Authors: Maureen Carter
“As in crazy man?” The thought had crossed Bev’s mind a couple of times.
“As in I think he needs help.” The writer reached into her case. “This lot covers the last six months or so.”
“Appreciate it, Anna.” Bev took the first notebook, flicked through page after page of surprisingly neat squiggles. It could’ve been ancient hieroglyphics to Bev. Fortunately she wouldn’t be doing the deciphering.
“When you’ve finished, I’ll get the next lot.” Anna gathered the glasses. “Ready for another?”
And another. And another. Shoptalk segued into small talk, relaxed, easygoing. Drinkers and diners drifted in, as Bev and Anna touched on music, movies, books, holidays. The girl was good company. They only stopped to grab a menu, order food. Burger and fries for Bev, Caesar salad for Anna.
“God, I’d love a chip. I can’t touch greasy foods at the moment.” She pointed ruefully at her bump. Bev sucked hers in. Shame she’d didn’t have the same problem. In six months, she’d be the size of a housing estate. Bev reckoned Anna’s gesture was an unspoken no-pressure invitation to talk babies. So far, she’d studiously avoided the subject with everyone. But Anna was in the same antenatal boat. Duck the offer or dive in?
“When d’you stop being sick in the mornings?”
“Stop?” Anna smiled. “What’s that?” They swapped stories, shared fears, laughed a lot.
“Had any cravings yet?” Bev asked. She lusted after dark chocolate and cookie dough Häagen-Dazs but then she always had.
Anna pouted. “Does David Tennant count?”
“Who?”
“Doct...”
“Joke.” Bev flapped a hand.
Anna rolled her eyes. “What about you? Cravings?”
Unbidden Oz’s image popped into her head. “Nah. Bit early yet.” She blew her cheeks out on a sigh.
“Will you stop working?”
“God, no,” Bev said. “I’d go doolally. You?”
“Not an option.”
“How’s your partner feel about that?”
Anna dropped her gaze. “We don’t see each other any more.”
Foot. Mouth. Bev lifted a palm. “Sorry. No business a mine.”
“Don’t be.” She smiled. “I’ll manage. Great family. Good mates. What more does a girl want?”
Bev raised an eyebrow. “Doctor Who?”
A squidgy blueberry muffin had taken squatter’s rights on Bev’s keyboard. Smiling, she closed the office door, strolled over for a closer look. The tiny flag stuck in the sponge read: Bite me. She shook her head, still smiling. Powell must be back in admin action. Must remember to collect her sweepstake winnings off Darren. Byford was in the building too; she’d spotted his Volvo in the car park.
Coat hung, bag slung, she took the weight off her feet, added avoirdupois with every mouth-watering calorie. Body must be telling her it needed blood sugar. Her brain certainly was. Last night’s Southern Comfort was this morning’s all-over ache. She made a mental note to knock the booze on the head. Bet Anna Kendall hadn’t woken with a mild hangover.
Matt Snow’s notebooks would soon be getting the treatment. Bev had detoured to the incident room, dropped them off with Caz Pemberton. Pembers had brilliant shorthand and was clued-up enough to know what to look for. Bev had again flicked through a few pages, apart from proper names it was still ancient Egyptian. She chucked the cake paper in the bin. Grimaced. It was a long shot anyway.
“Missed again, boss.” Mac hovered in the doorframe.
“Tyler,” she snapped. “Don’t you ever knock?”
He shrugged, sauntered in. “Take a look at this.” Handed her an overnight report.
Frown lines appeared as she read. “So?” Struck her as a bog standard mugging that went wrong. Or right. A passer-by gave chase. The attacker fled before too much damage to person, none to pocket.
“The victim,” Mac said.
She glanced at the paper in her hand. “Roger Doyle?”
“Rang the squad room this morning. Reckons he had a lucky escape. Thinks he might’ve been the Disposer’s next target.”
Bev scratched her neck. “Doyle’s a paedo?”
“Yeah. But he did the decent thing calling it in.”
For sure. If Doyle hadn’t put himself on the line, the crime wouldn’t get a second look. Street robberies were two a penny. An attempted mugging wouldn’t even have hit CID radar.
“Can he describe the attacker?” Bev asked.
“That’s what Flint wants to know.” He held her coat open.
The greying beard gave the lie to Roger Doyle’s coal black mullet. Bev reckoned it was a rug anyway. She didn’t give a toss if the hair was fake as long as his story stood up. Doyle examined their warrant cards closely, compared photos with faces. His was scarred by a jagged line running from the corner of the left eye. He handed back the IDs. “Can’t be too careful these days, can you?” The fat man’s smile revealed small crooked teeth.
Doyle’s huge buttocks swayed under baggy grey slacks as he led them down a narrow hall. The bungalow smelt of baking cakes and boot polish. Bev loosened her coat. The kitchen was too hot, could do with a window being opened. One pane was boarded up with wood, sunlight showed streaks of dirt on the others.
Doyle ran a damp cloth over a spotless work surface. “Please sit down.” There were two chairs round a pine table. Mac leaned against a wall. “I thought long and hard before dialling the number.” His hand was steady as he poured boiling water into a teapot.
“What tipped the balance, Mr Doyle?” Bev folded her arms. Darren New had run a record check, phoned details as they drove over. Hadn’t been easy listening. She felt uneasy now. It was difficult to marry the inoffensive-looking bloke making tea with a man who’d committed indecent acts against kids. Doyle had been sent down three times, seven years in total.
“I’ve paid my debt to society, sergeant. With interest. Justice executed inside was rougher than anything meted out by the court. Prisons are dangerous places for paedophiles.” He traced the scar, left them to draw their own conclusions. Bev doubted the gesture was unwitting. Without eye contact it was difficult to be sure. Doyle was doing anything to avoid looking her in the face.
“I’ve been punished enough. I’m dead as far as my family’s concerned. They cut me off completely after the first prison sentence. I’ve rebuilt my life. I have a reasonable job. The therapy’s ongoing. I know what I did was wrong. I’m sure it won’t happen again. As sure as I can be. But still I’m persecuted.” He flapped the cloth at the broken window. “Dog mess through the letterbox, hate mail, I live with it. I have to. But last night a man tried to kill me.”
That was well over the top. “Kill?”
“He had a hunting knife, sergeant.”
Eyes widened. Not seen that in the report. “Did you mention...?”
“I made light of it last night. Didn’t want any fuss. I told the officers I just wanted to get home. Forget about it. But I couldn’t.” Doyle was still rubbing at non-existent stains. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the men he’s killed, how many more victims there might be. He has to be stopped, sergeant.”
“How’d you know it was the Disposer?”
Doyle met her eyes for the first time. “Because he told me.”
Joshua Connolly was not helping police inquiries. The protester had been in custody at Highgate since Sunday night. He’d be enjoying the hospitality for at least another twenty-four hours. Magistrates had granted the extension so that Connolly could be questioned further about his part in the disturbance at Milton Place. In four sessions over two days, he’d shared not much more than his name with previous interlocutors. The interview baton was now with a suited-and-booted Byford. Baptism of fire on the first day back. Interview Room 1 was stuffy and smelly: stale sweat, cheesy socks. Byford loosened his tie a touch.
“Why did you join the protest, Mr Connolly?” The detective was up to speed. He’d studied reports of the incident, spoken to officers who’d attended, had a detailed briefing from Flint, plus Bev’s take on events. DS Frank Knox sitting alongside the guv would try to fill any gaps. Knox, a tall lanky redhead, had been one of the first on the scene.
Connolly’s open-mouthed yawn revealed several fillings and complete contempt for the proceedings. The twenty-nine-year-old had history. Checks revealed he’d been a student activist at Leeds, graduated to professional pain-in-the-arse-dom. Pro-environment and animal rights, he was against abortion and the Iraq war. He’d been filmed shouting his mouth off at rallies all over the country. Convictions included criminal damage and assault. He lived in housing association property in Kings Norton with a woman and two kids. Not a silent partner, she’d turned up twice at the nick, banging on about police brutality.
Maybe action man was getting bored, wanted to stir things a bit. He unfolded his rangy denim-clad frame from the metal chair, touched his trainer-encased toes a few times then sat cross-legged on the floor. Pink flesh was visible through raggedy holes in the knees of his jeans. Connolly ran derisory green eyes over Byford. “Not seen you before, old man.”
Byford shrugged a so-what? “What about Andrew Leach? Had you seen him before?”
He tossed a mousy fringe out of his eyes. “Who?”
“The man you were set on torching.”
Complacent shrug.
“Just offering him a light, were you?”
“Don’t smoke. Filthy habit.”
“Your prints on the Zippo.”
This part of the interview was academic in a way. Though Connolly had tried hiding his face under a scarf, they had enough forensic and photographic evidence to secure a conviction on the assault charge. Video footage had captured Connolly kicking Leach as he lay in the road. Fibres from Connolly’s clothing had been transferred to the victim’s. And vice versa. Connolly knew all this. Knew he’d go down for the attack. As to the charge of incitement... what the cops wanted to know was why Connolly had hijacked what had started out as a peaceful demonstration.
“You didn’t answer the question,” Byford said. “Why did you join the protest?”
He used a matchstick to pick his teeth. “You got kids, old man?”
Byford rolled his eyes. “Your point being?” As if he didn’t know.
“Kids need protecting.”
“Setting fire to a man will do that?” As if it was a serious question.
Knox snorted, folded his arms.
Connolly’s fringe flopped; this time he let it. “Scaring the shit out of him might.” It was the story he’d maintained throughout: fear not fire; he’d no intention of killing anyone.
“Got the wrong man though, didn’t you?”
“They’re all vermin.” He spat on the lino.
“Andrew Leach served nine months for fraud. Wipe that up. Now.” The order was softly spoken. It was Byford’s way. The lower the volume the more menace it held. Connolly picked up on it. Sullen-faced, he dug a crumpled tissue from his pocket and complied.
Byford rose crossed his hands behind his back, silently circuited Connolly a couple of times then, casually: “How did you meet him?”
Slight pause. Was it significant? “Who?”
“The killer.” The guv’s flared nostrils suggested a rank odour. “The maniac who calls himself the Disposer.” Not that there was proof of a connection. It was Byford’s gut instinct. Logic held that Sunday’s protest was a backlash to the saturation media coverage, the countless column inches and airtime devoted to the Disposer and his killing campaign. Had Connolly hopped on a bandwagon? Or was he co-driver of a battle-bus steered by the Disposer? Had they infiltrated the demo to distract attention? Was it an elaborate sleight of hand as a young man’s body was dumped in a filthy alley?
Connolly circled a finger at his temple. “Where’d you lose them?”
He meant marbles. Byford sighed. Wished he had a pound for every time he’d heard that one in an interview room. “Not very original, Mr Connolly. But you’re not, are you?” He perched on the desk, a size ten brogue swinging inches from Connolly’s flushed face.
“Meaning?”
“Work from a script, don’t you?” He quoted lines from the killer’s letter. “‘Our children need protecting. Paedophiles are vermin.’ Words courtesy of the Disposer. How did Mr Connolly put it, Frank?”
Knox chewed gum, stared at the protester. “‘Kids need protecting. They’re all vermin.’ Then he gobbed on the floor, sir.”
Close but no gold star. Byford tutted. “Not perfect then. Six out of ten? Are you a slow learner, Mr Connolly?”
Connolly was quick, but Knox was faster. By the time the protestor was on his feet, Knox was in his face, restraining Connolly’s clenched fists. Outwardly cool, Byford’s heart raced; he’d not seen that coming. Losing his touch or rusty technique after three months’ thumb-twiddling? “Bad move, Mr Connolly.” He pointed at the chair. “Sit.”
Connolly slumped, arms folded, legs crossed. Byford hid his frustration. He’d got a rise out of the guy. So what? Most people thought paedophiles were vermin. Who didn’t think children needed protection? Fact that Connolly had used a similar form of words to the Disposer was proof of very little. His instinct still told him there was something more tangible.
“Todd Freeman. What do you know about him?”
“Another dead pervert.” Connolly sneered then clamped his lips. Too late. Byford pounced.
“Clairvoyant, are you?” The protester had been in a police cell since Sunday evening, room service didn’t include newspapers. “How do you know that?”
“I’m not deaf.”
It was just possible Connolly had heard about Freeman through the police grapevine, listened in on officers’ conversation. Byford observed Connolly closely. The man was aggressive, hot-headed and truculent, but the detective saw him as a minor player. He also thought it unlikely the Disposer was acting alone. But did that make Joshua Connolly his accomplice?
“How much is he paying you?”
“Put your rod away, Mr Policeman. I’m not biting.” The posture, the tone reinforced the words. Byford’s experience told him he’d lost Connolly; he’d get nothing more this session. The detective walked round the desk, gathered his papers. “I’m after bigger fish than you, son. You’re already in the net.”
“It’s a voice I’ll never forget.” Doyle had finally been persuaded to abandon the cleaning and park his bulk. His flabby thighs spread over the sides of the kitchen chair, podgy hands rested on the mound of his belly. Bev hid her distaste. For the second time in recent days she found the sympathy shop sold out. She didn’t give a sod about the voice.
“What about the face?” she asked. “Did you get a good look?” Bev studied Doyle’s as if it was an exam subject: the jagged scar, the full beard, pale watery gaze currently fixed on the shiny tabletop.
There was a rasping noise as he scratched the greying bristle. “I suppose he disguised it. But I’ll always remember the tone, the loathing, the hatred. Hissed in my ear.”
Yeah, yeah. “And the face?” She exchanged glances with Mac.
Doyle fingered the scar. “I am the Disposer and you’re going to die, fat man.”
Brimming tears finally skied down the slopes of his cheeks, his massive shoulders shook. Bev itched to shake the rest of him.
“The face, Mr Doyle. Can you give us a description?”
“It was all over so quickly...”
Her heart sank. The one person who’d been in spitting distance of the killer, and it looked as if he hadn’t got a clue.
He dashed moist cheeks with the heels of his hands. “But by God, I’ll give it my best shot.”
Late afternoon and Bev perched on the edge of her desk holding Roger Doyle’s best shot in both hands. As e-fits went, it wasn’t bad. The male subject couldn’t be taken for fifty per cent of the population as was sometimes the case. Nor did it appear to be the wild-eyed loony of an over-eager witness’s febrile imagination.
A patrol car had picked up Doyle as Bev and Mac were leaving the house. The fat man had spent a couple of hours at Highgate alongside Al Copley, the imaging unit’s sharpest operator. Copley had listened and elicited carefully, painstakingly laid out images, tweaked, honed, fine-tuned, cropped and finally come up with: white male, average height, thin, late-twenties-early-thirties, collar-length dark blond almost mousy hair, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, bar piercing through the left eyebrow.
Whichever way she turned it, however hard she looked, Bev just couldn’t see it. Until last night, the Disposer hadn’t put a foot wrong – why run headlong into trouble now? “What you reckon?”
Mac’s copy was on the windowsill beside him. He glanced down, shrugged. “Who knows? Might hear something soon.”
The likeness had been issued to the media just after lunch via a hastily arranged news conference. Bev had leaned against a back wall as Flint read a statement, ducked a few pointed questions. It was a difficult pitch. However the DCS played it, the press would put on its own spin. A routine ‘Have you seen this man?’ appeal was too bland. But ‘Is this the face of the Disposer?’ was well over the top given nascent doubts about Doyle’s integrity.
Bev sighed, moved to the chair, picked up a biro. The attack had happened around midnight in a badly lit street, round the corner from Doyle’s Stirchley bungalow. He claimed to have yanked off his assailant’s hood, but admitted catching only a fleeting glimpse of the face. How come Doyle had recalled so much detail? As for the passer-by who allegedly gave chase, he hadn’t come forward despite an appeal on local radio. Bev’s scepticism wasn’t restricted to the scenario. She had the fat man down as a flaky, self-pitying shit.
Mac glanced over her shoulder, shook his head. The doodle taking shape looked like a cross between two Jags and Jabba the Hutt. “Come on, boss. Give the bloke a bit of credit.” He paused deliberately. “It’s not just Doyle’s best shot.”
Got that right. It was the cops’ as well. “Fair dos.” She screwed the paper, lobbed it at a bin already ringed with apple cores, crisp packets and sweet wrappers. “But why’d he do it, Mac?”
“Lost me, boss. Why’d who do what?” He pushed himself off the sill, bent down to pick up the rubbish.
“The Disposer.” She took several slugs from a bottle of Malvern water, wiped her mouth on a sleeve. “He’s run rings round us. We ain’t got a skin cell to go on. Suddenly he’s leaping outa bushes, wielding a knife, telling Doyle he’s in for the big sleep. That’s a hell of a risk.”
“Maybe he’s losing it?” Mac stood hoisted his jeans. “Pressure getting to him?”
What pressure? She scowled. “Yeah right.” Or maybe Doyle was a fantasist. After all the fat man had engineered the attention, seemed to revel in the spotlight. “Doyle’s wallowing in it, if you ask me.” Mac didn’t need to. He’d heard it before. “All that fingering the scar,” she sneered. “Blubbing like a baby. Talk about diva.”
Mac sighed. “Cut him some slack, boss.”
“Why?” The eyes held a warning he habitually ignored.
“You get an idea in your head and sometimes you won’t let go.”
“Called having the courage of your convictions, sticking to your guns.”
“One way of putting it,” he muttered.
“Meaning?”
“What if your aim’s wonky?”
“Nice line, mate.” She turned her back, started typing. “Shame it’s total bollocks.” She heard his strut to the door, sensed him loitering with intent in the frame.
“Yeah. Well you’re off beam with diva. That’d make Doyle female.” He shoved a hand in his pocket. “As in the fat lady sings. Must’ve heard that one, boss.”
“Only hearing bum notes, me, mate.” She frowned; caught the innuendo. Cheeky sod. “Saying I’m fat?” She glanced round. Into empty space. Going by the volume, he was halfway down the corridor. She recognised the song he was mangling. Even though Mac had changed the lyrics. She doubted Sinatra had ever done anything Her Way.
By the late brief, they had a name. The e-fit of Roger Doyle’s attacker had gone out on network TV bulletins. The
Evening News
front page looked like a wanted poster, Matt Snow’s byline conspicuous by its absence. Pensive, Bev shoved the paper in her bag as Flint strode in with an update. Among the calls to the hotline, he told the troops, three people had now come up with the same ID: Wayne Pickering. The latest tip-off had come from a neighbour; a squad car was on its way to a house in Acocks Green to bring Pickering in. The murder room buzzed like a honey farm. Jubilant, Flint stood centre stage. Bev wouldn’t be surprised to see him take a bow. Final curtain? Somehow she didn’t think so.
“We got anything on him?” she asked.
“Nothing criminal.” Flint licked his lips. The but was tacit. “According to one of the callers, Pickering told anyone who’d listen how he had a cousin who’d been serially abused by a neighbour. Not here. Up in Burnley. He was very close to her apparently, more like brother and sister.”
Mac asked Flint if the caller had left a name. Bev turned a snort into a cough. Course they did. Flint cut her a glance it was probably best she didn’t see.
“And an address. Darren New and Sumitra Gosh are there now seeing what else he can give us.”
Bev swung a foot. “When’s this abuse supposed to have happened?”
Flint folded his arms. “Twenty years back. They were just kids.” Her downturned mouth said it was a hell of a long time to bear a grudge. Flint must’ve read the message. “The cousin killed herself six months ago.”
Bev nursed a solitary hot chocolate with extra sprinkles. Coming up to seven, she was in the canteen waiting for the guv to clock off. The late shift was on digging duty, delving into Pickering’s background, uncovering anything that might tie him to the other murders. Two squad members were en route to re-interview Doyle. They needed to establish if there was history between the fat man and his assailant. And if so, why he’d not mentioned it. Thank God she was on days. Doyle gave her the creeps.
Bev had been flicking through Carol Pemberton’s copy of
heat,
but fatuous anorexics and C-list nonentities weren’t doing it for her. The dog-eared mag lay open on the table as she gazed at the night sky. No stars there either. Dark and stormy wasn’t in it. Rain hammered the glass, windblown leaves skittered the surface. Winter was on its way. All they needed was snow. You can say that again. Matt Snow.
She licked chocolate froth off the spoon. The reporter’s sick note had turned into a journal. Snow had gone to ground. Again. Only upside was it’d be easier for Anna Kendall to swap shorthand notebooks. The first batch was ready to go back. Pembers had dropped them off; sorry for not coming up with anything.
“Cheer up, sunshine. Might never happen.” Powell loomed carrying a sausage roll and a steaming cup of Bovril. He looked remarkably perky.
“Dog died last night.”
“Shit, Bev.” A picture of concern, he perched tentatively in case she wanted time to grieve. “Sorry. I’d no idea.” He must’ve clocked the curve of her lip. “You haven’t got a dog, have you?”
“Nah. Worth it for the look on your face though.” Keira Knightley in a backless strapless number stared up from the centre pages. Bev closed the mag, added a couple of sweeteners to the chocolate. Probably time to cut back.
“What you doing here, then?” He took a slurp. “Thought you’d be on the Wayne Pickering reception committee.”
Sore point. Flint had made it clear that when Pickering was brought in he wanted Mac as number two on the interview. She’d not asked why; the DCS hadn’t explained. She suspected he didn’t appreciate her scepticism. Tough. No sense getting further up his nostrils though. With a bit of luck when Operation Wolf was history, he’d bugger off back to Wolverhampton.
She tapped his mug. “Acquired taste, Bovril. Like me with Flint.”
“Not flavour of the month, then?” He bit into the pastry.
She snorted. “On Planet Flint, any month.” The doors opened. She glanced round. Just a brace of uniforms. Where was Byford? She was hoping for dinner
à deux
.
Watching Powell wolf the sausage roll was giving her stomach ideas.
“Sure about Flint?” he asked.
“Does poo pong?” She ducked flying crumbs; caught something in the DI’s delivery. “What?”
“He told me how you lobbied on my behalf. Didn’t have a bad word to say about you, Bev.”
News to her the DI and Flint had exchanged any words on her – or the lobbying. She’d assumed her conversation with the chief had been confidential. Open-mouthed she watched as the DI dunked the last inch or so of sausage roll in the Bovril. “He told me you showed loyalty, integrity, discretion...”
“You winding me up?”
He flashed a grin. “Said I’d no idea there were two Morrisses knocking round Highgate.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she warned. “I could double that.” She nodded at the damson bruise yellowing round the edges at his temple.
“Chill, Bev. He rates you. Just doesn’t show it the same way as...”
Line. Cross. Don’t. She narrowed her eyes. “Watch your...”
“Just like old times, you pair cosying up.” A Fedora appeared on the Formica. She’d not seen the guv in his trademark headgear for months, nor the suit and tie. Mind, the hat looked spanking new. The old one had that battered look. Right now so did Byford: mauve smudges ringed tired grey eyes, lines there she’d never noticed before. Maybe they should just grab a pizza. Get an early night.
“The DI was just leaving actually,” she said brightly. “Weren’t you?”
“Was I?” Couldn’t the guy take a hint? “Oh yeah. Have you got my cut?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What cut?”
“The sweepstake.”
Shit. Daz must’ve ratted on her. She scrabbled in her purse, pulled out a note. “Only got a twenty. Sorry, mate...”
“No worries.” He plucked it, gave it a twirl. “I’ll get some change.”
Her eyes were slits, teeth clenched. “Tomorrow’ll do.”
“You bet.” He winked, backed away. “Mañana, right?”
Byford ran the hat between his hands. “What was that all about?”
“You don’t want to know.” She slipped her coat on. “I’m famished. I’ll eat anything. What you fancy?”
“Is your car out back?” It was no answer. They talked in the lift, chatted in the corridors. She asked about his day, heard the top lines on the Joshua Connolly interview. Chewed over everything but the topic of food. As they hit the stairs and he started spouting about the foul weather, she knew dinner was a no-no.
“Sorry about this, Bev. Rich is down for a few days. I said I’d meet him for dinner.”
She forced a smile. “That’ll be a rain check, then.”
Kids? Who’d have ’em?
The MG smelt like a chippie. The fish supper from Oceania was on the passenger seat sending out wafts of vinegar. Bev was in a line of shuffling traffic on Kings Heath High Street. Rain was still sheeting down. She flicked the radio, caught the eight o’clock news. The Wayne Pickering angle led the bulletin.
West Midlands police are seeking a twenty-nine-year-old Birmingham man in connection with...
Simultaneously the e-fit was on a bank of TV monitors in a showroom on the left. Surreal. How weird was that? Fingers tapped the wheel. Almost as weird as Flint’s decision not to use her on the Pickering interview – whenever that might be. The officers sent to bring him in had found the Acocks Green bedsit empty; neighbours hadn’t set eyes on the so-called, self-proclaimed Disposer for twenty-four hours.
Fifty miles away on the outskirts of Shrewsbury, Matt Snow had the Disposer in his sights. The reporter couldn’t tear his gaze from the TV screen. Flicking through channels, he’d caught the D-word on News 24. As in...
Police say the man is wanted for questioning in connection with the so-called Disposer killings...
“Are you all right, Matthew?” Lydia Snow sat in a chunky armchair near the coal fire, knitting needles clicking. She’d been keeping a closer watch on the son she rarely saw these days than what she considered the rubbish on television. Tall and elegant with an immaculate silver chignon, she lived in rural chic on a teacher’s pension and her late husband’s life insurance. The old farmhouse, surrounded by Shropshire countryside, was low-beams-meets-Laura-Ashley. A touch twee for Snow’s city tastes.
He lifted a shushing hand. “Fine, ma, absolutely fine.” If the bastard on the news was the Disposer, Snow was more than fine. If an arrest was imminent, his mother was safe. The flying visit to drop subtle warnings looked as if it was a wasted journey.
He hunched forward, knuckles white round a tumbler of Grouse, took in every detail of the psycho who’d broken into his flat, lain in wait in the motor, fucked with his head. The smirking face beneath the burqa; the evil eyes that had scared Snow witless.