Blood Money (16 page)

Over his shoulder, Bev studied the face again. “It’s not bad, guv.” Unlike a lot of visuals produced by over-anxious or over-avid witnesses, Daisy’s effort didn’t
resemble half the population, and if Bev’s instinct was smack on it could depict the Sandman. The likeness was the end result of patiently-posed, carefully-constructed open-ended questions
aimed at not making the kid feel prompted or pressurised into coming up with something just to please the grown-ups. Bev had popped her head round the imaging suite door and reckoned the chances of
Daisy doing or saying anything she didn’t want were slimmer than Bev’s of landing Johnny Depp. What the little girl had delivered was this: a guy in his twenties, not bad-looking, long
black hair, dark, deep-set eyes, wide mouth, prominent cheek bones.

Byford sniffed. “Looks like that chap who used to knock about with Kate Moss.” Bev pulled a face. That narrows it down. “Pete something or other...?” he expanded.

She mirrored the guv’s squint. Couldn’t see it herself. She leaned against the filing cabinet, ankles crossed. “So what you going to do?”

He slipped the image on to his desk and wandered to the window. “Hang fire, I think.”

“But guv...”

A screech of tyres from the car park below as much as Byford’s raised palm halted her protest. “She only caught a glimpse, Bev.”

“Under a streetlight. With a good pair of young eyes.” Twenty: twenty, she’d checked.

Perched on the sill, he looked at her without speaking. The big man wasn’t convinced. Was it worth pushing the forensic tack again? The stain on the knife was definitely cat blood,
she’d found Chris Baxter’s updated report on her desk. Along with... she blinked, censored a flashback of the cow heart. She’d mentioned the gross gift to the guv. With nothing to
go on, he agreed there wasn’t much they could do, apart from Bev keeping an even closer eye on her back than normal. Cops don’t win the popularity vote. What she wanted was the
superintendent’s authorisation.

“How ’bout the tests on the knife? Don’t they swing it, guv?”

He shook his head. “It’s still a load of ifs and maybes, Bev.”

She held his gaze. “All we’ve got, guv.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s worth having.”

She sighed, knew the score. She was probably clutching short straws in a basket with too many eggs. And if the guv was right and they released a misleading image, it would likely provoke a load
of duff intelligence from the punter. The cops would then end up being pointed in the wrong direction – which had to be even worse than their current position of not having a clue where to
go.

“Third left after the Queen’s Head, boss.” Mac cut a sideways glance through the passenger window then bit off a chunk of Granny Smith. Dodging the juice, Bev
raised an incredulous eyebrow. Wonders would never cease: Mac scoffing fruit. “That one of your five-a-year, mate?”

“Sarge made a funny,” he drawled. “Ho ho.” Progress was slow. The Bristol Road was rush hour chocker, traffic stop-start, headlights picking out greasy puddles from an
earlier shower. Patchy fog was hovering now, clouds of the stuff swirled round the tops of streetlamps, diffusing the orange glows.

Sneaky smile still playing on her lips, Bev checked the mirror, flicked the indicator. “What’s with the apple then? You on a health kick?”

Fidgeting slightly, he subtly loosened the seatbelt. “If you must know, I want to shift a bit of weight.”

“Hire a crane.” The snort was unstoppable. She caught a glimpse of stony profile. “Sorry.” Whoops. “Hey, mate, there’s nothing wrong with being...
cuddly.” Her search for a mollifying alternative took a smidgen too long. Mac gave it a short shrift sniff. She wondered idly if he had a new woman in tow. His divorce must be going through
any time. Had to be rough living miles from your kids, must get lonesome now and then.

“Hey, Twiggy.” He tilted his head to the right. “Over there. House with the baskets.”

“Touché, Tyler.” There was a tight space up ahead. She reversed the Polo, applied the handbrake. “Finish your apple, mate. I’ll take a breath of air.”
Leaning against the motor, she scoped out the street. Bank Avenue, Selly Oak, was Edwardian villa territory: bow windows, low redbrick walls, stained glass fanlights over solid front doors. Good
nick mostly, except the odd multi-occupancy: Birmingham uni was in walking distance. She turned her mouth down, reckoned Charlotte Masters must be doing all right. The only pad Bev could afford at
the same tender age was a one-bedroom maisonette over a Balsall Heath laundrette.

She glanced at her watch: half five. Coming here meant they’d miss the late brief. The guv was cool about it, even cracked a wan smile when she described it as time off for bad behaviour.
Best not put a foot wrong in this encounter with Ms Masters. And she hoped it wouldn’t take too long. She needed to pop back to Highgate before calling it a day. A spot of unfinished business
on the Fareeda agenda. Still, two birds with one stone: she could pick up breaking developments on the Sandman front at the same time. Assuming there’d be any. The car gave a sudden lurch as
Mac shifted his weight getting out. Still feeling a tad mean over the crane crack, she hoisted her bag and bestowed a full wattage beam. “OK, mate?”

“Yeah. Let’s get it over.” He sounded as thrilled as her. Mind, she’d given him the back story, Charlotte’s complaint and the subsequent bollocking. As Mac opened
the gate, he nodded at a brace of baskets hanging either side of the door. “Is that what I think it is?”

Bev peered closer. “Not weed is it?”

“Doh.” He rolled his eyes. “Looks like leylandii to me.” Her blank look made it clear: gardening was a foreign country. “Think beanstalk,” Mac enlightened.
“As in Jack – only it grows quicker.”

She raised the brass knocker, left it pending. “Didn’t he nick a golden goose?”

“Hen. And it laid gold eggs. Didn’t you learn anything at school?”

Their eyes met, lips twitched in sync. Both knew the trivial pursuit was only putting off the serious tack. “Go on, boss, get on with it.”

She rapped the door a couple of times, tightened her belt along with a mental girding of the loins. Despite the earlier bravado she felt an unaccustomed edginess. Bev didn’t do timid, but
Charlotte Masters had marked her card. And not with a dance request. The door opened in a heartbeat.

“Bollocks.” The girl slapped a hand to her mouth. She wore a scruffy Afghan coat and was now knotting a leopard print scarf round her neck. “I thought you said tomorrow. My
head’s all over the place. Sorry.”

Bev had her doubts: the girl’s father had been murdered. Was it likely she’d forget details of a police visit? Maybe the grief was getting to her? Maybe she was losing her grip? Or
maybe she was just being arsey? “As we’re here...?” Bev forced a smile; she’d give a month’s salary to read the girl’s thoughts.

Eventually voicing assent, Charlotte stepped back. “Yeah, sure.”

The living room was off a pale terracotta hallway. It was Habitat meets Pier with lots of taupe and light wood, vibrant splashes of teal and scarlet courtesy of a shed-load of scatter cushions
and tasselled throwbacks. Bev caught a smell of joss sticks: jasmine? vanilla? And a more pungent undertone. If her suspicion was correct it could explain a lot.

“Take a seat.” Charlotte slung the coat over a chair. “Get you a drink?”

“Thanks, no.” Bev answered for both of them. “We’ll ask a few questions then shove off.” They’d share the interview load this time, good cop, good cop.

“Fire away.” The laidback stance on the opposite sofa seemed deliberately exaggerated. The faded blue denims and cheesecloth shirt were casual to the point of slack. Bev hadn’t
noticed before how plain she was: if ever a girl needed a touch of slap... The hair was again scraped back in a ponytail, and still looked as if it could do with a wash. The contrast with her
mother was acute. Unlike Diana Masters, Charlotte clearly thought grooming was something to do with horses.

Bev had intended opening with a bridge builder but given the girl’s more amiable attitude plunged straight in. “Tell me... have you noticed anything odd near your parents’
house in... say, the last two or three weeks?” Charlotte pouted, apparently casting her mind back. A clock ticked, water pipes gurgled; Bev nudged. “A stranger hanging round? Cars
you’ve not seen before?”

More pondering then she shook her head. “I’d like to help. Thing is I’m rarely there these days. I moved out four, five years back.”

“College?” Mac cocked a casual eyebrow.

“University of life.” With a smile the girl looked almost pretty. It wasn’t just her softer features. Charlotte seemed a different woman: chilled, no hard edges. Home
territory, perhaps? Or spaced-out? The dope smell was stronger in here. Bev reckoned a spliff or two could explain Charlotte’s mellower mood and earlier confusion. Not so much losing grip as
deliberately letting go. Emotional pain relief? Cannabis as coping mechanism? Each to their own. Bev sniffed, filed the discovery under F for future use and L for leverage. She pressed on: “I
guess you visit from time to time?”

“Hardly ever.” Not unfriendly, though the smile was thin. She spread her arms wide. “I love this place. And value my independence.”

“What do you do for a living, Miss Masters?” Sounded like polite interest rather than pointed question. Bev was glad Mac had broached it.

The girl hesitated slightly before giving a careless shrug. “Bar work. The Hamptons? Brindley Place?” Cool, upmarket bistro down by the canal. Either Charlotte earned a fortune in
tips, or she’d won the lottery. This house certainly didn’t come cheap. Head down, the young woman picked a loose thread on her jeans. “My parents help with the
mortgage.”

Ah. Say no more. Bev’s lip curved. That’d be the bank of dad: Diana didn’t earn pin money at Oxfam. Would mummy be as generous now she held the purse strings?

“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your parents?” Mac still had the baton.

Her head shot up. “You said the burglary had nothing to do with my father.” Smarting eyes sought assurances from them both.

Mac gave what he could. “We always look at every possibility.”

Charlotte’s hand shook as she reached for a scuffed patchwork bag, pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboro. Empty. Scowling, she chucked it on the table, tapped twitchy fingers on thigh.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “Who’d want to hurt Daddy?” She must know how ridiculous that sounded; someone had killed him. Charlotte’s father may
have been in the wrong place at the wrong time – he was no less dead. The young woman scrabbled in the bag again, found a crumpled tissue, dabbed her eyes. “She says he wasn’t
even due home.”

Who’s she? The cat’s mother?
The old saying sprang unbidden to Bev’s mind. She’d mull over the implications later maybe: right now there were more obvious points
to pursue. “What about your mother, Miss Masters? Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm her?”

“How would I know? I’d be the last person she’d confide in.” Bev’s interested was piqued. She watched, waiting out the silence, as Charlotte tapped a finger against
her lips. “Look, I may as well tell you... we’re not exactly... close.” Bev’s jaw gaped involuntarily. “I’m sorry if that shocks you.” Charlotte sounded
anything but. “Diana doesn’t really approve of me, you see.” The smile was bitter and didn’t reach her bloodshot eyes. “I don’t fit her image of beautiful
dutiful daughter. I’d rather you know so she can’t play the emotional blackmail card again.”

“Emotional blackmail?” Bev prompted.

“Happy Families.” She sighed. “What a joke. I only went to see her because she said it’d look bad if I wasn’t there. Diana and I don’t get on, we have zilch
in common and now daddy’s dead... I don’t have to pretend any more.” Tears glistened on her cheeks and though she was shaking her voice was steady. “I’m OK. Carry
on.”

“Were your parents happy, Miss Masters?” Mac voiced the question that was on the tip of Bev’s tongue.

“From what I could see – they adored each other.” Did the couple only have eyes for each other? Was that why Charlotte flew the nest when she was so young? Was she jealous of
her mother? Bev filed more thoughts as Mac showed the girl photographs of the other burglary victims. Even from the extensive media coverage, Charlotte didn’t recognise the women.
“I’m sorry. I’d help if I could.” Releasing the ponytail, she ran both hands through lank tresses then re-tied it even tighter. Subliminal message? Get out of my hair.

Bev settled back in the chair, crossed her legs. The interview lasted a further twenty minutes – went nowhere. Frustration wasn’t in it. She’d known cases where one inspired
line of questioning had led to the breakthrough; this had been a series of dead ends. Signalling a wrap to Mac, she rose, reached for a card in her bag. “If anything comes to mind –
call me. Any time.”

At the door, she glanced back, gave an ostentatious sniff. “Good turns and all that...”

Google honour killings UK, and you get over four hundred thousand hits in 0.29 seconds. Slice of quattro formaggio pizza in one hand, can of Red Bull pending, Bev was tapping
into some of the more credible posts. After the Charlotte Masters interview, she’d dropped Mac at the Prince, managed a pit stop for food and air freshener at Sainsbury, and was now taking a
crash course in a subject she knew too little about. To have any chance of connecting with Fareeda she needed at least an idea where the girl was coming from. She sniffed. Probably overdone the air
spray; office smelt like a cheesy pine forest. Better than cow heart though. Taking a slug of Red Bull, she glanced at the clock on the monitor. Ten minutes before Sumi was due – best make
the most of it.

Elbow on desk, chin in hand she focused on the current screen. The
Independent
article should be pukka given its source. According to ACPO, the association of chief police officers,
seventeen thousand women a year were subjected to honour related violence.
And they were talking iceberg tips. Bev took another slug, tossed the fringe from her eyes, hit another link.
Young women with Pakistani, Indian and Bangladeshi backgrounds were three times more likely to kill themselves than the national average.
Then another link.
Victims of violence are likely
to suffer thirty-five attacks before reporting to the authorities.
And yet another.
Police estimate there could be up to twelve honour killings a year in the UK.
And the hits kept
coming...