Blood Money (26 page)

“My God.” She lifted an imaginary jaw from the floor. “Give us a twirl.”

“No more barging in, boss. Turning over a new leaf, me.”

New woman more like. “Hold you to it, mate.”

“Not just that. I’ve bagged up a load of old clothes. Splashed out on a new wardrobe. Nothing like a fresh start.”

Mental eye roll. Must be part of Mac’s one-man move-Morriss-on campaign. She let it go; his heart was in the right place somewhere under the paunch. And maybe he had a point.

One eye closed, Byford took aim and launched the Fedora at the hat stand. His muted
Yes
was accompanied by a triumphant air punch. Hitting the target didn’t
necessarily mean a good day ahead, but success gave the big man a childish thrill. It wasn’t part of the morning routine he shared with anyone. Sighing he sat at the desk, tugged his bottom
lip. Like the weekend – that had been pretty solitary too: long solo walk in the Malverns, dinner alone in a restaurant, single bed in a soulless hotel. Throughout, Bev hadn’t been far
from his thoughts. Why the hell couldn’t they get their act together?

If he’d decided nothing else over the last two days, he’d decided this: when Operation Magpie was concluded he’d ask if she wanted to give it another go. Find out once and for
all if they had a joint future. He reached for his briefing notes. All they had to do now was nail the Sandman.

Sam’s hand shook as he passed the phone to Diana. “He wants to speak to you.”

Thank God for that. There’d been little contact for two days. Edgy herself, she’d kept Sam with her most of the time trying to convince him the blackmailer was playing mind games. It
hadn’t worked. Her lover was pale, sweaty, barely eating. He’d not touched breakfast, just pushed scrambled egg round with a fork. Diana shoved away her empty plate, any nausea she felt
stemmed from having to be the strong one all the time. Taking a deep breath she held the phone to her ear. “Diana Mast...”

“I know who you are, lady. I’ve been pissed around enough. Where’s the cash?” The voice was metallic, distorted, not as menacing as Sam described it. Maybe she was better
prepared, or less easily intimidated.

“It’s not been easy...”

“I don’t give a flying fuck. I want it tonight or the deal’s off.”

A flash of fury lit her eyes. “You don’t get a cent until I know my daughter’s alive.” What little colour there was drained from Sam’s cheeks. It wasn’t how
they’d decided to play it. Her role was supposed to be desperate mother, willing to do anything the blackmailer asked. Fact was, she hated being jerked round by scum.

“Sure about that, lady?”

“Perfectly.”

“You have two minutes to change your mind.”

“Or?” She curled a lip. Bastard had hung up.

Eyes wide and staring, Sam ran both hands through his hair. “You’re out of your tiny. You may as well ring the cops yourself.”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m trying to think.” She closed her eyes, index fingers pressed against temples. The current predicament was down to her. She should’ve stuck to the
role. Much as she resented the whole sorry mess, until they saw the whites of the blackmailer’s eyes, they were over a fucking big barrel. Cocking her head, she tried to locate the source of
a strange sound. Sam was kneeling on the floor, sobbing, tears running down his face.

“I can’t take any more, Dee.”

She grabbed the phone before its second ring. “OK. Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything you say.”

“OK, we re-interview everyone we’ve spoken to since day one.” It was Byford’s response after an increasingly uneasy silence to a request for input at a
brief that had been both uninspired and uninspiring. He’d held centre stage for the better part of half an hour, but it was more up-sum of where the inquiries had been than where they were
going: review rather than foresight. Bev had cast the odd covert glance at the team, heads were generally held down, fingers flicked through notebooks. Sumi Gosh wasn’t the only officer
taking a metaphorical back seat keeping her mouth clamped. Bev had never known it before, not so much as a naff suggestion being thrown into the pot let alone a bright idea. The squad’s
slumped body language said more than anyone was prepared to voice: most officers were as exhausted as the lines of inquiry. Eroded spirits rather than physically knackered. Cops were human, too.
There were only so many brick walls the communal head could bang, an inquiry team needed a break, and she wasn’t talking bacon roll and cup of tea.

Break. Brighton. Mental light bulb. “Beth Fowler should be back this morning.” Blank look from Byford. “She was the first victim. Been away for a few days?” Bev had
called last week, left a message on the answerphone. Byford nodded. Not exactly overwhelmed but at least it broke the silence.

“What about a reconstruction, guv?” DC New’s puppy-dog eyes shone. Bev masked a smile of wry amusement. When all else failed, Dazza always came up with that one. He’d
clocked himself on the regional news once.

“Of what, Darren?” Byford sounding more patient than he looked. “With five crime scenes, it’d be like re-making
Ben Hur
. We’ll leave it to the professionals,
eh?”
Crimewatch
presumably.

“Ben who?” Dazza looking hangdog.

The guv flapped a hand. “Next?”

Not that a bacon roll and cup of tea weren’t a welcome break too. Mid-morning and Bev was in her favourite seat in the canteen halfway through both. The way the
interviews she’d been lining up were spaced there’d be no chance of grabbing a bite later. Munching reflectively, she glanced through the window, reckoned the forecast was right. The
sky had that pearly sheen which presaged snow. Good excuse for buying the new coat she had her eye on, she was going off the leather look. Her lip curved. Maybe it was new man Mac’s sartorial
example. She glanced round at the sound of footsteps; Sumi was approaching with the glimmer of a smile on her face.

“Hey, sarge, I got a postcard this morning.” And it looked as if she was about to share.

Mouth full Bev pointed the roll to usher DC Gosh into the seat opposite. Even if Bev had been able to get out the words, there was no need to ask who’d sent the card. From where could be
useful though. “It’s postmarked Manchester.” Sumi perched, off-loading apple juice and a banana on the table.

Bev licked greasy fingers, wiped them on a napkin, took the offering.

Everything is fine. I am with a friend. Please don’t try and find me. It is better you don’t know where I am. Love, Fareeda xx

It was very near verbatim to the lines left on the pillow. Lack of imagination – or had the girl been taking dictation? Assuming she’d had a hand in it. Bev drew her lips together.
However casually posed, she suspected her question would have the same effect. “Definitely her writing, is it?” It did. Sumi’s smile faded.

“Yes.” She didn’t sound too sure. “I think so.”

Bev shrugged. “Got any old cards or letters from her?”

Sumi nodded, not stupid. “I’ll check when I get home.” She was probably on the same page as Bev now: why, when it was so much easier, hadn’t the girl texted or phoned? It
could just be that Fareeda didn’t want two-way communication. Or the card could be a signpost shrouded in fog pointing them down a blind alley. Fact was, even if had been written by the girl,
anyone could’ve posted it.

Bev aimed for casual again. “She been in touch with her parents?”

Sumi held Bev’s keen gaze. “She hadn’t when I saw them on Saturday.” She’d offered to speak to her uncle, put him in the picture. That had been fine by Bev, she
wasn’t the old man’s biggest fan and he’d definitely crossed her name off his Eid card list.

“Best have another word, eh?” Catching the time, she drained the tea, wrapped what was left of the roll and scraped back the chair. “What did he say when you told him Fareeda
had gone?”

“Nothing,” Sumi said. “Not a word. But I don’t think he believed me.”

Bev didn’t know what to believe either.

Beth Fowler’s house had a For Sale sign outside. No. Make that three. As Bev locked the motor she spotted two other upmarket estate agents’ boards in the grounds.
The mock Tudor’s splendid isolation in Moseley had turned into lonely desolation the night the Sandman broke in and subjected its owner to a nightmare ordeal. As they walked up the drive, Mac
voiced Bev’s thoughts: “Is she keen to get out or what?”

Not going by the number of locks and bolts that had to be released before Mrs Fowler opened the door on a chain. Bev hadn’t seen the victim since interviewing her in hospital the day after
the attack. If they’d passed in the street now, Bev doubted she’d have recognised her. Grey roots showed in unkempt mousy hair, the face was a gaunt make-up free zone though no amount
of slap could have hidden the stress lines. The divorcee was forty-four going on sixty. It was only after she let them in then went through the Fort Knox routine in reverse that Bev could see the
woman’s weight loss. The sludge-coloured two-piece suit was hanging off a frame that must have dropped a stone or more.

“Have you caught him yet?” She threw the question back as she traipsed down a tiled passageway to a stone-flagged kitchen. Bev supplied the same answer she’d given on the phone
earlier that morning. “Doing our best, Mrs Fowler.”

“I’ll take that as a no. Still. Sit down.” Peremptory. They perched on one of the bench seats at a dusty trestle table; a cut glass vase in the centre held dead flowers, the
water had a greenish tinge and was probably the source of one of the less than fragrant odours pervading the house. There was no preamble or social nicety, the woman launched into brusque
monologue. “I could’ve stayed in Brighton. My son was happy me being there.” She was wringing her hands oblivious to the pressure marks it left in the skin. “But he’s
got his wife and kids and I’m not what you’d call good company right now.” She gave a brittle laugh. “Useless in company, useless on my own. They say I’ll get over it
but...”

“Mrs Fowler,” Bev intervened gently. “Why don’t you sit down a minute?”

Haunted amber eyes seemed suddenly to register she wasn’t alone. She slumped on the bench opposite, bony fingers reaching for a pack of B&H. After watching the woman’s feeble
attempts to spark up, Bev took the box from her, held a flame to her cigarette. “There y’go.” Warm smile.

“Thanks, sergeant.”

“Bev, please.” She was working out how to play the scene; interviewing trauma victims was par for the course but several weeks after the attack this woman hadn’t moved an inch.
Mac came up with an opening quicker. “How many grandchildren d’you have, Mrs Fowler?”

“Three.” She stubbed out the baccy even though it was barely touched.

“Hey! And me.” An enthused Mac edged forward on the seat. “Smashing, isn’t it? Like having your own all over again but without the hassle.” The severe thin line of
Beth Fowler’s mouth softened fractionally. Bev masked incredulity at Mac’s whopper. His kids hadn’t reached puberty never mind parenthood. She listened as the doting pair swapped
stories for a couple of minutes. Mac’s fairy tale hadn’t waved an emotional magic wand over Beth Fowler – transformation like that took years in therapy – but at least the
woman wasn’t wound so tight she was in danger of snapping.

“D’you have children, Bev?” The question threw her momentarily. She stiffened as the automatic internal barrier came down, knew displaying it here would get them nowhere.

“No, Mrs Fowler.” Forced smile. “Not yet.” Hell’s still hot isn’t it?

“You really...”

Bench scraped slate as Mac jumped to his feet. “Can I get a drink of water, Mrs Fowler?”

The woman waved him down told him to stay where he was. “I’ll see to it. Or perhaps you’d both like coffee?”

Coffee was good, and it gave Mrs Fowler something to do as Bev led her gently through the steps the police were taking. Going by the occasional nod and right noise while she fixed then poured
the drinks, the woman was obviously taking it in. She sat opposite now, cup clutched in both hands. “So what do you want from me?”

A tap dripped as Bev took a couple of seconds to find the words. She wanted the victim to try to dredge up a forgotten detail. Aye, there’s the rub. To do that, she had to ask Mrs Fowler
to relive mentally the experience she was desperate to forget. Bev didn’t have to open her mouth, the woman knew what was needed.

“I’ve gone over it again and again in my mind.” A hand went to her neck, the brittle laugh echoed again in the cavernous kitchen. “I wish I could get it
out
of my
mind. I see his eyes, that gross smile everywhere I go.” Reaching for a cigarette she had second thoughts, angrily pushed away the pack. “I wish it weren’t so, but there’s
nothing, absolutely nothing I haven’t already told you.”

Further gentle probing proved futile. Going through the motions, Bev took out the envelope of victims’ photographs from her bag asked Mrs Fowler to take another look. Libby Redwood and
Alex Masters were the only new faces. “He’s the barrister, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Bev exchanged keen glances with Mac. “D’you know him?”

Still gazing at the pic, she shook her head. “I’ve never met him. But if you see Diana, pass on my condolences.”

“Diana Masters knows Beth Fowler.” Bev slammed her palm against the steering wheel. “Why’d she lie about it?” They were still parked outside the
Fowler property, Bev more fired up than Mac. First snowflakes were drifting on to the windscreen, she flicked on the wipers.

“Maybe she didn’t recognise her. It’s not a brilliant picture. And it doesn’t sound like they’re bosom pals.” Mac gazed at the photograph while Bev tried
thinking through the implications. During follow-up questioning, Mrs Fowler had told them she’d met Diana twice, on both occasions when the divorcee had dropped items at Oxfam. The
relationship was hardly intimate but why had Diana denied it? “Even if she’s seen her before – what does it prove anyway, boss? Could’ve just slipped her mind. You
don’t think you’re making too much of it?”

“Yeah, cos we’ve got so much to go on.” She sighed. OK, it wasn’t a sworn confession signed in blood. But it was a lie, a discrepancy. “Makes you wonder what else
she’s lying about though, mate.” Bev turned the engine.