Authors: Maureen Carter
“Course you did,” Flint drawled. “It’s over, Snow. Admit it. It’s pure invention. The Disposer only exists in your sick head. You’re going down...”
“I swear...”
“Had?” Bev narrowed her eyes. “You said ‘had’ evidence.”
“It’s all gone. He broke into my place. Took everything.”
Tap on the door. Mac popped his head round. “Chief? A word?”
Something afoot. Mac had that look. She rose, paused the recordings. “Tea, coffee, anything to eat?” Regulations. Had to ask. Could do with a drink herself.
He shook his head. “D’you think I’m lying, Bev?”
“Four people are dead, Snow. Let’s say it’s not down to you – why’d you go along with the guy?” Had to be something in it for the reporter.
He outlined the Disposer’s proposition, the promises, the film, the book. Christ, she thought, it’d be the sodding t-shirt next. If Snow was telling the truth – what a plonker. “I’m not stupid, Bev. I thought the bastard might not deliver. But I never suspected for a minute I was being set up to take the rap for the killings.”
She studied her nails. “Why didn’t you come to us? I warned you about playing with fire.”
“It wasn’t just me he was threatening to burn.” He explained about the photographs: his mother stepping out of the shower, the shot of Snow and Anna Kendall in a bar. Pictures now conveniently disappeared. “He said he’d kill them too. He’s insane, Bev.”
Or Snow was. Every syllable could be a lie. And if Snow was the psycho, that meant he’d not only killed four times but concocted the Disposer to big up the story, aggrandise his career. Weirder shit happened. Without evidence, there wasn’t enough proof either way.
She turned her mouth down. “Why’d he come to you?”
Snow hunched forward, elbows on knees. “Said he liked my stuff. Thought I’d do him a good job.”
Yeah. Dirty work. She got up, stretched her legs. “What do you know about him?”
He told her about the time the Disposer had lain in wait in the motor. The abused childhood he’d talked about. How he loathed paedophiles. That he’d threatened to kill himself when the mission was complete.
“Names, places, dates?” It was all fairy stories without facts. Snow shook his head. “You’re a reporter – didn’t you ask?”
“With a knife at my throat?”
Bev shrugged. Saw a neck on the block. The door almost hit her when Flint re-entered. The DCS had a similar look on his face to Mac’s minutes ago.
“Sergeant?” Flint pointedly ignored the reporter. “I’m terminating the interview until the search at Mr Snow’s flat is complete. Given the initial findings, it’ll save time.”
Snow frowned. “What findings?”
“Enough to send you down for life,” Flint snarled. “When we resume, I seriously suggest you start telling the truth.”
“No one can argue with evidence.” Which was Flint’s way of telling Bev to back off, not rock the police boat. She’d not said anything to make waves; maybe he’d read the scepticism in her face. Either way, it had been the chief ’s parting shot before heading to the Prince where he was getting in the drinks. Most of the squad including Mac was there to celebrate – bar the shouting – the end of the case. Bev had declined. Partly because her desk had been hit by another paper avalanche, partly because there was a niggle in her head that wouldn’t go away. If Snow was innocent, the real killer would go free.
She was in the murder room now. Empty and dark apart from moonlight, it seemed otherworldly, an alien landscape, silver, cold, deserted. The line of whiteboards with its grisly displays was silhouetted against the windows. She didn’t need light to see the images; they were imprinted on her brain: grey ghostly features, dead unseeing eyes.
She reached for a copy of the search team’s findings, flicked on a desk lamp. She’d read it twice already, still reckoned it needed further illumination. Especially as Snow would face charges first thing on the strength of the contents. They were a forensic guy’s wet dream: bloodstained clothes at the bottom of a laundry basket, the victims’ photographs taped to drawer undersides, aerosol paint cans on a shelf in the garage. And a cushion stuffed under a wardrobe. Bev had gone to exhibits to check it out, confirmed it was Gladys Marsden’s. Snow might as well have left big red arrows saying Here I am; come and get me.
Knackered, she perched on the desk, massaged her bump. She’d felt the odd twinge during the last couple of hours. Felt another when she recalled her last sighting of Snow when he was led to the cells, drawn, haggard, protesting his innocence. Whatever doubts she had about the reporter, she knew he wasn’t stupid. Who in their right mind would leave incriminating stuff around the place? Assuming he wasn’t mental. When confronted with the findings, Snow claimed they’d been planted, again insisted he was being framed by the psycho.
Flint agreed. Only in his version, Snow was the psycho. The Disposer had never existed. The proof hadn’t been stolen, as the reporter claimed, because it had never existed in the first place. Snow had staged the frantic search of his flat to back up his make-believe.
Bev tapped fingers on her thigh. It didn’t add up. When Snow took the place apart, why hadn’t he come across the incriminating items? Surely he’d have got rid of everything? Flint argued that Snow thought he was so far ahead of the police he’d no idea they were on to him. But what if the items hadn’t been there during Snow’s search? What if they’d been planted after his arrest? By a killer who’d coolly entered the flat and hidden enough evidence to see Snow behind bars for the rest of his life. That was revenge so cold it was dry ice. So who’d Snow pissed off big time?
Ears pricked, she heard her phone ring, dashed back to the office. Too late. Missed it. She sighed, reckoned she’d make a couple of calls, see off a bit of admin, then head for home. She shuffled papers as she listened to the dial tone, half-expecting Anna Kendall’s answerphone to kick in. She wanted to let the writer know what was happening with Snow. Off the record. After half a dozen rings a man answered with the number and a jokey: “Ms Kendall’s residence. How may I help?”
Bev raised an amused eyebrow, cut the connection. The news could wait, it sounded as if Anna was in line for a good night. She frowned. The voice was vaguely familiar. Where’d she heard it before? She racked her brain trying to place it. Knew it was in there somewhere. Couldn’t call it up, talk about information overload.
Fidgety fingers now played with a note from a mate at Handsworth nick. Bev had asked to be kept in the loop on Caitlin Finney whose prints had been lifted at the Graves’s place. The name meant nothing to Madeleine. Least, that’s what the widow had said earlier when Bev phoned with the development. Bev sat back, recalled the slashed portrait, the canvas covered in red paint. Hard to believe Finney had targeted the family at random. She wasn’t around to ask. Neighbours hadn’t seen her, and she’d not been in work for several days.
Fingers tapped the door. Carol Pemberton popped her head round smiling. “Not coming out to play, sarge?”
“Nah. Look at this.” Every inch of the desktop was covered in paperwork.
“Least we won’t need any more of these.” Pembers strolled in, plonked half a dozen shorthand notebooks on the floor. “Tell you what, Bev, by the time I finished this lot, I was seeing double.”
Snow’s shorthand books. Bev narrowed her eyes. Of course. That was where she’d seen Finney’s name before; one of the few bits of scribble she’d been able to make out in the first batch. So why had Matt Snow been in contact with Caitlin Finney?
“Going through these, Caz.” Bev pointed a toe at the pile of books. “Come across the name Graves?”
She nodded. “Adam Graves. Mean anything to you?”
Matt Snow had been sniffing round Adam Graves after Caitlin Finney approached the
Evening News
with a string of sexual allegations against the doctor. Accusations that could destroy a career, wreck a life. And drive a man to suicide? Snow’s shorthand hadn’t given much away, but news editor Rick Palmer was currently on the phone filling in some of the gaps.
Before leaving the nick, Bev had tried calling Anna Kendall to see if the writer could shed light on the Snow-Graves-Finney triangle. Left a message on the third attempt. Palmer had been next on the list. The news desk wouldn’t give his number, said they’d get him to call. Bev had been home enough time to demolish a plate of the absent Frankie’s lasagne when Palmer rang back. Initially reluctant to divulge detail, the dealmaker was an undertaking from Bev that when the time was right the
News
would get the inside track. Like that was going to happen.
She sat at the kitchen table making notes as Palmer talked. “Finney alleged Graves had drugged her and repeatedly raped her. Claimed she wasn’t the only one, the guy had knocked up some kid young enough to be his daughter. Big story if it panned out. Matt put the allegations to Graves. The doc denied the whole thing. Said the woman was a pain in the backside. She was obsessed with him, apparently. Followed him round, bombarded him with letters, e-mails, phone calls. Touch of the stalkers, you know?”
More than a touch, given the heavy-handed vandalism to the portrait. On the other hand... Bev sniffed. “Graves would say that, wouldn’t he?”
She heard the rasp of a match. Palmer was having a baccy. “Yeah, well, we did a load of background checks. Discovered Finney had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals, made two false rape allegations when she was in her teens. Woman’s a flake.”
“And?” Bev prompted. He inhaled before answering. She sucked her pen, swallowed a craving.
“It didn’t stand up, did it? No way could we run a story like that. Matt did the decent thing. Told Graves we were dropping it, he had nothing to worry about.”
Yet Graves had still topped himself. “How’d he react?”
“Have to ask Matt. All I know’s the threat of legal action went away.”
“Legal action?” Ryan’s contraband was still in her bag. Her fingers fumbled for the pack.
“Yeah, from the family.”
“The family?” Fucking high-pitched echo in here. Where were the ciggies? She needed a smoke to help her think.
“Graves was up front about it. Wasn’t the first time a woman patient had made allegations. Occupational hazard, I guess. The wife knew we were investigating the claims. She rang the editor gave him a right rocket.”
Her hand stilled. That’d be the same wife who’d looked Bev in the eye and lied through her root canal work. Furious, she upended the bag, pictured Madeleine, and the protective son, lippie Lucas. What was it the snide sod had said in his lah-di-dah voice? “It’s her job to upset you?”
“Stone me.” The hairs rose on the back of her neck. The voice. It was the same drawl she’d heard on Anna Kendall’s phone.
“You all right, love?”
“Peachy.” Like hell she was. She lit an Embassy, took a deep draw; it’d take more than a pack of twenty to sort the jumble of thoughts spinning round her head. The Graveses had cause to hate Snow. But what, if anything, did it have to do with the killings?
“Mr Palmer, this nutter, the Disposer? You ever seen him? Spoke to him?”
Long pause. Enough to hear the telly in the background: advert for Gillette. “Not as such.”
“That a no?” Palmer’s minced words meant the paper had published stories from a decidedly dodgy source.
“Matt’s a sharp operator.” Palmer was clearly on the same page.
“Not the question.”
“If you’re asking do I think Matt made the whole thing up – the answer’s no. There’s a killer out there, love. I never doubted it for an instant.”
“Ta, Mr Palmer. Gotta fly.”
“Come on... you said...”
She cut the connection, narrowed her eyes, one small part of the puzzle beginning to take shape. She could be way off beam, but she had the faintest glimmering of an idea. She needed to see it again: the photograph Byford had shown her after the first abortive visit to Tudor Grange. A happy snap showing mums and kids on a school trip. Bev pursed her lips, realised she’d jumped to a couple of conclusions that evening which didn’t now stack up. Lucas Graves couldn’t have been in the line-up. He was way too young. The guv’s boys were a good seven or eight years older. She’d assumed Madeleine only had one kid. What if...?
She checked the time. Bit late to call the guv. Tough. She needed to ask a favour, run a few points past him. Best stub out the baccy; Byford had the hearing of a bat colony. She hit a fast-dial button, tapped impatient fingers, groaned when a recorded voice told her no one was in to take her call. Yeah yeah. Message left, she slung the mobile on the table. It rang before she lit another cigarette. Guv must’ve decided to pick up after all.
“Screening your calls now, guv?” Coy tease.
“Where were you?” Bev’s blush started at the neck. It wasn’t the big man. It was Oz Khan.
For once, Bev was lost for a comeback, though the lasagne threatened an encore as it lurched in her stomach. Thank God Oz was on the end of a line. Least he couldn’t see the state she was in. The call must have something to do with the letter. With so much kicking off she’d not given it a second thought. She clocked the envelope now, almost hidden under the fridge. It must’ve slipped out when she tipped the bag to get the baccy. She sidled over to retrieve it.
“How you doing, mate?” Casual. Neutral. Like her heart wasn’t doing a ton. She stooped, slid a finger under the flap, scanned the few lines. Bugger. He’d been waiting at the Hard Rock. Asked her to call if she couldn’t make it. Wanted a talk.
“You didn’t answer the question. Where were you?”
“Couldn’t get away. Sorry, mate.”
“Come on, Bev. You could’ve given me a bell. I’ve been hanging round since nine.”
She grimaced. Cooker clock read 23.02. “Hell of a day, Oz. Anyway, I’m all ears. Shoot.”
“Open the door then.”
That had to be a joke. She froze, eyes wide. “What?”
“I’m at the front.”
She crossed her legs. “Love to, mate.” No effing way. She looked crap, hair a mess, button off her trousers, big toe poking through her tights. “I’m tucked up for the night. Early shout and all that. Y’know how it is.”
“Sure do. So the sooner you let me in.”
Khanie was a bloody-minded sod. Just like her. So much for the attraction of opposites. She shook her head, knew she’d have to relent, let him in, break the baby news. Babies. She’d run this scene a million times in her head, lain awake at night inventing different dialogue and denouements. Her emotions fluctuated daily, hourly; she’d no idea how he’d feel. The next few minutes could determine years of their lives. No pressure then.
She pinched her cheeks, smoothed her hair, opened the door, stepped aside.
“Sleep in your clothes nowadays?” Oz’s top lip barely twitched.
“Nightcap? Cuppa cocoa?” Weak smile. She followed as he made for the kitchen. Neat bum, tailored trousers, tight t-shirt, leather blouson slung over a shoulder. He knew his man-in-black look turned her on. She frowned. Best not be expecting any action.
She watched as he filled a glass from the tap, took a few sips. The black hair suited him a tad longer. She liked the way it curved at the neck. As for the cheekbones, she’d give her eye teeth for bone structure like that. She’d forgotten how beautiful he was, licked her lips.
“So.” Hands in pockets, straight-faced stare at her bump. “When were you going to tell me?”
Of all the scenarios she’d envisaged, this wasn’t one of them. Muffled guffaws through the wall broke the silence: neighbours watching comedy? This was no barrel of laughs, more kitchen-sink drama. From an angry young man? Her mouth opened a few times before she found words. “Who told you?” And how was he taking it? Furious? Disappointed? Hurt? She couldn’t read the face she thought she knew.
He was in Birmingham for a few days on a Met inquiry, popped into Highgate yesterday, knew the minute he saw her. With two sisters who’d both had babies it wasn’t rocket science. Patronising scowl.
Cocky git. “Why didn’t you say anything?” She tapped a foot until she spotted the peeping toe. It lacked gravitas.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s rich coming from you. Anyway, the cop shop’s hardly the best place to talk, and besides...I needed time to think.”
“’Bout?”
Pregnant pause. “You. Me. The baby.”
“Babies.”
His Adam’s apple took a dive. “You’re expecting twins?”
Expecting? “Came as a bit of a shock actually.”
He pushed himself up from the sink, sat next to her at the table. “Two babies?”
“One each.” She nicked Frankie’s line, folded defensive arms. “Obviously don’t run in the Khan family or you’d have clocked that too.” His lips tightened. She softened. He deserved more than weak one-liners. She gave him chapter and verse from the first day she found out about the pregnancy to the scan.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Bev?”
Hardest part. Fudge it? No point. “I didn’t want to keep it – till I found out there were two.”
“And now?”
She shrugged. “Manage somehow.”
No hesitation. Not a heartbeat. “We’ll manage.” Gently he unfolded her arms, closed his hands round hers. “Get a transfer, Bev. Come to London. We can get a place together. Be a family.” His gaze searched her face. She didn’t know what love looked like, but his expression seemed to cover it. What a star. What an offer. Mighty tempting.
She bit her lip. “Wanna make an honest woman out of me?”
“I’m no miracle worker.” Suspicious sniff. “You still smoking?”
“Nah, mate. That’d be Frankie. Anyway...” She flashed a grin, sucker-punched his arm, spoke from the heart. “I’m hugely flattered by the invitation, Oz, enormously pleased...”
“I hate it when you talk like that.”
Warmest smile this time. “You’re the nicest man I know...”
Withering look. “Nice?”
“Y’know what I mean.” Like she knew he’d always loved her. One of the reasons he’d moved on was because she couldn’t commit, wouldn’t let him close. Close to tears now, she couldn’t even meet his eyes. For a bloke, he picked up on it quick.
“There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere?”
She nodded, eyes still cast down. “I can’t do it, Oz. You know that.” Her mum and gran were here, Frankie, her home.
“Your folks?” Oz knew all about family pressure. He tilted her chin, stroked her cheek with a thumb. “Thing is, Bev, you’ll soon have two more people to think about. What’s best for them? Have you thrown that in the equation?”
Little people. He was right. But she’d only just seen the figures. So focused on her present, she’d not fully considered their future. She was always banging on about kids needing two parents, preferably one of each gender. Oz would make a great dad. She loved the guy. But did she love him enough? And what about the unfinished business with the guv? It was late, she was knackered, mixed up, pissed off.
“Can’t get my head round this tonight, Oz. Let me think about it, yeah?”
“That’s all I’m asking, Bev.” He kissed her gently, took his leave, turned at the door. “Just don’t keep it to yourself this time.”
When he’d gone, she reached for a smoke. “Tea-leaf,” she muttered with a wry smile. The pack had gone too.