Blood Money Part 6

"As I say, guv, I'm off. Catch you lat..."

"There's enough here for two." Smoke exhalation this time: breathing s.p.a.ce? His own was bated. He'd regretted the offer soon as it slipped out. Hadn't he?

"Best freeze it then. Oh and guv? I'd like the Dylan back."

She must've heard it playing in the background. The greatest hits CD was another Bev relic. He frowned. Actually, no. She'd bought it as a gift. To tune his musical palate, she'd said. The line was dead or he'd have pointed out her mistake. Bob was still banging on though.

It's all over now, baby blue.

What you're doing, young lady, is cutting off your nose to spite your face. That's what her mum always trotted out when Bev was being a b.l.o.o.d.y-minded kid. Her dad called it wearing the stubborn-blinkers. She sighed, flicked on the Polo's radio to drown out the silence. Either way she'd sold herself short tonight. Lost out on a plate of decent grub and missed spending a bit of quality time with a decent bloke. Make that the most decent bloke she'd ever come across. Metaphorically speaking. Smart move or what? She whacked the wheel with her palm. Ouch. Why beat herself up? It was Byford's b.l.o.o.d.y fault. Make it snappy, Bev! Who'd he think...?

Christ on a bike. She hit the horn, swerving to avoid some binge-head who'd stepped off the kerb. It wasn't even chucking out time. Like that counted. Moseley village had its share of alco-fools any hour. Still loved the place though. It was so popular sometimes you couldn't get into the hippest pubs. Bouncers controlled drinker numbers by counting 'em all out, counting 'em all in. Mind, some nights the main drag resembled a war zone.

Make it snappy, Bev. Cheeky sod. While he'd been stuffing his face, chucking booze down his neck and listening to her Bob Dylan, she'd been holding the police fort freezing her a.r.s.e off with a stiff for company. And her stomach still thought she'd had a gastric bypa.s.s. The lights were on red at Saint Mary's Row, she hit the handbrake, toyed with picking up a take-out from the Taj Mahal, or dropping by the Sicilian pizza place? Nah. CBA. Can't be a.r.s.ed. It'd be BOT again. Beans on toast.

Make it sodding snappy!

By the time she pulled up outside the house, her mood had dropped down a few gears. From seething through p.i.s.sed off to the current how-dumb-can-you-get? She'd as good as told the big man to go fornicate while taking a running jump in the fast lane of the M6. Like she could so afford to alienate him professionally. And personally? There were times every nerve in her body ached to be in his arms, but that would mean letting him get close. How could she when she had reverse-Midas? As in everything she touched turned to s.h.i.+t. She dropped her head to her chest and hugged the steering wheel.

It was why she failed at first to spot the two figures huddled in her doorway.

13.

Fareeda Saleem was only on her feet because Sumi Gosh was clinging on to her cousin's shoulders for dear life. Even then Fareeda was bent double, arms clutching her stomach, and issuing soft low moans with every breath. Bev's doorstep was stained with what appeared to be drops of blood.

"I couldn't think where else to go." Sumi's words didn't say a lot, it was an understated plea writ large across stricken features. The young DC was normally never less than cool, calm and professional. Sumi was rattled now, rapidly losing it, equally patently this was no place to be.

"How 'bout a hospital?" Bev could barely hide her incredulity and censure that Sumi had seen fit to show up here with someone clearly so sick.

"No... please!" Fareeda lifted her head briefly, long hair swis.h.i.+ng like black satin curtains. Pain deepened the shade of her already dark eyes, and Bev caught a flash of blind terror.

"I can't get her to go." Sumi stroked the younger woman's back, made soothing sounds. "She's afraid."

You don't say. "Look, Sumi..."

"If you'd rather we..." She cast a sideward glance: pride, propriety, decorum.

Bev had the key in the lock. "First on the left. Sling us your coats." The sitting room would do. Until she'd talked sense into them. Fareeda needed medical attention. Was she pregnant? Miscarrying even? When they'd met in the car park at Highgate, Bev hadn't spotted a b.u.mp only a big fat ugly bruise. Maybe there was a baby and the two were linked. "Hang fire, I'll get the door for you." She stood back while Sumi, still supporting her cousin, steered a course to the nearest sofa, started settling her, rea.s.suring her with soft words.

Bev had a zillion questions on hold. "Back in a min," she called. There was a first aid kit in the kitchen, and they might need hot water. She yanked out drawers, searched cupboards, scanned shelves. Where was the b.l.o.o.d.y thing? Under the sink. Where else? Quick check of the contents revealed antiseptic, witch hazel, pain killers, enough bandages to wrap an Egyptian mummy. Should do the trick. Shame there was no medicinal brandy: Sister Bev needed a drink or three.

"May I get some water for her, please?" Sumi stood in the doorway, her elegant taupe linen suit spattered with blood. Gracious as always, she seemed to be finding eye contact difficult. And however proper her manners, bringing an injured woman here was out of order.

"Sumi. She needs a doctor."

The floor tiles were clearly fascinating. "She'll be OK."

"Is she pregnant?"

That caught her attention. "Are you mad?" Her guffaw verged not on humour but hysteria. Straight-faced, Bev crossed her arms, waiting. "That was rude. I'm sorry. But Bev, I doubt Fareeda's been alone with a man who wasn't family in her life."

She didn't labour the point but Sumi's answer hadn't exactly addressed the issue. Bev turned her back, took a c.o.ke gla.s.s from a shelf, headed for the tap. Like a lot of apprehensive people, Sumi felt the pressure to talk, blurting out: "She's only just eighteen, Bev." Like that figured?

"And?" Again she wasn't going to spell it out. Sumi was being disingenuous. Or in denial.

She spread her hands. "Trust me. Fareeda's not expecting. If you knew her, you'd realise the idea's preposterous."

"Then why's she...?" A wail cut the supplementary. Fareeda might not be pregnant, but she was scared and in pain. As to the answer, Bev was pretty sure she could take a crack at it. In the overhead lighting in the sitting room, it was obvious someone had taken a crack at Fareeda.

Her beautiful face was beaten black and blue, the damson shade matched her kameez, the silk ripped at the neck. Her nose was probably broken; the bleeding had just about stopped. Her top lip was split, the lower swollen to cartoon proportions. No one was falling about laughing. This was the discernible damage; Bev knew d.a.m.n well it wouldn't be the full extent.

Hands on hips, she stood over the teenager so fired up she could barely spit out the words. "Who did this?" Her teeth hurt they were clenched so hard.

Fareeda mumbled something but Bev couldn't decipher it through sobs and the lisp; two teeth were missing at least. She cut a glance to the older woman. "Sumi." It wasn't a question. It was an order. Non-negotiable.

Sitting next to Fareeda, stroking her hand, Sumi shook her head. "I don't know. She won't tell me."

"She'll tell me." Bev knelt on the carpet, coaxing, cajoling. Fareeda barely responded let alone revealed detail: what happened and, more to the point, who'd made it happen. In effect the girl was protecting her attacker, a man who'd used her as a human punch bag. Bev felt desperately sorry for her.

"OK, have it your way." She rose, turned at the door. "Get your coats."

"Please, please don't make me go." Tears ran twin channels down the teenager's bruised and b.l.o.o.d.y face. Bev reckoned you'd need a heart of brick not to be moved.

"I'll drive."

"No!" Fareeda screamed.

"The hospital. You need checking over, then I'll take you down the station for a statement."

She gave a defiant stare, the first indication she still had some spirit left. "I'll kill myself before letting you do that."

"The f.u.c.k you will!" Shaking with fury Bev stormed across the room. "Never pull that line on me again. Got that?" Maybe she should tell Fareeda she'd spent the night with a corpse, a woman who'd swallowed her bodyweight in happy pills. Another victim of sick violence.

Fareeda dropped her head, fiddled with the bunch of bangles round her wrist. "You don't understand."

"Got that right, kid." Bev frowned, couldn't catch Fareeda's mutterings. Patience wearing thin, she snapped: "Say again."

Eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g, she tossed her head back, raised her voice to a loud shout. "Get this right too. If I speak out they'll kill my mother. Maybe my sister, my niece. They don't care." Tears dripped from her chin, splashed into her lap.

Bev knelt again, took the girl's hands in hers. "Who will, Fareeda? Why will they? Tell me, love. We can stop them."

Head high, the teenager held Bev's gaze. "And if you can't?"

She glanced at Sumi who was biting her lip looking shattered. Bev lifted a finger, too whacked to think properly. "One night. Then we'll see." She shook her head, gave a deep sigh. "I need to sleep on it."

It was three a m when the phone rang. Fareeda was in Frankie's old room, asleep, presumably. A shocked and sober Sumi had taken off home shortly after seeing her cousin to bed. Bev had grabbed a slice of toast, knocked back a half-bottle of Pinot and hit the sack. She'd zonked soon as her head touched the pillow. Now she wanted to stuff the b.l.o.o.d.y thing over her head. Groaning, she fumbled for the receiver, snapped out her name.

Nothing. No one. Nada.

"I don't frigging believe it." She punched in 1471. Caller withheld. There's a surprise. Half an hour later, still tossing and turning she swung her legs out of bed, grabbed a dressing gown from the back of the door, headed for the loo. The gown was an unwitting legacy from Oz Khan, her erstwhile lover and former DC, now a sergeant in the Met. Its brushed cotton used to smell of Oz. After he'd gone she'd bury her nose in the fabric, breathe in his scent wallowing in what-ifs and maybes. Then she'd lost his babies and turned down his offer of a life in London. A boil wash had done the trick on the cotton. Shame it didn't work on lingering emotion as well.

She sighed ran both hands through her hair, picturing Oz's face: sculpted cheekbones, full luscious lips, dark chocolate eyes like deep limpid pools. Chick-lit? d.i.c.k-lit more like. Mills and Bev. She gave a lopsided smile then flushed the loo, washed her hands. Quick glance in the mirror confirmed she looked like s.h.i.+te. Tough. Given what she'd witnessed tonight, it wasn't the worst look in the world.

Back on the landing she heard a noise from the spare room. She pressed an ear against the door heard Fareeda's stifled sobs. She reached for the handle, pulled back at the last second, knew further probing tonight would be futile. Fareeda was on a psychological knife edge. Bev was pretty mixed up as well: compa.s.sion, concern, but also still a touch of anger. Fareeda had said one thing that made sense. "You don't understand."

She was bang on. And until Bev did, she'd leave the girl in peace. Tomorrow she'd make it her business to try and get her head round the issue. Drifting back to bed she swallowed a yawn. Nothing else on the books, was there? Apart from nailing the Sandman. Easy sodding peasy.

From behind a horse chestnut tree on the opposite pavement, a dark figure watched the house. The trunk wasn't wide enough to conceal the observer completely. Had Bev glanced out, she might have spotted the outline of a body, the glow of a cigarette. The watcher thought the risk worth taking. When the bedroom light was turned off, the observer emerged from behind the tree, padded over the road. Gloved hands carried a package which they carefully placed on the step. Late Christmas? Early birthday? Either way the cop was in for a surprise.

WEDNESDAY.

14.

Bev's nose twitched, a lazy smile spread across her sleepy face. Proper coffee. Was there a better smell in the universe first thing? Arms above her head, she stretched full length in bed cogitating. Cut gra.s.s? Sweet peas? The sea? Suntan skin? Chips and vinegar? Bacon sarnie? Strawberries? Bread baking? Candy floss? Dark chocolate? Rive Gauche? Yeah yeah yeah: point taken. But dark roast Kenyan came pretty d.a.m.n close. Eyes wide, she bolted upright. However pukka it was, coffee didn't brew itself.

Almost tripping over the duvet, she was halfway downstairs before last night's events fell into place: the caffeine fairy had to be her house guest Fareeda Saleem. As Bev entered the kitchen, the teenager peeked through long glossy black hair, then pushed a mug across a work surface. Service with a shy smile.

Bev winked. "Could get used to this." Her Snoopy jim-jam bottoms were at half mast; she hauled them up with one hand, concerned gaze covertly raking the teenager's damaged face. "How you doing, kid?"

"Fine." Knee-jerk response. Touchy subject. Far as Bev could see the swelling on her bottom lip had gone down a fraction overnight, bruised eyes still resembled over-ripe damsons. Emotionally she seemed to be holding it together, and was evidently keen to change tack; two slices of bread were on standby for the toaster. "Ready for breakfast?" Given the crumbs and b.u.t.tery knife on the table she'd already had a bite. Kids!

"Definitely get used to this." Bev flashed a smile, grabbed the coffee. "Give me five mins, yeah?"

It was nearer ten when she came down suited, booted and abluted. On the basis she still looked like an extra from Shaun of the Dead, she'd opted for a sharp blue skirt suit. Hopefully some sartorial edginess would rub off on its wearer, unlike the hastily applied slap that just about concealed two broken nights' sleep.

Bev paused at the door, loath to disturb Fareeda who stood at the sink gazing through the window, miles away. The girl wouldn't be admiring the garden; nothing there to write home about, even when it wasn't ink-black outside. It didn't seem as if Fareeda was studying her haunted reflection either. Bev reckoned her mind's eye was watching an action replay, a mismatched big fight. Dwarfed by one of Bev's white cotton nighties, the girl looked featherweight.

Bev checked her watch, gave a rueful sigh. At 7.22 there was no time for small talk let alone big issues. The guv's eight o'clock brief wasn't optional, she had to get a move on. Fareeda must've caught movement in the gla.s.s, she turned to face Bev. "Thank you so much for letting me stay."

"No sweat." Her hungry glance fell on breakfast. "Ta for this, kid." She s.n.a.t.c.hed a few sheets of kitchen towel off the roll, wrapped it round the toast. "Have to eat on the hoof. If I don't hit the road..."

"You said one night." Unwittingly perhaps, Fareeda's fingers stroked a swollen discoloured cheek. "Do you want me to leave?"

Despite what was probably emotional blackmail, Bev had already made up her mind. She wanted Fareeda to be safe, untouched by inhuman hand. That meant knowing where she was. "Make yourself at home, eh? We'll take it a day at a time." She c.o.c.ked her head at the table. "And get rid of those crumbs. This ain't a flaming hotel, you know." A warm smile and wink took the heat out of her words.

The girl nodded, eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g, fingers kneading a slender forearm. "Thank you so much, I..."

"Later." She raised a palm. "We'll talk then."

Later. Like she'd deal with the sodding parcel on the doorstep. After nearly tripping over the d.a.m.n thing, she scooped it up, glanced at the tag and tucked it under her arm. It'd be the desk clock she'd spotted on eBay: the flas.h.i.+ng blue light would give her Highgate mates a laugh. Mind, she'd have another word with Postman Pat, he was lucky the b.l.o.o.d.y thing hadn't been nicked.

"Hey, Morriss! This is your lucky day." The familiar voice shouting across the car park was almost drowned out by contractors digging up the road at the back of the nick. They were replacing water mains or something, drilling seemed to have gone on for weeks.

Bev reached into the Polo's pa.s.senger door, a smile curving her lips. She knew who was predicting her fortune without looking round. It wasn't so much the quasi Delboy delivery, more the sarky, "Morriss". The only guy she knew who didn't call her Bev or sarge was Mike Powell. The DI wasn't a s.e.xist git just because of that. There were loads of reasons. Was it good to have him around? Betcha.

"Mystic Mike." She yelled back, not even trying to hide the smile in her voice. Still without a backward glance she locked the motor, then juggling shoulder bag, files and parcel headed for the rear of the building. This time of morning the air was chocker with exhaust fumes, aftershave trails and wafts of perfume. She always reckoned her nose could detect Highgate's early birds. Quick sniff, quirky frown. Not that one though. Powell was just behind her now. Had he finished at Hendon? Or had the guv requested his early release? Given Operation Magpie's increasing complexity, the squad's workload was growing fast same as the pressures. If she was the guv she'd split the inquiry, have one team concentrate on the burglaries, the other focus on the murder, pool everything at joint briefs. "You back with us then, sir?"

"Can't keep a good man down, Morriss." He upped the pace; fell into step beside her.

"Yeah, but what about you?" The cheeky wink finally established eye contact. And boy was he looking good. She might have told him if her teeth weren't clenched against the cold. Sod it, if the temperature didn't buck up she'd soon be investing in thermals. Heated bra would be good.

"G.o.d. You look rough." Mike Powell: Mr Charmer. Or was that snake? She opened her mouth to bite back then stopped. There'd been no edge to the remark, his concern was probably genuine. Even more reason to ignore it.

"Equality awareness course, was it, at cop school?" She was wide-eyed innocence, knowing full well Powell had been tutor not trainee. Lecturing in Intelligent Management, Mac had heard. Sounded like an oxymoron to her.

Powell could've got the door but held back deliberately. She gave an exaggerated sigh as she struggled to open it. "Glad you pa.s.sed. A* was it?"

"Patronising, isn't it? Blokes holding doors for wimmin." He'd purposely crossed his what-women-want wires to wind her up.

"Patronise ahead." She nodded at the first fire door, arms still laden. This time Powell did the honours, even stooped to pick up the parcel and a file she'd dropped. She had to admit he looked almost tasty. His skin glowed, the blond hair a tad longer now, curled at the neck. The dove grey suit swelled in all the right places. "Joined a gym, have we?" She sensed his appraising gaze as they walked; he'd be limping if he didn't watch what he said.

"I have." He left it at that: subtle for Powell. Perhaps he'd learned something in cla.s.s after all. Their catch-up chat was intermittently put on hold as colleagues pa.s.sing in the corridors welcomed the DI back with Hi Mikes and the odd high-five. Hendon had been badly hit by a flu outbreak, he told her. So many people were down with it loads of sessions had been cancelled, including his. Either way he'd have been back next week, his three-month stint was up this Friday.

"And you just couldn't wait to get back in the saddle, eh?" They'd arrived at Bev's office.

"I know you can't live without me, Morriss. Heard you were pining away."

"Get the hearing aid checked if I were you." Her fingers closed on the door handle.

"Pardon?"

She rolled her eyes. "That is so old. Try a refresher course next time."

"Touche, mon babe." He tapped his forehead, walked away, whistling what sounded like I heard it through the grapevine.

Still smiling she b.u.mmed the door, off-loaded files and bag, shucked out of her coat. What was Bob Dylan doing on her keyboard? Of course, last night's phone call. She'd told the guv she wanted her CD back. She sniffed. He could at least have given it to her in person. She lifted the case, turned it over. Big of him, he hadn't even left a note to say thanks. Actually. Eyes creased, she tapped the desktop. Felt the hint of a blush. Her greatest hits were at home. This had been a present for the big man. A present. Like the package on the doorstep this morning. Powell had waltzed off...

He walked in without knocking, dumped parcel and file on her desk, loosened his tie. "Must be getting as ditzy as you, Morriss."

"Time of the month, sir?" Deadpan, she grabbed bag, file, notepad, water bottle. "Brief's in five. Don't be late. First day back and all that."

Byford had clearly been busy. Still was. The big man was up at the front, back to the squad, standing towards the end of a row of five incident charts. His sleeves were rolled back and a charcoal grey jacket was slung over the nearest swivel chair. Bev headed for a seat by the window, glanced at the guv's handiwork in pa.s.sing. The first four charts covered sequentially the Sandman burglaries, the fifth was devoted to the murder. In the centre of each board was a close up of the victim: Beth Fowler first, Sheila Isaac, Donna Kennedy, Faith Winters, finally, Alex Masters. Each pic was circled in thick black marker, lines led off to smaller circles. In his distinctive italic script, Byford had added names, locations, main players, key points. And a crop of question marks. He was still working on the murder chart.

Byford's headmaster stance might have subdued the atmosphere, or maybe Donna Kennedy's suicide had dampened the team spirit. Whatever was to blame for the downbeat vibes, it was so quiet you could hear the guv's felt tip squeak.