plate but the question didn’t relate to the state of his breakfast. He and Bev were in the
canteen, grabbing a bite before the brief. She’d opted for the full Monty, too. Giving away last night’s fish and chips might’ve been good for the soul, but her body had paid for
it. Since the early shout she’d been running on empty, felt dizzy and nauseous at one stage. Though that could’ve been the sight of Masters’s body when she’d nipped upstairs
to have a word with Pete Talbot.
Not normally given to spouting Shakespeare, soon as she’d entered the bedroom a quote had sprung to mind. Now it just slipped out. “Who’d have thought the old man had so much
blood in him?” Well it was close enough.
Mac jabbed an admonitory sausage. “Masters was fifty-five. That’s not old.” Mac was fifty-two.
Bev rolled her eyes. “Ignorant pillock.”
He shrugged. “I see where you’re coming from, though. What was it Overdale said? Fourteen, fifteen wounds?”
“She reckons the post mortem might reveal more.” Bev spread Daddies’ sauce on a fried slice, added bacon, egg and tomato. “Frenzied attack is what the papers’ll
call it.”
“They’d be right, wouldn’t they?” Mac hadn’t seen the body. There’d been no point both of them entering the crime scene.
“First time for everything.” Satisfied with the filling, she topped it with another piece of bread. They ate in silence for a while. The place was filling up: uniforms, support
staff, plastic plods – dick-lites as Bev called them. She spotted Sumitra Gosh at the counter, lifted a fork in greeting. Maybe Sumi hadn’t noticed. Maybe Sumi had other things on her
mind. Mac clearly had. “The press’ll crucify Byford.”
That they would. She’d spoken briefly with the guv earlier. The big man looked as if he was weight-lifting as in world on shoulders. “He’ll cope.”
“Reckon the wife’s away with the Mogadon fairies every night?” Mac asked.
“Uh?” Byford’s missus had been dead ten years. Then the penny dropped. Diana Masters. Maybe she only needed help sleeping when she was alone in the house; maybe she was a
chronic insomniac. Bev shrugged; who knows? It was on a growing list of things to find out. She gulped a mouthful of tea, scraped back the chair.
“Where you off to, boss?” Mac glanced up. There was still half a pig on his plate.
“Catch you at the brief.”
“Hold on. ’fore you go.” He offered her a napkin.
She scowled. “And that’s for...?”
He pointed at her chin. “Out, out damn spot.”
Mac quoting Lady M. There’s a thing. Bev was still smiling when she sat at her desk, tapped a few keys and waited for the screen to come up with the goodies. Stone me.
They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but by God Alex Masters was no oil painting. And she was studying a pic on the barrister’s own website. Even in the rudest of health he was
an ugly squat little bloke. Savile Row’s classiest pin-stripe three-piece wasn’t gonna disguise the pot belly. The head looked too big for the body, the hair was like wire wool, the
squashed nose needed re-setting and the face could do with ironing. OK, beauty was skin deep but Bev bet the bloke had a hell of a big... bank balance.
She hit a few keys, waited for a page to download, mused a bit more. Was it money that made guys like Masters attractive? Or was it Henry Kissinger’s theory about power being the ultimate
aphrodisiac? The widow’s grief had seemed genuine enough, maybe she saw beyond the surface. Not Bev, though. Give her a looker any time. Like the guy in the Fighting Cocks. If he didn’t
do drugs and it didn’t go against her recently adopted rules of engagement she’d see Jagger lips again, no sweat.
Bingo. Here it was. She remembered seeing the article before. According to The Times on-line, Alex Masters had power, presence, charisma, call it what you will, in spades. Skimming the
article, she reckoned you could make that
canteen, grabbing a bite before the brief. She’d opted for the full Monty, too. Giving away last night’s fish and chips might’ve been good for the soul, but her body had paid for
it. Since the early shout she’d been running on empty, felt dizzy and nauseous at one stage. Though that could’ve been the sight of Masters’s body when she’d nipped upstairs
to have a word with Pete Talbot.
Not normally given to spouting Shakespeare, soon as she’d entered the bedroom a quote had sprung to mind. Now it just slipped out. “Who’d have thought the old man had so much
blood in him?” Well it was close enough.
Mac jabbed an admonitory sausage. “Masters was fifty-five. That’s not old.” Mac was fifty-two.
Bev rolled her eyes. “Ignorant pillock.”
He shrugged. “I see where you’re coming from, though. What was it Overdale said? Fourteen, fifteen wounds?”
“She reckons the post mortem might reveal more.” Bev spread Daddies’ sauce on a fried slice, added bacon, egg and tomato. “Frenzied attack is what the papers’ll
call it.”
“They’d be right, wouldn’t they?” Mac hadn’t seen the body. There’d been no point both of them entering the crime scene.
“First time for everything.” Satisfied with the filling, she topped it with another piece of bread. They ate in silence for a while. The place was filling up: uniforms, support
staff, plastic plods – dick-lites as Bev called them. She spotted Sumitra Gosh at the counter, lifted a fork in greeting. Maybe Sumi hadn’t noticed. Maybe Sumi had other things on her
mind. Mac clearly had. “The press’ll crucify Byford.”
That they would. She’d spoken briefly with the guv earlier. The big man looked as if he was weight-lifting as in world on shoulders. “He’ll cope.”
“Reckon the wife’s away with the Mogadon fairies every night?” Mac asked.
“Uh?” Byford’s missus had been dead ten years. Then the penny dropped. Diana Masters. Maybe she only needed help sleeping when she was alone in the house; maybe she was a
chronic insomniac. Bev shrugged; who knows? It was on a growing list of things to find out. She gulped a mouthful of tea, scraped back the chair.
“Where you off to, boss?” Mac glanced up. There was still half a pig on his plate.
“Catch you at the brief.”
“Hold on. ’fore you go.” He offered her a napkin.
She scowled. “And that’s for...?”
He pointed at her chin. “Out, out damn spot.”
Mac quoting Lady M. There’s a thing. Bev was still smiling when she sat at her desk, tapped a few keys and waited for the screen to come up with the goodies. Stone me.
They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but by God Alex Masters was no oil painting. And she was studying a pic on the barrister’s own website. Even in the rudest of health he was
an ugly squat little bloke. Savile Row’s classiest pin-stripe three-piece wasn’t gonna disguise the pot belly. The head looked too big for the body, the hair was like wire wool, the
squashed nose needed re-setting and the face could do with ironing. OK, beauty was skin deep but Bev bet the bloke had a hell of a big... bank balance.
She hit a few keys, waited for a page to download, mused a bit more. Was it money that made guys like Masters attractive? Or was it Henry Kissinger’s theory about power being the ultimate
aphrodisiac? The widow’s grief had seemed genuine enough, maybe she saw beyond the surface. Not Bev, though. Give her a looker any time. Like the guy in the Fighting Cocks. If he didn’t
do drugs and it didn’t go against her recently adopted rules of engagement she’d see Jagger lips again, no sweat.
Bingo. Here it was. She remembered seeing the article before. According to The Times on-line, Alex Masters had power, presence, charisma, call it what you will, in spades. Skimming the
article, she reckoned you could make that
Similar Books
