Part 19 (1/2)

Except there was no note. Where were the frigging directions? Stay cool. Stay cool. Think. Think. She was bang on time. What the h.e.l.l had gone wrong? Sinking to her knees, she scrabbled on the dank foul-smelling concrete. Nothing. Not a word. It felt like a body-blow. Still kneeling, head in hands, hot tears coursed between her fingers. She'd followed instructions to the letter, done everything the b.a.s.t.a.r.d asked...

The phone rang when she was almost back at the car. Spinning on her heel, she lost her footing in the snow, slipped, struggled to stay upright. It was only a few steps to the call box but she was gasping for breath when she picked up the phone.

”Good girl. No tail. The drop details are at your place.”

Bev had sent Christmas cards that looked like Park View. Six inches of snow and falling was giving it that festive feel: all fir trees and holly bushes, rosy glows from mullioned windows. Very merry-gentlemen-and-deck-the-halls. Except for what went on behind closed doors, or at least Diana Masters's door. Not that action was ongoing. The property appeared empty, just hall lights left on. Bev was keeping a watching brief from the Midget parked opposite. Mac was on his way, hopefully he'd get here before the widow showed. She'd told him to bring vests, anti-stab not woolly.

Killing time, she lit a Silk Cut, inched down the window. Despite the falling mercury, she was fired up. She'd had a while to think. If Tate and Masters had masterminded the Sandman burglaries to mask the prime motive of the barrister's murder, the level of duplicity, depravity, were off the scale. It would mean vulnerable women had been clinically selected and subjected to unimaginable terror so Alex Masters's killing would look like a Sandman c.o.c.k up. Tate had certainly had his c.o.c.k up. Even if there was no Sandman link, Masters had taken mendacity to a new level. Oh yes. She was up there with Ura.n.u.s. Bev took a deep drag, recalling the doo-doo the widow had spouted: Alex and I were very much in love. This room is where I most feel his presence. I was on the way to choose a headstone. Lying t.w.a.t.

But was she accessory to murder? She was accessory all right. Arm candy to Alex Masters and groomed within an inch of her life. Eyes creased against the smoke, Bev pictured the widow the last time they'd met. Masters had worn that black funnel neck coat, didn't have a hair out of...

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Spine tingling, she bolted upright, thoughts swirling. Suddenly, she saw the light, and not just the full beam of an approaching motor. It was a vision of the widow's silver brooch that day. Bev had glimpsed her reflection in its s.h.i.+ny surface, but failed to see the full picture, until now. The item wasn't Diana's. It had belonged to Donna Kennedy: a one-off designer piece, photo and details in exhibits at Highgate. Gotcha.

The guv had to know; she grabbed the phone, hit fast dial. They'd need full back-up now, preferably armed. Diana Masters made the Black Widow look benign.

Headlights dazzling, the oncoming car was almost upon her. Bev s.h.i.+elded her eyes as it slewed wildly in the snow, almost missed the turning into Masters's drive. The b.i.t.c.h was back and cutting it fine.

33.

Fury and revenge fuelled Diana Masters. Slamming the Merc's door, she stormed to the house careless of the snow. Silhouetted in the doorway she stood for several seconds, staring open-mouthed at the scene in the hall. Her slanted eyes saw the noose suspended from the banister, the scotch, the paper, the pen her sluggish brain couldn't compute. Taking faltering steps towards the console table, her thoughts dragged, too. ”What the h.e.l.l?”

”Details of the drop.” Startled, she swirled round. More incomputable data. Sam lunged from behind, smiling as he slipped the knife from her coat pocket. ”Do exactly as I say and you won't get hurt.” Still with that perfect smile, he pressed his own blade against her cheek. ”Well, not by me.”

Wary, uncertain, her eyes searched his face. ”Is this some kind of joke?”

With a tap of the blade, he set the noose swinging. ”Call it gallows humour if you like.”

Stay cool. She had to regain the control here. Taking off the hat she nodded at the writing gear on the console. ”What's that all about?”

”Let's see...” He waved the knife, raised his glance to the ceiling, ostensibly seeking inspiration. ”It's about a woman driven mad by grief. A woman so devastated by her husband's murder, she can't face life without him. Sadly, she sees only one way out.” He set the rope swinging again.

”You're mad.”

”You're f.u.c.ked.” He c.o.c.ked his head at the pen and paper. ”Take a letter.”

”Come on, Sam,” she wheedled. ”We can work this out.” Like h.e.l.l, you double-crossing s.h.i.+t. Her brain was back in action. Whatever was going on here, he'd pick up the bill. She knew the clutch bag was out of reach; could she retract the knife from her sleeve?

”Pick up the pen, Diana. Now.”

”Sam, please, this is ridiculous. Let's just...”

”Shut the f.u.c.k up,” he yelled. ”I'm done with you ordering me around. I'm sick to death of hearing your prattle. Let's just get this over.”

Eyes smarting, she nodded meekly. ”If I've lost you, Sam... I've lost everything.” And she'd say it with flowers... Turning to reach for the pen, she grabbed the vase with both hands, swung it over her head, hurled it with every ounce of pent up fury. Gla.s.s whacked bone, blood streamed from nostrils and split lips as he dropped to the floor, clutching his face. Diana was oblivious to water dripping from her chin, wilted rose petals caught in her hair. She focused exclusively on her target, kicked Tate as hard as she could in the head. He fell to the side, unconscious, no longer groaning. Eyes like slits, she carefully slid the knife from her sleeve.

”I really wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Diana whipped her head round. Coming down the stairs was a slight figure dressed in black wearing a clown mask.

”I'm pretty sure they're both in there, guv.” Gaze fixed on the property, Bev still kept a low profile in the Midget, soft voice on the phone.

”Could be,” Byford said. ”I've just heard from Mike Powell Tate's flat's empty.”

Bev had witnessed the widow's dash from the car, the long pause silhouetted in the doorway. It was enough to twitch the antenna. ”We've got the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, guv.” She'd filled him in on the stolen brooch, the missing link.

”Not yet.” She heard a rustle, reckoned he was checking his watch. ”Back-up'll be with you any time. Bev, don't...”

”What you take me for, guv?” She'd no intention of playing hero. Last time she'd crossed a widow she'd lost two-nil.

”I mean it, Bev.” Slight pause. ”I don't want to lose you.”

I not we? She put that one on the back burner. ”Later, guv.”

Later like Mac. At least he'd called. The snow was slowing traffic and blood flow. G.o.d it was cold. She leaned across, scrabbled in the glove compartment. Scowled. Everything in it but b.l.o.o.d.y gloves. Eyes narrowed she spotted the edge of a nylon scarf jutting out from under the pa.s.senger seat. She frowned then remembered the old dear outside the chippie last week. The scarf had been in the Midget ever since. She tugged it free, heard a clink as the knife still wrapped in its folds fell out. A voice in her head said: don't even think about it. So she didn't. She shoved it in her bag instinctively because she felt like it.

Like she felt like standing outside the car and having another smoke. If she hadn't she probably wouldn't have heard the scream.

Diana Masters was rigid with rage, her face almost ugly in contempt. ”Take the f.u.c.king mask off.” It hadn't taken long to work out. Since Sam had staged the whole pathetic show, only one person could be hiding behind it. Predictably, her daughter was going for the dramatic effect.

Charlotte ripped off the mask, hatred in her eyes, a knife clutched in her hand. ”You think you're so clever, don't you?”

Diana cut a glance at her former lover. ”Clearly not.” She swung a vicious kick at his kidneys. No response. Charlotte screamed to leave him alone. Screamed again when Diana lashed out with the other boot. The third kick drew Charlotte closer. Within harm's reach now, the girl looked puny, stick thin, a pushover.

”You and him.” Diana ran the blade between her fingers. ”How long's it been going on?” The rage had given way to an unnatural calm. Sam had shafted her. Now she'd cut her losses.

”Way back.” Smug triumph. ”Did you actually think he loved you? Get real. You're old enough to be his mother. You were just in the right place at the right time, blithely imagining it was your idea. We were stringing you along from the get-go. You and the old man were a means to the end.” Diana's keen glance flitted between hand, rope, stairs; brain coldly calculating.

”The end being?” Like she didn't know: love of money was the only thing they'd ever had in common.

”My inheritance of course.” Charlotte gave a brittle laugh. ”That's when the hard graft pays off. Sam had a h.e.l.l of a job playing the gibbering wreck, y'know. As for me, the Dalek voice was a real stretch. Mind, we had a ball planning your trips. Hope you enjoyed them cos you're a long time dead. And when the dust settles, me and Sam will take off.”

Diana snorted. ”He's not going anywhere, is he?” She nudged his head with her toe. ”Prat can't do anything right. Couldn't even kill Alex. I had to finish the old boy off.”

”You?”

”What's the problem? You were happy to take his money, weren't you?”