Part 18 (1/2)
”And if she's not?”
”We may never find out. It's not an episode of The Bill. Life has loose ends.”
”Do me a favour, Oz.” Patronising git.
”Sorry, Bev. I just don't see there's much more to be done at this stage. I left Saleem in no doubt we'd looking out for Fareeda and keeping an eye on him.”
Tight smile. She'd asked for his help, his expertise, she could hardly throw it back in his face. ”Appreciate it.” And maybe he was right. If Fareeda was pregnant she'd have even more reason to make herself scarce. Crikey, she could even be with the father. Lost in thought, she missed the spectacle of Oz dismounting, only got to see the chair being pushed back in place. ”You off?”
”Yeah. Thought I'd head back tonight.”
What was that sudden lurch? Oh yeah, her sinking heart. Seeing him standing there, smiling down at her, she so didn't want him to go. ”Don't have to.” It was the closest she could get to asking him to stay. She held her breath, couldn't look at him any more. He reached out gently pulled her to him, wrapped her in his arms. It felt so good: listening to the steady beat of his heart, her cheek against his chest.
He kissed the top of her head. ”Walk me to the door, then?”
What? Eyes stinging, she pulled back, held his gaze. Maybe getting closer wasn't out of the question. ”Stay tonight, Oz... please.” He'd never know how much that cost her.
”I can't, Bev.” He reached to touch her face. She'd hurt him too often, that was all, she could talk him round.
”Come on, Ozzie.” She smiled, tried making light of it. ”You spoken for or something?”
She was twenty-five, PC Ayeesha something-or-other. They'd been seeing each other three months, thinking of shacking up together. At the doorstep, he held her briefly. ”Stay in touch, eh?”
What like some b.l.o.o.d.y pen pal? As if. She gave her brightest smile as he drove away; the tears came when he'd gone.
The car was parked a few doors down Baldwin Street; a figure wearing a hoodie slumped behind the wheel, dark gaze fixed on the mirror. The observer hadn't intended pulling over not tonight but then he'd clocked the Asian. Very f.u.c.king touching. Not content with jerking him around, the b.i.t.c.h was now s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g someone else. Lips bared, his trembling fingers left damp trails as he stroked the baseball bat. Filthy s.l.u.t had brought it on herself, but the shakes and sweats were too bad tonight. When it happened, he'd be the one in control. He could wait... the timing had to be right.
TUESDAY.
31.
”Hey, Morriss.” Bev glanced over her shoulder, saw Powell looking particularly suave striding along a Highgate corridor towards her. ”Ready for your close-up? As Norma might say?” She masked a smile; the guy was so transparent, even without waving the imaginary fat cigar.
”Major or Desmond?” If he'd hoped to catch her out no chance. Sunset Boulevard was one of her favourite movies. Crimewatch taking a few shots hardly qualified as a remake.
”La Desmond,” he said. ”though looking at you....”
She cut him off with a raised palm. Knew what he was getting at. If a close-up was called for, she'd need a d.a.m.n sight more time in make-up. The bags under her eyes needed straps. After several hours tossing and turning, she'd very nearly overslept. Her wake-up call had been a knock on the door from Carl at Easy Rider. Seeing the Midget parked outside Baldwin Street had brought the first smile to her face since Oz drove off into the metaphorical sunset. It hadn't lasted long given the journey in had been through thick slush with the promise of more snow later. Oh joy!
”They're only after a bit of wallpaper, y'know, mate.”
Like the guv had made clear in an e-mail, expect a TV crew in the incident room mid-morning, the producer needed general shots of the squad; blink-and-miss bland gvs for the presenter to voice over. Only officers who were on IR duty anyway would be involved, and the crew had been told to film round people not get in the way. The big man would be the star, he'd be interviewed at his desk and on location.
”I'm only putting in a guest appearance, Morriss. Making sure everyone knows what's what.”
”Course you are.” The DI was a media tart. Give him his due though, he'd run an exemplary brief first thing. Took skill to galvanise troops into going over old ground, he'd deployed most of them back on to the streets round the crime scenes canva.s.sing pa.s.sers-by in the hope of striking witness gold. The rest were phone-bas.h.i.+ng, checking statements, following up calls. He'd asked her to pursue the Oxfam link like she needed asking.
As Powell held the door she walked straight past, caught a glimpse of lights, camera and Dazza hunched over a desk. ”Where you going?”
”Looking for the action, mate.”
Bev found the note on her keyboard after lunch.
Call Evie Jamieson on...
Hoo-flipping-rah. Dumping her bag, she grabbed pen and paper, punched in the number. Come on, come on... ”Miss Jamieson? Bev Morriss here.”
”I got your note.”
”Thanks for getting back. I need to speak to you.”
Few seconds pause then: ”I need to speak to you, too.” Even better.
”Fire away.”
”Not on the phone... It's rather delicate.” Better and better.
Wasn't snowing yet, rush hour hadn't started. Bev glanced at her watch. ”Be with you in...”
”Not right now. There's someone else you need to see. He can't get away until later.”
The PA was adamant. She set a time and that was it. Pensive, Bev ended the call.
”Four o'clock before she'll see me, guv.” Bev had nipped into Byford's office to bring him up to speed. The lights had only just been de-rigged after the TV interview, place was like a sauna. She'd watched him shuck out of the jacket, now the tie was coming off.
”Any idea what Jamieson's got?” he asked.
Apart from a crush on her dearly departed boss? Bev turned her mouth down. ”Hard to call, guv. Cards. Close. Chest. She wouldn't even tell me who the guy is she wants me to see. Only thing I'd say is she doesn't seem to have a lot of time for Diana Masters.”
”You taking Tyler along?” The sleeves were getting the treatment now.
”Probably not. He's over in Moseley knocking doors.” And not looking for overtime today, he'd told Bev.
”Keep me posted then.” Jesus. He was undoing the top b.u.t.ton on the s.h.i.+rt now.
”You got it.” Shame she couldn't stick around for more revelations.
Just gone four, formal greetings over, Bev sat opposite Evie Jamieson. Apparently snow on the M6 had delayed the mystery man's arrival from Manchester. He was a private investigator that was as far as the PA would go. G.o.d knows why she was being so cagey about the guy; she seemed dead keen to get down to other matters. She looked wired, jumpy, her sepia cheeks blotched pink. Bev reckoned the woman was relis.h.i.+ng the limelight after years in the wings. The hand pressed to the side of her face failed to hide a tic in the crepe layers of her right eyelid. Bev sat back hoping her relaxed stance would help the woman chill. ”Before we start, sergeant, I want you to answer me one question.” Twitchy fingers fiddled now with the cuff of a beige cardi.
”Sure, if I can.” The tic was burrowing maggot-like.
”Is there any possibility that the murder was planned?” No clarification needed. Jamieson was interested in only one victim. And she'd only ask if she had suspicions.