Grey Ladies

by William Stafford

  And scowling at them with Detective Inspector David Brough’s eyes.

  ***

  “Stop staring at me!” Brough had had enough. He pulled off his wig and scratched his hair. He took a hefty swig of the red wine Miller had poured then put a hand up to his face as Stevens tried to take yet another photo with his phone. Their initial amazement at Brough’s transformation had inevitably descended into ribbing and innuendo. Over a Chinese takeaway, they had finalised their plan. With Brough so convincing as a doddery old dear, they felt confident the plan would work. Someone on the inside would see what things uniformed officers would not.

  Brough tried one last time. “Why can’t we send in someone as a member of staff? They’re used to having strangers in from the agency.”

  “Send in another lamb to the slaughter?” Stevens dismissed this idea.

  “It’s not all staff; it’s just some staff,” Miller pointed out. Brough nodded, grateful for this contribution. He peeled off some patches of latex from his face and neck and found that gormless D S Woodcock was staring at him. Brough pulled a face.

  “We don’t know that, not yet,” Stevens put a whole prawn cracker in his mouth and crunched it.

  “There’s a pattern. Why go for Loretta Phipps? She left there years ago.” Miller again. Brough was impressed with her this evening. But it wasn’t him she was trying to impress, was it? Those looks she kept giving D S Woodentop! Oh, come off it, Miller; can’t you do better than that?

  “If it’s the same bloke. Could be an internet dating thing gone wrong.”

  Brough and Miller shook their heads in tandem.

  “What we need is to find the man who paid Gavin Foster to make contact with Phipps.” Brough wiped kung po sauce off his fingers with a lemon-scented wet wipe.

  “We can get a sketch artist in tomorrow,” offered Woodcock. It was the most he’d said all evening. Miller’s eyes twinkled and her smile widened with pride.

  “That should have been done before,” Brough snapped at him. Woodcock recoiled, looking hurt. Miller came to his defence.

  “Things have been pretty non-stop,” she pointed out. “Even you haven’t had time to think of that.”

  Brough looked at his plate and fumed in silence.

  “Good man, Woody,” Stevens slapped his D S on the shoulder. “We’ll get Henry to see to that in the morning. Get Foster in with the artist. Bit of luck we’ll soon have a face to look for.”

  He got to his feet, picked up his beer bottle and drained it. “Well, this has been lovely,” he belched. “No, I mean, we’ve made progress. See you bright and early. Get Granny settled in her new digs.”

  He jerked his head towards the door.

  “Going to help tidy up, sir,” Woodcock said quietly. He stacked a couple of plates as proof.

  Stevens gave a long, slow nod. He left before Miller could offer to see him out.

  Brough took another sip of his wine. Woodcock stood and gathered things together in a complete absence of urgency. This amused Brough. As did Miller’s growing impatience over at the door, waiting to escort him to the front door.

  He took another sip, relishing the cheap plonk more than it merited. Miller’s face was a picture of annoyance. Moving like the old woman he was dressed as, Brough stood up and tottered towards the door. Miller grunted in exasperation as he tackled the staircase, painfully slowly.

  “Just getting into character, dearie,” he called out in a cracked voice. Then, as himself, “You don’t expect me to go home like this, do you?” He bounded up the rest of the stairs and into the bathroom to change.

  Miller was wringing her hands. Woodcock was muttering something. “What?” she said a little too harshly and immediately regretted it. Woodcock repeated his query - did she want to save the plastic tubs or should he bin them?

  “Um...” It seemed the most difficult conundrum. “Normally, I’d wash them and keep them. They’re great for freezing leftovers, you know. But, it’s just something else to pack away, isn’t it? So, at this stage...”

  Woodcock nodded. He put the plastic trays in the flip top bin. They stood in awkward silence, smiling at each other.

  Inspiration! Miller snatched up the wine bottle and showed him there was still some in it. “May as well finish this. Won’t keep.”

  “May as well,” Woodcock held out his glass. Miller poured him the lion’s share then gestured for him to sit down again.

  They sat opposite each other, cradling their glasses in their hands. Neither of them drank; it would precipitate the end of the evening.

  Brough made a point of making a lot of noise as he came downstairs, stamping his feet, whistling, clearing his throat. It had the desired effect: the two detective sergeants looked suitably uncomfortable and embarrassed when he joined them in the kitchen. He was back in his suit and his face had a pink, scrubbed look. He examined the bottle.

  “Drunk all and left no friendly drop?” he said with exaggerated sadness.

  “Eh?” said Miller. She just wished he’d bugger off.

  “Shakespeare,” Brough said haughtily.

  “I thought it was Shiraz,” said Woodcock. Miller clapped her hands and laughed. Delightful!

  Brough gave up. “See you in the morning, Miller,” he nodded to Woodcock and then moved towards the door. “No, don’t get up. Early night will do us all some good.”

  He let himself out and only then wondered how he was going to get home.

  ***

  “Oh, look! I’d forgotten about this!” Miller produced another bottle of wine from somewhere. She thrust it towards Woodcock. “Would you do the honours?”

  “Um...” His eyes scanned the tabletop for the corkscrew.

  “I mean, it’s one less thing for me to pack away, isn’t it? Can go straight to the recycling.”

  “Hmm.” Woodcock plunged both arms of the corkscrew downwards. The tip cut through the bottle top. “This is a screw cap.”

  Miller cackled uproariously. “Is it? Oh, oh dear! Oh well, we’ll have to drink the lot, won’t we? It won’t keep.”

  “I suppose we will,” said Woodcock, filling her glass.

  “There’s a sofa in the living room,” Miller jerked her head towards the wall. “If you don’t mind all the boxes.”

  “I like sofas,” said Woodcock.

  ***

  Brough’s route took him through the town centre - and the fountain in the marketplace with its grey statue of a lady. Oh, pull yourself together, man! He hitched the strap of his holdall higher on his shoulder. He wasn’t looking forward to putting on its contents again in the morning. He thought he’d left all this undercover stuff behind when he’d been transferred to Dedley.

  It was dark but it wasn’t late. There were groups of drinkers ambling around, some more raucous than others. Somehow this increased Brough’s uneasiness. It made it difficult for him to spot who was real and who wasn’t.

  What was he thinking about? Fuck this nonsense! There was no woman in grey prowling around. The expert at the castle had told him the famous ghost didn’t deviate from her reputed path. Not that there were such things as ghosts at all - even if you bought into the magnetic recording explanation.

  Brough quickened his pace.

  A year ago he wouldn’t be having these thoughts. A year ago he knew what was what and what was not. That last case had thrown everything up in the air. It had ended unsatisfactorily - from his personal point of view. A conviction had been made but it didn’t account for everything.

  I didn’t solve that case, he reminded himself bitterly. It wasn’t closed as much as shoved under his psychological carpet.

  That’s why I’m determined to get on top of this one, he thought. The killer or killers would be found. Everything would be explained.

  Only then would he feel l
ike he had a grip on the world, on the way things worked.

  He headed away from the centre and down the hill towards the trendy flats bordering the industrial estate. Perhaps Alastair would have taken the initiative and made use of the key. Perhaps he would be there, waiting. Perhaps he would join Brough in a much-needed shower.

  Brough quickened his pace again but not from fear of any grey ladies who were definitely not lurking in every shadow.

  12.

  “Well, Ms Fogg likes to deal with new admissions herself, personally, like,” Janet at the front desk looked more hassled than usual. “But, well, she’s not here, and because it’s you - I suppose...”

  Miller asked when Ms Fogg was expected.

  “Hours ago,” Janet fretted. “It’s not like her to be late. Unless there’s something in her diary... I could check?”

  “Please,” said Miller.

  Beside her, in a wheelchair, Brough was already wilting beneath several layers of cardigan. Janet fluttered away into Fogg’s office.

  “This is bollocks, Miller,” Brough grumbled. “It’s not going to work.”

  “Keep in character,” Miller warned him. “Or there’ll be no Countdown for you this afternoon.”

  Brough swore. Miller wasn’t funny. He couldn’t help wondering what she’d got up to last night after he’d left her alone with that Woodentop. But he couldn’t ask. His own evening had ended unsatisfactorily; Alastair had not been there. Brough had had to settle for a long, hot shower and a wank. He hadn’t heard from Alastair - but then he wouldn’t, would he, having left his phone in the newly-restored incident room at Dedley station?

  Janet returned.

  “There’s nothing in the diary,” she chewed her upper lip. “I don’t know why she hasn’t called in if she’s poorly. But she’s never poorly. Should we be worried about her, do you think? What with all the... I mean.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Miller smiled, although both she and Brough were beginning to wonder. “My aunt...”

  “I can’t find the paperwork,” Janet confessed, “and it’s me what does the paperwork.”

  “Ms Fogg dealt with it,” Miller’s smile broadened. “She said because my mother is already a resident...”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Well, we’re a little short-staffed, as you know, so um...” She looked at her wristwatch with the intensity of someone about to give herself a Chinese burn. “While we get the room ready, you’re in luck.” She bent over Brough with her hands on her knees and addressed him as if he was a baby in a pram. “Who’s just in time for the activities then? Who’s a lucky lady? You are!”

  Brough squirmed. He couldn’t look this silly woman in the face. He chose instead to emulate old Mim’s stone-faced catatonia.

  “She’s shy with new people,” Miller explained. She grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and turned Brough around sharply. “This way?”

  She got him away from Janet’s prying eyes, pushing him a little too forcefully towards the double doors that led to the ground floor common room.

  “Umm, yes,” said Janet, redundantly.

  “I’ll bring her things in when I’ve got her settled,” Miller called over her shoulder. The double doors swung shut behind her, leaving a hassled and bemused Janet framed in the glass panel.

  Brough found he had to grip the armrests to stop himself falling from the chair.

  “Slow down!” he grunted.

  “I didn’t like the way she was looking at you,” Miller leant over and whispered to his wig.

  “Why we couldn’t let her in on this I don’t know...” That wasn’t true; he did know. Janet was still nominally a suspect. Fuck it; everyone was still a suspect.

  “Here we are, Auntie Betty,” Miller trilled as she pushed him into the common room. Some kind of exercise session was under way. Residents in armchairs were positioned in a circle around an enthusiastic woman in a tracksuit and baseball cap, throwing her limbs around to some pounding dub step music. Only a couple of the residents were making an effort to move their hands or arms in a bid to join in. The rest sat there blankly, not even drooling in time.

  Miller found a space and edged Brough’s chair into it.

  “There you are, Auntie Betty,” she cooed, applying the brake. Brough grabbed her by the wrist. He glared at her. “Now don’t be shy,” she peeled his fingers from her. “I’m sure you’ll make lots and lots of lovely new friends.”

  She planted a kiss in the air just above his forehead and hurried away.

  “Oh good!” the woman in the middle enthused. “New blood! And a five, six, seven, eight...” She lifted Brough’s hands from his lap and waved them from side to side.

  Brough sighed internally. Fuck my life.

  ***

  Miller took the opportunity to pop upstairs to visit her mother. Sandra was sitting on the bed, fully clothed and staring at her reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door.

  “Hello, Mum,” Miller tried a cheerful approach. “Not doing the activities today?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “It’s me, Mum. Mel.” Then she added for good measure, “Your daughter.”

  “When did she get to be so old?”

  Mel touched her own face and then realised her mum meant the old woman in the mirror. She sat beside her on the bed and took her hand in hers.

  “Are you all right, Mum? You can’t be shut away in here all day. It won’t do you any good.”

  Her mother’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to be here,” she grumbled. “I want to go back to my house. Fetch my daughter. She’ll take me.”

  Miller tried not to sigh. Her cheerful disposition evaporated. She watched their reflection. Is this how I’m going to end up, she wondered? Is this the Before and After of me?

  She stood up quickly and moved her mother’s dressing gown on its hanger so that it covered the mirror.

  “So you didn’t fancy the activities today then? Be with your friends?”

  This was greeted with a snort of derision.

  “Can I make you a cuppa, then?”

  This met no response at all. Miller stood dithering for a while.

  “This is an awful place,” her mother said suddenly. “They force you to be cheerful. Wave your arms about to this, sing along with that. Bingo every moment God sends. And the talks! History of the tea towel one day. Flora and fauna of Dedley the next. I don’t give a monkey’s taint. Why can’t they just leave us alone? I’d be all right on my own. Don’t get a minute’s peace. And as for privacy, forget it. They might as well undress us all on that traffic island out there and drive sightseers around us on the back of a lorry. And there’s no one to talk to. Not really. Not anymore.”

  She looked at her hands and interlaced her fingers. Perhaps she was remembering holding hands with Harold. Or even Dad!

  “You need to get some air, Mum. That’ll perk you up.”

  “I’ll do a turn of the garden when Mel gets here,” Sandra waved her away. “Now bugger off and leave me in peace.”

  This time Mel sighed. She couldn’t help it. She leaned over and kissed her mother’s forehead. “See you later, then,” she whispered.

  Feeling terrible with guilt and sadness vying for supremacy inside her, Miller trotted down the stairs. It was time to get her work head back on. With Brough in situ, it fell to her to liaise with Regional and see if Henry had got anything out of Foster and the sketch artist.

  She drove away, forcing herself not to look back at the Dorothy Beaumont.

  ***

  Brough resisted the best efforts of the activities coordinator. He wouldn’t lift a finger to join in with her fucking exercises. The patronising cow. Taking his lead from old Mim, he sat it out, staring blankly ahead with his head tilted slightly to allow a trickle of drool to run down to his
cardigan. It was quite relaxing, he found.

  At long last, the session was over. Care workers came to break up the circle, evicting the residents from their chairs in order to restore the common room to its usual configuration. Brough stayed where he was. He wished he’d been supplied with a motorised chair like Mim’s then he could have propelled himself around without giving too much away about how sound he was in wind and limb.

  Eventually, someone came along and grabbed the handles behind his head. He was shoved into a corner with a “There you go, love,” and left alone. His outrage at this treatment soon gave way to satisfaction. He was in prime position to watch the comings and goings and to eavesdrop on conversations. He could observe the staff and they wouldn’t pay him the slightest attention.

  If only it wasn’t so bloody hot! The layers of knitwear required by his disguise coupled with the overbearing central heating were conspiring to make him drowsy. He wondered how long he could go without nodding off.

  A care worker was busying around, collecting cups and making quite a racket about it. Brough was grateful for her noisy lack of consideration. He watched as she nipped between armchairs, piling crockery up her arm like it was some kind of world record attempt. The girl was singing along to something on the MP3 player that was hung around her neck. Even from across the room Brough could hear the relentless tss-tss-tss of the beat. Music today! That made him feel old. Fitting, really.

  Nevertheless he found his head drooping.

  A sudden crash and a squeal startled him from his dozing. The care worker had dropped all the crockery - a man had approached her unseen and unheard and had made her jump. Brough, readying himself to spring and save the girl from an assailant, relaxed as he realised it was all accidental. The man was a relative of a resident. The girl hadn’t noticed him come in. He had moved closer when she didn’t respond to his questions. As the man apologised and offered to help her tidy up, the girl laughed and told him not to worry about it. She even went as far as unplugging one of her earphones in order to facilitate conversation. Brough realised there was something familiar about the man. He wasn’t wearing the safari suit that constituted his work uniform but the mop top hair was unmistakable. Adrian Lawson the castle expert.