"Perfectly."

"You have two minutes to change your mind."

"Or?" She curled a lip. b.a.s.t.a.r.d had hung up.

Eyes wide and staring, Sam ran both hands through his hair. "You're out of your tiny. You may as well ring the cops yourself."

"Shut the f.u.c.k up. I'm trying to think." She closed her eyes, index fingers pressed against temples. The current predicament was down to her. She should've stuck to the role. Much as she resented the whole sorry mess, until they saw the whites of the blackmailer's eyes, they were over a f.u.c.king big barrel. c.o.c.king her head, she tried to locate the source of a strange sound. Sam was kneeling on the floor, sobbing, tears running down his face.

"I can't take any more, Dee."

She grabbed the phone before its second ring. "OK. Tell me what you want. I'll do anything you say."

"OK, we re-interview everyone we've spoken to since day one." It was Byford's response after an increasingly uneasy silence to a request for input at a brief that had been both uninspired and uninspiring. He'd held centre stage for the better part of half an hour, but it was more up-sum of where the inquiries had been than where they were going: review rather than foresight. Bev had cast the odd covert glance at the team, heads were generally held down, fingers flicked through notebooks. Sumi Gosh wasn't the only officer taking a metaphorical back seat keeping her mouth clamped. Bev had never known it before, not so much as a naff suggestion being thrown into the pot let alone a bright idea. The squad's slumped body language said more than anyone was prepared to voice: most officers were as exhausted as the lines of inquiry. Eroded spirits rather than physically knackered. Cops were human, too. There were only so many brick walls the communal head could bang, an inquiry team needed a break, and she wasn't talking bacon roll and cup of tea.

Break. Brighton. Mental light bulb. "Beth Fowler should be back this morning." Blank look from Byford. "She was the first victim. Been away for a few days?" Bev had called last week, left a message on the answerphone. Byford nodded. Not exactly overwhelmed but at least it broke the silence.

"What about a reconstruction, guv?" DC New's puppy-dog eyes shone. Bev masked a smile of wry amus.e.m.e.nt. When all else failed, Dazza always came up with that one. He'd clocked himself on the regional news once.

"Of what, Darren?" Byford sounding more patient than he looked. "With five crime scenes, it'd be like re-making Ben Hur. We'll leave it to the professionals, eh?" Crimewatch presumably.

"Ben who?" Dazza looking hangdog.

The guv flapped a hand. "Next?"

Not that a bacon roll and cup of tea weren't a welcome break too. Mid-morning and Bev was in her favourite seat in the canteen halfway through both. The way the interviews she'd been lining up were s.p.a.ced there'd be no chance of grabbing a bite later. Munching reflectively, she glanced through the window, reckoned the forecast was right. The sky had that pearly sheen which presaged snow. Good excuse for buying the new coat she had her eye on, she was going off the leather look. Her lip curved. Maybe it was new man Mac's sartorial example. She glanced round at the sound of footsteps; Sumi was approaching with the glimmer of a smile on her face.

"Hey, sarge, I got a postcard this morning." And it looked as if she was about to share.

Mouth full Bev pointed the roll to usher DC Gosh into the seat opposite. Even if Bev had been able to get out the words, there was no need to ask who'd sent the card. From where could be useful though. "It's postmarked Manchester." Sumi perched, off-loading apple juice and a banana on the table.

Bev licked greasy fingers, wiped them on a napkin, took the offering.

Everything is fine. I am with a friend. Please don't try and find me. It is better you don't know where I am. Love, Fareeda xx It was very near verbatim to the lines left on the pillow. Lack of imagination or had the girl been taking dictation? a.s.suming she'd had a hand in it. Bev drew her lips together. However casually posed, she suspected her question would have the same effect. "Definitely her writing, is it?" It did. Sumi's smile faded.

"Yes." She didn't sound too sure. "I think so."

Bev shrugged. "Got any old cards or letters from her?"

Sumi nodded, not stupid. "I'll check when I get home." She was probably on the same page as Bev now: why, when it was so much easier, hadn't the girl texted or phoned? It could just be that Fareeda didn't want two-way communication. Or the card could be a signpost shrouded in fog pointing them down a blind alley. Fact was, even if had been written by the girl, anyone could've posted it.

Bev aimed for casual again. "She been in touch with her parents?"

Sumi held Bev's keen gaze. "She hadn't when I saw them on Sat.u.r.day." She'd offered to speak to her uncle, put him in the picture. That had been fine by Bev, she wasn't the old man's biggest fan and he'd definitely crossed her name off his Eid card list.

"Best have another word, eh?" Catching the time, she drained the tea, wrapped what was left of the roll and sc.r.a.ped back the chair. "What did he say when you told him Fareeda had gone?"

"Nothing," Sumi said. "Not a word. But I don't think he believed me."

Bev didn't know what to believe either.

28.

Beth Fowler's house had a For Sale sign outside. No. Make that three. As Bev locked the motor she spotted two other upmarket estate agents' boards in the grounds. The mock Tudor's splendid isolation in Moseley had turned into lonely desolation the night the Sandman broke in and subjected its owner to a nightmare ordeal. As they walked up the drive, Mac voiced Bev's thoughts: "Is she keen to get out or what?"

Not going by the number of locks and bolts that had to be released before Mrs Fowler opened the door on a chain. Bev hadn't seen the victim since interviewing her in hospital the day after the attack. If they'd pa.s.sed in the street now, Bev doubted she'd have recognised her. Grey roots showed in unkempt mousy hair, the face was a gaunt make-up free zone though no amount of slap could have hidden the stress lines. The divorcee was forty-four going on sixty. It was only after she let them in then went through the Fort Knox routine in reverse that Bev could see the woman's weight loss. The sludge-coloured two-piece suit was hanging off a frame that must have dropped a stone or more.

"Have you caught him yet?" She threw the question back as she traipsed down a tiled pa.s.sageway to a stone-flagged kitchen. Bev supplied the same answer she'd given on the phone earlier that morning. "Doing our best, Mrs Fowler."

"I'll take that as a no. Still. Sit down." Peremptory. They perched on one of the bench seats at a dusty trestle table; a cut gla.s.s vase in the centre held dead flowers, the water had a greenish tinge and was probably the source of one of the less than fragrant odours pervading the house. There was no preamble or social nicety, the woman launched into brusque monologue. "I could've stayed in Brighton. My son was happy me being there." She was wringing her hands oblivious to the pressure marks it left in the skin. "But he's got his wife and kids and I'm not what you'd call good company right now." She gave a brittle laugh. "Useless in company, useless on my own. They say I'll get over it but..."

"Mrs Fowler," Bev intervened gently. "Why don't you sit down a minute?"

Haunted amber eyes seemed suddenly to register she wasn't alone. She slumped on the bench opposite, bony fingers reaching for a pack of B&H. After watching the woman's feeble attempts to spark up, Bev took the box from her, held a flame to her cigarette. "There y'go." Warm smile.

"Thanks, sergeant."

"Bev, please." She was working out how to play the scene; interviewing trauma victims was par for the course but several weeks after the attack this woman hadn't moved an inch. Mac came up with an opening quicker. "How many grandchildren d'you have, Mrs Fowler?"

"Three." She stubbed out the baccy even though it was barely touched.

"Hey! And me." An enthused Mac edged forward on the seat. "Smashing, isn't it? Like having your own all over again but without the ha.s.sle." The severe thin line of Beth Fowler's mouth softened fractionally. Bev masked incredulity at Mac's whopper. His kids hadn't reached p.u.b.erty never mind parenthood. She listened as the doting pair swapped stories for a couple of minutes. Mac's fairy tale hadn't waved an emotional magic wand over Beth Fowler transformation like that took years in therapy but at least the woman wasn't wound so tight she was in danger of snapping.

"D'you have children, Bev?" The question threw her momentarily. She stiffened as the automatic internal barrier came down, knew displaying it here would get them nowhere.

"No, Mrs Fowler." Forced smile. "Not yet." h.e.l.l's still hot isn't it?

"You really..."

Bench sc.r.a.ped slate as Mac jumped to his feet. "Can I get a drink of water, Mrs Fowler?"

The woman waved him down told him to stay where he was. "I'll see to it. Or perhaps you'd both like coffee?"

Coffee was good, and it gave Mrs Fowler something to do as Bev led her gently through the steps the police were taking. Going by the occasional nod and right noise while she fixed then poured the drinks, the woman was obviously taking it in. She sat opposite now, cup clutched in both hands. "So what do you want from me?"

A tap dripped as Bev took a couple of seconds to find the words. She wanted the victim to try to dredge up a forgotten detail. Aye, there's the rub. To do that, she had to ask Mrs Fowler to relive mentally the experience she was desperate to forget. Bev didn't have to open her mouth, the woman knew what was needed.

"I've gone over it again and again in my mind." A hand went to her neck, the brittle laugh echoed again in the cavernous kitchen. "I wish I could get it out of my mind. I see his eyes, that gross smile everywhere I go." Reaching for a cigarette she had second thoughts, angrily pushed away the pack. "I wish it weren't so, but there's nothing, absolutely nothing I haven't already told you."

Further gentle probing proved futile. Going through the motions, Bev took out the envelope of victims' photographs from her bag asked Mrs Fowler to take another look. Libby Redwood and Alex Masters were the only new faces. "He's the barrister, isn't he?"

"Yeah." Bev exchanged keen glances with Mac. "D'you know him?"

Still gazing at the pic, she shook her head. "I've never met him. But if you see Diana, pa.s.s on my condolences."

"Diana Masters knows Beth Fowler." Bev slammed her palm against the steering wheel. "Why'd she lie about it?" They were still parked outside the Fowler property, Bev more fired up than Mac. First snowflakes were drifting on to the windscreen, she flicked on the wipers.

"Maybe she didn't recognise her. It's not a brilliant picture. And it doesn't sound like they're bosom pals." Mac gazed at the photograph while Bev tried thinking through the implications. During follow-up questioning, Mrs Fowler had told them she'd met Diana twice, on both occasions when the divorcee had dropped items at Oxfam. The relationship was hardly intimate but why had Diana denied it? "Even if she's seen her before what does it prove anyway, boss? Could've just slipped her mind. You don't think you're making too much of it?"

"Yeah, cos we've got so much to go on." She sighed. OK, it wasn't a sworn confession signed in blood. But it was a lie, a discrepancy. "Makes you wonder what else she's lying about though, mate." Bev turned the engine.

"If she's lying, boss."

"Everybody lies."

"Yeah, well." He shoved the pictures back in the envelope. "We heading out there, now?"

"What you think?" She checked the mirror; saw the twinkle in her eye. "Granddad."

29.

Diana Masters answered the door wearing a black funnel neck coat, a cla.s.sy brooch added a bit of light relief; Bev could see her reflection in the silver. Unlike the widow's, the Morriss bob could have done with a comb. Every shiny strand on Masters's head appeared in perfect place, the expression seemed a tad strained. "What is it, Sergeant Morrison? I was just on the way out."

"It's Morriss, Mrs Masters." Patient smile; either she got the name wrong on purpose or the widow had the memory of a goldfish with Alzheimer's. "Just a few questions."

"Of course." The glance at her Rolex was intended to be noticed.

"Won't take a minute," Bev said. "Cold out here though." Her shiver was as subtle as the widow's time check. They were allowed in, but no further than the hall. The roses were just beginning to shed a few petals, still stunning though.

"Off to Oxfam are you?" Bev asked, smile still in position.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oxfam. Must meet quite a few people there."

"Is there a point to this?" The question was addressed to Mac.

"Beth Fowler," Bev replied.

"Who?"

"One of the Sandman's victims? You were shown her picture? Said you didn't know her?"

"As you say, sergeant, I meet a lot people through my work. I don't see where you're going with this."

Mac had the photo ready. "Take another look if you wouldn't mind, Mrs Masters." The snap had been taken before the Sandman's attack, it bore little resemblance to the wreck she'd turned into. "Have you met her before?"

Masters traced a finger along her jaw line as she studied the likeness. "I could have... I'm not sure."

"She knows you," Bev prompted.

"She may well, sergeant." The cat eyes narrowed. "I'm out back a lot. I don't notice everyone who comes in."

"She says you pa.s.sed the time of day a couple of times."

"Then I'm sure she's right." The smile seemed fake and revealed lipstick on a front tooth. Hallelujah, the widow's grooming wasn't perfect. "Is there a problem with that? Is it a crime to speak with someone and not be able to recall it months later?"

"See, here's the thing: I'm wondering if there's anyone else you haven't been able to recall? Cos that could really help us with our inquiries." One slip-up from the widow would be understandable, but what if the other victims used the shop? What if Diana Masters had lied about not knowing those women, too? Was that the link the inquiry had been looking for? And what the h.e.l.l would it mean? Bev kicked herself for coming here half-c.o.c.ked. She should have checked with the other victims first, thought it through better.

"I'm under a lot of strain, sergeant. I can't be expected to remember every little thing. And quite frankly I can't see that it matters. Not when I have so many other... matters on my mind. I wasn't on the way to work." She took a handkerchief from her coat pocket, dabbed her eyes. "If you must know, I was on the way to choose a headstone for Alex."

Best conversation stopper Bev had heard in a while. "Sorry to hold you up." She hoisted her bag. It was time to hit the road anyway, see what light the other women might be able to shed, before coming back better prepared. Bev was at the door when she turned. "Almost forgot... I need a word with your daughter. Any idea where she is?"

"She f.u.c.king knows, Diana. That cop knows something." Sam stood in the kitchen doorway, arms spread-eagled against the frame for support. The word crucified came to Diana's mind. His face had an unhealthy sheen, sweat beads oozed above his top lip. The police visit had spooked Diana Masters too, not that she'd show it. She shucked off the coat, draped it over the banister. "Get me a drink."

He threw his hands up. "Perfect. Get plastered. Why not?"

"Water." Face screwed in contempt she spun on her heel. "I'll be in the drawing room."

"What did your last servant die of?"

G.o.d. So original. "Stab wounds," she muttered. No mileage debating finer points with Sam until he'd calmed down. The room was cold, she hadn't bothered to light a fire. She crossed to close the heavy velvet curtains, gazed at the falling snow for a few seconds. It wasn't settling yet, please G.o.d it stayed that way. She couldn't afford to mess up timings tonight. She pressed her head against the gla.s.s. How much longer could she keep her cool? It had been mere luck spotting the cops' car from an upstairs window. She'd warned Sam, slipped on a coat and at least semi-psyched herself for the stand-off. Looking on the bright side, it had probably been more useful to her than the cops.

She felt Sam's touch on her shoulder, turned and took the gla.s.s from his trembling fingers. "Thank you." Hers were steady as she drained it.

Hands on hips, he slowly shook his head. "How do you do it, Dee?"

She shrugged. "The cops know nothing, Sam." Or very little. "Obviously they haven't got a clue about Charlotte. Or we'd hardly be standing here, would we?" She led him by the hand to the chesterfield.

"I know that." He pouted. "I'm not stupid. But that other stuff, the Fowler b.i.t.c.h..." She stroked his hair as he laid his head in her lap.

"So? What does it prove? I've got a s.h.i.t memory? The cops were on a fishing trip is all." Diana had kept well out of sight in the shop while making her a.s.sessments, was ninety-nine per cent certain none of the other women had spotted her. Morriss might, just might, work out how the victims were selected. But none of that was going to unmask the Sandman or link him to Diana. She looked at him now. Shivering, smelling faintly of sweat it was difficult to believe he'd put the fear of G.o.d into a string of rich b.i.t.c.hes. Her smiling face masked complex emotions, harsh judgements: her fate was with this man. At least for the foreseeable.

"Aren't you scared they're closing in, Dee?" She couldn't meet his desperate gaze. "Not even a little?"

No. Sherlock in a skirt could dig as deep as she liked, it wasn't the great detective that bothered Diana. It was a faceless voice on a phone. "It won't be long now, Sam. We just have to keep our nerve." At least, I need to keep mine, she thought; yours is shot to s.h.i.t.

"It's in there somewhere, guv." Slightly flushed, Bev pointed at the report that Byford was now scrutinising for the second time. It was a hastily cobbled resume of the visits she and Mac had made that afternoon. For Bev, the realisation had struck home even before the checks were complete, which was why she was. .h.i.tting Byford with it before the brief. Seemed to her time was running short. As he read, she wore out his carpet, slowly shaking her head. "I so should have seen it sooner."

Oxfam. Dead men's clothes. It was what widows did. s.h.i.t. In what seemed another life, Bev had even dropped the Black Widow's bin bags at some fundraising do. Talk about irony. The crazy who'd nearly killed her had unwittingly helped lift the eye-scales. "The pointers were there all along, guv." She re-ran them in her head: Kate Darby saying Libby Redwood had only recently got round to sorting her husband's clothes, bin liners Bev had actually stepped over at Faith Winters's house. Jesus wept. Donna Kennedy had actually used an Oxfam pen to write the sodding suicide note. Even Mac had mentioned bagging his old gear and still she'd not put two and two together.

"Don't beat yourself up, Bev. It's not exactly in-your-face, is it? Beth Fowler and Sheila Isaac aren't widows." No, but she now knew they'd both been regular visitors to the Oxfam shop where Diana Masters worked as a volunteer.

"Still should've spotted it sooner, guv."

"The Oxfam link's here. That's a given." The big man traced an eyebrow with a finger. "But I'm not sure where it gets us." Frowning he glanced up. "Sit down, will you, Bev." She perched, foot still tapping. "I'm not disagreeing," Byford continued. "I can see how the shop fits with the victim selection process. Question is who was doing the selecting? You say none of the other victims could ID Diana Masters?"