Part 2 (1/2)

Unlike these poor sods. Eyes narrowed, Bev ran her gaze along the Sandman's expanding hit list: Beth Fowler, Sheila Isaac, Donna Kennedy and the latest pin-up Faith Winters. Their ages ranged from thirty-nine to fifty-five. All lived alone in posh houses: one in Edgbaston, one in Harborne, now two in Moseley. The pictures' high profile in the incident room was supposed to keep the team focused, allow them to put faces to names, see the victims as people not crime numbers. Guv's call again. Good one, given most of the squad hadn't even met the women, let alone interviewed them. Bev had. So why wasn't it helping? Where was the famed Morriss insight? The lauded empathy? Down the pan probably, with a load of other s.h.i.+t. Arms folded, she paced up and down, studied the victims' faces. Come on, Beverley, think. What was the link? Apart from the haunted look? And a pound sign carved in their flesh?

”I'm late. Sorry.” Byford ferrying a steaming mug strode to the top of the room. Thank G.o.d he was on coffee. Peppermint tea and it meant his IBS was playing up. Bev caught a whiff of Calvin Klein aftershave too. He'd converted after she told him Old Spice was for wrinklies. Why he had a thing about his age when he had a George Clooney smile was beyond her.

Grabbing a pew, she watched the big man s.h.i.+ft a pile of files, before perching on the corner of a desk. He paused briefly while Mac finished a phone call, then with no preamble: ”We need fresh impetus. The inquiry's not moving fast enough.” Rocket up r.e.c.t.u.m time, then. Bev wondered if the guv was in the firing line as well. ”It's three weeks since the first burglary,” he said. ”Each attack's more violent than the last and we're up to four. My big fear is he's losing control and if we don't stop him we'll have a murder inquiry on our hands. All this Sandman stuff in the papers isn't helping. As for the blow-by-blow account...” Deep sigh. No need to spell it out. Villains loved column inches; a.s.suming they could read. Byford ran both hands through his hair. ”We need a result, pretty d.a.m.n quick.”

Bev wouldn't mind betting the bra.s.s was on his back as well as the media. A top-floor b.o.l.l.o.c.king could explain the tardy arrival, Byford was fanatically punctual. ”Hate to say it, guv.” She was counting on her fingers. ”January fifteenth today, right? First burglary was Beth Fowler's place, Moseley, Christmas Eve.” The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had nicked presents from under the tree as well as every piece of jewellery she owned. ”Ten days between that and the break-in at the Isaac place, in Edgbaston. Seven days after that he turns over Donna Kennedy's pad in Harborne.” She raised splayed fingers. ”Latest gap's five.”

They got the picture. Attack frequency as well as ferocity was increasing.

”What if it's not a bloke?” Daz speculating, hesitant.

”You having a laugh?”

”Sergeant.” Soft warning from the guv. ”Go on, Darren.”

”No one's seen a face,” he argued. ”Voice is easy enough to disguise. Plenty of women wear dark gear.”

”Like it, Daz.” Bev nodded. ”Why didn't I think of that? And what with rape threats being a girl thing... case closed. Let's all sod off down The Prince.”

New reddened, looked as if he'd been out in the sun without protection. But no one laughed, the silence was uneasy and Byford took his time before breaking it. Bev stared straight ahead, arms tightly crossed. She might've said sorry but her mouth was full of feet.

”Keep the thoughts coming, Darren.” Byford in face saving mode. ”He may have a female accomplice. Who knows? There's no evidence either way, so no one rules out anything. Clear?” Bev sensed the guv's glare. It was eight seconds before he spoke again. ”The knife found near the scene could be our best bet, but there's no sense pinning all our hopes on it.” You can say that again, guv. Bev sniffed. She still felt the discovery was either coincidence or overly convenient. ”Either way,” Byford continued, ”it'll take several days for the lab to come up with anything. That's time we can't waste. Right now, we need to go back to the beginning, look for what we've missed. There have to be connections we're not seeing.” Pause to let that sink in then, ”Bev, I want you to re-interview the victims. They may have come across each other without realising it. If need be bring the women together here. Get them talking. See what comes out.” She nodded, opened her mouth to speak, but he'd moved on. ”Remind me who was checking stolen property?”

Carol and DC Sumitra Gosh had been trawling jewellers and p.a.w.n shops with photos of some of the items. Sumi wasn't at the brief, but Carol had a list in front of her. Not all the names had ticks. ”We've still got a few to get to, sir, but...” She held out empty palms. Not so much as a nibble.

Odd that. Bev mulled it over while Mac reported progress on mask shops. Suppliers were ten a penny, he reckoned. There'd be better odds tracing the invisible man in Ikea. But the more Bev thought about the stolen goodies...

”Guv? What if he's not doing it for the money?” Her question drew dubious frowns all round, but she'd had longer to toy with the idea.

Byford slipped a hand in his pocket. ”Go on.”

She sat up, tucked an errant strand of hair behind an ear. ”How much stuff's he nicked? Gotta be getting on for a hundred items, yeah? Sixty, seventy grands' worth?”

”At least,” Carol confirmed.

”He's had some of it three weeks. We've not had so much as a sniff. Even Marty can't give us a steer.” Marty Skelton, otherwise known as Boney M, was a veteran snout, or CHIS as cops were supposed to call them these days: covert human intelligence source. If a load of hot stuff was on the streets, Marty would've heard a whisper.

”Where are you going with this, Bev?” The key jangling suggested she'd best get on with it.

”What if it's a power trip? Not the cash. The control. The rape threat scares them s.h.i.+tless. Creams his jeans.”

”The a.s.saults haven't been s.e.xual,” Byford said.

”Yeah, well, maybe he can't get it up.” Mac wasn't the only guy on v.i.a.g.r.a. Pursed lips suggested Byford wasn't on board. ”Come on, guv. He loves it. It's why the attacks are getting worse.” Faith Winters had been stripped, the knife run over her body, and he'd whacked her in the face. He'd not gone that far before. ”As for the mask, the sand, the pound sign? He's a clown. It's a game. A mind f.u.c.k. Cos he can't...”

”Thank you.” Byford raised a hand: point taken. He gave it some thought, then: ”If you're on the right track it moves things on, means more digging.”

A new motive if that's what it was widened the operation's remit. Continuing checks on known thieves and burglars would have to be extended to cover convicted and suspected s.e.x offenders: flashers to full blown pervs. Squad members would examine MOs looking for patterns, similarities, however vague, however small. It was a mammoth ask. It meant raking over scores of cold cases as well as looking again at G.o.d knew how many current inquiries. And it meant cross-checks with forces all over the UK. Coco could well be with a travelling circus.

Byford delegated the bulk of the work, made it clear he wanted Bev to concentrate on the victim interviews. ”OK, let's get on with it. See you back here this evening.” He stopped by her desk on the way out. ”Press conference. Three o'clock. I'd like you there.”

She curled a lip, it was news to her. The big man swirled his mug, glanced round for a tub, tipped the dregs. ”Need more than a drop of Nescaff, that, guv. It's plastic.”

The Pound Shop was in a one-size-fits-all Black Country high street: Warley, Walsall, Wednesbury they were indistinguishable to the man in black. He was after a new knife and he rather liked the irony of pound signs plastered over the grubby windows. Not that they were a patch on the ones he left behind. He gave a sly grin. b.i.t.c.hes ought to be grateful. Body art was a skill. Looked at one way, he was throwing in a free tattoo. Last night was the best yet. The grin turned into a smirk as he recalled events at the Moseley pad, fancy the old biddy p.i.s.sing herself then pa.s.sing out. Before the fun had even begun.

He smoothed his hair in the gla.s.s, batted away smoke from a couple of f.a.g-ash Lils hogging the doorway and entered the store. When he spotted the display, his dark eyes gleamed. He gave a quick glance round before approaching it. Place was full of lard-a.r.s.e cheapskates stinking of chips and stale sweat. No way would he run into anyone he knew. He'd driven out of town just in case though, better safe than sorry. Like as if the plod were going to trace the sale. ”Bleeding pigmies,” he muttered.

Shoot. For one moment this morning, he thought they'd never find the knife. He'd sat in the back of the van watching the search team, wondering if he'd have to point the silly sods in the right direction. He'd killed a cat to get the blood. Not that they'd come across the carca.s.s; he'd buried it well.

And planted the knife. What a hoot. It was part of the joke, wasn't it? And worth the risk. Nothing better than seeing woodentops race round like headless chickens. That reminded him. He took out his phone, replayed the action. Pics weren't brilliant, but it looked as if the bird in blue was calling the shots. He ran his tongue over his teeth. For a cop she wasn't in bad nick. He wondered what her name was; easy enough to find out. If he wanted to. He zoomed in on the face, took a final appraising look, nice eyes, shame about the job. He shoved the mobile back in his pocket. Duty called.

There wasn't a lot of choice. He selected a similar one to before, balanced it in his palm: good feel, excellent fit. He ran the blade lightly over his thumb, watched a thin pale line appear. Yep. It'd do. He'd sharpen it at home.

6.

It was DI Mike Powell who'd dubbed the smokers' patch at the back of Highgate nick Death Row. Bev was out there now taking a well-earned breather. The last three hours had been non-stop, the next three would be all-go. Leaning against the wall, she pictured Powell as she lit up, a lazy smile spreading across her face. The DI was a tall, sarky blond who fired from the lips. They'd worked together for nearly ten years, had more run-ins than Ford motors. She missed the pops and verbal sparring. Still, his three-month stint at Hendon would soon be over, she'd probably feel like swinging for him before he'd been back a day.

Silk Cut midway to mouth, Bev paused, eyes creased. Sumitra Gosh. What was she doing here? Life member of ASH was the delectable DC. ”Slumming it, are we, Gos.h.i.+e?” She realised her mistake the instant the woman turned. Though tall and willowy, with waist-length blue-black hair, she wasn't Sumi: close but no cigar. Should've realised. The DC usually kept her luscious locks under wraps at work, this girl's small delicate face was framed by sleek black curtains.

”Beg pardon?” The voice was similar, too, though not the nervy grin. Gos.h.i.+e wasn't short on confidence.

”My mistake, love. You've got a double.” Bev glared as a traffic cop gunned an Astra, shot off in a cloud of spewed fumes and sprayed gravel. Petrol d.i.c.k. ”They all think they're Jeremy Clarkson round here,” she quipped.

Diffident smile from the young woman. Bev watched her pull the collar of her sheepskin coat tighter. It was nippy out here. ”I'm just waiting for someone.” Hesitant, wary. ”Is that OK?”

Bev waved a magnanimous hand. ”Feel free.” Then flapped furiously at the resultant clouds of smoke. ”Whoops.”

Nervy giggle this time. ”No worries. It doesn't bother me.”

”Kushti.” Bev took a few covert glances; shame about that chipped tooth. Other than that she was the spit of Sumi: high alt.i.tude cheek bones, dark chocolate eyes. They could almost be twins. The gene pool penny dropped. Stunning detection powers, Bev. ”Are you Sumitra Gosh's sister?” Triumphant beam.

She shook her head. Nice one, Clouseau. ”We're cousins. I'm Fareeda. Fareeda Saleem. It is OK if I wait here?” The girl cast a wary glance round the car park.

”Course it is.” Must be cop shop syndrome. Like white-coat syndrome. Only without the white coat. ”She knows you're here?” Bev asked.

”Oh, yes. I called first.” A gust of wind caught her hair: it was like a curtain opening. For the first time, Bev had full view of the girl's face. And the damage. She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, stuck out her hand. ”Bev Morriss. I work with Sumi.”

Thin bangles jangled as she reached to return the gesture. ”Are you a police officer?”

”Detective Sergeant.” Matey smile. It was pretty clear why the girl needed to chill. And have a cousinly chat. ”Want to wait in the canteen? I'll take you up if you like. Lot warmer there.” If nothing else, Bev fancied grabbing coffee en route to the news conference.

”No, it's OK. Sumi'll be here...”

”Talk of the devil.” Bev used her baccy as a pointer. DC Sumi Gosh was unfolding impossibly long legs from a squad car. Enviable effortless grace. Well impressive. When Bev extricated herself from the Midget it came close to indecent exposure.

Sumi locked the driver's door, headed over, couple of files under an arm. ”How's it going, sarge?” Her smile faded when she clocked Fareeda. ”Why are you here?” Anger? Concern? Impatience? Nope. Bev could read neither expression nor intonation. Sumi was giving nothing away. Except the lie to her cousin. Oh, yes. I called first. Like h.e.l.l. No way was Sumi expecting to see her. ”What do you want?