Part 8 (2/2)
”Thank you.” She gave the card a quick glance, placed it on the alb.u.m. Grilling over, she sank back, visibly relaxed. But something was bugging Bev, seeing the pictures reminded her. They'd now traced Alex Masters's movements on the day he died. He'd returned to his London chambers late afternoon after the unexpected collapse of a big case. He'd told a partner he intended clearing a backlog of paperwork, gave no indication he was thinking of heading back to Birmingham. Clearly, he'd changed his mind. Security cameras clocked him leaving the building just after eight p m. He'd eaten at a bistro round the corner before collecting his Audi from an underground garage. More cameras and a paper trail showed he'd stopped for gas and coffee at Cherwell Services on the M40. Next door's CCTV had footage of him arriving home at midnight, parking the car and letting himself into the house.
”One more question, Mrs Masters. Any idea why your husband didn't call? Let you know he'd be back?”
”He did call.”
”But you...”
”Around eight. To say goodnight. He sounded tired. He said he was going to eat then go back to the apartment.” A bachelor pad in Docklands, according to the DC who'd run the checks.
”And he didn't call again?”
She sighed. ”I guess he may have tried...But when he's away, I generally go to bed early, take a pill. And you know, sergeant.” The widow glanced at her husband's photograph, a sad smile tugging her lips. ”Despite appearances, Alex was an incurable romantic, quite impulsive from time to time. It could be he wanted to surprise me.”
He'd sure done that.
PC Danny Rees, mobile glued to his ear, was perched on the bonnet of Bev's motor. The Polo was a rental: Rees was on borrowed time. ”s.h.i.+ft your a.r.s.e, Rees.” If his bony b.u.m had dented the bodywork, there'd be h.e.l.l to pay. Not to mention the Easy Rider garage. Smartish he jumped up, backed away, palm raised in apology, still gabbing on the phone. Park View was pretty quiet this time of day, posh, affluent, definitely not ASBO territory. People in these parts had letters after their name. Bev lit a Silk Cut, picked a fleck of baccy from her tongue. ”What you reckon, mate?”
Mac unwrapped a Mars bar, jabbed it in her air s.p.a.ce. ”You should stop smoking.”
”Yeah right. Diana Masters. Top line.” Travelling back to the nick in separate cars meant it'd be a while until they could pick over detail.
”I think she was doing her best.” He took a bite, then: ”Seems genuinely cut up to me. What'd she say about the will? 'I'd give away every penny if it brought Alex back'.”
Pa.s.s the sick bag. Mental slapped wrist. As to the attack, the widow had related though not verbatim the same sequence of events. That augured well for authenticity if not totality. What Diana Masters had seen was so traumatic the brain was probably suppressing the full picture: subconscious censors.h.i.+p, cerebral defence mechanism. Witnessing murder was bad enough, how much worse when the victim was someone you love? Diana had adored Alex Masters; Bev didn't doubt that for a minute. Neither did Mac.
”Wors.h.i.+pped him, didn't she?” He winked, shoved in the last bite of chocolate. ”What's he got I haven't?”
Apart from eight million quid? Smoke curled from Bev's flared nostrils. ”How long you got, mate?”
Danny joined the confab, pointing the phone at the Polo. ”Sorry about that, sarge.” Gleam in the eye, he tucked the mobile in a tunic pocket. ”Heard the latest?” Clearly, he was gagging to share.
”s.h.i.+pping forecast?” Bev drawled. ”FTSE? Give before I keel over in a frenzy.”
He glanced round like it was cla.s.sified information. ”There was this nutter on top of Selfridges...” Past tense.
She flapped a get on with it hand. ”And?”
Pursed lips. It was his story and he was telling it. ”Dressed as a clown. Police were there, fire, ambulance, the works...”
”Danny?” She flicked ash on the ground. ”What's happened to him?”
”Him?”
17.
Jessica Kathryn Harvey. Twenty-two. The picture on the dog-eared student card didn't do her justice. Pensive, DI Powell fingered the plastic wallet, recalled again the flawless skin and perfect features of the young woman who'd died in front of his eyes. She reminded him of someone, or maybe it was just the t.i.tian hair. Maybe it was a painting he had in mind.
He sighed. Back at his desk now, he couldn't shake off the incident: the sickening thud of the impact, shocked gasps from the crowd, then a stunned silence that seemed to last for ever. Unbidden, the phrase dead weight repeated again and again in Powell's spinning thoughts like a stylus stuck in a groove. He'd reached her first, longed to brush away the rough grit from her ivory cheek. Desperately she'd opened her mouth to speak but words were beyond her. The mask lay a few feet away, red s.h.i.+ning lips parted in wide garish grin. It must've flown off in the fall. Powell balled his fist. Why? For frig's sake, why?
He slumped in the chair, loosened his tie. G.o.d, he could do with a drink. Times like this he almost wished he smoked. Had Jessica Harvey been on the wacky baccy? Or the booze? Some mind-altering substance? Had she been so wasted...? He closed his eyes. Saw again the lovely undamaged face. It was her body that had been smashed. Surely her mind had already been broken?
Maybe the mother could shed some light. Poor cow was driving down from Whitehaven to identify her only child. He had to put it behind him. Jessica Harvey's suicide was uniform's baby. Why was that a relief? Why couldn't he stop thinking about her? The introspection was uncharacteristic and useless. Focus and move on, man. They had a killer to nail, he sure couldn't see the Sandman handing himself in any time soon.
”You're trying to tell me that's the Sandman?” Byford slung the paper across his desk, leaned back in the chair, legs spread. Bev averted her gaze, looked instead at ”that”; a child's drawing, crude primary colours. Five-year-old Daisy Towbridge had come up with the artwork in exchange for a bag of Gummi Bears from PC Danny Rees. Under her mother's watchful eye in the kitchen of their Moseley home, Daisy had crayoned a likeness of the man she claimed took her cat. Unorthodox, sure. Inadmissible, deff. Potential? Maybe. Unconvinced, Byford picked up a pen: cla.s.s dismissed.
Bev stood her ground. ”Think of it as first draft, guv.” She'd been equally sceptical until she'd heard the full story. Danny had spent time chatting to the girl and showing a bit of initiative organised the impromptu sketch show off his own bat. He'd asked Bev to be there when he ran it past the big man.
She tilted forward slightly, read upside down. It looked as if Byford was immersed in some poor sod's Performance Development Review. More sodding paperwork, more sodding accountability. Like there weren't enough hoops to jump. Every officer was monitored every b.l.o.o.d.y month nowadays. Why not go the whole pig roast? Make the snoop-test weekly, dish out gold stars or detentions on a Friday afternoon. Sod the rain forest. Danny looked gutted, too. She'd give it another shot. ”Come on, guv, at least think it over.”
Byford sighed, lay down the Waterman. ”She's five years old, sergeant.”
”So?” Blank look, empty palms. ”Obviously we'd need to bring her in, organise a child witness officer, police artist. Working on it together, they might come up with something worth feeding the press.” She'd already checked Al Copley's availability. He was Highgate's top imager, known inevitably as Pica.s.so.
”Again sergeant.” He tapped a finger on the desk. ”She's five years...”
”Age isn't IQ, guv.” Come on, Danny, help me out here.
”She's bright as a b.u.t.ton, sir,” Rees enthused. ”Well advanced for her years.” Bev masked a smile. Not quite Danny's earlier, pithier, precocious brat.
Byford raised a sceptical eyebrow. ”Reads a lot of fairy tales, does she?” Bev exchanged glances with Danny. Ground was less certain here. Daisy had a lively imagination according to her mother. Even so, it was a weird tale to make up and stick to. She'd told Danny that when she couldn't sleep, she sometimes looked at the stars through her bedroom window; even had a kid's telescope. On the night Faith Winters was attacked, Daisy had spotted a man in the street trying to coax her cat. She'd banged the window; he'd glanced up, grabbed the animal and done a runner. Mrs Towbridge confirmed she'd found Daisy sobbing and had put it down to a nightmare.
”Even the mother thinks it could be the truth now, sir.” That was no lie. Julie Towbridge had conceded her judgement might have been hasty.
Byford narrowed his eyes; Bev read the sign, pushed on. ”If the e-fit, sketch, whatever's no good we don't release it. No harm done.”
He picked up the Waterman, tapped it against his teeth. ”We don't even know it's cat blood on the knife.”
No. But she'd now asked the lab to fast track the tests. ”Should hear later today.”
”The guy could be anyone, Bev. Who's to say it's the...?”
”Thing is, guv, we're not exactly drowning in leads. I know it's long odds, but if the kid did clock the Sandman...” She left it hanging; he'd be aware of the consequences of failing to follow it through.
Byford raised an eyebrow, reached for Daisy's daub. ”Think Al Copley's around this afternoon?”
Oh, yes. ”Want me to check?”
”Keep me posted.” He flapped a hand towards the door. They were almost out of the office when Byford called, ”Nice work, Rees. Oh and Bev?” She glanced back. He had a knowing look on his face and a PDR aloft in his hand. ”Guess whose?”
”Cheers.” Bev toasted Danny's brownie points from the guv with a steaming mug of canteen tea. The young cop had offered to buy her a drink as thanks for holding his hand at the audience with the big man. They'd grabbed a table near the radiator. Not hard in the post-lunch lull, tougher finding anything half-decent to eat. The ratatouille looked like puke and she'd turned her nose up at the liver and onions. Mind, Fareeda's toast was still festering at the bottom of her bag. She'd ferret it out when she got back to her desk, a.s.suming she still had a desk, she'd not seen it since the early brief, it could have been swept away in a sea of paper by now. And why did Danny look so ecstatic not. ”What's up, mate? You should be well chuffed.”
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