Blood Money (2 page)

Then she feels it again: a tiny spark of defiance. She sensed the first flicker when he ripped the photograph – a needless spiteful act. Tears well but she blinks hard, urges herself to
get a grip. White knights charge to the rescue in fairy stories – not a waking nightmare.

“I’ll be off now, love.” The clown face appears round the door. “Nice seeing you.” He touches finger to temple in mock salute, bows out. Faith jerks her hands; the
cords bite tighter into her wrists.

“Whoops.” Back again, he saunters towards her. “Almost forgot.” She watches terrified as he takes the velvet pouch from his pocket, opens the drawstrings, tips the
contents into his gloved palm. “Close your eyes, love.”

“Please...”

“Close your fucking eyes.”

She hears the lamp switch click, feels a sprinkle of sand, dust, something light settle on her eyelids. There’s a draught as he leans across, lifts something from the bed. She smells
fabric conditioner, knows where from, even before the pillow’s placed on her face. Please, God. No! The pulse whooshes in her ears and through her own muffled moans, she hears his final
words. “Said I’d leave you in peace, didn’t I?”

Though barely conscious, Faith feels the blade’s cold steel rake her belly... then all is silent as well as dark.

Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss opened one strikingly blue eye and glanced warily round before snapping it shut and stifling a groan. Next to this, death warmed up would feel
good. The quick scan had registered empty wine bottles, overflowing ashtrays, foil tins with lurid leftovers from an Indian takeaway and twin trails of cast off clothes that ended at the bed. Big
question: whose bed? She’d need to open the other eye to answer that. And remember the guy’s name.

Gingerly turning her throbbing head, she took a peek at the naked bloke snoring slack-jawed gently beside her: blue-black hair, Jagger lips, long eyelashes. Rick, was it? Dick? Mick? Whatever.
Nose wrinkled, she peered closer. Last night’s healthy tan now held a tell-tale pale streak or two, and a saliva trail weaved through dark stubble. This time Bev’s groan escaped. She
closed her eyes, breathed deeply to try to quell the gut-wrenching nausea. Not that it was entirely down to lover boy.

To be fair, when she’d spotted him in the pub he’d fitted the bill OK. Unintended pun. Mental eye roll. Then she cast her mind back to the crowded bar. As per, she’d not
revealed the Fighting Cocks was her local, or told him her real name. Who’d she been this time? Laura? Lorna? Something beginning with L. No matter. She’d come on to him because he was
fit, well fancy-able and she could give him a good ten years. More to the point, there wasn’t a string or ring in sight. These days she didn’t do relationships, lost enough already;
close was a no-go area. If tempted down that path again she’d buy a budgie. And staple its beak.

As for last night, they’d both known the score, and the condom on the shag pile indicated the result. Dead funny, Bev. Not. Come to think of it, hadn’t he asked to see her again? Or
was that a dream? Hard to tell after a vat of Pinot. Either way, it wasn’t going to happen. Emotional baggage? She had more than Relate.

Her sigh lifted a Guinness-coloured fringe; her heart took its well-worn sinking path. Last night had just been another escape bid. Away from the flashbacks of the stabbing that killed her
unborn twins, away from nightmare images of the bitch responsible, the so-called Black Widow. Away from herself? You bet. The casual sex and copious booze was meant to blunt edges. So how come
reality always kicked in even before the hangover got a grip? Five months she’d tried blanking it all out – and nothing worked.

Work! Shit. Daylight through curtain. It was past late-o’clock. The mother of all bollockings beckoned. Swallowing a Balti-laced burp, she slipped soundlessly out of bed, struggled into
last night’s gear, scrabbled round for her bag. Turning at the door, she blew Sleeping Beauty a goodbye kiss. He was out for the count; he’d smoked several joints when they got back
last night. As a cop, she’d probably not have hit on him if she’d known he went in for the wacky baccy. Wasn’t the greatest career move. Even Bev knew the line had to be drawn
somewhere. Still, live and learn...

As she came down the stairs, a mirror caught her unawares; her reflection unavoidable and barely recognisable: mussed hair, panda eyes, pasty complexion. Flashing a too bright smile, she gave a
mock salute. “Nice one, Bev.” Her aim had been upbeat. It hit brittle.

The pretty smiling woman in the photograph bore little resemblance to the cowed individual Bill Byford had seen in the flesh. Diminished would be the detective
superintendent’s verdict on Donna Kennedy. He took a final look before dropping the print on his cluttered desk, then swivelled the black leather chair a hundred and eighty degrees towards
the window. The big man raised an ironic eyebrow: the forecasters’ promise of a white Christmas was only three weeks late.

He watched as skittish flakes flounced across a sober red-brick backdrop. The scene reminded him vaguely of the glass snowballs he collected when he was a kid, bought them on holidays mostly. He
gave a wry smile. Highgate-nick-snowball-souvenir? Somehow, he couldn’t see it catching on. Most people who spent time here couldn’t wait to get away.

Like the Kennedy woman.

Sighing he swung back to his desk, tugged a pensive top lip as he recalled the only time he’d met her. He visualised lank fair hair, haggard features and eyes shot through with fear. It
had been within hours of her ordeal and – of all the victims – Byford thought she’d been worst hit, psychologically as well as physically.

He reached for her file, flicked through the police interviews again, then closed his eyes, tried to imagine himself in the place of a small slight female. Not easy given he was six-five,
well-covered and more than capable of fighting back, barring the odd bodily scar. Even so, when the door was flung open, a startled Byford scowled and snapped a peremptory, “Do you ever
knock?”

“Got another, guv. It’s just come in. Moseley this time. A Mrs Faith Winters.” DC Mac Tyler, oblivious to – or ignoring – Byford’s glower strode towards the
desk brandishing a printout. Fifty-something and slightly flushed Mac stood across the desk, paunch straining at least three buttons on one of the red-checked shirts he generally wore. The
Monty-Python-lumberjack look was deliberate. It fooled many a villain into a false sense of superiority. Though Mac did stand-up comedy in his spare time he was nobody’s fool – as
Byford was keenly aware.

The superintendent’s gut tightened as he took the sheet of paper without comment. Questions were superfluous. Mac’s body language and verbal shorthand must mean there’d been a
development in Operation Magpie. That morning’s brief – like several others over the last three weeks – had been dominated by the ongoing inquiry: a series of increasingly callous
burglaries in which three, now possibly four, already vulnerable women had been left tethered and traumatised in their own beds. Every member of the squad had known it was only a question of time
before the perp struck again.

Byford stroked his chin as he read. Without lifting his glance, he raised a hand to still Mac’s fidgeting. The toe-tapping was getting on the big man’s nerves. It was one of several
habits Mac had picked up from his sergeant, the spiky Bev Morriss. Byford looked up half expecting to see her. “Bev not back yet?”

Mac kept his gaze on Byford’s reading matter. “Identical MO. Has to be the same guy. What you reckon, guv?”

Byford reckoned Mac had ducked the question. He let it go for the moment, handed back the printout. “Certainly fits the pattern.” A pattern he’d been re-tracing before
Mac’s entry. He’d re-read every report and victim statement, replayed video interviews and studied crime scene stills – hoping to establish a link between the women. Other than
suffering humiliation and abject terror at the hands of a vicious sadist.

“There is a difference this time, guv...” Pausing, Mac rubbed the back of his neck. The gesture was his usual precursor to breaking bad news.

“Go on.” Byford had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.

“The vic wants the press in on it.”

“Oh, what joy.” Realistically, he’d known it was bound to happen sooner or later. Until now, media coverage had been reasonable, restrained even, but only because the police
had withheld privileged information, and the victims hadn’t wanted their identity released. The papers had run stories, but even local reporters – generally more inquisitive and
tenacious than national hacks – had failed to dig out the more sensational details: the mask, the sand, the £ sign carved in the victims’ flesh. “Where is Mrs
Winters?”

“Still at the house, wouldn’t go to hospital.”

“And Bev?” The interview would need particularly sensitive handling: Bev could still tease intimate details from a Trappist nun. When she set her mind to it.

Mac’s hesitation was barely detectable. “Said I’d hook up with her there, guv.”

Byford detected both the delay and the divided loyalty. “Sure about that?” He suspected Mac Tyler was a lifeguard when it came to hauling Bev out of professional deep water. And he
was pretty sure the DC had dipped a toe already this morning. She’d not shown at the early brief, chasing a lead – according to Mac. The big man watched and waited in silence, observed
beads of sweat appear above the DC’s top lip.

Mac lifted a palm, started backing towards the door. “I’d best make tracks, guv. I’ll get it in the neck if I’m late.”

He watched Mac lumber down the corridor, jabbing numbers into a mobile’s keypad as he went. Byford sighed, got up to close the door. Clearly, Tyler’s skills only extended to opening
the damn things. He’d no doubt who Mac was trying to call. He clenched his jaw, hoped if Bev needed saving the water wasn’t too hot or too deep.

“Took your time, didn’t you?” Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss pushed herself up from the bonnet of a black MG Midget, and flicked a butt in the gutter where it
joined another also ringed with crimson lipstick. Riled, Mac bit back a barb, then stared open-jawed as she hoisted a bag the size of Surrey on her shoulder and strode off casting a caustic,
“Come on, mate, we ain’t got all day,” in her wake.

Her five-six-size-12-ish frame was encased in ankle-length leather coat and knee high boots. The gear wasn’t black, or Mac reckoned he’d be goose-stepping to keep up. The coat, he
noted, was dark blue. Her entire work wardrobe was blue, every shade in the solar system, though none matched the vibrancy of her eyes, even when she was well knackered, like now. Dark circles and
drawn features were easily discernible under the warpaint. And Bev had clearly daubed it on. Talk about heavy. It was like a bloody mask these days.

Mac switched focus as they strutted down the damp pavement. The snow had melted and though the wide tree-lined road wasn’t exactly bathed in light, a watery sun was doing its best.
Blenheim Avenue, like much of Moseley, was neat verges, clipped hedges, manicured lawns. Imposing double-fronted redbrick Victorian properties were detached – and then some. Milton House had
company: three police motors were parked outside, though only one was marked.

Bev reached the metal gates first, bowed ostentatiously as she ushered him in. “So what kept you?”

He tightened his lips. “I was on the job, boss. How about you?”

“You could say that.”

It was her wink that did it. The proverbial straw on Mac’s already buckling back. “Grow up,” he hissed. “I’m telling you, sarge, I’m not happy.”

“Get over it.”

“I had to lie to the guv this morning to cover your back.”

“What d’you want? A gold star?” Childish, churlish. She didn’t need telling she was in the wrong.

He kept pace as she headed towards the door. “A bit of communication would do. I hadn’t a clue where you were. I called the house, left voice mail, tried your mobile a
million...”

“Yeah, sorry ’bout that, mate. Phone’s gone AWOL.”

As if. He stayed her hand as she made to ring the bell, forced her to make eye contact. “Don’t Bev. Not that. Please.” The ‘Bev’ was a rare enough personal touch to
know he meant business.

“What?” The defiant glint in her eye was a warning. Maybe he couldn’t read it.

“Lie to me.” His pause was deliberately long. “We’re partners. I have to know you tell me the truth.”

“Moral high ground?” she snapped. “Get off your sodding stilts, mate.”

“Shall I leave it on the latch – or are you coming in?” The young officer who’d opened the door looked like a member of a boy band wearing the uniform for a bet:
dark-haired, smooth-skinned, clean-cut, PC Danny Rees was only a couple of years out of Hendon, but fancied himself as son of Morse. Given Danny’s decidedly un-cool blush when his gaze met
Bev’s, Mac fancied the lad harboured the hots for more than promotion.

“Ta, Danny.” Bev wiped her boots on the mat, dodged a couple of bulging bin liners, handed the rookie her coat. “How is she now?”

He smiled. “Don’t know what you said to her, sarge, but she seems calmer.”

“I listened, Danny. Showed her a bit of respect.” Mac’s mouth could have garaged a bus. Double-decker. “Ask DC Tyler. He knows all about that don’t you,
mate?” She paused at the end of the hall. “You coming or what?”

A woman in her mid-fifties sat stiff-backed on a squashy three-seater sofa in a spacious L-shaped lounge. Not everything around her was beige, it just seemed that way. Soft
furnishings the shade of weak tea, washed-out sepia walls, dried flowers in butter-coloured vases book-ending a marble fireplace. The woman herself was no shrinking violet. Faith Winters appeared
to be into purple in a big way, from patent leather kitten heels to casually-draped pashmina. Even close-cropped grey hair was dusted with lilac. She was leafing through the local rag, laid it to
one side when Bev – rehearsed smile fixed in place – entered.

“Me again, Mrs Winters.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “This is my partner, DC Mac Tyler. Think you can tell him what you told me? Two heads and all that?” Bev
cocked hers in hope.