Dead Old

by Maureen Carter

  “So let’s recap.” DI Shields unfolded her lean frame from the chair and paced the floor. Even Bev had to admit she looked immaculate: classy taupe skirt suit, matching heels, hair in a neat ponytail, subtle make-up. The fingers she ticked to underline her points ended in perfect nails painted scarlet. “We have an old lag, an old dog and a mystery man in a pub with no name.” Shields paused, glanced at the audience. “So what’s the punch-line? I mean, this is a joke, isn’t it?”

  No one was laughing. Bev seethed. She wasn’t looking for a medal but cheap cracks she could do without. She tried to keep her voice calm. “The toe-rag who snatched that dog smacked an old woman in the mouth. He could be the same bastard who stabbed the next one to death.”

  Shields slipped a hand into the pocket of her linen jacket. “There’s no way of knowing he’s the same man Marty met in the pub. As for him being the killer, that assumes a link with the ongoing operation that – pardon me if I’ve missed something – has yet to be established.”

  Bev shrugged a grudging acceptance. She wasn’t going to get into a slanging match. Anyway, the bloody woman was right. A connection between the cases wasn’t a given. And a gut instinct wasn’t hard fact. But Marty Skelton was no Francis of Assisi. Bev couldn’t see him taking pity on an old dog unless he thought it was about to be killed. He’d been spooked by something. Or someone. Marty’s problem was the booze. A goldfish had more memory. Tallish darkish youngish was the best-ish he could come up with. As for the name of the pub? Forget it. Marty had.

  “I should get a bit more out of Marty this morning,” Bev said. “At least he’ll be sober after a night in the cells.”

  Shields was running a pen down the notes on her clipboard. “I want you and DC Khan in Cable Street. House-to-house. You’ve interviewed Marty Skelton twice with no joy. I’ll see him next.” She looked up and smiled. “I’ll let you know what I get.”

  Bev glanced at the guv, hoping he’d intervene. Byford was staring into the middle distance. Maybe he hadn’t heard.

  In her office, Bev angrily shoved a mobile phone and a few papers into her shoulder bag. Oz perched on the edge of the desk, crossed leg swinging, watching every move.

  “Don’t say a word,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  “You could take that up, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Ventriloquism.”

  “It’s not the voice I’d like to throw.” What was Danny Shields’s game? “I was so close to getting something out of him, Oz.” OK, that was an exaggeration, but Shields would stand even less chance. “She’ll get right up Marty’s nose. He’ll stay so quiet he might as well have taken a vow of silence.”

  “He might like a bit of posh,” Oz said.

  Unlike Oz, she wasn’t smiling. It wasn’t funny. Marty was all they had.

  “Come on, Sarge. What is it you always say to me? Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

  She slung an empty Diet Coke can into the bin. “Sanctimonious bullshit.”

  He laughed and it struck her again how attractive he was. He’d teamed the charcoal leather with the black denims today, but it wasn’t the gear. He seemed easier in his skin nowadays, more confident. It must be a year now since they’d teamed up professionally. Not much less since they’d got it together personally. He was definitely coming out of his shell. That was good. Wasn’t it? She might have explored the thought but he’d peeled a post-it note off her keyboard and was passing it across. Another message from her mum. Christ, had Emmy lost the use of her legs? The note went into the bin as well, then Bev sighed and shook her head. “I wouldn’t care, Oz, but Marty could come up with a real gem.”

  “So? That’s great. We need a break.”

  She bit her lip. Of course it’d be great if Marty came up with the goods. But who’d get the glory? Ordinarily, she wouldn’t care; she was a team player whatever the suits upstairs thought. But she resented like shit the fact that Shields stood to clean up. It was childish and churlish and she knew it. She wasn’t about to tell Oz, though. On the other hand he wasn’t stupid; he was giving her one of his looks. He opened his mouth to add a few words just as the phone rang. Oz was nearest but she got there first.

  The call was brief. Oz could tell by her voice it was a goer, not some time-wasting loony tune. She took a few notes, clarified the quickest route from Highgate, then replaced the receiver. You didn’t need to have heard the conversation. It was all but written on her face. And it was looking good.

  “This isn’t the way to Cable Street,” Oz said.

  “Well spotted, Sherlock.” Bev was in the driving seat. They were on the Highgate Road heading towards Moseley, passing a hodgepodge of fast-food joints, late-till-eights, video stores and takeaways. Someone had told her once how many languages were spoken round here. Fifty? Sixty? She couldn’t recall but wasn’t surprised.

  “I hate that Sherlock stuff. You know that.” The tight jaw confirmed it but Bev wasn’t focused on Oz’s anatomical lexicon, and she was barely listening. The voice in her head belonged to a Mr Tom Marlow and if he looked even a touch the way he’d sounded on the phone, the encounter would be a pleasure. More than that, she saw a case with cracks.

  “We’re taking the scenic route,” Bev said. “Via Belmont Way.” She knew he was staring at her.

  “That’s Moseley Village, Sarge.”

  “Think it’s going to rain? Looks pretty grey out there.”

  “I think you’re changing the subject.”

  She let the silence ride. They both knew what it said. The lights at the crossroads in the middle of Moseley were on red. She pulled up, tapped a finger on the wheel. She’d viewed a couple of houses round here. Moseley Village: that was a laugh. It couldn’t be less rustic. On the other hand, it was more upmarket than most Birmingham suburbs. It had a buzz about it, with lively wine bars, decent restaurants, and loads of arty, ethnic shops. She made a mental note to give the local estate agents a prod.

  “What about the house-to-house in Kings Heath?” Oz eventually asked.

  “What about it?”

  “She won’t like it.”

  “And I should care, why?”

  “Look, Bev.” The first name was a rare slip at work. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and –”

  “No. You don’t. So button it.” She pulled away from the lights, sneaked a glance at his profile, his jaw was going to ache with all that clenching. “Look, I’m sorry, mate. Nothing’s going on. Let’s drop it. Right?”

  “Sure. And water’s not wet.”

  She sighed.

  “I’m here if you need to talk. That’s all I’m saying.”

  It took five minutes to get there. The silence made it seem longer.

  Belmont Way shouted money and class. Bev locked the motor, looked round and gave a low whistle. “Christ, Oz, they could charge admission to get in to some of these pads. Look at that one over there. It’s got turrets and a bell tower.”

  He didn’t respond. Maybe architecture wasn’t his forte.

  Warwick House, their destination, was turret-free and bell-less but it still had a huge amount going for it. The property appeared to be divided into a number of apartments but Bev wasn’t studying its construction. She was concentrating on the bone structure of its owner, Tom Marlow. The cheekbones were chiselled, almost as defined as Oz’s. The eyes were almost as blue as hers and the brown collar-length hair so dark that in some light it probably looked black.

  She stopped herself running a hand through her own, held it out instead. “Mr Marlow. Detective Sergeant Morriss. And this is DC Khan. It was good of you to call.”

  “My pleasure. I only hope I can be of help. Do come in and, please, call me Tom.”

  If voices were cars, Tom Marlow’s was a Silver Ghost. She wasn’t brilliant with ages but guessed he was older than he looked. A natural ease and confidence suggested more than mid-twenties. He was smaller than Oz, around five-nine or -ten, but no one would be kicking sand in Marlow’
s face. They followed him into a large light-filled room; half-a-dozen cream rugs broke up an expanse of polished wooden flooring that probably cost more than every carpet she owned. Marlow indicated a couple of chesterfields. Their depth was deceptive and the ivory leather smooth; she’d never clenched buttocks so fast.

  “Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?”

  “Coffee would be super. Thank you.”

  “Latte, cappuccino, espresso?” What was this? Starbucks? Chez Morriss it was either filter or Fine Blend. “Latte. Super.”

  Super? Oz’s face was a picture.

  “DC Khan?” The man’s smile was lopsided. Bev rather liked it.

  “Sorry?”

  “Anything to drink?”

  Oz glanced at his watch. “Nothing. Thanks.”

  Normally she’d have a nose round but hauling herself up from the depths of the leather seat was going to require muscles she had yet to locate. She sank back.

  “Did you have to do that?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “The time check. It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

  He took out a notebook and pen.

  Suit yourself, she thought, and gave the room a visual once-over. As clues to character went, it didn’t. She wasn’t expecting knick-knacks and lava lamps but most people were into photographs and books. The only reading matter was an Independent and an Evening News overlapping on a heavy glass-topped table. A pre-Raphaelite hung over an Adam fireplace. She squinted but even close up wouldn’t be able to tell if either was genuine.

  Coffee was easier.

  “Super. Thanks.” It was the best latte she’d ever tasted. “Perhaps you could take us through Sunday evening, Mr Marlow.”

  “Please, Sergeant, call me Tom.” Oz’s pen tapped a beat on virginal paper. “As I said on the phone, I was driving through Kings Heath early evening.”

  “About what time?” Bev asked.

  He laid a finger on pursed lips. “It must have been around 5, 5.30.”

  Bev glanced at Oz. The timing was about right. Oz nodded; he’d already made a note.

  “As I say,” Marlow continued, “a little old lady suddenly stepped into the road. I had to brake sharply to avoid her. To be honest, I was quite shaken. I pulled over just for a minute or so. Anyway, she went into that shop on the corner of Princes Rise.”

  “Jimmy Vaz’s?” Oz asked.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Tom agreed without looking over. He’d kept almost constant eye contact with Bev. She usually found it a turn-off but not this time.

  “Did you see her come out of the shop?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately not. I had an appointment. I didn’t want to be late. And of course there was no reason then to think –”

  She nodded. “Can you be any tighter with the timing?”

  He leaned back, linked hands behind his head. “It was probably nearer 5.30, come to think of it.” She was thinking slightly more about the effect on his physique; the tight granddad shirt suggested a taut six-pack.

  “Yes,” he said. “It was definitely five o’clock when I left here. And I had to stop for petrol and to use the hole-in-the-wall.”

  “And you think it might be the woman we’re trying to identify?”

  “She certainly fits the description on the local news: old grey coat, blue hat.”

  “Was she carrying anything?”

  “No. I’m sure she wasn’t.”

  Bev nodded. “And you’d never seen her before?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  They wouldn’t be cracking open the champagne but at least it appeared to be a genuine sighting. It could prompt other witnesses to come forward. Jimmy Vaz was the obvious next stop.

  “Is there anything, anything at all, that you think might help further?”

  He did that thing with his finger on his lips again. “I really wish there were. It makes my blood boil to read what’s going on.” He reached for the Evening News. “Have you seen this?”

  You couldn’t miss it. The paper was going big on Iris Collins’s death. Her bewildered and battered face dominated the front page. The fact that the old woman had died from a heart attack was buried in the story. The headline screamed MURDER, toned down only by judicious use of question and quotation marks. According to the reporter, the attack was so vicious it led to her death. In other words, they killed her. Bev shook her head in disbelief and slung the paper back on the table.

  “Is it true what they’re saying?” Tom Marlow asked. “That the same people killed the woman I saw?”

  You tell me. “We’re at the early stages of the inquiry, Mr Marlow. It’s impossible to say.”

  “Of course. I understand. And that sort of stuff can’t be helping.”

  “We’re used to it by now.” Bev attempted a nonchalance she didn’t feel. It wasn’t just the sensational reporting; the paper was after a police scalp. Byford’s was first in line.

  “If anything comes back to me, I’ll definitely be in touch. I know it sounds naff but I think you people do a wonderful job.” He came across and took the cup from her. She was convinced the touch of fingers was accidental. Not quite so sure when she handed him her card.

  “The switchboard can get busy. Use this if you need to.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant Morriss. I will.” He read it, then slipped it into a breast pocket.

  Oz was already at the door.

  She felt a light touch on her shoulder and turned her head. His eyes had tiny flecks of amber.

  “There’s one other thing…” He paused, as if weighing up whether to continue.

  “Go on,” Bev urged.

  “It’s probably nothing, but I did see a group of kids hanging round the park gates.”

  Their departure was delayed by about twenty minutes. Marlow was reluctant to add to what little he’d said, in case it was irrelevant and pointed them in the wrong direction. Bev reckoned any direction was better than none. She kept the thought to herself, assuring Marlow that most of the steers they were given didn’t lead anywhere. It went with the territory. They still checked everything: elimination was as important as confirmation.

  The standard line had the desired effect. The descriptions Marlow furnished weren’t brilliant but the hairs rose on Bev’s nape when he mentioned a youth with a baby face. They’d have to re-issue the earlier E-fit. And Marlow would be going into the station to help compile another: a tall youth with a pale complexion, black spiky hair and face studs.

  “Smarmy git.” Oz tore the wrapper from a KitKat and passed Bev a finger. It was slightly stale but they were in Kings Heath, only a couple of streets from the shop on Princes Rise, and if Jimmy Vaz came up with the goods they’d be sharing more than a bit of soggy chocolate.

  She lowered the window a touch; it was getting warm in the car. “What you going on about, Oz?”

  “Latte, cappuccino, espresso?” The impersonation was spot on. He even had the lopsided smile to a T.

  “You liked him, then?” She licked her lips to remove any chocolate.

  “Not as much as he liked you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She turned to hide a smile. Flattered and a tad flustered. She thought she’d imagined the attention Marlow had been sending her way, but Oz had clearly picked up on it as well.

  “A man who dresses to match his soft furnishings has got to be a poof,” Oz added knowledgeably.

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. We got quality stuff. That’s all that matters.”

  “Super.”

  She burst out laughing. “Daft sod.”

  Oz couldn’t let it go. “He was coming on to you.”

  She didn’t really think so, but even if he was, so what? No harm in a bit of casual flirting. Oz didn’t normally get jealous. He was so damn tasty he didn’t need to. Marlow gave him a run for his money and that was why Oz was throwing his toys out of the pram.

  “Make your mind up. A minute ago you had him down as a poof.” She flashed him a smile.

  The sun was so brig
ht now she pulled down the visor. It was mild for March and people seemed to be making the most of it: young mums with pushchairs heading for the park, a couple of blokes washing their motors, a woman cleaning her windows.

  “Best call Highgate, Oz. Let them know where we are.”

  As she looked for a spot to park the motor, she gathered from his voice and the odd phrase there was something amiss.

  “News conference?” Oz was saying. “Now?” He put his hand over the phone and mouthed, “DI Shields wants a word.”

  Bev rolled her eyes. “Tell her to hang on while I pull in.” She’d clocked a slot a few places down the road from the shop. The call was one-sided; mostly Shields. Bev’s knuckles turned whiter the longer it went on. She put the phone down and sat motionless for a short time. The deep breathing helped; she eventually turned to Oz. “We’re not doing the Vaz interview.”

  “I picked up on that. Who is?”

  She started the car. The three-point-turn was perfect. “Take a guess.”

  Maude Taylor could have taken the train; that was the original idea. But Sophia had been part of that plan, and where was she now? Maude checked the mirror and pulled into the middle lane; the traffic wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. The Fiesta was functional even though her sports-car days had been more fun. The fact was that now she was getting on in years, she found driving an ordeal. She had to steel herself for long journeys, determined not to lose her nerve completely. She sighed. It was a trial but even the M40 was better than another sleepless night of not knowing.

  Sophia still wasn’t answering the phone and the neighbour, Simon, had been no help. Maude had called but a recorded voice said the number had not been recognised. Recalling the frantic search for a pen and her rising panic, she wasn’t entirely surprised. She knew one thing for sure: if the situation were reversed Sophia wouldn’t sit around dithering.

  If she was home by the time Maude arrived, all well and good. They’d laugh off the premature trip and make the most of the extra time together. If not, Maude would let herself in and work out where to go from there.