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Authors: Maureen Carter
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same pattern for a couple of years. A
neighbour said the same. Obviously we need to run checks, but it looks as if anyone who knew the family...”
“Or made it their business to find out.” Byford glanced round then tasked two DCs with tracing Masters’s movements on the day he died. The Sandman would almost certainly have
known them. Serious players didn’t just show up in a striped jumper carrying a swag bag. They recced a location for days, weeks sometimes, recorded comings and goings, established habits.
Everyone has a routine – not just comedians. And the Sandman was no joker. Seemed to Bev the burglaries had been planned to the last detail, carried out to the nth degree. Unless... She
straightened, eyes narrowed, finger against lip.
“What is it, sergeant?” Byford recognised the pose.
Sergeant? Still pissed with her, then. “He cocked it big time last night, didn’t he? Instead of finding Diana Masters on her own, the perp comes face-to-face with her old man. He was
lucky not to get collared. Now he’s looking at a life sentence.”
“And?” Byford’s leg swing had gone up a gear.
“What if it’s not the same guy? What if some wannabe picked up the MO in the papers? Within hours of details about the mask etcetera being in the public domain – our man goes
from hot-shot to toss-pot. Strikes me as weird, that.” Encouraging copycats had been a factor in the guv’s original decision not to release the information.
“Could be,” he said. “Might just be coincidence. Either way, the killer’s still out there.”
“Not for much longer, mebbe.” The Yorkshire accent carried across the room. Every head turned. Jack Hainsworth had a smug look on his face and a sheet of paper in his hand.
“CCTV opposite the house? Guess who’s been framed?”
9
Twenty minutes later as many bodies as would fit in the viewing room were squashed round one of the monitors. A despatch rider had biked the tape from Moseley to Highgate.
Darren New cracked a stale line about popcorn. Then the guv pressed play. The relevant sequence hadn’t been cued so they stood through a minute or two of suburban street life: scintillating
shots of empty milk bottles, overflowing wheelie bins, lamp posts, lots of privet. An emaciated fox provided the only action when it limped across the road. Bev crossed her legs, dying for a pee,
debating whether to nip out.
“Needs fast-forwarding,” Daz pointed out. “Look.” A piece of paper with a note of the relevant time frame had been stuck to the box. Thank God for that. Bev wasn’t
sure how much more excitement she could take. Great detection rate though – given CID’s finest was gathered. Reminded her of an old gag: how many cops does it take to screw in a light
bulb? None, it turned itself in. Punch-line was different in West Midlands Serious Crime Squad days: depends how many cops planted it. She considered sharing, trying to lighten the tension. Looking
round she doubted Peter Kay could raise a smile. Anyway, it was show time...
Byford hit Play again, few seconds of build up and then... the big entrance. The perp came tearing through the Masters’s front door, halted briefly at the gates to the drive. Sharp focus,
perfect shot. Of a man in black, average height, average build. All very Mr Norm – except for the clown mask. “Take it off for God’s sake,” Byford muttered.
The guy glanced from side to side before dashing to the left and out of frame. For several seconds no one spoke or moved, every gaze fixed on the screen as if expecting the perp to make an
encore, take a bow.
Daz started a slow handclap but the guv cut him a glance that would’ve silenced the crowd at a police concert.
“Right.” Byford balled his fists. “I want every frame of footage from every camera in the vicinity viewed. I want everyone on it traced. And I want every vehicle on it checked.
The perp didn’t disappear into thin air.”
“Never know, guv.” Pollyanna
neighbour said the same. Obviously we need to run checks, but it looks as if anyone who knew the family...”
“Or made it their business to find out.” Byford glanced round then tasked two DCs with tracing Masters’s movements on the day he died. The Sandman would almost certainly have
known them. Serious players didn’t just show up in a striped jumper carrying a swag bag. They recced a location for days, weeks sometimes, recorded comings and goings, established habits.
Everyone has a routine – not just comedians. And the Sandman was no joker. Seemed to Bev the burglaries had been planned to the last detail, carried out to the nth degree. Unless... She
straightened, eyes narrowed, finger against lip.
“What is it, sergeant?” Byford recognised the pose.
Sergeant? Still pissed with her, then. “He cocked it big time last night, didn’t he? Instead of finding Diana Masters on her own, the perp comes face-to-face with her old man. He was
lucky not to get collared. Now he’s looking at a life sentence.”
“And?” Byford’s leg swing had gone up a gear.
“What if it’s not the same guy? What if some wannabe picked up the MO in the papers? Within hours of details about the mask etcetera being in the public domain – our man goes
from hot-shot to toss-pot. Strikes me as weird, that.” Encouraging copycats had been a factor in the guv’s original decision not to release the information.
“Could be,” he said. “Might just be coincidence. Either way, the killer’s still out there.”
“Not for much longer, mebbe.” The Yorkshire accent carried across the room. Every head turned. Jack Hainsworth had a smug look on his face and a sheet of paper in his hand.
“CCTV opposite the house? Guess who’s been framed?”
9
Twenty minutes later as many bodies as would fit in the viewing room were squashed round one of the monitors. A despatch rider had biked the tape from Moseley to Highgate.
Darren New cracked a stale line about popcorn. Then the guv pressed play. The relevant sequence hadn’t been cued so they stood through a minute or two of suburban street life: scintillating
shots of empty milk bottles, overflowing wheelie bins, lamp posts, lots of privet. An emaciated fox provided the only action when it limped across the road. Bev crossed her legs, dying for a pee,
debating whether to nip out.
“Needs fast-forwarding,” Daz pointed out. “Look.” A piece of paper with a note of the relevant time frame had been stuck to the box. Thank God for that. Bev wasn’t
sure how much more excitement she could take. Great detection rate though – given CID’s finest was gathered. Reminded her of an old gag: how many cops does it take to screw in a light
bulb? None, it turned itself in. Punch-line was different in West Midlands Serious Crime Squad days: depends how many cops planted it. She considered sharing, trying to lighten the tension. Looking
round she doubted Peter Kay could raise a smile. Anyway, it was show time...
Byford hit Play again, few seconds of build up and then... the big entrance. The perp came tearing through the Masters’s front door, halted briefly at the gates to the drive. Sharp focus,
perfect shot. Of a man in black, average height, average build. All very Mr Norm – except for the clown mask. “Take it off for God’s sake,” Byford muttered.
The guy glanced from side to side before dashing to the left and out of frame. For several seconds no one spoke or moved, every gaze fixed on the screen as if expecting the perp to make an
encore, take a bow.
Daz started a slow handclap but the guv cut him a glance that would’ve silenced the crowd at a police concert.
“Right.” Byford balled his fists. “I want every frame of footage from every camera in the vicinity viewed. I want everyone on it traced. And I want every vehicle on it checked.
The perp didn’t disappear into thin air.”
“Never know, guv.” Pollyanna
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