Dead Old

by Maureen Carter

  Busk or bluster? Bugger it. “Sorry, guv, didn’t catch what you said.”

  Byford’s left eyebrow was in a mid-way arch, which according to Bev’s interpretation meant growing exasperation. It was confirmed in his voice. “Marty Skelton? Is he in the frame?”

  She wished she could say yes. It would certainly lift a bit of pressure off the guv’s shoulders. She held out empty palms. “I’d say not. There’s a couple of checks outstanding but the alibi looks sound. The barmaid at the Red Lion reckons Marty was so off his face he could barely focus.”

  “And how relevant is that? Exactly?” Danny Shields treated Bev to a thin smile. Her expression was one of polite interest, but the words, however softly spoken, were a challenge. A challenge picked up by the entire team; backs straightened, ears strained. Everyone knew Bev had applied for the acting DI post. Now they watched the woman appointed uncross her long legs and lean forward.

  “The pathologist estimates that the victim died early on Sunday evening,” Shields went on. “Skelton could easily have killed her, then gone to the pub to establish an alibi. The man’s alcoholic intake could be entirely commensurate with his guilt.”

  The voice had class; must lecture a lot.

  “Yeah,” Bev drawled. “Except he got to the Lion at lunchtime and never set foot outside the place till gone eleven.”

  Bev’s contempt was barely masked. Shields let the silence linger for a few more seconds, then snapped. “Why wasn’t that in your report?”

  Bev shrugged. “Only just had it confirmed. DC New called it in. He’s at the pub with DS Kent.”

  A joker quipped, “Nothing new there then.” No one laughed; everyone was waiting for Shields’s response. A tuneless rendition of The Archers theme tune drifted in from the corridor, courtesy of a tone-deaf whistler.

  Shields narrowed her eyes. “Information of that calibre should be passed upwards immediately.” A raised hand forestalled any protest. “Time is of the essence. The first twenty-four hours in a murder inquiry are crucial.”

  “Pass the eggs,” muttered Bev. Byford ran a hand over his face.

  “I beg your pardon?” Shields asked.

  “The legs.” Bev pointed at Bernie’s chair. The news chief had it tipped back at a precarious angle. “I thought it was about to go. Wouldn’t want Bernie to take a dive.”

  The sniggers were audible. Shields glanced at Bev, then made a note on a lined pad on her lap.

  “Obviously this later stuff will be in my report.” Bev paused. “When I’ve had time to write it. For what it’s worth, guv –” she turned pointedly to Byford – “I actually think Marty’s a distraction. Maybe even a deliberate distraction. Let’s assume for a min we’re looking at the same gang that attacked Iris and the others?” She waited for his assenting nod. “I think we need to go back to the beginning, only this time ask the old dears different questions.”

  Another nod. “Go on.”

  “As it stands, the only link is the approximate age of the murder victim. The other attacks happened in the old women’s homes, and none of them were life-threatening. It didn’t look as if the woman this morning had anything worth nicking. On the face of it, there’s not much there. But what if there’s something else; something we’ve missed?”

  “Like?” Byford asked.

  She related Ena’s story about the daffodils. “It may be nothing. But if the same thing happened at Iris and Joan’s… We’ll know the attacks are down to the same gang.” And now they’ve killed. The thought went unspoken but was shared by everyone.

  “Worth a look,” Byford said. “I’m interested too in the timings. This theory of yours that the body was most likely concealed?”

  “There’s a load of sheds on the allotments. Reg and the lads are giving it priority.”

  “ID is priority at this stage, surely?” Shields turned her glance to Byford. “What about a news conference? Witness appeal? I don’t mind doing the honours.”

  He silenced Bev with a look. “Thanks, Inspector, I may take you up on that. Although given the access the media’s already had, I can’t imagine they’ll be falling over themselves for a talking head.”

  A few bongs à la News at Ten chimed from the ranks but a Byford eyebrow muffled further sound effects. He then assigned the clowns responsible to the team that was already ploughing through the paperwork generated by the early coverage.

  Bev used the break to cast covert glances of her own at the new DI. The woman had to be in her mid-thirties; had a figure to diet for and unlined café latte skin. She was mixed race but Bev’d be hard pushed to give a breakdown. The almond eyes and chestnut hair co-ordinated like a colour chart. Yet somehow the whole was less than attractive. Her sharp features gave her an aloofness bordering on the chilly. Bev showed her emotions in her face; Shields had so far revealed nothing, though the smirk when Byford told Bev he wanted a word about the morning’s media fiasco came close.

  The ID issue was still unresolved. Bev waited for a gap and threw in a thought. “I have a hunch the old dear was sleeping rough. She was filthy, scruffy, been on the pop. Might be worth a check with the shelters. See if someone can shed a bit of light.”

  Byford nodded. “Good thought. We’ll get on to social services as well.”

  “Actually –” Shields looked up from her pad. “I don’t agree with Sergeant Morriss’s hunch.” The stress on Bev’s rank was subtle; the stress on hunch wasn’t. “I made a closer examination. The victim was well-nourished. The dirt was superficial. I don’t think she’d been drinking. I think the alcohol was poured over her by the assailant, probably to show his contempt.” She paused for even more effect. “In fact, I believe the woman was wearing old gardening clothes. There was twine and scissors in her pocket. I believe she may have been tending one of the allotments. She may even have picked the flowers herself. That, in my opinion, is where we should concentrate inquiries. I think you’ll find the daffodils, if you’ll pardon the expression, are a red herring.”

  There were a few polite smiles but not from Bev. She opened her mouth to speak but Shields hadn’t finished. “I’d go further and say I can see no connection with the ongoing inquiry. There was nothing planned about this murder. It was vicious, frenzied almost. The killer or killers were probably stoned or drunk: blind drunk.”

  Shields was probably having a pop, but at the moment that wasn’t important. Bev was more concerned about the DI’s take on the case. She replayed the Cable Street scenario in her head. Had she read it wrong? Made unforgivable assumptions? Missed the pointers? And how and when had Shields picked them up?

  “Did you hear me, Sergeant?” Shields asked.

  Bev frowned. “Sorry. Say again.”

  “I said in my opinion it’s premature to discard Marty Skelton. And it harms the investigation when people jump to conclusions.”

  Bev glimpsed Byford fold his arms. Like everyone else he was watching her. She knew they expected a full-blown Morriss strop. She nearly obliged. It was the glint of malice in Shields’s eyes that stopped her. For some reason the woman was spoiling for a fight.

  “You’re absolutely right, ma’am.” Bev flashed her warmest smile. “I’ll aim to keep an open mind.” The pause was perfectly timed. “Like you.”

  “OK.” Byford had clearly had enough. “Let’s get on with it. There’s a mountain of stuff to get through.”

  Further actions were assigned: Carol Mansfield and Del Chambers would check out allotment holders. Ken Rose and Brian Latham would visit the shelters and contact social services. Daz and Gary were following up Marty’s marathon in the Red Lion. Bev and Oz would re-interview Iris et al. Everyone else would be on the streets of Kings Heath.

  Bev was almost out of the door when Shields called her back.

  “A word, Sergeant.” The woman hadn’t moved from her chair.

  Bev hesitated briefly. Oz was fetching the car round. On the other hand, it was worth mending fences with Shields. It was only sense; they had to work together. Be
v offered a hand. “Bit late, but welcome to Highgate.”

  Shields pointed to the seat opposite. “I don’t like your attitude.”

  “Oh?” Bev sat, tapped her fingers on her thigh. “About?”

  “Where shall I start?” Shields rose and circled the table. It was a common tactic. Cops used it all the time to intimidate the poor sod still seated. “First, all that crap you came out with at Cable Street. ‘Oh, Mr Gough, I didn’t get the job because I don’t have the balls. I’m only a little woman.’” The girlie voice was as inaccurate as the quote. But Shields had got the gist right.

  Bev made an effort not to squirm. “I didn’t – ”

  Shields stood in front of her and leaned down close. “It may have escaped your attention but I’m a senior female officer and you assumed I was some ditzy airhead after the loo, whom you addressed as ‘sweetheart’. That makes you as culpable as the men you complain about.”

  Bev shrugged but felt far from indifferent.

  Shields started circling again. “Get this clear, Sergeant. You didn’t make DI because you lack the necessary skills. You’re slack, you have no attention to detail and you’re not a team player. You get an idea and that’s it. Blinkered and stubborn.”

  “I’m not listening to this.” Bev stood. “You don’t even know me.”

  “I was warned before I arrived. Do you know what they call you behind your back?” She paused but Bev didn’t rise to the bait. “No. I didn’t think so.” She jabbed a finger at the chair. “And I haven’t finished yet.”

  Bev sat, arms folded, seething but at the same time shocked.

  “You’re good at making assumptions, aren’t you? This morning, for example, you assumed the victim was a bag lady. You assumed she’d been drinking. It’s not good enough. Anyway, from what I saw, the only person at Cable Street who’d been ‘on the pop’, as you so eloquently put it, was you.”

  Bev balled her fists. “That’s it –”

  “No. It isn’t. Sergeant, I’m not accusing you of drinking on the job, not even you would be that dense, but in my view you were clearly suffering the effects of an appalling hangover.”

  Bev opened her mouth to remonstrate but Shields lifted her hand again. It was obviously a habit of hers. “I don’t give a damn if you were suffering, Morriss.” Shields gathered her papers, tucked them neatly under her arm. “But the second I think this investigation is suffering because of your incompetence, you’ll be off the case. Do I make myself clear?”

  The word crystal sprang to mind but so did its association with balls. Anyway, Bev would have been wasting her breath; when she looked up the DI had already gone.

  Maude Taylor rang her friend’s number again. Like all the other times, it went unanswered. The old woman stood gazing through the window into her garden. A scruffy magpie was teasing next-door’s ginger tom. Normally Maude would have observed the antics with delight, but she was distracted, her thoughts elsewhere. She was wondering if it was too soon to contact the police.

  It was so unlike Sophia not to be in touch. They rang twice a day; an arrangement set in stone. Leaning on her stick, Maude crossed to the sideboard and poured a large sherry. Why, oh, why had Sophia moved from Guildford? Birmingham was miles away. What if she’d had a fall? What if she’d had a stroke? What if she’d been attacked?

  Maude took several calming breaths and a sip of Bristol Cream. She really must stop this. Sophia would be aghast; she’d always been the clear thinker, always taken the lead. Odd, really. Maude was so much taller, more solid-looking – ample was the word – whereas a gentle breeze would blow Sophia away. Appearances were often deceptive.

  She glanced across the room, a smile lighting up her face. The photograph, now in a silver frame, was on the piano. She’d come across it again just the other week, sorting through old boxes and cases in the spare room. Amazing to think it had been taken seventy years ago. Two little girls on a beach in Devon. Sophia stood behind, resting her hands on Maude’s shoulders. Her hair streamed like ribbons in the wind, ink-black shiny ribbons. Maude with her mousy plait had always wanted hair like that. Maude was sure Sophia would remember why they were laughing.

  She was still smiling when the phone rang.

  “Mrs Taylor?”

  “Who is this?” Disappointment sharpened her voice.

  “Mrs Carrington asked me to call.”

  Her hand went to her throat. “What’s happened?”

  “She’s gone away for a few days. Asked me to let you know.”

  Thank God.

  “You still there, love?”

  The initial relief was already slipping away. “When will she be back?” Maude was due to go up for a few days later in the week. The trip had been planned for ages.

  “Sorry, love. I’m only a neighbour. She just asked me to give you a bell so you wouldn’t worry, like.”

  She absently noted the Birmingham accent, but was more concerned with what he was saying, not how. “Why couldn’t she call herself?”

  “As I say, I’m just a neighbour.”

  “Of course.” He sounded such a nice young man and it was good of him to call.

  “Thank you, Mr…?”

  “Just call me Simon.”

  There were so many questions she should be asking and her mind couldn’t come up with a single one. “Could I take your number, dear? In case I need to get in touch?”

  “Got a pen?”

  Where was it? It should be here. She’d have to grab the felt tip off the notice board in the kitchen. “Could you hold on a moment, Simon?”

  “Take your time.”

  Maude hurried but the pen wasn’t in its place. By the time she’d found a pencil in the dresser drawer she was convinced he’d be gone.

  “Hello? Sorry to…” It was her fault. If she hadn’t taken so…

  The voice rattled off an 0121 number.

  “Thank you so –” He had gone this time. It was a shame; she had several questions now. Never mind. If she didn’t hear soon she could always get back. Sophia was fine. That was the main thing.

  “You OK, Bill?”

  The pathologist’s question startled Byford. The Detective Superintendent hated post mortems. Always had, always would. The sights, the sounds, the stench; images that returned to haunt years after you thought they’d gone. As far as possible, he tried to switch off. This time he’d turned over and fears of his own mortality had flashed on the screen.

  Harry Gough – gowned, gloved and bloodied – was still waiting for a response.

  “I’m fine,” Byford said.

  “Stop sighing, then. You’re putting me off.” The pathologist gently placed a liver on the shiny scales suspended above the slab. Byford averted his gaze and prayed to God that when the time came he’d escape all this. On the other hand, who’d want to die like his father and brother? He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “And if you’re fine, I’m Jamie Oliver.” Harry studied Byford over half-moon glasses.

  Byford could do without the visual examination, never mind the wisecracks. He didn’t want Harry on his case and there was nothing funny here. A broken and battered old body: thirteen stab wounds, twice as many shattered bones. And they still couldn’t even grace it with a name. He shook his head, wondered what sort of monster could inflict this violence on a little old woman.

  The two straight-bladed black-handled knives removed from the body would reveal nothing. Byford would bet his pension on that. The killer might be mad; he wasn’t stupid. But the knives weren’t the only evidence. Harry’s assistant had spent hours working the body, collecting samples, taking swabs, recording data. Every fibre, every speck, every loose hair was en route to forensics.

  “She had a good few years ahead of her.” Harry nodded at the slab. “Great nick for her age.”

  “So she wasn’t a drunken old lush, then?” Shields’s wide smile seemed inappropriate. It was hardly a cause for celebration.

  Byford had almost forgotten th
e DI’s presence. Maybe she shared his aversion, was distancing herself from the indignities of dissection. On the other hand, the snide remark suggested she was developing an aversion of her own and the target, Bev Morriss, was very much alive and kicking.

  Harry ignored the interruption. “Non-smoker. Didn’t drink much, heart sound as a bell. I’d say this was one old lady who took good care of herself.” He pushed his glasses into a thatch of suspiciously dark hair and winked at Byford. “Definitely not one of Bev’s old bag ladies.”

  What was going on here? Byford frowned. “Easy enough call, given what she had to go on.”

  Harry grinned. “She’d certainly had a bit to go on.”

  “What do you mean?” Byford’s voice was calm, the challenge was in his slate-grey eyes. Harry was reminded of storm clouds.

  The pathologist raised his hands; he’d only meant it as a joke. “Not a thing.”

  “Oh, come on, Mr Gough,” Shields coaxed. “Morriss said herself she’d had a late night.”

  “So? Who doesn’t?” Byford said.

  “Absolutely, sir.” Shields studied her nails. “And hangovers.”

  Byford narrowed his eyes. “And you’re saying…?” He knew Bev liked a drink. Knew, too, she’d been under pressure in the last few months. He’d been there himself a couple of years back. If it didn’t affect her work, who cared?

  “No one would mind ordinarily,” Shields murmured. “But who knows? If she’d been there a little earlier?”

  He frowned, recalled the conversation with Vince Hanlon about Bev being on the scene first thing. There was no way Bev could have arrived any earlier. Unless Vince had been covering up for her. “Are you making this official, Inspector?”

  “No, sir.”

  Byford didn’t know the mortuary had a tannoy until a call went out for Danny Shields. The DI headed for the door, pausing briefly to add, “I’ve already had a word with her.”

  Harry blew out his cheeks. “Quite a handful.”

  “Her or Bev?” Byford asked.

  Harry nodded at the door.

  “Has she got a point, though?” Byford asked.