the news breaking. Shit job that was.

Thinking of which... She stifled a yawn, pulled her mobile out of her bag. This wouldn’t be a bundle of laughs either.

Byford was eating at the kitchen table, red wine at one elbow, latest Henning Mankell at the other, Bob Dylan blowing in the wind for company. One of the detective’s
new-year-new-man resolutions was to avoid the microwave and rubbish ready meals. Tonight he’d pushed out the culinary canoe. The fresh pasta was cooked to perfection, and the Matriciana was
to die for. The Chianti was going down a treat too. Displacement activity? Probably. He sure needed something to take his mind off work. He knew it wouldn’t last soon as the phone rang.
Scowling he snatched the handset, glanced at caller ID. “Make it snappy, Bev. Dinner’s on the table.”

“Donna Kennedy’s in the chiller. That snappy enough?”

Tight-lipped, he traced a finger along his eyebrow. Another death down to the Sandman? His heart sank as he considered the ramifications, professional and personal. The media had already written
Byford off. The final edition of the
Evening News
had run a readers’ poll: Cop out – or in? Isn’t it time this man goes? Flattering picture they used: looked as if he had
special needs. The paper had gone in the bin. Outside. Byford reached for his glass. “Go on.”

“Topped herself. Overdose. Antidepressants.” He heard her tapping foot add punctuation. “No suss circs. Uniform are here. Ditto the doc. I’m off home. Bon bleeding
appetit.”

Deep sigh. “Sergeant. Please.” No point slapping her down. She’d clocked up sixteen hours flat, the exhaustion was audible. Bet she hadn’t eaten either. He wandered to
the stove. “What were you doing over there anyway?” Plenty of sauce left? Easily rustle up another portion of penne?
No. Don’t even think about it.

“I told you.” Tut. “She switched the time of the interview.” He grabbed his wine, leaned against the sink, listened as she filled in the details, how she found the pills,
position of the body, letter left on the hall table. She threw in her take on the woman’s mental state, her notion that it may have been a cry for help.

“Or plea for attention.”

“Maybe...” She paused. He pictured her at the other end: blue eyes narrowed, lips turned down. “Think she was scared of not being found, guv? There’s no kids in the
picture, no close family. Maybe she couldn’t handle the thought of lying dead for days?”

“So she called you? Thinking you’d get there, take care of the fall-out?”

“Cheers, guv. Feel better already.”

He sipped the wine. “Suicide’s genuine? No doubt on that score?”

“You’d have none either if you’d read the note. Bastard killed her though.”

Didn’t need spelling out. He heard a door slam, the rasp of a match, deep intake of breath. She’d kicked the habit when they lived together. Raised eyebrow. Well, said she had. He
glanced round; Bev touches still graced the place: blueberry candles on the windowsill, a Playgirl apron hanging on the back of the door. A present. Not that he’d worn it. Nor the Santa hat
on top of the fridge. She’d left before Christmas.

“Is it possible she knew him without even realising it, Bev?” The Sandman.

“Anything’s possible...” A ‘guv’ was swallowed by a yawn. “Guess we’ll never find out.”

Forensics might though. He’d get a guy round there. Couldn’t dump the sorting on Bev, she needed her bed. “Has the press got wind of it yet?”

“Not that I know.”

It wouldn’t be long though. He rubbed a hand over his face. Maybe the media was right. Maybe he should go. Maybe he was getting too old for this lark. Or maybe he was sick and tired of
spending every long empty evening alone in a house that had only recently seemed too big.

“As I say, guv, I’m off. Catch you lat...”

“There’s enough here for two.” Smoke exhalation this time: breathing space? His own was bated. He’d regretted the offer soon as it slipped out. Hadn’t he?

“Best freeze it then. Oh and guv? I’d like the Dylan back.”

She must’ve heard it playing in the background. The greatest hits CD was another Bev relic. He frowned. Actually, no. She’d bought it as a gift. To tune his musical palate,
she’d said. The line was dead or he’d have pointed out her mistake. Bob was still banging on though.

It’s all over now, baby blue.

What you’re doing, young lady, is cutting off your nose to spite your face. That’s what her mum always trotted out when Bev was being a bloody-minded kid. Her dad
called it wearing the stubborn-blinkers. She sighed, flicked on the Polo’s radio to drown out the silence. Either way she’d sold herself short tonight. Lost out on a plate of decent
grub and missed spending a bit of quality time with a decent bloke. Make that the most decent bloke she’d ever come across. Metaphorically speaking. Smart move or what? She whacked the wheel
with her palm. Ouch. Why beat herself up? It was Byford’s bloody fault. Make it snappy, Bev! Who’d he think...?

Christ on a bike. She hit the horn, swerving to avoid some binge-head who’d stepped off the kerb. It wasn’t even chucking out time. Like that counted. Moseley village had its share
of alco-fools any hour. Still loved the place though. It was so popular sometimes you couldn’t get into the hippest pubs. Bouncers controlled drinker numbers by counting ’em all out,
counting ’em all in. Mind, some nights the main drag resembled a war zone.

Make it snappy, Bev. Cheeky sod. While he’d been stuffing his face, chucking booze down his neck and listening to
her
Bob Dylan, she’d been holding the police fort freezing
her arse off with a stiff for company. And her stomach still thought she’d had a gastric bypass. The lights were on red at Saint Mary’s Row, she hit the handbrake, toyed with picking up
a take-out from the Taj Mahal, or dropping by the Sicilian pizza place? Nah. CBA. Can’t be arsed. It’d be BOT again. Beans on toast.

Make it sodding snappy!

By the time she pulled up outside the house, her mood had dropped down a few gears. From seething through pissed off to the current how-dumb-can-you-get? She’d as good as told the big man
to go fornicate while taking a running jump in the fast lane of the M6. Like she could so afford to alienate him professionally. And personally? There were times every nerve in her body ached to be
in his arms, but that would mean letting him get close. How could she when she had reverse-Midas? As in everything she touched turned to shit. She dropped her head to her chest and hugged the
steering wheel.

It was why she failed at first to spot the two figures huddled in her doorway.

Fareeda Saleem was only on her feet because Sumi Gosh was clinging on to her cousin’s shoulders for dear life. Even then Fareeda was bent double, arms clutching her
stomach, and issuing soft low moans with every breath. Bev’s doorstep was stained with what appeared to be drops of blood.

“I couldn’t think where else to go.” Sumi’s words didn’t say a lot, it was an understated plea writ large across stricken features. The young DC was normally never
less than cool, calm and professional. Sumi was rattled now, rapidly losing it, equally patently this was no place to be.

“How ’bout a hospital?” Bev could barely hide her incredulity – and censure – that Sumi had seen fit to show up here with someone clearly so sick.

“No... please!” Fareeda lifted her head briefly, long hair swishing like black satin curtains. Pain deepened the shade of her already dark eyes, and Bev caught a flash of blind
terror.

“I can’t get her to go.” Sumi stroked the younger woman’s back, made soothing sounds. “She’s afraid.”

You don’t say. “Look, Sumi...”

“If you’d rather we...” She cast a sideward glance: pride, propriety, decorum.

Bev had the key in the lock. “First on the left. Sling us your coats.” The sitting room would do. Until she’d talked sense into them. Fareeda needed medical attention. Was she
pregnant? Miscarrying even? When they’d met in the car park at Highgate, Bev hadn’t spotted a bump – only a big fat ugly bruise. Maybe there was a baby – and the two were
linked. “Hang fire, I’ll get the door for you.” She stood back while Sumi, still supporting her cousin, steered a course to the nearest sofa, started settling her, reassuring her
with soft words.

Bev had a zillion questions on hold. “Back in a min,” she called. There was a first aid kit in the kitchen, and they might need hot water. She yanked out drawers, searched cupboards,
scanned shelves. Where was the bloody thing? Under the sink. Where else? Quick check of the contents revealed antiseptic, witch hazel, pain killers, enough bandages to wrap an Egyptian mummy.
Should do the trick. Shame there was no medicinal brandy: Sister Bev needed a drink or three.

“May I get some water for her, please?” Sumi stood in the doorway, her elegant taupe linen suit spattered with blood. Gracious as always, she seemed to be finding eye contact
difficult. And however proper her manners, bringing an injured woman here was out of order.

“Sumi. She needs a doctor.”

The floor tiles were clearly fascinating. “She’ll be OK.”

“Is she pregnant?”

That caught her attention. “Are you mad?” Her guffaw verged not on humour but hysteria. Straight-faced, Bev crossed her arms, waiting. “That was rude. I’m sorry. But Bev,
I doubt Fareeda’s been alone with a man who wasn’t family in her life.”

She didn’t labour the point but Sumi’s answer hadn’t exactly addressed the issue. Bev turned her back, took a Coke glass from a shelf, headed for the tap. Like a lot of
apprehensive people, Sumi felt the pressure to talk, blurting out: “She’s only just eighteen, Bev.” Like that figured?

“And?” Again she wasn’t going to spell it out. Sumi was being disingenuous. Or in denial.

She spread her hands. “Trust me. Fareeda’s not expecting. If you knew her, you’d realise the idea’s preposterous.”

“Then why’s she...?” A wail cut the supplementary. Fareeda might not be pregnant, but she was scared and in pain. As to the answer, Bev was pretty sure she could take a crack
at it. In the overhead lighting in the sitting room, it was obvious someone had taken a crack at Fareeda.