More shades of Frankie. Still, the guv’s take would be useful. “Excuse me. I banged my head on the way down.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re gonna have to spell it out, then, guv. ’Cause I don’t know where you’re coming from.”
He couldn’t tell her everything. He couldn’t prove it all. Byford had replayed the scene several times since the DI boards. He wouldn’t have witnessed it at all if he hadn’t left his phone lying around. He’d found it in the interview room – where he’d also come across Danny Shields. During the lunch break. The table was littered with appraisal sheets and interview notes. Took the wrong door, she’d said. He had no way of knowing how long she’d been there or how much she’d read, but it would have taken only minutes to pick up the strengths and weakness of the other candidates; especially Bev’s. She was Shields’s closest rival and Shields was next in.
“You’re a good detective, Bev. You’re young, bright, snapping at her heels.”
“Give me a break, guv. If I was that hot, how come I’m not in her shoes?”
Because in the interview Shields had emphasised teamwork and procedures, derided the sort of officer who acts on initiative. “She’s a good officer, Bev. And she had the vocabulary.”
“Anyone can talk the talk.”
Not about ethnic minorities. Not as convincingly as Danny Shields. And admit it or not, the police service everywhere was desperate not to be perceived as racist. The Stephen Lawrence inquiry cast a long shadow. He didn’t believe Shields had deliberately played the race card. She hardly needed to, not with the other aces up her sleeve.
There was another explanation, of course.
“Could just be she doesn’t like you,” Byford offered.
“Thanks, guv. I’m feeling better already.”
He flapped a hand at the smoke. “I’m glad someone is. Come on, let’s get back before I need oxygen.”
The ivory silk camisole was laid out rather fetchingly on the bed. Bev was doing her Cop Idol bit in the shower. She’d segued from Angels to Sympathy for the Devil. It was going to be a wicked night. Her water was never wrong. She wrapped a towel round her hair and fashioned another into a toga. The body lotion had cost a small fortune and it was going on every inch of flesh she could reach. She gazed into the mirror: could you pout and smoulder at the same time? Nah. Looked as if she’d had a stroke. She flashed a smile instead. The chat with the guv had bucked her up no end. Bright young snapper-at-heels was fine by her.
A shout from below broke into her thoughts. “See you later, Bev.”
“You bet.” Her mum and Sadie were off to see a man about a dog. Literally. Talk about excited. They were like a couple of kids. They’d done their homework since Humph: contacted the Kennel Club, recced reputable breeders. The puppies were six weeks old. Bev had a feeling it would be love at first sight.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Was that a cackle from Sadie? Bev grinned; much as she loved the old girl, that didn’t give a deal of scope. She slipped into the camisole. Well, it was almost her size.
19
“It had better be good, Oz.” God. She sounded like her mum.
“I’m really sorry, Bev. I’ll explain when I get there. I’ll grab us a bite to eat.”
Bev had already added the feminine touch of a soft candle or two to Zak’s bachelor pad in Selly Oak. Having slipped into something less comfortable, the camisole being a tad on the tight side, she was now chomping at the bit. By the sound of it, she’d not be getting her teeth into Khan’s dish of the day. Oz cooked like a dream but there’d be no time now for him to knock up anything in the kitchen. He was probably hoping she’d say she fancied an Indian. Tough.
“Chinese, preferably. Pizza at a push.” The flat delivery contained more than a food order. How long was he going to be? She wanted to chuck the mobile across the floor, aimed it at the settee instead. 8.30. She’d give him an hour, then she was off. So much for a night of passion; he couldn’t even get here on time. At least she could have a drink. She’d brought booze as well as candles. She wandered, chilled Chablis in hand. Zak had left a note on a pin board: make yourselves at home. She sniffed; gift horse in the mouth and all that, but Zak’s pad was a bit boring: all chunky chintz and Athena prints. Except for the floor. The carpet tiles were black and white; she was beginning to feel like a chess piece.
“Checkmate.” Talking of mates… She’d give Frankie a bell. A girlie whinge about unreliable blokes would pass an hour or six. A recorded voice put the mockers on that. And the point of a mobile not on, is? She slung the phone settee-wards again.
The telly was a turn-off; the sound system was cool but she wasn’t in the mood for soft music. She’d spotted a pack of playing cards on the side but she hadn’t the patience. Sod it. She’d nip out for a ciggie. She delved into her bag, frowned as her fingers closed round the edges of a book. Sophia’s journal. Not quite how she imagined a night of passion panning out. She started to read, smoking forgotten.
I saw them this afternoon. It’s not allowed, of course, but I watched from the walled garden as they parked. I can still smell the rosemary on my dress, still picture the couple in every detail. Perhaps I hoped they’d be unsuitable, brash and common and stupid. Would that have given me the strength to say no, to send them away? Foolish thought. They were none of that. She looked like the actress from Brief Encounter. He reminded me of the manager at my father’s bank: portly and pompous in a pin-stripe suit. He cupped her elbow in his hand as they walked. They exchanged nervous glances and tight smiles.
Maude forwards my post. I shake with shame when I read my parents’ letters. They think I’m a saint. I had to lie. I told them I was nursing a dying friend, a woman with only months to live. I can tell them exactly when she’ll die – after I’ve given birth. I’ve considered countless times whether to reveal the truth. I can’t do it. It would hurt them too much.
The pains are coming regularly now. The contractions are two minutes apart. It won’t be long. I won’t cry, however much it hurts. I keep telling myself that if I endure the physical pain, God will help me cope with the mental agony later. Strange how I long to see the baby’s face.
She’s perfect. Wisps of dark hair feather the tiniest skull I have even seen. She has huge blue eyes that gaze into mine and seem to read my thoughts. I cant decide on a name. Elizabeth, perhaps? Or Isobel? How could I ever have imagined giving her up?
I couldn’t do it. I’m not strong enough. I was swayed by what was said and afraid of what others would think. It wasn’t for my sake. I must hold on to that thought. Children need both parents. I want her to have a normal happy life. People can be so cruel to a baby born out of wedlock. I’ve heard the words they use, witnessed the contempt, as if it’s the child’s fault. I leave here tomorrow and will try to forget everything. That way I may be able to survive it.
I saw them from the window. They’re here to take her. I kiss her head, stroke her face, whisper I love you. Her baby scent lingers in the air. It breaks my heart. Dear God, let her be happy.
Bev had a crick in her neck and her right foot had gone to sleep; the rest of her was coming round slowly. She rubbed her eyes, couldn’t remember where she was at first. Oz was sitting opposite. Why the hell hadn’t he woken her? Gone midnight and he was curled up with a good book. She took a closer look. Actually it wasn’t a good book; it was real life. And it was sad. Judging by the expression on his face, he was near the end.
She yawned and swung her legs round, instantly aware of the camisole’s shortcomings. Apart from which, she was frozen. Oz was on the last page when she returned from the bedroom looking slightly less like something off page three. She nodded at the book. “And they all lived happily ever after. Not.”
Sophia certainly hadn’t. She’d lived a lie and died a lonely violent death. Bev was sure there was a connection there, was struggling to make it. They’d try to trace what happened to the kid, of course, but thousands of illegitimate babies
were given up for adoption in Sophia’s era. It was a heartbreaking story, a shameful secret, but it was two a penny back then.
Oz closed the journal. “Amazing.”
So was he. You could do breaststroke in those eyes. She moved across, took the book from him, snuggled close. The arm round her shoulder was good, the peck on her cheek could be improved. OK, Oz, in your own time.
“I feel sorry for the baby, Bev.” He was still in the past.
“I suppose she did what she thought best.” The thigh-stroking was designed to catapult him to the present. A sort of strangled sound emerged, which was highly encouraging until she registered it as a snort. Not unlike one of her own.
“Best for who, Bev? The baby or Sophia Carrington?”
She removed the arm, turned to face him. “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? Imagine having a kid, then giving it up for adoption, never seeing it again.”
He picked up the journal. “I don’t have to imagine. It’s all there in black and white. Lots of pain, loads of angst, woe is me, then hey! Where’s the sink? She washes her hands of the whole mess, walks away and gets on with her life.” Heated or what? The diatribe left her almost speechless, not that there was a chance to join the debate. “And I’ll tell you this for sure: there’s no way on God’s earth I’d give my own flesh and blood to strangers.”
“Best hope you don’t get up the duff, then, hadn’t you?” OK, it was childish but he’d asked for it. She knew he was big on family, but that didn’t make him right. Nothing was ever that black and white. “Come on, Oz. The poor bloody woman made one mistake –”
“Three.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “She had sex with a married man. Failed to take precautions. Had a baby.”
Sexist prig. She could barely get the words out. “It’s a damn sight better than getting rid of it.”
A muscle tensed in his cheek but he kept his voice calm. “Isn’t that exactly what she did?”
The silence was broken by a muffled sound neither recognised at first. She looked round, located the source, dashed over. The mobile was jammed down the back of one of Zak’s chunky cushions.
“Shit.” Half a dozen missed calls. All from Highgate. One unopened message.
She read the words. “Double shit.”
20
Oz drove. The nine-minute journey took five. There was a uniform on the door and a cluster of gawkers in the street.
“Better late than never.” DI Shields looked up from her notes. A quick glance suggested she’d been called out in a rush. No make-up, hair could do with a comb, the outfit had been thrown together. Not exactly catwalk cool; more cop under pressure.
Bev ignored the crack, concentrated on not throwing up. The stench in the small space was horrendous; it filled every inch. Her stomach lurched; the retching made her eyes water. It was partly the rank odour, partly the pitiful sight. Oz succumbed to both and headed outside for air.
The terraced house in Kings Heath was in the street next to the first victim’s, though Bev reckoned Iris Collins would turn in her grave at the state of this place. It was a dive: dirt-poor and dirty; bare floorboards, paper hanging off the walls, a one-bar electric fire, not switched on. Thank God.
“What have we got?” Bev asked. She nodded at a couple of SOCOs who were waiting for a green light from Shields.
“Dolly Machin. Seventy-six. Widow. Man next door hadn’t seen anything of her for a while.”
Bev held a tissue under her nose and got down on one knee. “How long’s a while?”
Shields shrugged. “He admits to three weeks. Darren New’s there now, trying to get a firmer fix. But by the look of that, it’ll be a damn sight longer.”
Bev tightened her lips. That was an old woman who’d once been a little girl, somebody’s daughter, maybe somebody’s mother. She’d lived in appalling poverty and died in her own waste with a colony of hungry rats for company.
She rose, regretted buying, let alone wearing, the camisole. “I’m going to have a quick look round.”
Shields didn’t object. Bev couldn’t put her finger on it but there was something not quite right about the DI. It went deeper than the new look. She hadn’t exactly deferred to Bev but she’d seemed relieved to have her there, anxious almost for her input. Maybe thinking on her feet wasn’t the DI’s forte? Mind, if she saw this as her first big test as lead detective, that’d be a shame. Bev wasn’t convinced they even had a case.
The recce confirmed her suspicions. The kitchen looked as if it had been fitted in the fifties and not touched since. Other rooms were virtually empty. Maybe Dolly Machin had sold the lot; maybe there’d been nothing to sell. Bev went back to check the bin and ran her hands under the tap before joining Shields in the front room. Oz had returned, looking a tad shame-faced. No reason. Everyone had been there, done that, got sick on the T-shirt.
Shields turned to face Bev. “Well?”
No sense in rushing it. “What’s Harry Gough said?” She’d spotted the pathologist’s Range Rover pulling away as they arrived.
“You know what he’s like. He won’t commit himself until he’s sure.”
Not in Bev’s experience. Harry might not set his initial thoughts in stone but he generally offered them. “Guess it makes no odds, really.”
Shields stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s nothing for us here, is there?”
“Nothing for us?” The DI struggled to keep her voice down. “This has to be the scene of the first attack. Iris Collins wasn’t the first victim. This woman was.”
Bev shook her head.
The DI persisted. “Machin fits the profile perfectly. This is a crime scene, Sergeant.”
Crime, maybe, but not the sort you find in the law books. Getting old. Not having two pennies to rub together. Living next door to people who watch Neighbours but can’t be arsed to look out for their own. “Look around, DI Shields. There’s nothing worth nicking.”
Shields swept the room with a perfunctory glance. “No one would know that until they were in. The place has been turned over.”
Bev shuddered. The place was a tip all right. “No one broke in here, Inspector.” Certainly not the shits they were after. It was all wrong. Dolly’s wedding ring was still on her finger. There was a pension book on the side in the kitchen. Bev had even found a few bob hidden in a Charles and Di tea caddy. One thing she hadn’t come across? A floral tribute. There wasn’t so much as a dandelion, let alone a daffodil.
As for Dolly Machin, she’d been a sick woman. There were so many prescription drugs, the kitchen looked like a pharmacy. Bev nodded in the direction of the bloated, blotchy corpse. “It’s a bloody awful way to go, but I’ll be amazed if it’s not natural causes.”
Shields ran a hand through her hair, acutely aware the crime lads were listening to every word. She lowered her voice. “Are you undermining my authority?”
A single lifted eyebrow expressed exactly what Bev was thinking; she wasn’t stupid enough to say it. “You’re in charge. Do what you think best.”
“That’s ex –”
Who the hell was ringing at this time of night? Bev lifted a finger to stem the DI’s flow as she took the call. She felt the colour drain from her face, the blood rush to her head. She was about to pass out. She staggered, must have reached out a hand. Oz was there, arm round her shoulder.
“What is it, Sergeant?” Shields’s voice held concern. Bev tried to speak but her mouth wouldn’t work. Her mother’s screams were still ringing in her head.
21
Dear God. Let her be all right. I’ll do anything you say if you let her be all right.
It was a pact she’d made before. It hadn’t stopped her dad dying. This time, God. This time…
She glanced at Oz, willing him to drive faster. Familiar roads flashed past in a blur, wet pavements reflected orange streetlight. Maybe Oz had heard her silent plea. Or maybe she didn’t need to voice it. The body had its own language and hers was shouting. She
couldn’t stop her right leg jerking. She clamped it with a hand, still felt the tremor through her fingers.
“Pull over.” She stumbled from the car, threw up on a grass verge, then sucked in lungsful of fresh air. The stink of death in her nostrils also clung to her clothes, her hair. It wasn’t why she’d vomited.
Dear God. Let her be all right. I’ll do anything you want if you just let her be all right.
She was aware of Oz strapping her into the seat, wiping sweat and tears from her face. He gently placed a ball of tissues in her hand.
“She’ll be fine, Bev. Just fine.”
How the fuck do you know? If she’d been in the house, it would never have happened. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t look at him, just wanted to get home. She closed her eyes, clenched her fists, counted the seconds. She was halfway up the drive before Oz was out of the car.
Muffled voices came from the sitting room.
“It’s me,” Bev called. The last thing they needed was another shock. She stopped just inside the door. A bruised and bewildered-looking Sadie was lying on the sofa propped up by cushions, sobbing her heart out. Without her glasses she seemed smaller, more vulnerable. Emmy had pulled up a chair and was holding Sadie’s hand. They turned at the same time, their faces taut with fear and hurt. They both tried so hard to smile it broke Bev’s heart.
“Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?” Her voice quivered and the tears welling in her eyes spilled down her cheeks. She ran to comfort her gran, froze halfway across.
Sadie’s beautiful hair. The bastard had hacked it off. Long grey hanks littered the carpet. Clumps had been casually tossed around the room. The senseless act, unbelievably callous, took Bev’s breath away. She’d brushed Sadie’s hair a million times. It wasn’t just part of her gran’s appearance, it was part of her identity. Sadie hadn’t got a vain bone in her body but she’d been proud of her hair. Slowly she went to Sadie and knelt at her feet. For once, she couldn’t find the words.
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