Blood Money (25 page)

It was that all right. Confusion reigned. For a split second she thought she’d phoned Spice Avenue. But she hadn’t called for an Indian and the grey-haired guy wasn’t
delivering a takeaway. He wouldn’t need two henchmen for that.

Two seconds later the rupee dropped. It had to be a Saleem family outing. Had they come packing? If so, what were they carrying? Heart pumping, bowel on ice, she aimed for a disarming smile,
made damn sure it didn’t reach her eyes, detected not so much as a lip twitch in return.

The old boy could’ve been carved from fissured rock; the hooded eyes were expressionless, certainly illegible. Quick scan showed the brothers had inherited the father’s genes with
time on their side: dark-haired, early twenties, tasty except they so knew it. Part of her wanted to slam their faces into a wall; part of her was bricking it.

“My name is Malik Saleem. I think you know why I’m here.” He was in off-white shalwar kameez and a zipped blue nylon jacket. The brothers-in-arms wore street uniform: baggy
denims, loose fitting hoodies, Nike trainers. Calculating the odds went like this: she despised bullies, was well able to look out for herself but if push came to shove it was three against one.
Could be asking for trouble inviting them in?

“Best come in.” Standing to one side, she fought not to flinch when the old man raised a gnarled hand. It was only to turn down her offer.

“I want you to tell Fareeda she must come home.” He who must be obeyed or what?

“No.” Not even if he said please. How’d they found out where she was though? Had they put a tail on Sumi?

“I am not looking for trouble.”

Arms folded, she held his gaze. “You ain’t getting any.”

“Evening, Bev.” A loud yell from across the road. The old man who lived opposite was standing outside his house. “Everything all right, girl?”

“Hunky, thanks, Mr Yates.” Alfie looking out for her improved the odds; the Saleems wouldn’t do anything stupid in front of a witness.

“I want my daughter back.” Like there’d been no interruption. “Tell Fareeda we can work it out. It will be better for her if she comes home.”

“Better than what? Getting beat?”

That stepped up the heat. She watched him cool it with a couple of jaw clenches. “You should not interfere. You don’t understand.”

Her turn to see red bullshit. “Damn right I don’t.” She was sick of hearing it. “I don’t understand how anyone can pummel a girl’s face till it breaks. I
don’t understand why a girl’s scared shitless to open her mouth. I don’t understand why sadistic pieces of work get away with it time after time.”

“You are a police officer. Do you really think I would be here if I had done this terrible thing to my own flesh and blood?” She didn’t know. He could be on the level or lying
through those stained teeth. Unless Fareeda testified the old man was home and dry. He must know she hadn’t spoken out or the police would be knocking on his door, not vice versa. If the girl
returned home, Saleem could make sure she kept her mouth shut. Maybe permanently.

“Who did then?”

His eyes darkened. “I will make it my job to find out.”

“Think you’ll find that’s my job.” Sunshine. “And when I do, he’s going down.”

“If that’s an accusation...?” He didn’t elaborate and she let it hang. Oz was right: she’d not a thread of evidence. On the other hand it looked to Bev as if the
old man was having a hard time keeping a lid on it. He clearly didn’t take to being challenged let alone contradicted. “Fareeda does not belong here. Her mother misses her. She cries
herself to sleep every night.”

“And your daughter doesn’t?” She glanced over his shoulder. Alfie was sweeping the pavement. In the dark. Whistling.
You’ll Never Walk Alone.

“May I speak with her please?” Saleem senior was doing all the talking. The brothers knew their place: on the sidelines cracking the occasional knuckle.

“She’s not up to visitors. Got a migraine.”

“You are lying to me.”

Cheeky sod. She’d had enough. “G’night.” She made to close the door. They could be there till the cows came home then left on a world cruise. Unless Fareeda had a change
of heart, it wasn’t going to happen.

“My daughter does not belong here.” She recoiled at his garlic breath as he took a step closer, tried to put a foot in the door. “Send her home. Soon.” The voice was low
but had a sharper edge. “Then we can forget about it.”

You might. “Are you threatening me, Mr Saleem?”

“Good night, officer.” Bouncing on the balls of their feet the sons moved aside so he could leave first. “I hope it won’t be necessary to trouble you again.”

Diana Masters stroked Sam’s brow, ran her fingers through his damp tousled hair. His cheeks were flushed, he felt fevered. They stood face to face in the kitchen. She
suspected his heightened emotion was down to fear. That he was running scared. More than ever they needed to stand strong, to stand together. A weak Sam was ornamental but no use, dangerous in
fact. “Sam, Sam, it will be OK.”

“How can you say that, Diana?” His eyes pleaded with her before he turned to cup his hands under the cold tap to take a drink. Observing, calculating, she waited until his focus was
again on her.

“He won’t kill Charlotte, Sam. It’s just big talk.”

“And that’s what?” The package he’d brought was on the table. Gone midnight, but he’d driven straight over when he found it pushed through the door of his flat.

“It’s hair, Sam. It might not even be Charlotte’s.” Stupid. Of course it was.

“You’re in denial, Diana. It’s her in the photograph.”

That was more... disconcerting. It was definitely her daughter gagged, blindfolded and bound to a chair. “At least we know she’s alive.”

“For how long?” He threw his hands into the air. “There’s no option now. You have to go to the police.”

Diana fought to conceal her contempt. It was vital not to lose him but he was acting like a lily-livered wimp. “Get real. You’re the Sandman for God’s sake. If it comes out
you’ll go down for the rest of your life.”

“If he keeps his mouth shut it won’t come out.” God. How could he be so dense? There was only one way to make sure the blackmailer kept his mouth shut. And she had every
intention of taking it.

“You’re not thinking straight, Sam. Watch my lips. There can be no police involvement.
We
get her back. We do what he says.”

She watched as he pulled at his bottom lip, working out where she was coming from. “Pay the ransom you mean?”

“If that’s what it takes.” Over Diana’s dead body. She needed time to get Sam on track.

“It’s too risky, Dee.” He ran both hands through his hair. “He could take the cash and still kill her.”

“But we won’t let him, will we?” She’d rather die than go down as Sam’s accessory. Scrub that. She’d prefer to kill. Anyone who got in her way. He
wasn’t completely convinced. But there were lots of ways to make him come round. She held her arms open. “Come on, Sammy. Let’s go to bed.”

Bev slammed the door on the Saleems’ departing backs, but not before hearing the old man hawk then spit on the ground. She leaned against the wood, slamming fist into
palm.
I hope it won’t be necessary to trouble you again.
Sounded like a veiled threat without the veil. Bring it on, gobshite.

But was it a warning? Realistically, how’d she know? Maybe he genuinely wanted his daughter back with no hassle. Drifting back to the sitting room, she took a few pensive sips of wine. It
was just conceivable Saleem hadn’t laid a finger on Fareeda. It was the girl’s word against... Hold on? She frowned. Fareeda still hadn’t uttered a syllable of any import on the
subject. Fact was Bev knew no more now than the night she’d found Fareeda and Sumi huddled outside. Correction. The predictor kit was pretty telling. Not that there’d been opportunity
to tackle the girl about it. Lips pursed, she glanced at the ceiling then mental sleeves rolled headed for the stairs. Migraine or not – it was time to take issue. And there’d be no
standing on ceremony.

“Need a word, kid.” Bev stood at the bedside, tapping a foot. She’d done the decent thing leaving off the light, but even in the shadows she saw Fareeda had pulled the duvet
over her head. Natch. More comfortable than burying it in the sand. “Sooner we talk – sooner I’ll be out of your hair.” Big brush off. Feigning sleep was child’s play:
Fareeda was a big girl now. Mouth tight, arms crossed, Bev pushed a toe against the mattress. “I ain’t going nowhere, kid.” Not a murmur. Bev pushed again, harder this time.
Nothing. She narrowed her eyes, hair rising on the back of her neck. No one slept that deep. Suddenly alert, scalp crawling, she took a step closer, looked for the gentle rise and fall of shoulder
under duvet. Holy Mary. It wasn’t.

Dear sweet Christ. Not dead, please, not dead. Heart pounding, hand shaking Bev flung off the cover, muttered obscenities under her breath. Fareeda wasn’t dead. Fareeda wasn’t there.
Just well-placed towels, pillows and a few lines on a post card.

Please don’t try and find me. It’s better no one knows where I am. I have a friend and we’ll be fine. Thank you for being there, Bev. Xxx

Weak with relief, eyes brimming with tears she dropped to her knees. “You stupid, stupid girl.” It wasn’t only Fareeda she had in mind.

Seven a m. Highgate. A business-suited Bev had the squad room almost to herself, ploughing through a backlog of printouts and police reports, catching up on detail that might
have slipped her net. She’d monitored news bulletins over the weekend, knew nothing major had kicked off in the Sandman inquiry or Powell would’ve called her in like a shot. Blowing on
a cup of steaming canteen coffee, she reckoned a summons would have been welcome given how much downtime she’d spent on domestic stuff. House was cleaner than an operating theatre now: not
difficult. Mind, it had needed a seeing to, she’d had to dust the board before doing the ironing.

Shuffling the paperwork into a neat pile, she knew the chores-fest had been displacement activity. It had stopped her obsessing over Fareeda, and a bunch of other stuff. Sumi had been as much in
the dark over her cousin’s whereabouts; Bev had called Goshie the minute she found the girl gone. Later – much later – she’d left voicemail telling Oz not to bother coming
up. Hadn’t realised till then how much she’d been looking forward to seeing the guy. What with that and low-level all round antsy-ness it had been a pretty shite weekend. Anticipation
greater than the event? Got that right. Nipping a tin of ta-very-much Roses across to Alfie and whizzing round Sainsbury hardly qualified as social whirls. She pursed her lips: what did it say
about her life when her mum’s roast pork and crackling had been the highlight?

She needed reminding what it was all about. Rising, she drifted cup in hand to the victims’ picture gallery, keen blue eyes lingered on each face in turn: Faith Winters, Beth Fowler,
Sheila Isaac, women terrorised and terrified by the Sandman; Donna Kennedy and Libby Redwood, dead; odd man out Alex Masters, killed. Taking a sip of coffee, it occurred to her that if the timing
of previous attacks was anything to go by, another strike was overdue.

Moving across to one of the whiteboards, she stood in front of the e-fit, stared into what could be the perp’s dark deep set eyes. Maybe the Sandman had been too busy of late making silent
phone calls? After receiving another half-dozen silent hang-ups, she’d asked BT to check the line.

“You’re early.” How long had the guv been watching her? He was in the doorway Fedora and attaché case in hand. She spotted a shaving nick on his neck. “Good break,
Bev?”

“Brill.” Bright smile. “The best.” Like she’d admit Boot Hill had more life.

His finger traced a quizzical eyebrow. “What’d you get up to?”

“Y’know how it is, guv.” Mouth turned down, she made a wave of her hand. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that.”

“That quiet, uh?” Deadpan delivery, voluble gaze. The big man could read her better than anyone she knew.

“Rubbish.” She sniffed. “Glad to get back to work.” Lesser of two evils. Saturday night was the first in a long time she’d not gone on the pull, the very thought
had turned her stomach. Least here there was company she didn’t have to get rat-arsed to keep.

He paused a beat or two then: “Always glad to have you back, Bev.” Ambiguous smile, mock salute and he was gone. Had she read something deeper in those eyes, the way he’d said
the words? Or had she just wanted to? Miles away, she tapped a pen against her teeth.

“Earth to Morriss. Come in please.” The moment had passed. Mike Powell bemused grin, arms folded, leaned against the doorframe.

“DI Powell.” Eager smile. “How may I help?”

“You taking the piss?”

“Would I?”

He rolled his eyes, jammed a hand in his pocket. “You didn’t miss much, Morriss.” He’d been in all weekend. She listened as he talked her through a couple of ticked
boxes: the house to house in Kings Heath had finally been completed, checks on whether there was a property link between the victims had drawn a blank. There’d been no further contact from
the grasping bastard after a non-existent reward.

“That it?” she asked.

“Have to sharpen our spades, won’t we? See you at the brief.” He turned at the door. “Oh yeah, a woman phoned here for you a couple of times.”

“Oh?” Not likely to be anyone she’d already spoken to, she always gave out a bunch of numbers she could be reached on.

“Wouldn’t leave a name. Said it wasn’t urgent. She’d try again.”

She shrugged. “Get a number?”

“I’m not your sodding secretary.” He disappeared then popped his head back. “Course I did. It’s on your desk.”

Bag and coat dumped, Bev dug out the number from under a pile of files and post-its. It didn’t ring a bell, frowning she reached for the receiver, tried it twice,
would’ve left a message but no answerphone kicked in. She glanced up, some joker was playing a drum solo on the door. Not hard to guess who. She gave a resigned sigh. “Come in,
mate.”

Mac ambled in humming
Knock, knock, knocking on heaven’s door.
Subtle. The song choice was no surprise compared with the shock on clocking his new look. He’d ditched the
lumberjack gear for blue shirt and charcoal chinos.