pick-up trucks. Before marriage to Diana Scott, he’d sown more oats than the Archers. Professional strike rate was on a par. In legal circles he was
known as The Raptor: razor tongued, cutting wit, sharp suits. Nowadays he was mostly associated with high profile court cases where A-list celebs were fined peanuts for offences ordinary mortals
mostly got sent down for. In the past though he’d been a top criminal prosecution lawyer. Big bank balance? Masters was minted.
Footsteps in the corridor, banging doors, busy buzz building up. The brief. Shit. She grabbed her bag, put on a topcoat of lippie, gathered the stuff she’d printed out. “Sorry, mate
– gonna be late.” Masters’s coarse features vanished from the screen as she closed the page.
Lucky to get a seat, or what? Bev glanced round a packed incident room, spotted a spare next to Carol Pemberton by the window. Bag dumped at her feet, she had a closer butcher’s. It
wasn’t quite standing room only – two-thirds of the available officers were out in the field. Or the park.
One theory had the burglar gaining access by scaling the railings at the back of the Masters property. No CCTV coverage there. Luck or judgement? Bev knew where she’d put her money. The
perp had certainly entered the house through a kitchen window. A pane had been removed with cutters, glass covered in perfect dabs and DNA. Yeah right.
The squad would hear the minute anything broke. FSIs were still on site, area search was underway, uniforms were knocking doors. Information was being called in, filed back. The clack from
printers was pretty constant, ditto ringing phones. Jack Hainsworth was co-ordinating it, making sure it was disseminated. The Inspector collated and cursed in roughly equal measures. Bull-necked
and big-mouthed, he hailed from Leeds but was no archetypal Yorkshireman. Hainsworth was less bluff more bolshie-bugger. And he didn’t issue threats, he meant every word. Highgate’s Mr
Nice Guy. Not. But he was a sharp operator. And every member of the team knew he or she had to raise their game. Cos the guv had just finished telling them. Alex Masters’s murder had upped
Operation Magpie’s ante. And then some.
As usual Byford was perched on the edge of a desk. The swinging leg indicated how keen he was to get on with the job. “Do we know if anything was stolen, Bev?”
Hadn’t had time to ask. “Don’t think so.”
“Think isn’t good enough,” he snapped. “You spoke to the widow, didn’t you?” Below the belt, the big man must be feeling the pressure.
Bev tensed. “She was wearing her old man’s blood. We didn’t talk about baubles. Sir.”
Byford clenched his jaw, let the dig go, gave a terse nod when he noticed Mac had his hand in the air. “From what Mrs Masters said, guv, it seems unlikely the perp had time to nick
anything. She woke around two a m to find him attacking her husband. Way it looks, Alex Masters caught him in the act. The alarm going off would’ve panicked the guy and he fled
empty-handed.” Not quite. Bev pursed her lips. The burglar had taken his own belongings. Not so much as a grain of sand had been left.
“Why wasn’t the main alarm on?” Question from a new-ish DC. Bev was about to answer when DI Pete Talbot piped up. Despite his bulk, she’d not noticed him hiding away at
the back. He’d still been at the scene when Bev left, now looked as knackered as she felt.
“My guess is because Alex Masters was in the house. He was in his dressing gown, which makes me think he may not have been in bed when the perp entered. We know he arrived home after
midnight.” Next door’s security camera had footage. “Maybe he felt like unwinding after the drive, fancied a nightcap, a bit of music. He wasn’t expected back at all that
night according to what the wife told Bev.”
“That’s right.” She nodded. “According to Diana, he split his working week between London and Birmingham. Apparently followed the
known as The Raptor: razor tongued, cutting wit, sharp suits. Nowadays he was mostly associated with high profile court cases where A-list celebs were fined peanuts for offences ordinary mortals
mostly got sent down for. In the past though he’d been a top criminal prosecution lawyer. Big bank balance? Masters was minted.
Footsteps in the corridor, banging doors, busy buzz building up. The brief. Shit. She grabbed her bag, put on a topcoat of lippie, gathered the stuff she’d printed out. “Sorry, mate
– gonna be late.” Masters’s coarse features vanished from the screen as she closed the page.
Lucky to get a seat, or what? Bev glanced round a packed incident room, spotted a spare next to Carol Pemberton by the window. Bag dumped at her feet, she had a closer butcher’s. It
wasn’t quite standing room only – two-thirds of the available officers were out in the field. Or the park.
One theory had the burglar gaining access by scaling the railings at the back of the Masters property. No CCTV coverage there. Luck or judgement? Bev knew where she’d put her money. The
perp had certainly entered the house through a kitchen window. A pane had been removed with cutters, glass covered in perfect dabs and DNA. Yeah right.
The squad would hear the minute anything broke. FSIs were still on site, area search was underway, uniforms were knocking doors. Information was being called in, filed back. The clack from
printers was pretty constant, ditto ringing phones. Jack Hainsworth was co-ordinating it, making sure it was disseminated. The Inspector collated and cursed in roughly equal measures. Bull-necked
and big-mouthed, he hailed from Leeds but was no archetypal Yorkshireman. Hainsworth was less bluff more bolshie-bugger. And he didn’t issue threats, he meant every word. Highgate’s Mr
Nice Guy. Not. But he was a sharp operator. And every member of the team knew he or she had to raise their game. Cos the guv had just finished telling them. Alex Masters’s murder had upped
Operation Magpie’s ante. And then some.
As usual Byford was perched on the edge of a desk. The swinging leg indicated how keen he was to get on with the job. “Do we know if anything was stolen, Bev?”
Hadn’t had time to ask. “Don’t think so.”
“Think isn’t good enough,” he snapped. “You spoke to the widow, didn’t you?” Below the belt, the big man must be feeling the pressure.
Bev tensed. “She was wearing her old man’s blood. We didn’t talk about baubles. Sir.”
Byford clenched his jaw, let the dig go, gave a terse nod when he noticed Mac had his hand in the air. “From what Mrs Masters said, guv, it seems unlikely the perp had time to nick
anything. She woke around two a m to find him attacking her husband. Way it looks, Alex Masters caught him in the act. The alarm going off would’ve panicked the guy and he fled
empty-handed.” Not quite. Bev pursed her lips. The burglar had taken his own belongings. Not so much as a grain of sand had been left.
“Why wasn’t the main alarm on?” Question from a new-ish DC. Bev was about to answer when DI Pete Talbot piped up. Despite his bulk, she’d not noticed him hiding away at
the back. He’d still been at the scene when Bev left, now looked as knackered as she felt.
“My guess is because Alex Masters was in the house. He was in his dressing gown, which makes me think he may not have been in bed when the perp entered. We know he arrived home after
midnight.” Next door’s security camera had footage. “Maybe he felt like unwinding after the drive, fancied a nightcap, a bit of music. He wasn’t expected back at all that
night according to what the wife told Bev.”
“That’s right.” She nodded. “According to Diana, he split his working week between London and Birmingham. Apparently followed the
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