Part 5 (2/2)

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 rea.s.surances 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 gla.s.s 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 rea.s.surance, 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 cla.s.sic 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 c.r.a.p 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 G.o.d'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 b.u.t.terfly 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 b.l.o.o.d.y lucky.

Was there a light on upstairs? Bev stepped back. Not a pinp.r.i.c.k 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 gla.s.s 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...

s.h.i.+t a brick. An icy chill shot down her spine. s.h.i.+vering 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 gla.s.s 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.

12.

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.

Night and day his eyes menace me, follow my every move from behind that grotesque clown face. Everything scares me now. I trust no one. I'm weak and lost and life is worthless...

The Sandman had imposed a death sentence and as good as executed it. Bev squeezed the bridge of her nose. The poor woman hadn't been ditzy. Donna Kennedy had been driven to despair, clinically depressed and dying inside. So she'd swallowed enough happy pills to externalise the process. And made sure she'd never feel anything again. Bev placed the note on the hall table, raised an ironic eyebrow at a charity shop pen near the phone. Charity sure hadn't begun at home here. She knelt at the dead woman's side and gently stroked Donna's fine fair hair from her once-pretty face. She hoped to G.o.d the woman had finally found some peace.

Bev's was shattered by more bars of Greensleeves. b.l.o.o.d.y racket. She rose and walked to the door half expecting to see the police doctor she'd called. You didn't have to be Quincy to know Donna Kennedy wasn't going anywhere under her own steam. The death still had to be certified by a medico.

”You looked as if you could do with a drink.” The neighbour who'd let Bev in hovered on the doorstep offering hot chocolate. Small, round, twinkly-eyed, grey-permed, a Mrs Tiggy-Winkle made flesh.

Touched by the kindness of strangers, Bev managed a weary smile. ”You're a star, Mrs Wills.” Latex gloves peeled off and pocketed, she wrapped chilled fingers round the warm mug. ”Thanks a mill.”

”Reckon you can polish this off?” Bev's eyes lit up; a Penguin nestled in her palm. Talk about bird in the hand...

”Do bears sh...sing in the woods?” Whoops.

”If you need me you know where I am. And I think you'll find what bears do is s.h.i.+t.” Cheeky wink.

Bev watched open-mouthed from the door as the little woman scurried through a gap in the hedge, herbaceous short cut. Maybe she was missing Strictly Come Something Inane on the box. Bev narrowed her eyes. Missing something. A notion niggled that she was failing to spot something as well. When she bit into the Penguin, her mouth watered. Maybe the sugar hit would kick-start the mental juices too. As for Mrs Wills the telly addict aspersion was unfair. The woman had just done her a good turn. And Donna Kennedy. The mutual key holding arrangement had emerged during Bev's initial interview with Donna. Thankfully it had sprung to mind before she forced the door.

Closing it now, Bev leaned against the wood, took a few sips of chocolate, studied the layout, the body. Why was Donna's final resting place the hall? Surely it made more sense to pop your pills and clogs in bed? Had she been heading for the stairs when she collapsed? Bev had found empty blister packs scattered across a kitchen surface, half-full tumbler of water on the draining board. Christ. The poor woman hadn't even used booze to blur the edges. Had she miscalculated the dose and the dying time? Sense? Calculations? Logic? h.e.l.lo! The woman was topping herself, not auditioning for Countdown.

But why call to rearrange the interview? Was it a cry for help? Chewing it over with the last bite of Penguin, she wondered if the final act had been spur of the moment madness. Or if Donna had hoped to be found before the pills took effect. Bev swallowed hard: frigging screwed that up then. What a futile waste of a life. She closed her eyes, clenched her jaw. The sympathy was fused with anger now. Why couldn't Donna have clung on just a gnat's longer? Could she see no light at the end of the tunnel? In the darkest of Bev's dark days, ending it all had never crossed her mind. Homicide, sure. Suicide, never. She still dreamt occasionally of blowing away the mad b.i.t.c.h who'd killed her babies. Snuffed them out before they'd drawn breath. She took a calming one of her own.

Maybe if Donna Kennedy'd had kids she'd not have cut the mortal coil. Far as Bev knew there were no close relatives. Not that finding out was down to her. The death wasn't suspicious. No one had forced Donna's hand, doors or windows. Apart from uniform, Bev had called off the troops. Soon as officers arrived she'd shove off. They'd tidy up here then dig into the family tree, see if anyone needed the news breaking. s.h.i.+t job that was.

Thinking of which... She stifled a yawn, pulled her mobile out of her bag. This wouldn't be a bundle of laughs either.

Byford was eating at the kitchen table, red wine at one elbow, latest Henning Mankell at the other, Bob Dylan blowing in the wind for company. One of the detective's new-year-new-man resolutions was to avoid the microwave and rubbish ready meals. Tonight he'd pushed out the culinary canoe. The fresh pasta was cooked to perfection, and the Matriciana was to die for. The Chianti was going down a treat too. Displacement activity? Probably. He sure needed something to take his mind off work. He knew it wouldn't last soon as the phone rang. Scowling he s.n.a.t.c.hed the handset, glanced at caller ID. ”Make it snappy, Bev. Dinner's on the table.”

”Donna Kennedy's in the chiller. That snappy enough?”

Tight-lipped, he traced a finger along his eyebrow. Another death down to the Sandman? His heart sank as he considered the ramifications, professional and personal. The media had already written Byford off. The final edition of the Evening News had run a readers' poll: Cop out or in? Isn't it time this man goes? Flattering picture they used: looked as if he had special needs. The paper had gone in the bin. Outside. Byford reached for his gla.s.s. ”Go on.”

”Topped herself. Overdose. Antidepressants.” He heard her tapping foot add punctuation. ”No suss circs. Uniform are here. Ditto the doc. I'm off home. Bon bleeding appet.i.t.”

Deep sigh. ”Sergeant. Please.” No point slapping her down. She'd clocked up sixteen hours flat, the exhaustion was audible. Bet she hadn't eaten either. He wandered to the stove. ”What were you doing over there anyway?” Plenty of sauce left? Easily rustle up another portion of penne? No. Don't even think about it.

”I told you.” Tut. ”She switched the time of the interview.” He grabbed his wine, leaned against the sink, listened as she filled in the details, how she found the pills, position of the body, letter left on the hall table. She threw in her take on the woman's mental state, her notion that it may have been a cry for help.

”Or plea for attention.”

”Maybe...” She paused. He pictured her at the other end: blue eyes narrowed, lips turned down. ”Think she was scared of not being found, guv? There's no kids in the picture, no close family. Maybe she couldn't handle the thought of lying dead for days?”

”So she called you? Thinking you'd get there, take care of the fall-out?”

”Cheers, guv. Feel better already.”

He sipped the wine. ”Suicide's genuine? No doubt on that score?”

”You'd have none either if you'd read the note. b.a.s.t.a.r.d killed her though.”

Didn't need spelling out. He heard a door slam, the rasp of a match, deep intake of breath. She'd kicked the habit when they lived together. Raised eyebrow. Well, said she had. He glanced round; Bev touches still graced the place: blueberry candles on the windowsill, a Playgirl ap.r.o.n hanging on the back of the door. A present. Not that he'd worn it. Nor the Santa hat on top of the fridge. She'd left before Christmas.

”Is it possible she knew him without even realising it, Bev?” The Sandman.

”Anything's possible...” A 'guv' was swallowed by a yawn. ”Guess we'll never find out.”

Forensics might though. He'd get a guy round there. Couldn't dump the sorting on Bev, she needed her bed. ”Has the press got wind of it yet?”

”Not that I know.”

It wouldn't be long though. He rubbed a hand over his face. Maybe the media was right. Maybe he should go. Maybe he was getting too old for this lark. Or maybe he was sick and tired of spending every long empty evening alone in a house that had only recently seemed too big.

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