Dead Old

by Maureen Carter

  Davy Roberts’s teeth were chattering, his entire body trembling. It was not-so-happy hour in a grotty pub off the Bristol Road in Selly Oak. Jake was getting a round in. How the hell could he stay so cool? Jake had sent Davy a text saying they needed to meet; he had some news. He’d left the paper on the table so Davy could take a closer look. Davy still couldn’t believe it.

  Two youths are being questioned by police in connection with the series of attacks on elderly women in the city over the last four weeks… It was a couple of lines in the stop press. They’d have the full works later.

  “Cheers, mate.” Jake smiled. “You look as if you need this.”

  Davy gulped most of the pint, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  “How’d the cops get on to them?”

  Jake shrugged, checked his hair in the mottled mirror over the bar. He’d certainly got the hang of the spikes now.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Davy hissed. “Kev and Robbie are banged up. It’s only a question of time…” He couldn’t keep his legs still. A couple of birds at the next table were giving him funny looks. Jake put a hand on the youth’s knee.

  “Chill, Davy.”

  Davy put his head in his hands. Yesterday he’d been all ready to tell Jake to take a running jump. Now he needed him like there was no tomorrow.

  “Kev and Robbie aren’t going to say anything. What’s to say?” Jake lobbed a peanut into the air, caught it in his mouth and grinned.

  Davy was open-mouthed as well. He watched as Jake did the peanut thing again. Jake offered him the packet but he swatted it away. “You don’t get it, do you? The Bill could walk in here any minute.”

  “Nah.” Jake gave a loud belch. “They drink in the Prince.”

  Davy groaned. It was all right for Jake. He didn’t have anyone to look out for.

  Jake put his arm round the younger boy’s shoulder. “No worries, Davy. Relax. It’s just you and me now.”

  The church wasn’t full, not even close. Bev slipped in at the back. She hated funerals, seen too many. Every one brought back her dad’s. Given the cancer, most of the family reckoned the end was a relief: no more pain. She closed her eyes; oh yeah?

  She sat back and glanced round, breathed the sickly scent of lilies and lavender, caught the faintest whiff of something less fragrant. The ageing congregation was in monochrome: black clothes, grey hair, white faces. Bev doubted there was anyone in the place under seventy, except Iris’s daughter. Creaking voices struggled with high notes, then the vicar recalled highlights of Iris Collins’s long life. She didn’t do a bad job, considering. Iris had never worked outside the home, never travelled abroad, never moved from the house where she’d been born.

  That wasn’t quite true. Bev put a finger to her eye, surprised at the sudden emotion. It didn’t seem right that an old woman who’d spent her entire life under her own roof had died under someone else’s, forced out by a gang of fuckwits.

  The social reports on Kevin Fraser and Robert Lewis had been emailed to her at Highgate. They were templates for social misfits: both were from broken homes, both had been abused in care and if there were marks for truancy, they’d have been awarded joint firsts. Apart from drugs and booze, the only constant in their lives was each other. The youths had formed a strong bond, even making out they were brothers. They’d been out of care for a couple of years. Oz was back at Highgate trying to fill the blanks.

  Bev bowed her head as the coffin was borne past. Angela Collins followed close behind but didn’t acknowledge her. Not then. The call came later that evening.

  It took all Byford’s self-control not to slam down the receiver. He’d forced himself to wait till now before making the call. He might as well not have bothered. Sincere apologies, Mr Byford. Equipment failure, samples may have been compromised. We’ll be in touch.

  The detective rubbed a hand over his neck. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. All day he’d expected a call from the hospital; every time he thought of it he’d felt a sliver of ice in his belly. The fear had almost spoiled the fact that two low-lifes were about to get their comeuppance. Fraser and Lewis would be remanded in custody when they appeared before magistrates in the morning. He had no doubt of that. It was everything else he was unsure of.

  *

  Bev’s hair was dripping. She’d dragged herself out of the shower to answer the phone. It was a tad late for the call in more ways than one: Angela Collins remembered seeing daffodils strewn across the hall floor when she found her mother lying in agony.

  “You’re in no doubt, Mrs Collins?”

  “None. Seeing you at the funeral reminded me. Thank you for the flowers, by the way.” The roses had been a godsend. Bev didn’t think Tom would mind.

  “It should have struck me sooner,” said Angela. “But I was so worried about mum.”

  “That’s OK. I appreciate you letting me know.”

  Bev sat on the bottom stair, towelling her hair, picturing the scene. If Angela had thought about it at the time, she’d have assumed her mother had dropped them in the fall.

  So there you go. Three out of three. She’d been right. Big deal. It begged an even bigger question: if they’d made the connection earlier, would Sophia Carrington still be alive? If they’d known the attacks were down to one gang, would they have given the inquiry greater priority, thrown more resources and officers at it? Could they have collared the bastards before they killed?

  The thought, and a million others, kept her awake long into the night. She’d never worked a case where there was so little to grab on to. It felt as though they were feeling their way in the dark – one step forward, two back. She turned over yet again, tried to ignore the time on the digital readout: 1.40am. It wasn’t just the lack of progress in the inquiry. She was still worried sick about the guv, and the Shields thing wasn’t helping. Thoughts of the DI led to Powell. She’d heard a whisper that Powell had left the disciplinary looking like the cat that got the double cream, though there’d been nothing official.

  She tried lying on her back, arms behind her head. Not many words from Oz, either. The distance between them appeared to be growing. She wanted him badly, wasn’t sure nowadays that the feeling was mutual. He’d barely reacted when she told him about the house. And her lie about being out with Frankie hadn’t helped, though Oz hadn’t said anything.

  She threw off the duvet, angry with herself as much as anyone. Too much wine after dinner; she needed water. She padded down to the kitchen, grabbed her bag on the way back. She paused briefly, smiling at the sounds coming from her mum and her gran’s rooms: stereo snores. The envelope Maude Taylor had given her was still there, she’d forgotten about that. She took it out along with the tablets.

  She spread the photographs around her. Sophia had been a beautiful woman. Not in-your-face, nothing blowsy about her and if she wore make-up it was subtle. The attraction was in the bone structure, the shape of her eyes, the mouth with slightly turned-up lips as if on the verge of a smile.

  Bev sighed. “Talk to me, lady.”

  She swallowed a couple of paracetamol and drained the glass. 1.50. She gathered the pictures and turned out the light. A noise woke her just as she was drifting off. She knew what it was, couldn’t put her finger on it. Of course. The curtains were billowing, flapping in the draught.

  As she closed the window, she saw him. A figure all in black in the bus shelter over the road. She moved swiftly to the side, peeping through the gap between the window frame and the curtain. Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t waiting for a bus; the last service left before midnight.

  Why was a man standing in the dead of night, staring at her house?

  Her coat was hanging on the banister. She slipped a torch into a pocket and gently drew back the bolts on the door. The dark form had given her a shock but she’d have the element of surprise. That was the theory. She threw open the door and sprinted out. Not a soul in sight. She came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road. He could have gone eit
her way. She scanned both directions. Nothing. Could she have been mistaken? Had she seen a shadow? Was it a trick of the streetlight?

  She walked slowly to the spot where she’d seen him, peering at the pavement. He’d been there for some time. There were half a dozen butts, and shadows don’t smoke.

  15

  The uniform had been posted outside Princes Rise all night. There were coffee-coloured smudges under his tired eyes. He straightened as Bev approached, but didn’t quite quell a yawn. She delved into her bag and whipped out an emergency Mars bar.

  The young constable’s eyes lit up. “Wicked. Ta, Sarge.”

  “All quiet?” She accepted a bite-size chunk. He already had a mouthful but she got the picture. Her knock on the door echoed in the early-morning street. A blackbird halted its solo but only for a second or so. Bev hoped Maude wasn’t still in bed. If her cop’s instinct was right, her late-night prowler was the same man who’d paid Maude an uninvited visit. He couldn’t get to Maude so he was having a pop at Bev. As to why, she could only hazard a guess.

  Maude was in her nightdress, a floor-length white cotton affair buttoned to the neck, the normally regal hair rumpled, a puffy ochre cheek bearing pillow creases.

  “I need to take a look round, Mrs Taylor.” Bev smiled. “Sorry – Maude.”

  “It’s awfully early, Sergeant. What are you hoping to find?”

  Whatever he’d been after. Bev shrugged. “Not sure yet.”

  She searched for two hours. Drew a blank. Everywhere. No false panels, hidden drawers, loose floorboards. She’d worked up a sweat and gathered a stack of dust but as to answers: diddly. Not surprising, really; the place had already been combed by SOCOs.

  When she popped her head round the sitting room door, she found the full-dress version of Maude sorting boxes and crates, parcelling up what was left of Sophia’s life; neat packages ready for sale or disposal.

  “Can I get a drink of water before I go?” Bev asked.

  “Help yourself, dear.” Maude was distracted, lost in memories.

  Bev ran the tap for an age, held the glass to her forehead to cool down. She glanced round; the kitchen was definitely a room to spend time in. The rest of the house was clinical by comparison. And she did like the hanging wicker baskets –

  She narrowed her eyes, then placed the glass in the sink and dragged a stool over, careful not to slip in stockinged feet. The brittle stalks and papery petals were covered in a delicate lattice of cobwebs; grey strands clung to the sweat on her hands as she carefully parted them. Nothing had been touched for months, presumably since Sophia had created this arrangement of dead flowers.

  An arrangement designed to ensure that it concealed what lay beneath.

  Byford was pacing, head down, hands in pockets. There’d been nothing from the hospital. Again. It wasn’t the only communication failure. “We’ve got two youths in the cells,” he said. “And we’d get more joy out of the brickwork.”

  Fraser and Lewis hadn’t even confirmed their own names. A duty solicitor had been assigned but she was getting the same treatment.

  “Any bright ideas?” He glanced round. The squad was definitely subdued, affected maybe by the frustration he couldn’t hide. It wasn’t just arsy adolescents and failures at the General. He’d taken the significance of Angela Collins’s phone call badly.

  It didn’t help that it was purely by chance they had anyone in custody. Uniform weren’t actually crowing but the fact was, it was their result. Not that it was all over. A smart brief could probably talk the youths out of serious charges. Being in possession of the stolen jewellery wouldn’t automatically convince a jury they’d nicked it, and there wasn’t a shred of evidence to suggest they’d been involved in the attacks.

  “Sergeant Morriss reckons we’ve got the monkeys, not the organ grinder,” Oz offered.

  Byford raised an eyebrow. The phrase was certainly more Morriss than Khan. He glanced at his watch; she was taking her time at Maude Taylor’s place. He reckoned she was probably right. He’d read the social reports. The youths barely had a grey cell between them. You didn’t need to be clever to beat up old women; you did need a modicum of nous not to get caught. “So where’s the organ grinder now?” he asked.

  “Not at Winston Heights, that’s for sure.” Oz had been out with crime scenes to the empty tower block in Edgbaston. Serious squatting had been going on for months. One room on the ground floor was ankle-deep: fast-food cartons, sweet papers, lager cans, enough porn mags to fill several top shelves. Only two sleeping bags, though.

  “More to the point, what’s he, or they, going to do next?” Oz was thinking out loud.

  “Go on,” Byford said.

  “Joan Goddard and Ena Bolton thought there were three if not four gang members. So in theory there could still be two out there. We need to know why they’re doing it. Or we’ll not stop them.”

  “The motive’s obvious, surely?” Shields said. The youths in custody were users; they’d flog body parts for a fix.

  “If they need money, why hang on to the rings?” asked Oz. “Why not sell them straight away?”

  “Or at least get rid of them.” Byford narrowed his eyes.

  “Unless –” Oz hesitated, not completely at ease with either spotlight or theory. “Maybe it’s not about the cash. Or at least not any more.” He glanced at the murder board. “Look at the old ladies, guv. The violence is worse every time.”

  “A taste for blood? You think it’s that now?” Byford mulled the notion over, gave a shrug. “It happens.”

  It didn’t go far enough. Oz took another tentative step. “I keep thinking about Sophia Carrington being a doctor –”

  “Don’t go there.” Shields didn’t give him a chance. “I made the checks myself. She didn’t bury any mistakes.”

  “Carry on, officer.” Byford was interested. Oz Khan was rarely so vocal. Bev usually had more than enough to say for both of them. The guv registered the fact, filed it for future consideration.

  “Maybe it’s not Sophia specifically. Maybe it’s a general medical thing. I’m wondering if any of the other victims worked in the profession: a nurse, maybe, or a cleaner, a hospital secretary. Carrington trained here in Birmingham. Is it possible there’s a link between the victims as well as the villains?”

  Byford turned his mouth down. It was a hell of a conjecture. But what else had they got? “Best find out, hadn’t you, Oz?”

  The photographs had no name on them – only a date on the back of each, February 20th in succeeding years, beginning with 1955. There were sixteen in all, the last from 1971. You didn’t have to be an expert. It was the same child, a girl, different ages: newborn, gap-toothed toddler, gangly teenager.

  “And Maude Taylor says she’s never seen them before?” They were closeted in the guv’s office. Bev sat across the desk from Byford. DI Shields leaned against the windowsill, hands wrapped round a mug.

  “Adamant,” Bev said.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Shields sneered. “To hear Taylor talk, they were Siamese twins, joined at the hip. I wouldn’t have thought they had any secrets between them.”

  Shields’s snide remarks were getting to Bev. Was the DI pissed off because she hadn’t come up with the goods? OK, they might not lead anywhere and they certainly raised more questions than answers, but at least it was a new line. Frankie’s ‘be nice’ advice was a bugger.

  “We’re assuming the date’s the girl’s birth date?” Byford asked.

  Bev held her hands out. “The checks are going in now.”

  “I don’t see the relevance,” Shields said. “Even if the old woman had a child. So what?”

  “Not if,” Bev said. “She did. It’s in the PM report.” Sophia Carrington had fitted the ageing spinster profile so well, no one had bothered to check. Bev had confirmed it with Harry Gough over the phone on her way in. “As for its relevance, who knows? It needs following up.”

  Shields shrugged. The casual dismissal infuriated Bev.
“You got anything better?”

  Byford tightened his jaw. He gathered a few papers and slipped a pen in his top pocket. “If you need a hand, use Darren New. DC Khan’s got something on.”

  “Oh?” She wanted to hear more but the guv was about ready to break it up. She paused at the door. “Know what gets me, guv?” She fanned out the photographs. “If these do mark birthdays, a photo for each year of her life –” she paused – “how come they stop at sixteen?”

  Oz glanced over as Bev entered the incident room. He gave her a half-smile as she perched on the edge of his desk while he finished the call, the last of a series. The turned-down mouth was pretty telling, but he filled her in anyway. Joan Goddard hadn’t been in hospital as a patient, let alone a worker. Ena had been an office worker, hated hospitals, prided herself on never taking a sickie in her life. Angela Collins confirmed that her mother had never worked outside the house, not even voluntary stuff. And they knew of each other only as fellow victims via the media.

  “So another one bites the dust?” Bev commiserated.

  Oz sighed and threw his notes into the bin.

  “It was good thinking, Oz. Worth following up.” It was meant to buck him up.

  He rose, pulled on his jacket. “Don’t patronise me, Sarge.”

  Touch-ee. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She’d been there herself, loads of times. A great idea and it panned out to squat. “I’m getting nowhere fast too.”

  Sophia had given birth but there was no record anywhere, nothing on paper, no birth, no death. So what happened to Sophia’s baby? It was possible the child was stillborn and the girl in the photographs was unrelated, a friend’s perhaps, even a patient’s. They still had little idea who she was or why the photographs ended in 1971.

  Oz ran a finger along his chin. “There must be something. They were hot on records even back then.”

  “I’m sure the birth was registered. Didn’t have to be in the right name, though.”