Blood Money (21 page)

“Do sit down, sergeant.”

Bev’s nascent inquiries about the PA’s health were dismissed with a flap of the hand and a tight smile. Jamieson launched straight in. “You’re investigating my former
employer’s murder. How may I help?”

Aware she was under sharp scrutiny, Bev shifted slightly in her seat. “We’re trying to build a picture of Mr Masters. Learn a little background.” Encouraging smile. “You
must’ve known him well, Ms Jamieson?”

“Miss.” The single word said a lot. Bev watched closely as the PA steepled fingers displaying ugly bitten nails. She’d put the woman’s age at fifty, fifty-five. “I
worked for Alex Masters for nineteen years. He was a consummate professional, a highly intelligent man with one of the sharpest legal brains in the country. A great raconteur, cultured,
sensitive...” Yada. Yada. Yada.

“Did you like him?” The question appeared to take the woman by surprise. There was a fractional widening of dishwater eyes, a tightening of already thin lips.

“He was my employer...”

“You said.”

“I had enormous respect for Mr Masters.” Car horn blasted in the street. No reaction. The ticking clock in the silence that Bev again let stand had more leverage. “No one could
wish for a better... employer.”

And employee? Evie Jamieson personified efficiency. She reeled off names, dates, small detail with almost total recall, only once did she wander over to a filing cabinet to check a fact. It was
enough for Bev to lean across, sneak a look at the framed pictures on her desk. As the PA waxed lyrical about one of her boss’s greatest hits, the animation enlivened her plain features. Bev
shaved ten years off the original guesstimate of her age. Even so, Diana Masters wouldn’t have lost any sleep. If Alex had ever felt the itch, Bev couldn’t see him asking Evie to
scratch it.

When Bev moved on to ask about possibly disgruntled clients, threatening defendants, Jamieson was adamant there’d been none, her shock at the line of questioning seemed genuine. “I
can’t see why you’re asking these questions, sergeant. If the press is to be believed, surely the murder was a burglary that went horribly tragically wrong?” Bev spouted the usual
police-speak about exploring avenues, unturned stones and face values. The last phrase gave her pause for thought. Taking Jamieson at face value had been a big no-no.

Recognising the cliché-spiel, the PA raised a hand. “Are you saying there’s a possibility Alex was the intended target that night?” Alex? First time she’d used his
Christian name. As to the question, it was one Bev had asked herself. The Sandman hadn’t put a foot wrong until he entered the Masters property. So was that debacle down to a copycat clown
who wanted the barrister dead? Or was it – as Powell and most of the squad thought – a case of Masters being in the wrong place at the wrong time? “We can’t rule anything
out of court, Miss Jamieson.” She winced inwardly at the unintended pun.

Evie Jamieson crimped her lips. “If there’s nothing else...”

“Did you ever meet the boss’s wife?” Bev asked, hoisting her bag as she rose from the chair. The throwaway line appeared to cast a flicker in the woman’s eyes.

“Once or twice. Why?” Her stare was unwavering, but Bev heard a foot tapping under the table.

“Just wondered what you made of her?”

Slight pause, then: “It’s not my job to make anything of Diana Masters, sergeant.” Why the dry ice? Disapproval? Resentment? Diana had everything Jamieson didn’t: style,
beauty, bank balance and until recently, Alex Masters as bed partner. “If that’s all...” The hands she placed palm down on the desk trembled slightly; sweat beads were visible in
the fine hair over her top lip.

“That’s all.” Bev held the PA’s gaze for several seconds. “For now.” She turned at the door. “Tell me, were you surprised to learn Mr Masters was home
that night?”

Zero hesitation. “No. He phoned from the Old Bailey. The case had collapsed. He rang to say he was coming back.”

He’d called his PA but not the wife. What did that say? If anything? “Were they happily married, Miss Jamieson?”

“How should I know, sergeant? Shouldn’t you be asking her?”

Bev couldn’t read the glint in the woman’s eye, but knew this: whatever Dickens thought about the law, and despite Jamieson’s professed ignorance – the PA was no ass.

Perched on a high stool in the window of Caffè Nero, Bev stared out into lunchtime New Street. The steamed-up glass was still bordered by fake snow and fairy lights.
Motley crews streamed past: shoppers laden with Primark bags, city suits, loud school kids, wannabe WAGs, chavs pushing buggies. On the pavement opposite, a bedraggled busker in a Sergeant Pepper
jacket was mangling
Flowers In Your Hair.

Unseeing, distracted, Bev had been stirring an Americano for a minute and a half. The espresso she’d stumped up for was getting cold. Mac was running late or she’d be hitting him
with a few ideas; her thoughts were eddying, too. Adding more sugar, she stirred again, picturing the dowdy Evie Jamieson. The PA certainly seemed to hold no brief for the wife. Was that down to
jealousy? Jamieson’s feelings for the barrister clearly went beyond the professional. Why else keep his picture on her desk? OK, it was in with a bunch of others, but was that normal? Seeing
your boss’s mug every time you glanced up from your key strokes? And why had the woman bent over backwards to stress the professional nature of their relationship? Except for the one time
she’d let slip his Christian name, it had been Mr Masters this, Mr Masters that. Mr Masters bit-of-the-other? In Jamieson’s dreams maybe; Bev couldn’t see any monkey business
going on there. She gave a lopsided smile. Imagine if she kept a picture of Byford on her desk: Highgate’s funny looks brigade would go into overdrive.

Grotesque features were suddenly pressed into the glass inches from her face. Some street nutter was gurning, swinging his arms like a demented windmill. She mouthed
Fuck off
, pointedly
turned her back. Why’d she always attract the fruitcake? Same on buses. The loony latched on to her every time.

“No way for a lady to talk, boss.” Mac approached with an innocent grin. Shame about the tell-tale grime on his nose.

“Stick to the day job, eh?” Lips tightened, she pointed to his coffee. “How’d it go?”

She saw him cast a greedy glance at the counter before answering. “On a scale of one to ten? Minus two.” He’d been lending a hand with house-to-house at Kings Heath. Two major
incident teams were actually covering six ongoing inquiries. Uniform and the squad were stretched thin, thinner than they ought to be. Straining at the bit, he asked if she was eating. Mac sure
wasn’t in danger of fading away. Her lip twitched. “Just coffee, ta mate.” She’d already downed a BLT. He came back with a ham croissant, two wraps and a slice of apple
pie.

“Glad to see you’re still on the fruit.” The pie was apparently a treat to go with her coffee. He stuffed his face while she gave him the gist of the Jamieson interview. They
finished about the same time. Pushing his plates away, he said: “So where you coming from on this, boss? Are you saying there’s more than meets the eye to the merry widow?”

“Wish I knew, mate.” They’d known since the get-go Diana stood to inherit, but that alone was no reason to view her as a suspect. She shrugged. “Know where we’re
going though.” She had a copy of Libby Redwood’s photograph in her bag. It needed showing to the Sandman’s other victims: Diana was first on the list. And given where the pic had
been taken, Charlotte Masters came pretty high. “You got wheels, mate?” He told her he’d cadged a lift into town. “Come on, then. The Polo’s in Temple Street.”
Mac wrapped the apple pie in a couple of napkins, shoved it in his donkey jacket pocket. “Waste not, want not.”

As they walked to the car, a shop window full of TVs showing the news brought them to a halt. “The guv released the e-fit then?” Mac stating the bleeding obvious. A man’s face
was plastered over a bank of monitors: dark hair, deep-set eyes, wide mouth. Bev bit her lip. Getting Picasso to work with the little girl had seemed like a good idea at the time, seeing the result
she wasn’t too sure. Every time a visual was given airtime there was risk of duff info overload. The phones at Highgate would soon be red hot again. Byford looked none too happy either. The
guv’s grim face now filled every screen.

“I hear he got a mauling at the press conference,” Mac said. “Concerted attack. Media want to know why more officers haven’t been drafted in.”

Don’t we all? “Come on, mate. Places to go, people to grill.” She stalked off, hoiking her bag, spotted a familiar-looking guy walking towards them. A quick flick through her
memory bank came up with Jagger lips, Fighting Cocks. “Hi, Laura. Great to see you again. How you doing?”

Struggling. Sweating. Skin crawling. Laura! Mac was never going to let her live this down. “I’m good.” Apart from the hot flush. “You?” The guy was well fit,
younger than she remembered. But what the hell was his name? Christ, it was only Sunday they’d spent the night together.

“I’m cool. It’s my lunch break. I work just across the way.” He jabbed a thumb over his suited shoulder; silk tie needed tightening a notch. He flicked Mac a polite face,
probably thought she was with her dad. “Hey, I’m just about to grab a coffee...?” Seriously tasty or not, she wasn’t about to join him. A drug user was a bad habit for a cop
to get into.

“Sorry, mate.” She forced a smile. “Another time?”

“Any time. Give me a bell.” He gave a mock salute.

Mac didn’t utter a word, just hummed all the way to the motor.
Tell Laura I Love Her.
Bev stood with the key in the door, one foot tapping. “Come on, Tyler. Spit it
out.”

“Me?”

“Now.”

“Nothing to do with me, boss. You want to lie about your name, play around with toy boys. That’s your shout.” He dropped his voice. “Long as you...”
Don’t
let it get in the
way of the job?

“Don’t go there, constable.” Her voice was dangerously low. She had the motor running before he’d fastened the seat belt; her knuckles were white round the wheel. Tyler
hadn’t intended taking the piss, he wanted to dish out a lecture.

Arms folded, Mac stared through the windscreen. “What I was going to say is, long as you don’t get hurt.”

She hit the gas; soft words and shit advice she could live without. “Back off, fatso.”

The twenty-minute drive to the Masters place took fifteen, the silence punctuated by occasional gasps as Bev cut corners and Mac hit imaginary brakes. Her insouciant sniffs
suggested he should thank God the infinitely nippier Midget was still in dock.

Locking the motor, she scanned the street, expanded her lungs. Even the air round here was clean. Three days after Alex Masters’s murder and Park View Road was restored to cosy affluent
suburbia:
The Good Life
without the sanctimonious neighbours and smelly pigs. Looked as if the cops had pulled out too. She creased her eyes: not quite. A strip of dirty police tape flapped
listlessly in the gutter. Kneeling, she picked it up, shoved it in her coat pocket. Shame it wasn’t so easy to pick up the pieces after the crime as well. The impact of Masters’s death
would affect some people for the rest of their life. As for picking up the crim? By the neck preferably.

The door was opened by the gormless skinny girl. Marie, was it? Bev flashed her ID. “Mrs Masters in, sweetheart?” She’d not phoned ahead, forewarned and all that, but
it’d be a surprise if the woman was out socialising or shopping given she was in the early stages of grief.

The girl leaned a scrawny arm on the doorframe. “She’s having her hair done.”

Hair done? Bev rubbed her chin. Not sure a cut and blow dry would be a priority if her old man had just been butchered. Still, who was she to judge? One man’s meat... “When you
expecting her back?”

Beetle brows formed a wavy line. “She’s not out.” Like they should know. “She’s in the kitchen.”

“Come in then shall we?” Bev didn’t barge, but the girl had to step back swiftly. Mac tried stifling a sigh and tailed her. Whatever was kicking off in there sounded like a
bundle of fun; the laughter died when Bev tapped the door, popped her head round.

“Sergeant Morrison. Was I expecting you?” Not angry or put out. The widow’s frown seemed concerned more than tetchy as if she might’ve forgotten an arrangement. She
certainly didn’t appear ill-at-ease or embarrassed, but clearly wasn’t expecting callers let alone cops. Hair plastered to the skull, she was caped to the neck and some guy with a
pony-tail was prancing round like Edward Scissor-hands. Bev did a covert second-take. The face was seriously gorgeous, though she had her doubts about the get-up. The pink string T-shirt and tight
leather strides could go either way.

“Just popped in on the off-chance, Mrs Masters.” She cleared her throat, sensed Scissors giving her the glad eye. “We can always come back if it’s not...
convenient.” The stress on the last word bordered on snide.

“No, of course not, come in. I’m happy to help.” Looked it, sounded it, too. “Is there any news?”

Gaze still fixed on Bev, Scissors moved behind his client. “I’m here for you, Diana.” Bev’s mouth dropped when he laid a solicitous hand on the widow’s shoulder.
“But I’d best make myself scarce hadn’t I, sweetie?” It was a joke, the voice teasing, playful; close your eyes and Glamour Boy was Graham Norton with a dash of Dick Emery.
No wonder Mrs M didn’t mind the cops butting in – it was hardly coitus interruptus.

“Would you?” Diana smiled. “We shouldn’t be too long?”

“Your wish is my command.” The elaborate bow from the waist showcased a neat bum. “I’ll be in the sitting room.” He winked as he sauntered past Bev then seemingly
on second thoughts spun round, headed back, stood in her face. “Don’t take this the wrong way.” She flinched when he lifted her fringe. “If you ever fancy a decent cut give
me a call.” He was a gnat’s eyelash from a knee in the groin. Fists balled, she backed off. His focus was still on her hair. “Seriously, sweetie.”

Sweetie! Vidal was on another planet. “Look, mate...”

“But it hides your eyes.” The smile was breathtaking. “And they’re so beautiful. Drop in and see me sometime. I’ll give you a good price.” Another wink.
“Ciao.” He took off whistling. Cheeky git. So why did her lips have the ghost of a smile?