Blood Money (9 page)

Perp’s point of entry was easy to spot: lower right casement window was boarded up. Bev homed in for a closer look, clocked traces of dab dust on the sill. Not that there’d been any
prints. A guy canny enough to wear socks over his footwear was hardly going to oblige by leaving greasy fingermarks all over the shop.

Mother’s little helper was fixing a pot of Earl Grey. Bev pulled a face. No problem with the Jaffa cakes though. The girl looked as if she could do with scarfing a few packets herself, not
so much slender as painfully thin. She was keeping her back to Bev. Chatty little thing.

Bev ran an exploratory finger along the granite worktop, played with one of the brass weights that went with a set of scales. It slipped through her fingers and landed in the sugar bowl. Without
a word, the girl fished it out, ran it under the tap, put it back in its proper place.

Suitably chastened, Bev shoved her hands in her pockets, carried on with the tour. She twitched a lip at the celebrity cook books. The blessed Delia was bang next to the hairy bikers; the naked
chef rubbed shoulders – make that spines – with the domestic goddess. Maybe the Masters had done a lot of entertaining? Mr and Mrs Dinner Party. Bev pursed her lips, somehow
didn’t see Diana getting steamed up over a hot Aga.

She perched on a corner of the table, swinging a foot. “How long you worked here, love?” The girl turned, leaned against the sink, her gaze seeming to weigh up the question. Her eyes
were the palest blue Bev had ever seen. Before she spoke, she tightened her already taut pony tail. “Not long.”

Shame that. She might’ve had a clue where the bodies were buried. Mental grimace. Not the brightest expression. Given Alex Masters’s corpse was in the morgue. She winked. “What
d’you think of it so far?” Then reached for a biscuit.

“Help yourself.” Bev’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. The girl grinned, raised a palm. “Only joking.” An apologetic smile softened her face, the teeth were
perfect, tongue pierced. Bev might have pigeonholed her too soon: Little Miss Chatterbox appeared to have hidden depths. Drown if she wasn’t careful.

“This job then?” Another prompt. “D’you like it?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.” She pushed herself up, started pouring the tea. “Not like being a cop though. That’s dead cool. Do you get to do all the murders?”

“Not personally.”

Cartoon frown then she cottoned on, giggled like a schoolgirl. “D’you need a degree and stuff?”

Stuff mostly. “Why? Thinking of joining?”

“No way. Just wondered.” Laughing, she pushed a mug in Bev’s direction. “You know where the sugar is.”

Bev couldn’t read the girl at all. Either her humour was an acquired taste or she was taking the piss. She stifled another yawn. Blood sugar must be down; she bit into a second biscuit.
“When you’re ready, love. Sooner I’ve had a word, sooner I can get off.” Bev narrowed her eyes, used the Jaffa cake as a pointer. “Is that Mrs Masters?” She
strolled over to the Smeg where she’d spotted a photograph partially obscured by four or five fridge magnets. Diana Masters was barely recognisable from the grieving widow she’d met
first thing. Stunningly attractive woman, dolled up for a night out. Charity do? Dinner? Something of the sort.

“What’s she like, then? Your boss?”

“Ask her yourself. Dickhead.”

“Sergeant.” Bev’s head whipped round. Diana Masters was standing in the doorway. “I see you’ve met my daughter.”

Why hadn’t the girl put her right? Bev was seething.

“Don’t mind Charlotte, Sergeant. She’s upset.” Diana Masters was still framed in the doorway. Her placatory words broke a prickly silence. Bev noted the woman’s
immaculate make-up, the classic black dress. Widow’s weeds. Before she could fashion a reply, the girl kicked off.

“Too right I’m upset.” The girl jabbed a finger at Bev. “And
she
doesn’t mind. She doesn’t give a shit. She’s an arrogant, slack, insensitive,
condescending... pig.” Sharp words, hard face, shining eyes.

Bev felt a blush rise, her heart rate was up, palms tingling. “Finished?”

“I’ve barely started, ‘love’. You walk in here like you own the place, snoop round, talk to me as if I’m a simple-minded pleb. How dare you?”

Lecture from a lippy git she could do without. Bev opened her mouth to bite back. Then stopped. Did the girl have a point? She’d just lost her old man. Was Bev guilty as charged? Had she
crossed the line? Again. Either way, the situation needed cooling. She had to have Charlotte Masters on board; the girl might hold vital information. Pissing off a potential witness wasn’t
the best way to elicit it. Damned if she was apologising though. She raised both palms. “What can I say?”

“Sorry wouldn’t be a bad start.”

“Sorry.”

The pale eyes held a contemptuous glare. “God help us if the police are all like you.” She was probably older than her slight frame and heavy irony habit suggested. Bev revised her
original estimate upwards to early-to mid-twenties. The girl curled a thin lip. “Talk about scraping the barrel.”

That was a barb too far. “You could’ve said something. Instead of...”

“... making you look a fool? Didn’t need my help, love.” Fighting talk but she was shaking like a leaf. And she still hadn’t answered the question.

Bev tapped a foot. “Why didn’t you let on?”

She folded her arms. “If you must know, I was curious. I wondered just how far you’d go. You and your ignorant arrogant attitude. No wonder the police are always getting it in the
neck.”

A strange sound staunched the flow of vitriol, and halted Bev who was mid-stride towards the girl. They glanced round in synch. Diana Masters, head in hand, was slumped against the door, tears
dripping from her wrist.

Bev moved first. “I’m so sorry Mrs Masters.” Genuinely gutted. It was only a few hours since the woman had witnessed her husband’s murder. Last thing she needed was a
dogfight in the kitchen. Bev placed a gentle arm round the woman’s shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”

“Why don’t you just get out?” the girl answered.

“Please, Charlotte. She’s only doing her job.” Mrs Masters’s beautiful face was masked in pain. Mask. The main reason for Bev’s visit; she’d wanted to
question Diana about the clown mask. She led the widow across the kitchen, settled her in a chair. Shallow breathing, shaking, the woman was showing classic signs of a panic attack. Was there any
mileage pushing it now? Bev stifled a sigh. “Take it easy, Mrs Masters. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

“Don’t bank on it. Love.”

Bev turned back at the door. If looks could kill, Charlotte Masters would swing for her.

The bedroom lights were low, boosted a little by the glow from scented candles: cranberry and cinnamon, Christmas leftovers. The smells reminded him of Christmas Eve, the first
burglary. Under the mask the man was smirking. He studied his reflection, loved the effect the flickering shadows had. No wonder it scared the rich bitches. If he was the nervy sort it’d put
the wind up him. He snorted. Like that’d happen any time soon.

He turned his head this way and that in the triple mirrors, angled the glass so it reflected the clown face over and over again, each image a little smaller, a little more distant. Diminishing
returns? The man sniggered. No way. Easy gains. Offing Masters had been a breeze.

Hands palm down on the dressing table, he zoomed in for a close-up. Through the slits, pinpricks of light danced in his pupils. Dark glittering eyes. That’s what the old woman said when
she’d mouthed off to reporters. He’d read it in the papers. So it must be true. Read a few other things as well. One of the rags wanted the lead detective to resign. He’d seen the
cop on the news trotting out the usual platitudinous crap. By God, he’d like to bring the smug bugger down. None of the feds had a clue.

The media had started calling him the Sandman. How cool was that? Sighing, he shifted back on the stool, observed from a different angle. Just as he was having the most fun it would soon be
over, time to hang up the mask. Not to worry. There were compensations. He reached for the phone.

Mac hadn’t even placed the glasses on the table before Bev blew. “See, here’s the thing... if your dad’s on a slab down the morgue surely you
don’t go round dicking off a cop?”

He sat opposite, shoved her Pinot across, raised his glass. “Cheers, boss.”

They were in the Prince, just down the road from the nick. Apart from cops, the place was full of old codgers, all very dominoes and Double Diamond. He couldn’t remember when she’d
last agreed to go for a jar. Though not her shout, this quick post-brief half had been Bev’s call. It soon emerged she was after a sounding board, not a drinking partner. Mac was on bitter
and sank a few mouthfuls.

“Well, do you?” Tight-lipped, she tapped a beer mat. He pointed at her glass, waited until she at least tasted the wine. He’d heard about the verbal dust-up with Charlotte
Masters. She’d talked him through it on the way here, the unexpurgated version. She’d treated the brief to the barest of bones. Most of the squad’s focus had been on follow-ups
from the CCTV cull, possibility of a couple of leads there.

“Like her ma said, maybe she was upset.” He hauled two packs of roasted peanuts from his pocket.

“Doh.” She caught one single-handed. “Course the girl’s upset. Her dad’s dead. You’d think she’d have better things to do than play silly buggers with
me.”

Mac kept his eyes down. Pissing people off was becoming Bev’s default mode. Sometimes not even deliberately. “OK... if it wasn’t something you said...”

“If?” She glanced round, dropped the volume. One old geezer was adjusting his hearing aid.

Mac bit his lip, counted ten. “If it wasn’t something you said... what are you driving at?”

She leaned across the table. “I know it sounds off the wall, but... what if she’s hiding something?”

He raised a sceptical eyebrow. “About the murder?”

“Drugs maybe?” She shrugged. “Something a bit dodge.”

He shovelled in a handful of nuts, chewed it over. Bev leaned in closer. “Maybe by alienating me she thinks she can distance herself from the police.” The statement had a question in
it – as did her eyes. She was seeking reassurances Mac couldn’t give. Surely the notion sounded lame even to Bev?

“That’s bull, boss. She’s Masters’s daughter. Important witness. She knows she’ll have to talk to the cops, just not...” Talk to you. He didn’t say it.
Didn’t need to.

“Cheers, mate.” Face flushed, she banged the glass on the table. Like half a dozen old boys, he watched her stalk out the bar, coat flapping like the wings of a fallen angel.

Greensleeves
. Why do people spend good money on doorbells with naff tunes? Bev scowled, pressed the buzzer again, stamped her feet. Despite the cold she was well steamed
up. Mac tower-of-bleeding-strength Tyler. It was like the
Greensleeves
lyrics, all those doing-me-wrongs and discourteous-castings-off. She’d wanted Mac’s reassurance, not his
if-it-wasn’t-something-you-saids. Raw nerves and struck chords. She pursed her lips. Deep down, Bev feared Charlotte Masters had every right to feel aggrieved. And that dropping hints about
the girl being up to no good was classic defence strategy: attack being the best back-coverer. On the comfort front, Mac hadn’t exactly overdone the routine. She sniffed. His stand-up was
probably crap too.

It wasn’t just the Masters spat that was needling her. She was ravenous, dog tired and it was arctic monkeys out here. She gave a deep sigh, glanced up. Not a cloud in sight, ice chip
stars winked against a black velvet canvas. Very Lucy in the sky with diamonds... But where on God’s earth was Donna with the wisdom pearls?

She checked her watch: just after seven-thirty. The arrangement wasn’t even down to her; Kennedy had rescheduled it from this morning. Mind, ever since the first meeting, she’d had
Donna filed under D for ditzy. Had the visit slipped Mrs Butterfly Brain?

For a third time she rang the bell, let her finger linger for at least half a verse. Delighting in your company?
I should be so bloody lucky.

Was there a light on upstairs? Bev stepped back. Not a pinprick anywhere. Lots of rosy glows elsewhere in Marlborough Close. It was like a mini Dallas: white houses, balconies, lots of wings.
Very urban ranch, darling. The close was one of Harborne’s upmarket enclaves. She snorted. Not like her own dear Baldwin Street where motors weren’t safe from marauding lowlifes.
She’d walked the road earlier while waiting for the mechanic to show, hadn’t spotted any other broken glass in the gutter. Still not sure what to make of it. Maybe other car owners had
already cleared the damage. She wasn’t paranoid. Couldn’t be a cop if you were. But as Alfie had implied, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

She felt for the Maglite in her bag. Right now, it was Donna Kennedy she wanted in her sights. She sauntered back to the door, bent to peer through the letterbox. This had so better not be a
waste of...

Shit a brick. An icy chill shot down her spine. Shivering with shock now as well as cold, Bev’s heart pounded. It was all she could do to keep the torch steady, but the flickering beam
cast more than enough light. Donna Kennedy lay curled on her side on a Persian rug, sightless green glass eyes seemed to stare straight through Bev. Reproach? Remorse? Revulsion? Bev’s next
thought unleashed a shock wave that made her scalp tingle. Had the Sandman returned? Had Donna been a threat? Would key information be buried alongside her body? Had the cops unwittingly left it
too late? Bev fumbled in her bag for the phone, took a final glance before setting the circus in motion. The woman’s waxy white face wasn’t set in fear. The death mask said something,
but it was an expression Bev couldn’t read.

The suicide note was more legible. Five minutes later and Bev stood in the hall wrestling with frustration and fury, a single sheet of ivory paper fluttered in her hand, the
writing firm, the message clear. Donna Kennedy had killed herself because the Sandman had taken everything that made her life worth living. She described the humiliation of the attack and its
terrible aftermath. How what had happened made her feel ashamed, vulnerable, violated. Bev bit her lip as she reread the final desperate words.