Except there was no note. Where were the frigging directions? Stay cool. Stay cool. Think. Think. She was bang on time. What the h.e.l.l had gone wrong? Sinking to her knees, she scrabbled on the dank foul-smelling concrete. Nothing. Not a word. It felt like a body-blow. Still kneeling, head in hands, hot tears coursed between her fingers. She'd followed instructions to the letter, done everything the b.a.s.t.a.r.d asked...

The phone rang when she was almost back at the car. Spinning on her heel, she lost her footing in the snow, slipped, struggled to stay upright. It was only a few steps to the call box but she was gasping for breath when she picked up the phone.

"Good girl. No tail. The drop details are at your place."

Bev had sent Christmas cards that looked like Park View. Six inches of snow and falling was giving it that festive feel: all fir trees and holly bushes, rosy glows from mullioned windows. Very merry-gentlemen-and-deck-the-halls. Except for what went on behind closed doors, or at least Diana Masters's door. Not that action was ongoing. The property appeared empty, just hall lights left on. Bev was keeping a watching brief from the Midget parked opposite. Mac was on his way, hopefully he'd get here before the widow showed. She'd told him to bring vests, anti-stab not woolly.

Killing time, she lit a Silk Cut, inched down the window. Despite the falling mercury, she was fired up. She'd had a while to think. If Tate and Masters had masterminded the Sandman burglaries to mask the prime motive of the barrister's murder, the level of duplicity, depravity, were off the scale. It would mean vulnerable women had been clinically selected and subjected to unimaginable terror so Alex Masters's killing would look like a Sandman c.o.c.k up. Tate had certainly had his c.o.c.k up. Even if there was no Sandman link, Masters had taken mendacity to a new level. Oh yes. She was up there with Ura.n.u.s. Bev took a deep drag, recalling the doo-doo the widow had spouted: Alex and I were very much in love. This room is where I most feel his presence. I was on the way to choose a headstone. Lying t.w.a.t.

But was she accessory to murder? She was accessory all right. Arm candy to Alex Masters and groomed within an inch of her life. Eyes creased against the smoke, Bev pictured the widow the last time they'd met. Masters had worn that black funnel neck coat, didn't have a hair out of...

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Spine tingling, she bolted upright, thoughts swirling. Suddenly, she saw the light, and not just the full beam of an approaching motor. It was a vision of the widow's silver brooch that day. Bev had glimpsed her reflection in its shiny surface, but failed to see the full picture, until now. The item wasn't Diana's. It had belonged to Donna Kennedy: a one-off designer piece, photo and details in exhibits at Highgate. Gotcha.

The guv had to know; she grabbed the phone, hit fast dial. They'd need full back-up now, preferably armed. Diana Masters made the Black Widow look benign.

Headlights dazzling, the oncoming car was almost upon her. Bev shielded her eyes as it slewed wildly in the snow, almost missed the turning into Masters's drive. The b.i.t.c.h was back and cutting it fine.

33.

Fury and revenge fuelled Diana Masters. Slamming the Merc's door, she stormed to the house careless of the snow. Silhouetted in the doorway she stood for several seconds, staring open-mouthed at the scene in the hall. Her slanted eyes saw the noose suspended from the banister, the scotch, the paper, the pen her sluggish brain couldn't compute. Taking faltering steps towards the console table, her thoughts dragged, too. "What the h.e.l.l?"

"Details of the drop." Startled, she swirled round. More incomputable data. Sam lunged from behind, smiling as he slipped the knife from her coat pocket. "Do exactly as I say and you won't get hurt." Still with that perfect smile, he pressed his own blade against her cheek. "Well, not by me."

Wary, uncertain, her eyes searched his face. "Is this some kind of joke?"

With a tap of the blade, he set the noose swinging. "Call it gallows humour if you like."

Stay cool. She had to regain the control here. Taking off the hat she nodded at the writing gear on the console. "What's that all about?"

"Let's see..." He waved the knife, raised his glance to the ceiling, ostensibly seeking inspiration. "It's about a woman driven mad by grief. A woman so devastated by her husband's murder, she can't face life without him. Sadly, she sees only one way out." He set the rope swinging again.

"You're mad."

"You're f.u.c.ked." He c.o.c.ked his head at the pen and paper. "Take a letter."

"Come on, Sam," she wheedled. "We can work this out." Like h.e.l.l, you double-crossing s.h.i.t. Her brain was back in action. Whatever was going on here, he'd pick up the bill. She knew the clutch bag was out of reach; could she retract the knife from her sleeve?

"Pick up the pen, Diana. Now."

"Sam, please, this is ridiculous. Let's just..."

"Shut the f.u.c.k up," he yelled. "I'm done with you ordering me around. I'm sick to death of hearing your prattle. Let's just get this over."

Eyes smarting, she nodded meekly. "If I've lost you, Sam... I've lost everything." And she'd say it with flowers... Turning to reach for the pen, she grabbed the vase with both hands, swung it over her head, hurled it with every ounce of pent up fury. Gla.s.s whacked bone, blood streamed from nostrils and split lips as he dropped to the floor, clutching his face. Diana was oblivious to water dripping from her chin, wilted rose petals caught in her hair. She focused exclusively on her target, kicked Tate as hard as she could in the head. He fell to the side, unconscious, no longer groaning. Eyes like slits, she carefully slid the knife from her sleeve.

"I really wouldn't do that if I were you."

Diana whipped her head round. Coming down the stairs was a slight figure dressed in black wearing a clown mask.

"I'm pretty sure they're both in there, guv." Gaze fixed on the property, Bev still kept a low profile in the Midget, soft voice on the phone.

"Could be," Byford said. "I've just heard from Mike Powell Tate's flat's empty."

Bev had witnessed the widow's dash from the car, the long pause silhouetted in the doorway. It was enough to twitch the antenna. "We've got the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, guv." She'd filled him in on the stolen brooch, the missing link.

"Not yet." She heard a rustle, reckoned he was checking his watch. "Back-up'll be with you any time. Bev, don't..."

"What you take me for, guv?" She'd no intention of playing hero. Last time she'd crossed a widow she'd lost two-nil.

"I mean it, Bev." Slight pause. "I don't want to lose you."

I not we? She put that one on the back burner. "Later, guv."

Later like Mac. At least he'd called. The snow was slowing traffic and blood flow. G.o.d it was cold. She leaned across, scrabbled in the glove compartment. Scowled. Everything in it but b.l.o.o.d.y gloves. Eyes narrowed she spotted the edge of a nylon scarf jutting out from under the pa.s.senger seat. She frowned then remembered the old dear outside the chippie last week. The scarf had been in the Midget ever since. She tugged it free, heard a clink as the knife still wrapped in its folds fell out. A voice in her head said: don't even think about it. So she didn't. She shoved it in her bag instinctively because she felt like it.

Like she felt like standing outside the car and having another smoke. If she hadn't she probably wouldn't have heard the scream.

Diana Masters was rigid with rage, her face almost ugly in contempt. "Take the f.u.c.king mask off." It hadn't taken long to work out. Since Sam had staged the whole pathetic show, only one person could be hiding behind it. Predictably, her daughter was going for the dramatic effect.

Charlotte ripped off the mask, hatred in her eyes, a knife clutched in her hand. "You think you're so clever, don't you?"

Diana cut a glance at her former lover. "Clearly not." She swung a vicious kick at his kidneys. No response. Charlotte screamed to leave him alone. Screamed again when Diana lashed out with the other boot. The third kick drew Charlotte closer. Within harm's reach now, the girl looked puny, stick thin, a pushover.

"You and him." Diana ran the blade between her fingers. "How long's it been going on?" The rage had given way to an unnatural calm. Sam had shafted her. Now she'd cut her losses.

"Way back." Smug triumph. "Did you actually think he loved you? Get real. You're old enough to be his mother. You were just in the right place at the right time, blithely imagining it was your idea. We were stringing you along from the get-go. You and the old man were a means to the end." Diana's keen glance flitted between hand, rope, stairs; brain coldly calculating.

"The end being?" Like she didn't know: love of money was the only thing they'd ever had in common.

"My inheritance of course." Charlotte gave a brittle laugh. "That's when the hard graft pays off. Sam had a h.e.l.l of a job playing the gibbering wreck, y'know. As for me, the Dalek voice was a real stretch. Mind, we had a ball planning your trips. Hope you enjoyed them cos you're a long time dead. And when the dust settles, me and Sam will take off."

Diana snorted. "He's not going anywhere, is he?" She nudged his head with her toe. "Prat can't do anything right. Couldn't even kill Alex. I had to finish the old boy off."

"You?"

"What's the problem? You were happy to take his money, weren't you?"

"Not happy." She glanced down for a second. "It was collateral damage." And didn't see it coming. Diana grabbed the girl's wrist, slammed it against the banister. A crack rang out, Charlotte screamed, the knife fell. Tears of pain coursed down her sallow cheeks as she held the shattered arm protectively close. Diana grabbed the noose, forced it over the girl's head, started dragging her towards the stairs.

Charlotte knew what was coming, kicked, struggled, screamed. Diana barely noticed; she was calculating the drop. Roughly. Suicide wasn't a bad idea there'd just be a change of personnel: her daughter could take the swing.

The scream was loud enough to wake the dead. Bev tensed, instantly alert, heard the hiss when her baccy hit the snow. Then another scream. h.e.l.l's teeth. Sounded like blue murder kicking off in there. She scanned both sides of the street, dashed across. No blue lights but the third scream was enough to drown distant sirens.

Sneaking past the Merc, she clocked a bunch of keys in the ignition, reached in and pocketed them. The widow wouldn't be leaving in a hurry. The door's fanlight was too high to be any use; she pressed an ear to the wood instead. Made out the odd word. Who was the widow having a go at? The other voice was younger, shriller. Another woman's. So where was Tate?

More to the point, where was back-up? Sod it. Curiosity killed cats said nothing about cops. She could always leg it if they clocked her. Slowly, soundlessly, she raised the letter box. Her scalp p.r.i.c.kled, heart pounded. It was a stand-off. The widow and her daughter. Both carrying knives. Almost subliminally Bev took in the vase on the floor, pools of water, rose petals. Her focus was on the rope and the dialogue.

... I had to finish the old boy off.

You?

What's the problem? You were happy to take his money, weren't you?

Not happy. It was collateral damage.

Breathtaking cynicism followed by heart-stopping action. Eyes wide, Bev watched the drama unfold: the widow whacking her daughter's arm, forcing the noose over her head. Events were spiralling. If she didn't go in, people were going to die. Last thing they'd do was open the door for her. The car keys? She scrabbled in her pocket. If one was for the house, she'd... What?

Intervene to save the lives of a couple of devious s.h.i.ts? Last time she stepped between mother and daughter, she'd taken a blade in the belly. Blade. Subconsciously had she had an inkling all along? Was that why she'd stowed the knife in her bag? Palms tingling, she reached for it now. Another scream. Another look through the box. s.h.i.t. The girl'd be on the banister any time soon. All it would take was one shove from the widow.

There was only one Yale. It fitted. Still Bev hesitated. Protect life. That was every cop's first, second, third priority. But what if the sick twisted crazies deserved to die? Ears p.r.i.c.ked, she caught sirens in the distant. Back-up was imminent except time was running out. If she did nothing, she'd be little better than the mad b.a.s.t.a.r.ds inside and might as well jack in the job. Yeah. And? Still, she dithered. The next scream turned her insides to ice. And forced a decision.

Only seconds to take it in: Tate was out of it on the floor; Diana glared down from the landing. Bev had to get to the girl. The drop hadn't been fatal but she'd choke if she didn't stop struggling. Still clutching the knife, Bev chucked her bag down, raced over, took the girl's weight on her back. In her peripheral vision she glimpsed the widow sneaking downstairs. "I swear, lady, come near me, I'll kill you."

Diana Masters glowered from a safe distance. For a second or two it could've gone either way. The police sirens probably tipped the balance. She settled for a final kick at lover boy, fled without a backward glance, presumably trying to save her own neck.

Sweating hard, breathing fast, Bev eased the rope over Charlotte's head, lowered her to the floor, laid her in the recovery position. The only life the little cow deserved was behind bars. Bev didn't hear Tate, first she knew was when he grabbed her, swung her round. "Interfering b.i.t.c.h."

Eyes flashing, hackles rising, she hissed: "Picked the wrong one this time, babe." It was almost too easy. Tate was in a weakened state, Bev so fired up she'd have taken him anyway. Every kick and punch she landed was for the victims, mental pictures of the women a spur to beat the s.h.i.t out of him.

Back-up was outside now; she became aware of blue lights, sirens, car doors slamming, m.u.f.fled footsteps running through the snow. Self-defence until they were in here though. Not that Tate was up for it. Arms protecting his head, he surrendered, dropped to his knees, snivelling, the pretty boy face now a mess of tears, blood, snot. Not a whole bunch different from the mask.

"f.u.c.king clown." Scowling, Bev slapped on the cuffs. Without a blade, the Sandman was a walk-over.

34.

The Prince was packed with jubilant cops, dimpled table tops were strewn with gla.s.ses, empty crisp packets. Last orders had been called, the guv was at the bar getting them in. Mac was relating to another rapt audience how the fleeing widow ran slap bang into his arms; Powell was cosying up to Sumi Gosh in the corner no surprise there, nor a snowflake in h.e.l.l's chance. Bev raised her gla.s.s, gave a lopsided smile, thought fleetingly of Fareeda, hoped the girl was safe. Everywhere she looked there was camaraderie, familiar faces; cops were like one big happy family. The Masters sprang to mind. Maybe not.

Glancing along the scuffed leather bench, she spotted Danny Rees bending Dazza's ear. Danny boy had been chatting her up earlier, telling her she was his role model. Yeah right. She sipped her wine, not so p.i.s.sed she didn't know he was angling for a CID opening. Wasn't just detectives celebrating though, when news of the arrests broke almost everyone at the nick had piled over to the pub. They'd crowded round the telly at ten, cheering when the BBC led on the story, some of the footage nabbed from the Crimewatch shoot.

The back-slaps and bonhomie had actually started back at the Masters place. Byford had shown just after the cavalry. Far from giving Bev a hard time for going in, the guv had hinted at a commendation. Made a change from disciplinaries. Back then, she couldn't share the general euphoria. Draining a third, no, fourth gla.s.s she was feeling a tad mellower.

She c.o.c.ked her head. Some joker had put REM on the juke box: Everybody Hurts. Yeah, and cries. She snorted. No, make that lies. The widow had excelled. Not just her everyone in the inquiry. It was the widow's face she couldn't get out of her head though, staring from the back of a police motor, rose petals still clinging to her hair, make-up a wreck. The cuffs had made a nice touch. Accessories were so important. Bev scowled. How could a woman sink so low? Like mother like daughter... last Bev had seen of Charlotte was in the back of an ambulance. Ditto the Sandman. Bad riddance. They'd all be going down. A forensic team was at Park View, a second at Tate's flat. Job done. Yeah, course it was. Pensive, she tugged her lip, mulling over how differently that final scene could have played out.

"There y'go." Byford shuffled up next to her, shoved another Pinot across the table.

"Ta, guv."

"Sure you're OK, Bev?" He was on scotch; his concerned gaze was on her.

"Dandy." Another drink maybe she would be; maybe she'd forget the victims' faces, the pain and terror the Sandman had put them through, her own reluctance to intervene. Maybe she wouldn't.

"You ever done the right thing for the wrong reasons, guv?" She circled a finger round the rim of the gla.s.s, still not sure whether she'd have stepped in to save the sc.u.mbags if she hadn't heard the sirens. She counted six, seven seconds before he answered.

"Isn't the result what matters, Bev?"

Was it? "Got me there, guv." The question was deep and she was drunk, dog-tired. People were drifting off, Mac had just blown her a kiss, must be off his face as well. She stifled a yawn, reckoned it was time to hit the road. The MG'd be OK in the car park. She could just about stagger home, truth be told she fancied a trudge through the snow. She drained the gla.s.s, slipped into her coat, gave a mock salute. "I'm off. Catch you later."

"Fancy a nightcap, Bev?" Those grey eyes held more than an invite for cocoa and that George Clooney smile could melt dry ice. G.o.d it was so tempting. But boy was she whacked, knew she looked rougher than a rough thing from rough land. On the other hand...

"Yeah." Mischievous wink. "How 'bout tomorrow? Eight o'clock?"

Byford was still smiling when he unlocked his motor. Glancing up the road he could just make out Bev's retreating figure in the distance: black against the snow; shoulder bag like a Santa sack. Despite a reasonably clean end to the case, something was clearly bugging her. He toyed with the idea of catching her up, decided against. No point rushing it. Maybe she'd open up tomorrow. About to get in the car, he spotted another figure that looked to be gaining on her. Byford narrowed his eyes; something about the body language hit his radar. His copper's instinct told him something was wrong. A scream confirmed it.

No warning. The first blow took Bev's breath away, knocked her off her feet. The snow had m.u.f.fled the attacker's approach. He had some sort of weapon. Baseball bat, she thought. Explosions were going off in her brain. She felt herself being dragged off the street, then a weight on her back. Pinned to the ground, she took another blow to the head. Screaming, she struggled, desperate to throw him off. Fighting back was her only chance. It wasn't an option: she could barely move. Silverfish thoughts. Who was it? One of the Saleem brothers? Dorkboy? Twisting slightly she glimpsed hoodie and scarf. Got whacked in the face for her effort. A mugging? Was she the victim of street sc.u.m? Teeth gritted. Sod that. She was n.o.body's victim.

Every muscle flexed, she writhed and bucked. Couldn't budge the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Waves of nausea washed over her; she felt dizzy, her eyelids fluttered, heart pounded ribs. The booze, the fight with Tate must've taken it out of her. What strength she had was seeping away. Dear G.o.d, don't let me die like this. The attacker grabbed a handful of hair, yanked her head back.

"You didn't return my calls. You didn't even thank me for your lovely presents. What an ungrateful girl you are." Presents? The heart? The timer? Who the f.u.c.k...? A chunk of hair came out by the roots with the next yank. "Open your eyes." She tried, but the pain was too bad. "Open your f.u.c.king eyes. You have such pretty eyes... Laura." She stiffened. One of her pick-ups. Tentatively she opened an eye, glimpsed the guy she'd dubbed Jagger lips. Jesus Christ, was he stoned or crazy? Either way he sounded amazingly sane.

"Lissen... I'm a cop." Lisping, she barely recognised her own voice.

"I know what you are. You're a s.l.u.t. You hit on me then treat me like s.h.i.t. I don't like being dissed, Bevie." Spit trickled down her face. "You lied to me." Everybody lies. "If I hadn't nicked your mobile I wouldn't even know your name. I hate liars. And I hate cops." She felt a slight draught, sensed he was lifting the bat for another blow. "Two birds with one stone time."

Drowsy, beginning to drift, Bev wondered vaguely who'd painted the snow red. The sudden release of pressure on her spine made her catch her breath. "Police. Drop it." Minuscule tug of split lips. She'd know the guv's voice anywhere. Eyes still closed, it hurt to move. She heard the fight: fists on flesh, rasping breaths, gasps, groans. Then silence. Slowly, gingerly she turned her head. Her attacker lay motionless, stared sightlessly at the night sky. Breathing heavily, Byford knelt in the snow, felt for a pulse. She didn't need to ask. The jagged rock close by was stained with blood. Big question was whether he'd hit his head going down, or Byford had lent a hand?

"Nasty fall that, guv." Through her pain she gave a weak smile. "Ask me it could've happened to anyone."

Everybody lies.

end.