Blood Money Part 15

Slipping off her coat, she chucked it over the arm of a chair, smoothed her hair, then stood in front of the mirror. She was surprisingly pleased and relieved to note the inner turmoil wasn't evident, the immaculate mask was intact. Diana had just returned from a fact finding tour: Charlotte definitely wasn't in any of her usual haunts. The discovery had dashed Diana's faint hope that their friend's CV had 'lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d' writ large, as well as blackmailer. She realised now he almost certainly wasn't bluffing.

Swaying slightly, she dimmed the lights, drifted to the CD player, decided she could do without musical distraction. Charlotte's abduction complicated matters. Diana was hardly in a position to go to the police. Her lip curved at the understatements. Hugging herself she paced the faded carpet, the pay-as-you-go clutched in her fingers. Think, woman, think. There had to be a way round it. Could her original plan still work? Sam shadowing her on the drop, pulling a knife at the handover, only this time forcing the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to reveal Charlotte's whereabouts before he was taken out. Taken out? Such a civilised euphemism. The thin smile turned skeletal. Call it what the h.e.l.l you like, the idea was the best she could come up with.

Yet so much could go wrong. She ran her fingers through her hair. Maybe the cops were the only option? No. She was a d.a.m.n sight smarter than the slime-ball who was holding her daughter. Scowling, she threw a log on the fire, curled up in Alex's armchair, willed the phone to ring. Pay-as-you-go? Oh, yes. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d would pay all right. Before being permanently despatched. For several minutes, deep in thought, she watched the flicker of flames and curl of smoke as the fire took hold. Charlotte would be fine. Diana closed her eyes, told herself again: Charlotte would be just fine. Failure was not an option.

Bev awarded herself ten out of ten for prescience, perfectionism and all round good-eggism. As she predicted, Liam Small had emerged squeaky clean from his grilling. The anonymous caller's st.i.tches had come adrift: Small's alibi was tighter than a cat's r.e.c.t.u.m not to mention he had the colouring of an anaemic albino. By way of a slap on the back, she'd treated herself to a cheeky little Pinot which even now lay winking from the pa.s.senger seat. She'd swung by Oddbins after dropping Mac at the nick. Hopefully it'd be the last she'd see of him until Monday. Unless there was a major break, she'd not be called in. And if there was she'd want to be there anyway. Win-win situation.

She slapped in a Kinks CD to celebrate, sang along to Sunny Afternoon. Moseley was gearing up for Friday night, flash motors were parked b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper either side of the main drag, music spilled out of wine bars and pubs, b.o.o.bs spilled out of lace and lurex. Bev's goose b.u.mps were rising in sympathy: it was minus five on the street. She lowered the window a tad just to take in the smells of pizza and curry: oregano, cardamom, cinnamon, coriander. She'd already decided on an Indian, fancied Rogan Josh tonight but it was early yet, she'd ring later. It'd be a bit coals to Newcastle for Fareeda but the girl could always fend for herself. Maybe she wouldn't even bother coming down if the migraine was as stonking as she'd made out on the phone.

"Thanks, Raymondo." Smiling, Bev cut the Kinks, grabbed bottle and bag and fished out the new key. House felt warm, even though no one was on hand with the nibbles and red carpet. She guessed Fareeda was still nursing a sore head. Coat and bag ditched, Bev nipped upstairs, peeked into the spare room. Ten out of ten again. Give that girl a gold star. She dithered on the landing but only momentarily. Her mum suffered migraines, reckoned the only cure apart from death was silence and a darkened room. She'd leave the kid to it. And being brutally honest, she fancied having the place to herself for a night.

Five minutes later, she was curled up with Johnny Depp. Well, Depp was on the DVD, swashbuckling and timber-s.h.i.+vering, Bev was supine on the sofa, gla.s.s in hand, bowl of Quavers balanced mid-trunk. Would she walk his plank? Any time, matey. Her lascivious leer morphed into a testy frown. Was that the b.l.o.o.d.y door? Using elbow as prop, she listened out for the bell. Knowing the erratic hours she put in, the few mates she had outside the job never turned up on spec, cold and casual callers could go get stuffed; on past experience it was probably Jehovah's Witnesses trying to save her soul. Her lopsided smile suggested they'd have their work cut out.

The bell rang again, a persistent finger on the buzzer. Her eyes widened. What if...? Heart skipping a beat, the Quavers took a tumble as she shot up, swung down her legs. She had a mad idea it was Oz. Wouldn't be the first time he'd turned up unannounced, Khanie had a habit of springing surprises.

It was that all right. Confusion reigned. For a split second she thought she'd phoned Spice Avenue. But she hadn't called for an Indian and the grey-haired guy wasn't delivering a takeaway. He wouldn't need two henchmen for that.

Two seconds later the rupee dropped. It had to be a Saleem family outing. Had they come packing? If so, what were they carrying? Heart pumping, bowel on ice, she aimed for a disarming smile, made d.a.m.n sure it didn't reach her eyes, detected not so much as a lip twitch in return.

The old boy could've been carved from fissured rock; the hooded eyes were expressionless, certainly illegible. Quick scan showed the brothers had inherited the father's genes with time on their side: dark-haired, early twenties, tasty except they so knew it. Part of her wanted to slam their faces into a wall; part of her was bricking it.

"My name is Malik Saleem. I think you know why I'm here." He was in off-white shalwar kameez and a zipped blue nylon jacket. The brothers-in-arms wore street uniform: baggy denims, loose fitting hoodies, Nike trainers. Calculating the odds went like this: she despised bullies, was well able to look out for herself but if push came to shove it was three against one. Could be asking for trouble inviting them in?

"Best come in." Standing to one side, she fought not to flinch when the old man raised a gnarled hand. It was only to turn down her offer.

"I want you to tell Fareeda she must come home." He who must be obeyed or what?

"No." Not even if he said please. How'd they found out where she was though? Had they put a tail on Sumi?

"I am not looking for trouble."

Arms folded, she held his gaze. "You ain't getting any."

"Evening, Bev." A loud yell from across the road. The old man who lived opposite was standing outside his house. "Everything all right, girl?"

"Hunky, thanks, Mr Yates." Alfie looking out for her improved the odds; the Saleems wouldn't do anything stupid in front of a witness.

"I want my daughter back." Like there'd been no interruption. "Tell Fareeda we can work it out. It will be better for her if she comes home."

"Better than what? Getting beat?"

That stepped up the heat. She watched him cool it with a couple of jaw clenches. "You should not interfere. You don't understand."

Her turn to see red bulls.h.i.+t. "d.a.m.n right I don't." She was sick of hearing it. "I don't understand how anyone can pummel a girl's face till it breaks. I don't understand why a girl's scared s.h.i.+tless to open her mouth. I don't understand why s.a.d.i.s.tic pieces of work get away with it time after time."

"You are a police officer. Do you really think I would be here if I had done this terrible thing to my own flesh and blood?" She didn't know. He could be on the level or lying through those stained teeth. Unless Fareeda testified the old man was home and dry. He must know she hadn't spoken out or the police would be knocking on his door, not vice versa. If the girl returned home, Saleem could make sure she kept her mouth shut. Maybe permanently.

"Who did then?"

His eyes darkened. "I will make it my job to find out."

"Think you'll find that's my job." Suns.h.i.+ne. "And when I do, he's going down."

"If that's an accusation...?" He didn't elaborate and she let it hang. Oz was right: she'd not a thread of evidence. On the other hand it looked to Bev as if the old man was having a hard time keeping a lid on it. He clearly didn't take to being challenged let alone contradicted. "Fareeda does not belong here. Her mother misses her. She cries herself to sleep every night."

"And your daughter doesn't?" She glanced over his shoulder. Alfie was sweeping the pavement. In the dark. Whistling. You'll Never Walk Alone.

"May I speak with her please?" Saleem senior was doing all the talking. The brothers knew their place: on the sidelines cracking the occasional knuckle.

"She's not up to visitors. Got a migraine."

"You are lying to me."

Cheeky sod. She'd had enough. "G'night." She made to close the door. They could be there till the cows came home then left on a world cruise. Unless Fareeda had a change of heart, it wasn't going to happen.

"My daughter does not belong here." She recoiled at his garlic breath as he took a step closer, tried to put a foot in the door. "Send her home. Soon." The voice was low but had a sharper edge. "Then we can forget about it."

You might. "Are you threatening me, Mr Saleem?"

"Good night, officer." Bouncing on the b.a.l.l.s of their feet the sons moved aside so he could leave first. "I hope it won't be necessary to trouble you again."

Diana Masters stroked Sam's brow, ran her fingers through his damp tousled hair. His cheeks were flushed, he felt fevered. They stood face to face in the kitchen. She suspected his heightened emotion was down to fear. That he was running scared. More than ever they needed to stand strong, to stand together. A weak Sam was ornamental but no use, dangerous in fact. "Sam, Sam, it will be OK."

"How can you say that, Diana?" His eyes pleaded with her before he turned to cup his hands under the cold tap to take a drink. Observing, calculating, she waited until his focus was again on her.

"He won't kill Charlotte, Sam. It's just big talk."

"And that's what?" The package he'd brought was on the table. Gone midnight, but he'd driven straight over when he found it pushed through the door of his flat.

"It's hair, Sam. It might not even be Charlotte's." Stupid. Of course it was.

"You're in denial, Diana. It's her in the photograph."

That was more... disconcerting. It was definitely her daughter gagged, blindfolded and bound to a chair. "At least we know she's alive."

"For how long?" He threw his hands into the air. "There's no option now. You have to go to the police."

Diana fought to conceal her contempt. It was vital not to lose him but he was acting like a lily-livered wimp. "Get real. You're the Sandman for G.o.d's sake. If it comes out you'll go down for the rest of your life."

"If he keeps his mouth shut it won't come out." G.o.d. How could he be so dense? There was only one way to make sure the blackmailer kept his mouth shut. And she had every intention of taking it.

"You're not thinking straight, Sam. Watch my lips. There can be no police involvement. We get her back. We do what he says."

She watched as he pulled at his bottom lip, working out where she was coming from. "Pay the ransom you mean?"

"If that's what it takes." Over Diana's dead body. She needed time to get Sam on track.

"It's too risky, Dee." He ran both hands through his hair. "He could take the cash and still kill her."

"But we won't let him, will we?" She'd rather die than go down as Sam's accessory. Scrub that. She'd prefer to kill. Anyone who got in her way. He wasn't completely convinced. But there were lots of ways to make him come round. She held her arms open. "Come on, Sammy. Let's go to bed."

Bev slammed the door on the Saleems' departing backs, but not before hearing the old man hawk then spit on the ground. She leaned against the wood, slamming fist into palm. I hope it won't be necessary to trouble you again. Sounded like a veiled threat without the veil. Bring it on, gobs.h.i.+te.

But was it a warning? Realistically, how'd she know? Maybe he genuinely wanted his daughter back with no ha.s.sle. Drifting back to the sitting room, she took a few pensive sips of wine. It was just conceivable Saleem hadn't laid a finger on Fareeda. It was the girl's word against... Hold on? She frowned. Fareeda still hadn't uttered a syllable of any import on the subject. Fact was Bev knew no more now than the night she'd found Fareeda and Sumi huddled outside. Correction. The predictor kit was pretty telling. Not that there'd been opportunity to tackle the girl about it. Lips pursed, she glanced at the ceiling then mental sleeves rolled headed for the stairs. Migraine or not it was time to take issue. And there'd be no standing on ceremony.

"Need a word, kid." Bev stood at the bedside, tapping a foot. She'd done the decent thing leaving off the light, but even in the shadows she saw Fareeda had pulled the duvet over her head. Natch. More comfortable than burying it in the sand. "Sooner we talk sooner I'll be out of your hair." Big brush off. Feigning sleep was child's play: Fareeda was a big girl now. Mouth tight, arms crossed, Bev pushed a toe against the mattress. "I ain't going nowhere, kid." Not a murmur. Bev pushed again, harder this time. Nothing. She narrowed her eyes, hair rising on the back of her neck. No one slept that deep. Suddenly alert, scalp crawling, she took a step closer, looked for the gentle rise and fall of shoulder under duvet. Holy Mary. It wasn't.

Dear sweet Christ. Not dead, please, not dead. Heart pounding, hand shaking Bev flung off the cover, muttered obscenities under her breath. Fareeda wasn't dead. Fareeda wasn't there. Just well-placed towels, pillows and a few lines on a post card.

Please don't try and find me. It's better no one knows where I am. I have a friend and we'll be fine. Thank you for being there, Bev. x.x.x Weak with relief, eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears she dropped to her knees. "You stupid, stupid girl." It wasn't only Fareeda she had in mind.

MONDAY.

27.

Seven a m. Highgate. A business-suited Bev had the squad room almost to herself, ploughing through a backlog of printouts and police reports, catching up on detail that might have slipped her net. She'd monitored news bulletins over the weekend, knew nothing major had kicked off in the Sandman inquiry or Powell would've called her in like a shot. Blowing on a cup of steaming canteen coffee, she reckoned a summons would have been welcome given how much downtime she'd spent on domestic stuff. House was cleaner than an operating theatre now: not difficult. Mind, it had needed a seeing to, she'd had to dust the board before doing the ironing.

Shuffling the paperwork into a neat pile, she knew the ch.o.r.es-fest had been displacement activity. It had stopped her obsessing over Fareeda, and a bunch of other stuff. Sumi had been as much in the dark over her cousin's whereabouts; Bev had called Gos.h.i.+e the minute she found the girl gone. Later much later she'd left voicemail telling Oz not to bother coming up. Hadn't realised till then how much she'd been looking forward to seeing the guy. What with that and low-level all round antsy-ness it had been a pretty s.h.i.+te weekend. Antic.i.p.ation greater than the event? Got that right. Nipping a tin of ta-very-much Roses across to Alfie and whizzing round Sainsbury hardly qualified as social whirls. She pursed her lips: what did it say about her life when her mum's roast pork and crackling had been the highlight?

She needed reminding what it was all about. Rising, she drifted cup in hand to the victims' picture gallery, keen blue eyes lingered on each face in turn: Faith Winters, Beth Fowler, Sheila Isaac, women terrorised and terrified by the Sandman; Donna Kennedy and Libby Redwood, dead; odd man out Alex Masters, killed. Taking a sip of coffee, it occurred to her that if the timing of previous attacks was anything to go by, another strike was overdue.

Moving across to one of the whiteboards, she stood in front of the e-fit, stared into what could be the perp's dark deep set eyes. Maybe the Sandman had been too busy of late making silent phone calls? After receiving another half-dozen silent hang-ups, she'd asked BT to check the line.

"You're early." How long had the guv been watching her? He was in the doorway Fedora and attache case in hand. She spotted a shaving nick on his neck. "Good break, Bev?"

"Brill." Bright smile. "The best." Like she'd admit Boot Hill had more life.

His finger traced a quizzical eyebrow. "What'd you get up to?"

"Y'know how it is, guv." Mouth turned down, she made a wave of her hand. "Bit o' this, bit o' that."

"That quiet, uh?" Deadpan delivery, voluble gaze. The big man could read her better than anyone she knew.

"Rubbish." She sniffed. "Glad to get back to work." Lesser of two evils. Sat.u.r.day night was the first in a long time she'd not gone on the pull, the very thought had turned her stomach. Least here there was company she didn't have to get rat-a.r.s.ed to keep.

He paused a beat or two then: "Always glad to have you back, Bev." Ambiguous smile, mock salute and he was gone. Had she read something deeper in those eyes, the way he'd said the words? Or had she just wanted to? Miles away, she tapped a pen against her teeth.

"Earth to Morriss. Come in please." The moment had pa.s.sed. Mike Powell bemused grin, arms folded, leaned against the doorframe.

"DI Powell." Eager smile. "How may I help?"

"You taking the p.i.s.s?"

"Would I?"

He rolled his eyes, jammed a hand in his pocket. "You didn't miss much, Morriss." He'd been in all weekend. She listened as he talked her through a couple of ticked boxes: the house to house in Kings Heath had finally been completed, checks on whether there was a property link between the victims had drawn a blank. There'd been no further contact from the grasping b.a.s.t.a.r.d after a non-existent reward.

"That it?" she asked.

"Have to sharpen our spades, won't we? See you at the brief." He turned at the door. "Oh yeah, a woman phoned here for you a couple of times."

"Oh?" Not likely to be anyone she'd already spoken to, she always gave out a bunch of numbers she could be reached on.

"Wouldn't leave a name. Said it wasn't urgent. She'd try again."

She shrugged. "Get a number?"

"I'm not your sodding secretary." He disappeared then popped his head back. "Course I did. It's on your desk."

Bag and coat dumped, Bev dug out the number from under a pile of files and post-its. It didn't ring a bell, frowning she reached for the receiver, tried it twice, would've left a message but no answerphone kicked in. She glanced up, some joker was playing a drum solo on the door. Not hard to guess who. She gave a resigned sigh. "Come in, mate."

Mac ambled in humming Knock, knock, knocking on heaven's door. Subtle. The song choice was no surprise compared with the shock on clocking his new look. He'd ditched the lumberjack gear for blue s.h.i.+rt and charcoal chinos.

"My G.o.d." She lifted an imaginary jaw from the floor. "Give us a twirl."

"No more barging in, boss. Turning over a new leaf, me."

New woman more like. "Hold you to it, mate."

"Not just that. I've bagged up a load of old clothes. Splashed out on a new wardrobe. Nothing like a fresh start."

Mental eye roll. Must be part of Mac's one-man move-Morriss-on campaign. She let it go; his heart was in the right place somewhere under the paunch. And maybe he had a point.

One eye closed, Byford took aim and launched the Fedora at the hat stand. His muted Yes was accompanied by a triumphant air punch. Hitting the target didn't necessarily mean a good day ahead, but success gave the big man a childish thrill. It wasn't part of the morning routine he shared with anyone. Sighing he sat at the desk, tugged his bottom lip. Like the weekend that had been pretty solitary too: long solo walk in the Malverns, dinner alone in a restaurant, single bed in a soulless hotel. Throughout, Bev hadn't been far from his thoughts. Why the h.e.l.l couldn't they get their act together?

If he'd decided nothing else over the last two days, he'd decided this: when Operation Magpie was concluded he'd ask if she wanted to give it another go. Find out once and for all if they had a joint future. He reached for his briefing notes. All they had to do now was nail the Sandman.

Sam's hand shook as he pa.s.sed the phone to Diana. "He wants to speak to you."

Thank G.o.d for that. There'd been little contact for two days. Edgy herself, she'd kept Sam with her most of the time trying to convince him the blackmailer was playing mind games. It hadn't worked. Her lover was pale, sweaty, barely eating. He'd not touched breakfast, just pushed scrambled egg round with a fork. Diana shoved away her empty plate, any nausea she felt stemmed from having to be the strong one all the time. Taking a deep breath she held the phone to her ear. "Diana Mast..."

"I know who you are, lady. I've been p.i.s.sed around enough. Where's the cash?" The voice was metallic, distorted, not as menacing as Sam described it. Maybe she was better prepared, or less easily intimidated.

"It's not been easy..."

"I don't give a flying f.u.c.k. I want it tonight or the deal's off."

A flash of fury lit her eyes. "You don't get a cent until I know my daughter's alive." What little colour there was drained from Sam's cheeks. It wasn't how they'd decided to play it. Her role was supposed to be desperate mother, willing to do anything the blackmailer asked. Fact was, she hated being jerked round by sc.u.m.

"Sure about that, lady?"