Blood Money (23 page)

“Come out with me any time, guv.” Mental head slap. Sounded like she was hitting on him.

“How does Sumitra Gosh strike you lately, Bev?” He’d probably not heard, clearly had weightier matters on his mind. Her step barely faltered. “How’d you
mean?”

“She seems quieter to me. Not contributing like she used to at the briefs.” They’d reached Bev’s motor. “I wonder whether CID’s too much for her, maybe
she’s not quite ready for it. Last thing I want is a potentially good detective losing heart or feeling they’re not up to the challenge.”

Caring, perceptive, astute, three of the reasons he was the best boss she’d had. “Nah, guv. Sumi’s fine.” Worried sick about her cousin, in bits over what action to take,
paranoid about the Saleems, apart from that... “Smack on.” The crossed fingers behind her back had a mammoth task on their hands. “I can keep an eye on her if you like, gee her up
a gnat’s need be.”

“Maybe.” Noncommittal. “By the way, good work at the hospital this morning. You got some useful info from Libby Redwood’s sister.”

She shuffled her feet; he’d have her blushing in a minute. “Ta, guv.” Reason number four in the Byford Good Book: he didn’t stint on a bit of praise-due now and
again.

“So where you taking me?” He jangled keys in his coat pocket, raised an expectant eyebrow.

“Eh?” Her cheeks would be a fetching shade of beetroot.

“Come out with you any time, you said.” Old bat ears had heard all right. Was he winding her up or angling for a night out?

“I was talking on the job.” Cringe. It had come out harsher than she’d intended. She closed her eyes. Why hadn’t she done the same with her mouth? She’d probably
talked herself out of a date.

“And I’m not?” Dead serious. “Enough said.” He tapped the side of his hat. “Night, Bev.”

Mr Enigmatic. Torn, she watched the big man walk towards his motor, dithered over whether to dash across or let him go. “Guv?”

He didn’t turn back. Maybe she’d not shouted loud enough, maybe he’d not heard, maybe he had. Whatever. Racked off, she took aim and kicked a stone across the tarmac. It
crashed as it hit the wall. Smacked to Bev of an own goal.

Mac’s new pad in Stirchley was a step up from his former grotty bed-sit in Balsall Heath: it boasted stairs for one thing. Home-bittersweet-home was now an Edwardian
redbrick terrace complete with trellis. Though that would get the elbow soon as he got round to it. Currently he was standing in front of the wardrobe peering into the mirror, trying yet again to
tie a half-decent knot in his tie. Well out of practice, he was beginning to wish he’d bought one of those clip-on jobs. He gave the damn thing a last twist and final tug then stepped back.
He reckoned the grey silk went fine with the blue shirt, but then he’d never had a cool finger on the fashion pulse. And boy was he out of touch with this dating lark.

Lindy was going through a divorce as well. Early forties, three kids, she was something in NHS admin. They’d bumped into each other in Sainsbury, trolleys at dawn down the chiller aisle.
It was early days – this would be their third date. Mac still had first night nerves. He glanced round for his tumbler, took a sip of scotch courage. Turning side on, he cast a critical gaze
in the mottled glass. He was pretty sure he’d lost a few pounds, whatever motor mouth said.
Back off, fatso.
Charming.

Then he breathed out.

Maybe she had a point. Yeah, well, Mac had one, too. He’d meant what he’d said, the words she’d jumped down his throat to try to stop him saying: he didn’t want her to
get hurt, make that more damaged. He gave a wry smile: even when she needed a good slapping.
Fatso,
indeed. Picking up his glass, he wandered downstairs. There was still half an hour to
kill. Not that he was nervous or anything.

Fareeda had the front door open while Bev was still fumbling in her bag. Lucky that, cos new locks had been fitted – the key had no chance. The arrangement had slipped
Bev’s overworked mind, like a bunch of other stuff probably. Stepping inside, she forced a bright smile as she brandished a fish supper fresh from the Oceania chip shop. “We’re
frying tonight, kid. Warm some plates while I pop to the loo?”

The girl glanced down playing with the bangles round her tiny wrist. “I’ve eaten, Bev. To be honest, I’m so tired I just want an early night.”

Every cloud. Least they wouldn’t have to go through the brick-wall-banged-head routine this evening. “No sweat. Sleep tight. See you in the morning.”

Fareeda paused at the foot of the stairs, hand on the banister. “Your mum rang. You should call her back, Bev. She sounds so sad.”

Motes, beams and eyeballs sprang to mind. Bev could do without what sounded like a lecture from a kid. “How d’you think yours feels, Fareeda?” No answer to that. Seething, foot
tapping, Bev watched until the girl disappeared round the landing corner.

The air in the kitchen was blue. Bev had chipped a plate and stubbed a toe before sitting at a table with a solitary dinner-for-two laid out in front of her. Sighing she toyed with the fork,
forced down a few chips. Come back Frankie, all is forgiven, at least La Perlagio could sing, make her laugh, and cook pasta to diet for. Not that Bev felt like eating right now. The nasty taste in
her mouth wasn’t because of the spat with Fareeda. The banging about and F-words were down to guilt. Emmy Morriss didn’t deserve the arctic shoulder. Irony was, since losing the babies,
Bev had neglected her mum. Fact was Emmy cared too much. Bev was no good with soft words, meaningful looks, unspoken pity.

“Sod it.” Jettisoning the fish and chips in the bin, she opened a bottle of Pinot, took a glass through to the sitting room and hit the flashing red light on the answering
machine.

Hi sweetheart. Just me. How are you doing? Been up to anything... exciting? Hope all’s... OK. Me and your gran are... OK. Give us a call... if you have a minute. Love you... Bye,
Bevy.

All those pregnant pauses.

Bev sat in the dark, twin tear trails running down her cheeks, dripping from her chin. Fareeda was spot on. Bev had just refused to acknowledge it before. The message was similar to a shed-load
of others her mum had left over the months: beneath the superficial upbeat tone there was pain, Emmy was worried to bits.

She swallowed hard, took a few calming breaths. Then a few more. Wiping tears with her sleeve, she made a grab for the phone. It rang before she reached it. Startled, she snapped her name.

“Bev?” Oz, sounding unsure.

Bolt upright now, she licked her lips, finger-combed her hair. “Who else? Madonna?” Cool it, girl.

“You OK?” he asked.

“Natch.” Curt. Over-compensation for a voice she couldn’t trust not to break. The wallow in deep emotional waters had exacerbated raw wounds.

“Sure?”

“You a doctor now?” She closed her eyes. Not so much at the crass line more the caustic delivery. What the hell was wrong with her? Three, four second pause suggested Oz was
wondering the same.

“Call me when you’ve snapped out of it, eh?”

“Peachy me, mate.” Cheeky sod. Hearing his voice had thrown her – just a tad.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She bit back a cheap jibe. Had he got a point? Was stroppy her second nature these days? And she wasn’t seeing it – like she refused to acknowledge her mum’s hurt?
“Sorry, Oz. How you doing?”

“You wanted to pick my brain?” She gave a wry smile, imagining anatomical features she’d rather poke around. Either way, the conversational opening was missed – Oz was
all business.

“Yeah.” Feet tucked under, she reached for her glass. Keeping her voice down, she told him about Fareeda. How she’d turned up on the doorstep bruised and battered refusing to
say who’d inflicted the injuries, how the Saleem family had no idea where she was and how Fareeda had no intention of returning home. “Found a predictor kit in her bedroom drawer as
well.”

“Found?”

She sniffed. “Sumi and me thought she was missing one night.”

“And you thought you’d find her in a drawer?”

Bev sniffed. “Yeah, well. If I hadn’t had a nose round we’d be none the wiser, would we?” If the girl wouldn’t reveal who’d beaten her up she wasn’t
going to say who’d knocked her up.

Sounded like he was scratching his eyebrow. “And you can’t get her to name names?”

“Can’t get her to do diddly, mate.” She talked him through some of the tacks tried and failed.

“Want me to have a go?”

“Nah. I’m of a mind to pay the Saleems a visit, have a quiet word with her dad. Say the college has reported her missing or something? What you reckon?” She’d no problem
with treading on people’s toes, she needed Oz to point a way through the cultural minefield.

“You fancy the father for this?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t be surprised.” Car door slammed in the street, next door’s dog was having a fit.

“Where’s the evidence?”

“Got me there.” Intuition, bad vibes, fear in a girl’s eyes when her father’s mentioned? Not enough to convince a custody sergeant let alone the Crown Prosecution
Service.

“’Kay, here’s how I see it.” She pictured those beautiful eyes, stunning cheek bones, perfect mouth. Concentrate, dumbo. “She’s old enough to leave
home.” Oz’s first vision. “She’s not pointing the finger, she’s not even made a police report. Go in there on gut instinct and your feet won’t touch the
floor.”

“The girl’s face is broken, Oz!” Loud. Accusatory. She strained her ears, thought he’d cut the connection, though that was normally her forte. When she’d called
time on the relationship, Oz had tossed the emotional ball into her court – that’s why there’d been no play.

“I’ll try and come up in the next day or so.” How wrong could a girl be? He’d been working on ways to get here not keep his distance. She’d question later why there
was a shiver in her spine. Even so, it could be a wasted journey.

“She’ll not talk to you, mate.” Sodding dog was still going ballistic.

“No. And the Saleems won’t talk to you.” White, female, cop – ticked all the wrong boxes. Bev narrowed her eyes; was Oz...? “Saying you’ll go round
there?”

“Yeah. Cos if I don’t you’ll go barging in anyway. All guns blazing knowing you.”

“I’ll come with you, then.” There was a smile in her voice. “Always fancied riding shotgun.”

“Thought it was me who always played Tonto?”

And what did that make her?

“I’ll hang fire till I see you.” It wasn’t her best line – and the smile had faded anyway. Blinking, she bit her lip. “Catch you later.”

Yapping dog. Shut the fuck up. Bloody animal was worse than a burglar alarm. Hands jammed in coat pockets, the dark-haired man walked straight past the house. He knew she was
in there; itched to take her out now. Patience, man. When he acted she’d get no warning – not even a neighbour’s mad mutt. She’d lied through her teeth, used him, made him
look a complete retard. No one treated him like that. No one. Bitch wouldn’t even give him her number. He’d had to nick her mobile. And he’d been so generous with his gifts. A sly
smile tugged his lips. He hoped he hadn’t hidden the timer too well.

Timing – as they say – is all.

Highgate, first thing, place was buzzing. Rumours of a break were running round like petrol-fuelled wildfire. Bev had picked up a whisper in the corridor when she’d
bumped into Powell on the way to her office. The DI wasn’t privy to the detail, only Byford and the operator who’d first listened to the recording knew the full story. She’d just
had time to fit in a quick call to Interflora. The biggest bunch of flowers this side of Kew Gardens should soon be winging its way to her mum. The card would read: Down payment for lunch. See you
Sunday.

Now, Bev and the rest of the squad waited breath-bated to be brought up to speed. Air in the briefing room was electric, not a spare edge-of-seat in the house. Rife speculation ended abruptly
when Byford flung open the door, he started shooting soon as he walked in.

“We may have a witness.” Reaching the front, he turned hand held high to silence the whoops. “A caller claims he saw the perp leaving Libby Redwood’s house.” May?
Claims? Clearly the jury was still out. Bev sat back, crossed her legs: she’d spotted a tape in the guv’s other hand. Maybe the best was yet to come. Readying the player, Byford told
the squad the message had been left less than an hour ago on a confidential police hotline. “Listen up.” Like a pin dropping on velvet wouldn’t be deafening.

The killer you lot are after?
Male voice. Scottish accent? Nasal as if he had a heavy cold
.

I seen him last night coming out of that posh gaff in Kings Heath. He was wearing that clown mask like on the telly, at first any road.
At first? Bev leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin
in hands.

Here’s the thing: I wanna know if there’s a reward like, or anything?
Or anything: barbed wire round the grasping bastard’s bollocks for a start.

Grassing ain’t safe is it? I reckon I deserve a bit o’ danger money, like.”

Sotto voce snort from Bev. Stony glare from the guv.

Think it over. When I see something about a reward on the news – I’ll get back.

“Guy’s a joker,” Bev spouted before Byford hit pause. “The accent’s all over the shop. The cold’s prob’ly faked. There’s not a word on there he
couldn’t have picked up from the press. No name, no number, nothing.”

“Finished?” The guv traced an eyebrow with a finger. “Obviously, there are holes.”

“Holes? It’s a moth eaten sieve.” She sat back, foot circling. “Traced the call yet?”

“Phone box. City centre.”

She hooted. “Quelle surprise.”

Mac interrupted the exchange. “What we doing about it, guv?”

“Bernie’s working on a news release.”

“There is no reward though?” Carol Pemberton seeking confirmation.

“A carefully-worded news release.” Byford gave a thin smile. “We’ll hint there’s money on the table without going into details.”

“Have that in common with the loser, then,” Bev sneered. “Big fat fact deficit.”

“Do you have a better idea, sergeant?”