Free Blood Money by Maureen Carter

victim wanted the interview
rescheduled for this evening. Probably double-booked or something; she’d struck Bev as a bit of an air-head. Blonde, late-forties Donna had a touch of the Stepford wife, except Simon Kennedy
had been dead more than a year. Though Bev hadn’t much time for the woman, calling round this evening was no sweat. It was this morning’s four a m shout that was a problem.
    “Sleeping on the job, boss?” Mac winked as held the door for her. “Part-timer.” Like he’d not already slipped home for a kip and a shower.
    She caught a mixed citrus whiff. “Changed the aftershave?”
    “No!”
    Olfactory hallucinations: she was smelling things. Definitely needed a break. Counter-productive to keep going when you could barely keep your eyes open. Anyway unlike the paperwork, the
overtime budget wasn’t a bottomless pit.
    “This lift, boss?” They were strolling down the corridor.
    “Yeah?”
    “Cost you.”
    Eye-roll. “How much?”
    “Pieces of eight.” Strangled squawk. “Pieces of...”
    She laughed. He gave good parrot. “In your dreams, Percy.”

10
    “Little sods. They give animals a bad name. Need caging, the lot of ’em. And I’d chuck away the keys.” The belligerent rant came from an old bloke whose
head only just came up to Bev’s shoulder. They were standing on the pavement outside her Baldwin Street pad, both staring glum-faced at the vandalised MG. Alfie Yates was a neighbour, born
and bred in the house opposite, they’d lived a stone’s throw apart for three years. Neighbourhood Watch? Bev hadn’t even noticed the little man until he introduced himself a
minute or two ago. Alfie was making up for lost time. Rabbit-rabbit.
    Half-listening, she vaguely wondered why he’d never hit her radar before. The job probably. One of the drawbacks. The culture and anti-social hours meant personal hinterland – never
mind community involvement – was mostly bare. Bev could count on the fingers of one digit the number of people she felt vaguely close to. Right now she wished she was next to the git
who’d given the Midget a crap make-over.
    Hands jammed in the pockets of her leather coat, she circled the car, totting up the damage. Two arms and a leg, she reckoned. Jagged lines had been gouged down both sides, glass shards from the
wing mirror winked from the gutter, the soft top had shit air con. Stanley knife? Screwdriver? Metal comb? Bloody sharp whatever it was.
    Alfie was waiting for a response, but she wasn’t sure her voice wouldn’t crack. She loved the motor more than some old boyfriends – including their bodywork. As for the
MG’s? Lips tight, she traced a finger along one of the raggedy tracks, emitted a fringe-lifting sigh. She peered inside. What was with the scarf on the passenger seat? Shit. What with
everything else kicking off, the old lady and the lost supper had slipped her mind. Mental note: surrender knife.
    “Police’ve been round,” Alfie told her. “Called them myself first thing. Though what good the Old Bill’ll do. I say old...” Derisive sniff.
“Spotty-faced kid, all of twelve.” His volley of tuts set loose dentures clacking like castanets. “What’s your line of work, Bev?”
    “Air hostess.” Didn’t miss a beat. Might’ve had something to do with the Boeing flying over. “I’m away a lot.”
    He gave her an old-fashioned look, but didn’t comment. She felt a bit mean lying, but telling people what you did for a living wasn’t worth the hassle. Alfie was a retired postman
apparently. He had a round face, and his bald crown looked as if it had a white fur trim. Several chins concertinaed into an un-demarcated neckline. He put Bev in mind of a monk. There was no
sackcloth, but plenty of ash. Alfie’s angry words were punctuated with sign language from a wildly gesticulated Sherlock pipe.
    As to the cops not nailing the bastards, Bev tended to agree. Even in the best of times, criminal damage didn’t get much of a