Part 8 (1/2)

”Police cordons, traffic diversions. It was like a circus down there.”

He'd come from Highgate to Moseley via town? ”Took the scenic route did you?”

”I fancied a quick nose. Powell's there calling the shots.”

”Why Powell?”

”The guy on the roof's dressed as a clown.”

The Selfridges building is a Doctor Who s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p fas.h.i.+oned by Steven Spielberg out of Salvador Dali. A ma.s.sive blue whale covered with silver discs, it's beached in the Bullring and dwarfs neighbours including the faux-gothic Victorian church of Saint Martin's. Powell reckoned it was surreal enough without a clown mincing along the top. Gazing upwards, he also reckoned Dali would've appreciated the spectacle. The crowd certainly was: scores of shoppers, office workers and the odd wino were enjoying a free show. Uniform was doing its best to keep everyone back, but the thin blue and white line was severely stretched. Powell slipped through the police cordon and headed for the action.

”Eh, you!” A burly uniform grabbed the DI's shoulder. ”Where'd you think you're going?” The loud Birmingham accent set Powell's teeth on edge. Eyes blazing, he shook off a ham-sized fist, flashed his warrant card. The lack of recognition was mutual.

The older man eventually gave a token salute. ”Sorry, sir. PC Knowles. Andy.” They were getting heavy with the crowd, he explained, because there'd already been a couple of public disorder arrests, two youths hacked off with the disruption chucking their weight around and their fists. A few sickos had even been yelling at the guy to get a f.u.c.king move on.

”t.o.s.s.e.rs.” Powell clenched his jaw, recalled an incident in a neighbouring force when a baying crowd acting like animals, goaded a teenager to jump to his death from a multi-storey car park. It was the last thing they needed. ”Negotiator here yet?”

”On the way, sir.” Knowles added that more troops and a uniformed inspector were inside liaising with maintenance people, having a look at the building's layout. Knowles ran a fat finger round his collar. ”G.o.d knows how he got up there.”

Powell shuddered. He was acrophobic. Just looking at the bloke gave him palpitations.

”Has he said anything?”

”Barely a word. Being honest, I reckon he's p.i.s.sed.” The PC sneezed into his hankie, sounded like a h.o.r.n.y elephant. Someone in the crowd yelled, Bless you. Knowles scowled. ”Some of this lot seem to think it's a joke.”

Laughter and cheers broke out as if on cue. Powell's gaze followed craned necks and pointing fingers. And froze. The guy had a gun. ”s.h.i.+t. Get everyone...”

”It's a water pistol,” Knowles snarled. ”He was blowing bubbles a while back. Playing up to the cameras, isn't he?” There was a nearby line of snappers and wannabe auto-cuties with clipboards as well as the world and its aunt taking mobile phone footage.

Powell finger-combed his hair then took a closer look where the lenses were trained. The figure on the roof was in full clown costume: loud yellow-checked jacket, red baggy half-mast strides, striped black and white socks. The fun guy even sported a spotted bow tie. And Powell would be surprised if the b.l.o.o.d.y thing didn't have flas.h.i.+ng lights and whiz round. He was beginning to think the only thing linking this nutter to the Sandman was spin.

Control had taken half a dozen triple-nines from anonymous callers. Punters who'd have read the papers, seen the telly, spotted the clown mask and maybe triple-jumped to conclusions: two plus two equals a pile of garbled Chinese-whispers. Powell sighed. It happened a lot. Mixed messages, mischief makers, genuine mistakes. Either way, he reckoned this was a waste of CID's time. He'd have a word with his uniform opposite number then pull out. Turning to leave, he caught a yellow flash in the corner of his eye. Just for an instant, he fancied the spread arms of the jacket resembled a canary's wings. And though Powell would always recall the incident in slow motion, the clown then took a running jump.

16.

Diana Masters opened the door herself. Her chic black suit was probably Chanel; the row of s.h.i.+mmering pearls accentuated the cla.s.sy image. She looked pretty good for a recent widow, or maybe she knew how to mask the grief. Close up it didn't work. Bev noted mauve shadows under the artfully applied concealer, puffiness around the kohl-lined feline eyes. ”Sergeant Morrison, isn't it?” She stroked the necklace, her Sloane Ranger voice slightly hoa.r.s.e.

”Morriss, Mrs Masters. This is my partner, DC Tyler.” Bev's was a tad hesitant, unsure what the reception would be.

”Morriss, of course, forgive me.” Ghost of a smile, fleeting handshake. ”Charlotte's had to go out, so if you want to talk to her as well, I'm afraid...”

”We'll catch her later, no worries.” Phew. Bev wiped her feet and her mental sweaty brow then told herself not to be a wuss. It only put off the inevitable. The hall smelt of beeswax, the banister gleamed. A crystal vase with stunning red roses had appeared on the dark wood console table since the last visit. Someone had been busy.

A few steps in and Mrs Masters halted, raised her voice. ”Marie? Can you rustle up coffee for three, please?” She tilted her head until the order received m.u.f.fled confirmation from Marie who was likely in the kitchen. Nothing seemed to have changed in the room where they'd first met, though this time the widow eschewed the chaise longue, drifted towards the fireplace, gestured wordlessly at a pair of green leather wing chairs. She slipped off kitten heels, and with shapely black-stockinged legs tucked neatly beneath her, nestled into the arm of a matching chesterfield. ”I seem to spend most of my time in here.” A sad-eyed glance took in the surroundings as she circled her wedding ring. ”Alex loved this room. It's where I most feel his presence.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. ”If that doesn't sound too cheesy.”

She'd made the same point last time. Bev still couldn't see it. The s.p.a.ce was dark and depressing, the deer-laden landscapes dire; she'd junk the lot in the nearest ditch. As to proximity to the dearly departed, the aesthetically-challenged Alex Masters was right beside his widow in photo form. A leather-bound picture alb.u.m lay open on the settee, four or five more lay scattered on the faded carpet. The current spread showed the couple's wedding, traditional post-ceremony poses, wall-to-wall smiles, lots of tender touches, loving looks. Diana Masters had clearly been leafing through the past. They needed to edge her into the present.

”I know this is a painful time, Mrs Masters, but there are questions we have to ask.”

She folded lightly bandaged hands in her lap, neat nails were Barbie pink. ”Of course.”

They'd decided to press ahead with the interview despite the circus kicking off in town. Not that Bev thought the rooftop stunt amounted to a row of beans. Soon as Mac told her the guy was prancing about in full clown costume she'd more or less dismissed him as a serious contender for the Sandman. The perp they were hunting was s.a.d.i.s.tic, calculating, professional. No way would a cold-blooded killer pull a crazy trick that guaranteed prison and a porridge diet. Even if she was wrong, however events in the Bullring panned out, the woman opposite had vital information. All Bev and Mac had to do was draw it out.

”If you could talk us through again what happened the night your husband died, Mrs Masters?” Bev slipped a copy of Mac's notes from her pocket, needed to compare what the woman said now with the original version: omission, deviation, addition could all be telling. When a witness was word perfect it could mean they'd memorised the lines thinking they'd be less likely to divulge incriminating material. Course, they could just be telling the truth.

Diana Masters took a deep breath and swallowed hard. She repeated how the sounds of a scuffle woke her from a deep drug-induced sleep. For a few seconds, she'd thought it was a dream, a nightmare, her husband wrestling with a man in a clown mask. The intruder rained blows time and time again. She didn't even realise there was a knife. Until the smell of blood brought home the terror. She repeated her belief that her husband sacrificed his own life to save hers. By grabbing the killer, Alex gave her precious seconds to reach the panic b.u.t.ton. His reward was another vicious onslaught. She bit her lip. ”How can people like that live with themselves, sergeant?”

What could she say? She shook her head. ”Did your husband speak at any stage, Mrs Masters?”

”Speak?” She looked confused, not rabbit-in-headlight variety, more slightly thrown. ”No. No, I don't think so. He was struggling to breathe, fighting for his life.” She barely reacted when a phone rang somewhere in the house.

”You said the intruder approached you?” Bev asked gently. It was always going to be the hardest line of questioning. The widow closed her eyes, ma.s.saged her temples. Bev exchanged glances with Mac. ”Take your time, Mrs Masters.” Uncle Mac mode.

She was clearly psyching herself up. When she spoke, the words spilled out fast and furious. ”He came within three feet. All I could see were his eyes. Black. s.h.i.+ny. Aroused. He wanted to kill me. I'm convinced of that. It was only the alarm that stopped him. He had to take a split second decision to finish the job or escape. He panicked, called me a...”

A tap on the door halted the flow. Bev cursed mentally. Interruptions they could do without. Marie, presumably, came in with a silver tray, set it on a low table. She looked like Kate Moss a decade ago on a bad day: lanky hair, pouty mouth, pasty complexion. ”Someone called Tate on the phone, Mrs Masters, shall I...”

”I'm busy. I'll call back.” She swung her legs down, sat forward, started pouring coffee into white porcelain cups. The girl hovered with a gormless expression on her face. ”That's all, Marie. Thank you.”

There was milk, sugar, biscotti on the tray. Mrs Masters told them to help themselves. Mac took advantage of the enforced break; he needed a leak, though that wasn't the term he used. While they waited, small talk was strained: the weather, the widow's charity work, the William Morris wallpaper. Jeez. They'd be on the price of onions soon. Bev hid growing impatience; the interview was at a critical stage. Before Mac even sat down, Bev took up the questioning. ”You were about to tell us what the intruder said, Mrs Masters?”

”He called me a f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h.” Her bottom lip trembled. ”No one's ever spoken to me like that in my life.” Lucky you. It was almost a daily occurrence for Bev.

”Was there anything in the voice you recognised, anything that reminded you of anyone?” Long shot given it was just two words.

She shook her head. ”I only wish there were, sergeant.”

”Difficult one this, Mrs Masters.” It was the same question she'd intended putting to Donna Kennedy before her untimely death. ”Is there any chance at all you know the man?” Not easy implying someone has a psycho in their social circle.

Predictably, she bristled. ”Of course not.” Her hand shook and the cup rattled as she placed it in the saucer.

”Please, Mrs Masters, just think about it. Was there anything about him that was even vaguely familiar? Smell, stance, way he walked?” The squad had a.s.sumed from the start the perp wore the mask to prevent the women providing a description, but what if they knew what he looked like. And if they'd seen his face could provide an ident.i.ty? As the guv said, the Sandman didn't flick through yellow pages, looking up V for victim. He appeared to know a fair bit about the chosen individuals. Maybe the likes of Donna, Faith Winters and Beth Fowler couldn't handle the possibility that someone they a.s.sociated with at whatever level could wish them harm, let alone carry out an attack. At least Mrs Masters was giving it some thought now, clearly replaying the scene in her head.

”I think he was quite a young man, twenties perhaps? Powerful, strutting, arrogant, what's the word...?”

”Macho?” Bev suggested.

She nodded, concentrated again. Bev counted fifteen seconds before the widow shook her head. ”It's no one I know, sergeant.” It didn't have to be an intimate acquaintance, Bev persisted. She talked her through possibilities: garage mechanic, travel agent, wine waiter. Again Mrs Masters considered the suggestions before dismissing them. It was the same take on links between her and the other victims. Mac had brought photographs of the women. Diana Masters studied each image carefully. She frowned, hesitating over Faith Winters's picture. Breath held, fingers crossed, Bev asked if she'd come across the woman before.

”Only on the news, I'm afraid.” The widow dropped her head. ”I don't actually know her.”

Bev's heart hit her boots. Gently she pushed again and again, old ground, new ground. The only certainty established was that nothing had been stolen during the incident. Eventually they reached the point where it was counter-productive. ”G.o.d knows I want to help, sergeant.” Mrs Masters ran both hands through her hair. ”I'm so tired I can't think straight.” Each strand seemed to fall back into perfect place.

Resigned, Bev said they'd leave it for now, took a card from her pocket. ”If anything comes to mind, Mrs Masters, even if you're not sure it's important, ring me any time.”