had headed straight for her desk clutching a list of calls as long as a phone book, not many names had a tick. Eddie Scrivener on the other hand had rung back in response to a message she’d left yesterday. Scrivener’s daughter had been one of Marsden’s victims. Right now, the receiver was six inches from Bev’s ear; given the man’s volume, the phone was probably superfluous.
“I’d a taken ’im out soon as look at ’im. Shame someone got in first.”
Fighting talk, but there was a catch in the man’s voice. She studied Scrivener’s face on her screen, the image grabbed from an on-line archive. It was a snatch shot, taken as Scrivener stormed out of Wolverhampton Crown Court on the last day of the Marsden hearing. It didn’t do Eddie any favours. His distorted features gave Munch’s Scream a run for its money.
The conversation had been painful. Until she’d broken the news, Eddie Scrivener was unaware the paedophile was dead. Her subsequent questioning resurrected memories. Not that the trauma had ever gone away. For three years Marsden had systematically abused little Tanya Scrivener. The damage had been a catalyst for the girl’s later self-harm. According to Eddie, she’d fallen in with a bad crowd, started running wild, was eventually taken into care. Eddie hadn’t set eyes on his daughter for months. Nor his wife. The marriage broke up a year after Marsden’s conviction.
“So when you nail him, duck, let me know. I’ll be first in line to buy him a pint.”
Her heart went out to the man. It didn’t stop her eliciting where Scrivener had been on the night of the killing. He’d be eliminated after the alibi had been confirmed. Or not. The same went for Tanya who was now eighteen. Everybody lied – even coppers.
Dispirited and a tad depressed, she hung up. Even if they caught the killer, it wouldn’t end the suffering. As it stood, they had no witnesses, no CCTV, nothing back from forensics. Could be they’d never track down Marsden’s murderer. Could be no one’d give a toss. She yawned, stretched, flexed fingers ready for another bout of phone bashing. After a few abortive calls, she nipped to the loo, came back, made a few more. Exciting, this detecting lark. Just for a minute she laid her arms on the desk, rested her head, closed her...
“Don’t do that!” Eyes wide, she shot up. She hated being touched. Mac shoulda picked up on that by now. Giving her shoulder an ostentatious brush, she snapped: “What?”
Mac stepped back, palms held high. “Sorr-ee. Thought you’d like to know Powell’s on the warpath. And that’s before he catches you comatose.”
Hiding the panic, she glanced at her watch. 11.35. Frankie. Shit. She couldn’t have slept that long. “Gotta dash.” She grabbed bag, phone and keys. “Cover for me, Mac?”
“What with? A marquee?”
“Improvise.” She flashed him a grin. “You’re good at that.”
“I’m a shit friend, Frankie. And I’m truly deeply sorry.” Eyes down, Bev toed the dusty pavement, fingered the car keys in her pocket. Gridlock traffic on the Highgate Road had eked a ten-minute journey to thirty, the appointment was history and Perlagio was having a hissy fit. Pacing up and down like an expectant father, she turned, eyes flashing, hands on hips.
“Don’t try that shit thing again,” she snapped. “Forty minutes I’ve been hanging round. Smiling. Simpering. Making excuses.”
“Like I did it on purpose, mate.” Unlike the previous occasions when she’d watched the appointed hour arrive and turned her back on the clock. Why was that? She’d thought about it afterwards. Still wasn’t sure, but fear was in there somewhere.
“What was it this time?” Frankie sneered. “Shergar sighting?”
Bev shrugged, stepped back to let a woman waddle past with a buggy. The toddler looked angelic. Until it stuck its tongue out.
“Bin Laden doing a spot of shopping in the Bullring?”
God, was she still banging on? Bev opened
“I’d a taken ’im out soon as look at ’im. Shame someone got in first.”
Fighting talk, but there was a catch in the man’s voice. She studied Scrivener’s face on her screen, the image grabbed from an on-line archive. It was a snatch shot, taken as Scrivener stormed out of Wolverhampton Crown Court on the last day of the Marsden hearing. It didn’t do Eddie any favours. His distorted features gave Munch’s Scream a run for its money.
The conversation had been painful. Until she’d broken the news, Eddie Scrivener was unaware the paedophile was dead. Her subsequent questioning resurrected memories. Not that the trauma had ever gone away. For three years Marsden had systematically abused little Tanya Scrivener. The damage had been a catalyst for the girl’s later self-harm. According to Eddie, she’d fallen in with a bad crowd, started running wild, was eventually taken into care. Eddie hadn’t set eyes on his daughter for months. Nor his wife. The marriage broke up a year after Marsden’s conviction.
“So when you nail him, duck, let me know. I’ll be first in line to buy him a pint.”
Her heart went out to the man. It didn’t stop her eliciting where Scrivener had been on the night of the killing. He’d be eliminated after the alibi had been confirmed. Or not. The same went for Tanya who was now eighteen. Everybody lied – even coppers.
Dispirited and a tad depressed, she hung up. Even if they caught the killer, it wouldn’t end the suffering. As it stood, they had no witnesses, no CCTV, nothing back from forensics. Could be they’d never track down Marsden’s murderer. Could be no one’d give a toss. She yawned, stretched, flexed fingers ready for another bout of phone bashing. After a few abortive calls, she nipped to the loo, came back, made a few more. Exciting, this detecting lark. Just for a minute she laid her arms on the desk, rested her head, closed her...
“Don’t do that!” Eyes wide, she shot up. She hated being touched. Mac shoulda picked up on that by now. Giving her shoulder an ostentatious brush, she snapped: “What?”
Mac stepped back, palms held high. “Sorr-ee. Thought you’d like to know Powell’s on the warpath. And that’s before he catches you comatose.”
Hiding the panic, she glanced at her watch. 11.35. Frankie. Shit. She couldn’t have slept that long. “Gotta dash.” She grabbed bag, phone and keys. “Cover for me, Mac?”
“What with? A marquee?”
“Improvise.” She flashed him a grin. “You’re good at that.”
“I’m a shit friend, Frankie. And I’m truly deeply sorry.” Eyes down, Bev toed the dusty pavement, fingered the car keys in her pocket. Gridlock traffic on the Highgate Road had eked a ten-minute journey to thirty, the appointment was history and Perlagio was having a hissy fit. Pacing up and down like an expectant father, she turned, eyes flashing, hands on hips.
“Don’t try that shit thing again,” she snapped. “Forty minutes I’ve been hanging round. Smiling. Simpering. Making excuses.”
“Like I did it on purpose, mate.” Unlike the previous occasions when she’d watched the appointed hour arrive and turned her back on the clock. Why was that? She’d thought about it afterwards. Still wasn’t sure, but fear was in there somewhere.
“What was it this time?” Frankie sneered. “Shergar sighting?”
Bev shrugged, stepped back to let a woman waddle past with a buggy. The toddler looked angelic. Until it stuck its tongue out.
“Bin Laden doing a spot of shopping in the Bullring?”
God, was she still banging on? Bev opened
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