Read Online Blood Money by Maureen Carter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maureen Carter
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Morriss speaking. “The geek squad might work a bit of magic.” Amazing what the guys in technical operations could do.
“The pictures need a miracle, sergeant. So unless Christ’s on the payroll...”
“That who I think it is, boss?” Mac cocked his head at a print-out pic on Bev’s desk – his crossed ankles were up there, too.
“Doing in my chair, Tyler?” She slammed the door, stomped across the floor of her office. “Feet. Now.” Finger click.
Sheepish, he swung down desert boots, vacated the hot seat. Bev snatched the print-out, gave it a good shake. It was dotted with pastry flakes and grease spots. Alex Masters looked as if he had
the lurgy. Mind, that was an improvement on his current condition. “What you been eating?”
“Cheese and onion pasty.” Mac mimed empty pocket linings. “I’d’ve saved you a bite if I’d known.”
“There’s a gob full on this.” She grimaced, checked her watch, raised an eyebrow. Don’t have to be having fun for time to fly. Half past lunch o’clock already.
“I take it pretty boy’s the vic?” Mac hadn’t actually seen Alex Masters – dead or alive; not even spotted the photo at the house. She filled in the guy’s back
story: ex-criminal prosecution lawyer, barrister to the rich and famous. Byford was already up to speed: Bev had just come from his office. She’d intended sharing the information on Masters
during the brief, but Jack Hainsworth’s dramatic denouement had brought the curtain down early. Not that it was the main reason for her visit to the big man. She’d dropped by to pass on
news from technical operations – if not good then slightly less bleak. The images of the perp weren’t as black as Byford feared. She’d spent an hour or so with techie manager
Brian Whelan. Though there was still a bunch of buttons to twiddle before getting final results, it was looking a tad brighter.
“Brian reckons there might be more than meets the eye to the Park View footage.” Bev stood at the side of her desk, leafing through paperwork.
Mac turned his mouth down. “Like what?”
She was binning the boring stuff: crime stats, performance reviews, today’s initiative. “Logo on the jacket. “She tapped her upper arm. “Another on the rucksack.”
Both needed enhancing.
“Rucksack?” Mac queried.
“Yeah, I didn’t spot it first time round either.” No one had. The communal focus had been on the face, well, the mask. “Nor the socks,” she added.
“Socks?”
Distracted nod. “Two pairs, Brian reckons.”
“Two pairs?”
“You got parrot genes, mate?” She dithered about ditching the print-out of Masters’s Times profile, decided to leave it be. “Yeah. Thick wool socks over his
shoes.” Or trainers, boots, ballet pumps. Guessing game, wasn’t it? The perp was au fait with enough forensics to know to mask his footwear as well as his face. FSIs covered up to
protect crime scenes; crims did it to protect themselves. Proof – as if the cops needed more – to know they weren’t dealing with a goofball. Also the best indication yet that the
Sandman had wheels. And that the motor couldn’t have been parked a million miles away. Byford’s instruction to check every camera in the immediate area now had added imperative.
Mac had been gazing at the Times article. “Masters was an ugly bugger.” He pulled a face. “Would you give him one, boss?”
“Not now, I wouldn’t.” She sniffed. “Got the time, Mac?” Her watch was in full view and there was a clock ticking on the wall.
“Uh?” Puzzled frown.
“I need a lift.” She was already shucking into her coat.
“Knew you were on the cadge,” he said. “The Mac’s a giveaway.”
Hitch-hike thumb in the air. “Yeah, well, I can see you’re rushed off your feet.”
He was now. “Where you want dropping?”
“Baldwin Street. Motor’s gotta be sorted and I need to catch a few zeds.” Donna Kennedy had called first thing. The Sandman’s third
“The pictures need a miracle, sergeant. So unless Christ’s on the payroll...”
“That who I think it is, boss?” Mac cocked his head at a print-out pic on Bev’s desk – his crossed ankles were up there, too.
“Doing in my chair, Tyler?” She slammed the door, stomped across the floor of her office. “Feet. Now.” Finger click.
Sheepish, he swung down desert boots, vacated the hot seat. Bev snatched the print-out, gave it a good shake. It was dotted with pastry flakes and grease spots. Alex Masters looked as if he had
the lurgy. Mind, that was an improvement on his current condition. “What you been eating?”
“Cheese and onion pasty.” Mac mimed empty pocket linings. “I’d’ve saved you a bite if I’d known.”
“There’s a gob full on this.” She grimaced, checked her watch, raised an eyebrow. Don’t have to be having fun for time to fly. Half past lunch o’clock already.
“I take it pretty boy’s the vic?” Mac hadn’t actually seen Alex Masters – dead or alive; not even spotted the photo at the house. She filled in the guy’s back
story: ex-criminal prosecution lawyer, barrister to the rich and famous. Byford was already up to speed: Bev had just come from his office. She’d intended sharing the information on Masters
during the brief, but Jack Hainsworth’s dramatic denouement had brought the curtain down early. Not that it was the main reason for her visit to the big man. She’d dropped by to pass on
news from technical operations – if not good then slightly less bleak. The images of the perp weren’t as black as Byford feared. She’d spent an hour or so with techie manager
Brian Whelan. Though there was still a bunch of buttons to twiddle before getting final results, it was looking a tad brighter.
“Brian reckons there might be more than meets the eye to the Park View footage.” Bev stood at the side of her desk, leafing through paperwork.
Mac turned his mouth down. “Like what?”
She was binning the boring stuff: crime stats, performance reviews, today’s initiative. “Logo on the jacket. “She tapped her upper arm. “Another on the rucksack.”
Both needed enhancing.
“Rucksack?” Mac queried.
“Yeah, I didn’t spot it first time round either.” No one had. The communal focus had been on the face, well, the mask. “Nor the socks,” she added.
“Socks?”
Distracted nod. “Two pairs, Brian reckons.”
“Two pairs?”
“You got parrot genes, mate?” She dithered about ditching the print-out of Masters’s Times profile, decided to leave it be. “Yeah. Thick wool socks over his
shoes.” Or trainers, boots, ballet pumps. Guessing game, wasn’t it? The perp was au fait with enough forensics to know to mask his footwear as well as his face. FSIs covered up to
protect crime scenes; crims did it to protect themselves. Proof – as if the cops needed more – to know they weren’t dealing with a goofball. Also the best indication yet that the
Sandman had wheels. And that the motor couldn’t have been parked a million miles away. Byford’s instruction to check every camera in the immediate area now had added imperative.
Mac had been gazing at the Times article. “Masters was an ugly bugger.” He pulled a face. “Would you give him one, boss?”
“Not now, I wouldn’t.” She sniffed. “Got the time, Mac?” Her watch was in full view and there was a clock ticking on the wall.
“Uh?” Puzzled frown.
“I need a lift.” She was already shucking into her coat.
“Knew you were on the cadge,” he said. “The Mac’s a giveaway.”
Hitch-hike thumb in the air. “Yeah, well, I can see you’re rushed off your feet.”
He was now. “Where you want dropping?”
“Baldwin Street. Motor’s gotta be sorted and I need to catch a few zeds.” Donna Kennedy had called first thing. The Sandman’s third
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