Blood Money (22 page)

“Samuel has that effect, sergeant.” Diana gestured to a couple of chairs. “I’m sure you think me shallow and vain but he’s more than just a nice young man who looks
after my hair.”

“Come here often, does he?”

“Once or twice. When he heard about Alex, he rang to see if I was all right. He’s one of those rare creatures who know how to make people feel good, a giver not a taker. He’s
like a breath of fresh air.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “And he’s camper than a marquee. His words not mine.”

“Sergeant Morriss has a picture we’d like you to look at, Mrs Masters.” Mac’s words. His face was like a constipated gargoyle. Point taken. Bev cut him a glance as she
handed a copy of Libby Redwood’s photograph to the widow. “We think the woman on the left was the latest victim of the man who murdered your husband, Mrs Masters. Reckon you’ve
seen her before?”

“Was?” She’d picked up the tense. Fine lines appeared round her eyes as she looked to Bev for elaboration.

Bev gave a tight nod. “’Fraid she didn’t make it.”

“Oh my God.” A hand went to her jaw. “How...? What...?”

“Have you seen her before, Mrs Masters?” Mac clearly wanted to cut to the chase. Squinting she held the picture closer. “She does look slightly familiar.” Bev shifted on
the seat. Come on. How? “I just can’t recall where.” She sighed, shook her head. “Maybe it’ll come back to me?”

Bev pushed, got nowhere, went down a different track. “Is your daughter around, Mrs Masters?” She was fishing. If Charlotte was on the level, it’d be the last place she’d
be. Bev was curious whether Diana would be so candid over the family set-up.

Thin smile. “Not right now.”

“Expecting her soon?”

“I’m not sure, sergeant. Charlotte’s a law unto herself.” Not a lie, probably not the whole truth, though the pained look on the face seemed genuine. Bev had only heard
Charlotte’s take on the mother/daughter relationship. Diana’s could be totally different. And utterly irrelevant. She’d leave it for now. “I could give her a message?”
Mrs Masters offered.

“We’ll catch up with her later. No worries.” She spent a few minutes talking the widow through the inquiry’s current state of play: officer numbers, statements taken,
some of the inquiry lines. It was public relations as much as anything. The woman had a right to know and Bev wanted to keep her on board.

“I’m sure the police are doing everything they can, sergeant. And if anything comes back to me, I’ll surely get in touch.” The glance she flicked at the door told them
– unwittingly perhaps – she wanted them out. It was a wrap anyway. Almost.

Halfway there, Bev turned, threw in an apparent afterthought. “Miss Jamieson? Your husband’s secretary?”

“PA.” A finely plucked eyebrow arched. “She wouldn’t thank you for calling her a secretary, sergeant.” Cool. Catty?

“She knew he was coming back to Birmingham that night. He rang to tell her.”

“He would.” Faint smile. “It was business, and she’d need to know.”

“And you definitely had no idea?” Bev prompted.

She shook her head. “If I had, I’d never have gone to bed. And if I’d been up... who knows...?” Lip quivering, she dropped her face in her hands, visible across the
knuckles were the thin red lines left by the Sandman’s knife.

Waiting for a gap in the traffic, Bev gunned the motor in front of an elderly Volvo. Mac eased the apple pie from his pocket. Her sideways glance registered pureed puke.
“There’s tasty.” They exchanged matey grins, the earlier spat forgotten. It was one of the reasons they made a good team, she couldn’t stay spiky with him for long.

“Reckon the widow’s on the level, boss?”

“S’pose.” What did they have to go on? A phone call that wasn’t made? A PA with a spiteful gleam in her eye? Not exactly prima facie, was it? Diana Masters didn’t
strike Bev as a Judi Dench. Only the Dame could pull a grieving widow act like that, surely? Unless Diana was up for an Oscar. “Can’t see what she’d have to lie about.”

“Never saw her as a serious contender myself.” Mac was licking crumbs from his fingers.

She did a double-take. “You never ate that?”

He shrugged. “Shame to see it go to waste.”

Shaking her head, she hiked the volume on the radio. It was just coming up to three and she was keen to hear whether the Sandman latest would hit the headlines. Glancing at Mac, she toyed with
telling him about the break-in at Baldwin Street, the timer left as a present. Not that anything since had sparked her personal safety alarm and, boy, had she been on alert. She opened her mouth,
thought better of it. Best wait a while, see how things panned out.

The story wasn’t the lead. That was some Westminster sleaze-fest, then some drivel about heavy snow and dangerous driving conditions in the north. At last. The newsreader linked into a
clip from Byford. Bev could just imagine his face given how strained the voice sounded. After listening to the same old same old witness appeal, Mac lowered the sound.

“The gay with the scissors?” he dropped in casually. “You gonna let him loose on your hair... sweetie?”

Diana Masters ran her fingers through Sam’s hair. He’d played a blinder; she should never have doubted him. Last night’s glitch had been a temporary blip.
“You were absolutely brilliant, darling.” The police turning up out of the blue could’ve been a disaster. Sitting on the edge of the bed, negligee draped round her naked
shoulders, she shuddered at the very thought.

“Are you cold, Dee?”

As he reached for a bottle on the floor, she traced his spine with her nails. Behind them, ivory satin sheets were stained, crumpled, by rights steam should be rising. Patting them, she raised a
coy eyebrow: “I don’t think so, Sammy.”

Candlelight glinted on glass as they clinked. Veuve Clicquot. Her favourite. He leaned across, kissed her, tasted the champagne on her tongue. “Couldn’t have done it without you,
babe.” He launched into an impersonation of Diana that by now was faultless. “He’s a giver not a taker.”

“I’ll be here for you.” Diana’s of him was uncanny. “I could’ve died when you told her she had beautiful eyes.”

“I rather liked: ‘If you ever fancy a decent cut.’”

They laughed again. They’d re-run the afternoon scenario several times in the hours since the police left.

Suddenly serious if not quite sober, Sam dropped the act. “Really think we can do it, Dee?”

“You saw the cops.” She licked her lips. “What do you think?”

“Don’t think I overdid the gay thing?”

She slipped a hand between his naked thighs. “Let’s find out shall we?” They fell back on the bed, giggling. Diana had no qualms about the cops. It was the greedy bastard who
was trying to screw them both who cast a shadow on the future. If she could get her hands on him... No, scrub that. Her cat eyes glinted in the soft light. When she got her hands on him.

After three hours at the paper mill the desk wasn’t quite as new-pin neat as Evie Jamieson’s empire, but then Bev’s boss unlike Alex Masters was alive and
kicking. Kicking ass come to that. Well, OK, ear-bashing. The guv had laid into just about everybody at the late brief. Or maybe it just seemed that way. It was probably more a
socks-up-and-fingers-out dressing down than serious bollocking. Let’s face it: the squad was well capable of giving itself a hard time. Four weeks since the first Sandman attack; four days
since Alex Masters’s murder. And where were they? Oh, look, was that square one flying past the window?

Blowing out her fringe on a sigh, Bev reached for a bottle of J2O; after Red Bull overload, the apple and mango was going down a treat. Including the juice trickling down her chin; a judicious
sleeve caught it. At least they were ticking the no boxes. In any inquiry, eliminating the negative was up there with pursuing the positive. Just didn’t get the adrenalin flowing the same
way.

After Bev and Mac’s fruitless troll round south Birmingham that afternoon, they could virtually rule out a connection between Libby Redwood and the Sandman’s other victims. Neither
Faith Winters nor Sheila Isaac knew the woman from Adam or Eve. Unless Diana Masters suddenly saw the light or Beth Fowler on return from Brighton came up with a link, it was dead-end avenue. Or
maybe not. They’d still to run the image past Charlotte Masters. The girl hadn’t been at home when they’d dropped by and a call to the wine bar where she worked failed to shed
light on where she might be.

A definite cul de sac was Libby Redwood’s known associates. Carol Pemberton had scratched a metaphorical red line through the names in the address book. Dazza had scoured every inch of
relevant CCTV, Libby’s alleged tail had failed to materialise. That had not been the brief’s high spot. Had there been one? Bev held the cool bottle to her brow. Confirmation of more
troops, she supposed; fifteen uniforms from West Mercia were being drafted in plus four pairs of extra admin hands assigned to the phone lines.

Kate Darby had come up with a list of jewellery she thought had been stolen from her sister’s property. No way of knowing if any cash had been lifted. As in the other cases, descriptions
of the items would be circulated to shops and other outlets less upfront let alone legit.

Edgy, antsy, Bev rose, strolled to the window, breathed in the cool night air; heard the buzz of city traffic, the odd blaring horn, watched skimpy blue-black clouds scud across full-cream moon.
She narrowed her eyes. Why not even a chink of light in the case? By now in an inquiry, they’d expect to have the wisp of an idea, a piece or two of the puzzle to go on. The Sandman was
untouchable, invisible. Leaning out she called lightly. “Where are you, you bastard?”

“Morriss! Don’t do it! Don’t jump!” High octane mock alarm from Mick Powell, the smirk was a mile high. Startled, eyes blazing, she spun round. “Enough clowns in
this place without you getting in on the act.”

Maybe it was down to the word clown. But when the DI’s face fell, she knew what image was in his head. After witnessing the student take off from Selfridges’ roof without a chute,
he’d been as cut up as Bev had ever seen him.

“Crap line even for me, eh, Morriss?” His laugh was humourless. Hands shoved in pockets he cast a sheepish gaze at the carpet.

“Crap line for Russell Brand that.” Arms crossed, she perched on the window sill, caught the twitch of his lip.

“What the hell were you doing anyway?” Moving in fast, he gave an over-the-top shiver. “It’s boracic out there.”

“Communing with nature.”

He snorted. “Having a fag?”

“You should try it some time.”

“Smoking?” Like she’d suggested eating shit.

“Communing with nature.”

Mouth down, he made a budge up gesture with his thumb, joined her at the window, elbows on sill, they both gazed out at the stars, the night sky. Bev pictured little Daisy Towbridge with her
telescope. Had she spotted the Sandman?

“Why’d she do it, Bev?”

She had to think for a second who he meant. Still didn’t know why he asked. By now the cops knew: Jessica Harvey had been bipolar, high on crack, and off her face on absinthe. “Out
of it, wasn’t she? Tripped off to Planet La-la.”

“Yeah,” Powell sighed. “But death. It’s so sodding final, isn’t it?”

She bit back a Star Trek line about frontiers. Powell was dead serious and though he was stating the bleeding obvious, the haunted delivery held hidden depths. Lines on his face seemed more
pronounced, too, the skin round his tired eyes like old bruises. The DI had been up with the insomniac larks. And it was what? His second day back? Talk about being chucked in the deep end. Even so
Bev didn’t want to get into a philosophical discussion. She shrugged it off with a less than profound: “Life’s a bitch.”

“Yeah. And then you die. You don’t top yourself. She had her life ahead of her. Crikey, Bev, look what you went through...” Bev’s spine stiffened, space invader senses on
full alert. “Bet it never crossed your mind once, did it? Killing yourself?”

“Not myself.” She sniffed.

“’Xactly. While there’s life, there’s...”

Cliché. “Mike. What you trying to say?”

“It’s always worth hanging on? Never give up? Life’s beautiful? Things can only get better?”

“Bet Tony Blair regretted that last one.”

“Nah. Shame that kid wasn’t more like you, Morriss.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Tough as old boots.” He gave her a shoulder a playful punch, headed for the door. “Catch you in the morning.”

She shook her head, ghost of a smile on her lips. A minute or so later, she watched Powell stride across the car park, tie over his shoulder, raincoat flapping in the breeze. Glancing up he
must’ve caught her silhouette in the window. “Not got a home to go to, Morriss?” Joshing, not harsh. She returned his salute with a wave, pulled the window to and slumped at her
desk. Course she had a home to go to – but Fareeda was there. She’d yet to tackle her about the predictor kit. And if Bev was honest, she didn’t feel like facing yet more of the
girl’s stonewalling.

Like she had a choice.

“Bev?” Byford called from behind as she was leaving the nick five minutes later. Midway down the backstairs, she glanced over her shoulder.

“Wotcha.” She waited for him to catch up, noted a lack of spring in his step, deep lines, dark planes on his face. Was the guv starting to slow down, show his age? She hoped it was
just the temporary pressure. Nothing a few early nights wouldn’t see off. Not that this was an early night. “Bit late for you isn’t it, guv?”

“You’re not the only one puts in the hours.” Snippy.

“Well slap my wrist.” She bristled. “I meant you were out at Kings Heath first thing – so you’ve been on the go for ages.” So’d she but who was
counting?

“So’ve you.” He smiled as he held the door. “Don’t mind me.” Close up and in this light he still had the George Clooney thing going. Even the Fedora was at a
jaunty angle.

“Long day. Short fuse. Happens to us all, guv.” Falling into step across the car park, she realised uneasily how comfortable it felt: just like old times. Perish that thought,
Beverley.

“It was good getting away from the desk,” Byford said. Chit-chat or something more?