"And you definitely had no idea?" Bev prompted.

She shook her head. "If I had, I'd never have gone to bed. And if I'd been up... who knows...?" Lip quivering, she dropped her face in her hands, visible across the knuckles were the thin red lines left by the Sandman's knife.

Waiting for a gap in the traffic, Bev gunned the motor in front of an elderly Volvo. Mac eased the apple pie from his pocket. Her sideways glance registered pureed puke. "There's tasty." They exchanged matey grins, the earlier spat forgotten. It was one of the reasons they made a good team, she couldn't stay spiky with him for long.

"Reckon the widow's on the level, boss?"

"S'pose." What did they have to go on? A phone call that wasn't made? A PA with a spiteful gleam in her eye? Not exactly prima facie, was it? Diana Masters didn't strike Bev as a Judi Dench. Only the Dame could pull a grieving widow act like that, surely? Unless Diana was up for an Oscar. "Can't see what she'd have to lie about."

"Never saw her as a serious contender myself." Mac was licking crumbs from his fingers.

She did a double-take. "You never ate that?"

He shrugged. "Shame to see it go to waste."

Shaking her head, she hiked the volume on the radio. It was just coming up to three and she was keen to hear whether the Sandman latest would hit the headlines. Glancing at Mac, she toyed with telling him about the break-in at Baldwin Street, the timer left as a present. Not that anything since had sparked her personal safety alarm and, boy, had she been on alert. She opened her mouth, thought better of it. Best wait a while, see how things panned out.

The story wasn't the lead. That was some Westminster sleaze-fest, then some drivel about heavy snow and dangerous driving conditions in the north. At last. The newsreader linked into a clip from Byford. Bev could just imagine his face given how strained the voice sounded. After listening to the same old same old witness appeal, Mac lowered the sound.

"The gay with the scissors?" he dropped in casually. "You gonna let him loose on your hair... sweetie?"

Diana Masters ran her fingers through Sam's hair. He'd played a blinder; she should never have doubted him. Last night's glitch had been a temporary blip. "You were absolutely brilliant, darling." The police turning up out of the blue could've been a disaster. Sitting on the edge of the bed, negligee draped round her naked shoulders, she shuddered at the very thought.

"Are you cold, Dee?"

As he reached for a bottle on the floor, she traced his spine with her nails. Behind them, ivory satin sheets were stained, crumpled, by rights steam should be rising. Patting them, she raised a coy eyebrow: "I don't think so, Sammy."

Candlelight glinted on gla.s.s as they clinked. Veuve Clicquot. Her favourite. He leaned across, kissed her, tasted the champagne on her tongue. "Couldn't have done it without you, babe." He launched into an impersonation of Diana that by now was faultless. "He's a giver not a taker."

"I'll be here for you." Diana's of him was uncanny. "I could've died when you told her she had beautiful eyes."

"I rather liked: 'If you ever fancy a decent cut.'"

They laughed again. They'd re-run the afternoon scenario several times in the hours since the police left.

Suddenly serious if not quite sober, Sam dropped the act. "Really think we can do it, Dee?"

"You saw the cops." She licked her lips. "What do you think?"

"Don't think I overdid the gay thing?"

She slipped a hand between his naked thighs. "Let's find out shall we?" They fell back on the bed, giggling. Diana had no qualms about the cops. It was the greedy b.a.s.t.a.r.d who was trying to screw them both who cast a shadow on the future. If she could get her hands on him... No, scrub that. Her cat eyes glinted in the soft light. When she got her hands on him.

25.

After three hours at the paper mill the desk wasn't quite as new-pin neat as Evie Jamieson's empire, but then Bev's boss unlike Alex Masters was alive and kicking. Kicking a.s.s come to that. Well, OK, ear-bashing. The guv had laid into just about everybody at the late brief. Or maybe it just seemed that way. It was probably more a socks-up-and-fingers-out dressing down than serious b.o.l.l.o.c.king. Let's face it: the squad was well capable of giving itself a hard time. Four weeks since the first Sandman attack; four days since Alex Masters's murder. And where were they? Oh, look, was that square one flying past the window?

Blowing out her fringe on a sigh, Bev reached for a bottle of J2O; after Red Bull overload, the apple and mango was going down a treat. Including the juice trickling down her chin; a judicious sleeve caught it. At least they were ticking the no boxes. In any inquiry, eliminating the negative was up there with pursuing the positive. Just didn't get the adrenalin flowing the same way.

After Bev and Mac's fruitless troll round south Birmingham that afternoon, they could virtually rule out a connection between Libby Redwood and the Sandman's other victims. Neither Faith Winters nor Sheila Isaac knew the woman from Adam or Eve. Unless Diana Masters suddenly saw the light or Beth Fowler on return from Brighton came up with a link, it was dead-end avenue. Or maybe not. They'd still to run the image past Charlotte Masters. The girl hadn't been at home when they'd dropped by and a call to the wine bar where she worked failed to shed light on where she might be.

A definite cul de sac was Libby Redwood's known a.s.sociates. Carol Pemberton had scratched a metaphorical red line through the names in the address book. Dazza had scoured every inch of relevant CCTV, Libby's alleged tail had failed to materialise. That had not been the brief's high spot. Had there been one? Bev held the cool bottle to her brow. Confirmation of more troops, she supposed; fifteen uniforms from West Mercia were being drafted in plus four pairs of extra admin hands a.s.signed to the phone lines.

Kate Darby had come up with a list of jewellery she thought had been stolen from her sister's property. No way of knowing if any cash had been lifted. As in the other cases, descriptions of the items would be circulated to shops and other outlets less upfront let alone legit.

Edgy, antsy, Bev rose, strolled to the window, breathed in the cool night air; heard the buzz of city traffic, the odd blaring horn, watched skimpy blue-black clouds scud across full-cream moon. She narrowed her eyes. Why not even a c.h.i.n.k of light in the case? By now in an inquiry, they'd expect to have the wisp of an idea, a piece or two of the puzzle to go on. The Sandman was untouchable, invisible. Leaning out she called lightly. "Where are you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"Morriss! Don't do it! Don't jump!" High octane mock alarm from Mick Powell, the smirk was a mile high. Startled, eyes blazing, she spun round. "Enough clowns in this place without you getting in on the act."

Maybe it was down to the word clown. But when the DI's face fell, she knew what image was in his head. After witnessing the student take off from Selfridges' roof without a chute, he'd been as cut up as Bev had ever seen him.

"c.r.a.p line even for me, eh, Morriss?" His laugh was humourless. Hands shoved in pockets he cast a sheepish gaze at the carpet.

"c.r.a.p line for Russell Brand that." Arms crossed, she perched on the window sill, caught the twitch of his lip.

"What the h.e.l.l were you doing anyway?" Moving in fast, he gave an over-the-top shiver. "It's boracic out there."

"Communing with nature."

He snorted. "Having a f.a.g?"

"You should try it some time."

"Smoking?" Like she'd suggested eating s.h.i.t.

"Communing with nature."

Mouth down, he made a budge up gesture with his thumb, joined her at the window, elbows on sill, they both gazed out at the stars, the night sky. Bev pictured little Daisy Towbridge with her telescope. Had she spotted the Sandman?

"Why'd she do it, Bev?"

She had to think for a second who he meant. Still didn't know why he asked. By now the cops knew: Jessica Harvey had been bipolar, high on crack, and off her face on absinthe. "Out of it, wasn't she? Tripped off to Planet La-la."

"Yeah," Powell sighed. "But death. It's so sodding final, isn't it?"

She bit back a Star Trek line about frontiers. Powell was dead serious and though he was stating the bleeding obvious, the haunted delivery held hidden depths. Lines on his face seemed more p.r.o.nounced, too, the skin round his tired eyes like old bruises. The DI had been up with the insomniac larks. And it was what? His second day back? Talk about being chucked in the deep end. Even so Bev didn't want to get into a philosophical discussion. She shrugged it off with a less than profound: "Life's a b.i.t.c.h."

"Yeah. And then you die. You don't top yourself. She had her life ahead of her. Crikey, Bev, look what you went through..." Bev's spine stiffened, s.p.a.ce invader senses on full alert. "Bet it never crossed your mind once, did it? Killing yourself?"

"Not myself." She sniffed.

"'Xactly. While there's life, there's..."

Cliche. "Mike. What you trying to say?"

"It's always worth hanging on? Never give up? Life's beautiful? Things can only get better?"

"Bet Tony Blair regretted that last one."

"Nah. Shame that kid wasn't more like you, Morriss."

"Oh yeah?"

"Tough as old boots." He gave her a shoulder a playful punch, headed for the door. "Catch you in the morning."

She shook her head, ghost of a smile on her lips. A minute or so later, she watched Powell stride across the car park, tie over his shoulder, raincoat flapping in the breeze. Glancing up he must've caught her silhouette in the window. "Not got a home to go to, Morriss?" Joshing, not harsh. She returned his salute with a wave, pulled the window to and slumped at her desk. Course she had a home to go to but Fareeda was there. She'd yet to tackle her about the predictor kit. And if Bev was honest, she didn't feel like facing yet more of the girl's stonewalling.

Like she had a choice.

"Bev?" Byford called from behind as she was leaving the nick five minutes later. Midway down the backstairs, she glanced over her shoulder.

"Wotcha." She waited for him to catch up, noted a lack of spring in his step, deep lines, dark planes on his face. Was the guv starting to slow down, show his age? She hoped it was just the temporary pressure. Nothing a few early nights wouldn't see off. Not that this was an early night. "Bit late for you isn't it, guv?"

"You're not the only one puts in the hours." Snippy.

"Well slap my wrist." She bristled. "I meant you were out at Kings Heath first thing so you've been on the go for ages." So'd she but who was counting?

"So've you." He smiled as he held the door. "Don't mind me." Close up and in this light he still had the George Clooney thing going. Even the Fedora was at a jaunty angle.

"Long day. Short fuse. Happens to us all, guv." Falling into step across the car park, she realised uneasily how comfortable it felt: just like old times. Perish that thought, Beverley.

"It was good getting away from the desk," Byford said. Chit-chat or something more?

"Come out with me any time, guv." Mental head slap. Sounded like she was. .h.i.tting on him.

"How does Sumitra Gosh strike you lately, Bev?" He'd probably not heard, clearly had weightier matters on his mind. Her step barely faltered. "How'd you mean?"

"She seems quieter to me. Not contributing like she used to at the briefs." They'd reached Bev's motor. "I wonder whether CID's too much for her, maybe she's not quite ready for it. Last thing I want is a potentially good detective losing heart or feeling they're not up to the challenge."

Caring, perceptive, astute, three of the reasons he was the best boss she'd had. "Nah, guv. Sumi's fine." Worried sick about her cousin, in bits over what action to take, paranoid about the Saleems, apart from that... "Smack on." The crossed fingers behind her back had a mammoth task on their hands. "I can keep an eye on her if you like, gee her up a gnat's need be."

"Maybe." Noncommittal. "By the way, good work at the hospital this morning. You got some useful info from Libby Redwood's sister."

She shuffled her feet; he'd have her blushing in a minute. "Ta, guv." Reason number four in the Byford Good Book: he didn't stint on a bit of praise-due now and again.

"So where you taking me?" He jangled keys in his coat pocket, raised an expectant eyebrow.

"Eh?" Her cheeks would be a fetching shade of beetroot.

"Come out with you any time, you said." Old bat ears had heard all right. Was he winding her up or angling for a night out?

"I was talking on the job." Cringe. It had come out harsher than she'd intended. She closed her eyes. Why hadn't she done the same with her mouth? She'd probably talked herself out of a date.

"And I'm not?" Dead serious. "Enough said." He tapped the side of his hat. "Night, Bev."

Mr Enigmatic. Torn, she watched the big man walk towards his motor, dithered over whether to dash across or let him go. "Guv?"

He didn't turn back. Maybe she'd not shouted loud enough, maybe he'd not heard, maybe he had. Whatever. Racked off, she took aim and kicked a stone across the tarmac. It crashed as it hit the wall. Smacked to Bev of an own goal.

Mac's new pad in Stirchley was a step up from his former grotty bed-sit in Balsall Heath: it boasted stairs for one thing. Home-bittersweet-home was now an Edwardian redbrick terrace complete with trellis. Though that would get the elbow soon as he got round to it. Currently he was standing in front of the wardrobe peering into the mirror, trying yet again to tie a half-decent knot in his tie. Well out of practice, he was beginning to wish he'd bought one of those clip-on jobs. He gave the d.a.m.n thing a last twist and final tug then stepped back. He reckoned the grey silk went fine with the blue shirt, but then he'd never had a cool finger on the fashion pulse. And boy was he out of touch with this dating lark.

Lindy was going through a divorce as well. Early forties, three kids, she was something in NHS admin. They'd b.u.mped into each other in Sainsbury, trolleys at dawn down the chiller aisle. It was early days this would be their third date. Mac still had first night nerves. He glanced round for his tumbler, took a sip of scotch courage. Turning side on, he cast a critical gaze in the mottled gla.s.s. He was pretty sure he'd lost a few pounds, whatever motor mouth said. Back off, fatso. Charming.

Then he breathed out.

Maybe she had a point. Yeah, well, Mac had one, too. He'd meant what he'd said, the words she'd jumped down his throat to try to stop him saying: he didn't want her to get hurt, make that more damaged. He gave a wry smile: even when she needed a good slapping. Fatso, indeed. Picking up his gla.s.s, he wandered downstairs. There was still half an hour to kill. Not that he was nervous or anything.

Fareeda had the front door open while Bev was still fumbling in her bag. Lucky that, cos new locks had been fitted the key had no chance. The arrangement had slipped Bev's overworked mind, like a bunch of other stuff probably. Stepping inside, she forced a bright smile as she brandished a fish supper fresh from the Oceania chip shop. "We're frying tonight, kid. Warm some plates while I pop to the loo?"

The girl glanced down playing with the bangles round her tiny wrist. "I've eaten, Bev. To be honest, I'm so tired I just want an early night."

Every cloud. Least they wouldn't have to go through the brick-wall-banged-head routine this evening. "No sweat. Sleep tight. See you in the morning."

Fareeda paused at the foot of the stairs, hand on the banister. "Your mum rang. You should call her back, Bev. She sounds so sad."

Motes, beams and eyeb.a.l.l.s sprang to mind. Bev could do without what sounded like a lecture from a kid. "How d'you think yours feels, Fareeda?" No answer to that. Seething, foot tapping, Bev watched until the girl disappeared round the landing corner.

The air in the kitchen was blue. Bev had chipped a plate and stubbed a toe before sitting at a table with a solitary dinner-for-two laid out in front of her. Sighing she toyed with the fork, forced down a few chips. Come back Frankie, all is forgiven, at least La Perlagio could sing, make her laugh, and cook pasta to diet for. Not that Bev felt like eating right now. The nasty taste in her mouth wasn't because of the spat with Fareeda. The banging about and F-words were down to guilt. Emmy Morriss didn't deserve the arctic shoulder. Irony was, since losing the babies, Bev had neglected her mum. Fact was Emmy cared too much. Bev was no good with soft words, meaningful looks, unspoken pity.

"Sod it." Jettisoning the fish and chips in the bin, she opened a bottle of Pinot, took a gla.s.s through to the sitting room and hit the flashing red light on the answering machine.

Hi sweetheart. Just me. How are you doing? Been up to anything... exciting? Hope all's... OK. Me and your gran are... OK. Give us a call... if you have a minute. Love you... Bye, Bevy.

All those pregnant pauses.

Bev sat in the dark, twin tear trails running down her cheeks, dripping from her chin. Fareeda was spot on. Bev had just refused to acknowledge it before. The message was similar to a shed-load of others her mum had left over the months: beneath the superficial upbeat tone there was pain, Emmy was worried to bits.

She swallowed hard, took a few calming breaths. Then a few more. Wiping tears with her sleeve, she made a grab for the phone. It rang before she reached it. Startled, she snapped her name.

"Bev?" Oz, sounding unsure.

Bolt upright now, she licked her lips, finger-combed her hair. "Who else? Madonna?" Cool it, girl.

"You OK?" he asked.

"Natch." Curt. Over-compensation for a voice she couldn't trust not to break. The wallow in deep emotional waters had exacerbated raw wounds.

"Sure?"

"You a doctor now?" She closed her eyes. Not so much at the cra.s.s line more the caustic delivery. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with her? Three, four second pause suggested Oz was wondering the same.

"Call me when you've snapped out of it, eh?"