Part 5 (1/2)

Bev ran an exploratory finger along the granite worktop, played with one of the bra.s.s 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 G.o.ddess. 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 p.i.s.s. 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. d.i.c.khead.”

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

11.

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 p.r.i.c.kly silence. Bev noted the woman's immaculate make-up, the cla.s.sic black dress. Widow's weeds. Before she could fas.h.i.+on 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 s.h.i.+t. She's an arrogant, slack, insensitive, condescending... pig.” Sharp words, hard face, s.h.i.+ning 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. p.i.s.sing off a potential witness wasn't the best way to elicit it. d.a.m.ned 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. ”G.o.d 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 sc.r.a.ping 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 att.i.tude. 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 cla.s.sic signs of a panic attack. Was there any mileage pus.h.i.+ng 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 b.i.t.c.hes. 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 gla.s.s so it reflected the clown face over and over again, each image a little smaller, a little more distant. Diminis.h.i.+ng returns? The man sn.i.g.g.e.red. 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, pinp.r.i.c.ks 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 plat.i.tudinous c.r.a.p. By G.o.d, he'd like to bring the smug b.u.g.g.e.r down. None of the feds had a clue.

The media had started calling him the Sandman. How cool was that? Sighing, he s.h.i.+fted 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 gla.s.ses 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 d.i.c.king off a cop?”

He sat opposite, shoved her Pinot across, raised his gla.s.s. ”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 gla.s.s, 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 b.u.g.g.e.rs with me.”

Mac kept his eyes down. p.i.s.sing 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?”