Blood Money (7 page)

“And of course, Alex is very traditional. He’s the breadwinner, I’m...” Early days, easily done. Diana Masters had lapsed again into the present tense. She’d do it
for a while yet, certainly until after the funeral. It wasn’t denial – sudden death took time to sink in. Soon as it hit home this time she dropped her head in her hands, rocked gently
backwards and forwards.

Bev counted to twenty before clearing her throat ready. The widow took the cue. She dashed away tears with the heel of her hand then stared ahead, eyes narrowed as if trying to see sense in
events that held none. “I still can’t believe it. I was asleep, you see. I’d taken a pill. The noise woke me. I was groggy. Not really with it.”

“Any idea what the time was, Mrs Masters?” Essential to establish a timeline or Bev wouldn’t have halted the flow.

“I rang the police around a quarter past two, so a little before then, I guess. I thought I was dreaming. A nightmare. A clown! Wrestling with Alex at the foot of the bed.
Ludicrous.” Her glance sought Bev’s agreement, approval. “Then the knife. Jab. Jab. Jab. And the blood.” She squeezed her eyes tight. “I screamed and screamed
and...”

Sound of clinking crockery. Gentle prompt from Bev. “What happened next, Mrs Masters?”

“Alex saved my life.” Head high, she laced her fingers in her lap, spoke with absolute conviction. “The intruder would have killed me too but even badly injured Alex clung to
his arm, wouldn’t let him go, gave me vital seconds.” A lifetime. “I hit the panic button. I couldn’t see his face of course but I could tell the alarm had startled him. He
stabbed Alex again. I could see that my husband was...”

Dead. Dying. “And then?” Bev said.

“He came towards me. I saw dark glittering eyes through slits in the mask. I knew he wanted to kill me but presumably was desperate to get away too. He came for me with the knife. I held
my hands over my face. I thought, this is it – it’s all over. I heard a police siren. He called me a... fucking bitch... then I fainted.”

Prime witness passes out. Brilliant. “And when you came to?”

“Alex was on the floor. I went to him...cradled him in my arms.” She was shaking, sobbing, barely able to get the words out. “But it was... too late. I’m so
sorry...”

Bev glanced at Mac, tapped her watch. “You’ve been a great help, Mrs Masters.” Tactful as she could, she told the woman the nightdress would have to go to forensics, said a
colleague would sort it. “Try and get some rest now. We’ll talk later.”

The neighbour came in with the coffee as they took their leave. That didn’t halt their progress. It was the widow’s remark as they reached the door.

“The irony is, Alex stays in London three evenings a week. He wasn’t due home last night. Until the fight broke out, I didn’t even know he was here.”

“What d’you make of it, then?” Mac’s focus was on his plate but the question didn’t relate to the state of his breakfast. He and Bev were in the
canteen, grabbing a bite before the brief. She’d opted for the full Monty, too. Giving away last night’s fish and chips might’ve been good for the soul, but her body had paid for
it. Since the early shout she’d been running on empty, felt dizzy and nauseous at one stage. Though that could’ve been the sight of Masters’s body when she’d nipped upstairs
to have a word with Pete Talbot.

Not normally given to spouting Shakespeare, soon as she’d entered the bedroom a quote had sprung to mind. Now it just slipped out. “Who’d have thought the old man had so much
blood in him?” Well it was close enough.

Mac jabbed an admonitory sausage. “Masters was fifty-five. That’s not old.” Mac was fifty-two.

Bev rolled her eyes. “Ignorant pillock.”

He shrugged. “I see where you’re coming from, though. What was it Overdale said? Fourteen, fifteen wounds?”

“She reckons the post mortem might reveal more.” Bev spread Daddies’ sauce on a fried slice, added bacon, egg and tomato. “Frenzied attack is what the papers’ll
call it.”

“They’d be right, wouldn’t they?” Mac hadn’t seen the body. There’d been no point both of them entering the crime scene.

“First time for everything.” Satisfied with the filling, she topped it with another piece of bread. They ate in silence for a while. The place was filling up: uniforms, support
staff, plastic plods – dick-lites as Bev called them. She spotted Sumitra Gosh at the counter, lifted a fork in greeting. Maybe Sumi hadn’t noticed. Maybe Sumi had other things on her
mind. Mac clearly had. “The press’ll crucify Byford.”

That they would. She’d spoken briefly with the guv earlier. The big man looked as if he was weight-lifting as in world on shoulders. “He’ll cope.”

“Reckon the wife’s away with the Mogadon fairies every night?” Mac asked.

“Uh?” Byford’s missus had been dead ten years. Then the penny dropped. Diana Masters. Maybe she only needed help sleeping when she was alone in the house; maybe she was a
chronic insomniac. Bev shrugged; who knows? It was on a growing list of things to find out. She gulped a mouthful of tea, scraped back the chair.

“Where you off to, boss?” Mac glanced up. There was still half a pig on his plate.

“Catch you at the brief.”

“Hold on. ’fore you go.” He offered her a napkin.

She scowled. “And that’s for...?”

He pointed at her chin. “Out, out damn spot.”

Mac quoting Lady M. There’s a thing. Bev was still smiling when she sat at her desk, tapped a few keys and waited for the screen to come up with the goodies. Stone me.
They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but by God Alex Masters was no oil painting. And she was studying a pic on the barrister’s own website. Even in the rudest of health he was
an ugly squat little bloke. Savile Row’s classiest pin-stripe three-piece wasn’t gonna disguise the pot belly. The head looked too big for the body, the hair was like wire wool, the
squashed nose needed re-setting and the face could do with ironing. OK, beauty was skin deep but Bev bet the bloke had a hell of a big... bank balance.

She hit a few keys, waited for a page to download, mused a bit more. Was it money that made guys like Masters attractive? Or was it Henry Kissinger’s theory about power being the ultimate
aphrodisiac? The widow’s grief had seemed genuine enough, maybe she saw beyond the surface. Not Bev, though. Give her a looker any time. Like the guy in the Fighting Cocks. If he didn’t
do drugs and it didn’t go against her recently adopted rules of engagement she’d see Jagger lips again, no sweat.

Bingo. Here it was. She remembered seeing the article before. According to
The Times
on-line, Alex Masters had power, presence, charisma, call it what you will, in spades. Skimming the
article, she reckoned you could make that pick-up trucks. Before marriage to Diana Scott, he’d sown more oats than the Archers. Professional strike rate was on a par. In legal circles he was
known as The Raptor: razor tongued, cutting wit, sharp suits. Nowadays he was mostly associated with high profile court cases where A-list celebs were fined peanuts for offences ordinary mortals
mostly got sent down for. In the past though he’d been a top criminal prosecution lawyer. Big bank balance? Masters was minted.

Footsteps in the corridor, banging doors, busy buzz building up. The brief. Shit. She grabbed her bag, put on a topcoat of lippie, gathered the stuff she’d printed out. “Sorry, mate
– gonna be late.” Masters’s coarse features vanished from the screen as she closed the page.

One theory had the burglar gaining access by scaling the railings at the back of the Masters property. No CCTV coverage there. Luck or judgement? Bev knew where she’d put her money. The
perp had certainly entered the house through a kitchen window. A pane had been removed with cutters, glass covered in perfect dabs and DNA. Yeah right.

The squad would hear the minute anything broke. FSIs were still on site, area search was underway, uniforms were knocking doors. Information was being called in, filed back. The clack from
printers was pretty constant, ditto ringing phones. Jack Hainsworth was co-ordinating it, making sure it was disseminated. The Inspector collated and cursed in roughly equal measures. Bull-necked
and big-mouthed, he hailed from Leeds but was no archetypal Yorkshireman. Hainsworth was less bluff more bolshie-bugger. And he didn’t issue threats, he meant every word. Highgate’s Mr
Nice Guy. Not. But he was a sharp operator. And every member of the team knew he or she had to raise their game. Cos the guv had just finished telling them. Alex Masters’s murder had upped
Operation Magpie’s ante. And then some.

As usual Byford was perched on the edge of a desk. The swinging leg indicated how keen he was to get on with the job. “Do we know if anything was stolen, Bev?”

Hadn’t had time to ask. “Don’t think so.”

“Think isn’t good enough,” he snapped. “You spoke to the widow, didn’t you?” Below the belt, the big man must be feeling the pressure.

Bev tensed. “She was wearing her old man’s blood. We didn’t talk about baubles. Sir.”

Byford clenched his jaw, let the dig go, gave a terse nod when he noticed Mac had his hand in the air. “From what Mrs Masters said, guv, it seems unlikely the perp had time to nick
anything. She woke around two a m to find him attacking her husband. Way it looks, Alex Masters caught him in the act. The alarm going off would’ve panicked the guy and he fled
empty-handed.” Not quite. Bev pursed her lips. The burglar had taken his own belongings. Not so much as a grain of sand had been left.

“Why wasn’t the main alarm on?” Question from a new-ish DC. Bev was about to answer when DI Pete Talbot piped up. Despite his bulk, she’d not noticed him hiding away at
the back. He’d still been at the scene when Bev left, now looked as knackered as she felt.

“My guess is because Alex Masters was in the house. He was in his dressing gown, which makes me think he may not have been in bed when the perp entered. We know he arrived home after
midnight.” Next door’s security camera had footage. “Maybe he felt like unwinding after the drive, fancied a nightcap, a bit of music. He wasn’t expected back at all that
night according to what the wife told Bev.”

“That’s right.” She nodded. “According to Diana, he split his working week between London and Birmingham. Apparently followed the same pattern for a couple of years. A
neighbour said the same. Obviously we need to run checks, but it looks as if anyone who knew the family...”

“Or made it their business to find out.” Byford glanced round then tasked two DCs with tracing Masters’s movements on the day he died. The Sandman would almost certainly have
known them. Serious players didn’t just show up in a striped jumper carrying a swag bag. They recced a location for days, weeks sometimes, recorded comings and goings, established habits.
Everyone has a routine – not just comedians. And the Sandman was no joker. Seemed to Bev the burglaries had been planned to the last detail, carried out to the nth degree. Unless... She
straightened, eyes narrowed, finger against lip.

“What is it, sergeant?” Byford recognised the pose.

Sergeant? Still pissed with her, then. “He cocked it big time last night, didn’t he? Instead of finding Diana Masters on her own, the perp comes face-to-face with her old man. He was
lucky not to get collared. Now he’s looking at a life sentence.”

“And?” Byford’s leg swing had gone up a gear.

“What if it’s not the same guy? What if some wannabe picked up the MO in the papers? Within hours of details about the mask etcetera being in the public domain – our man goes
from hot-shot to toss-pot. Strikes me as weird, that.” Encouraging copycats had been a factor in the guv’s original decision not to release the information.

“Could be,” he said. “Might just be coincidence. Either way, the killer’s still out there.”

“Not for much longer, mebbe.” The Yorkshire accent carried across the room. Every head turned. Jack Hainsworth had a smug look on his face and a sheet of paper in his hand.
“CCTV opposite the house? Guess who’s been framed?”

Twenty minutes later as many bodies as would fit in the viewing room were squashed round one of the monitors. A despatch rider had biked the tape from Moseley to Highgate.
Darren New cracked a stale line about popcorn. Then the guv pressed play. The relevant sequence hadn’t been cued so they stood through a minute or two of suburban street life: scintillating
shots of empty milk bottles, overflowing wheelie bins, lamp posts, lots of privet. An emaciated fox provided the only action when it limped across the road. Bev crossed her legs, dying for a pee,
debating whether to nip out.

“Needs fast-forwarding,” Daz pointed out. “Look.” A piece of paper with a note of the relevant time frame had been stuck to the box. Thank God for that. Bev wasn’t
sure how much more excitement she could take. Great detection rate though – given CID’s finest was gathered. Reminded her of an old gag: how many cops does it take to screw in a light
bulb? None, it turned itself in. Punch-line was different in West Midlands Serious Crime Squad days: depends how many cops planted it. She considered sharing, trying to lighten the tension. Looking
round she doubted Peter Kay could raise a smile. Anyway, it was show time...

Byford hit Play again, few seconds of build up and then... the big entrance. The perp came tearing through the Masters’s front door, halted briefly at the gates to the drive. Sharp focus,
perfect shot. Of a man in black, average height, average build. All very Mr Norm – except for the clown mask. “Take it off for God’s sake,” Byford muttered.

The guy glanced from side to side before dashing to the left and out of frame. For several seconds no one spoke or moved, every gaze fixed on the screen as if expecting the perp to make an
encore, take a bow.

Daz started a slow handclap but the guv cut him a glance that would’ve silenced the crowd at a police concert.