Blood Money (12 page)

Byford had clearly been busy. Still was. The big man was up at the front, back to the squad, standing towards the end of a row of five incident charts. His sleeves were rolled
back and a charcoal grey jacket was slung over the nearest swivel chair. Bev headed for a seat by the window, glanced at the guv’s handiwork in passing. The first four charts covered
sequentially the Sandman burglaries, the fifth was devoted to the murder. In the centre of each board was a close up of the victim: Beth Fowler first, Sheila Isaac, Donna Kennedy, Faith Winters,
finally, Alex Masters. Each pic was circled in thick black marker, lines led off to smaller circles. In his distinctive italic script, Byford had added names, locations, main players, key points.
And a crop of question marks. He was still working on the murder chart.

Byford’s headmaster stance might have subdued the atmosphere, or maybe Donna Kennedy’s suicide had dampened the team spirit. Whatever was to blame for the downbeat vibes, it was so
quiet you could hear the guv’s felt tip squeak.

Bev slouched back, hands on head, legs crossed, and sussed out the action. Mac was texting, Pembers was biting a nail, Powell leaned against a wall leafing through one of the zillion files he
needed to catch up on, Peter Talbot and Jack Hainsworth were shuffling printouts, the two new-ish DCs were reading through their notes probably in the hope they’d be word perfect when it came
to delivering input, Daz was doing
The Sun
crossword. Bev sighed, circled an ankle. Byford still had his back to the gathering, pen still squeaking. She spotted Sumi Gosh behind a desk a few
rows back, gaze fixed on a computer screen. They needed to get their heads together, sooner rather than later. After signally failing to attract Sumi’s attention, she tried air mail. Missive
scribbled on a sheet of A4, she folded it into a paper plane, sent it flying into Sumi’s air space. It crash landed into Darren New’s who re-modelled a wing tip before re-launch.

“What are you playing at?” If the guv had yelled, it would’ve been less ominous. Everyone in the nick knew the softer his voice the harsher the sentence. A pointer tucked under
his arm, Byford was replacing the top on the marker pen, steely glare on Darren.

“Sorry, guv, I was...” The words petered out, but the bobbing Adam’s apple said a lot.

“Being puerile,” Byford sneered. Bev’s ankle was like a windmill in a force ten. What was bugging the big man? He’d be handing out detentions in a minute. “If I
could afford to lose an officer you’d be off the squad.”

That was well over the top. Bev straightened, bristling. “Daz didn’t start it. If you
need
to take it out on someone – have a go at me.” Her eyes blazed, heart
raced. It was as good as calling him a bully who needed a whipping boy to cover his own failings. As if that wasn’t enough, she’d issued a public challenge for him to take her on. In
the diss-the-boss stakes, it was a double whammy: insubordinate – and insolent.

Byford clenched his jaw two, three times. She stared, arms folded, aware the squad was holding its collective breath. Talk about sailing close to the wind; this was more like the eye of the
storm. When he spoke, the words were little more than a whisper. “When we’ve finished here, you report to my office.”

“Sir.” Loud and clear.

“Donna Kennedy committed suicide last night.” Business mode, normal delivery. Byford’s roving gaze took in every officer present. “Her death – far as I’m
concerned – is as much down to the Sandman as Alex Masters’s murder.” No one argued. “We stop him before there’s another.” Earnest. Unequivocal. And total
bollocks. They were no nearer an arrest than they were on the first day of the inquiry. Byford walked the line of charts, used the pointer as he named each victim, paused a few seconds to let the
incident’s import sink in.

Facing the squad he said: “The targets weren’t selected at random. He didn’t just flick through yellow pages. There have to be links between the women. We’ve looked
before. Clearly we’ve not looked hard enough. We dig deeper. I want ideas.”

The sound of a pneumatic drill shattered the silence, broke the still uneasy tension. There was the odd laugh, a weak one-liner. Byford nodded at the open window, the nearest DC took the hint
and closed it.

“How about a property angle?” Mac scratched his cheek. Bev frowned. Burglars often had a favoured point of entry: louvred windows, french doors, whatever, they rarely deviated from
an MO. The Sandman wasn’t fussy how he got in; they’d already dismissed this line of inquiry. “Maybe the victims have had dealings with the same estate agent?” Mac had a
different line in mind. It was a reasonable next move. Up to now they’d concentrated on establishing personal connections: family, friends, neighbours, colleagues. Same with any case: start
small, work out. If the women had thought of selling their houses, it meant keys could be floating around. Not the likeliest scenario but at least the ball was rolling. The team ran with it.

“What about banks? Building societies? Do they use the same branch?”

“Motors? They all drive. Maybe they visit the same garage?”

“Go to the same gym?”

“Hairdresser? Library?”

“Callers to the house? Gardener maybe?

“Window cleaner?”

“Milkman?”

Potential leads or clutched straws – they’d all have to be checked if only for elimination purposes.

“Volunteers?” Byford lifted an eyebrow. A couple of DCs raised their hands.

“Don’t bother calling Diane Masters.” Head down, Bev jotted notes on a pad. “I’m seeing her this morning.”

“You’re not,” Byford said.

She looked up smartish. “It’s arranged.”

“I’m not getting into it here. See me later.” Open-mouthed she watched as he perched on the edge of a desk, rolled down the sleeves. “Chris? Forensics, please.”

She glowered through her fringe as the FSI manager Chris Baxter took a sip of tea, coffee, whatever, from his Buffy mug. A slight flush highlighted his freckles as he swallowed, then dabbed thin
lips. “As you know, we lifted fibres from the railings at the back of the Masters property.” Black cotton. Didn’t amount to much until they nailed the Sandman and got a match. If
they nailed...“We’re still waiting on a few test results but apart from that it’s more of the same.” Which meant SFA. Sweet forensic all.

Byford’s lips tightened. Frustration wasn’t in it. Each crime scene had yielded an embarrassment of potential goodies, they could run donkey rides on the sand alone but not a grain
had been traceable. Or rather it was – to any builder’s yard in the UK. Ditto the tethers. The three-ply nylon cord was manufactured by the mile and available in almost every hardware
store across the country.

“Any joy with the knot man?” Daz asked. Bev stifled a snort. She doubted Prof Ed Mclean would appreciate being referred to as the knot man. It made him sound like a bondage act on
Britain’s Got Talent
instead of Europe’s leading forensic knot analyst. They’d found Mclean via the National Crime Faculty at Bramshill. Cops used the NCF register when
they needed input from expert witnesses or behavioural investigative advisors – posh for profilers, or the Freud Squad. Either way, soon as the cords had been through the local forensic mill
they’d gone down to Southampton for Ed Mclean’s specialist take.

“Talked to him briefly last night.” Baxter ran fingers through thinning ginger hair. “Like with the previous cases, the knots used on Faith Winters are simple half-hitches, and
were tied right-handed. Though that could be to disguise the fact he’s left-handed.” Chris’s blush had deepened a shade. No wonder. The local forensic ace had come up with
identical info days ago. She’d like to know how much the pro was being paid. Talk about old rope and easy money.

“And that’s it?” Byford asked.

“He’s cross-checking burglaries with similar MOs, but...”

“Best not hold our breath?” The guv sighed. It wasn’t the inquiry’s only instance of hopes being raised then dashed by forensic let down. Way back at the first crime
scene, traces of sweat and skin had been extracted from one of the cords, knots were usually a good place to lift DNA. Only snag? Lab tests showed it was Beth Fowler’s. Bev wouldn’t be
surprised if the Sandman had planted the bloody stuff. He could be a cop, he knew so much. She frowned. No way. Yes way? Either way – given her current standing, it wasn’t an idea
she’d be sharing any time soon. She plumped for safer ground. “Anything back on the knife you bagged at Blenheim Road, Chris?” Knife. Shoot. She’d not handed in
Dorkboy’s blade from the other night. Must still be in the Midget. Mental note: get on to it, Beverley.

“It’s in the initial report. There’s a copy on your desk.” Must’ve missed it under all the other stuff. She spread empty palms. “Tests aren’t
complete,” Chris said. “But the blood’s not human.” Coincidence more than convenient discovery, then? Couldn’t really say the news was a shock; Bev had never shared
Danny Rees’s rose-tinted theory. “Shouldn’t take long to determine what animal it’s from,” Chris added. “Not sure where it’ll get us though.”

Movement on the CCTV front was equally disappointing. A couple of DCs had interviewed owners of vehicles parked overnight in the vicinity of the Masters place; every one checked out. Of the five
people who appeared on the tapes four had come forward after media appeals. All four had been eliminated. Which left one mystery man.

“Get on to the news bureau,” Byford told one of the detectives. “Tell Bernie I want the CCTV frames issued to the press by midday at the latest.”

Bev made mental notes as she listened to more negative feedback: no headway with mask suppliers from Mac, ditto stolen jewellery from Carol Pemberton and Sumi. One of Bev’s notes made it
on to paper: exhibits, check.

“Stick with it, everyone.” Byford rose, retrieved his jacket. It was almost a wrap. “If there’s no early break, I might take the
Crimewatch
option. I had a
producer on the phone last week wanting to send up a researcher.” There’s a surprise. Bev could see the reconstruction now. Man in clown mask, terrified woman tethered to a bed, low
light, menacing shadows, sprinkling sand, spooky soundtrack. Good telly, wasn’t it? Long as you don’t have nightmares.

“Want me to look after that, guv?” Powell casually stroked his neck.

“Mike. Sorry. I got sidetracked.” The guv cracked his first smile of the day. “Should have welcomed you at the start. Good to have you back on board.” Bev raised an
eyebrow. A sidetrack now, was she? “Just so everyone knows,” Byford continued, “soon as DI Powell’s up to speed, he’ll take senior investigating officer role on the
murder inquiry. Pete Talbot’ll remain SIO on the burglaries. I’ll stay in overall charge, and I’ll be looking to split the squad into two teams.” There’d be joint
briefs, he said, and smaller strategy meetings with the SIOs and other key players as and when.

The reasoning was sound. The inquiry was already becoming unwieldy. With more and more information being gathered it was increasingly vital to prioritise and disseminate it properly. As Tony
Blair didn’t say: communication, communication, communication.

Byford slipped into the jacket. “Anyone want to add anything?”

Not a word apparently.

It didn’t happen often. Bev was speechless. As in goldfish.

“Don’t be under any illusion,” Byford said, “she’s this close to slapping in an official complaint.” Bev glanced at the guv’s finger and thumb –
they were butt-joined. Post-brief, she’d tailed the big man to his office expecting a dressing down. Now they faced each across his executive desk, he’d not even asked her to sit.
Charlotte Masters had phoned Highgate first thing apparently. She’d seen Byford’s name in the press, knew he was the officer in charge. Currently he was only just keeping a lid on his
anger. “Objectionable, amateur and incompetent were among the adjectives she used.” He glanced at a Post-it note on the desk. “Not forgetting a disgrace to the force.”

Four or five screaming gulls patrolled a roof opposite. Sodding racket. Shame she hadn’t got a gun. She waited until Byford closed the window. “Charlotte Masters wants me off the
case, that’s all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Thanks for listening, guv. “She found you obnoxious.”

“Obnox...” The voice couldn’t get any higher. She cleared her throat. “Obnoxious?”

“She said it – not me.” He jammed a hand in his trouser pocket. “The girl’s upset, for God’s sake, her father’s been murdered.”

“Turn on the waterworks did she?” Bev studied her nails.

“If that’s your attitude, no wonder the girl’s got a grievance.” And thanks for the vote of confidence, guv. Byford took a deep breath before ploughing on. “I
assured her you were one of my best officers, experienced, sensitive, dedicated, professional.”

“’preciate it.” Sheepish mutter.

“I’ve not finished. Ms Masters doesn’t share my view. If she goes ahead, sergeant, it won’t just be the interview you’ll lose.” She followed his glance to a
fat personnel file on top of the out-tray. Her name wasn’t visible but she’d seen the file often enough. She’d faced so many disciplinaries, she should have a seat on the board.
Meant Byford had already been on to Human Resources for her paperwork though.

She toed the carpet. “I did apologise to her.”

“Not always enough, is it?” He walked to the water cooler, poured himself a cup, drained it. “What did you say to upset her?”

Guilty as not even tried. She objected loudly. “Make out like I deliberately pissed her off, why don’t you, oh you did.”

“I won’t tell you again, sergeant.” The voice was dangerously low. “Don’t answer back.”

She licked dry lips before giving him a précis of the exchange with Charlotte Masters, then: “It was six of one and half a dozen of the other. I was out of line maybe but she
could’ve put me straight.”

“It’s not down to a witness to ‘put you straight’. Sort yourself out, sergeant.” He reached for the phone. “I’m asking Mike Powell to go out there this
morning.” She shrugged. Being Powell’s second fiddle was better than sitting on the subs’ bench. “Carol Pemberton can go with him.”