Blood Money Part 17

She shrugged. "Said herself she spends a lot of time out back. They may not have seen her, but she was well placed to clock callers."

"The shop has surveillance?"

"Betcha." Mac had sussed it, called in from the premises not ten minutes ago.

Byford rose, walked to the window, perched on the sill. "What about other staff? Could anyone else be in the frame?"

"Mac reckons there's no one under sixty in the place. My money's on Masters, guv. We ought to pull her in."

"On what?"

A sodding skateboard. She unclenched her fists. Why couldn't he see it as well? "Come on, guv. She had to be feeding this information to the Sandman. You said yourself he didn't just flick through yellow pages."

"Where's the proof? And there's no point rolling your eyes. If she's involved, you ran the risk of tipping her off today."

"Yeah, well. She wasn't exactly shaking in her boots." She pictured Masters in her widow's weeds, dabbing that refined little nose. Off to select a headstone. Course she was.

"She'd hardly show she was rattled, would she?" He tapped a finger against his lip. "If you're right Bev, it makes her an accomplice."

"More than that, guv." She held his gaze. "Makes her accessory to murder." Through the window snow was falling, Bev thought of covered tracks, sands of time. "She needs bringing in."

"We still need evidence, Bev. We can't hold her without that. And while she's out there, she could lead us to the Sandman."

"You thinking a tail?"

He nodded. "I'll run it past Phil soon as I can get in to see him." Phil Masters. ACC Operations. Even if he gave it the green light, it wouldn't happen until first thing. "What we need now is intelligence; talk again to the people who know her."

The sitting still was getting to her, she jumped to her feet. "D'you need me at the brief, guv?"

"Why?" He glanced at his watch: 5.05. "Where are you...?"

By 5.06, she'd gone.

Bev slipped half a bitter in front of Mac, slumped in the seat opposite then tilted her head at his gla.s.s. "Not much call for that stuff round here." Here was The Hamptons, poncey bar on the ca.n.a.l-side down Brindley Place. The wall-to-wall monochrome including furnis.h.i.+ngs and fixtures gave it the feel of a set for a black and white movie. Not that there was much action. Charlotte Masters hadn't shown since before her father's murder. Bev hadn't really expected to find her there, the girl was grieving for G.o.d's sake, but she'd wanted a word with the boss, a tall lanky guy in dark suit and designer sun gla.s.ses. Pretentious prat. She'd discovered that Charlotte's attendance had been patchy for weeks. More to the point, none of the staff could suggest where the girl might hang out. Certainly wasn't Selly Oak; her pad had been their first port of call.

"Cheers, boss." Mac slurped half the contents then pulled a gnome-having-stroke face. "No nuts?"

"Empty calories, mate. Think of the figure." She winked, slung him a pack from her pocket. "Don't eat 'em all at once."

Just the one palmful, then: "I can see why you want to talk to her but what d'you want out of it?"

Bev sipped Pinot, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Come on, mate, you sat in on the interview at her place. We weren't even prompting when she came out with how she feels about her ma."

"Get the thumbscrews out next time, eh?" Mac waggled his eyebrows.

"We need someone to dish the dirt." She sighed. With the exception of Charlotte, no one had uttered a bad word against Diana Masters. During the inquiry the widow had emerged from interview after interview smelling of chocolate roses. Bev had also wanted to lean on Evie Jamieson. The PA hadn't actually badmouthed the boss's wife, but she'd sure not joined the chorus of effusion. Mind, it was academic at the moment, getting hold of Jamieson had proved as difficult as the daughter, the PA hadn't shown at the chambers today.

Bev took another sip, glanced round as a blast of cold air entered bringing in a stream of what looked like office workers. The drinkers headed for the bar, snow dandruff glistened briefly on coat shoulders, people shook flakes from their hair, stamped wet footwear, cracked feeble one-liners about the weather. Mac was about to open his mouth when Bev's mobile chirped. She read the text, smiled, shoved the phone back on the table. "You were saying...?"

"I was wondering if the girl's OK." He brushed salt off his s.h.i.+rt front. "She was pretty cut up about her dad."

"Hopefully she'll see the note we left, get back soon as." Bev turned her mouth down. "Prob'ly staying with a mate. Blood's not always thicker than water."

"Talking of which." He lifted the gla.s.s. "This is gnat's p.i.s.s. Fancy a big boy's drink at the Prince?"

"Nah. I'm thinking of swinging round Evie Jamieson's place when we're done here."

Judging by the falling face, she bet he had a hot date. She shook her head, wry smile curving her lip. "Where'd you want dropping, Romeo?" The old girl probably wouldn't be in. Even if she was Mac didn't need to be there.

"Sure?" Bless. He was like a bloodhound after a facelift.

"Come on, lover boy." She drained the gla.s.s. "Let's make tracks."

Literally as it happened: they left a trail of footprints on pavements slick with snow. The Polo's windscreen had a light smattering, too. She chucked him the sc.r.a.per, patted the top of the motor. "Make the most of it, mate." The garage was dropping the Midget back in the morning, thank G.o.d. "This'll be your last outing in this thing."

"That why you look so chirpy?"

That and the text from Oz. Not so much hot date as old flame. Engine running, she switched the heater on full. "Yeah. You could say that."

Outwardly calm, Diana Masters was seething. Cold sweat trickled down her spine when she leaned forward to peer through the Merc's windscreen. Swirling snow didn't help. She was on the lookout for what would be the third phone box on a not-so-f.u.c.king-merry dance the blackmailer had been leading since a call to the house less than an hour ago. No cops. No clown. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had actually sn.i.g.g.e.red at that point. Or you'll never see the b.i.t.c.h again. The creepy Dalek voice had gone on to issue directions to a sprawling sink estate where Diana had found instructions in a phone box that stank of vinegar, cat p.i.s.s and G.o.d knew what else. The stench in the next box had been worse. The instructions there had led her here. Alum Rock. And a hard place. Dear G.o.d let this be the end of the road.

The call box was on the corner near a row of cheap shops, two were boarded up one looked bombed out, the rest had rusting iron grilles. She pulled the motor over, sat for a few seconds, hands clutched tight round the wheel. What the h.e.l.l was the blackmailer playing at? Where was he? He had to show his face if he wanted the cash. And Charlotte's. She cut a glance to the pa.s.senger seat. Cases full of money. Not that the creep would get a cent of it. Payback was behind: Sam in a white transit tailing her. She patted the knife in her coat pocket. A little life insurance. Just in case.

Before leaving the safety of the motor she scoped out the surroundings. Street sc.u.m thrived like vermin round here. Her mouth curved in wry amus.e.m.e.nt. A woman with murder in mind wary of feral kids. Better safe than screwed. Stepping out of the car, she pulled her coat tighter. Cold out here. As the grave.

Before going in, she held a hankie to her face, the fabric lavishly sprayed with Chanel. Opening the door, she screamed, shot back in horror when a liberated rat darted through the gap. Calm down for G.o.d's sake. Where were the instructions? Faint stir of panic. What if...? Her glance spotted the paper on the floor in the far corner. Like the others it was composed from words cut out of newspapers Gingerly she knelt, used only her fingertips to retrieve it from wet concrete.

Her head told her to wait until she was back in the car. But the game had gone on long enough. She didn't do Tom and Jerry. Her hand shook with rage, furious tears p.r.i.c.ked her eyes as she read the words again she'd already got the message.

TONIGHT WAS A DRY RUN.

UNTIL TOMORROW, b.i.t.c.h.

Bev clocked the place through the pa.s.senger window as she finished her baccy. PAs clearly weren't on the same whack as their bosses. Evie Jamieson's modest pebbledash semi in Kings Norton needed tarting up. Bit like the owner in that respect, a lick of paint would make the world of difference. Stubbing the b.u.t.t, Bev shook her head. Blimey, girl, what is this? A makeover show? Location, Location meets Ten Years Younger. Made her think about the telly though. She couldn't believe the guv had bought a new tie for tomorrow's Crimewatch recording. She twitched a lip. Nah. He must've been jos.h.i.+ng. Sounded almost like his old self when she'd called to fill him in, not that there'd been a bunch to contribute. Glancing again at the house, it didn't look likely there'd be much to pick up here either. There were no lights on; no signs of life. Could she really be a.r.s.ed?

Sighing she locked the motor, picked her way through snow that was rapidly turning into grimy slush. Her knock on the front door dislodged a few flakes of peeling maroon paint. Same story round the back: even a cobweb in the kitchen window-frame was unoccupied apart from a dead spider and desiccated fly. Stamping frozen feet, she scribbled a line on another card, shoved it through the letterbox, headed back to the car. Trouble with this job, there were times she felt like a sodding postman.

30.

"Read that." Lip curled in contempt, Diana Masters thrust the note over her shoulder towards Sam. Arriving back at Park View slightly later than Diana, Sam had hurtled into the drawing room found her sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, staring into the flames. Frantic, his darting glance had taken in the carnage: broken gla.s.ses, shattered bottles, smashed picture frames, a sea of books swept from the shelves. He took faltering steps towards her. "What happened here?"

"Read the f.u.c.king note!"

Kneeling now he took it from her trembling fingers. "Dry run?" He glanced up, registered her flushed face, shallow breathing, dried tears on her cheeks. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. If she cracked now they were under s.h.i.+t creek, they wouldn't need a paddle. "The guy's a sc.u.mbag, Dee."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d. b.a.s.t.a.r.d. b.a.s.t.a.r.d." She beat the carpet with her fist.

"Come on, babe." Gently he pulled her into an embrace. "It'll be OK."

Angry she shook him off. "Easy for you to say, Sammy." Saliva glistened in the corner of her mouth. "You're not the sucker who's been jerked round all night."

"Yeah, but I was right behind you, babe."

"You won't be tomorrow." She rose, wrapped her arms around her waist.

"But, Dee..."

"For G.o.d's sake. Tonight's charade was a little test. Remember what he said? No cops? No clown? The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's been on the phone. He saw you, Sam. We have one last chance to get it right."

Bev clocked Oz first. No surprise given she'd been watching for him from the sitting room window. For the nth time she told herself he was here on biz. Whether Fareeda Saleem's exile was voluntary or not, Oz had thought it worth pursuing a chat with the father. The Small Heath visit was pencilled in for tomorrow, Oz was dropping by Baldwin Street to say hi. Given they'd barely exchanged two words since the break-up, how come she felt like Bridget Jones on a v v bad day? No time to explore that one, he was locking the motor.

Play it cool, girl. She took a deep breath, twitched the curtains to, licked her lips, smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks, hitched the skirt, tugged the T-s.h.i.+rt, glugged on a gla.s.s of Pinot, fell off a three inch heel in the dash to the door. Miss Cool-io opened it before the bell rang.

"Wotcha, Khanie." Hand against jamb, heart racing, she gave a lazy smile.

"h.e.l.lo, stranger." Oz brushed her cheek with his lips before stepping inside. "How've you been?" G.o.d, she'd missed that smell.

"Tickety. You?" Hardly worth asking. He looked tastier than ever. Four Michelin stars just for starters.

"I'm good." The small talk wasn't doing a bunch to hike the word count. Standing around in the hall shuffling their feet didn't help either, especially with a snapped heel. After a few seconds' silence they kicked off together.

"Fancy a...?"

"How 'bout..."

"You first..."

"Nah, you..."

The laugh was only a tad forced as she led the way to the kitchen praying the limp wasn't too obvious. "Have you eaten?"

"Have you cooked?" Like she could've been performing open heart surgery with a spatula.

"Guinea fowl slow-roasted on a bed of squash served with pomegranate and rhubarb jus. How's that sound?"

"Like a wind up."

She sniffed. Was a time he'd have fallen for it. "Or beans on toast." She peered into the bread bin. "Without the toast." A smiled tugged at his lips. She'd forgotten how it did that. "Fancy a takeaway?"

"I'm fine, Bev, honest." She stared as he straddled a chair. Lucky chair. "Wouldn't say no to a c.o.ke though. What's wrong with your foot?"

"New shoes, mate." She tottered to the fridge found him a can, helped herself to a top-up. She chilled as the chat flowed: his new flat in Fulham, films they'd caught, books they'd read. He asked after her mum and gran. Social wheel-oiling; surface stuff.

"So how's Byford these days?"

She almost choked on the wine. Even without dodgy footwear, the personal question had caught her on the hop. She gave a casual shrug hoping to restore equilibrium. "Up against it. We all are with the Sandman out there." Oz wasn't talking work pressures. She was aware of that. He knew they'd had a thing going, held the guv partly responsible for her inability to commit.

He gave her time to elaborate then arched an eyebrow. "Back off, shall I?"

Head down, she sensed his gaze on her. "We're not together if that's what you mean." Was he weighing up his chances? And what the h.e.l.l would she say if he came on to her?

"Who you with now, Bev?" Briefly she closed her eyes, recalled the male tails she'd chased of late: f.u.c.king waste of time.

"Brad Pitt's getting pushy." She studied her nails. "Thinking I might need an injunction."

"Footloose then?"

"Yeah."

"Was a time I thought you and the guv would tie the knot." So had she, and the thought it had pa.s.sed still hurt like s.h.i.+t.

"'Nother c.o.ke?"

"Sure."

"The Saleem stuff?" She handed him a second can. "How'd you want to play it? I'll need a bit of notice, got shed-loads on tomorrow." His turn now to avoid eye contact.

"Yeah right. Thing is, Bev... I've just come from the house." The hum of the fridge had never sounded so loud.

"What?" Sinking back into the chair, she lowered the volume. "Why?"

He pulled the ring can, swallowed several mouthfuls before answering. "Being completely upfront, Bev having you there wouldn't've helped."

"Don't hold back, mate." Scowling, she folded her arms.

"I'm only telling it like it is." Saleem, as he'd told her before, was unlikely to open up in the presence of any woman, especially a young white cop. "Plus I have to get back to London earlier than I thought. It was kind of now or never."

She didn't return his smile. His reasoning had logic, it didn't stop her feeling cheated; riding shotgun to Oz had definitely held appeal. "So what happened?"

Saleem had been hostile initially but Oz spoke the same language: literally and culturally. "I couldn't go in casting allegations. I made it clear we knew about his daughter's injuries, and that she was no longer around."

"And?"

"He claims not to know why she left home in the first place or have any idea where she is now."

"There's a surprise."

"I think he was telling the truth, but if he's a better liar than I give him credit for, at least he knows his card's marked."

"Great. No worries then." Remind me to mention it when Fareeda turns up as fertiliser.

"Bev." He leaned forward elbows on table. "Girls do run away. If they're escaping abuse, violence, forced marriage, whatever, they don't want to be found. Fareeda could well be staying with friends some place."