Blood Money Read Free Page A

decidedly un-cool blush when his gaze met
Bev’s, Mac fancied the lad harboured the hots for more than promotion.
    “Ta, Danny.” Bev wiped her boots on the mat, dodged a couple of bulging bin liners, handed the rookie her coat. “How is she now?”
    He smiled. “Don’t know what you said to her, sarge, but she seems calmer.”
    “I listened, Danny. Showed her a bit of respect.” Mac’s mouth could have garaged a bus. Double-decker. “Ask DC Tyler. He knows all about that don’t you,
mate?” She paused at the end of the hall. “You coming or what?”
    A woman in her mid-fifties sat stiff-backed on a squashy three-seater sofa in a spacious L-shaped lounge. Not everything around her was beige, it just seemed that way. Soft
furnishings the shade of weak tea, washed-out sepia walls, dried flowers in butter-coloured vases book-ending a marble fireplace. The woman herself was no shrinking violet. Faith Winters appeared
to be into purple in a big way, from patent leather kitten heels to casually-draped pashmina. Even close-cropped grey hair was dusted with lilac. She was leafing through the local rag, laid it to
one side when Bev – rehearsed smile fixed in place – entered.
    “Me again, Mrs Winters.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “This is my partner, DC Mac Tyler. Think you can tell him what you told me? Two heads and all that?” Bev
cocked hers in hope.
    “Of course.” If there were qualms, the woman hid them well. She crossed slim legs at thin ankles, smoothed slightly trembling fingers over an already crease-free velvet dress,
blackcurrant. Whether the moves were to skirt Mac’s proffered handshake was anyone’s guess.
    “Appreciate it.” Bev resumed her place alongside the victim. She’d motored straight here after catching breaking reports of the incident on her police radio. In a toss-up
between late arrival at the Highgate brief ball and heads up at a breaking crime scene it was a no-brainer. Bev needed the brownie points, and could get by without colleagues’ questioning
looks. Again.
    When she’d first arrived the woman had been in a state of shock. Now Bev had the shakes. The tremor, she knew, was DC- as much as DT-induced. That Mac had accused her of lying about the
phone was so far below the belt, it was ground-breaking. She might come out with the occasional white one to oil the wheels, but whites-of-the-eyes whopper? No way. Not to a professional
partner.
    “Whenever you’re ready, Mrs Winters?” Mac was in gentle-coax mode. He’d opted for a chunky armchair facing the woman, adopted a non-threatening stance and wasn’t
overdoing the eye contact. He was pretty good at the victim-interview stuff. Bev had seen him in action; it was Mrs Winters she observed closely now.
    Asking the victim to run through the story again wouldn’t just bring Mac up to speed. Few witnesses have total recall when they first relate an incident – if ever. This time round,
the woman might dredge up a nugget or two, a little extra detail. Bev took a metaphorical back seat, clocking body language, listening for discrepancies, contradictions, nuances, ready to pounce on
anything that needed elaboration and/or follow up.
    Mrs Winters fidgeted incessantly but the story emerged fluently and coherently. A man wearing dark clothes and a clown mask had entered her room, tethered her to the bed, subjected her to verbal
abuse and physical attack. He’d ransacked the house, stolen property, left his mark. Bev had seen it: a £ sign traced on the woman’s belly with a knife. Not deep, not
life-threatening. Just because he could. And like he’d done before. Three times.
    At previous crime scenes, he’d not shed so much as a skin cell. The cops hoped for bigger things here. Uniforms were on the streets, others were finger-tipping grounds at the back of the
house. The odd muffled bump overhead signalled the presence of forensic scene investigators: FSI. The name change from SOCOs was still