Blood Money (20 page)

Fingers laced, Bev leaned forward. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Ms Darby.” But let’s get on with it, lady.

Intelligent hazel eyes assessed her for five, six seconds. “Yes, sergeant. I think you probably are.” She took a sip of coffee. “But I’m not here for tea and sympathy. I
want the thug who did this rotting in jail. I want to sit in court and hiss and scream abuse. And if I didn’t value my life and liberty too much I’d take a gun along and shoot him in
both eyes.” Bev’s widened. Tough cookie? Steel-wrapped reinforced concrete. “Surely you deal with cases when you ache to dispense instant justice, sergeant? Lash out? Bend the
rules?”

Yep. Yeah, You bet. But this sure ain’t the time for an ethics debate. “Ms Darby, think we can...?”

“Libby may have seen her attacker before.” Open-mouthed, Bev watched as the woman drank more coffee. “She was sure someone followed her home from work one day last week. A
thin, dark-haired man.”

Uh? Bev frowned. “Your sister told you this last night?” When she was barely conscious? Was Kate Darby enjoying the spotlight a tad too much, was she inventing the entertainment as
she went along? Drama queen as well as galvanised Garibaldi?

“No, no.” She cut a ‘keep up’ glance as if Bev was being dense. “On the phone over the weekend. I told her to talk to the police, to take care when she went out.
Libby could be a little nervy from time to time. But maybe I should have taken it more seriously.” The bottom lip was getting a pensive chew. “I’m now thinking the incidents could
be related.”

“No way of knowing that yet, Ms Darby.” It was obviously what the woman wanted to hear and Bev wasn’t convinced there was a link. Surely the Sandman was too smart to show
himself? He’d probably never broken sweat let alone cover. She made more soothing noises then took out a notebook, recorded what detail Kate Darby could remember: time and day, the route her
sister would normally take. The stranger’s scrappy description was less than useless but it may be that Libby Redwood and her putative tail were on CCTV. It could give them an inquiry line
but whether it would lead to the Sandman was up for debate. Best check with Kings Heath cops as well, see if Libby had reported the incident. It was close but not the cigar Bev had been hoping for
or been led to believe.

“There’s more, sergeant. Something Libby said.” Darby narrowed her eyes. Aid to recall? Concentration?

Bev’s heart skipped a beat, mental feet stayed on the floor. “Go on.”

“You have to appreciate she was fighting for breath. I was trying to save her life, not listening as carefully as I might. And I don’t see how it fits with a stranger following
her...” There was an unspoken ‘but’ in there. Bev waited a few seconds before voicing it.

“I think she said the name Dan... maybe Stan. But I may be wrong and it may not even be relevant.” She sighed her frustration, reached for her bag on the next seat. Bev clocked the
distinctive G: a Gucci-cost-a-bomb job. No wonder she’d been clutching it. “I don’t know if this will help, but I brought it any way.” A dog-eared address book, loose scraps
of paper stuffed in the pages. “Libby kept all her friends’ and contacts’ details in there. It was her social bible.”

Bev took the book from Kate’s hand. “Good thinking. It’ll help a lot.” Known associates on a plate. No guarantee the perp was a KA of course, and if he was it knocked the
stranger theory on the head. Either way the info was useful, they’d need to talk to anyone who could shed light on Libby Redwood’s life.

“This you and your sister?” A creased colour photograph had fallen from the pages. Bev picked it up, took a closer look. They had to be related. The woman on the left was a younger
version of Kate Darby. Beaming smiles, champagne flutes: happy times.

Darby gave a sad nod. “Libby’s birthday. Her first night out since losing Paddy.”

“Paddy?”

“Her husband. He had a brain tumour.” Another widow. Bev made a mental note. “It was all so sudden.” Darby licked froth from the teaspoon. “Diagnosed in the June.
Dead in the November. Poor Libby. She’d only just got round to sorting his clothes, personal items. I offered to do it for her, but...”

“Where was this taken, Ms Darby?” She held the print closer, squinted at the background.

“Please, sergeant, call me Kate. We were in The Hamptons. It had only just opened, Libby...”

The Hamptons. Bev’s antenna twitched again. It was the bar where Charlotte Masters worked. Coincidence? Significance? Her mental notebook needed more pages.

The interview lasted a further twenty minutes, turned into more general conversation as they made their way to the car park. The rain had stopped, thank God, but they had to skirt swimming pool
size puddles. There were more people around, car park beginning to fill up. Place was coming to life. Though not for everyone.

“This is me.” Kate halted at a gleaming black Audi. “Know something, sergeant? Libby and I should be landing in Paris now.” Her eyes were unnaturally bright but the voice
brisk as well as clipped. “If there’s any more I can do, you know where I am.” Sutton Coldfield. Private estate. Kate was a career woman, had her own interior design company.

“Appreciate it.” Bev raised a palm. Had no doubt they’d be in touch. Pensive, she carried on walking towards her wheels. A church clock somewhere was striking the hour. She
counted eight, stepped up the pace. If not a breakthrough, at least the inquiry had a few more lines to work on. And if she hit the gas she could throw them out at the brief. Shit. She pulled up
sharp. The Polo’s windscreen had taken a direct hit from what had to be a flock of sodding seagulls. Adding injury to insult, some fascist traffic warden had slapped on a ticket as well.

God, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Mac was humming
Always Look on the Bright Side.
For the zillionth time. Life’s a piece of doo-doo. Yeah right.

“Not funny, mate.” She tapped fingers on thigh. They were waiting for the big man to show. Squad room was packed to the gills, windows running with condensation, eau de after shaves
and canteen bacon. Bev gave a surreptitious sniff to her own outfit: faintly medicinal. That day’s shower was still on hold.

“S’posed to be lucky you know, boss.” Mac was slumped back in a hard chair, podgy hands nestling on paunch cushion. “Bird poop.”

Not for the birds. If she got hold of them she’d be wringing a few necks. “Give it a rest, eh?”

“Think they were from Special Branch, sarge?” Darren New – all feigned innocence – was getting in on the act now.

“Wise up, Daz.” Mac again. “It’d be the Flying Squad.”

“When you on stage next, Tyler?” Bev studied her nails, knew he had a comedy gig coming up in Digbeth. Standing in for Eddie Izzard. Not.

“End of the month. Want a ticket?” He shifted a buttock, reached into a back pocket.

“Going cheap, are they?” Daz tittered. Mac pulled a cheeky sod face.

“Not cheap enough,” Bev drawled. “I’d rather eat...” Mental eye roll. She swallowed the s-word, but they pissed themselves laughing anyway. Byford staunched the
flow when he bustled in file under elbow, mug of something in hand. Bev caught a whiff as he passed. He was on the mint tea.

There was a synchronised straightening of spines and ties, everyone’s focus on the guv. Without so much as a “morning troops” Byford perched on the edge of the desk, opened
fire. “I hoped we’d catch the bastard before he struck again.” Expletive not deleted. That bad. “I’ve just come from the latest crime scene.” Bev lifted a
curious glance from her notes. He’d not mentioned it when she’d phoned him the gist of her Kate Darby interview.

The pause was deliberate as the superintendent ran his steady gaze over every officer present. “This one has to be the last.” Yeah right, guv. If personal conviction led to collars,
the Sandman would’ve been banged up weeks back. Then there was the real world...

“DI Powell’s still at Kings Heath,” Byford said. “As of when I pulled out there was nothing significant.” She listened as he filled in forensics, detailed actions
going on in and around Knightlow Road, and responded to lacklustre questions that didn’t amount to a bean, singular. “Closest we’ve got to a decent lead is what Bev’s
brought back from the General.” He pointed to the front, asked her to run the latest past the squad. Gathering her notes and the victim’s address book, she took centre stage.

Not everyone knew how Libby Redwood had died. That the life-saving inhaler had been just inches away. When Bev disclosed what the Sandman had done – and failed to do – heads shook,
mouths tightened, a few muttered, “Callous bastard.” Most officers glanced at the photograph she’d blu-tacked to the latest murder board. The image had only been there five or ten
minutes and wasn’t the best shot. It was the happy snap taken in The Hamptons. Kate Darby would be looking out a better pic in the next day or so. Bev talked them through Kate’s
concerns and contributions: the stranger who’d allegedly followed Libby home, the name whispered in what turned out to be the last traumatic moments of the victim’s life. Bev had
already checked for a Dan or Stan among the woman’s contacts. Nothing doing.

“Known associates of the dead woman.” Bev waved the dog-eared book in the air. “Anyone volunteering?”

“I’ll have a look, sarge,” Carol Pemberton offered. “It’s quiet on the jewellery front. Do we know if anything was stolen last night?”

Bev cocked her head at the guv who shrugged a don’t know. “Should get a heads-up on that later today, Caz,” Bev said. She’d arranged for Kate to visit the house that
afternoon, an FSI guy would hold her hand while she looked round. She’d not know everything but was sure to have more idea about missing items than anyone else around, and spot anything
alien. Bev tossed Carol the book on the way back to her seat, knew it was in a safe pair of hands.

Byford tasked Daz with rounding up CCTV of Libby Redwood’s route home from work. She’d had a part-time job at a Kings Heath florist, more to get out the house than cash flow
problems. Paddy Redwood hadn’t left her short. The guv asked Sumi to talk to the dead woman’s workmates, find out if she’d mentioned her concerns. Even if – long odds
– they’d seen anyone hanging round outside the shop?

Byford pulled a face when he slurped the tea. “Thoughts, anyone?”

Yeah, why drink the stuff? Bev kept that one to herself, nodded at the victims’ portrait gallery; “Another widow, guv. Is that the link we’re after?”

“Beth Fowler’s divorced. Sheila Isaac’s single. Diana Masters was married.” Byford retained facts, rarely needed to check.

“Yeah, I know.” Her gaze was still on the line-up. “But three of them are. Maybe something there...?”

“Let me know when you come up with it.” Was he being sarky? “Anyone else?”

“We have another dark-haired guy,” Mac said. “Young. Thin.”

“Narrows it down then. Only a few million of them around.” The pop was from Jack Hainsworth; the information officer was tapping a keyboard. He’d turned sneering into an art
form. Art. Picasso. The little girl’s cat thief. Another dark-haired mystery man. And Bev was with Mac. When there wasn’t a shed-load of evidence around, you built on what you had.

“You gonna release the kid’s visual, guv?” The media were already milling round Highgate. At Byford’s instigation, Bernie had called a news conference for nine. The press
pack was hungry; it’d need feeding a scrap or two.

“I’ll issue it this morning. With caveats.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “I’m meeting the
Crimewatch
people after lunch. We need all the help we can
get.” She raised a sceptical eyebrow. “What’ve you got on today, Bev?”

“I’ve pencilled in a follow-up visit to Alex Masters’s chambers.” A couple of DCs had already talked to some of the barrister’s associates. But not everyone had
been around; a few names were still outstanding. More background they could gather the better.

Byford nodded. “Mention it to Mike first.” Powell was SIO on the murder inquiry. “He may have something more pressing.” Fair dos. “Don’t get despondent, guys.
The perp’s luck will run out.” The guv rose, gathered his belongings, issued a late rally. “Stay focused. Keep sharp. Be positive.”

Mac waited till the guv was out the door, nudged Bev’s elbow. “There y’go boss. What’d I tell you?” He leaned in close, started crooning,
Always Look On The
Bright Side...

Bev curled a lip. Tyler was a crap comic. And he couldn’t sing to save his life.

Masters and Burns’s chambers were in Newtown Row: Victorian, redbrick, shiny brass name plaque on matt black front door. Indoors was bronze marbled pillars and Minton
tiles, dark panelling and dusty parlour palms. It was all a bit Victorian: definitely more Dickens than
Damages
. Bev was a tad disappointed, had expected a sharper set-up from the legal
eagle they called The Raptor.

She was in reception sitting cross-legged on a cracked leather corner sofa flicking desultorily through a well-thumbed copy of the
Law Gazette.
Why couldn’t they have
Heat
or
Hello!
lying round like the hairdressers? She’d had a word with a couple of juniors and a legal secretary, now hoped for useful ones with the elusive Evie Jamieson: Alex
Masters’s PA was in work after two days’ sick leave.

“If you’d like to follow me?” A short dumpy woman beckoned from a side door. Bev pegged her as the tea lady, probably down to the polyester frock being the shade of weak PG.
Thick tan tights, scuffed lace-ups and tight beige perm furthered the impression. Dumpy didn’t say a word as she led the way up a wide staircase then along a dimly-lit corridor.
Tobacco-coloured walls were dotted with framed facsimiles of newspaper front pages: Masters’s most celebrated cases as covered in
The Times
and
Telegraph.
Dumpy held open a
heavy oak door on the right, waited for Bev to finish nosing. “Please go through.”

Bev’s quick scan registered more panelling, dark wood floorboards, heavy shelving, half-drawn blinds. Stale air smelt of ink and cheap scent. It was difficult to hide her surprise when
Dumpy took up pole position behind a desk that was a cop’s dream: empty in-tray, nothing pending.