Authors: Maureen Carter
At the very least, Henry Brand’s image as a respectable suit had taken a hammering. There’d been a barrel-load of changes in education but there was no way bondage and buggery were
on the national curriculum. Brand apparently had both on his CV – so just how qualified was he? Was he a looker or a toucher? Watching was no big deal – a caution maybe. But these home
movies were usually hands-on. Produced and passed round personally. She drained her glass, readied the second; double Dutch courage was required for the next notion. What if Brand had been pointing
the camera – or even wielding the whip? Corporal punishment for big boys. And exactly how big were the boys? Consenting adults might get away with filth like that on the tape but if the boy
on the bed was a minor…
She glanced at Oz, didn’t know what to say. He’d taken a risk coming here. By rights, she should be on the phone to Byford. “What the hell were you thinking?”
He ran his hands through his hair. “I know I was out of order.”
“Your mind – that’s what you were out of.” She drained the second glass, debated whether to have a refill, realised a clear head was off the cards anyway and went for the
hat trick. “Where was it?”
“In a drawer.”
“Kitchen drawer? His old lady’s knicker drawer? C’mon Oz, I’m trying to think of a way out of this mess.”
“It was in a desk. Upstairs. I needed the loo; didn’t know where it was…”
“So you tried every door?”
“The one at the end of the corridor was locked.”
She closed her eyes. “And you opened it?”
“There was a bunch of keys on a hook in the kitchen. Anyway, I get in. Place is like a library: books everywhere, desks, filing cabinets, computer set-up, sound system, leather
chesterfield, drinks cabinet, coffee maker.”
“Help yourself to a cup of Kenyan, did you?”
He shook his head. “It’s just that it looked like he spends a lot of time holed up in there.”
“I dare say he does. I can’t see Enid sharing his taste in movies. Anyway… you opened the drawer?”
“Yeah.” He cupped his head in his hands. She waited till he was ready to share. “The tape was under a couple of magazines. I didn’t even think about it. Played it there
and then.”
She sighed, couldn’t believe how a bright bloke could be so stupid. Oz’s fast-track career was in serious danger of derailment. What justification was there? Every copper was
force-fed the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Ozzie was a law graduate, for fuck’s sake – he’d have had seconds.
“I wasn’t thinking straight. I mean, at the time, I thought I’d hit pay dirt. There’s this pompous little git, holier than thou-ing all over the place, making out
Michelle’s an hysterical tramp, when all the while he’s into hardcore S and M.”
Bev shook her head. The girl’s murder was priority one. But did the tape make Brand more or less likely to be her killer? Right now, whatever the answer, it was academic.
“We can’t use it, Oz. You entered the place without permission. You searched without a warrant. We can’t even plead ‘just cause’.”
He shrugged. “We can now.”
Disingenuous, naive or barking? Either way she lost it. “It’s a bit bloody late now, isn’t it?” Bev, who rarely raised her voice, was shouting. “If this gets out,
you’re looking at a disciplinary hearing at the very least.”
He was staring at the floor. She sighed, could just about understand how initial excitement had overcome professional integrity. Not just coppers believed the cards were stacked in favour of the
criminal, but coppers especially had to play with a clean deck.
“Look, Oz. I won’t report this, but you and me are the only ones who can know about it, right? Brand’s a pervie little toe-rag but we have to get evidence that can go before a
court.”
He was looking at her now, speaking quickly, enthusiasm back. “You bet, Sarge. I owe you one.”
She flapped a hand, thoughts elsewhere. “What concerns me most at the moment is how we get you out of the doo-doo. That tape’s got to go back. And before he misses it. Assuming he
hasn’t already.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“You just don’t get it, do you? Have you any idea how big a stink Brand’ll kick up if he finds out we’ve got it? We haven’t got a legal leg to stand on and
Brand’s got enough nous to know that.”
Khan tapped the side of his nose. “Not as much as me, though.”
“What?”
He hit the eject button, held up the tape. “This is a copy. A friend of a friend’s got his own edit suite in Selly Oak. He owes me a favour. I made a duplicate. The original’s
back in Brand’s desk, all locked up and nowhere to go.” Ozzie rose, tucked the tape in his pocket. “I might be stupid, Bev, but I’m not crazy.”
Bev?
Now Oz really was pushing his luck.
17
As good nights’ sleep go, Bev’s had been a bummer. The 7am alarm ring was almost a relief. She dragged herself out of bed, drifted into the kitchen and went through
tea and toast-making manoeuvres.
Her stomach’s movements were probably down to eating too late and drinking too much, but Ozzie’s news wasn’t helping. She felt sick just thinking about him ferreting around in
Henry Brand’s house; couldn’t believe he’d actually lifted the tape. As for the guv’s reaction if he found out? She didn’t want to go there. Ozzie’s offer to do
her a balti one night was nothing short of buttering-up. On which thought, she plumped for dry toast.
Six bites in she hiked a corner of the blind. The sky was gun-metal grey, again.
Shame. Might have gone for a run had it been perkier. She smiled. “Yeah. And frogs might play cricket.”
Fact was, since Frankie’s ankle sprain, she’d lost impetus. Pounding pavements, even dodging dog turds in the park, was tedious without her mate’s running commentary. Frankie
was tall and dark; half-Italian and full of dolce vita. Bev hadn’t set eyes on her in a week, hadn’t even put in a call since Michelle’s murder. Mental note: ring Frankie. Mental
note two: blitz Tesco. Mental note three: catch killer.
“Just like that!” The Tommy Cooper impersonation was not her best. She headed for the shower, wondered why she bothered with the radio when cascading water drowned every sound.
Towelling between her toes, she realised why. There was a phone-in on Brum Beat’s breakfast show. She perched on the edge of the bath, concentrating. Jerry Springer was Jeremy Paxman compared
with this twaddle. Birmingham’s very own Garth Savage was in full fight, supplementing a grating nasal whinge with an obligatory transatlantic twang.
“The oldest profession? Is it time for retirement? In the wake of the tragic killing of one young girl, this morning we probe prostitution. And I make no apologies. Night or day, women are
openly selling sex on the streets of our fair city. Is it a private service or a public nuisance? Is it time for the red light district to get the red card?”
Who wrote this stuff? If it wasn’t so serious, she’d be laughing. She shook her head, moved to the radiator where knickers and bra were warming. Mr Savage was in danger of
overheating, his delivery growing more demented.
“We thought long and hard before going ahead with this controversial debate but in the final analysis we came down on the side of public interest. Already people are taking to the streets
in large numbers to air their side of the argument. CUTS campaigners… have they got a point? I want to know what you think.”
Bev thought he’d be looking at an incitement charge if he didn’t curb it.
“With me is one of the leaders of that campaign who, at this moment in time, would prefer to remain anonymous. We’ll call him Kenny. My name’s Garth Savage. We’re waiting
for your call. On the line now we have Wayne.”
“’lo, Garth.” Troglodyte Man. Garth did his unctuous best to inject life.
“Wayne. What’s your take on this?”
“You what?”
“Never mind. What do you want to say, Wayne?”
“Them birds are great. If you’re short of readies, there’s one –”
“Thanks for the call, Wayne. Who do we have on line two?”
“My name’s Vera. Vera Woods. I’ve lived in Thread Street all my life. Born there, I was. It’s a disgrace. You can’t go out your own front door these
days.”
“And what do you want done about it, Vera?”
“Castration.”
“What?”
“Castrate the buggers. I blame the men. Some of the tarts are nice girls. Pick me pension up for me they do, get me a bit of shopping in.”
“Thank you Vera. Kenny, if I can turn to you? What is the aim of the CUTS campaign?”
“Exactly what it says. We want to clean up our streets. Reclaim them for decent folk. We want respectable women to be able to go out without being hassled by kerb crawlers. We don’t
want our kids coming across used condoms and dirty syringes on their way home from school…”
“Sounds like a tall order, Kenny. How are you going to achieve all this?”
“Peaceful protest, Garth. It’s time for ordinary people to stand up and be counted. As of now, we’re intensifying our presence on the streets. The silent majority has found its
voice.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Predictable tripe.
“And let’s face it, Garth, if the women had the sense they were born with, they’d get out while they still could, wouldn’t they?”
“What do you mean by that, Kenny?”
Yes. What do you mean? Bev’s hand stilled, as she lifted brush to hair.
“One of the girls is dead. Seems to me, there’s a message in there somewhere.”
“Not sure what you’re saying, Kenny.”
“I’m not going to spell it out. I will say this though: we won’t rest until the streets are free of sex and vermin. We’re looking for a big turn out in Thread Street
tonight. If any of your listeners want to…”
Bev was out of the room and on the phone before he’d finished the sentence.
“I’m getting a transcript, guv, but they won’t give me the bloke’s real name.” Bev was sitting on the stairs, phone glued to her ear. It was still red hot from
the conversation before with a snooty bint purporting to be Garth Savage’s producer. Tamsin Winner, M A in stonewalling, had taken condescension to new heights.
Bev had nearly sunk to a slanging match but contented herself with a sotto voce: shit for brains and an audible “Thank you so much.”
She’d counted to ten and taken several deep breaths before ringing Byford. The guv was a Radio Four man and had listened in silence as she’d talked him through the phone-in and her
subsequent attempts to reach ‘Kenny’.
“We should have sent someone round. Collared him on the way out of the studios.”
The criticism was unspoken but she heard it anyway, tried keeping her voice level.
“I thought of that. There was no point. He never set foot in the place. The producer says it’s normal practice. They always give the impression the main players are in the studio.
The listeners like it. It’s good for figures. This joker was on the end of a line somewhere.”
“They’ll have a number, then?”
She’d already asked. “They claim he called them. And even if they had it, they wouldn’t give it out. Some crap about protecting sources.” She snorted. “Protecting
arses, more like.”
He wasn’t amused. “Get a recording as well as the transcript. There might be something in the voice. See you at work.”
“Sir.” She was talking to the dialling tone. “And thank you too.”
Not a happy Byford this morning then. Perhaps she’d caught him mid-shave. She wasn’t sure why she’d called him at home anyway. Maybe it was a subconscious bid for Brownie
points. Trying to earn a few credits in case the Ozzie-induced crap hit the air conditioning. “Yes, sir, you’ve got me bang to rights but I’m a fair cop really.”
She shook her head, rose to her feet. The Brand tape business was the first serious step out of line in her career. She didn’t intend taking any more.
18
Bev’s VDU looked like a promo drive for Post-its. She sat down, blew out her cheeks; it’d be quicker to work out who hadn’t left a message.
The Brum Beat recording and transcript were ready for collection; good. Security at the City General had lined up last night’s CCTV tape; great. Sumitra’s boss had okayed Bev having
a shufti through the files; brill. Things were looking up. She despatched a rider, jotted DOMS on her desk pad, returned to the notes still littering the screen.
A nutter had responded to the witness appeal; apparently the Nelson Drive dummy was a Mrs Cherie Blair. The informant a Mr George Bush. It was filed in the bin; more missives peeled off. She
made a sucking noise through her teeth as she scanned her screen. The loony call had clearly prompted further entries in Vince’s limerick competition. She’d forgotten about that, but if
the feeble efforts in front of her were anything to go by she should walk it.
She despatched them in Bush’s direction and was still smiling when she took the last Post-it. The smile dropped.
Dawn Lucas rang. Not urgent. Calling again.
Not urgent? Not urgent? Who the… No name, time, date, not even an initial. It had to have been taken by some bozo on nights. She glanced at her watch. Just after 8.30. The shift change
was well past. The bin took the brunt of her fury.
She was on her hands and knees, retrieving litter, when Powell popped his head round the door.
“A humble curtsey’ll do, Morriss.”
“I’m not in the mood. Right?”
He leaned in the jamb, arms and ankles crossed. “Neither’s the governor. Wondered why you hadn’t graced us with your presence at the briefing.”
“Shit!”
“Precisely. Up to your neck.”
She rose to her feet, brushing specks off her skirt. “I’ll have a word.”
“He’s buggered off. Got a call from Henry Brand. Man’s ready to talk but only the boss is good enough. You weren’t around, so he grabbed Khan. Probably thinks the lad
needs a lesson from an old pro.”
She curled her lip.
“By the way, Morriss, when are you making your début?”
It had always been an act. She could see that now. How else could she have opened her thighs to a load of wankers? It was a good little earner, of course. Cash in hand as well
as cocks. But it wasn’t the real Vicki Flinn out there. It was obvious now she’d had time to think about it. She’d closed her eyes and sent a stand-in. No one had even come
close.