Part 11 (1/2)

Tight-lipped, she took it from the line-up where it was tucked between a lime-green T-rex and a day-glow pink guppy with Barbara Cartland eyelashes. The egg-timer wouldn't qualify for a place; it wasn't kitsch enough for one thing. The hourgla.s.s in a wooden frame was a traditional design, not trashy rubbish. Secondly, it wasn't totally useless: an egg-timer had a purpose presumably this one also had a message.

She perched on the bed, timer nestling in her palm, slowly she inverted it, watched the sand trickle down. She tried to read beyond the obvious, and not to read too much. But if this was from the Sandman, he'd made it personal. The suggestion? That time was running out?

It was past midnight before Bev hit the sack, knackered, drained and still grappling with th.o.r.n.y thoughts. Was it the Sandman who'd been in her home? Was the timer a warning, or a challenge? She'd kept the find to herself during the subsequent two hour session with Sumi and Fareeda. The talk had dragged on and on, going nowhere slow: Fareeda stone-walling at Olympic level, Sumi sincere but ineffectual in getting her cousin to divulge who'd inflicted the injuries. Bev had gone through coax and cajole mode to bribery and coercion. Nothing worked. The girl was adamant, she just wanted a few days to get her head straight. And her nose and teeth, presumably. Bev had it in mind to pay a house call on the Saleems, nothing heavy, just a quiet word. She'd take advice on that from the one person she knew who might be able to give her a decent steer. a.s.suming Oz was still talking to her. She'd know soon enough, she'd left a message on his answer phone.

Throughout the discussion, the pregnancy kit had burned a hole in Bev's mental pocket. But by the time Sumi called it a day, it was too late to bring up the issue. Too late. And Bev was too distracted and if truth were told not feeling particularly well-disposed towards the girl. Jeez. Bev was only human. Manana would do. Fareeda wasn't going anywhere, and was under strict instructions to bolt every door and window in future to stop further unauthorised entries.

Bev lay on her back, gave a jaw-breaking yawn. So much for an early night. The egg-timer was on the bedside table; she reached for it now, held it in both hands and watched the slow trickle of sand. Was it a challenge from the killer? This is your mission should you choose to accept. The line from the Cruise movie had sprung to mind unbidden. She gave a thin smile. If she was honest, hadn't she instinctively made the decision the instant she picked up the timer knowing she risked destroying prints?

A personal challenge she could take. No doubts on that score. With a black belt she was more than capable of kicking a.s.s, going too far even; inflicting and taking serious damage. She'd been there more than once; the danger since last year's attack was willingly going there again. Having been through the worst she had no fear, little restraint. Personal risk wasn't a factor. But the professional?

She turned the timer again, watched the sand glisten in the lamplight. If she went out on a limb over this, played the Maverick card, she could kiss goodbye to the cops, never mind the stripes. Teflon Girl they'd called her after the last disciplinary. Mind, there were times she still felt like telling the suits to stuff it anyway. On the other hand if she told the guv what was going off, he'd put a 24/7 tail on her. He'd done it once before behind her back; she'd hated it then, wouldn't tolerate it now. Baby-sitting she didn't need. And the last thing she wanted was to scare off the perp.

Anyway, what had she got to lose? Metaphorically or actually everything she valued had already gone. Her babies. Byford. Oz. Bring on the sodding violins, Beverley. She snorted, gave a wry smile. The sand had run out. She placed the timer back on the table, turned off the lamp, snuggled under the duvet. ”Bring it on, suns.h.i.+ne. Any time...”

THURSDAY.

22.

It was pitch black when the phone roused Bev from a deep dreamless sleep. Bleary-eyed, fuzzy-headed, several cylinders short of an engine she made a grab in the dark, heard something tumble and crack. s.h.i.+t. Great start. Had the timer gone for a Burton? No going to work on an egg today, then. Come to think of it where was Burton? And why'd people go there? And could she care less? Sharpen the act, cobweb-brain. She shook her head. At least she'd located the mobile. If this was another hang up... She snapped out a peremptory, ”Bev Morriss.”

”Wakey wakey, rise and s.h.i.+ne.” Mike Powell. The DI wouldn't be asking about the state of her health. ”How quick can you get to the General?”

Duvet flung off, she flicked on the lamp, clocked the time: 06.17; registered an intact egg-timer, and the picture frame she'd knocked over: her and the guv on a weekend in Bath. Mouth turned down she calculated rapidly. The hospital was a ten-minute car ride, quick shower, face on, piece of toast. ”Half an hour, forty minutes.”

”Forget the slap, Bev. Make it twenty.”

Her hand stilled on the bathroom door. It was more than the fact he'd used her first name, there was something in the tone she couldn't pin down. ”Why the rush?”

He'd not had a shave; she could hear the rasp as he rubbed his chin. ”Because the latest victim might not last that long.”

Latest? Her scalp tingled. ”You talking Sandman?”

”Got it in one.”

She was rooting through the wardrobe for a suit. ”I'll hold the shower.”

06.33 and it was sheeting down when Bev hit the slick stone steps at the General's wide front entrance. She'd used half of one of the intervening sixteen minutes to scribble a note to Fareeda: new locks being fitted bolt them! Then with the DI's words ringing in her ears, she'd shot three reds, slewed a ticket-less Polo across two parking bays and made a dash for it. Race against time? G.o.d, she hoped not. After only a short sprint rain streamed off the leather coat and trickled down her spine; she knew her bob would look like a skull cap. Inside, the heat was tropical, her skin felt clammy, and she was out of breath. She fanned her face with a hand. Steam would be rising any minute, some of it from her ears given what she'd learned en route. Powell and Control had fed more detail via police radio. Tight-mouthed, she loosened the coat; b.a.s.t.a.r.d Sandman had excelled himself.

The victim was Libby Redwood, thirty-seven, Kings Heath address. She'd been found semiconscious by her sister. The women had been due to catch an early flight to Paris, the sister Kate Darby driving them to the airport. Getting no reply at the house, alarm bells had rung. The Sandman indeed any criminal activity had been the last thing on Ms Darby's mind when she let herself into the property. Her sister was a chronic asthmatic; the fear was that she'd suffered a severe attack. She'd done that all right.

Flas.h.i.+ng ID at security and reception, Bev headed for A&E, boots squeaking on s.h.i.+ny lino as she power-walked the corridor. If the medicos had failed to stabilise Mrs Redwood, Bev knew it was unlikely she'd get a look in let alone an interview, but the sister was here too. Powell was desperately hoping she could give them a heads-up. The inspector had no doubt the break-in was down to the Sandman. It had the hallmarks: the sand, the pillow, the pound sign carved in the flesh.

The DI was overseeing ops at Knightlow Road where a full forensic team was finger-tipping the place seeing if any evidence could be salvaged. The fact that Kate Darby had contaminated a crime scene was neither here nor there given the state of her sister. According to the DI, Ms Darby had found the victim tethered to the bed, gasping for breath, an inhaler inches from her bound hands. Kate had administered medication, called an ambulance and alerted the cops. In that order. Even so, it was touch and go whether Libby Redwood would make it. b.a.s.t.a.r.d Sandman? s.a.d.i.s.tic monster.

Bev neatly sidestepped an orderly's mop, nearly collided with an empty trolley being wheeled by a heavyset porter with industrial acne. Palm raised in apology she stepped up the pace, registered inconsequential detail in pa.s.sing: fingermarks on pea green paintwork, flu jab poster, picture of the Christmas raffle winners. Lucky for some.

It struck her again how hospitals were like cop shops: open all hours. Current action wasn't Sat.u.r.day night fever level, though nowadays any night could be binge-fuelled febrile. The buzz was low but building as she approached the department: beeps and hums, rustling curtains, swis.h.i.+ng screens, toast and coffee smells detectable among cleansers and TCP.

The scene as she turned the corner brought Bev up sharp. It was too late. She knew it the second she caught sight of the dignified though distraught woman clutching a handbag on her lap as if her life depended on it. Kate Darby was seated in an orange plastic chair over by the far wall, silent tears streamed down her ashen face as a doctor sitting beside her spoke in hushed tones. Bev heard the odd phrase: oxygen levels, respiratory failure, everything we could. And sorry.

Even from here, Bev could see the woman's knuckles were white, the bones looked as if they'd split the skin any time soon, a foot tapped a jerky beat. She halted, reluctant to intrude on the raw emotion, felt a flash of anger. What planet was the doctor on? This was no place to deliver a death message. Private grief. Public arena. Glancing round, she registered that wasn't quite the case. A couple of nurses stroked computer keyboards but there were no punters in sight or earshot.

She took a calming breath and swallowed. Realistically when it came down to it, the location was immaterial. Libby Redwood was dead and nothing, let alone mourning etiquette, was going to bring her back. Bev balled her fists. It was show time. She'd have to b.u.t.t in, probe, push, trot out trite words. She hated this aspect, loathed it to b.u.g.g.e.ry. Like most cops she was sick to death of telling herself it was a s.h.i.+t job but someone had to do it. s.h.i.+t didn't even come close. So? Put up or shut up. Heat. Out. Kitchen. Make that hospital.

And it was time to enter; the uneasy dialogue over the way was clearly coming to an end. Wis.h.i.+ng she had a speech writer, even an idea of her lines, Bev braced herself, plastered on a well-rehea.r.s.ed face. ”Ms Darby?” The woman lifted her head, the doctor whipped round in his seat. Bev didn't offer a hand, it didn't seem appropriate somehow. ”I'm sorry for your loss. I know this is a bad time. I'm Detective Sergeant...”

”No way, officer.” Glaring through horn-rimmed gla.s.ses that didn't fit, the doctor jumped up and tried doing the human barrier act. The name badge on the open-necked s.h.i.+rt read Alistair Munro. Big Al came up to Bev's shoulder and was several years junior. ”How about showing a bit of respect here?”

One thing Bev appreciated was being lectured at by a condescending speccy short-a.r.s.e. Lip curled, she drew herself up to her full height. Then looked closer and backed off. She clocked the signs of exhaustion on his face: lilac shadows under bloodshot eyes, flaky skin, not-so-designer stubble. The man was missing more than a few hours' sleep, he'd just lost a patient and was trying to protect a woman who'd undergone what was probably the worst night of her life. She could empathise with him. Up to a point.

She raised both palms. ”You got it, doc. If Ms Darby doesn't...”

”Don't 'doc' me, detective.” He took a step closer, jabbed a superior finger. ”Can't you see you're out of order?” Officious little prat.

Bev felt the blush rise, her palms tingle. And not with embarra.s.sment. He was pus.h.i.+ng his luck. She arched an eyebrow, nodded at the horseshoe work station a few metres away. ”A word, Doctor Munro.” Something in the tone? A darkening of those blue eyes? The guy hesitated but only a heartbeat or three. ”Please excuse us, Ms Darby.” Soft, solicitous request from Bev.

She heard his footsteps behind, turned deliberately sharply just before they reached the destination. She wanted him up close but not personal: the mouthwash didn't mask the baccy breath. Voice low, matter of fact, using a little licence, she said: ”The man who killed Libby Redwood is out there.” It was pre-dawn but he cut a wary glance to dark, rain-lashed windows. ”He's killed before. Got a taste for it now. Odds are he'll kill again. The other victims are so traumatised they'll probably never lead a normal life.”

Pale grey eyes widened as he pushed the gla.s.ses up his nose. ”Other victims?”

”Four women scared of shadows. Including their own.” Casual delivery, deadpan features. ”See, Doctor Munro, I'm trying to help. I want to give those women closure and stop the b.a.s.t.a.r.d getting to anyone else. Cos you know what?” She c.o.c.ked her head. ”He doesn't scare me. Fact is I'd like to beat the s.h.i.+t out of him. I don't like men intimidating women.” She stepped in, couldn't get any nearer. ”Do I make myself clear?”

For a second she thought he'd try and save face by telling her to p.i.s.s off, but he was only a baby bully. ”I take your point, detective.” He backed away, glancing over his shoulder where Kate Darby sat, still clutching the bag. ”But look at her.” The victim's sister stared into the distance, lips moving almost imperceptibly, foot still drumming the floor. ”She's in shock.”

”No. I'm not.” She cut him a glare, made eye contact with Bev. ”I'm trying to remember exactly what Libby said.”

Bev's jaw hit the tiles. ”Said?”

”Before the ambulance arrived.” The woman rose, self-a.s.sured, graceful. ”Is there a coffee bar? Caffeine helps me think. And it's important I get it right. Whoever did this needs locking up. And that's where you come in, isn't it, sergeant?”

Byford's bulky outline blocked the doorway. He clutched a sodden Fedora in both hands, his black trench coat slick with rain. The kitchen at Knightlow Road had been given the forensic all-clear or he'd be in whites. If worth it he'd slip into kit anyway, put back the brief if need be. It was still early yet. Wall clock showed the time coming up to seven. ”What have we got, Mike?”

A startled Powell whipped round, mug in hand. ”Guv? What you doing here?” Byford smelt coffee, the DI must have been helping himself. He let it go: Powell wouldn't get away for hours, everyone needed a break. As to why Byford was at the crime scene he was sick of sitting on his backside, seemingly twiddling his thumbs.

”Relax. I'm only taking a look.” He masked a smile at Powell's vain attempt to conceal his unease. He probably thought the big man was checking up or muscling in. And to an extent, he'd be right. Mike was a decent cop, more plodder than high flier, but he'd only been back in harness a couple of days, it would be easy to miss something. Byford raised an eyebrow: like everyone else hadn't. It wasn't just that, though. The senior detective had felt more than the normal urge for action. The higher the rank, the bigger the desk, the more difficult to get away. Much of his job was strategy, admin, shuffling papers, not dealing with people. Give him hands-on any day, however dirty the work.

Powell rinsed the mug under a tap. ”As to what we've got, being honest, not a lot. There are prints on the tethers, but Chris reckons they'll be the sister's when she released the vic.”

Byford nodded. ”I'd heard.” He'd b.u.mped into the FSI manager on the way in, also learned that the sand and tethers would almost certainly be untraceable. And that the point of entry french windows at the back of the house was clean as a bleached whistle. No useful treads either; the over-sock technique had been employed again. Fact the house hadn't been trailed with mud gave them a pointer towards the timeline: according to the Met people, the rain hadn't started until around five a m. Big deal. Top line was this: given the perp's past record they had little hope of coming up with the forensic goods.

Byford glanced round. The kitchen was what he supposed they called farmhouse chic: bra.s.s pans hanging from cream walls, pine dresser full of blue and white striped crockery, bowl of dried lavender on a washstand, frilly curtains, feminine touches. He shook his head, wondered if Mrs Redwood would ever want to return after what the intruder had put her through. ”Why her, Mike?” He narrowed troubled grey eyes. Something had to connect the victims, sometimes seemed the more he looked the less he saw.