Blood Money (29 page)

As Powell held the door she walked straight past, caught a glimpse of lights, camera and Dazza hunched over a desk. “Where you going?”

“Looking for the action, mate.”

Bev found the note on her keyboard after lunch.

Call Evie Jamieson on...

Hoo-flipping-rah. Dumping her bag, she grabbed pen and paper, punched in the number. Come on, come on... “Miss Jamieson? Bev Morriss here.”

“I got your note.”

“Thanks for getting back. I need to speak to you.”

Few seconds pause then: “I need to speak to you, too.” Even better.

“Fire away.”

“Not on the phone... It’s rather delicate.” Better and better.

Wasn’t snowing yet, rush hour hadn’t started. Bev glanced at her watch. “Be with you in...”

“Not right now. There’s someone else you need to see. He can’t get away until later.”

The PA was adamant. She set a time and that was it. Pensive, Bev ended the call.

“Four o’clock before she'll see me, guv.” Bev had nipped into Byford’s office to bring him up to speed. The lights had only just been de-rigged after the TV interview,
place was like a sauna. She’d watched him shuck out of the jacket, now the tie was coming off.

“Any idea what Jamieson’s got?” he asked.

Apart from a crush on her dearly departed boss? Bev turned her mouth down. “Hard to call, guv. Cards. Close. Chest. She wouldn’t even tell me who the guy is she wants me to see. Only
thing I’d say is she doesn’t seem to have a lot of time for Diana Masters.”

“You taking Tyler along?” The sleeves were getting the treatment now.

“Probably not. He’s over in Moseley knocking doors.” And not looking for overtime today, he’d told Bev.

“Keep me posted then.” Jesus. He was undoing the top button on the shirt now.

“You got it.” Shame she couldn’t stick around for more revelations.

Just gone four, formal greetings over, Bev sat opposite Evie Jamieson. Apparently snow on the M6 had delayed the mystery man’s arrival from Manchester. He was a private
investigator – that was as far as the PA would go. God knows why she was being so cagey about the guy; she seemed dead keen to get down to other matters. She looked wired, jumpy, her sepia
cheeks blotched pink. Bev reckoned the woman was relishing the limelight after years in the wings. The hand pressed to the side of her face failed to hide a tic in the crepe layers of her right
eyelid. Bev sat back hoping her relaxed stance would help the woman chill. “Before we start, sergeant, I want you to answer me one question.” Twitchy fingers fiddled now with the cuff
of a beige cardi.

“Sure, if I can.” The tic was burrowing maggot-like.

“Is there any possibility that the murder was planned?” No clarification needed. Jamieson was interested in only one victim. And she’d only ask if she had suspicions.

“We’ve no evidence pointing that way.” Clearly not what the PA wanted to hear. Bev added a judicious, “Yet.”

“So it’s not been ruled out?” The gleam was back in her eye.

“Nothing’s ruled out, Miss Jamieson. But we have a problem, see, there’s no...”

“Motive.” She didn’t work in the law for nothing. “I don’t know if this constitutes motive, sergeant.” Lips like serrated blades, she pulled a brown envelope
from a drawer, pushed it against the desk. “It certainly provides grounds for action.”

Opening the flap, Bev’s scalp tingled. The contents merited a mental wolf whistle: six grainy black and white pics obviously taken by telephoto lens, but then the loving couple was hardly
likely to pose willingly. The grieving widow in steamy clinches with another bloke, and with a body like that it had to be a toy boy. Bev ran her gaze over each incriminating image. Diana Masters
obscured his face in every shot.

“Who’s the guy?”

The PA raised a hand. It was her big scene and she’d play it her way. Again, it seemed to Bev she revelled in the attention. “I agonised over divulging this matter, sergeant. Twice I
tried to get hold of you over the weekend. In a way I was relieved you weren’t available. It seemed like fate playing a hand.” Bev clenched a fist; she wanted to slap the smug simper
off the stupid woman’s face, certainly hit her with a withholding charge. Timing is all. She forced a smile instead. “Glad you changed your mind, Miss Jamieson.”

“I’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. But it was clear the police investigation was going nowhere. I couldn’t stand the thought that... that... woman might be involved in
Alex’s death. He swore me to secrecy you see. But he planned to divorce her. The adultery would have cost her a pretty packet.”

Questions milled, one jumped the queue. “Did she know?” Bev leaned forward. The PA was taking her time.

“Alex was sure she didn’t.” Jamieson swallowed, eyes bright. “He was going to present her with the pictures as a fait accompli. Even Diana Masters couldn’t have
talked her way out of that one.” Bev glanced at the top pic. Given where the mouth was, she couldn’t have talked, period.

“This is important, Miss Jamieson – could she have found out the marriage was on borrowed time?”

“I thought not.” Jamieson lifted her gaze from her boss’s photo. “Until Alex’s murder.”

“He says he’ll kill me... do what he says, please, please do...” Phone pressed to her ear, Diana’s perfect face crumpled. Sam had taken the call, passed
it to her on the blackmailer’s orders. She’d been expecting the Dalek tone issuing instructions not the anguished terrified voice of her daughter. “Charlotte, Charlotte,
listen...”

For several seconds, all Diana heard was static; it was almost a relief when the familiar tinny distortion came on the line. “There y’go, lady. Proof she’s alive.”

Sam stood behind, his arms around her waist. She saw their reflection in the mirror on the drawing room wall. It was like watching characters in a play except she didn’t have a script.
“How do I know it wasn’t a recording?”

“You don’t. Trust me, lady – the slut’s alive. It’s down to you to keep it that way.”

Diana met Sam’s gaze in the glass. “What do you want me to do?” She scowled as the blackmailer dictated directions. God, the creep was going to pay for this.

“Any tricks and she vanishes. If you’re a good girl, you’ll have her home safe tonight. Make a mistake and believe me, lady, it’ll be fatal.”

“They got careless, see, sarge.” The PI was certainly making himself at home. Lounging back in his chair, ankle crossed on knee, he slurped tea noisily. Bev forgave
him; she’d forgive him most things. He’d arrived more than an hour late at Jamieson’s office but Dougie Tempest had brought in more than snow and cold air. He’d just handed
Bev a second set of snatched shots. The widow and her lover weren’t the only ones who’d been careless. The instant Bev saw the guy’s face she clocked it; cringed inwardly. How
could she have been so dense? Scissor-hands, she’d blithely mocked. Camper than a marquee, Diana had giggled. Gonna let him loose on your hair, Mac had joshed. Even the man himself had said
he’d give her a good price if she ever fancied a decent cut. Oh yes, you bastard: rusty blade to your slimy balls.

“You all right, sarge?” Tempest asked, dunking a Rich Tea. She nodded; it was easier than talking through a mouthful of feathers. “Well, as I say, when I first started tailing
them it was a soddin’ nightmare.” The barrister, she’d learned, had hired Tempest two months back. “They’d turn up separately, never leave together. Different
bleedin’ hotel every time.” Jamieson visibly bristled at the language, maybe the estuary accent. As he spoke, Bev took in the wiry little man’s cheap navy suit, shiny lace-ups,
boot-polished short-back-and-sides. He looked like a dodgy rep; mind, hotels were full of travelling salesmen – not canny ex-cops trained in surveillance and covert filming. She’d
marked Tempest down as an eighties throwback when to most cops PACE meant running to the bar. Ten out of ten for his results though. “Tell you what, sarge, it made my life a damn sight easier
when they fixed on a regular love nest.”

“They definitely didn’t cotton on?” Bev asked, leafing through the images again.

“Do me a favour, darlin’.”

Fair enough. “What’s the guy’s name?”

“Tate. Sam Tate. Ring a bell?”

Oh, yes.
Samuel has that effect on women, sergeant. Someone called Tate on the phone, Mrs Masters.
Christ on a skateboard; she stiffened. Libby Redwood’s last words... Not Dan. Not
Stan. Had she been trying to say Sam? Was Tate the Sandman? The double-act with Diana had been flawless. If Tate was gay – Bev was teetotal. Did his repertoire include masked sadist?

“Is it enough to charge them, sergeant?” Jamieson was on the edge of the seat, her whole face flushed.

Bev ignored her, carried on looking through the pics. “When was this lot taken, Dougie?”

“Day before he got topped. I’d not even sent them.” He reached into a breast pocket, handed her an envelope. “Bit more intelligence here: addresses, dates, that kind of
thing.”

“Ta, mate.”

“Sergeant Morriss, I said...” Frowning, Bev raised a hand, desperately trying to work out the implications. “Sergeant...”

She scraped back the chair, grabbed her bag. The PA was getting on her tits. “It’s evidence of adultery, Miss Jamieson.” Irrefutable proof Diana Masters and Sam Tate were
passionate lovers – but cold-blooded killers? “As to murder?” She shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Shame you didn’t open your mouth a bit sooner.”

“It’s enough to bring them in for questioning.”

Like she didn’t know that. She’d caught Byford on the phone just as he was leaving for the late brief. He was up to speed now on the Masters-Tate adulterous liaison. Whether it was a
criminal alliance still needed nailing. But if the duo were behind the Sandman burglaries, the magnitude of the conspiracy was breathtaking. “Where are you, now, Bev?”

“In the motor. Outside the chambers.” She wiped the steamy windscreen with her sleeve, had already scraped three inches of snow off the bodywork.

“Mac with you?”

She cut a glance to the empty passenger seat. “On his way.”

“I’ll get a team to Tate’s flat.” Tempest’s intelligence had provided the address plus the salon’s where Tate worked. “You pair head out to the Masters
place.”

“Nothing’d give me greater pleasure.”

“Rein it in, Bev. We need proof there’s a Sandman connection. Plenty of missing pieces still.”

“Sure thing, guv.” Way she felt she’d rein it in all right – with a lasso round the bloody woman’s neck.

“And, Bev. Bear this is mind... if Diana Masters is the Sandman’s sidekick, she stands to go down for life. She’ll have nothing to lose.”

Stay cool. Stay cool. The words were Diana Masters’s mantra as she drove the Merc through heavy snow to the handover – assuming the blackmailer wasn’t lying.
The creep had said last night was a dry run. He’d got that right. She’d already collected directions from two scuzzy phone boxes: another not-so-merry dance. A sly smirk curved her
painted lips. This time she’d lead the last waltz.

Her gloved hands gripped the wheel. For the millionth time she checked the mirror. Melted snow glistened in her fur hat from the last frigging foray into the cold. Deep breath. Stay cool. She
imagined Sam warming her up, licked her lips. He was lying low back at his flat; she’d call when this was all over. She’d wanted him out of harm’s way. He’d promised not to
follow, but she’d not been sure he’d stick to it. And if the blackmailer spotted a tail...

Or the knives: one in the pocket of her coat, another in her sleeve, a third in her clutch bag. Overkill? She hoped so. Cold steel, iron nerve. She had one big advantage: she wasn’t
scared. If it went pear-shaped, she’d die rather than go to jail. She’d nothing to lose, apart from half a million pounds and her daughter’s life. And that was so not going to
happen.

Next left the Satnav squawked. The call box was on the corner. She checked the mirror, scoped the street. At least the snow meant there was no lowlife around. Pavement was white-over, virginal.
She picked her way carefully, wouldn’t do to sprain an ankle. She gave a thin smile – not on the final leg of the journey.

Except there was no note. Where were the frigging directions? Stay cool. Stay cool. Think. Think. She was bang on time. What the hell had gone wrong? Sinking to her knees, she scrabbled on the
dank foul-smelling concrete. Nothing. Not a word. It felt like a body-blow. Still kneeling, head in hands, hot tears coursed between her fingers. She’d followed instructions to the letter,
done everything the bastard asked...

The phone rang when she was almost back at the car. Spinning on her heel, she lost her footing in the snow, slipped, struggled to stay upright. It was only a few steps to the call box but she
was gasping for breath when she picked up the phone.

“Good girl. No tail. The drop details are at your place.”

Bev had sent Christmas cards that looked like Park View. Six inches of snow – and falling – was giving it that festive feel: all fir trees and holly bushes, rosy
glows from mullioned windows. Very merry-gentlemen-and-deck-the-halls. Except for what went on behind closed doors, or at least Diana Masters’s door. Not that action was ongoing. The property
appeared empty, just hall lights left on. Bev was keeping a watching brief from the Midget parked opposite. Mac was on his way, hopefully he’d get here before the widow showed. She’d
told him to bring vests, anti-stab not woolly.

Killing time, she lit a Silk Cut, inched down the window. Despite the falling mercury, she was fired up. She’d had a while to think. If Tate and Masters had masterminded the Sandman
burglaries to mask the prime motive of the barrister’s murder, the level of duplicity, depravity, were off the scale. It would mean vulnerable women had been clinically selected and subjected
to unimaginable terror so Alex Masters’s killing would look like a Sandman cock up. Tate had certainly had his cock up. Even if there was no Sandman link, Masters had taken mendacity to a new
level. Oh yes. She was up there with Uranus. Bev took a deep drag, recalling the doo-doo the widow had spouted:
Alex and I were very much in love. This room is where I most feel his presence. I
was on the way to choose a headstone.
Lying twat.