Part 16 (2/2)
”Diana Masters knows Beth Fowler.” Bev slammed her palm against the steering wheel. ”Why'd she lie about it?” They were still parked outside the Fowler property, Bev more fired up than Mac. First snowflakes were drifting on to the windscreen, she flicked on the wipers.
”Maybe she didn't recognise her. It's not a brilliant picture. And it doesn't sound like they're bosom pals.” Mac gazed at the photograph while Bev tried thinking through the implications. During follow-up questioning, Mrs Fowler had told them she'd met Diana twice, on both occasions when the divorcee had dropped items at Oxfam. The relations.h.i.+p was hardly intimate but why had Diana denied it? ”Even if she's seen her before what does it prove anyway, boss? Could've just slipped her mind. You don't think you're making too much of it?”
”Yeah, cos we've got so much to go on.” She sighed. OK, it wasn't a sworn confession signed in blood. But it was a lie, a discrepancy. ”Makes you wonder what else she's lying about though, mate.” Bev turned the engine.
”If she's lying, boss.”
”Everybody lies.”
”Yeah, well.” He shoved the pictures back in the envelope. ”We heading out there, now?”
”What you think?” She checked the mirror; saw the twinkle in her eye. ”Granddad.”
29.
Diana Masters answered the door wearing a black funnel neck coat, a cla.s.sy brooch added a bit of light relief; Bev could see her reflection in the silver. Unlike the widow's, the Morriss bob could have done with a comb. Every s.h.i.+ny strand on Masters's head appeared in perfect place, the expression seemed a tad strained. ”What is it, Sergeant Morrison? I was just on the way out.”
”It's Morriss, Mrs Masters.” Patient smile; either she got the name wrong on purpose or the widow had the memory of a goldfish with Alzheimer's. ”Just a few questions.”
”Of course.” The glance at her Rolex was intended to be noticed.
”Won't take a minute,” Bev said. ”Cold out here though.” Her s.h.i.+ver was as subtle as the widow's time check. They were allowed in, but no further than the hall. The roses were just beginning to shed a few petals, still stunning though.
”Off to Oxfam are you?” Bev asked, smile still in position.
”I beg your pardon?”
”Oxfam. Must meet quite a few people there.”
”Is there a point to this?” The question was addressed to Mac.
”Beth Fowler,” Bev replied.
”Who?”
”One of the Sandman's victims? You were shown her picture? Said you didn't know her?”
”As you say, sergeant, I meet a lot people through my work. I don't see where you're going with this.”
Mac had the photo ready. ”Take another look if you wouldn't mind, Mrs Masters.” The snap had been taken before the Sandman's attack, it bore little resemblance to the wreck she'd turned into. ”Have you met her before?”
Masters traced a finger along her jaw line as she studied the likeness. ”I could have... I'm not sure.”
”She knows you,” Bev prompted.
”She may well, sergeant.” The cat eyes narrowed. ”I'm out back a lot. I don't notice everyone who comes in.”
”She says you pa.s.sed the time of day a couple of times.”
”Then I'm sure she's right.” The smile seemed fake and revealed lipstick on a front tooth. Hallelujah, the widow's grooming wasn't perfect. ”Is there a problem with that? Is it a crime to speak with someone and not be able to recall it months later?”
”See, here's the thing: I'm wondering if there's anyone else you haven't been able to recall? Cos that could really help us with our inquiries.” One slip-up from the widow would be understandable, but what if the other victims used the shop? What if Diana Masters had lied about not knowing those women, too? Was that the link the inquiry had been looking for? And what the h.e.l.l would it mean? Bev kicked herself for coming here half-c.o.c.ked. She should have checked with the other victims first, thought it through better.
”I'm under a lot of strain, sergeant. I can't be expected to remember every little thing. And quite frankly I can't see that it matters. Not when I have so many other... matters on my mind. I wasn't on the way to work.” She took a handkerchief from her coat pocket, dabbed her eyes. ”If you must know, I was on the way to choose a headstone for Alex.”
Best conversation stopper Bev had heard in a while. ”Sorry to hold you up.” She hoisted her bag. It was time to hit the road anyway, see what light the other women might be able to shed, before coming back better prepared. Bev was at the door when she turned. ”Almost forgot... I need a word with your daughter. Any idea where she is?”
”She f.u.c.king knows, Diana. That cop knows something.” Sam stood in the kitchen doorway, arms spread-eagled against the frame for support. The word crucified came to Diana's mind. His face had an unhealthy sheen, sweat beads oozed above his top lip. The police visit had spooked Diana Masters too, not that she'd show it. She shucked off the coat, draped it over the banister. ”Get me a drink.”
He threw his hands up. ”Perfect. Get plastered. Why not?”
”Water.” Face screwed in contempt she spun on her heel. ”I'll be in the drawing room.”
”What did your last servant die of?”
G.o.d. So original. ”Stab wounds,” she muttered. No mileage debating finer points with Sam until he'd calmed down. The room was cold, she hadn't bothered to light a fire. She crossed to close the heavy velvet curtains, gazed at the falling snow for a few seconds. It wasn't settling yet, please G.o.d it stayed that way. She couldn't afford to mess up timings tonight. She pressed her head against the gla.s.s. How much longer could she keep her cool? It had been mere luck spotting the cops' car from an upstairs window. She'd warned Sam, slipped on a coat and at least semi-psyched herself for the stand-off. Looking on the bright side, it had probably been more useful to her than the cops.
She felt Sam's touch on her shoulder, turned and took the gla.s.s from his trembling fingers. ”Thank you.” Hers were steady as she drained it.
Hands on hips, he slowly shook his head. ”How do you do it, Dee?”
She shrugged. ”The cops know nothing, Sam.” Or very little. ”Obviously they haven't got a clue about Charlotte. Or we'd hardly be standing here, would we?” She led him by the hand to the chesterfield.
”I know that.” He pouted. ”I'm not stupid. But that other stuff, the Fowler b.i.t.c.h...” She stroked his hair as he laid his head in her lap.
”So? What does it prove? I've got a s.h.i.+t memory? The cops were on a fis.h.i.+ng trip is all.” Diana had kept well out of sight in the shop while making her a.s.sessments, was ninety-nine per cent certain none of the other women had spotted her. Morriss might, just might, work out how the victims were selected. But none of that was going to unmask the Sandman or link him to Diana. She looked at him now. s.h.i.+vering, smelling faintly of sweat it was difficult to believe he'd put the fear of G.o.d into a string of rich b.i.t.c.hes. Her smiling face masked complex emotions, harsh judgements: her fate was with this man. At least for the foreseeable.
”Aren't you scared they're closing in, Dee?” She couldn't meet his desperate gaze. ”Not even a little?”
No. Sherlock in a skirt could dig as deep as she liked, it wasn't the great detective that bothered Diana. It was a faceless voice on a phone. ”It won't be long now, Sam. We just have to keep our nerve.” At least, I need to keep mine, she thought; yours is shot to s.h.i.+t.
”It's in there somewhere, guv.” Slightly flushed, Bev pointed at the report that Byford was now scrutinising for the second time. It was a hastily cobbled resume of the visits she and Mac had made that afternoon. For Bev, the realisation had struck home even before the checks were complete, which was why she was. .h.i.tting Byford with it before the brief. Seemed to her time was running short. As he read, she wore out his carpet, slowly shaking her head. ”I so should have seen it sooner.”
Oxfam. Dead men's clothes. It was what widows did. s.h.i.+t. In what seemed another life, Bev had even dropped the Black Widow's bin bags at some fundraising do. Talk about irony. The crazy who'd nearly killed her had unwittingly helped lift the eye-scales. ”The pointers were there all along, guv.” She re-ran them in her head: Kate Darby saying Libby Redwood had only recently got round to sorting her husband's clothes, bin liners Bev had actually stepped over at Faith Winters's house. Jesus wept. Donna Kennedy had actually used an Oxfam pen to write the sodding suicide note. Even Mac had mentioned bagging his old gear and still she'd not put two and two together.
”Don't beat yourself up, Bev. It's not exactly in-your-face, is it? Beth Fowler and Sheila Isaac aren't widows.” No, but she now knew they'd both been regular visitors to the Oxfam shop where Diana Masters worked as a volunteer.
”Still should've spotted it sooner, guv.”
”The Oxfam link's here. That's a given.” The big man traced an eyebrow with a finger. ”But I'm not sure where it gets us.” Frowning he glanced up. ”Sit down, will you, Bev.” She perched, foot still tapping. ”I'm not disagreeing,” Byford continued. ”I can see how the shop fits with the victim selection process. Question is who was doing the selecting? You say none of the other victims could ID Diana Masters?”
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