Death Line (27 page)

“Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss, Mr Cox.” His thin fingers were cold to the touch. “This is DC Tyler.”

“Come in... sit down... I won’t get up...” Cox was short of breath as well as time. His tone was amicable. “Why are you here? It’s not about the tax disc, is
it?”

Bev and Mac exchanged glances. Whose brilliant idea was it to turn up unannounced?

“I’ll tell you why they’re here.” Marjorie Cox’s flushed cheeks weren’t down to the temperature. Fuming, she tapped a foot. “They want to know if you
killed Eric Long.”
Why not mince your words, love?
Bev hadn’t been that blunt on the doorstep; Mrs Cox was sharp, sharp enough to intuit what hadn’t been said. She cut Bev
a glance. “Well, go on. Fire away. Bear in mind he’s not set foot out the house for three months. And he’s on oxygen most the time. And he sleeps down here cause he can’t
manage the stairs. And he weighs less than eight stone. And he’s got less...” The anger was coming off her in waves. In a weird way she seemed to enjoy having someone to vent it at.

“I’m sorry.” Bev raised both palms. “We’d no idea...”

“You can say that again,” she sneered. “Coming here with your stupid questions, raking it all up.”

“Mrs Cox,” Mac said. “We’re only...” Doing our job.

“Don’t give me that bullshit.” She moved towards them, jabbing a finger. “If you’d been doing your job properly that bastard wouldn’t have got away with
murder.”

“Marjorie... love...” The words petered out, Cox’s body wracked by a coughing fit.

She swept a hand in his direction. “My husband’s guilty all right... convinced it was his fault our granddaughter died. He believes he could have saved her, should have known what
was going on.” Her violet eyes glittered as she took a deep breath. “He blames himself and it’s been eating him up ever since. The cancer’s killing him now.” A single
tear ran down her cheek. “But you know what...? He’s been dead inside for years. Eric Long as good as murdered Alfie, too.”

“He’s not dead yet.” Harsh. But Cox was bent double sobbing. “He needs you.” And Bev didn’t appreciate the lecture. “We’ll see ourselves
out.”

Her parting shot reached them when they were in the hall. “I’m glad Long’s dead. Glad someone killed him. If I’d known where he was, I’d have done it
myself.”

“Think she would have, boss?” Mac turned the ignition, checked the mirror. Bev glimpsed Marjorie Cox arms tightly crossed watching impassive from the sitting room
window as the car pulled away.

“No, but nothing surprises me these days.” What was it Byford said the other night? People think child killers forfeit the right to life. Mrs Cox was certainly in that category but
Bev didn’t see her having the strength or stomach to slit Long’s wrists. Was it a crime any woman would commit? Either way, she’d already crossed Cox’s wife off her mental
list. “You hungry, mate?”

“Nah.”

“I take it back. That’s fucking amazing.”

“I’m starving.”

Her lip twitched, then struck by a sudden thought, she frowned. “Have the Coxes got other kids?” Who might now be big strapping blokes.

“No, I checked.”

Good-oh. “Hit Subway, shall we?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Powell popped his head round the incident room door, spotted Byford chatting to a group of detectives and walked across. “There you are, guv. Wondered where you’d
got to. Have a look at this.”

The e-fit was the result of a two-hour collaboration between a police artist and Long’s Drake Street neighbour, Timmy Bass. Powell had sat in on the session for a while, questioning the
man further on what he’d seen. The visitor, average height and weight, dressed in dark clothes had arrived on foot around ten o’clock. After a brief conversation, Long had let him in to
the house. No raised voices, no sign of reluctance on Long’s part. Bass had thought nothing of it until seeing the witness appeal on
Midlands Today.

Byford studied the image then gave a wry smile. “I s’pose his mother might recognise him.”

“Not brill, is it.” The image was pretty bland: man in his thirties maybe, round face, short fairish hair, no distinguishing features. “Think it’s worth issuing
anyway?” It was a toss-up whether keeping the story in front of the public outweighed a possible tidal wave of useless calls from time wasters.

“We’ve got extra hands. May as well.” The half dozen new support staff would lighten whatever load came in.

“Ta, guv. I’ll nip it up now.”

“I’ll walk with you.” Byford wanted a quiet word, knew with Powell it wouldn’t go any further. “Have you got a minute, Mike. My office?” Byford entered first,
they stood just inside. When he’d told the squad his door was always open, he meant when he was at his desk. “I have a feeling someone’s been snooping round in here.”

Powell glanced round as if expecting some nosy git to be hiding in a corner. “You sure, guv?”

“Virtually.”

“Anything missing?” Powell loosened his tie.

Byford shook his head. “Just a sense stuff’s been shifted... papers... files...” He’d found a drawer open a whisper. Or maybe it hadn’t been closed properly. As
he’d told the DI, it was a feeling more than anything. “You’ve not sussed anything similar?”

“No, deffo.” And he would. Powell kept his desk pristine, not so much as a bent paper clip out of place. Bev swore the DI used a ruler to line up everything that wasn’t nailed
down. There was no point asking if anyone had been grubbing round hers, it was barely visible under the paperwork most of the time. “Any idea what they were after, guv?”

“Search me.” He shrugged. “You’ve not heard any talk round the station?” Course not, he’d have mentioned something. “Be aware of it anyway, Mike. Just
in case. Forewarned and all that.”

“Sure, guv. I’ll keep an eye out here too.” His office was a few doors down.

Byford nodded at the e-fit in Powell’s hand. “Best get that up to Paul.” Alone in his office, the big man crossed to the window. Almost called Powell back to tell him Curran
was in the car park. He watched the press officer stroll towards the back entrance, turn to wave at the woman who’d dropped him off. Probably his wife, there was a baby seat in the back of
the Volvo. The big man gave a wry smile: wouldn’t have missed fatherhood for the world but more days of dirty nappies and broken nights he could live without. A thought came from nowhere:
what about Bev?
Would she be happy to forego the pleasure? His snort said it all. And who was he kidding? The thought hadn’t come out of the blue. The woman was under his skin whether
he liked it or not. Turning, he shook his head. He had more immediate issues to focus on right now.

He walked back to the desk, tapped his fingers on the surface. Had he been right not to tell Powell everything? He’d told the truth that nothing had been taken. He was almost sure an item
had been left. Biting his lip, he took the baby Fay file from the top drawer. He’d added cuttings to it over the years, lost count of the number. But for the life of him he couldn’t
remember including this. Eyes creased, he held the clipping, skimmed the story. He recalled the case of course, didn’t have to be a cop to remember it. The horrific murder of seven-year-old
Jamie Black in 1982 had, as was the media’s wont, shocked the nation. It prompted predictable calls for the return of the death penalty, three or four hacks brought out books off the back of
it.

But Jamie’s murder didn’t fit the pattern of the cold cases in the folder. Despite a not guilty plea, Patrick Woolly had been caught, convicted and sent down for life.

Unless... Byford reached for the phone.

Bev popped her head round the door of the police press bureau. Ambience was different up here: airy, laid back, definitely not the sharp end. She cut a glance at the far wall
which was almost entirely given over to splashy leads and celebrity photo spreads orchestrated by the bureau’s veteran boss, Bernie Flowers. Much of the coverage stemmed from his years
editing
The Sun.
The collage was eclectic: princesses, politicians, page three, and the odd plod. Bernie’s greatest hits – or tits as the Highgate wags put it.

“Wotcha, Paul. Got that e-fit?”

Smiling he glanced up from a keyboard, reached for an envelope at his elbow. “Put a copy aside, soon as you phoned, Bev.” She’d seen him earlier in the car park, given him
twenty minutes or so to catch his breath.

“Ta, mate.” Byford had suggested taking the visual to Drake Street. Doh. Like it wouldn’t have occurred? It was one of the reasons she’d lined up a second interview with
Long’s widow. Hopefully Bridie would be more receptive now, might recall more, too. She was still at the neighbour’s house, even though number twenty-four had been given the forensics
all clear. Bridie was in no rush to move back.

Paul didn’t seem to be in a hurry either. Rolling the chair out, he leaned into it, hands crossed behind his head. “How goes it, Bev?” She had a few minutes to kill and
they’d not really chatted since the night of the boozy curry. Perched on the edge of the desk, she told him about Darren, the fact some toerag was banged up. She mentioned the card in her
office Paul was welcome to sign. He was a good listener, laughed in all the right places. Seemed easier in his skin up here too, but she wondered if he still worried some cops blamed him for the
press leaks. Mud sticks, however groundless. Groundless mud? Mental shrug: she knew what she meant. Fact was he needed that sort of suspicion hanging over him like a hole in the head. He was a new
boy still on a probationary period. No way could he lose his job, not with a wife and kid to support. And even if he wasn’t in the firing line, he might feel forced to move on. He’d
confided all this in K2 that night, but it didn’t look as if he was going to bring it up now, and it wasn’t her job to probe. She smiled. Actually that was exactly her job. But not with
mates.

“Changing the subject, was that your wife...?”

“...I saw you with last night?” He waggled an imaginary cigar, like a Marx brother.

Not another bloody comedian. She rolled her eyes. “In the car park.” She’d seen him chatting to a woman at the wheel of his Volvo. He’d gone for another ginger. Had
Bev’s foot-long Italian melt from Subway not been rapidly solidifying in its wrapper, she might have wandered over just to say hello, show the hand of friendship. Have a nose more like.

“Rachel. Yeah. She needs the car today, taking Rory to the clinic. I dropped by home after Handsworth and she brought me in.”

Must be lonely moving to a new place, stuck on your own with a baby day in day out. It’d drive Bev up the wall. “If ever you need a babysitter or fancy a threesome?”

“I’d rephrase that if I were you.” His lip curved.

Mouth. Grey cells. Fluster. Blush. She raised a palm. “Just a night out, the three of us. Nothing kink...”

“Say no more.” He was pissing himself. “I get the picture.”

“Snap.” Grabbing the envelope, she mustered a smile, aimed for dignified. “Best get on.”

Bridie Long didn’t look a whole bunch better second time round; wrinkling her nose squinting at the e-fit didn’t help. Neither did the lavender air freshener vying
with the smell of old cat. “Could be anyone couldn’t it?” Bridie sniffed, thrust the image back at Bev, resumed her customary slump in the armchair. Mac, sitting next to Bev on
the settee, intercepted; the woman’s glance had been cursory.

“Have another look, Mrs Long,” he urged. “If your husband let him into the house, likely they knew each other?”

Glaring, she snatched it out of Mac’s hand, fumbled down the side of the cushion, brought out a pair of specs. Vanity? It was a bit late for that. Bev and Mac exchanged eye rolls as she
perused it.

“Nah. Never seen him before in me life.” It was her final answer. Tight-lipped she passed it back, folded scrawny arms, hard and hostile. Bev tapped tetchy fingers on thigh; anyone
would think they were the enemy. Even the cat was casting killer glances from the hearth, flicking its tail. Bev curled a lip, should’ve brought a brace of police dogs with them.

“The friend you were with, Mrs Long?” she asked. “The night your husband died. We need an address, phone number.” Crossing t’s and dotting i’s, but the
movements had to be checked. It was just conceivable she was having a fling with an axe murderer.

“Die?” Jeering contempt and dead wrong. “He didn’t die. He was butchered.” Her eyes were bloodshot, puffy; thin lips painfully cracked. Emotions were raw, and not
just grief. “You bastards are to blame. It’s all your bloody fault.” Bev’s sympathy reserves were on red; she bit her lip. “If your lot hadn’t come round
slinging accusations, dragging him into the nick, raking all that stuff up in the papers.”

Raking all that stuff up. Marjorie Cox had used the same phrase, damn sight more cause than this woman in Bev’s book. She’d not get into a slag-off though. “Your friend’s
name, Mrs Long? Address?”

“That it? Nothing to say?” She ferreted down the other side of the chair, pulled out a pack of fags. Staring at Bev, she sparked up, spoke through the smoke. “My Eric
slaughtered like a pig? And you just sit there.”

Bev dug nails into a palm. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Long. We’re here to...”

“Sorry.” She spat. “Should be ashamed of yourself.” Sanctimonious old bitch.

“Tell you what shame is, shall I?” Icy, arctic, calm: she was about to blow.

“Sarge?” Mac recognised the signs.

“Shame’s stubbing a fag out on a baby’s body, half-starving her to death, breaking her tiny bones...”

“Sarge.”

“You don’t know that.” The defiance wasn’t convincing, Bridie Long had visibly paled.

“You’re absolutely right, Mrs Long.” She nodded genuinely contrite. With enough evidence he’d have got a longer sentence. “Maybe he just turned a blind eye while
his woman did.”

She dropped her head, lowered her voice. “It was years ago. He served his time, paid his dues.”

Bev let it go. Nothing she said would change Bridie’s view. The woman was blind in both eyes. There wasn’t enough time in the world to pay for what had been done to Hannah. And if
there was, Eric Long couldn’t afford it.