Grey Ladies

by William Stafford

  “She’s not here,” the girl said, gesturing at the largely empty common room. “Must be in her room. You know where that is, don’t you, chick?”

  “I surely do,” Adrian Lawson beamed. He took another glance around the room just in case.

  “She’ll be pleased to see you. She’s a quiet one, that Mim.”

  “Yes,” Lawson nodded. “I hope she’s no trouble.”

  “Could do with a few more like her,” the girl laughed. Lawson laughed and went out. The girl shuffled into the kitchenette area, banged a few cupboard doors before returning with a dustpan and brush and a bin bag. She reattached her earphone and the music resumed.

  Interesting, Brough reflected. Lawson is related to the moving corpse. What was he, her son? Her grandson? Brough decided the former was more likely. He wasn’t as young as he looked from a distance, Brough remembered. Don’t let the haircut fool you.

  A dutiful relative paying a visit. Will I have to do that? Or will I end up on the receiving end, a burden for whoever was still around to visit me?

  Brough doubted Lawson would get much joy from old Mim. My parents are lucky, he considered. To still have their health, their faculties and each other, and they weren’t exactly spring onions themselves. No, not onions; chickens.

  Brough’s head was foggy. Perhaps he could ask the girl for a cup of coffee. A dose of caffeine might keep him awake.

  He watched the girl clear up the broken crockery but she breezed away before he could catch her eye. Shit.

  If anything it was hotter in that room. At last he understood Mim’s insistence on being by the window. The view wasn’t up to much but at least there was a chance of a bit of fresh air. If the bastards didn’t close the window... Brough’s head dropped to his chest and then his neck jerked it back upright so violently it hurt.

  Must stay awake, Brough told himself. Must stay awake. Muzzzzzzz...

  ***

  Miller and Henry were looking at the sketch the artist had drawn, following a description reluctantly given by Gavin Foster.

  “Bit peculiar,” was Henry’s assessment. He turned the paper on its side as if that would make the face more recognisable.

  “Hmmm,” said Miller. “Those eyes. They’ve done a lot of smiling, my mum would say.” A pang of guilt stabbed her in the chest as she remembered Sandra’s sadness from earlier.

  “That moustache!” Henry scoffed. “Do people -well, men, I mean - still wear them like that? Did they ever wear them like that?”

  “In films,” said Miller. “You don’t suppose he was wearing a disguise, do you, sir?”

  “Who? Foster?”

  “The killer. The bloke who arranged to meet Loretta Phipps by proxy.”

  “I suppose...” Henry didn’t sound convinced. “I mean, do people do that? Really?”

  “Well -” Miller was about to point out that one of their number was doing exactly that up at the rest home but she was interrupted by the arrival of Stevens and, of course, not far behind him, Woodcock.

  “Gentlemen,” Henry acknowledged them, charitably.

  Miller nodded. Stevens ignored her. “Hello, Gary,” she smiled.

  Woodcock nodded, looking sheepish. He glanced to see if Stevens had noticed but Stevens had snatched up the sketch and was holding it high.

  “Christ almighty,” he muttered. “If someone like that was roaming around, we’d notice, wouldn’t we? I know there’s a lot of freaks in this town but Christ.”

  “D S Miller here tends to think it’s a disguise,” Henry smirked. Miller added him to her list of faces she’d like to slap.

  “Could be...” said Woodcock in support. Miller sent him a grateful look but he was looking pointedly at the drawing.

  “More likely that twat is having us on,” grunted Stevens, tossing the paper across the table.

  “Who? The sketch artist?” Henry retrieved the picture. “I think he’s very good. Might ask him to paint a TARDIS in my son’s bedroom.”

  “The witness,” Stevens snarled. “If he thinks we’re going to swallow that - that - piece of shit - Where is he? Has he gone?”

  Henry made an expansive gesture that only meant he didn’t know.

  “Fancy dress,” said Miller. The men stared at her. “Perhaps someone in a fancy dress shop will recognise the moustache. Perhaps they’ll have sold one recently. And it tallies with the idea of the killer dressing up as the ghost of the old woman. We can ask about that as well.”

  The men continued to stare. Then Henry began to nod.

  “Miller, Woodcock, you get down the shops. I’ll get this photocopied before you go.” He dashed out, bearing the drawing before him like a riot shield.

  “Well,” Stevens parked a buttock on the edge of the table, “isn’t this cosy?”

  “Do you want to come with us, sir?” Woodcock offered. Stevens baulked as if he’d been offered a shit-flavoured crisp.

  “Traipsing round the shops isn’t my style. You two go. And try and keep your hands off each other.” The blush that sprang to their cheeks surprised him. “Well, well!” he slapped Woodcock’s upper arm. “You dirty dog!”

  The detective sergeants couldn’t get out of there fast enough with the sound of Stevens’s derision ringing in their ears.

  “Sorry about that,” Woodcock mumbled as he and Miller made their way to the car park.

  “Not your fault the man’s a prick,” said Miller. “Do you want to come in mine?”

  Woodcock blushed again. “Pardon?”

  “My car,” Miller clarified. She shook her car keys as a visual aid. “Or don’t tell me you’d rather be all macho and do the driving?”

  “Y-yours is fine,” Woodcock found he had to clear his throat.

  “Come on then. Shopping centre first. Think there’s a couple of contenders in there we can start with.” Miller strode off to her car. Woodcock hurried to keep up.

  ***

  Pamela Fogg woke up. Realisation of her surroundings hit her like oncoming traffic. She cried out, which reminded her she had worn her throat sore from shouting. No one would hear. No one would come. The gag that was cutting into the corners of her mouth had more than a little to do with that.

  Her arms were numb. They had been suspended above her head for hours. She could barely move her fingers. Her back was cold. Dampness had seeped through her clothing from the dank stone wall behind her and the floor beneath. She shifted about uncomfortably. Her head flopped forwards.

  Perhaps I’ve been left here to die, she wondered not for the first time. Perhaps her abductor had done all he wanted to do just by getting her here to this place. Perhaps he would be back - if there was more he wanted to do.

  She shivered to think what that might be. But would that be preferable to being abandoned, left there to starve and to rot?

  Sparing her throat, Pamela Fogg wept in snivelling silence.

  What had she done to deserve this? It made no sense. Try as she might, she could not think who would want to do this to her.

  What had she ever done to anyone?

  ***

  Miller had to drive around for half an hour before she could find a parking space. The shopping centre - she refused to call it a ‘mall’, mainly because she wasn’t sure if it was pronounced as ‘moll’ or ‘maul’ - three miles from Dedley town centre was always busy. All the major retailers had moved there, leaching business from the high street and making it nigh on impossible for the small local businesses to survive. Perhaps I’m unusual, Miller considered, I’m not that big on shopping. I buy my shoes online - another good way to kill off local businesses. I just haven’t the time to -

  She realised Woodcock was saying something. He’d been quiet during the drive, looking up listings for fancy dress shops on his smart phone. Now as she was locking the car
he was mumbling something about pulling up onto the kerb at the main entrance and running indoors like they do on the telly. She looked at him across the roof of the car. It was cute how he was so nervous.

  “You sound like D I Brough,” she told him. “He watches too many police programmes.” A horrifying thought struck her: what if he had other similarities to the detective inspector? Last night had hardly been evidence either way...

  “Listen,” Woodcock cleared his throat. “Last night -”

  “It’s okay,” she smiled. “Let’s not talk about it during work, okay?”

  “But, um...”

  They weaved their way through the tightly parked cars. Woodcock looked embarrassed. It was all Miller could do not to reach out and give his hand a squeeze. She fantasised about the two of them walking around the moll - maul - mole holding hands like a normal couple.

  Woodcock skipped ahead to open the door for her. It was automatic and slid away before he could grasp it. Miller found some kind of vague significance in that.

  “It’s all right,” she told him, “falling asleep, I mean. I’m glad you felt enough at home to...”

  “Um.” He was standing there as red and as gaping like a pillar-box.

  “You do realise people think we were at it?”

  The poor man looked at his feet. He felt like he was being strangled by the invisible man.

  “It’s okay,” Miller punched him on the upper arm. “Let them think what they like.”

  She grabbed his lapel and pulled him into the air-conditioned, Muzak-polluted atmosphere of the shopping centre. Once the doors had swished shut behind them, spaceship style, Miller and Woodcock put their police faces on. She consulted the colourful map and he followed the GPS on his phone. They headed off in different directions at first.

  “Stick with me,” Miller insisted. “Can’t have you wandering off and getting lost.” Woodcock looked suitably chastened until he saw she was smiling. He smiled back.

  They headed for the first fancy dress shop. Miller waggled a finger in his face. “And don’t go asking for sweets.”

  ***

  Fancee-Fancee was a double-fronted gaudy establishment, its windows crowded with glittery wares. Mannequins modelled pirate costumes, clown suits and sexy, wipe-offable nurse outfits. Miller waited. Eventually, the penny dropped and Woodcock opened the door.

  They stepped into an Aladdin’s cave of garish clothes. Novelty items hung from the ceiling: plastic chains, rubber spiders, witches’ cauldrons. Woodcock craned his neck, taking it all in. Miller headed directly for the counter where a man in a suit was arguing with a woman with an orange face. Whether this was a demonstration of the stage make-up or her everyday look, Miller would not like to guess.

  There seemed to be some dispute about a Viking costume the man was returning. The woman was insisting the helmet should have wings on it. The man was standing his ground saying that Vikings didn’t have wings on their helmets. The woman said that that was as maybe but there were definitely wings on this particular helmet when he took it. She was unable to return his deposit unless he produced the missing wings. It was policy.

  The man announced he hadn’t time for this, declared the whole affair to be a fucking rip-off, shoved his way past Woodcock and left the shop, deposit-less.

  Behind the counter, the woman turned the page of her celebrity magazine.

  Miller and Woodcock held up their badges but the woman didn’t glance at them.

  “Police,” said Woodcock.

  “Over there, past the astronauts,” the woman nodded her head without looking up.

  “No, we are the police.”

  This got them the once over and an arched eyebrow. “Don’t they provide the uniforms?”

  As with the face paint, it was unclear whether this was a deliberate attempt at humour. Miller held up a photocopy of the police artist’s sketch. “Got a moustache like this?”

  “To rent or to buy?”

  “You can rent a moustache?” Woodcock marvelled, fingering his own sub-Stevens effort.

  “You stock them?” Miller handed the drawing over. The woman scrutinised the picture and pulled a face.

  “Can do you a Fu Manchu or a Yosemite Sam,” she offered. “Or there’s your Hitler and your Victorian handlebar. Any good?”

  “We’re not after the moustache but the bloke that might have bought it. Have you seen him?”

  The woman held the drawing at arm’s length. She shook her head.

  “And you’re sure?”

  “Yes. And if I had seen him I wouldn’t recognise him, would I? ‘Cause he wouldn’t have been wearing the moustache when he came in, would he?”

  Miller and Woodcock were stunned into silence. They glanced at each other open-mouthed. They hadn’t thought of that.

  “So you don’t stock this particular model?” Woodcock sounded disappointed. The woman held out the drawing for him to take.

  “Not our thing, love. Try Patsy’s on the lower level.”

  “It’s on our list,” Miller offered a tight little smile. She nodded to Woodcock and they headed for the door.

  “Course, he could have bought it online!” the orange woman called after them.

  “Thank you,” Woodcock called back as he held the door for Miller.

  “Shit,” said Miller. “If he got it online, we’re screwed.”

  “Let’s try Patsy’s first,” Woodcock attempted to keep his spirits up. He looked at his phone. “This way. Come on.”

  He headed for the escalator that would convey them to the lower level. Miller followed. She hadn’t really expected to hit the jackpot at the first place they tried. Things were never that simple.

  She looked at the back of Woodcock’s head, a couple of steps below her. There was just the hint of a bald patch beginning to show. She liked it. It was manly. Now, Brough, on the other hand, who was about the same age, had a thick head - of hair, she meant in this case. Thick, luxuriant, chestnut brown -

  Her ankle wobbled as her step fed into the floor. Luckily, Woodcock didn’t see her ungainly stumble. He was looking at his phone. He pointed directly ahead. Miller followed.

  They came to a shop that sold Cornish pasties. Woodcock’s face was a picture of confusion. Miller snatched his phone and looked at it.

  “You spelled Patsy wrong,” she told him, trying not to sound annoyed or condescending.

  “It’s these fingers,” Woodcock moaned. “Clumsy when it comes to little buttons.”

  They locked eyes. Miller watched his face turn red as he thought about what he’d said. She laughed.

  “This way,” she said, enjoying his embarrassment. It was endearing. Unlike Brough. Now, he...

  She dismissed the detective inspector from her thoughts and focussed on the matter at hand. They consulted the map again. Woodcock’s phone battery gave up the ghost. They asked a Polish man in a luminous tabard pushing a mop and bucket on wheels. They could not find a shop called Patsy’s.

  They found a security guard munching doughnuts by a fire exit.

  “Nah, mate,” he addressed Woodcock, ignoring Miller completely. “Tay a shop, is it? It’s more of a wodger-callit, a stall. That’s it. It’s a stall. Must be round here somewhere.” He cast a glance around. “Down the far end, I think, mate. Behind the wodger-callems, pulses, and the sunglasses stand.”

  Woodcock thanked him. He and Miller walked away.

  “Likes dressing up, does she?” the guard called after them. Woodcock shuddered. Miller laughed.

  “We can if you like,” she said, not only to see him blush.

  ***

  Brough had been wheeled to his room. He’d tried to make his own way there but one of the care workers had insisted on grabbing the handles and shoving him into the lift. She pushed him along th
e first floor corridor as if racing some invisible opponent.

  “There you go, dear,” she sounded bored. She closed the door a little too loudly and Brough was alone and in private at last.

  “Thank...fuck...” He stretched his legs and climbed from the wheelchair. He stretched his arms and arched his back. He pulled off his wig and scratched his head.

  This had been Harold’s room. Brough recognised it from an earlier visit. Now, stripped of all personal effects, it looked Spartan and institutional. A few pictures from home and a couple of knickknacks here and there and -

  Brough stopped himself. What was he thinking? He wasn’t going to be there long enough to make himself at home.

  He went to the en suite, pulled up his skirt and pissed standing up. He took care to wipe drops from the rim. He didn’t want to arouse suspicions from the cleaners. He flushed.

  A gentle knocking at the door threw him into sudden panic. He snatched up his wig from the bed and thrust it onto his head.

  “Yes?” he said weakly, bounding into the wheelchair.

  “Cooee,” said a female voice, almost as cracked as his parody one.

  “Come in!” Brough called. He braced himself and watched the door open slowly.

  “Hello, chick,” said Sandra Miller, bustling in. “I’ve brought biscuits.”

  13.

  Patsy’s was the last in the line of stalls that ran along the centre of the floor space. Its shelves formed three sides of a square and only came up to Woodcock’s chest. Costumes folded in thick plastic bags hung from hooks. Polystyrene heads were lined along the top shelves like executed traitors; their punishment included wearing sequinned bowler hats and feather boas.

  The stall was attended by a little man in a brown overall. He sported a greasy comb-over but his overall demeanour was attentive and enthusiastic. Perhaps because of his lowlier status in terms of placement in the mall, he had to work harder to make a sale.