Part 4 (2/2)
Eye-roll. ”How much?”
”Pieces of eight.” Strangled squawk. ”Pieces of...”
She laughed. He gave good parrot. ”In your dreams, Percy.”
10.
”Little sods. They give animals a bad name. Need caging, the lot of 'em. And I'd chuck away the keys.” The belligerent rant came from an old bloke whose head only just came up to Bev's shoulder. They were standing on the pavement outside her Baldwin Street pad, both staring glum-faced at the vandalised MG. Alfie Yates was a neighbour, born and bred in the house opposite, they'd lived a stone's throw apart for three years. Neighbourhood Watch? Bev hadn't even noticed the little man until he introduced himself a minute or two ago. Alfie was making up for lost time. Rabbit-rabbit.
Half-listening, she vaguely wondered why he'd never hit her radar before. The job probably. One of the drawbacks. The culture and anti-social hours meant personal hinterland never mind community involvement was mostly bare. Bev could count on the fingers of one digit the number of people she felt vaguely close to. Right now she wished she was next to the git who'd given the Midget a c.r.a.p make-over.
Hands jammed in the pockets of her leather coat, she circled the car, totting up the damage. Two arms and a leg, she reckoned. Jagged lines had been gouged down both sides, gla.s.s shards from the wing mirror winked from the gutter, the soft top had s.h.i.+t air con. Stanley knife? Screwdriver? Metal comb? b.l.o.o.d.y sharp whatever it was.
Alfie was waiting for a response, but she wasn't sure her voice wouldn't crack. She loved the motor more than some old boyfriends including their bodywork. As for the MG's? Lips tight, she traced a finger along one of the raggedy tracks, emitted a fringe-lifting sigh. She peered inside. What was with the scarf on the pa.s.senger seat? s.h.i.+t. What with everything else kicking off, the old lady and the lost supper had slipped her mind. Mental note: surrender knife.
”Police've been round,” Alfie told her. ”Called them myself first thing. Though what good the Old Bill'll do. I say old...” Derisive sniff. ”Spotty-faced kid, all of twelve.” His volley of tuts set loose dentures clacking like castanets. ”What's your line of work, Bev?”
”Air hostess.” Didn't miss a beat. Might've had something to do with the Boeing flying over. ”I'm away a lot.”
He gave her an old-fas.h.i.+oned look, but didn't comment. She felt a bit mean lying, but telling people what you did for a living wasn't worth the ha.s.sle. Alfie was a retired postman apparently. He had a round face, and his bald crown looked as if it had a white fur trim. Several chins concertinaed into an un-demarcated neckline. He put Bev in mind of a monk. There was no sackcloth, but plenty of ash. Alfie's angry words were punctuated with sign language from a wildly gesticulated Sherlock pipe.
As to the cops not nailing the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, Bev tended to agree. Even in the best of times, criminal damage didn't get much of a look in on the police priority list, right now most cops' eyes were peeled for the Sandman. She'd pull the attending officer's report when she got back to the nick, but since first sight of the ruined paintwork, her gut had told her this was personal. Maybe she'd kicked one b.u.t.t too many. She wasn't on Mys.p.a.ce or Facebook, they were too in-your-face from a cop's point of view. But Bev didn't need a social networking site to know where the bad guys lived. And vice versa. Should they feel moved to find her.
”Mindless yobs,” Alfie sneered. ”No discipline, no respect. Streets aren't safe anywhere these days.”
Bev narrowed her eyes. Dorkboy? Could this be down to the yob and his gang? She tapped fingers on thigh. Nah. Probably not. There were likelier lads in the frame. She ran a few names through her head, all but missed Alfie's next diatribe.
”... the whole b.l.o.o.d.y road.” He took it in with a sweep of the pipe.
She stepped back from the fall-out. ”Say again, Alfie?”
”One end o' street to t'other. Five cars and a van they done over last night. Well, I say last...”
She frowned. ”Sorry, Alfie, you saying it wasn't just my motor?”
”No, la.s.s. What makes you think that?”
Wry smile. ”Must be getting paranoid.”
He tapped the side of his nose, gave a broad wink. ”And y'know what they say about that?” He was still chortling as he crossed the road, waving the pipe. At the door he turned, shouted back. ”Don't worry, la.s.s. I'll keep an eye on the place. When you're on your travels.”
Travels? She'd be lucky to take a flight of stairs.
Bev's pessimism was well-grounded. It was mid-afternoon before the motor was sorted, or at least on the road to being sorted. Carl, a mechanic at the Easy Rider garage she used in Stirchley had driven over with a swapsie, a VW Polo to tide her over. She'd not long waved them off, leaving neither time nor inclination for a kip. Sleep was the last thing on her mind anyway, too many notions buzzing round in there already.
One of which she wanted to moot to Diana Masters.
It was getting on for half-four when Bev parked the Polo outside the house in Park View. PC Danny Rees had drawn the short straw again. He was on the door, meticulously recording comings and goings, logging it was called. Well exciting. Just thinking about it made Bev yawn. Thinking one step further, it meant the forensic boys hadn't pulled out yet. Big job on their hands though. She peered through the windscreen. Sky was blue ink with a smattering of star glitter. Not surprisingly, the search team was calling it a day. Some of the guys stood chatting round the back of a white van, metal shelving and steel cases visible through the open doors, a couple of searchers still trying to find the way out of their paper suits.
Bev gave a wolf-whistle as she locked the motor. ”Wotcha.” There were a few waves and Hi, sarges. Rubbing her hands, she strolled to join them, wis.h.i.+ng to h.e.l.l she'd brought gloves. ”Any joy, lads?” Nothing earth-shattering or surely she'd have heard?
”Big fat screwdriver do you?” Tall, stick-thin guy with a pencil moustache. Robin? Robert? ”It was used to force the frame in the kitchen window.”
Was he winding her up? ”You joking?”
”Not me, but the perp's got a sense of humour.” He told her it had been found in one of the Masters's flower beds, only a cursory attempt made to hide it. Lab work would confirm the forensic match, but to a trained eye the screwdriver had definitely caused the marks in the wood.
There had to be a punch-line but she couldn't read it in his face. ”'Kay, so why aren't I laughing?”
”He'd only nicked it from next door's garage.” The neighbour had been looking for it, actually in the garage at the time, happened to glance into the Masters's garden and saw the action. ”Knew it was theirs straight away, sarge.”
”How come?”
”Her husband carves his initials in all his tools apparently.” He wiped the back of his neck with a crumpled hankie.
”Her?”
”A Mrs c.u.mmings. Joy, I think she said.”
Bev arched an eyebrow. They had come across a bit of joy then. ”Prints?”
He snorted. ”Now that is funny.”
The screwdriver was so clean it squeaked. Not a solitary whorl. It had been carefully wiped before being left almost in full view. Bev stamped her feet, more to keep the blood flowing than signal frustration, though there was a smidgen of that, too. The Sandman obviously wanted the cops to find it. Why? Because nicking neighbours' tools to gain access was the sign of a pro. In this case a two-fingered wave to show the cops how clever he was. Like they needed further proof. The guy was savvier than a smart a.r.s.e convention.
”We can't go on meeting like this, Danny.” Bev winked.
”Sarge.” Still on door duty, PC Rees blushed as he stood to one side to let her in. Wiping her boots on the mat, Bev was still smiling when a waif carrying a tray of crockery stepped gingerly down the Masters's wide staircase. The tray looked too heavy for the girl's slender frame. Her dull blonde ponytail was sc.r.a.ped back so tight it brought tears to the eyes and accentuated what were already sharp features. The shapeless cheap-looking gear had charity shop written all over it. The girl had to be the hired help. Marie, was it?
”Hiya.” Bev raised a hand. ”I'm Detective Sergeant Morriss. Bev. Can you tell Mrs Masters I'm here, love?” She'd told the widow four-thirty on the phone, it was only a few minutes after.
”Sure. Would you like to come through to the kitchen?” Bev did the honours with the doors. Cups and saucers rattled as the girl laid the tray on a heavily scarred butcher's table. ”She was having a nap. I'll just see if she's awake.”
Lucky for some. Bev stifled a yawn. Mind, if the widow wasn't ready... ”Cup of tea'd be nice while I wait.”
Slight hesitation then: ”No prob.” She pulled one of the Bentwood chairs out from the table, Bev ignored it, took a nose round. The racing green and b.u.t.termilk colour scheme wasn't to her taste. Kitchen itself was a weird blend of retro and high tech gleam machines. Probably need an engineering degree to work the Gaggia; mind, it could double as a mirror. She peered at her reflection. Save a bit of time in the mornings you could apply the slap waiting for your espresso to perk or whatever it is espresso does.
Perp's point of entry was easy to spot: lower right cas.e.m.e.nt 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.
<script>