16
The twin hollows in the squashy velvet were a dead giveaway: it was the comfiest seat in the house and Bev was a gnat’s eyelash from taking it. The sage-green and gold piping didn’t sit easy among the Ikea minimalism, but the chair was an Emmy Morriss hand-me-down and Bev had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Her own mouth was watering, thanks to the Easy Spice takeaway and Interview with a Vampire – her favourite movie of all time. She’d taped it off the telly and watched it at least once a month. She balanced and braced; Chicken Madras and Pinot Noir were on the tray, Brad Pitt and blood donor on the screen, posterior a nano-second from soft furnishing when some inconsiderate sod rang the bell.
She couldn’t stop the groan; regretted its ear-shattering volume; feigning death or even deep sleep was no longer an option.
“Okay, okay. This had better be good.” She parked her dinner on top of the telly and paused the vid.
A quick glance at the clock confirmed a growing suspicion. There was only one person who’d come knocking, uninvited, at this time of night.
“Mavis!” The bellow was an advance warning. “If you’re on the scrounge, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
The woman had borrowed so much sugar, she could open a sweet shop. It was a ruse, all she wanted was a goss. “It’s late and I’m knackered.” Bev tightened her mouth, narrowed her eyes and snatched at the door. “What the — ?”
Ozzie lifted a hand in defence. “Sorry, Sarge, I didn’t… Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”
She saw his eyes take in her Black Watch jimmies and Garfield slippers. Bit of a couture shock after the blue suits and Doc Martens. She ran a hand through her hair: nerves rather than necessity. “I was just…”
“Yeah. I can see. Look, no worries. I’ll catch you later.”
“No. It’s okay.” It wasn’t every night Ozzie Khan came calling. It wasn’t any night, come to think of it. She held the door open. “Grab a pew. I’ll just slip into…”
“Something less comfortable?”
She heard a girlish giggle, realised it was her own, turned it into a cough. Oriental aromas pervaded the sitting room, reminder of an unconsumed feast. She gave the tray a lingering look, hoping he’d catch on fast.
“Don’t bother on my account, Sarge. Shame to let it get cold. Anyway, I’m used to seeing women with no clothes on.”
There was a wide grin on his face till he clocked the look on hers. He tripped in the rush to explain. “Not women… I didn’t… just my sisters.”
Her look was now a glare. He tried again. “Forever slopping about the place in their nighties. Mum’s always on at them.”
She was intrigued, filing facts: Ozzie lived at home, then, surrounded by women. “How many sisters you got, Oz?”
“Three.” His face softened. “Youngest’s sixteen. Oldest’s twenty-two.”
“So you’re Big Brother?” She didn’t wait for a reply, but mulled it over in the kitchen, where she grabbed an extra plate and fork. He was kneeling down, browsing through a stack of videos when she came back. She retrieved the tray and took the weight off her feet.
“Gonna get stuck in?”
He looked up, puzzled, then saw what was on offer.
“You have it, Sarge. I’ve eaten.”
“It’s great, this. Chicken Madras. Have a bite of my naan if you play your cards right.”
He shook his head. “It’s a bit coals to Newcastle.”
Quick shrug. “Suit yourself.”
He took a closer look. “Do you really like that stuff?”
She paused, fork halfway to mouth. “No. Horrible. Can’t stand it.” Sarcasm dripped with the sauce.
“Come on, Sarge, it’s vile. Now if we’re talking my Madras…”
She laid the fork down; savoured the words. “Your Madras?”
He gave an ostentatious sniff. “Legendary, mate.”
She looked at him, looked at the tray. Wondered what the hell they were doing, in her place, ten at night, sounding like a couple of foodies? He surely hadn’t come to swap recipes? “Let’s do Delia another other time, Oz.” She waved a hand at the settee. “What’s it all about?”
He sat, legs crossed, and stroked his chin, presumably recalling the reason for his visit.
She nibbled naan while he arranged thoughts.
“Are you watching that?”
She glanced at the screen; Mr Pitt up to his neck – well, someone’s neck – in gore. “I was.”
He took a tape from his coat pocket. “I want you to have a look at this.” It wasn’t a holiday video. His voice told her that.
“There’s no need to see it all.”
She watched, curious, as he headed for the VCR and inserted the tape. It was unlabelled, or more accurately, there was nothing on the label. He certainly hadn’t called in at Blockbusters. But he had cued it. He sat cross-legged on the shagpile and hit play.
Spielberg it wasn’t. Hand-held, ill-focused and grainy it was. She sipped wine as the camera panned along a brick wall to a naked body. The figure was face down and spread-eagled on a mattress. She leaned further forward. The lads on vice were always seizing crap like this, then it was standing room only in the viewing suite at Highgate. She’d seen it all before; bare bum on bed was pretty tame. She only got queasy when foreign bodies or German shepherds were sniffing round.
Then the camera zoomed in.
There were marks across the buttocks. Red ribbons, were they? Laces? A couple more appeared. The body arced in mute protest, but was restrained by leather straps tethering wrists and ankles to the iron bedstead. She put the glass down. Whoever had the whip was just out of shot; all she could see were macabre tendrils, flashing in and out of frame as they made contact with flesh. Another pan. Whip handler. Shot from the waist down revealing a pasty paunch, bowed legs and a stiffy the size of a lighthouse.
Ozzie pressed pause.
She swallowed the last of the wine.
“You never see the guy’s face. When he’s finished with the whip, he has sex then it fades to black.”
Sex? Not the term she’d use. Rape. Sodomy. Assault. She didn’t speak. She was trying to pin down a niggle at the back of her mind.
“God knows who she is. Or what state she’s in,” Oz said.
Bev laid the tray on the floor and hunched forward on the chair. “Rewind it, Oz. Back to where we came in.”
Wide shot, side-on: wall, bed, body, slim, pale skin, shiny dark bob.
“Freeze it on the arc.” She sensed his eyes on her but she was staring at the screen.
He missed it a couple of times, had to rewind, slow forward, rewind, before hitting the spot. The image was flickering but not enough to obscure what they’d almost missed.
“That’s not a girl, Oz.”
She watched as he peered at the screen, slowly shaking his head. “I must have seen it half a dozen times…”
Bev sat back, reached for a cigarette, remembered yet again she’d given up. “Where’d you get it?”
He turned to face her, kneeling now. “That’s why I wanted to see you.”
She narrowed her eyes, hadn’t a clue what was coming. “Go on.”
He opened his mouth, searching for words, eyes anywhere but on Bev. “This afternoon?” he said. “You went back to the nick with the governor? Left me at the Brand place, to get rid of the press?”
“Yes?” She was trying to keep track of his Adam’s apple.
“I went round the back. Just to check the place was secure?”
Her mind was racing. “And?”
“The door was on the latch.”
“And?”
“I went in; found the tape upstairs.”
Bloody, buggery bollocks. No wonder he’d been rambling on about Chicken Madras. Anything was more palatable than this. Her mind was racing, repercussions as well as questions darting like silverfish. The sixty-four thousand dollar big one was: how old was the boy on the bed? For only one dollar less: what the hell was Ozzie playing at?
“You found it?” She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer. The tape was proof of only one thing: that he’d broken every rule in the book. Entering and pocketing property was stealing. And even if it turned out to be evidence, it was inadmissible evidence. Instead of landing Brand in the dock, it would drop Ozzie in the shit. And as it was currently parked in her player, she’d be floundering in it as well.
“I was looking for the loo.”
“Course you were.” She rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, Khan. You can try that line on the governor but don’t bullshit me.”
“I did take a leak.”
“You can say that again.” She wandered over to a wall cupboard, took down a bottle of Leapfrog. She poured two shots, vaguely aware even while doing it that he didn’t touch alcohol. The sharper thinking was focused elsewhere.
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 f*ck’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.