“It was the Sunday, Sergeant. Sophia should have phoned in the evening. I think I knew immediately something was wrong.” There was something different about Maude Taylor. Bev was still trying to put her finger on it. She looked a bit knackered, maybe, but it wasn’t just that. “It had never happened before, you see. Never. We spoke twice a day, every day.”
“How did she seem the last time you spoke?” Bev asked. “That’d be the Sunday morning? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Maude shook her head vigorously; the regal meringue was unmoved. “Absolutely not. We were looking forward to spending time together, planning where’d we go, what we’d do –”
Bev paused; this was too much for an old woman. “I’m sorry, Mrs Taylor. Would you like a break?”
“No.” She rapped the floor with her stick. “The man who killed her is out there. Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to see him brought to justice.”
Bingo! That was it. Maude wasn’t a frail old dear anymore. She was all girded loins and stiffened sinews. Or maybe yesterday had been a one-off. Maybe this was the real Maude Taylor. She’d certainly sent Shields packing. The DI was probably still picking fleas from her ear.
“This neighbour – the man who called himself Simon –” Bev began.
“Balderdash. I see that now. I should have trusted my instinct. If I’d alerted the police immediately, maybe –”
Bev pressed the old woman’s hand. It was stone cold. “It wouldn’t have made any difference, Mrs Taylor. Sophia was already dead by then.”
They still wanted to talk to the mysterious Simon, though. Oz was out there knocking on doors, retracing Maude’s steps. Tracking down a young man with a Birmingham accent. In Birmingham. Easy-peasy.
“Did you notice anything odd when you arrived?” Bev asked.
“I’ve thought about that a lot, Sergeant. I checked everywhere. My greatest fear was that Sophia would be lying dead in the house.”
Bev nodded. She’d seen the stats: twelve thousand oldies died alone at home every year in the UK. Sad or what?
“My relief was short-lived,” Maude continued. “I couldn’t imagine where she’d go without this.” Maude reached for an expensive-looking brown leather bag at her feet.
That was a turn-up. Bev eyes widened.
“I looked through it,” Maude said. “I thought her address book might be in there. I’d have called every number if need be.”
There wasn’t much: a purse, a comb with a strand of white hair, a powder compact. Bev looked up. “The book’s missing?”
“I can’t say for sure. She used to keep a little black one by the side of the phone but it was very old: pages coming out, the cover was torn and rather tatty.”
“Would she have replaced it?”
Maude looked down. “I’m not entirely sure she’d have needed to. You get to a certain age, Sergeant, and many of your friends are no longer at the end of a telephone.”
Bev added a line to her notes. “Anything else out of the ordinary, Mrs Taylor?”
Maude hesitated briefly. “There was one thing: a line of vases on the windowsill in the kitchen. Sophia hates clutter. She never leaves things out like that.”
Bev couldn’t put it off any longer. “We found daffodils… near Sophia’s body, Mrs Taylor. Could that be significant?”
Maude’s fingers went to the cross round her neck. “Sophia loved flowers, Sergeant Morriss. She had green fingers. Adored gardening. As to daffodils, I don’t really know.”
Was there something else? The old woman appeared to have something on her mind. Bev let the silence lengthen. Then wished she hadn’t.
“When you say ‘near the body’ what do you mean exactly, Sergeant?”
“Thought you might like a cuppa.” Thank God for family liaison. Bev smiled at Jude Eastwood as she popped a tray with two mugs on the table, weak tea by the look of it. The fifty-something Jude patted Maude on the shoulder and bestowed an industrial-strength smile. “You all right, Mrs T? Can I get you a blanket or anything?”
Oh boy. Did the woman come with a volume control? Bev raised an eyebrow but Maude was studying the ceiling.
“I’ll get on, then, shall I?” Jude waggled her fingers on the way out.
“She’ll have to go,” Maude muttered. “She’s driving me mad.”
Bev grinned. “I’m sure she means well.”
“I’m not in the final stages of Alzheimer’s, Sergeant.”
“Who’s the prime minister?”
Maude laughed.
The distraction worked. Bev looked at her notes. She had some of Sophia’s back-story now. Seventy-six years compressed into a few lines. It didn’t seem a lot.
Sophia Carrington was born in Guildford in 1930. Her father was a doctor, which probably explained her career choice. She studied medicine in London in the early fifties. Trained in Birmingham before moving back to Surrey. She’d done a stint at the Guildford Royal Infirmary, then joined a group practice as a GP. She remained single. Had no children. No siblings. Talk about being married to the job. Sounded damn lonely to Bev.
“When did Sophia retire, Mrs Taylor?”
Maude took a sip of tea, pulled a face. “It was ten years back. But she still helped out if they were short-staffed: holidays, sick leave that sort of thing.” Bev wondered what was on Maude’s mind. “She was a very good doctor, Sergeant. It meant everything to her. She used to say her patients were her family. I felt a little like that about the children in my classes. I wonder now whether it was worth it…” She was twisting a diamond ring on the third finger of her right hand.
“And Sophia? Would she have wondered that, too?”
Maude laughed. “I wouldn’t think so. And even if she had, she wouldn’t have admitted it in a million years.”
You wouldn’t, would you? Acknowledge the biggest part of your life had been a waste. Bev bit her lip. “Did she want to get married? Have kids?”
“She had her career, Sergeant.” You can’t cuddle up to that at the end of the day. “And is it entirely relevant?”
Bev smiled. “Just curious.”
“Sophia made her choice. She lived with it. She was happy with it. She wouldn’t thank you for your pity.”
The tea was beyond tepid. Bev put the mug down. “Do you have any pictures of her, Mrs Taylor?”
Maude smiled. “I came across whole boxes of the things last night. They’re upstairs.”
Bev moved to lend a hand until she saw The Look on Maude’s face. Forty-odd years in the classroom had bestowed the capitals. She waited a minute, then shot out of the chair, prowled over to the bookshelves. There were hefty medical tomes and a stack of classics, impressive but not a bunch of fun. A scout round netted no games or CDs; no sewing or painting; no photographs. Apart from a couple of framed certificates, the walls were empty. It felt sparse and lonely to Bev. What must it have felt like to Sophia? Maybe that’s why she spent so much time gardening, growing things. Bev rolled her eyes. Bit simplistic, Doctor Morriss.
Miles away, she jumped several inches when the door flew open.
“Oz! Don’t do that to me.”
“Why? What are you up to?”
They were both seated when Maude returned. She handed an A4 envelope to Bev. “You can hold on to them for a while if you like. I have my own copies at home.”
“Thanks, Mrs Taylor. Just one more question before we go. Did Sophia have any enemies? Is there anyone you know who’d want to harm her?”
“No.” The response was swift and sure. “I had a sleepless night, Sergeant. I gave it a good deal of thought. There were no aggrieved patients, no malpractice suits. Nothing like that.”
At the door, Bev gave Maude numbers where she could be reached. “Thanks for your time, Mrs Taylor. We’ll be in touch.”
The old woman laid a hand on Bev’s arm. “Everyone liked Sophia, Sergeant Morriss. She was a doctor. She saved lives. She healed the sick. She didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
Bev n
odded. They both knew that wasn’t entirely true.
“Oz, are you gonna get married, have kids?” Bev asked.
“You what?”
“Keep your eyes on the road.” They were on the way back to Highgate: another day over, another dead end. She gave it a few seconds. “Seriously. Are you?”
His smile was a little wobbly. “What’s brought this on?”
“Answer the question.”
“Suppose so. Most people do.”
She was staring through the passenger window. A year ago, a month ago, even a day ago, she’d have said no. Cracked the old line about her maternal instincts being in line with a promiscuous cuckoo’s. Now? She shook her head. Best not to think about it. “Wonder what’s up with the guv.”
Oz sighed. “Where did that come from? I can’t keep up with you.”
“I’d noticed.” She tapped his arm playfully. “Joke, Genghis.”
“As to the guv, no one knows a thing. I’ve asked round.”
So had Bev. She’d have to do a bit of extra-curricular. She was desperate to find out something else as well. “Oz?” That was a definite wheedle.
Oz’s response was a suspicious “Yeah?”
“You can tell me. I definitely won’t hit you.”
“That’s a shame.” He winked. “Tell you what?”
“What the others call me behind my back. Is there a new nickname?” Shields’s spiteful barbs were rankling. Bev would rather know than be in the dark.
Oz shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard.”
Either he was protecting her or Shields was lying through her pearly-whites. She’d not forgotten how the DI had called her Morriss during their last spat. Only one other person regularly used her surname, and that was Mike Powell. She turned her mouth down. Another thought not to pursue.
Oz hadn’t dropped an earlier musing. “Are you gonna, then?” Oz said.
“What?”
“Marry me? Have my babies?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Are you still on the medication?”
Byford was nursing a tumbler of Laphroaig. It was a large measure, and not the first. It had been a long day. And the evening could be longer. The remains of a TV dinner were congealing on a tray beside him. Even without his loss of appetite, he reckoned the packaging would be tastier than the pasta bake.
He rested his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. He could still see the consultant’s smile when he’d brought the news. The man probably thought he’d be grateful. To Byford’s current way of thinking, it was almost the worst of all possible worlds. Almost. It was neither death sentence nor all-clear. The colonoscopy had been inconclusive. It happened. They’d had to take tissue samples as well. They’d have the analysis in a few days. Then they’d know. For sure.
The glass was empty. Byford poured a generous double. It was probably unwise, given the anti-inflammatories. But what was the point? He knew already. In his heart, he knew. He’d never missed Margaret so much. She’d have chivvied him out of this maudlin pit of self-pity.
He must have drifted off again. The doorbell woke him with a start. He rubbed his eyes. If it was anyone selling anything…
“There was a run on grapes, guv.” Bev handed over the biggest bunch of bananas he’d ever seen. “The elephant’s parking the motor.”
He shook his head, lips twitching. “You’d best come in.”
“Nice place, guv.” She’d never seen it before, was pushing her luck being there. She’d had real doubts driving over. The guv’s private life was a closed book with the pages stuck together.
“I’ll get you a glass.” He halted in the doorway. “Try not to break anything.”
He’d winked. Just joking, then. She had a little wander; he hadn’t said she couldn’t look. The dark woods and warm reds worked well; bet he had a cleaner. Sinatra, Stones, Mahler, Madonna. Madonna? She moved on. She’d never met the guv’s sons. They were even taller than their old man in the picture. The one on the right was rather tasty.
“I thought I told you not to touch.” He was smiling.
“Sorry, guv. It’s the detective in me.”
“Clouseau?”
“I’ll have the bananas back if you’re not careful.”
He gestured to a seat. “It’s good to see you, Bev. But to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Cheers.” She took a sip. No point messing round. “I was worried about you.”
The left eyebrow was going. “Worried?”
“Yeah. You never have time off. No one’d say anything. I just want to make sure you’re OK.”
“I’m touched.” She could see that.
In for a penny. “Not doing a dry run, are you, guv?”
“You’ve lost me there, Bev.”
“For the early retirement.” There was a joke in the voice but her eyes were boring into his. “That’s what the clowns at Highgate reckon.”
“You’re joking.” No one could fake that look: pure shock.
She beamed. “I knew it was a pile of doo. You’re not going anywhere, are you, guv?”
He wouldn’t lie to her. “I might. I haven’t decided yet. I’m amazed anyone knows I’m even considering it.” He’d only hinted at it to one person, and Harry Gough was discretion itself. He pictured the scene at the morgue again, then recalled one other player: DI Shields hovering at the door.
“What is it, guv?”
“Nothing.” He had no proof.
She swirled the dregs of the malt. “You can tell me to back off, guv, but is it a health thing?” She couldn’t think of any other reason why he’d throw it all in, and it could explain why he looked so knackered. The pause was so long, she doubted he’d come out with the truth, certainly not the whole truth.
“I’m having tests, Bev.”
Shit. Must be serious.
“It’s nothing serious.” The smile didn’t convince her.
“When will you know?”
“A few days.” The shrug didn’t, either.
“Look, guv, if you want to talk about it –”
He wanted to confide in her. But he couldn’t. Not yet. “Thanks. I might just do that.”
“Any time, guv.”
“Bev. Keep it to yourself, right?”
“You don’t need to ask.”
Howls of laughter from next-door’s telly broke the silence.
“Come on.” Byford wasn’t good at enforced joviality. “Let’s have another.”
“Just a small one, ta, guv.” She had to be on her way soon. She’d leave the MG at home and call a cab. It didn’t take long to fill him in on the latest. After the discovery in the shed they were re-interviewing all the allotment holders; the immediate area was now plastered with police posters appealing for information; they were still hauling in local likely lads for questioning and they were following up a load of info from Maude Taylor. It was solid plod-work. Essential but dull.
“It’s all well and good. Bev, but we’re no nearer a collar. Tell you what worries me?”
It was bugging the hell out of her as well. “Another attack?”
“Exactly.”
And if there was another victim, pray to God the villain got careless.
There couldn’t be any cock-ups. Not this time. No one had seen him and no one was watching. He was dead certain of that. He was all in black, just another dark shadow. For the umpteenth time he checked his pocket. The mask would go on last, just as he went in. It was all in the timing. He had to get that right. He couldn’t believe it was only six minutes since he’d looked. He broke off a couple of squares of dark chocolate, counted the seconds as they slowly melted in his mouth. How long now?
The soft glow of his watch showed 10.37.
11
“The night is young and lovely. Like the senorita.”
Luigi’s moustache-twirl was a figment of Bev’s imagination. The elderly waiter was no Lothario. He had the build of a jockey and a face that took in squatters.
“You’re an ol
d smoothie, Luigi. And I still don’t want the tiramisu.” The dress was tight enough as it was.
“I know.” A gold filling flashed in his smile. “The little lady’s sweet already.”
She rolled her eyes. Luigi left with an order for coffee. Tom Marlow leaned conspiratorially across the table and beckoned her forward, asked in all seriousness, “Do you come here often?”
“Never set foot in the place in my life.”
Their laughter turned heads at the next table. It had been like that all evening, starting with a couple of glasses of Pinot in a bar off New Street. It rarely happened that she clicked so easily with a guy, certainly not a potential witness. But Tom was more than just a pretty face. It might have been her suggestion they move on to San Carlo’s. The restaurant was only across the road and though it was packed, Luigi could always find a table for Bev. Apart from needing to soak up the alcohol, it meant more time with a man she wanted to know better.
The half-smile was incredibly sexy. He was interested in her as a woman, didn’t continually take the piss or treat her like one of the lads. He was attentive and amusing. And he laughed at her jokes.
“Luigi’s in love with you, you know that?” he asked.
“He’s my sugar daddy. Didn’t I tell you?”
He studied her face, took his time. “You’re very good with people, Bev. They like you, trust you. I wish I had that gift.”
“When’s your birthday?”
He smiled again. “Will you excuse me one moment?”
She watched him head towards the gents, noticed a few female heads turn as he strode past. The white T-shirt under the black Armani made him look a bit like a trendy vicar. Thank God she’d made an effort. Not socialite, perhaps, but definitely not social worker. She knew it wasn’t going anywhere but was grateful for the distraction. She was worried sick about the guv; the Shields thing was getting to her; her domestic set-up was driving her doo-lally. Tonight had been the first in a while she’d really enjoyed.
She smiled as Luigi served coffee, then left her to her thoughts. She had to admit the first couple of minutes in the bar had been a tad awkward. Then Tom confessed he hadn’t a thing to add to the inquiry; he’d used it as an excuse to ask her out. He’d understand if she wanted him to leave. She didn’t. He was a twenty-six-year-old property developer who played piano and loved to ski, though not necessarily at the same time. The more she learned, the keener she was to find out more.
Dead Old Page 11
