Part 12 (2/2)

”Wish I knew, mate.” They'd known since the get-go Diana stood to inherit, but that alone was no reason to view her as a suspect. She shrugged. ”Know where we're going though.” She had a copy of Libby Redwood's photograph in her bag. It needed showing to the Sandman's other victims: Diana was first on the list. And given where the pic had been taken, Charlotte Masters came pretty high. ”You got wheels, mate?” He told her he'd cadged a lift into town. ”Come on, then. The Polo's in Temple Street.” Mac wrapped the apple pie in a couple of napkins, shoved it in his donkey jacket pocket. ”Waste not, want not.”

As they walked to the car, a shop window full of TVs showing the news brought them to a halt. ”The guv released the e-fit then?” Mac stating the bleeding obvious. A man's face was plastered over a bank of monitors: dark hair, deep-set eyes, wide mouth. Bev bit her lip. Getting Pica.s.so to work with the little girl had seemed like a good idea at the time, seeing the result she wasn't too sure. Every time a visual was given airtime there was risk of duff info overload. The phones at Highgate would soon be red hot again. Byford looked none too happy either. The guv's grim face now filled every screen.

”I hear he got a mauling at the press conference,” Mac said. ”Concerted attack. Media want to know why more officers haven't been drafted in.”

Don't we all? ”Come on, mate. Places to go, people to grill.” She stalked off, hoiking her bag, spotted a familiar-looking guy walking towards them. A quick flick through her memory bank came up with Jagger lips, Fighting c.o.c.ks. ”Hi, Laura. Great to see you again. How you doing?”

Struggling. Sweating. Skin crawling. Laura! Mac was never going to let her live this down. ”I'm good.” Apart from the hot flush. ”You?” The guy was well fit, younger than she remembered. But what the h.e.l.l was his name? Christ, it was only Sunday they'd spent the night together.

”I'm cool. It's my lunch break. I work just across the way.” He jabbed a thumb over his suited shoulder; silk tie needed tightening a notch. He flicked Mac a polite face, probably thought she was with her dad. ”Hey, I'm just about to grab a coffee...?” Seriously tasty or not, she wasn't about to join him. A drug user was a bad habit for a cop to get into.

”Sorry, mate.” She forced a smile. ”Another time?”

”Any time. Give me a bell.” He gave a mock salute.

Mac didn't utter a word, just hummed all the way to the motor. Tell Laura I Love Her. Bev stood with the key in the door, one foot tapping. ”Come on, Tyler. Spit it out.”

”Me?”

”Now.”

”Nothing to do with me, boss. You want to lie about your name, play around with toy boys. That's your shout.” He dropped his voice. ”Long as you...” Don't let it get in the way of the job?

”Don't go there, constable.” Her voice was dangerously low. She had the motor running before he'd fastened the seat belt; her knuckles were white round the wheel. Tyler hadn't intended taking the p.i.s.s, he wanted to dish out a lecture.

Arms folded, Mac stared through the windscreen. ”What I was going to say is, long as you don't get hurt.”

She hit the gas; soft words and s.h.i.+t advice she could live without. ”Back off, fatso.”

The twenty-minute drive to the Masters place took fifteen, the silence punctuated by occasional gasps as Bev cut corners and Mac hit imaginary brakes. Her insouciant sniffs suggested he should thank G.o.d the infinitely nippier Midget was still in dock.

Locking the motor, she scanned the street, expanded her lungs. Even the air round here was clean. Three days after Alex Masters's murder and Park View Road was restored to cosy affluent suburbia: The Good Life without the sanctimonious neighbours and smelly pigs. Looked as if the cops had pulled out too. She creased her eyes: not quite. A strip of dirty police tape flapped listlessly in the gutter. Kneeling, she picked it up, shoved it in her coat pocket. Shame it wasn't so easy to pick up the pieces after the crime as well. The impact of Masters's death would affect some people for the rest of their life. As for picking up the crim? By the neck preferably.

The door was opened by the gormless skinny girl. Marie, was it? Bev flashed her ID. ”Mrs Masters in, sweetheart?” She'd not phoned ahead, forewarned and all that, but it'd be a surprise if the woman was out socialising or shopping given she was in the early stages of grief.

The girl leaned a scrawny arm on the doorframe. ”She's having her hair done.”

Hair done? Bev rubbed her chin. Not sure a cut and blow dry would be a priority if her old man had just been butchered. Still, who was she to judge? One man's meat... ”When you expecting her back?”

Beetle brows formed a wavy line. ”She's not out.” Like they should know. ”She's in the kitchen.”

”Come in then shall we?” Bev didn't barge, but the girl had to step back swiftly. Mac tried stifling a sigh and tailed her. Whatever was kicking off in there sounded like a bundle of fun; the laughter died when Bev tapped the door, popped her head round.

”Sergeant Morrison. Was I expecting you?” Not angry or put out. The widow's frown seemed concerned more than tetchy as if she might've forgotten an arrangement. She certainly didn't appear ill-at-ease or embarra.s.sed, but clearly wasn't expecting callers let alone cops. Hair plastered to the skull, she was caped to the neck and some guy with a pony-tail was prancing round like Edward Scissor-hands. Bev did a covert second-take. The face was seriously gorgeous, though she had her doubts about the get-up. The pink string T-s.h.i.+rt and tight leather strides could go either way.

”Just popped in on the off-chance, Mrs Masters.” She cleared her throat, sensed Scissors giving her the glad eye. ”We can always come back if it's not... convenient.” The stress on the last word bordered on snide.

”No, of course not, come in. I'm happy to help.” Looked it, sounded it, too. ”Is there any news?”

Gaze still fixed on Bev, Scissors moved behind his client. ”I'm here for you, Diana.” Bev's mouth dropped when he laid a solicitous hand on the widow's shoulder. ”But I'd best make myself scarce hadn't I, sweetie?” It was a joke, the voice teasing, playful; close your eyes and Glamour Boy was Graham Norton with a dash of d.i.c.k Emery. No wonder Mrs M didn't mind the cops b.u.t.ting in it was hardly coitus interruptus.

”Would you?” Diana smiled. ”We shouldn't be too long?”

”Your wish is my command.” The elaborate bow from the waist showcased a neat b.u.m. ”I'll be in the sitting room.” He winked as he sauntered past Bev then seemingly on second thoughts spun round, headed back, stood in her face. ”Don't take this the wrong way.” She flinched when he lifted her fringe. ”If you ever fancy a decent cut give me a call.” He was a gnat's eyelash from a knee in the groin. Fists balled, she backed off. His focus was still on her hair. ”Seriously, sweetie.”

Sweetie! Vidal was on another planet. ”Look, mate...”

”But it hides your eyes.” The smile was breathtaking. ”And they're so beautiful. Drop in and see me sometime. I'll give you a good price.” Another wink. ”Ciao.” He took off whistling. Cheeky git. So why did her lips have the ghost of a smile?

”Samuel has that effect, sergeant.” Diana gestured to a couple of chairs. ”I'm sure you think me shallow and vain but he's more than just a nice young man who looks after my hair.”

”Come here often, does he?”

”Once or twice. When he heard about Alex, he rang to see if I was all right. He's one of those rare creatures who know how to make people feel good, a giver not a taker. He's like a breath of fresh air.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. ”And he's camper than a marquee. His words not mine.”

”Sergeant Morriss has a picture we'd like you to look at, Mrs Masters.” Mac's words. His face was like a constipated gargoyle. Point taken. Bev cut him a glance as she handed a copy of Libby Redwood's photograph to the widow. ”We think the woman on the left was the latest victim of the man who murdered your husband, Mrs Masters. Reckon you've seen her before?”

”Was?” She'd picked up the tense. Fine lines appeared round her eyes as she looked to Bev for elaboration.

Bev gave a tight nod. ”'Fraid she didn't make it.”

”Oh my G.o.d.” A hand went to her jaw. ”How...? What...?”

”Have you seen her before, Mrs Masters?” Mac clearly wanted to cut to the chase. Squinting she held the picture closer. ”She does look slightly familiar.” Bev s.h.i.+fted on the seat. Come on. How? ”I just can't recall where.” She sighed, shook her head. ”Maybe it'll come back to me?”

Bev pushed, got nowhere, went down a different track. ”Is your daughter around, Mrs Masters?” She was fis.h.i.+ng. If Charlotte was on the level, it'd be the last place she'd be. Bev was curious whether Diana would be so candid over the family set-up.

Thin smile. ”Not right now.”

”Expecting her soon?”

”I'm not sure, sergeant. Charlotte's a law unto herself.” Not a lie, probably not the whole truth, though the pained look on the face seemed genuine. Bev had only heard Charlotte's take on the mother/daughter relations.h.i.+p. Diana's could be totally different. And utterly irrelevant. She'd leave it for now. ”I could give her a message?” Mrs Masters offered.

”We'll catch up with her later. No worries.” She spent a few minutes talking the widow through the inquiry's current state of play: officer numbers, statements taken, some of the inquiry lines. It was public relations as much as anything. The woman had a right to know and Bev wanted to keep her on board.

”I'm sure the police are doing everything they can, sergeant. And if anything comes back to me, I'll surely get in touch.” The glance she flicked at the door told them unwittingly perhaps she wanted them out. It was a wrap anyway. Almost.

Halfway there, Bev turned, threw in an apparent afterthought. ”Miss Jamieson? Your husband's secretary?”

”PA.” A finely plucked eyebrow arched. ”She wouldn't thank you for calling her a secretary, sergeant.” Cool. Catty?

”She knew he was coming back to Birmingham that night. He rang to tell her.”

”He would.” Faint smile. ”It was business, and she'd need to know.”

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