Part 18 (2/2)
”We've no evidence pointing that way.” Clearly not what the PA wanted to hear. Bev added a judicious, ”Yet.”
”So it's not been ruled out?” The gleam was back in her eye.
”Nothing's ruled out, Miss Jamieson. But we have a problem, see, there's no...”
”Motive.” She didn't work in the law for nothing. ”I don't know if this const.i.tutes motive, sergeant.” Lips like serrated blades, she pulled a brown envelope from a drawer, pushed it against the desk. ”It certainly provides grounds for action.”
Opening the flap, Bev's scalp tingled. The contents merited a mental wolf whistle: six grainy black and white pics obviously taken by telephoto lens, but then the loving couple was hardly likely to pose willingly. The grieving widow in steamy clinches with another bloke, and with a body like that it had to be a toy boy. Bev ran her gaze over each incriminating image. Diana Masters obscured his face in every shot.
”Who's the guy?”
The PA raised a hand. It was her big scene and she'd play it her way. Again, it seemed to Bev she revelled in the attention. ”I agonised over divulging this matter, sergeant. Twice I tried to get hold of you over the weekend. In a way I was relieved you weren't available. It seemed like fate playing a hand.” Bev clenched a fist; she wanted to slap the smug simper off the stupid woman's face, certainly hit her with a withholding charge. Timing is all. She forced a smile instead. ”Glad you changed your mind, Miss Jamieson.”
”I'd hoped it wouldn't be necessary. But it was clear the police investigation was going nowhere. I couldn't stand the thought that... that... woman might be involved in Alex's death. He swore me to secrecy you see. But he planned to divorce her. The adultery would have cost her a pretty packet.”
Questions milled, one jumped the queue. ”Did she know?” Bev leaned forward. The PA was taking her time.
”Alex was sure she didn't.” Jamieson swallowed, eyes bright. ”He was going to present her with the pictures as a fait accompli. Even Diana Masters couldn't have talked her way out of that one.” Bev glanced at the top pic. Given where the mouth was, she couldn't have talked, period.
”This is important, Miss Jamieson could she have found out the marriage was on borrowed time?”
”I thought not.” Jamieson lifted her gaze from her boss's photo. ”Until Alex's murder.”
”He says he'll kill me... do what he says, please, please do...” Phone pressed to her ear, Diana's perfect face crumpled. Sam had taken the call, pa.s.sed it to her on the blackmailer's orders. She'd been expecting the Dalek tone issuing instructions not the anguished terrified voice of her daughter. ”Charlotte, Charlotte, listen...”
For several seconds, all Diana heard was static; it was almost a relief when the familiar tinny distortion came on the line. ”There y'go, lady. Proof she's alive.”
Sam stood behind, his arms around her waist. She saw their reflection in the mirror on the drawing room wall. It was like watching characters in a play except she didn't have a script. ”How do I know it wasn't a recording?”
”You don't. Trust me, lady the s.l.u.t's alive. It's down to you to keep it that way.”
Diana met Sam's gaze in the gla.s.s. ”What do you want me to do?” She scowled as the blackmailer dictated directions. G.o.d, the creep was going to pay for this.
”Any tricks and she vanishes. If you're a good girl, you'll have her home safe tonight. Make a mistake and believe me, lady, it'll be fatal.”
”They got careless, see, sarge.” The PI was certainly making himself at home. Lounging back in his chair, ankle crossed on knee, he slurped tea noisily. Bev forgave him; she'd forgive him most things. He'd arrived more than an hour late at Jamieson's office but Dougie Tempest had brought in more than snow and cold air. He'd just handed Bev a second set of s.n.a.t.c.hed shots. The widow and her lover weren't the only ones who'd been careless. The instant Bev saw the guy's face she clocked it; cringed inwardly. How could she have been so dense? Scissor-hands, she'd blithely mocked. Camper than a marquee, Diana had giggled. Gonna let him loose on your hair, Mac had joshed. Even the man himself had said he'd give her a good price if she ever fancied a decent cut. Oh yes, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d: rusty blade to your slimy b.a.l.l.s.
”You all right, sarge?” Tempest asked, dunking a Rich Tea. She nodded; it was easier than talking through a mouthful of feathers. ”Well, as I say, when I first started tailing them it was a soddin' nightmare.” The barrister, she'd learned, had hired Tempest two months back. ”They'd turn up separately, never leave together. Different bleedin' hotel every time.” Jamieson visibly bristled at the language, maybe the estuary accent. As he spoke, Bev took in the wiry little man's cheap navy suit, s.h.i.+ny lace-ups, boot-polished short-back-and-sides. He looked like a dodgy rep; mind, hotels were full of travelling salesmen not canny ex-cops trained in surveillance and covert filming. She'd marked Tempest down as an eighties throwback when to most cops PACE meant running to the bar. Ten out of ten for his results though. ”Tell you what, sarge, it made my life a d.a.m.n sight easier when they fixed on a regular love nest.”
”They definitely didn't cotton on?” Bev asked, leafing through the images again.
”Do me a favour, darlin'.”
Fair enough. ”What's the guy's name?”
”Tate. Sam Tate. Ring a bell?”
Oh, yes. Samuel has that effect on women, sergeant. Someone called Tate on the phone, Mrs Masters. Christ on a skateboard; she stiffened. Libby Redwood's last words... Not Dan. Not Stan. Had she been trying to say Sam? Was Tate the Sandman? The double-act with Diana had been flawless. If Tate was gay Bev was teetotal. Did his repertoire include masked s.a.d.i.s.t?
”Is it enough to charge them, sergeant?” Jamieson was on the edge of the seat, her whole face flushed.
Bev ignored her, carried on looking through the pics. ”When was this lot taken, Dougie?”
”Day before he got topped. I'd not even sent them.” He reached into a breast pocket, handed her an envelope. ”Bit more intelligence here: addresses, dates, that kind of thing.”
”Ta, mate.”
”Sergeant Morriss, I said...” Frowning, Bev raised a hand, desperately trying to work out the implications. ”Sergeant...”
She sc.r.a.ped back the chair, grabbed her bag. The PA was getting on her t.i.ts. ”It's evidence of adultery, Miss Jamieson.” Irrefutable proof Diana Masters and Sam Tate were pa.s.sionate lovers but cold-blooded killers? ”As to murder?” She shrugged. ”Don't know yet. Shame you didn't open your mouth a bit sooner.”
32.
”It's enough to bring them in for questioning.”
Like she didn't know that. She'd caught Byford on the phone just as he was leaving for the late brief. He was up to speed now on the Masters-Tate adulterous liaison. Whether it was a criminal alliance still needed nailing. But if the duo were behind the Sandman burglaries, the magnitude of the conspiracy was breathtaking. ”Where are you, now, Bev?”
”In the motor. Outside the chambers.” She wiped the steamy windscreen with her sleeve, had already sc.r.a.ped three inches of snow off the bodywork.
”Mac with you?”
She cut a glance to the empty pa.s.senger seat. ”On his way.”
”I'll get a team to Tate's flat.” Tempest's intelligence had provided the address plus the salon's where Tate worked. ”You pair head out to the Masters place.”
”Nothing'd give me greater pleasure.”
”Rein it in, Bev. We need proof there's a Sandman connection. Plenty of missing pieces still.”
”Sure thing, guv.” Way she felt she'd rein it in all right with a la.s.so round the b.l.o.o.d.y woman's neck.
”And, Bev. Bear this is mind... if Diana Masters is the Sandman's sidekick, she stands to go down for life. She'll have nothing to lose.”
Stay cool. Stay cool. The words were Diana Masters's mantra as she drove the Merc through heavy snow to the handover a.s.suming the blackmailer wasn't lying. The creep had said last night was a dry run. He'd got that right. She'd already collected directions from two scuzzy phone boxes: another not-so-merry dance. A sly smirk curved her painted lips. This time she'd lead the last waltz.
Her gloved hands gripped the wheel. For the millionth time she checked the mirror. Melted snow glistened in her fur hat from the last frigging foray into the cold. Deep breath. Stay cool. She imagined Sam warming her up, licked her lips. He was lying low back at his flat; she'd call when this was all over. She'd wanted him out of harm's way. He'd promised not to follow, but she'd not been sure he'd stick to it. And if the blackmailer spotted a tail...
Or the knives: one in the pocket of her coat, another in her sleeve, a third in her clutch bag. Overkill? She hoped so. Cold steel, iron nerve. She had one big advantage: she wasn't scared. If it went pear-shaped, she'd die rather than go to jail. She'd nothing to lose, apart from half a million pounds and her daughter's life. And that was so not going to happen.
Next left the Satnav squawked. The call box was on the corner. She checked the mirror, scoped the street. At least the snow meant there was no lowlife around. Pavement was white-over, virginal. She picked her way carefully, wouldn't do to sprain an ankle. She gave a thin smile not on the final leg of the journey.
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