hand tied behind her back, she reckoned she was a better detective than Powell
would ever be. Glaring, she grabbed her bag. Knew if she was honest, he’d also hit a nerve. What the hell else had she to focus on? Johnny Depp was hardly beating a path to her door. Byford
was beating a retreat. Oz was getting spliced. Why the hell he’d invited her to the wedding beat Bev, though. The bastard. Oz, that is. No, make that Powell, too. She cut him a lethal glance.
“When I want adv...”
“Cool it, Morriss. I only meant if I get made up...”
“...it’ll be at a counter in Boots, mate.”
“...there’ll be a DI post going. Maybe time you tried again?”
Wind. Sails. But only momentarily. She reckoned if she made inspector, they’d be doing happy meals at McMartians.
Quick whiz round Tesco later, Bev was putting her key in the door at Baldwin Street. She hated going home to an empty house. The guv always said the same. Slinging the fob on
the hall table, she kicked off the Docs, toted the bags into the kitchen. Booze mostly, bread, bacon, baccy. She sighed. At least Byford had had a taste of marriage, had kids who’d find him a
berth in an old folks’ home come the time. Fuck’s sake, Beverley. Get a grip. She opened the fridge, poured a glass of Pinot, placed the bottle against her forehead, gave a wry smile.
Maybe she should have taken Powell up on his offer of a quickie. In The Prince.
Cheeky bastard.
Still smiling, she shook her head. Admittedly Powell was quite tasty since he’d started going to the gym, let his hair grow a little longer, but blonds had never been her cup of PG.
He’d given her food for thought, though. Raising the glass, she toasted the future, pictured absent friends.
DI Bev Morriss? Who knows? When hell freezes over? Or when she started playing the games? She snorted. That’d be the Winter Olympics then?
The courting couple thought they were seeing a shop dummy, dumped by kids having a laugh. Monica and Ron had been to the village pub and were strolling amiably arm in arm back
to her place. Full moon, balmy night, love was in the air. Neither was in the first flush, but they lingered for a kiss and cuddle on the bridge over the railway line at Foxton, just outside
Birmingham. Relaxed, merry, maybe they’d had a drop too much because the unexpected sight gave Monica the giggles: the odd angle, legs askew.
Squinting, Ron leaned over the bridge to get a better look. “I don’t reckon it is a dummy, Monica. Look at the clothes. Must be a guy.”
Frowning, she leaned over, too. “Don’t be daft, love. It’s July.”
They were both easy mistakes to make.
“You don’t think...?” Curiosity piqued, Ron peered further down the line. “Hell fire.” And froze. His whisper somehow had more impact than Monica’s whimper.
Both so wanted the object to be a red ball. Both dismissed the thought instantly. This time neither was mistaken.
Though shiny and slightly deflated, it was still recognisable as a head.
SATURDAY
16
The intercity had been travelling at just shy of a ton, the body on the line unnoticed by the poor sodding driver though services were halted now. Wasn’t uncommon. There
were around a hundred similar instances a year, according to some stats. Luck really that a British Transport police officer rifling the dead man’s pockets for ID recognised the name and had
the nous to call Highgate CID. By the time Bev and Mac arrived, the embankment was lit like a movie set, special effects provided by nature. Moonlight cast a silvery grey sheen through a row of
sycamores, and skimmed slopes overgrown with weeds and grasses. From a field across the way, a bunch of Jerseys gazed on dolefully, chewing the cud, looked as if they were commenting on the action.
It was more film noir than Brief Encounter . Though for Roland Haines it had been that too.
Roland Haines. The early shout had come as a shock. Though Bev reckoned DC Danny Rees who made it was more shaken.
would ever be. Glaring, she grabbed her bag. Knew if she was honest, he’d also hit a nerve. What the hell else had she to focus on? Johnny Depp was hardly beating a path to her door. Byford
was beating a retreat. Oz was getting spliced. Why the hell he’d invited her to the wedding beat Bev, though. The bastard. Oz, that is. No, make that Powell, too. She cut him a lethal glance.
“When I want adv...”
“Cool it, Morriss. I only meant if I get made up...”
“...it’ll be at a counter in Boots, mate.”
“...there’ll be a DI post going. Maybe time you tried again?”
Wind. Sails. But only momentarily. She reckoned if she made inspector, they’d be doing happy meals at McMartians.
Quick whiz round Tesco later, Bev was putting her key in the door at Baldwin Street. She hated going home to an empty house. The guv always said the same. Slinging the fob on
the hall table, she kicked off the Docs, toted the bags into the kitchen. Booze mostly, bread, bacon, baccy. She sighed. At least Byford had had a taste of marriage, had kids who’d find him a
berth in an old folks’ home come the time. Fuck’s sake, Beverley. Get a grip. She opened the fridge, poured a glass of Pinot, placed the bottle against her forehead, gave a wry smile.
Maybe she should have taken Powell up on his offer of a quickie. In The Prince.
Cheeky bastard.
Still smiling, she shook her head. Admittedly Powell was quite tasty since he’d started going to the gym, let his hair grow a little longer, but blonds had never been her cup of PG.
He’d given her food for thought, though. Raising the glass, she toasted the future, pictured absent friends.
DI Bev Morriss? Who knows? When hell freezes over? Or when she started playing the games? She snorted. That’d be the Winter Olympics then?
The courting couple thought they were seeing a shop dummy, dumped by kids having a laugh. Monica and Ron had been to the village pub and were strolling amiably arm in arm back
to her place. Full moon, balmy night, love was in the air. Neither was in the first flush, but they lingered for a kiss and cuddle on the bridge over the railway line at Foxton, just outside
Birmingham. Relaxed, merry, maybe they’d had a drop too much because the unexpected sight gave Monica the giggles: the odd angle, legs askew.
Squinting, Ron leaned over the bridge to get a better look. “I don’t reckon it is a dummy, Monica. Look at the clothes. Must be a guy.”
Frowning, she leaned over, too. “Don’t be daft, love. It’s July.”
They were both easy mistakes to make.
“You don’t think...?” Curiosity piqued, Ron peered further down the line. “Hell fire.” And froze. His whisper somehow had more impact than Monica’s whimper.
Both so wanted the object to be a red ball. Both dismissed the thought instantly. This time neither was mistaken.
Though shiny and slightly deflated, it was still recognisable as a head.
SATURDAY
16
The intercity had been travelling at just shy of a ton, the body on the line unnoticed by the poor sodding driver though services were halted now. Wasn’t uncommon. There
were around a hundred similar instances a year, according to some stats. Luck really that a British Transport police officer rifling the dead man’s pockets for ID recognised the name and had
the nous to call Highgate CID. By the time Bev and Mac arrived, the embankment was lit like a movie set, special effects provided by nature. Moonlight cast a silvery grey sheen through a row of
sycamores, and skimmed slopes overgrown with weeds and grasses. From a field across the way, a bunch of Jerseys gazed on dolefully, chewing the cud, looked as if they were commenting on the action.
It was more film noir than Brief Encounter . Though for Roland Haines it had been that too.
Roland Haines. The early shout had come as a shock. Though Bev reckoned DC Danny Rees who made it was more shaken.
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