Blood Money (13 page)

She stopped just short of stamping a foot. “Putting someone else on it’s playing into the girl’s hands. Sir.”

“D’you really think I’m so easily manipulated?” He shook his head. “And it’s not a game.”

Course not. But Diana Masters was a key witness. Pleading her case didn’t come easily to Bev, but she rated Powell’s interview skills as patchy to middling. “Me and the widow
are like this, guv.” It was pushing it a tad to show crossed fingers. Not that showing closeness was why Bev usually employed the gesture. “Look, if I run into Charlotte, I’ll
give her the full-on Morriss grovel.” Her eyes shone. “One more chance? Please?”

“I gave you one.” He stared at her for five, six, seconds. He’d missed a bit shaving, but now wasn’t the time to mention it, she reckoned she knew what was coming.
“You threw it back in my face.” At the brief.

Yep. She raised both palms, felt a blush rise. “I was totally out of order there. I apologise. It won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t. Consider this a verbal warning. Next time it’ll be in writing.” He nodded at the door.

His eyes were harsh as the words. There was no leeway however hard she searched. “Sir.” She turned, walked away, head high. Pleading was one thing, but she’d not get on her
knees. Halfway out of the office, she heard the receiver hit the cradle.

“Bev.” Eyes brimming, she glanced back. “One last chance. That’s it.”

He held up a single finger to drive home the point; her vision was blurred, she was seeing double.

PC Danny Rees was on one knee in the middle of the pavement head-height with a little girl who looked like Alice in Wonderland’s kid sister. Bev raised a curious eyebrow
as she drove past. Following the action in the wing mirror, she parked the Polo a few doors down from the Masters place. Flushed and frowning, young Danny looked a little out of his depth. The kid
was in floods of tears, clinging to the hand of a whippet-thin, thirty-something blonde, presumably the mother. They were all rabbiting on, but from where Bev sat it was a silent movie. A grey
winter blanket sky added to the monochrome impression, Park View seemed leeched of colour bar the little girl’s scarlet coat, and a couple of magpies arguing the toss over a dead rat in the
gutter. Two for joy? Yeah right.

For all of a second or three, she considered giving Danny a hand. Nah. She lit a Silk Cut instead. This was the rookie’s deal and he needed the practice. More to the point she was itching
to interview Diana Masters. Soon as Mac rolled up, they’d get the show on the road. Fanning smoke through the window, she glanced at the clock on the dash, tutted. The rush hour was over:
trust Tyler to get caught in traffic. Normally they’d have travelled together, but after the blistering encounter with the big man she’d ached for her own space. Last thing she needed
was Mac coming over all paternal, trying to get her to open up.

Frowning, she glanced in the rear view mirror. The silent movie now had sound effects. What was that kid’s problem? Talk about throwing a wobbly. Mind, Bev knew the feeling. Since the
guv’s bollocking, her mood swings made an emotional rollercoaster look flat. The hurt and gratitude had morphed into self-righteous pique. She took a deep drag. Frig’s sake – she
was hunting a murderer not looking for a best mate. Course she’d be civil to Charlotte Masters, but she’d not be cowed by anyone. If she had to watch every word she said, the suits
might as well gag her. It’d go with the straitjacket. Fighting crime was crazy enough without both arms tied behind the back. Anyway bottom line was this: if push came to shove they could
stuff the job.

“All in a day’s work, eh, sarge?” Danny was squatting at her window, nodded at the kid and woman as they strolled past the motor.

“What’s up? Someone nick her jelly babies?” Bev cracked a half-smile. Danny was easy on the eye, and had a decent line in banter – a rare breed at Highgate.

“Nah. She wants me to look for Crumpet.”

“Thought you had a girl?”

The blush was endearing. “Missing cat. Me being a policeman she wants me to get a search party out. I told her I was a bit busy, like.” Bev nodded, knew Danny was now on the team
mopping up house-to-house inquiries, not everyone had been at home during the first wave. “Said they should get posters up, see if...”

“When’d it go AWOL?” She took another drag, eyes creased against the smoke, toying with a notion.

“Couple of days, why?”

“Where’d they live?”

He nodded up the road. “Big place round the corner, with the hedge?” Close to where uniform had found a knife stained with animal blood. A discovery Bev had always seen as dead
convenient. “What’s up, sarge?”

“Dunno yet.” It was a hell of a leap from missing moggie to master criminal. She frowned, trying to think it through.

Danny removed the helmet, smoothed shiny dark hair. “Her mum was giving her a hard time as well, reckoned she was telling porkies.”

“Lost me there, Danny. This cat missing or what?”

“Yeah, it’s missing, but the little girl says someone ran off with it. Wants me to put the bad man in prison.” Indulgent smile, shake of the head.

Bev stiffened. “Did the kid actually see a bloke take the cat?” Curt.

The smile faltered slightly. “The mother says she makes things up all the time.”

“Did she see a bloke take the frigging cat? Christ, Danny, you were here when we found the knife.”

“You think...?” She’d never seen blood drain from a face so quickly.

“I don’t know what I think, ’cept there’s an outside chance the kid might have clocked the perp. You’d best...”

“On it, sarge.” Like a bat on speed. He was halfway down the road before she’d hit fast dial for forensics. The tests needed narrowing down. If it was cat blood on the knife,
they needed to know pronto. Busy line. “Damn.”

“Where’s the boy wonder off to?”

Jeez-us. Mac was at the window now. Not such a pretty sight. “Tell you later.” She’d get on to the lab after the Masters interview. The cat thing was probably a wild goose
chasing red herrings down a dead end. No sense wasting even more time now Tyler was here. She stubbed the baccy, grabbed her bag. “What kept you, mate?”

He pointed at the ashtray. “Could have you for that. The Smoke Free Exemptions and Vehicles Regulations 2007 states quite...”

“Nothing in the known universe could you have me for, mate.” She locked the motor, headed towards the house. “So? What kept you?”

He hitched his denims. “D’you never listen to the radio?”

It’d been on; she’d not been tuned in. “Just give, eh?”

“Some nutter’s on top of Selfridges.”

“Pissed off at the prices probably.” Cynical snort.

“Police cordons, traffic diversions. It was like a circus down there.”

He’d come from Highgate to Moseley via town? “Took the scenic route did you?”

“I fancied a quick nose. Powell’s there calling the shots.”

“Why Powell?”

“The guy on the roof’s dressed as a clown.”

The Selfridges building is a Doctor Who spaceship fashioned by Steven Spielberg out of Salvador Dali. A massive blue whale covered with silver discs, it’s beached in the
Bullring and dwarfs neighbours including the faux-gothic Victorian church of Saint Martin’s. Powell reckoned it was surreal enough without a clown mincing along the top. Gazing upwards, he
also reckoned Dali would’ve appreciated the spectacle. The crowd certainly was: scores of shoppers, office workers and the odd wino were enjoying a free show. Uniform was doing its best to
keep everyone back, but the thin blue and white line was severely stretched. Powell slipped through the police cordon and headed for the action.

“Eh, you!” A burly uniform grabbed the DI’s shoulder. “Where’d you think you’re going?” The loud Birmingham accent set Powell’s teeth on edge.
Eyes blazing, he shook off a ham-sized fist, flashed his warrant card. The lack of recognition was mutual.

The older man eventually gave a token salute. “Sorry, sir. PC Knowles. Andy.” They were getting heavy with the crowd, he explained, because there’d already been a couple of
public disorder arrests, two youths hacked off with the disruption chucking their weight around – and their fists. A few sickos had even been yelling at the guy to get a fucking move on.

“Tossers.” Powell clenched his jaw, recalled an incident in a neighbouring force when a baying crowd acting like animals, goaded a teenager to jump to his death from a multi-storey
car park. It was the last thing they needed. “Negotiator here yet?”

“On the way, sir.” Knowles added that more troops and a uniformed inspector were inside liaising with maintenance people, having a look at the building’s layout. Knowles ran a
fat finger round his collar. “God knows how he got up there.”

Powell shuddered. He was acrophobic. Just looking at the bloke gave him palpitations.

“Has he said anything?”

“Barely a word. Being honest, I reckon he’s pissed.” The PC sneezed into his hankie, sounded like a horny elephant. Someone in the crowd yelled, Bless you. Knowles scowled.
“Some of this lot seem to think it’s a joke.”

Laughter and cheers broke out as if on cue. Powell’s gaze followed craned necks and pointing fingers. And froze. The guy had a gun. “Shit. Get everyone...”

“It’s a water pistol,” Knowles snarled. “He was blowing bubbles a while back. Playing up to the cameras, isn’t he?” There was a nearby line of snappers and
wannabe auto-cuties with clipboards – as well as the world and its aunt taking mobile phone footage.

Powell finger-combed his hair then took a closer look where the lenses were trained. The figure on the roof was in full clown costume: loud yellow-checked jacket, red baggy half-mast strides,
striped black and white socks. The fun guy even sported a spotted bow tie. And Powell would be surprised if the bloody thing didn’t have flashing lights and whiz round. He was beginning to
think the only thing linking this nutter to the Sandman was spin.

Control had taken half a dozen triple-nines from anonymous callers. Punters who’d have read the papers, seen the telly, spotted the clown mask and maybe triple-jumped to conclusions: two
plus two equals a pile of garbled Chinese-whispers. Powell sighed. It happened a lot. Mixed messages, mischief makers, genuine mistakes. Either way, he reckoned this was a waste of CID’s
time. He’d have a word with his uniform opposite number then pull out. Turning to leave, he caught a yellow flash in the corner of his eye. Just for an instant, he fancied the spread arms of
the jacket resembled a canary’s wings. And though Powell would always recall the incident in slow motion, the clown then took a running jump.

Diana Masters opened the door herself. Her chic black suit was probably Chanel; the row of shimmering pearls accentuated the classy image. She looked pretty good for a recent
widow, or maybe she knew how to mask the grief. Close up it didn’t work. Bev noted mauve shadows under the artfully applied concealer, puffiness around the kohl-lined feline eyes.
“Sergeant Morrison, isn’t it?” She stroked the necklace, her Sloane Ranger voice slightly hoarse.

“Morriss, Mrs Masters. This is my partner, DC Tyler.” Bev’s was a tad hesitant, unsure what the reception would be.

“Morriss, of course, forgive me.” Ghost of a smile, fleeting handshake. “Charlotte’s had to go out, so if you want to talk to her as well, I’m afraid...”

“We’ll catch her later, no worries.” Phew. Bev wiped her feet – and her mental sweaty brow – then told herself not to be a wuss. It only put off the inevitable. The
hall smelt of beeswax, the banister gleamed. A crystal vase with stunning red roses had appeared on the dark wood console table since the last visit. Someone had been busy.

A few steps in and Mrs Masters halted, raised her voice. “Marie? Can you rustle up coffee for three, please?” She tilted her head until the order received muffled confirmation from
Marie who was likely in the kitchen. Nothing seemed to have changed in the room where they’d first met, though this time the widow eschewed the chaise longue, drifted towards the fireplace,
gestured wordlessly at a pair of green leather wing chairs. She slipped off kitten heels, and with shapely black-stockinged legs tucked neatly beneath her, nestled into the arm of a matching
chesterfield. “I seem to spend most of my time in here.” A sad-eyed glance took in the surroundings as she circled her wedding ring. “Alex loved this room. It’s where I most
feel his presence.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “If that doesn’t sound too cheesy.”

She’d made the same point last time. Bev still couldn’t see it. The space was dark and depressing, the deer-laden landscapes dire; she’d junk the lot in the nearest ditch. As
to proximity to the dearly departed, the aesthetically-challenged Alex Masters was right beside his widow – in photo form. A leather-bound picture album lay open on the settee, four or five
more lay scattered on the faded carpet. The current spread showed the couple’s wedding, traditional post-ceremony poses, wall-to-wall smiles, lots of tender touches, loving looks. Diana
Masters had clearly been leafing through the past. They needed to edge her into the present.

“I know this is a painful time, Mrs Masters, but there are questions we have to ask.”

She folded lightly bandaged hands in her lap, neat nails were Barbie pink. “Of course.”

They’d decided to press ahead with the interview despite the circus kicking off in town. Not that Bev thought the rooftop stunt amounted to a row of beans. Soon as Mac told her the guy was
prancing about in full clown costume she’d more or less dismissed him as a serious contender for the Sandman. The perp they were hunting was sadistic, calculating, professional. No way would
a cold-blooded killer pull a crazy trick that guaranteed prison and a porridge diet. Even if she was wrong, however events in the Bullring panned out, the woman opposite had vital information. All
Bev and Mac had to do was draw it out.

“If you could talk us through again what happened the night your husband died, Mrs Masters?” Bev slipped a copy of Mac’s notes from her pocket, needed to compare what the woman
said now with the original version: omission, deviation, addition could all be telling. When a witness was word perfect it could mean they’d memorised the lines thinking they’d be less
likely to divulge incriminating material. Course, they could just be telling the truth.