Part 4 (1/2)
”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 p.i.s.sed with her, then. ”He c.o.c.ked 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 Yorks.h.i.+re 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?”
9.
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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d's sake,” Byford muttered.
The guy glanced from side to side before das.h.i.+ng 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.
”Right.” Byford balled his fists. ”I want every frame of footage from every camera in the vicinity viewed. I want everyone on it traced. And I want every vehicle on it checked. The perp didn't disappear into thin air.”
”Never know, guv.” Pollyanna Morriss speaking. ”The geek squad might work a bit of magic.” Amazing what the guys in technical operations could do.
”The pictures need a miracle, sergeant. So unless Christ's on the payroll...”
”That who I think it is, boss?” Mac c.o.c.ked his head at a print-out pic on Bev's desk his crossed ankles were up there, too.
”Doing in my chair, Tyler?” She slammed the door, stomped across the floor of her office. ”Feet. Now.” Finger click.
Sheepish, he swung down desert boots, vacated the hot seat. Bev s.n.a.t.c.hed the print-out, gave it a good shake. It was dotted with pastry flakes and grease spots. Alex Masters looked as if he had the lurgy. Mind, that was an improvement on his current condition. ”What you been eating?”
”Cheese and onion pasty.” Mac mimed empty pocket linings. ”I'd've saved you a bite if I'd known.”
”There's a gob full on this.” She grimaced, checked her watch, raised an eyebrow. Don't have to be having fun for time to fly. Half past lunch o'clock already.
”I take it pretty boy's the vic?” Mac hadn't actually seen Alex Masters dead or alive; not even spotted the photo at the house. She filled in the guy's back story: ex-criminal prosecution lawyer, barrister to the rich and famous. Byford was already up to speed: Bev had just come from his office. She'd intended sharing the information on Masters during the brief, but Jack Hainsworth's dramatic denouement had brought the curtain down early. Not that it was the main reason for her visit to the big man. She'd dropped by to pa.s.s on news from technical operations if not good then slightly less bleak. The images of the perp weren't as black as Byford feared. She'd spent an hour or so with techie manager Brian Whelan. Though there was still a bunch of b.u.t.tons to twiddle before getting final results, it was looking a tad brighter.
”Brian reckons there might be more than meets the eye to the Park View footage.” Bev stood at the side of her desk, leafing through paperwork.
Mac turned his mouth down. ”Like what?”
She was binning the boring stuff: crime stats, performance reviews, today's initiative. ”Logo on the jacket. ”She tapped her upper arm. ”Another on the rucksack.” Both needed enhancing.
”Rucksack?” Mac queried.
”Yeah, I didn't spot it first time round either.” No one had. The communal focus had been on the face, well, the mask. ”Nor the socks,” she added.
”Socks?”
Distracted nod. ”Two pairs, Brian reckons.”
”Two pairs?”
”You got parrot genes, mate?” She dithered about ditching the print-out of Masters's Times profile, decided to leave it be. ”Yeah. Thick wool socks over his shoes.” Or trainers, boots, ballet pumps. Guessing game, wasn't it? The perp was au fait with enough forensics to know to mask his footwear as well as his face. FSIs covered up to protect crime scenes; crims did it to protect themselves. Proof as if the cops needed more to know they weren't dealing with a goofball. Also the best indication yet that the Sandman had wheels. And that the motor couldn't have been parked a million miles away. Byford's instruction to check every camera in the immediate area now had added imperative.
Mac had been gazing at the Times article. ”Masters was an ugly b.u.g.g.e.r.” He pulled a face. ”Would you give him one, boss?”
”Not now, I wouldn't.” She sniffed. ”Got the time, Mac?” Her watch was in full view and there was a clock ticking on the wall.
”Uh?” Puzzled frown.
”I need a lift.” She was already shucking into her coat.
”Knew you were on the cadge,” he said. ”The Mac's a giveaway.”
Hitch-hike thumb in the air. ”Yeah, well, I can see you're rushed off your feet.”
He was now. ”Where you want dropping?”
”Baldwin Street. Motor's gotta be sorted and I need to catch a few zeds.” Donna Kennedy had called first thing. The Sandman's third victim wanted the interview rescheduled for this evening. Probably double-booked or something; she'd struck Bev as a bit of an air-head. Blonde, late-forties Donna had a touch of the Stepford wife, except Simon Kennedy had been dead more than a year. Though Bev hadn't much time for the woman, calling round this evening was no sweat. It was this morning's four a m shout that was a problem.
”Sleeping on the job, boss?” Mac winked as held the door for her. ”Part-timer.” Like he'd not already slipped home for a kip and a shower.
She caught a mixed citrus whiff. ”Changed the aftershave?”
”No!”
Olfactory hallucinations: she was smelling things. Definitely needed a break. Counter-productive to keep going when you could barely keep your eyes open. Anyway unlike the paperwork, the overtime budget wasn't a bottomless pit.
”This lift, boss?” They were strolling down the corridor.
”Yeah?”
”Cost you.”