Blood Money (31 page)

“There y’go.” Byford shuffled up next to her, shoved another Pinot across the table.

“Ta, guv.”

“Sure you’re OK, Bev?” He was on scotch; his concerned gaze was on her.

“Dandy.” Another drink maybe she would be; maybe she’d forget the victims’ faces, the pain and terror the Sandman had put them through, her own reluctance to intervene.
Maybe she wouldn’t.

“You ever done the right thing for the wrong reasons, guv?” She circled a finger round the rim of the glass, still not sure whether she’d have stepped in to save the scumbags
if she hadn’t heard the sirens. She counted six, seven seconds before he answered.

“Isn’t the result what matters, Bev?”

Was it? “Got me there, guv.” The question was deep and she was drunk, dog-tired. People were drifting off, Mac had just blown her a kiss, must be off his face as well. She stifled a
yawn, reckoned it was time to hit the road. The MG’d be OK in the car park. She could just about stagger home, truth be told she fancied a trudge through the snow. She drained the glass,
slipped into her coat, gave a mock salute. “I’m off. Catch you later.”

“Fancy a nightcap, Bev?” Those grey eyes held more than an invite for cocoa and that George Clooney smile could melt dry ice. God it was so tempting. But boy was she whacked, knew
she looked rougher than a rough thing from rough land. On the other hand...

“Yeah.” Mischievous wink. “How ’bout tomorrow? Eight o’clock?”

Byford was still smiling when he unlocked his motor. Glancing up the road he could just make out Bev’s retreating figure in the distance: black against the snow; shoulder
bag like a Santa sack. Despite a reasonably clean end to the case, something was clearly bugging her. He toyed with the idea of catching her up, decided against. No point rushing it. Maybe
she’d open up tomorrow. About to get in the car, he spotted another figure that looked to be gaining on her. Byford narrowed his eyes; something about the body language hit his radar. His
copper’s instinct told him something was wrong. A scream confirmed it.

No warning. The first blow took Bev’s breath away, knocked her off her feet. The snow had muffled the attacker’s approach. He had some sort of weapon. Baseball bat,
she thought. Explosions were going off in her brain. She felt herself being dragged off the street, then a weight on her back. Pinned to the ground, she took another blow to the head. Screaming,
she struggled, desperate to throw him off. Fighting back was her only chance. It wasn’t an option: she could barely move. Silverfish thoughts. Who was it? One of the Saleem brothers? Dorkboy?
Twisting slightly she glimpsed hoodie and scarf. Got whacked in the face for her effort. A mugging? Was she the victim of street scum? Teeth gritted. Sod that. She was nobody’s victim.

Every muscle flexed, she writhed and bucked. Couldn’t budge the bastard. Waves of nausea washed over her; she felt dizzy, her eyelids fluttered, heart pounded ribs. The booze, the fight
with Tate must’ve taken it out of her. What strength she had was seeping away. Dear God, don’t let me die like this. The attacker grabbed a handful of hair, yanked her head back.

“You didn’t return my calls. You didn’t even thank me for your lovely presents. What an ungrateful girl you are.” Presents? The heart? The timer? Who the fuck...? A chunk
of hair came out by the roots with the next yank. “Open your eyes.” She tried, but the pain was too bad. “Open your fucking eyes. You have such pretty eyes... Laura.” She
stiffened. One of her pick-ups. Tentatively she opened an eye, glimpsed the guy she’d dubbed Jagger lips. Jesus Christ, was he stoned or crazy? Either way he sounded amazingly sane.

“Lissen... I’m a cop.” Lisping, she barely recognised her own voice.

“I know what you are. You’re a slut. You hit on me – then treat me like shit. I don’t like being dissed, Bevie.” Spit trickled down her face. “You lied to
me.” Everybody lies. “If I hadn’t nicked your mobile I wouldn’t even know your name. I hate liars. And I hate cops.” She felt a slight draught, sensed he was lifting
the bat for another blow. “Two birds with one stone time.”

Drowsy, beginning to drift, Bev wondered vaguely who’d painted the snow red. The sudden release of pressure on her spine made her catch her breath. “Police. Drop it.” Minuscule
tug of split lips. She’d know the guv’s voice anywhere. Eyes still closed, it hurt to move. She heard the fight: fists on flesh, rasping breaths, gasps, groans. Then silence. Slowly,
gingerly she turned her head. Her attacker lay motionless, stared sightlessly at the night sky. Breathing heavily, Byford knelt in the snow, felt for a pulse. She didn’t need to ask. The
jagged rock close by was stained with blood. Big question was whether he’d hit his head going down, or Byford had lent a hand?

“Nasty fall that, guv.” Through her pain she gave a weak smile. “Ask me – it could’ve happened to anyone.”

Everybody lies.

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