12
Bev jabbed Byford’s number into the car phone. There was a slim chance he’d still be at Henry Brand’s place. The way Ozzie was driving, they’d find out soon enough anyway.
“Come on. Dammit.”
“Can’t go any faster, Sarge.”
She stopped drumming the dashboard. “Not you. Where’s the guv? Why isn’t he answering?”
“Search me.” It was an enticing prospect but not one to dwell on. If Lil Higgs was right, the last man to have been seen with Michelle Lucas was currently entertaining the governor and the DI. Lil had seen it all from the steamed-up window of a number 50. Friday night was bingo night and she’d been on her way to meet a mate out of the Essoldo. She’d spotted two figures arguing near a car parked on double yellows just up from the Taj Mahal. She’d clocked Brand straight off and – curious – had swivelled round to see the girl’s face. Lil had been in no doubt: “Michelle Lucas or I’m a monkey’s uncle.”
Bev shook her head. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
Ozzie, who was taking a corner on two wheels and a prayer, beamed. “Thanks, Sarge. Reckon I should go in for the advanced course?”
“What?”
“Driving, the —”
“Yeah, yeah.” She swatted the words away. “I mean, as a rule, Lil’s as canny as a barn full of owls. But ’cause it’s Henry Brand she didn’t even think about it.”
“She did. Just didn’t think it worth mentioning.”
“’Cause he wears dark suits and talks posh?”
“Because he taught her kids and her grandkids and she’s known him for years.”
“That’s okay, then. Proper gent, isn’t he?”
“I’m only trying to see it from Lil’s point of view, Sarge. Women of her generation still look up to men like that: teachers, doctors, vicars. You know what I mean.”
Bev closed her gaping mouth. “Well done, Khan. That’s a clean sweep. Ageist, sexist and élitist.”
She saw his hands tighten on the wheel. “Doesn’t make me wrong.”
They drove in silence. Ozzie slowed at one point to allow an ambulance to overtake, blue lights flashing. She tried Byford again; this time the number was engaged. A couple of times, she caught Ozzie glancing at her, something obviously on his mind. They were almost at Brand’s before he decided to share it. “You know, even if Lil did see Brand with Michelle – it doesn’t follow that he killed her.”
“It follows that she was dead not long after. It follows that he’s a lying toe-rag. And it follows that he’s got a stack of questions to answer.”
She folded her arms, waiting for a response.
“What the f*ck —?”
She followed his gaze. The F-word from Ozzie was a shock; so was the scene outside Brand’s house. Byford’s motor was all but hidden by a bank of police patrol cars, estates emblazoned with media logos and an ambulance with its lights still flashing.
Big Val was feeling small. She stood in the middle of the pavement looking up at Highgate nick. She’d never gone in through the front door before. Come to think of it, she’d never been near the place without a police escort. She’d been hauled in more times than a fishing net but always accompanied by a couple of vice boys. They’d drive round the back and drop her off in the custody suite where she was on first-name terms with everyone and even more familiar with the routine: form-filling followed by cash and condom-counting. As long as a girl wasn’t pissed or stoned, she could be processed and back on the patch within an hour. Being brought in was one thing, to turn up voluntarily something else. She caught a glimpse of herself in the huge glass edifice: black boots, white leggings, chequered blouson. She looked like a nun on a zebra crossing. Christ, if she didn’t stop dithering, she’d get taken in anyway. She sucked a last drag on her fag and slung it in the gutter.
Loins girded and resolve firmed, she swept through the revolving doors as though she owned the place. She misjudged her momentum and had to make a pretty sharp exit or she’d have found herself back on the street. As it was she staggered in, hoping not to be mistaken for a drunk. Not that a bit of Dutch courage wouldn’t go amiss.
There was time to perfect the spiel. Two old dears and a suit were already in a queue, behind a nice young man giving details of the aliens who’d abducted him from New Street Station in 1602. Vince Hanlon was on the desk and did not look convinced. Val winked in commiseration. She was glad it was Vincey; he was a good bloke. She grabbed a seat against a wall that was livened up with posters of the ‘Have You Seen This Man?’ variety. She’d shagged two of them but her eyes had been closed at the time. They were wide open now as she sat back and had a good look round.
Front of house was well plush compared with what the girls knew as the dungeon. Actually, Patty the crackhead always called it custody but only because some clever dick had told her it was named after the paintwork. There was no flaky yellow out here, it was all executive greys and aristo blues, and so much greenery she wondered if there was work going as a gardener.
She listened as the Elizabethan space traveller filed a complaint of police negligence and watched him head happily back into the community. The suit had long since left. The old biddies were now banging on about a flasher at the bottom of the garden. Val couldn’t work out whether they were reporting or requesting one. Vince listened patiently, said he’d see what he could do, and sent them on their way. She waited while he quaffed half a mug of tepid tea then wiped his lips with the back of a hand.
“God almighty. It’s no wonder I’m going grey. Y’need to be a Freud to work in this place.”
Val sniffed. “That’d be Clement, would it?”
The face was deadpan but he wasn’t fooled. “Daft sod. Anyroad. To what do I owe the pleasure..?”
Thirty quid sprang to mind but she was meant to be acting sombre. She leaned closer, looked round and dropped her voice. “I’m scared, Sarge. I’ve been getting these death threats.”
“Death threats?”
She nodded vigorously. “And I’m not the only one. Most of the girls are saying the same.”
Given the nature of the girls’ game vilification was par for the course, but in the light of Michelle’s murder Val was betting the claim would be taken seriously.
Vince poised pen on paper. “What sort of threats? Tell me about them.”
“Look, Sarge. No offence. I’ve been hanging round out here long enough. It’s like a bloody shop window. Know what I mean.”
“Don’t worry, love. If you’re not safe here…”
“I’m not gonna be here, am I? I’ll be out as soon’s I’ve said me piece. Anyway, Sarge, like I say, no offence, but I’d rather talk to a woman. This business has put the wind up me. Another woman’d know where I’m coming from.”
There was a tremble in her hands and a catch in her throat.
“Okay, love. I’ll see who’s in.”
“Not some kid just out of nappies, Sarge.” He reached a hand to the phone. “And not one of them stuck-up cows that treat you like shit.”
Vince saluted with a smile. “Does madam have anyone in mind?”
“Nah.” She dismissed the remark with a wave of her hand and made towards the chair but turned before he’d finished punching the numbers. “Actually, Sarge, if you’re serious – there is someone I wouldn’t mind having a word with. Can’t remember her name. Dark hair. Bit shorter than me. Nice smile. Got a real gob on her.”
Vince’s frown gave way to a smile. He lifted a finger to halt the flow. “I’ll just see if she’s in.”
“May as well get back.” Byford turned to Bev. “Not a lot we can do here.”
She could think of a few things but none of them legal. She moved away from the window as the ambulance disappeared down the street, Henry Brand’s last words still ringing in her ears. The final glimpse through gaping doors had been Brand hovering solicitously as a paramedic worked on his wife.
“Convenient, isn’t it?” Byford was in key-jangling mode, and despite what he’d said, was obviously in no great rush. He had thoughts and wanted to sound her out. She could always tell.
“What’s that, then?”
“Just as we learn he was with Michelle on the night she was murdered, wife takes an overdose, and he starts screaming police harassment.”
“You saying he helped her?”
“No.”
Bev picked up the hesitation. “But…”
He shrugged. “It helps him no end, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t look too good if I pulled a man in for questioning when his wife’s at death’s door. Specially with the press gang outside.”
Bev’s face suggested she wouldn’t have the same dilemma. But much as she disliked Brand, the theory didn’t hold. “He couldn’t have known he’d been seen by Lil – it’s less than an hour since we found out ourselves.”
“True. But he was well aware I wanted to question him. Neither me or Mike got a word in edgeways with this lot going on.”
She looked round. “Where is Superman?”
Byford gave an exaggerated sigh. “Inspector Powell’s handling the media.”
“He’ll like that.” The smile faded. “How the hell did they –”
“You tell me. They were all over the place when we got here. And there’s Brand shouting his mouth off about the police hounding innocent people in their own home.”
Sounded familiar. “Been there. Had that.”
Byford rubbed a hand over his face. “Yes. He mentioned you.”
“I aim to please.” She smiled, then was serious. “A bloke like Brand wouldn’t risk topping his wife just to avoid us, would he?”
He shrugged. “Nothing amazes me any more, Bev.”
“Hold on.” She paused trying to recall what Brand had said. “She was in bed last time I came. Migraine or nerves or something. I got the impression she was a bit fragile.”
“She is now.”
“What’s she supposed to have popped then?”
“Don’t know. Brand was in no state to help. He was running round like a headless chicken. He thought she was shopping, turns out she never got up. He found her in bed. Unconscious.”
“What time was that?”
He looked at his watch. “Half an hour ago?”
She was trying to work it out but the timing was all wrong.
“I know, I know,” Byford said. “I’m asking the same questions, Bev. Trouble is… no one’s got any of the answers.”
“I can help you there.” Powell was striding across the room looking pretty pleased with himself. “The press boys got an anonymous tip. Well, Matt Snow did. He was the only one giving anything away.”
“Big help, that.” The smile suggested she meant it. “But it can’t be that anonymous when you think about it.”
Byford obviously was. “Course not.” He looked at Bev. “Who else but Brand could have known what was going on?”
“Unless he made the call himself.” Bev was interrupted by Powell who’d lost his earlier perkiness.
“No way, Morriss. He’d only just found her. He was gutted.”
Byford didn’t share the view. “If you’re so concerned, you can get yourself up to the hospital and hold the old boy’s hand till he’s ready to answer a few questions.”
“Me?”
“Problem with that, Mike?”
“No, it’s just —”
Byford wasn’t interested. “Brand’s the closest we’ve got to a break in this case. He was seen with Michelle on the night she died. At the very least he’s a witness. I don’t know what’s been going on here but it takes second place to that girl’s death. I want answers, and whatever Brand has – or hasn’t – been up to, he’s going to supply them.”
The ensuing silence was broken by footsteps in the hall. Ozzie popped his head round the door. “Sarge? There’s a call. Vince Hanlon. Says one of the girls has turned up at Highgate. Wants to talk to you. Something about death threats?”