Grey Ladies

by William Stafford

  “We need to think of who might wear such apparel and where,” Henry clarified. Wheeler scowled at him for the interruption then she resumed her pacing around the table.

  “Safari park!” Woodcock stood up. Miller nodded in support of this idea.

  Henry nodded as though working his way through some complex mental arithmetic. He turned to Stevens.

  “Well done, Woodcock,” Stevens grunted.

  “What about the zoo?” Miller offered. “I mean, one of the victims was killed there. Loretta Phipps.”

  The others stared at her.

  “Loretta Phipps was killed at the castle, love - um - Sergeant.”

  Miller gaped at Stevens as though she was just realising what a complete and utter idiot he was.

  “And where’s the castle?” She was exasperated. “In the middle of the bloody zoo, that’s where!”

  The others looked at each other and then at Miller again.

  “Right!” Wheeler clapped her hands together. She glanced at her watch. “Right! You two. Millcock and Woodman. You should have time to get up to the zoo before it shuts and they all goes home.”

  The detective sergeants pushed their chairs away from the table and headed for the door. They heard Wheeler despatch Stevens and Miller to the safari park “just to be on the safe side, like” before they left.

  ***

  Brough managed to ditch Miller’s bloody mother at tea time. He went to his room and after a joyous stand-up piss and a stretch, decided to take a risk and go looking for old Mim. Most of the residents were watching, staring at, or dozing through quizzes and soap operas in the common room. Now was as good a time as any.

  He opted to leave the wheelchair behind. A change of outfit might be enough to throw anyone who spotted him and there was such a quick turnover of agency staff, he felt confident he wouldn’t be recognised. He would stay in character though and so he stooped his shoulders and made his hands into claws. The latex he had painted on their backs made his hands itch like mad and he was sure he must have sweated off a stone in weight since his arrival. He would be as fit as Alastair before long. He looked forward to sharing a shower and watching Alastair’s astonishment and delight as he peeled away the layers of cardigans and underskirts and tore away the latex like sun-damaged skin to reveal the vital and toned body of a young (youngish!) man contained within the husk of an old lady.

  He stuck his head out into the corridor. The coast was, as the saying goes, clear. Brough shuffled along in carpet slippers, keeping his head bowed and his movements shaky and slow. If anyone intercepted him, he would make some confused noises and appear distressed and they would sit him down somewhere and while they were fetching him a cup of tea, he could bugger off back to his own room.

  He winced and tried to make even less noise as he passed Sandra Miller’s door. She probably wasn’t in. She was probably watching television with the others but the last thing he wanted was her attention getting in the way of his exploration.

  He passed the storeroom where Kyrie Billings had been strangled and knitting-needled to death. The yellow police tape was already gone - Pamela Fogg had no doubt had kittens about how it looked to potential residents - and the cupboard was back in use. Normal service had been resumed. Brough hoped Kyrie Billings had a better sort of memorial elsewhere.

  He almost went past Mim’s door - in fact he did. It was only when he was retracing his steps and checking the nameplates on the doors that it occurred to him that the “Miriam Lawson” advertised in sloppy block capitals on the handwritten card was the woman he was looking for.

  He tried the handle. The door was locked but this was no barrier to Brough. His experience undercover in a completely different situation had left him with some valuable skills that you don’t acquire at copper college. He swiped the card key he had swiped from one of the agency workers earlier that day. A tiny light bulb above the lock flashed green. He was in!

  Mim’s room was in darkness. It lacked the old people smell that permeated most of the building despite the plug-in air fresheners at every turn - the blend of cabbage, urine and medicated liniments that would not go away. But here there was no hint of it. Perhaps, of all her faculties, Mim had retained bladder control when most of the rest of her had failed her.

  There were photographs in frames. Some of them caught the light from the setting sun. A faded black-and-white wedding photo: the happy couple. Mim had been a bit of a looker, it appeared, and the groom bore more than a passing resemblance to Adrian the castle expert. She was his mother, then, Brough reasoned. There were pictures of Adrian as a schoolboy. There were ornaments aplenty: ceramic kittens peering out of boots, a couple of bunches of artificial flowers, and a snow globe of Dedley Castle - it took all of Brough’s self-restraint not to pick it up and shake it. He must disturb nothing. Not even a fleck of glittery snow.

  He opened the wardrobe by both doors, grimacing at the creak they made. He froze. No one came. Mim’s clothes hung in regimented order. There weren’t many of them and they were all very similar. It looked as though she and Brough shopped at the same charity shops; and then Brough shuddered to think that the clothes he was wearing at that moment had once belonged to women like Mim. He was in dead women’s clothes; it was more than likely.

  It was another reason to get this case closed as quickly as possible.

  At the bottom of the wardrobe there was a pair of boots. Thick, heavy-soled and not the sort of thing you’d expect to see Mim wearing in any context.

  Brough picked one up and examined it. He had seen Adrian Lawson wearing such a pair at the castle.

  Now, why would Adrian Lawson keep a pair of his work boots in his mother’s care home closet?

  Before Brough had time to answer that question and explore the room any further, the sound of familiar beeping came from the corridor.

  Mim’s wheelchair!

  Brough was at once relieved that nothing had happened to the old girl and also alarmed at his imminent discovery in her room. He broke out of the frozen posture he had adopted, and was thrown into a momentary panic. He shut the wardrobe doors, hoping their squeal wouldn’t be heard outside then he threw himself over the bed, scrabbling to the far side, away from the door. He was still edging his body under the bed when, with bumps and beeps the wheelchair came into the room.

  He heard the door close and the electronic lock click into place. He could see the rims of the wheels denting the carpet between the bed and the wardrobe. He could see Mim’s carpet slippers on the footplate.

  My, what big feet you have!

  He’d never noticed before. Mim’s feet were easily the same as his size 9s, perhaps bigger. Do feet keep growing as you get older? Brough was aware that noses did. Earlobes too. While everything else shrank and shrivelled. He stared at the slippers in fascination. And then they did something he had not anticipated. They rose from the footplate and came down on the carpet. With what seemed like no effort at all, Mim stood up.

  Brough tried not to gasp. He watched Mim’s big feet as she pushed the chair into a corner. He heard the wardrobe squeal open and he felt the bed curve above him as Mim sat on it. The slippers were kicked off. They were joined on the carpet by her stockings. Brough found himself facing a pair of hairy ankles. Did old women have such hairy legs? And would the hair have turned grey by now or have been worn away by age? The hair on these lower legs was as dark and luxuriant, Brough supposed you’d call it, as the hair on his own.

  The slippers and stockings were soon joined by Mim’s other garments. The bed creaked - was she going to bed naked? Brough shuddered.

  He heard the clothes hangers rattle and jangle. Mim was withdrawing something from the bottom of the wardrobe. A box. She put the box on the carpet and removed its lid. Brough couldn’t see what was in it. He listened as Mim got dressed. Not in her nightie or even another set of old lady d
aywear. She was putting on a safari suit, including those very boots Brough had discovered.

  Within minutes her transformation into Adrian Lawson was complete. The old lady clothes were gathered up and shoved into the bottom of the wardrobe. The box, now empty, the slippers, stockings and all, were rammed haphazardly in and the doors pushed part of the way shut, their squeals curtailed like murdered mice.

  Brough repositioned himself so that his face was looking up at the man in the room, for he had given up any idea that Mim was a little old lady. Released from its confinement under the wig, Adrian Lawson’s mop top hair was flatter than usual. He was walking around the room, doing something as he paced. What was he doing?

  Brough had to withdraw his face pretty quickly to avoid being spotted but not before he had seen what Adrian Lawson was up to.

  He had a length of sturdy rope in his hands and was using it to fashion a noose.

  ***

  The guide up at the castle was shaking her head so much Miller was surprised she could even see the photocopied sketch never mind comment on it.

  “He’s not here,” the girl was saying, gesturing at the empty office around them. She was most definitely not wearing a safari suit and pith helmet. None of the staff Miller and Woodcock had encountered on their way from the main entrance up to the castle had been. They were all sporting the dark green polo shirts and combat trousers that formed their uniform.

  “But you do recognise him?” Woodcock prompted.

  “Oh yeah. That’s Doctor Lawson. He’s always dressing up. Says it’s for the school parties but I think he just likes it. Knight in armour one day, Jungle Jim the next. Absolute nutter.”

  “Do you know where we might find him?”

  “I’m not his keeper.” The girl seemed offended.

  “Perhaps you have an address or a number?” Woodcock held his pencil poised over his notebook.

  Miller nudged him. “I think we might have his number.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Miller explained about Gavin Foster. He had set up the online relationship with Loretta Phipps but Phipps had really been in contact with Lawson all along. She had sent him text messages and probably called him too. The number in her phone wouldn’t be Foster’s it would be Lawson’s.

  “Genius!” Woodcock marvelled. “It’s probably dead - he’s probably chucked it by now but you phone that in to Serious while I get an address from this young lady.”

  “I don’t know his address,” she said flatly, folding her arms. “But he probably wouldn’t be there any road. Spends all his time at the home, doe he? His mum’s there.”

  “Which home might that be?” Miller tried to keep the concern from her voice.

  The girl shrugged. “The one down the road. The Dorothy Something.”

  Miller gripped Woodcock’s forearm. “Come on!” she said.

  ***

  Still under the bed, Brough watched and listened as Lawson continued his preparations. The room, so tidy when Brough had first entered, was now a mess. Clothes and props were strewn everywhere.

  He doesn’t care anymore, Brough realised. This is the endgame. And that noose is a part of it.

  Was Lawson going to string himself up? Much as Brough would have liked to allow it, Lawson’s suicide would make the investigation more difficult to put to bed. Answers were needed. Reasons. Motive. Why had he gone to such extravagant lengths to kills those people? And why them?

  Brough heard the door open and close again. Lawson had left. Brough scrambled from under the bed and stood up. Bits of old Mim were everywhere, including the latex prosthetics Lawson had used to transform his facial features. On the one hand, Brough felt a begrudging admiration for the man’s skill and tenacity. On the other - well, it was all a bit Scooby Doo.

  Brough opened the door and looked out into the corridor. It was empty. He stepped out and closed the door behind him. He turned the corner and almost collided with Sandra Miller.

  “Hullo, love!” she cried. “Stretching your legs, am you? Don’t blame you. Have you seen my daughter? I’ve got some photo albums if you like.”

  “Get out of the way!” Brough growled. Sandra’s eyebrows flew upwards. He dodged around her and ran off. Sandra watched him go.

  “Well, isn’t that pissing charming?” she said.

  Dispensing with all pretence, Brough hurried along to the exit. He had to catch Lawson before he left. Crawling out from under the bed and surprising him would have put Brough at too much of a disadvantage. Now things were out in the open, he stood more of a chance of surviving the encounter.

  He swore again for leaving his phone in the incident room. He thought about going to the main entrance and commandeering Janet’s landline to put in a call to Regional. There was no time. Lawson would be in the car park by now. Brough increased his jogging speed. He was just about to push his way through a fire exit when his arm was caught by a determined hand.

  “Oh no, you don’t!” laughed the activities coordinator. “Time for disco aerobics for you, young lady.”

  She tried to drag Brough up the corridor towards the staff room. Brough wriggled and grunted but couldn’t pull himself free.

  “You’re a stubborn one!” the activities coordinator gasped. “Plenty of energy! That’s what I like to see!”

  “Oh, fuck off!” said Brough and punched her in the face.

  ***

  “Come on come on come on!” Miller was trying to phone Brough but could only get through to his voicemail. She and Woodcock were hurrying to Miller’s car.

  “D S phone home,” Woodcock panted.

  “What?”

  “Phone the home!” Woodcock elucidated. “They can get him.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” Miller wailed.

  “What?”

  She fumbled the key into the door and they got in. “We don’t know who we can trust up at that place. I don’t want to blow his cover.”

  The engine choked and spluttered into life. Miller steered it, a little quicker than the speed limit allowed, towards the Dorothy Beaumont.

  ***

  Brough was out! He’d left the activities coordinator bloody-nosed and bloody-minded on the carpet and had bounded down the steps and out through the main entrance. He heard Janet’s voice call after him that he wasn’t allowed to do that but he kept moving. The uniforms on guard duty didn’t even bother to give chase, reasoning they were after people coming in.

  Lawson’s land rover was gone. Brough could only guess where. Back to the zoo. As his slippered feet pounded the pavements, he tried to get his mind to think as fast as his legs. The noose. The noose. What had the noose got to do with it? He rifled through his memory, trying to replay everything Lawson had ever said to him. Where did a noose figure in all of that?

  Brough shed a cardigan, then another, leaving them in his wake like sloughed skins. He passed the college and a pub and came to the top of Castle Hillock. The main entrance to the zoo wasn’t far away. Just over the crest and a few hundred yards down. But it was gone closing time. It would be locked.

  Brough dithered a little, his breath lifting his heavy bra. He took off a blouse and dropped it in the road. A passing wag in a van wolf-whistled. Hilarious.

  Brough glanced around. The pub car park backed onto the zoo’s perimeter wall. In that wall was a gate, used to admit deliveries of bananas and monkey nuts and whatever else it was the zoo needed. Perhaps, like generations of Dedley kids before him, Brough could scale the gate or the wall at some point and gain illicit access to the grounds?

  It was worth a try.

  And there was Lawson’s land rover, abandoned with the driver’s door open. The gate was closed but unlocked, its padlock discarded like a piece of litter.

  He really doesn’t care anymore, Brough not
ed. It spurred him on and through the gate. Whatever Lawson was up to, it had to be stopped.

  ***

  Miller jerked the car to an abrupt halt, half up on the pavement outside the Dorothy Beaumont. She and Woodcock dashed to the main entrance. Janet was not at the front desk. No one was. The detectives made their way up the stairs to the first floor common room. Pulsating disco music assaulted their ears.

  They walked into a scene of residents in a circle, bobbing up and down, on walking sticks and walking frames, or just nodding in chairs, while Janet at their centre made her best attempt at conducting the exercise class. A woman in a tracksuit was being fussed over by two care workers, who were dabbing at her bloody nose with clumps of cotton wool.

  Of Brough there was no sign.

  “You check his room,” Miller told Woodcock. “I’m going to check on Mum.”

  ***

  Torchlight struck Pamela Fogg harshly in the face. She squinted against it and whimpered. She whimpered again when a hand yanked the gag roughly from her mouth.

  “I don’t need to tell you not to make a noise, do I?” Lawson warned. He almost sounded bored. Fogg shook her head emphatically.

  “Good.” Lawson turned the torch beam away from her and onto himself. From below his chin, the light threw his features into grotesque relief, like a babysitter trying to scare children. “Hello, Pam.”

  “You!” Fogg’s surprise escaped her in a gasp.

  “And you remember Mother, of course.” He shone the torch across the dungeon to where a figure was slumped against the wall. In a pretty cotton dress that was soiled with mildew and moss, the skeletal remains of Mrs Miriam Lawson grinned vacantly. Pam Fogg screamed. Lawson struck her with the heel of the torch.