Dead Old

by Maureen Carter

  There wasn’t much else to laugh about. The only upside to the early brief was its brevity. It didn’t take long to hear there’d been no significant developments overnight and no one wanted to dwell on the Evening News. Its early edition was flagging full ‘explosive’ results of its police poll later in the day.

  Bev glanced at the guv: another sleepless night. He looked drawn. No doubt the media hanging and quartering would come later.

  “We’ll give it forty-eight hours,” Byford said. “Then I’m thinking we’ll go for a reconstruction.”

  She turned her mouth down, registered similar expressions on other faces. Most of the squad considered it premature.

  “Problem with that, Sergeant?” The query came from Shields. The DI certainly wouldn’t be riding a bike in that get-up. The dogtooth two-piece looked like Chanel.

  Bev brushed her fringe out of her eyes, wondering why Shields had singled her out. She wasn’t in the mood. “Nope.”

  “I know it’s a bit early…” Byford’s hand stroked his jaw-line. Was he wavering? That wasn’t like the guv.

  “I’m with you, sir,” Shields said. “We need a break in this case. I’m happy to take on the organisation.”

  “Thanks, Danny. I’ll let you know.”

  Shields returned his smile, made notes on her pad. Bev gave a sotto snort. Bet it’s a sodding shopping list.

  “I got everything, gran.”

  Davy Roberts took the KwikSave bags straight through to the kitchen. The air was stale and once-yellow walls were slick with grease, the residue of countless fry-ups in second-hand fat. He bunged the shopping on the table and shook his fingers to restore circulation restricted by a ton of tinned veg and canned mince. As usual, Gert was hunched over a Mills and Boon. She dog-eared a page before laying it aside.

  “You’re a good lad, Davy. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Neither did he and it worried him to death. How would the old girl manage on her own? The walking frame wasn’t much cop; even getting out of a chair was a struggle these days. Less she went out, worse it got. Said she was agoraphobic. Sounded better if it had a name. But Davy reckoned names were the problem; she got a load of lip every time she set a foot out the door. Kids were dead cruel. Mind, Gert was probably the fattest woman they’d seen in the flesh.

  “What you got in there?” Davy followed her glance, moved the Boots bag out of reach.

  “It’s mine, gran.” Her face fell. “It’s a surprise. I’ll show you later.”

  Most people only saw as far as the mounds of mottled flab but Davy reckoned his gran had beautiful eyes, pale green with tiny darker flecks. He smiled back. “Cuppa tea? I got the doughnuts.”

  “Smashing.”

  He was filling the kettle when Gert asked if he’d remembered the newspaper.

  The water went everywhere. The pictures had been splashed across the front page. They weren’t brilliant, not like proper photographs, but they still put the wind up Davy. He dabbed ineffectually at his sodden sweatshirt with a tea towel. “Sorry, gran. It was too early. They hadn’t come in.”

  She sighed. The paper was a ritual, like EastEnders and Corrie. A life prescribed by tabloids and telly; and a daily injection of pap fiction.

  “Don’t worry.” He was half out of his top, voice muffled. “I’ll pick one up later. You’ve not forgot I’m out tonight, have you?” He smiled but she wasn’t looking at his face.

  “Whatever’s that?” She was pointing to his arm, squinting, eyes sunk in the dough of her face. The bruise was livid, shades from plum to purple. “It’s not one of them tattoos, is it, Davy?”

  He picked a lie. “Nah. It’s a bruise, gran. I walked into a lamp-post.”

  “Are them Ryan kids at it again?” The Ryan twins had got identical ASBOs banning them from Kings Heath High Street. They lived round the corner in Princes Rise and had been in Davy’s year at school. They’d hadn’t laid a fingernail on him since Jake introduced Stanley. The knife had made a permanent impression on the boys.

  Gert tutted, shook her head, jowls flapping. “I can’t abide bullies. Nasty pieces of work. Should be locked up, if you ask me. You’d tell me, son, wouldn’t you? I’d sort the little sods out.”

  Davy handed her a family bag of doughnuts. He nodded, said nothing.

  DI Shields held the phone at arm’s length. “It’s for you, Sergeant.” The sneer was audible. “Your mother.”

  Bev’s hand was on the door. Thank God she had her back to the incident room. She knew her face would be as red as the DI’s lippie. She muttered a thanks, and huddled into the receiver. “What is it? I’m on my way out.”

  The estate agents had called: a two-bedroom terrace, just on the market, completely refurbished, an absolute snip. Bev listened, tried to keep the impatience out of her voice, then wound up the conversation. Shields was doing the same with her watch.

  “What’s Highgate’s policy?” The DI was perched on the edge of a desk, swinging a leg that clearly knew its way round a workout.

  “Sorry?” Bev said.

  “Personal calls. Is there a policy here? We discouraged them at Little Park Street.”

  Bev bit her lip. “I’m not –”

  “Good.”

  The DI was already on her way out. A ladder ran the length of her tights. It pleased Bev no end, but the waste bin still took the brunt of her Doc Marten. This thing with Shields was getting to her. The aggro was pretty much constant. She’d never experienced anything like it, didn’t know how to handle it.

  Maybe Frankie’d have a few thoughts. Bev and Francesca Perlagio went back to day one at Springfield Primary in Stirchley They were closer than sisters. Frankie cut to the chase better than a scythe and never minced her words. Bev decided to give her a bell. On her own time, of course.

  “Shouldn’t you be in Kings Heath?” DI Shields had returned and was now framed in the doorway.

  Bev grabbed her bag, car keys in hand. “On my way.”

  “Good. Look in here, will you?” A name and address was scribbled on a scrap of paper: Maude Taylor, Park View, Princes Rise. “It was a bad line and the old dear sounded gaga to me. Still. As you’re passing –”

  Bev recognised the address. It was an outstanding on the house-to-house. There was one other in the same street. She might kill two birds… First she had an old bird to calm down.

  “I’m not an idiot, Sergeant Morriss.”

  “Of course not, Mrs Taylor.” Bev was politeness personified. She had to be. According to the old woman, DI Shields had bad-mouthed her before slamming the phone down.

  “She was very rude. I’m not accustomed to being spoken to like that.” Maude Taylor was deeply distressed and it couldn’t all be down to Shields’s way with words.

  “I apologise for any misunderstanding. Can we talk inside?”

  The woman looked ill. She was trembling and none too steady on her feet. Bev offered a willing arm and what she hoped was a winning smile. There was a second’s hesitation, then Maude allowed herself to be gently escorted back into the house.

  She was a big woman, a head taller than Bev and solid, with big hair that resembled an off-white meringue. The beige ensemble was a bit old-lady-bland but not the purple pashmina effortlessly draped across Maude’s ample bosom. Her heavy wooden stick was the only indication of physical infirmity. Mentally she was well there but her emotions were all over the shop.

  Bev made for the scent of basil and lemons. A quick glance registered a seriously cool kitchen: all moody blues and terracotta bowls. She loved the old wicker baskets someone had hung from the ceiling. She helped Maude settle in a wheel-back chair, spotted tears gliding down the old woman’s face. New Men might cry these days but not old women. Not in front of an audience. Bev bustled round, keeping a solicitous eye on Maude, while rustling up tea and making small talk, anything to give the old lady a few minutes’ grace. Maude’s dignity was in place at about the same time as the Earl Grey and Rich Tea. She blew her nose, then tucked
the handkerchief into the sleeve of a hand-knitted cardigan.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. You can stop now.”

  Bev widened her eyes; so much for subtle diplomacy. “Sorry, I –”

  Maude flapped a hand. “I know. You were trying to be kind. And I thank you for that. Now why don’t you sit down so we can talk?”

  Bev smiled. She could see Maude in a Merchant Ivory production, cast as great-aunt to someone like Helena Bonham Carter. “You don’t miss much, do you, Mrs Taylor?” The remark wasn’t calculated but it scored points.

  Maude inclined her head and took a genteel sip of tea.

  “Anyway, I’m really glad you called,” Bev said. “We’ve tried the house a couple of times in connection with one of our inquiries. I guess you’ve been away?”

  Maude looked puzzled, then shook her head, impatient. “No, no, dear. This isn’t my house. It’s my friend’s, Sophia Carrington’s. That’s why I rang the police. Sophia is missing. I’m afraid something awful’s happened to her.”

  Bev frowned, thoughts racing. “Start from the beginning, Mrs Taylor.”

  Maude explained about the twice-daily phone calls. “I’ve heard nothing from her, you see. It’s so unlike Sophia. I’d have come sooner. But the young man was so reassuring.”

  This did not sound good. “Young man?”

  “He said he was a neighbour. He told me she’d been called away. He was so convincing. But I’ve knocked on every door in the street. No one’s even heard of a Simon living round here.”

  “How old’s your friend, Mrs Taylor?”

  “Why, my age. Seventy-six.”

  Bev’s heart was heading for her Doc Martens. “Can you describe her for me?”

  It had reached the soles by the time Maude finished. The mention of an allotment and a blue beret clinched it. Bev was ninety-nine point nine per cent sure that the murder victim was Sophia Carrington, not Veronica Amery. It was a police cock-up. Big time.

  She took a deep breath, and reached for Maude’s surprisingly small smooth hand. She hated this part of the job.

  “Kick it in. We ain’t got time to piss about.” Sergeant Reg Layton, a chubby little charmer with a pencil moustache and a mouth like a main sewer, was in charge of the search team on the council allotments in Kings Heath.

  The flimsy shed door looked as if it would succumb to the slightest puff from an asthmatic wolf. It caved in completely with the sudden pressure of a size ten police boot.

  Neither Reg nor his sidekick, the enthusiastic Constable Del Chambers, ventured into the ramshackle structure. The officers’ job was to find evidence, not trample it, and the stench emanating from the dark damp interior screamed crime scene.

  Reg called it in; Chambers cordoned it off. SOCOs were on site in twenty minutes. A growing gaggle of mawkish onlookers, mainly women wearing headscarves and old men in flat caps and mufflers, was kept at bay by blue and white police tape flapping in a gentle breeze.

  The interior was cramped and crammed. Auxiliary lighting cast vaguely menacing shadows over an array of gardening tools, seed packets, plastic pots and wire netting. There was room inside for only one crime officer and the process took several hours, bagged more than thirty items. Blood type would be determined by forensics. There was no shortage for testing. A huge dark blot stained the already filthy wooden floor.

  Along with the usual finds of bus tickets, cigarette butts and sweet wrappers, the search came up with a number of hairs and fibres that might or might not prove significant. And it was clear that if anyone had been careless enough to leave fingerprints, the most likely surface was on the empty half-bottle of brandy tossed into the back corner.

  “So who the fuck’s Veronica Amery?”

  It was a first. Byford didn’t do the F-word. Well, Bev’d never heard him. It was nearing the end of a day she’d be glad to see the back of. She’d popped her head round the guv’s door on her way out, surprised to see him still at his desk. Even more surprised he wasn’t entirely up to speed.

  “No idea yet,” she said. “But she’s not the victim.”

  Where had he been all afternoon? Surely DI Shields had filled him in on all this?

  Byford rose, paced the floor. “I don’t believe it.”

  Bev had found it difficult at first, but she’d had longer to take it in. The last few hours had been a nightmare. After alerting Highgate to the question mark over the ID, she’d escorted Maude to view the body. It was the only way to be a hundred per cent sure. The devastation on Maude’s face was an image Bev wouldn’t forget. Reluctantly she’d had to leave the old woman in the care of a FLO. Although sorting the fall-out was going to take more than family liaison.

  “It’s a complete cock-up,” Byford said. It could be worse; probably would be when the Amery woman showed. A neighbour reckoned she was abroad. Byford snatched Bev’s report from his desk. “This Maude Taylor. I take it she’s on the level? She’s not some sort of nutter?”

  Bev pursed her lips. “The woman’s straight as a die. There’s absolutely no doubt. The victim’s Sophia Carrington. She’s seventy-six and she’s lived in the city two years.”

  The dodgy ID, Bev had discovered, was down to Jimmy Vaz. Not deliberately or maliciously, just an old bloke who’d made a mistake. Loads of old ladies came into the shop, he knew them all by sight, obviously wasn’t so hot on names. She could see how it had happened. Jimmy had been under pressure to come up with the goods. It wouldn’t be right to make him a scapegoat.

  The guv nodded. He was perched on the sill now, next to the cactus she’d given him for Christmas. By the look of it, it wouldn’t see Easter. “With hindsight, we’d have been better off hanging fire. We should’ve waited for confirmation before releasing it.” He was so quiet he might have been talking to himself.

  “You must have had a good steer, guv.”

  He waited till she made eye contact. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Whoever held Jimmy’s hand must have done the checks?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Where are you going with this, Bev?”

  The woman had asked for it. “DI –”

  “DI Shields wanted another twenty-four hours.”

  “Right.” She closed her mouth before inserting another foot in it.

  “I authorised the release, not Danny. It was a bad call.”

  No wonder he was looking so rough.

  “Where is she, anyway?” Bev asked.

  “A community liaison meeting. I asked her to sit in for me.”

  Given recent events, that could be a hot seat. Bev glanced at her watch. It was time to call it a day.

  “Fancy a pint, guv?” A drink might do him good; she hated seeing him like this. He wasn’t even listening. She paused at the door. “At least things’ll start moving now.”

  They’d be interviewing Maude again in the morning, assuming she was in a fit state. They’d need every bit of history they could get. As for the present, there were still loads of calls off the back of the media coverage. Although a dozen or more youths had been traced, questioned and eliminated, it hadn’t even scratched the surface.

  But the shed on the allotment could turn out to be the forensic equivalent of striking oil. The owner had finally been traced and immediately eliminated as a suspect. Ernie Fellingham lived a couple of doors up from Sophia, and had just returned from a few days at his daughter’s. He was an old man with dodgy knees and he’d been gutted to hear about the murder. They might get some useful background from him when he’d got over the shock.

  Bev looked at Byford, wished she knew what he was thinking. He was still staring listlessly into the middle distance. And if there was writing on the wall, it wasn’t anything good.

  COP OUT

  The sub must’ve liked the headline; it covered most of the front page. The head and shoulders didn’t do Byford any favours. Neither did the vituperative piece of bile from Matt Snow. Just in case the double meaning was lost on readers, the reporter’s copy milked the pun insi
de as well. The bottom line was that Byford should bow out. An exclusive poll on page five seemed to agree.

  Bev flung the tabloid on the ring-scarred table. The Prince of Wales was the only watering-hole within walking distance of Highgate. It wasn’t exactly busy. The nicotine-and-racing-green décor didn’t attract much casual trade these days. So why was Oz taking forever with the drinks?

  “Have you seen that crap?” She started before he’d even sat down. She nodded at the Evening News, now spattered with fall-out from the ashtray. Making the guv look as if he had a nasty case of the pox.

  Oz handed her a glass of Pinot and a packet of dry roasted, then picked up the paper and gave it a shake.

  “A bloody good cop and that runt’s crucifying him.” Half the wine had already disappeared down her throat.

  He finished reading, folded the paper and placed it on the table.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “You know him better than me.” Oz was on orange juice.

  She saw red. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t want a row, Bev.” He helped himself to a nut.

  She lit a cigarette, practised smoke rings.

  Oz flapped a hand. “I thought you’d given up. Again.”

  She was still seething. “Come on, Oz. You work with the guv. What are you saying?”

  The words were lost in a crude guffaw from the far corner. Bev glanced across. If they were eighteen, she was Chief Constable. Under-age drinking wasn’t exactly big league. She’d been there, done that. Anyway, Oz still hadn’t answered.

  “I think he’s under a lot of pressure.” His words were weighed, the tone measured.

  “’Course he is. We all are. Your point being?”

  Oz hesitated. “Look, Bev, maybe he can’t take it like he used to.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” It was an automatic response; maybe she didn’t want to give it careful consideration. Byford was The Man. He was the age her dad would have been if he hadn’t died from cancer, and though she probably wouldn’t admit it, she regarded the guv in the same paternal light. She recalled the last time she’d seen Byford, perched on the sill in his office. He’d looked shit. She put the image to one side; maybe she’d take it out later.