Dead Old

by Maureen Carter

  Look at Kev and Robbie. If Jake hadn’t fixed them up they’d still be getting buggered about in the kids’ home. Now they had a place of their own. OK, it was a tatty flat in an empty tower block, but sod it: if the council couldn’t be arsed to knock the friggin’ thing down, whose lookout was that? Kev and Robbie were happy enough. Jake wanted young Davy in there as well. Davy was his star pupil: made the Artful Dodger look like a sore thumb. And with a face like that he could get away with murder. Anyway, Jake liked to keep an eye on his boys. He’d given them a good trade, had Jake. They made a decent enough living.

  He laughed out loud, ignoring the uneasy glances in his direction. Oh, Jay, my son. That was good. That was very good.

  *

  An hour in a windowless room with Marty Skelton was bad. Chuck in a pair of cheesy, vomit-sodden trainers and the man’s intermittent flatulence, and terminal traffic duty had its attractions. Whichever way you looked at it, Bev reckoned Interview Room One was going to need more than a dose of Jeyes and a squirt of polish before it was back to normal. As for Oz, he’d pushed his chair as far from the olfactory action as it would go.

  “Run it past me one more time,” Bev sighed, and raked a hand through hair she was itching to wash. Marty was rolling yet another fag: liquorice paper and a parsimonious pinch of shag. The tin ashtray in the middle of the metal table already held six damp butts that looked like the droppings of a constipated rodent. A corresponding number of empty coffee cups was scattered across the tabletop. What with the nicotine and the caffeine, Marty couldn’t keep his skinny frame still. His feet were bouncing on the sludge-coloured lino and a tic fluttered in his right eyelid. He was either on something or up to something. As for his movements during the relevant hours of the inquiry, he hadn’t budged an inch.

  “You can have it as often as you like, darlin’.” Either the tic was getting worse or he’d just winked. Bev pursed her lips and tapped her fingers on the table; Marty eventually got the picture. “I’ve told you what happened,” he added. “It ain’t gonna change.”

  The fact that Marty had eschewed a brief suggested there were enough witnesses to back him up. Normally, he wouldn’t open his mouth without a tame lawyer checking every syllable. According to Marty, while the old woman was getting killed he’d been at the Red Lion getting rat-arsed. He’d stopped off for curry and chips on the way home, and taken both food and a bottle of Johnnie Walker to bed. Partway through the fourth telling, Bev’s gaze drifted to the big-breasted women tattooed on Marty’s arms. Her eyes widened as naked female flesh appeared to undulate in time to the flexing of what remained of Marty’s muscles. She raised an eyebrow; the artwork made quite a change from eagles or anchors, and it was a damn sight more riveting than his alibi.

  “What about when you were in bed?” Oz asked. “Did you hear anything suspicious?”

  Bev almost jumped at the sound of Oz’s voice, switching her attention back to the proceedings. But Marty in bed surrounded by greasy foil containers was not a thought she wanted to hold. “Did you get up in the night?” She knew as soon as the words were out they’d been a mistake.

  “Sure did.” He gave a lewd hand gesture just in case the double entendre had passed them by.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Marty.” Again, it wasn’t the aptest turn of phrase.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, darlin’.” He sucked smoke through ill-fitting dentures and gently lifted a buttock. “I’ll tell you one more time. I went to bed, I went to sleep and I was out of it. Nothing short of nook-lear would have woke me.”

  Bev curled a lip. Oz was surreptitiously sniffing his new Hugo Boss jacket. Eau de low-life. Great. She scraped her chair back. They wouldn’t get any more. Not yet. Marty could sweat. Actually Marty didn’t need permission. He was sweating like a pig on a spit.

  Davy was dreading it. Jake would go ballistic. Davy was watching him now, drinking coffee over by the window. Starbucks was where they always met after working the Bullring. Davy hadn’t got the bottle to join him yet. He didn’t know how he was going to tell Jake he wanted out. Thing was, Jake had been dead good to him, a bit like Davy imagined a dad would be. Except that was stupid. Davy might not look it but he was seventeen and he reckoned Jake was only a few years older. He couldn’t really explain but right from the word go, Jake had made him feel good: made him feel he was somebody.

  Before Jake, Davy’s mates had all been losers. Christ, they were either banged up in Feltham or dodging bullets in Basra. Then a few months back Jake had come up to Davy in Kings Heath High Street. He was tall and weird-looking, what with the spikes and the leathers, but he was smart. Jake was the smartest guy Davy had ever known. So Davy couldn’t believe it when Jake said he could join the gang. Had to prove himself, of course, pick a pocket or three, that sort of thing. But Jake had shown him the ropes and Davy had been on the payroll ever since. Davy had never been so minted. But it wasn’t just the cash. It was being with Jake. Jake was cool. And he used his head. They never took unnecessary risks. Took everything else, though.

  Davy’s smile faded. They’d been targeting coffin-dodgers recently. Like everything else, it was Jake’s call. It was good practice, he reckoned, and easy money. But Davy hadn’t liked it; specially not the knocking them about. Now Davy wanted out. Jake wouldn’t like it. And there were times you didn’t question Jake.

  “What the–?” Bev was lost for a fitting expletive. It’d be a pisser to be late for the guv’s briefing but it wasn’t every day you saw Spiderman emerging from the gents at Highgate. A young PC with a cheeky grin waited outside, leaning casually against the wall. “It’s OK, Sarge. He’s with me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, don’t tell me: the Incredible Hulk’s in the canteen.”

  “Batman, actually. And he’s in Interview Two.”

  Of course: the early shout at Spaghetti Junction. Fathers 4 Justice making another big show. Ironic, really; a lot of women Bev came across couldn’t trace their kids’ dads for love nor money. F4J on the other hand had a higher profile than Father Christmas.

  Spiderman almost lost a limb when he lunged at Bev, but he was only pointing out a few crumbs on her jacket. She’d just wolfed down a pasty at her desk, an attack of the munchies being the only legacy of the morning’s hangover. Her rushed break had turned into a working lunch, owing to the fact the phone never stopped ringing. Though come to think of it, apart from the feedback from the Red Lion, the calls had been more domestic than detective duties. Her offer on a house in Highbury Road had been slung out. And her mum wondered if she could pop into Sainsbury’s on the way home. Home? Why the hell she’d moved out of her last place before securing the next she’d never know. She brushed at the crumbs, reckoning if the pasty had been within a hundred miles of Cornwall, she was Kylie Minogue.

  Bev watched as Spiderman and his police escort entered the lift, then glanced round with a frown. The clack of high heels echoing along the corridor was another thing you didn’t often come across at Highgate. A woman came into sight, looking lost. Bev had seen her before but had to think for a second before placing her. Of course. Harry Gough’s ladyfriend from this morning. The pathologist had probably left her at reception while he had a word with the coroner’s officer.

  “If you’re after the ladies, you’ve just passed it,” Bev called. “Turn round, keep going and it’s last door on the right.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The loo.” Bev was alongside the woman now. She pointed the way and gave her a friendly smile before opening the conference room door. “This is a briefing, sweetheart. The public’s not allowed in.”

  The room wasn’t big and the twenty-strong squad made it appear even smaller. There was tension in the air, along with the sort of frisson that only came with a murder inquiry. As every man and woman in the room knew, a killer was out there. And if they didn’t catch him, they could be looking at another victim.

  Bev was about to perch on a desk at the back but the guv pointed out a seat next
to him up front. She hadn’t seen Byford since Friday. By the look of him, he’d had a couple of late nights. His complexion was sallow at the best of times but today the skin around his eyes looked bruised and the lines on his face appeared deeper than normal. What was he now? Fifty-two? Fifty-three? Bev reckoned he was beginning to look it.

  She gave Bernie Flowers a quick nod as she sat down, which he returned with a “Wotcha, Bev.” Bernie was chief of the police news bureau. He looked like a junior cabinet minister with his grey suits, grey ties and silver-rimmed specs, but in fact he was one of the sharpest operators around. Word had it he’d edited a national mass-circulation tabloid till a drink problem forced him out. Not long after his arrival at Highgate, one of the station clowns had made some crack about the sun never setting over the yardarm. No one knew exactly what Bernie said in response but the joke was never repeated.

  Bev was still smiling at the recollection as Byford rose and prepared to address the troops. Her smile was still there seconds later as the door at the back of the room swung open and almost every head turned to catch the late arrival. The smile froze.

  The guv was welcoming the new DI – and Bev wanted to die.

  Davy Roberts reckoned it had to be a joke. Jake could not be serious. Davy glanced at the other members of the gang but either they weren’t listening or didn’t care. Kev was shovelling a chocolate brownie down his neck and Robbie was checking cinema times in the Evening News. Starbucks would be closing any time soon and Davy was desperate to get it sorted. He’d soon realised there was no way he could tell Jake he wanted out but they couldn’t just carry on as if nothing had happened.

  “Come on, man,” he asked Jake again. “What we gonna do?”

  Jake rested his hand on the younger boy’s arm, though there was nothing relaxed about the touch. “I’ve told you once: zilch.”

  Davy was beginning to wish he’d kept his big mouth shut. Jake was scarier like this than when he was on the rant.

  “But, Jake –” He hated pleading but he had to get through. “She’s dead.”

  “So?” Jake increased the pressure.

  “What if someone was watching?” Baiting an old biddy in the street and nicking a bar of chocolate was fair game but this morning’s show had been gross.

  “There was no one around.” Jake’s voice was soft and low, the Birmingham accent barely discernible. “And even if there was – so what?”

  Davy said nothing, too scared to voice his suspicion. Jake picked up on it anyway. “I get it.” He was still speaking softly. “You think we went back and finished the job after you’d gone? Is that it, Davy?” He tightened his grip on the boy’s arm.

  Tears pricked Davy’s eyes. It wasn’t just the pain; he was desperate not to lose Jake’s friendship. But Jake’s face was creased with contempt.

  The other gang members were tuned in now. “You wanna watch what you say,” Kev sneered. “Little tosser.”

  Robbie never said much; he had a line in threatening looks.

  Davy thought his arm was about to snap.

  “We know where we were, don’t we, lads? ” Jake didn’t wait for a response. “You were the one buggered off on your own. How do we know where you went, what you were up to? Sitting there like butter wouldn’t melt.”

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?” Davy tried a faltering smile but Jake was deadly serious. “Come on, Jake, you know I’d never –”

  “Never what?” Jake ran a finger along Davy’s cheek. “Smack an old girl round the face?”

  Kev and Robbie sat back, brawny arms crossed. They were enjoying the master-class; it was the closest they’d come to school for years. With their shaven heads and acne scars they looked like the Brothers Grimm. With his blond hair and blue eyes, Davy was definitely not one of the family.

  Jake wrenched Davy’s arm one last time before finally releasing his grip. “Only joking. You wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, Davy?”

  He smiled uncertainly. Was Jake winding him up? He could never tell. “I’m only saying that maybe we need to lie low. Keep our heads down for a bit.” Davy didn’t just want to lie low; he never wanted to go near another wrinkly as long as he lived. Except his gran.

  Jake appeared to give it deep thought, nodding slightly with a finger pressed on his pursed lips. “Maybe you’re right, my old son.” Then he leaned in so close Davy could smell the espresso on his breath. “Tell you what, though. For old times’ sake – there’s just one little job I’d like you to do.”

  4

  Detective Inspector Danny Shields.

  Daniella.

  Bev wanted the floor to open. She needed to disappear for a while. A couple of light years might do the trick. No. A miracle would be better. Dear God, raise me from the dead embarrassed. The new DI wasn’t just a woman, she was the woman Bev had casually dismissed as Harry’s latest totty and – oh, shit – the woman she’d just blithely despatched to the toilet. Talk about cringe. Bev’s toes were so curled they had cramp. She tried concentrating on the case – difficult with Danny Girl in the next seat.

  Byford was still running through the introductions. Reactions from the floor were predictable, with most of the men casting covert glances at the new DI’s legs. Bev pulled her skirt down as far it would go, covered her lap with a clipboard. With the social niceties out of the way, the guv was in business. He took up position alongside the murder board, started outlining the previous attacks and comparing them with the latest crime. The talk was illustrated; they’d all seen the police photographs on the board before. Three pairs of frightened eyes stared from faces battered purple; grossly swollen bumps and coarse black sutures exacerbated the horror.

  Until today Bev had sensed that some of the team was growing inured to the sight, the shocking images losing their impact. She’d even caught a few sick granny jokes doing the rounds. But now a new picture had been added to the gallery of shame. This morning’s still nameless victim was up there with Iris Collins, Joan Goddard and Ena Bolton. Were they linked? Bev was unsure; there were glaring inconsistencies as well as apparent connections.

  The first three victims were widows in their late seventies. Ena and Joan lived within a couple of streets of each other in Kings Heath. Iris had a three-storey redbrick in Moseley. Had being the operative word. She was too frightened now to live alone, let alone too frail. She’d moved in with her daughter.

  Iris Collins had been attacked first. Initially her daughter Angela believed that Iris had fallen downstairs. She’d driven over from Harborne to take Iris to the hairdresser’s. It was a regular weekly appointment, thank God. The old woman had lain on the hall floor for only one night. Already enfeebled by a heart condition and mild dementia, Iris could barely speak by the time her daughter arrived. It was three days before Angela discovered that Iris’s wedding ring was missing and the life savings her mother kept under the mattress had disappeared, and alerted the police.

  Bev had read the interview notes. According to DC Carol Mansfield, the old woman had been vague, incoherent, kept blathering on about a baby. A week later when the gang struck again, it appeared the allusion might have more significance than the ramblings of a confused pensioner.

  Bev interviewed Joan Goddard in hospital within a couple of hours of the assault. There was no doubt what caused the injuries; fist and footmarks were still visible. The old woman’s mind was sharp, as her eyesight had been until the first punch detached a retina. Joan blamed herself for that, she told Bev. The yobs had been waiting for her when she returned from the shops: three masked youths in the tiny sitting room, she may have heard a fourth upstairs. She’d snatched at the nearest one’s balaclava, caught a glimpse of his face. It was a costly move that unleashed a rain of blows and a string of verbal abuse. They’d torn off her rings, stolen her purse. Joan kept her savings in the bank. She’d told them time and again but they still tore the place apart and pissed in her bed.

  It was when Bev was leaving that Joan provided the first and slenderest of leads. It
also added credence to Iris’s so-called blathering. The youth Joan glimpsed had a baby face: blond hair, blue eyes, round cheeks. The E-fit was so vague, the guv had dithered about releasing it. Short of anything else, he’d authorised its issue to the media. There’d been no useful response.

  The third victim, Ena Bolton, had no chance to snatch anything. Three, maybe four youths had been lying in wait when she returned home after an evening’s bingo. The fact they weren’t wearing masks hadn’t mattered. They’d already smashed every light bulb in the house. Two gang members had bound, gagged and blindfolded her. The battering left her bruised, bleeding and struggling to recall the tiniest detail to help identify her attackers. She didn’t care about the few pounds they’d stolen but they’d also taken her dog. Ena had shown Bev the spaniel’s picture: head cocked to the side, one ear up, one down, an outstretched paw. Humph was deaf and a little lame. Ena had doted on him for fifteen years.

  Bev had dropped by Ena’s place a few times now. The calls hadn’t just been part of the inquiry; Ena was a sweet old dear. It was during the last visit that Ena had mentioned the daffodils. A neighbour or friend had apparently left flowers in the house while she’d been in hospital. “Such a kind thought, don’t you agree, dear?” Bev had smiled and nodded, and until that morning never gave it another…

  “Thoughts, Sergeant?”

  Byford was clearly waiting for an answer. The keys jangling in his pocket were as good an indication as the mild impatience on his face.