Blood Money (11 page)

Her beautiful face was beaten black and blue, the damson shade matched her kameez, the silk ripped at the neck. Her nose was probably broken; the bleeding had just about stopped. Her top lip was
split, the lower swollen to cartoon proportions. No one was falling about laughing. This was the discernible damage; Bev knew damn well it wouldn’t be the full extent.

Hands on hips, she stood over the teenager so fired up she could barely spit out the words. “Who did this?” Her teeth hurt they were clenched so hard.

Fareeda mumbled something but Bev couldn’t decipher it through sobs and the lisp; two teeth were missing at least. She cut a glance to the older woman. “Sumi.” It wasn’t
a question. It was an order. Non-negotiable.

Sitting next to Fareeda, stroking her hand, Sumi shook her head. “I don’t know. She won’t tell me.”

“She’ll tell me.” Bev knelt on the carpet, coaxing, cajoling. Fareeda barely responded let alone revealed detail: what happened and, more to the point, who’d made it
happen. In effect the girl was protecting her attacker, a man who’d used her as a human punch bag. Bev felt desperately sorry for her.

“OK, have it your way.” She rose, turned at the door. “Get your coats.”

“Please, please don’t make me go.” Tears ran twin channels down the teenager’s bruised and bloody face. Bev reckoned you’d need a heart of brick not to be
moved.

“I’ll drive.”

“No!” Fareeda screamed.

“The hospital. You need checking over, then I’ll take you down the station for a statement.”

She gave a defiant stare, the first indication she still had some spirit left. “I’ll kill myself before letting you do that.”

“The fuck you will!” Shaking with fury Bev stormed across the room. “Never pull that line on me again. Got that?” Maybe she should tell Fareeda she’d spent the
night with a corpse, a woman who’d swallowed her bodyweight in happy pills. Another victim of sick violence.

Fareeda dropped her head, fiddled with the bunch of bangles round her wrist. “You don’t understand.”

“Got that right, kid.” Bev frowned, couldn’t catch Fareeda’s mutterings. Patience wearing thin, she snapped: “Say again.”

Eyes brimming, she tossed her head back, raised her voice to a loud shout. “Get this right too. If I speak out they’ll kill my mother. Maybe my sister, my niece. They don’t
care.” Tears dripped from her chin, splashed into her lap.

Bev knelt again, took the girl’s hands in hers. “Who will, Fareeda? Why will they? Tell me, love. We can stop them.”

Head high, the teenager held Bev’s gaze. “And if you can’t?”

She glanced at Sumi who was biting her lip looking shattered. Bev lifted a finger, too whacked to think properly. “One night. Then we’ll see.” She shook her head, gave a deep
sigh. “I need to sleep on it.”

It was three a m when the phone rang. Fareeda was in Frankie’s old room, asleep, presumably. A shocked and sober Sumi had taken off home shortly after seeing her cousin
to bed. Bev had grabbed a slice of toast, knocked back a half-bottle of Pinot and hit the sack. She’d zonked soon as her head touched the pillow. Now she wanted to stuff the bloody thing over
her head. Groaning, she fumbled for the receiver, snapped out her name.

Nothing. No one. Nada.

“I don’t frigging believe it.” She punched in 1471. Caller withheld. There’s a surprise. Half an hour later, still tossing and turning she swung her legs out of bed,
grabbed a dressing gown from the back of the door, headed for the loo. The gown was an unwitting legacy from Oz Khan, her erstwhile lover and former DC, now a sergeant in the Met. Its brushed
cotton used to smell of Oz. After he’d gone she’d bury her nose in the fabric, breathe in his scent wallowing in what-ifs and maybes. Then she’d lost his babies and turned down
his offer of a life in London. A boil wash had done the trick on the cotton. Shame it didn’t work on lingering emotion as well.

She sighed ran both hands through her hair, picturing Oz’s face: sculpted cheekbones, full luscious lips, dark chocolate eyes like deep limpid pools. Chick-lit? Dick-lit more like. Mills
and Bev. She gave a lopsided smile then flushed the loo, washed her hands. Quick glance in the mirror confirmed she looked like shite. Tough. Given what she’d witnessed tonight, it
wasn’t the worst look in the world.

Back on the landing she heard a noise from the spare room. She pressed an ear against the door heard Fareeda’s stifled sobs. She reached for the handle, pulled back at the last second,
knew further probing tonight would be futile. Fareeda was on a psychological knife edge. Bev was pretty mixed up as well: compassion, concern, but also still a touch of anger. Fareeda had said one
thing that made sense. “You don’t understand.”

She was bang on. And until Bev did, she’d leave the girl in peace. Tomorrow she’d make it her business to try and get her head round the issue. Drifting back to bed she swallowed a
yawn. Nothing else on the books, was there? Apart from nailing the Sandman. Easy sodding peasy.

From behind a horse chestnut tree on the opposite pavement, a dark figure watched the house. The trunk wasn’t wide enough to conceal the observer completely. Had Bev
glanced out, she might have spotted the outline of a body, the glow of a cigarette. The watcher thought the risk worth taking. When the bedroom light was turned off, the observer emerged from
behind the tree, padded over the road. Gloved hands carried a package which they carefully placed on the step. Late Christmas? Early birthday? Either way the cop was in for a surprise.

Bev’s nose twitched, a lazy smile spread across her sleepy face. Proper coffee. Was there a better smell in the universe first thing? Arms above her head, she stretched
full length in bed cogitating. Cut grass? Sweet peas? The sea? Suntan skin? Chips and vinegar? Bacon sarnie? Strawberries? Bread baking? Candy floss? Dark chocolate? Rive Gauche? Yeah yeah yeah:
point taken. But dark roast Kenyan came pretty damn close. Eyes wide, she bolted upright. However pukka it was, coffee didn’t brew itself.

Almost tripping over the duvet, she was halfway downstairs before last night’s events fell into place: the caffeine fairy had to be her house guest Fareeda Saleem. As Bev entered the
kitchen, the teenager peeked through long glossy black hair, then pushed a mug across a work surface. Service with a shy smile.

Bev winked. “Could get used to this.” Her Snoopy jim-jam bottoms were at half mast; she hauled them up with one hand, concerned gaze covertly raking the teenager’s damaged
face. “How you doing, kid?”

“Fine.” Knee-jerk response. Touchy subject. Far as Bev could see the swelling on her bottom lip had gone down a fraction overnight, bruised eyes still resembled over-ripe damsons.
Emotionally she seemed to be holding it together, and was evidently keen to change tack; two slices of bread were on standby for the toaster. “Ready for breakfast?” Given the crumbs and
buttery knife on the table she’d already had a bite. Kids!

“Definitely get used to this.” Bev flashed a smile, grabbed the coffee. “Give me five mins, yeah?”

It was nearer ten when she came down suited, booted and abluted. On the basis she still looked like an extra from
Shaun of the Dead
, she’d opted for a sharp blue skirt suit.
Hopefully some sartorial edginess would rub off on its wearer, unlike the hastily applied slap that just about concealed two broken nights’ sleep.

Bev paused at the door, loath to disturb Fareeda who stood at the sink gazing through the window, miles away. The girl wouldn’t be admiring the garden; nothing there to write home about,
even when it wasn’t ink-black outside. It didn’t seem as if Fareeda was studying her haunted reflection either. Bev reckoned her mind’s eye was watching an action replay, a
mismatched big fight. Dwarfed by one of Bev’s white cotton nighties, the girl looked featherweight.

Bev checked her watch, gave a rueful sigh. At 7.22 there was no time for small talk let alone big issues. The guv’s eight o’clock brief wasn’t optional, she had to get a move
on. Fareeda must’ve caught movement in the glass, she turned to face Bev. “Thank you so much for letting me stay.”

“No sweat.” Her hungry glance fell on breakfast. “Ta for this, kid.” She snatched a few sheets of kitchen towel off the roll, wrapped it round the toast. “Have to
eat on the hoof. If I don’t hit the road...”

“You said one night.” Unwittingly perhaps, Fareeda’s fingers stroked a swollen discoloured cheek. “Do you want me to leave?”

Despite what was probably emotional blackmail, Bev had already made up her mind. She wanted Fareeda to be safe, untouched by inhuman hand. That meant knowing where she was. “Make yourself
at home, eh? We’ll take it a day at a time.” She cocked her head at the table. “And get rid of those crumbs. This ain’t a flaming hotel, you know.” A warm smile and
wink took the heat out of her words.

The girl nodded, eyes brimming, fingers kneading a slender forearm. “Thank you so much, I...”

“Later.” She raised a palm. “We’ll talk then.”

Later. Like she’d deal with the sodding parcel on the doorstep. After nearly tripping over the damn thing, she scooped it up, glanced at the tag and tucked it under her arm. It’d be
the desk clock she’d spotted on eBay: the flashing blue light would give her Highgate mates a laugh. Mind, she’d have another word with Postman Pat, he was lucky the bloody thing
hadn’t been nicked.

“Hey, Morriss! This is your lucky day.” The familiar voice shouting across the car park was almost drowned out by contractors digging up the road at the back of the
nick. They were replacing water mains or something, drilling seemed to have gone on for weeks.

Bev reached into the Polo’s passenger door, a smile curving her lips. She knew who was predicting her fortune without looking round. It wasn’t so much the quasi Delboy delivery, more
the sarky, “Morriss”. The only guy she knew who didn’t call her Bev or sarge was Mike Powell. The DI wasn’t a sexist git just because of that. There were loads of reasons.
Was it good to have him around? Betcha.

“Mystic Mike.” She yelled back, not even trying to hide the smile in her voice. Still without a backward glance she locked the motor, then juggling shoulder bag, files and parcel
headed for the rear of the building. This time of morning the air was chocker with exhaust fumes, aftershave trails and wafts of perfume. She always reckoned her nose could detect Highgate’s
early birds. Quick sniff, quirky frown. Not that one though. Powell was just behind her now. Had he finished at Hendon? Or had the guv requested his early release? Given Operation Magpie’s
increasing complexity, the squad’s workload was growing fast – same as the pressures. If she was the guv she’d split the inquiry, have one team concentrate on the burglaries, the
other focus on the murder, pool everything at joint briefs. “You back with us then, sir?”

“Can’t keep a good man down, Morriss.” He upped the pace; fell into step beside her.

“Yeah, but what about you?” The cheeky wink finally established eye contact. And boy was he looking good. She might have told him if her teeth weren’t clenched against the
cold. Sod it, if the temperature didn’t buck up she’d soon be investing in thermals. Heated bra would be good.

“God. You look rough.” Mike Powell: Mr Charmer. Or was that snake? She opened her mouth to bite back then stopped. There’d been no edge to the remark, his concern was probably
genuine. Even more reason to ignore it.

“Equality awareness course, was it, at cop school?” She was wide-eyed innocence, knowing full well Powell had been tutor not trainee. Lecturing in Intelligent Management, Mac had
heard. Sounded like an oxymoron to her.

Powell could’ve got the door but held back deliberately. She gave an exaggerated sigh as she struggled to open it. “Glad you passed. A* was it?”

“Patronising, isn’t it? Blokes holding doors for wimmin.” He’d purposely crossed his what-women-want wires to wind her up.

“Patronise ahead.” She nodded at the first fire door, arms still laden. This time Powell did the honours, even stooped to pick up the parcel and a file she’d dropped. She had
to admit he looked almost tasty. His skin glowed, the blond hair a tad longer now, curled at the neck. The dove grey suit swelled in all the right places. “Joined a gym, have we?” She
sensed his appraising gaze as they walked; he’d be limping if he didn’t watch what he said.

“I
have.” He left it at that: subtle for Powell. Perhaps he’d learned something in class after all. Their catch-up chat was intermittently put on hold as colleagues
passing in the corridors welcomed the DI back with Hi Mikes and the odd high-five. Hendon had been badly hit by a flu outbreak, he told her. So many people were down with it loads of sessions had
been cancelled, including his. Either way he’d have been back next week, his three-month stint was up this Friday.

“And you just couldn’t wait to get back in the saddle, eh?” They’d arrived at Bev’s office.

“I know you can’t live without me, Morriss. Heard you were pining away.”

“Get the hearing aid checked if I were you.” Her fingers closed on the door handle.

“Pardon?”

She rolled her eyes. “That is so old. Try a refresher course next time.”

“Touché, mon babe.” He tapped his forehead, walked away, whistling what sounded like
I heard it through the grapevine.

Still smiling she bummed the door, off-loaded files and bag, shucked out of her coat. What was Bob Dylan doing on her keyboard? Of course, last night’s phone call. She’d told the guv
she wanted her CD back. She sniffed. He could at least have given it to her in person. She lifted the case, turned it over. Big of him, he hadn’t even left a note to say thanks. Actually.
Eyes creased, she tapped the desktop. Felt the hint of a blush. Her greatest hits were at home. This had been a present for the big man.
A present.
Like the package on the doorstep this
morning. Powell had waltzed off...

He walked in without knocking, dumped parcel and file on her desk, loosened his tie. “Must be getting as ditzy as you, Morriss.”

“Time of the month, sir?” Deadpan, she grabbed bag, file, notepad, water bottle. “Brief’s in five. Don’t be late. First day back and all that.”