Death Line (26 page)

“Top notch, doc. Is he up to visitors then?” Sliding open the middle drawer of her desk, she struggled to extricate the massive get well card. She’d get the few remaining
signatures after the brief, try and drop it by this evening.

“Hold your horses.” Mock admonition. “He is still unconscious, Bev.”

“No worries. I could sit there bombarding him with Stones music and taped messages from Gordon Brown.”

“Could set him back if he’s a Beatles fan and votes Tory.” The doctor laughed. “Seriously, he is off the tubes and performing much better on the GCS.” Glasgow Coma
Scale. Bev was well-versed in initials now. Cathy had run her through the scale earlier. Patients scored between one and fifteen according to eye, verbal and motor responses. When Darren had been
admitted he was barely hitting four. He’d registered eight on the latest tests.

“All them scales – we’ll have him playing piano when he comes round, doc.”

Audible groan then: “You’re wasted in your job. Bye, Bev.” Her smile was still there though.

Bev’s faded momentarily. She only wished she could tell Darren the scrotums who attacked him were behind bars.

“Hey Morriss! Have you heard?” DI Powell in sharp suit and silk tie drew up alongside Bev in a corridor at Highgate. Clutching a couple of files she masked a smile,
reckoned he’d reverted to type in more ways than one. And he’d overdone the Ralph Lauren aftershave again.

She cocked her head: “Good morning, Bev. How goes it?”

“Yeah yeah.” A friendly smile and flapping hand dispensed with social niceties and the doorstep near miss in one – for the DI – surprisingly subtle fell swoop.
She’d half expected a blast of
No Regrets
or
A Kiss is Just a Kiss
from the man who thought PC was something you sent in the post. “Witness phoned in after the telly
appeal. A neighbour saw Eric Long letting some bloke into the house the night he was killed.”

She gave a low whistle. “Description?” Falling into step they headed for the briefing room.

“Not bad.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Car’s on the way to bring him back here. We’ll line up one of the artists. Get them to work on an e-fit. Could be a
break.”

About bloody time. She held up crossed fingers, turned the gesture into a wave as she clocked Mac ambling towards them.

“Talking of break,” Powell said. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Mac lifted his hand, winced as it grazed his nose. It wasn’t broken but swollen fit to burst. “He’s had a nose job.” Bev quipped.

“Get your money back if I were you, Tyler.” Powell held the door, gave a knowing smirk as she passed. “Bet he regrets it. Don’t you, Morriss?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Non.”

“So when are we expecting this witness, Mike?” The guv stood centre stage caught in a shaft of sunlight. He’d jettisoned the jacket five minutes back and was
now rolling his sleeves. Bev was in a light cotton shift dress and still feeling the heat. Byford would be the last cop to count chickens but it was easy to see he found the lead from Drake Street
encouraging. More than that: she reckoned it had perked up what had been a lacklustre brief and a downbeat squad desperate for movement.

Powell’s Rolex glinted in the light. “Forty minutes or so, guv.”

Byford nodded. “Liaise with Paul Curran, will you? We need to get it out there fast.” If the image was halfway decent, they’d release it to the media before the metaphorical
ink was dry.

“He’s heading out to some photo shoot in Handsworth.” DCI Knight piped up. “Neighbourhood policing, I think he said.”

It’d take a while for the visual to be pieced together and a cynic might say neighbourhood policing and Handsworth was an oxymoron. “Should be back just in time then, thanks,
Lance.”

The DCI failed to return the guv’s fleeting smile. Bev pursed her lips. Was Lancelot still piqued? Listening with half an ear, she made a few notes as the big man recapped where the
inquiry stood. Nothing substantial had changed since their run-through in the pub last night. With hindsight her sharp exit had definitely been too hasty. Not getting offered a replay was something
she probably would regret.

“Right, anyone have anything else?” Byford slipped a hand in his pocket.

“One of the motors picked up on CCTV?” Sumi Gosh had been chasing and checking. “Turns out it was stolen, sir.” And still missing. “I’ve only just found
out.” Good job she made that clear: the guv looked as if he was about to have a go.

“OK. Circulate details.” Other forces would keep an eye out too. Probably no connection but elimination was a big part of any inquiry.

Mac raised a finger. “I’ve got an address for Alfie Cox, guv.” Some of his digging had paid off. “He’s the grandfather of...”

“Hannah Cox.” Byford nodded. “The child of Eric Long’s former partner.” Bev did a mental double-take. Talk about being on the ball. “Go on.”

“He was pretty vocal when Long got sent down,” Mac elaborated. “Said he should’ve got a much longer sentence.”

Byford raised an eyebrow. “If I recall correctly, he said Long should’ve been put down.” Spot on again. He’d certainly been doing his homework. “Cox must be getting
on a bit now. But if you think he’s worth an interview...”

Bev crossed her legs. Don’t get too excited, guv. Anyone would think suspects were coming out of their ears.

“What about those test results, Bev?” Byford asked.

“Left a message first thing, guv. He’ll get back to me soon as.” The pathologist had been on a call out to Wednesbury. Some bloke found beaten to death in a back alley. Thank
God it wasn’t their baby. One thing they weren’t short of was victims.

The Cortina was pictured, its bonnet embedded in the trunk of an oak tree, its bodywork crumpled concertina-like, clumps of wild flowers visible in the foreground. No one could
have survived the impact. Moist-eyed, the man with the scrapbook hoped Amy’s death had been instant, unlike the last painfully long drawn out months of her life.

He reread the opening words: Tragedy has again struck... His lips puckered. It was a little early for the ‘jinxed family’ line to be wheeled out. It wasn’t long before
reporters latched on to it though. Was it Amy’s funeral coverage when the tag first appeared? He resisted the temptation to leaf forward through the book. Timing didn’t matter, the term
was meaningless, totally inappropriate either way. Scott had been killed by evil intent not bad luck.

As for ‘struggling to come to terms...’ Sighing, he slumped back in the chair: more weasel words. Amy had coped well enough to convince psychiatrists she was ready to be released
from hospital, coped well enough to convince her husband she was fit to drive, coped well enough to take only her own life on that desperate last journey.

Bev was clearing paperwork before heading out to Alfie Cox’s place with Mac. Despite Byford’s less than delirious reaction, she thought Cox worth having a look at.
What was the saying about revenge being a dish best served cold? How’d they know Cox didn’t have a deep freeze factory?

Bev wouldn’t say no to a walk-in fridge. Heatwaves were all well and good on holiday; fat chance of that round here. She gave a derisive snort. Best invest in a fan. She reached for a
file, pulled out one of the press reports Mac had culled from the last day of Eric Long’s trial. A snapper had caught Cox in mid-flow, spewing vitriol. He looked straight out of
heavies’ academy: bull-necked, bald headed, bared teeth and tattooed. She narrowed her eyes. What would he be now? Mid-fifties. Not exactly over the hill. Heck. Byford was heading towards
sixty. Either way a trip to Small Heath was probably one up from bashing the phone or knocking doors. Though someone was...“Come in.”

“Here you go, boss.” Mac bummed the wood to, ambled over bearing canteen coffee.

“Cheers, mate.”

“Should be champagne. Would be if I’d known.” No wind-up, voice was genuine.

“Known what?”

He parked his backside on a chair. “I bumped into one of DI Talbot’s men in the queue. Ivan?” Usually he followed it up with ‘the terrible’ but the gleam in
Mac’s eyes meant he wasn’t pissing round. The news was good. “They’ve made an arrest.” Darren’s attack. Peter Talbot was SIO. “Youth from the Quarry Bank
estate. On the way in now.”

She punched the air, huge beam on her face. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“Not all, boss.” Milking it, he took a sip of coffee. She’d land him one if he didn’t spit it out. “The boy’s mum dobbed him in. Called this morning. Ivan
reckons once they start the questioning he’ll drop his mates in the shit an’ all.”

Thrilled to bits, she paced the office as he gave her the gist: the woman had found bloodstained clothes in her son’s bedroom earlier in the week. He’d fobbed her off with some lame
excuse. She knew he was no angel but what mother wants to think the worst of her son? Then last night she’d seen Darren’s picture splashed all over the front page. Just thinking about
it brought tears to Bev’s eye. Releasing it had been a close call. Pete had taken quite a bit of stick over the decision. Obviously the shock value had paid off.

“Wasn’t just that,” Mac said. “She checked his mobile first thing. There’s actually footage. Darren lying at the back of the flats. She knew her lad ran with a bad
crowd but had no idea they were capable of that.” Mindless violence.

“Tough love then,” she said. “Not before time.”

“Even so, Bev... takes a mother courage, that.”

“Yeah.” She sniffed. “Shame it doesn’t run in the family.”

Mac drained his cup, lobbed it binwards. “All set then, boss?” Pointing, she raised an eyebrow. He found the target this time. They were at the door when the phone rang.

“Doctor King. Thanks for getting back. Just one tick.” She shielded the mouthpiece, told Mac to meet her at the car in five.

“Private consultation, boss?” Smirking, he crept out.

“Sorry about that, Joe.” Shared interests and all that, she’d looked up the meaning of Joe. Reckoned it couldn’t be any worse than beaver stream. She’d nearly died
laughing. He who will enlarge. Each to their own interpretation but she’d not be sharing hers right now.

“Results were on the desk when I got back, Bev. As you suspected, lethal doses of methadone present in both blood samples. Odds are you’re looking for one killer.”

No real surprise. Not a bunch of help either. She sighed. “Couldn’t give us his name, inside leg measurement could you, doc?”

“’Fraid not.” He laughed. “Your colleagues in Wednesbury are desperate for a name, too.”

She frowned then realised where he was coming from. “Your stiff this morning?” Mouth open, eyes screwed:
tell me I didn’t say that, God?

“Sorry?”

“Technical term, doc. Corpse. Cadaver. Carcass. Corpus delicti.”

“Quite.” She heard throat-clearing noises. “Anyway the body’s a John Doe. Late sixties, early seventies probably. If he carried identity, it had gone by the time your
people arrived.”

“If?”

“Feeling was he might have been homeless.”

“And he was just set upon in the street?” Poor old sod.

“Looks that way. They couldn’t see robbery as a motive.” If the Wednesbury cops were that desperate for an ID they’d have to release a death picture. “It’s to
be hoped he’s reported missing,” King said.

“Why’s that?”

“Taking photographs isn’t an option.” He paused. “When there’s no face.”

Arms folded, ankles crossed, face deadpan, Mac lounged against the motor, peeled himself off as Bev approached. “Pass it then, boss?”

Frowning, she paused, hand on passenger door. “Pass what?”

“The medical.”

She flared a nostril. “You need to work on that one, mate.”

“Hey, boss.” Head tilted. A patrol car was pulling into the car park. A youth sat in the back flanked by two uniforms: dark hair, pale skin, obligatory scowl. A grim-looking Pete
Talbot stared ahead through the windscreen.

Bev’s fists were tight balls. “Let’s get out of here.” Mac took one look at her face, opened his door. No wonder he’d waited al fresco. The car was like a blast
furnace. She winced as flesh met hot leather, scrabbled in her bag for Raybans. They drove in silence for a while. Mac broke it. “Was it methadone?”

“Haines and Long.” She nodded. “The guv knows.” She’d popped into Byford’s office to pass on the findings. He’d task two more officers with checks at
doctors’ surgeries, health clinics, drug treatment centres. Like a lot of plod work, it was a long shot.

“Open your window, mate.” Even if it was cold out there, her blood would still be boiling.

Alfie Cox was unrecognisable from the press pictures. Tight-lipped, his wife Marjorie listened in silence then led Bev and Mac in to a neat Edwardian villa in Elm Road. The
front sitting room was equally neat though too small for the fussy wallpaper. Roses don’t always grow on you. It was immediately apparent why the wife had done the honours: Cox was in no fit
state. He was slumped at an awkward angle in an over-stuffed armchair close to an electric fire that blasted heat from all four bars. Grey cardigan and slacks hung loosely from his frail frame. He
wasn’t just sick. He had the jaundiced paper-thin skin of a dying man, a look in clouded amber eyes that said he knew it.

“It’s the police, Alfie.” Marjorie Cox was in rude health by comparison. Bev would have knocked the floral pinny and sturdy shoes on the head but the woman’s figure was
enviably trim, face still pretty. Why the hell hadn’t she opened her mouth earlier, said how ill her old man was?