Authors: Maureen Carter
Blue lights. Braying mob. Balsall Heath. The drama was unfolding as Sumi dropped the others close to the action. Bev, Mac and Carol ran from the car, leaving Sumi to park wherever she could. Wouldn’t be easy. Space was at a premium. Five fire engines idled, generators hummed, crews on standby. Ambulances, paramedics similarly primed. Mounted police and foot patrols in riot gear were poised at both ends of the street chomping at literal and metaphorical bits. An angry chanting hundred-plus crowd probably imagined it was keeping the cops at bay. Bev reckoned DCS Flint was actually holding his officers back, afraid of provoking violence. Further violence.
En route, she’d picked up unconfirmed reports via a call to Highgate control. An unknown source had rung police claiming demonstrators had dragged a man from a detached house. The hapless victim had been badly beaten and now lay in the middle of the road.
Bev clocked Powell and Flint in the front line. The DCS had binoculars to his eyes. She doubted he could see much through the wailing wall of protestors. Flint’s instinct would probably have been to go in, save the poor bloke from further harm. But as every officer knew, more than one life was at stake.
The detached house, Victorian redbrick, double-fronted, was a probation hostel. Milton Place was one of more than a hundred similar establishments operating in England and Wales. They accommodated around two and a half thousand released cons. Anyone who read the papers knew forty per cent of the hostel population comprised sex offenders. Hand-painted posters suggested the protestors were well read, and in this case two plus two equalled big trouble, potential tragedy.
As well as the stats, the press was wont to run scare stories about sexual predators living in the community. The emotive prose stirred anger among outraged residents. Hostels in other parts of the country and the city – though not Milton Place – had been targeted before. Bev recognised action group acronyms on some of the homemade banners. SOB: Sex Offenders Out of Birmingham; CAP: Campaign Against Perverts; MAD: Mothers Against Deviants.
Previous demos had been generally peaceful. Had saturation coverage of the Disposer added fuel to an ignorant free-for-all fire? Had the protest been hi-jacked by a handful of mindless yobs? Or more sinister activists with vested interests?
Questions for later. She reckoned Flint’s current priority was working out how to defuse a rapidly escalating and explosive situation. The mass of bodies had parted to reveal a chilling tableau. Four or five protestors swathed in scarves and balaclavas circled their injured prey. A big guy, almost certainly the ringleader, goaded the crowd: torch the bastard? Or the building?
Through Flint’s binoculars, Bev saw twelve, maybe thirteen forms silhouetted in the few remaining windows that hadn’t been smashed. Trapped men. Scared to flee, terrified to stay.
“Both. Both. Both,” the herd chorused.
“Bastards,” Powell hissed, jaw clenched, fists tight.
“Cool it, Mike,” Flint warned.
Bev had never seen the DI so edgy. Unsurprising perhaps. Only four months back a young constable and two other men had been killed in an arson attack on a halfway house in Selly Oak. It happened on Powell’s watch, and though he wasn’t responsible, Bev reckoned he still carried a heavy burden of self-imposed guilt. She offered a Polo, registered his haunted features, trembling hand.
Curious onlookers were gathering beyond the police cordons. Bev spotted Mac and Carol circulating trying to elicit information. The noise had probably brought out the neighbours. Or maybe the light show was the attraction. A high-powered beam from a police helicopter intermittently strafed the scene, augmenting the streetlights’ orange glow. Two, maybe three TV crews recorded the action. Police cameras captured the evidence. All the cops had to do was catch the villains. Bev couldn’t see the bad guys getting away. Vine Street was virtually sealed.
“What now, boss?” Her breath emerged in white puffs. She stamped her feet, rubbed her hands.
“Pray that bloke’s got more than one brain cell.” He nodded towards the gobby guy goading the crowd. The one-word chant had changed. Still four letters, a world more menace.
“Burn. Burn. Burn.”
A mile or so away in Moseley, a young woman in designer tracksuit and trainers took a shortcut down an alleyway to reach her Mazda. The passage ran between two rows of shops, brick walls either side were daubed with graffiti, dusty determined weeds struggled here and there through the mortar. The alley was unlit, stinking of cat pee, littered with empty lager cans and junk food cartons. At that time of night most people would walk round several blocks to get to the car park. Jodie Mills was blasé, had no intention of allowing fear of crime or anything else to restrict her life or movements. She also ran self-defence classes in the church hall opposite, held a black belt in judo. And clutched a very large torch.
A bulging black bin bag almost blocked the narrow path. Jodie scowled, mumbled something about bastard litter-louts, kicked out angrily as she passed. The resultant split in the plastic revealed more than household waste. The face was human, and male. One wide-open eye stared as if shocked at the kick in the teeth. But the blow was post mortem. No doubt about it, given the smell.
Mike Powell smelt it first. Petrol. The DI’s fraught glance darted wildly as he tried to locate the most likely source. Got it. The gang leader was waving a bottle in the air, taunting the man on the ground. Even from this distance the DI saw liquid splash on the road, inches from the victim. The fumes were growing stronger. Powell couldn’t make out the undoubtedly terrified man’s features. The picture in the DI’s troubled mind was of a young police constable. For weeks after the arson attack, PC Simon Wells appeared nightly in the DI’s dreams, featured daily in flashbacks. The visions had become less frequent of late. Now they were back, and emotions threatened to overwhelm him: the shock and fury and sadness at the futile waste of life.
Powell bounced on the balls of his feet, felt adrenalin fizz through his veins. Apart from one brief digression, he’d always gone by the book; never put a foot wrong when it came to rules, regulations, routine. It made him reliable. More than that: rigid. Where Bev sometimes rushed in foolishly, Powell feared to tread. Maybe that’s why it took her a second or two to realise who’d broken ranks, who was charging down the street, black coat flapping like wings.
She watched open-mouthed as the DI headed straight for the swaggering gang leader. Surprise element? Delayed reaction? Disbelief? Whatever. The guy was unprepared. Powell’s flying tackle brought the scumbag crashing down. Pinioned to the ground, he couldn’t avoid Powell’s fist in his face. The DI lashed out again. The rock came out of the crowd, smashed with an audible crack into Powell’s temple. The stunned near silence lasted a couple of heartbeats. As Powell toppled over, the jeering crowd closed in.
Trembling, Jodie punched three nines on her mobile and paced impatiently as she waited. Seemed no time at all when an unmarked car pulled over, straddled the kerb. Jodie frowned. She’d expected flashing blue lights and two officers. Her worry lines deepened as the driver got out. She recognised Matt Snow immediately. She’d been an avid reader of his column since it started. Jodie was OK – if not happy – about being interviewed. By the time a police patrol car arrived twenty minutes later, the reporter had already left the crime scene. One of the officers blamed an ongoing incident for the delayed response.
Flint’s standoff policy had allowed police numbers to swell, tension to increase. But when it all kicked off, Bev reckoned there were probably more uniforms in place than demonstrators. She didn’t scare easily, but the sight, sound and smell of approaching police horses nearly made her wet her pants. Several tons of quivering horseflesh, clopping hooves, snorting nostrils, clanking metal was awesome. And effective crowd control.
Screaming, yelling demonstrators dispersed in all directions as the cavalry drew close. Her earlier assumption that the bad guys were virtually corralled proved premature and optimistic. Posters and banners were ditched as protestors fled through gardens either side of the street, officers in pursuit.
With no body armour or baton, Bev held back. Self-preservation? Maternal instinct? Babies were probably the last thought on her conscious mind. Flint had drummed it into the squad that people safety and public order were priorities.
Controlling events and care of casualties was more important than containment and securing convictions. If a few sheep escaped, that was OK. But not the leaders. He wanted them rounded up.
Bev narrowed her eyes. The main man was going nowhere. She weaved her way through what was left of the crowd, knelt by his side. The guy felled by Powell was unconscious, flat on his back, bleeding from the nose and mouth. Powell must’ve yanked off the balaclava. It was in the road, next to a Zippo lighter. Inches away lay the original victim, curled in the foetal position, hands round his head, whimpering like a baby. So where was the DI?
Paramedics carrying stretchers were heading this way. She left them to it, stood in the middle of the road, briefly took stock. Her heart had stopped banging her rib cage, but the pulse still whooshed in her ears. She took a few steadying breaths as she scanned the rapidly emptying street. Flint had made a good call. Potential tinderbox ignition had been averted. She’d envisaged petrol bombs, missile throwing, general mayhem. Fact that people were being carted off with only token struggles seemed to confirm her earlier suspicion that most of the crowd had been railroaded by a small gang of hard core troublemakers.
Early on, she’d seen officers frogmarching two of the scarf-wearers towards a line of waiting police wagons. In the initial chaos, confusion and noise it hadn’t been possible to get the big picture, just clips and cameos. She’d spotted Mac and Caz in the crowd scenes; Flint barking orders through a bullhorn.
But no DI.
Hands in pockets, she walked the street, glance raking from side to side, genuinely concerned. Powell was a jobsworth; the only cop she knew who quoted PACE like it was a party piece. He’d never crossed a line, police or otherwise. Talk about breaking the working habits of a lifetime. Bev twisted rules like Geller bent spoons. But not in front of an audience. And never in front of a camera.
“’Kay, boss?” Mac’s face glistened, sweat dripped from his chin. She handed him a crumpled tissue from her coat pocket.
Brisk nod. “Seen Powell?”
“Not since the big fight.” He mopped up, mouth down. “What a moron.”
Bev shrugged. Was he? She kind of admired the DI’s action. Showing Mac the lighter she’d bagged as evidence, she said, “The moron stopped a man getting toasted.”
“Yeah?” Mac said. “What if Super Mike had sparked the riot? Set the whole shebang alight?”
“Didn’t, did he?” Bottom lip jutted. Wasn’t much of an answer.
They watched as officers escorted straggling demonstrators down the street towards a lift to the station. “Take ages to process that lot,” Mac moaned.
“Tell me about it.” Mostly they’d be dealing with public order offences, criminal damage. She hadn’t heard arrest figures yet but sighed, pictured another rainforest of paperwork. Highgate’s cells would soon be awash. Other nicks would have to take the overspill. Vast majority of the offenders would get bail first thing. Magistrates were in for a busy morning. The mouthy minority would almost certainly enjoy a lengthy remand in custody.
“If you two have nothing better to do than...”
Bev spun round, eyes blazing, bit back a mouthful. DCS Flint didn’t look as if he’d appreciate any lip. “Go and take a look at this.” He handed her a piece of paper. “There’s a body. That’s all I know.”
Still seething, Bev read the address. Saint Mary’s Row. Just down the road from her place. She glanced at Flint. She so wanted to tell him to take a flying fuck. Not cause she’d been called in on a day off. Didn’t give a monkey’s about that – she’d work in a bank if she wanted a nine to five job. It was Flint’s arsey sarky attitude. If you’ve nothing better to do... Like they were swapping lead swinging recipes. Sod it. She’d had enough. “Actually, mate...”
He didn’t hear. He was rubbing both hands over weary face. His complexion had a sickly hue. The bloke looked all in. She’d never seen it before: a person aging ten years in two hours. Maybe it was delayed shock. They’d come a gnat’s eyelash away from a riot. Maybe he was replaying the crowd’s chant:
burn, burn, burn
. Even so... heat, kitchen, and all that. She opened her mouth.
“Sarge.” Mac with his don’t-say-anything-you-might-regretlater-expression.
Fine. Flint’d get the benefit of the doubt. Once. Not trusting herself to speak, she gave a mock salute, turned to go, dithered and turned back. “You seen the DI, sir?”
“In an ambulance.” Powell had staggered there before passing out. “After treatment, he’ll be going home.”
“Home?”
“The DI’s on suspension pending an inquiry.”
Mac drove to Saint Mary’s Row in a squad car commandeered at Vine Street. Sober but pissed off, Bev felt like hitting more than the road. She drummed twitchy fingers on her thigh, stared through the window, scowled. Must be chucking out time in Moseley. Chucking up, too, going by the charming scene outside the Nag’s Head. A teenage girl was bent double in the gutter surrounded by chavs. Binge babes. Morons. The way Mac had described Powell. She sighed, still reckoned Flint was out of order, giving the DI the suspension elbow. No mileage discussing it now. Her DC’s views were crystal.
“Reckon you’ll get made up, boss?”
“You on about?” Knew he wasn’t talking lippie.
“With Powell on gardening leave, they’ll need a DI.”
“Yeah right.” More chance of winning Eurovision.
“Why not? You’d be great. Put in for inspector once before didn’t you?”
“Twice.” Said it all. Former yes-man Powell had pipped her at the post second time round.
“There y’go then.” Like it was a done deal. And Mac had no business to. The DI was in hospital injured for Christ’s sake.
“Take a right,” she snapped. “It’s quicker.” Powell hadn’t even been sent home yet, let alone packing. Talk about stepping into dead men’s shoes.
“Better get his uniform out of mothballs, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.” Tight lips were tautened. Powell could be a dork. But he’d saved a bloke’s life, and there’d been no further casualties. Seen one way, he’d averted a crisis. She hoped some of the brass would look in that direction. Flint certainly didn’t.
She stifled a yawn. Great night this was turning out to be.
“Knackered, boss?”
She shrugged. Dog tired. And it wasn’t over yet.
Done and dusted, the package was ready for e-mailing to the subs. Matt Snow poised the cursor on send. Light from the monitor cast a pale green glow over his pasty features, a desk lamp was the only other illumination. He was at home, in his study. A shorthand notebook open at his elbow was ring-stained with tea slops from a Take That mug. His fingers tapped against the keys as mixed emotions crossed his mind, creased his forehead.
The prose had flowed; the story had written itself. Or maybe not. The Disposer had lent more than a hand. Snow sipped tea and grimaced. It had gone cold. Unlike the copy. It had everything: name of the Disposer’s latest victim, interview with witness who found the body, quotes from the killer. It was ready to go.
So why the hesitation?
The reporter fingered his fringe. He was sitting on a major development in a running story. Had it to himself, big up-yours exclusive. And that was the sticking point. The cops were bound to come sniffing, get really heavy this time. He’d been surprised they’d not turned up earlier at the crime scene. Realised they were otherwise engaged when he switched on the radio driving back. The Vine Street demo was top story on BBC WM. Snow sighed. Not for much longer. Compared with a serial killer, Milton Place was a minor disturbance. The riot-that-never-was made Small-earthquake-in- Chile-not-many-dead sound earth-shattering.
So why was he still dithering? Something niggled. He squeezed a pimple on his chin; face had outcrops of spots. He mused about the free hand he’d had at Moseley while the cops were occupied with a paedo-related incident up the road. Coincidence? Or brilliant timing? Snow shook his head. No way could the Disposer have orchestrated the protest at paedo-palace. Could he? It’d make no diff anyway. Snow knew he’d no choice other than to file the copy. There was no point covering his back when the Disposer had a knife at his throat. Eyes closed, Snow swallowed hard. Not just his throat. He reached for the pay-as-you-go, opened the picture gallery. The god-awful shock still sent shivers down his spine. His mother photographed at home in Shropshire, grey hair fanned against her pillow. Another shot. Anna Kendall in the Manhattan, Snow’s shoulder just in frame. More unwanted gifts from the Disposer.
And the recording the reporter had made the other night? He’d been stupid enough to leave it in the machine. The Disposer had helped himself to the tape. Snow wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, but that didn’t help now.
If the story didn’t appear in print, the killer would deliver on his threats. If it did, the reporter would have the cops on his back. No-brainer then.
He clicked the mouse. The pay-off had better be worth it.
“Chippie on the corner, boss.” Mac tilted his head as he locked the motor. The Fry-by-night.
“How ’bout checking the stiff first?” Like there was any doubt.
“Only saying.” He glared at her retreating back.
“Saw that, mate.” They locked glances in an estate agent’s plate glass window. He flashed a toothy grin. Her lip twitched. Impossible to do the tetch with Mac for long: he had one of those cute faces, reminded her of the bear in
Jungle Book
. She was starving, as it happened. Could eat a sodding horse. Equine flashback. Maybe not.
A few doors up, a couple of fresh-faced police constables guarded the entrance to an alleyway: laundrette one side, optician’s the other. Mac cracked a line about being able to see if your washing was clean. She cut him a withering look. “So sorry I missed your act.”
She’d not come across either of the PCs before. She’d have remembered, given they looked as if they should be in a boy band. The new kids on the block introduced themselves as Mo Iqbal, Danny Rees. Both had bright eyes, smooth skin. Bev felt old enough to be their mum. “What we got, lads?”
Iqbal cleared his throat. “Body in a bin bag.” She exchanged a more telling glance with Mac this time. Wally Marsden’s corpse had been covered in black plastic. Iqbal again: “Woman taking a short cut to the car park nearly fell over it.”
Bev frowned. Plenty of gobby pissheads around, no woman; probably still in a state of shock. “So where is she?”
Iqbal found the ground fascinating.
“We let her go.” Rees chewed gum.
“You did what?” Keeping a steady voice wasn’t easy. Key witnesses didn’t get to go. Not before they’d talked to a detective.
Rees folded defensive arms. “Stroppy cow said she had to get back to the kids.”
“Stroppy cow with vital information perhaps?” Hands on hips.
“We got her name and address.” And Bev got a sullen scowl from Danny boy.
“What you want, the Queen’s Police Medal?”
Rees spread his hands. “We tried...”
“Not hard enough. See to it, Mac.” She barged past, and down the alleyway, shuddered as a rat the size of a cat crossed her path. Another was tearing into the body’s temporary shroud with pointy yellow teeth. She screamed at it to fuck off. It gave her a lazy contemptuous glower before slinking into the shadows, tail twitching.
When Bev saw the dead man, tears pricked her eyes. How could anyone treat another human being like that? Trussed like a carcass and dumped in dog-turd alley along with the rest of the crap. She could only make out a profile of the head and shoulders through the split plastic. The body must’ve been balled and bound to fit inside. Difficult to gauge but she reckoned the victim had to be below average height, weight. Didn’t look that old either, mid-twenties perhaps. A single eye stared balefully from the battered face on to a strip of concrete liberally splattered with gum and phlegm like some kind of grotesque artwork. Ditto the walls; brickwork was virtually covered in gang tags and aerosol street murals.
Not sure how long she stood there taking it in before Mac gently tapped her arm. “OK, boss?”
“Whoop-de-do.” She sighed, sick to the stomach, sick of dragging her sorry ass round shitty crime scenes, sick of seeing the depths to which some people sank. She watched Mac’s gaze follow the depressing route hers had already travelled. Couldn’t do much else till Overdale showed.
“Pathologist’s on the way, boss.” Even the joker sounded jaded.
Bev nodded, knew Mac would’ve put in the call. She couldn’t see the boys from Blue having the nous.
Mac folded burly arms across his chest, continued surveying the scene. “Reckon it’s down to the Disposer, sarge?”
“Oh yes.” She tilted her head at the wall. Surprised Mac hadn’t spotted it. The killer had left a message this time. In among the graffiti, in among the multi-coloured gang tags, crew names, clenched fists, raised fingers. One word: Disposed.
“Had your chips, mate.” Mouth down, Bev nodded at the Fry-by-night. A guy in chef ’s checked strides stood in the middle of the pavement lowering steel shutters.
Mac shrugged, flicked the ignition. “Could be worse.”
“Got that right.” Ending your life as rat food in a back alley took the biscuit. Bev shuddered. The pathologist was pretty sure vermin had caused some of the damage to the victim’s face. Blunt instrument was probably responsible for the rest. Overdale thought maybe smooth stone, hammer, something of the sort. Scene of crime guys were still working under auxiliary lighting, searching for the murder weapon, any evidence they could lay fingertips on.
Bev rubbed a hand over her face; skin felt tight, dry. “Best talk to the woman who found the body, first thing.”
“Jodie something-or-other,” Mac said. “Lives up in Greenfield Road. I’ll grab a word on my way in.”
Bev nodded. She’d covered the young uniforms’ backs when she’d brought Flint up to speed on the phone. Didn’t mention Mo and Danny had allowed the witness to take off. She seriously doubted they’d make the same mistake again. Not given the aural fleas she’d dished out. Both officers had apologised properly, and Mo fetched coffees all round from Subway. Least the kids were now on the learning curve. Flint probably hadn’t even taken in the peripheral stuff. Not given the Disposer had claimed his third victim.
Establishing the victim’s identity would be a priority tomorrow. Glance at the dash. Make that today. The clock showed 00.05. Her yawn revealed a set of tonsils. Mac must’ve registered both. He gave a warm smile. “Best get you home, Cinders.”
“What’s that make you?”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Handsome prince?”
“Is the stand-up that good?” Seemed an age since they’d legged it from the Crack House.
“Better.”
“Course it is.”
Baldwin Street was next left. Bev could easily have walked, but was shattered, couldn’t wait to pull back the duvet. Mac parked outside. She grabbed her bag, reached for the door.
“Not inviting me in for a nightcap, sarge?” He kept a straight face; she could tell it was a wind up.
“Nightshade, maybe.”
“Take that as a no, shall I?” He sniffed.
She had one Doc on the pavement before remembering the gift she’d been carrying round all night. She sat back, searched her bag. “Bought your Joe a little pressie.” During the Bullring shop-athon. She reckoned the lad could do with a bit of cheering up, being stuck in hospital and all that. Still ferreting, she didn’t spot Mac’s puzzled frown. Yo! She flourished the boy’s gift, flashed an almost beautiful smile, trumpeted a triumphant: “Dada.”
Mac peeked. In the bag was a pink fluffy bunny. His boy was called George; an eight-year-old seriously into Transformers. Mac hadn’t the heart to tell her. “You’ll make a wonderful mum, Bev.”
“Yeah, I will, won’t I?” She winked then warily searched his face. “You winding me up?”