“Hey, Davy. Where’s Jake get his piercings?”
“Dunno.” It was only one word. But it told Bev what she needed to know.
Talk about busking it. Jake could have had a peg leg and been on nodding terms with Rolf Harris until Davy Roberts had uttered that single word. Unfortunately, that was as far as it went. The lad hadn’t uttered another syllable. Bev had been forced to call in the cavalry. She and it were having coffee and croissants in the canteen at Highgate. She licked a finger to gather the crumbs off the plate, simultaneously indulging in fantasies of Oz in riding boots wielding a whip. Though delicious, it was a touch distracting. Reluctantly she reined in her thoughts and finished running through the Roberts interview.
“It wasn’t so much a leap in the dark, Oz. More headfirst into a black hole.” She waited for the verbal pat on the back.
“Sure it was the head?”
She bridled. “Meaning?”
“This chat? Who OKd it?”
A one-shouldered shrug.
“The photo? What possessed you?”
Another shrug. She sneaked a glance at his face. He shook his head slowly. “Out of order.”
Maybe he was still miffed over her meeting with Marlow. She’d filled him in on it last night but only because she’d had to put it in a report. Or maybe the sergeant-wannabe was keeping his nose clean? Shame the guv had told her to keep it buttoned on that front. She’d a good mind to tell him to shove it but she needed his help.
“Come on, Oz. It paid off. We’ve got a couple of steers now.”
As it happened, the emergence of a youth called Jake had pushed her pet theory off the boil. Sophia Carrington’s past might turn out to be a diversion, but Bev wasn’t yet ready to discount it completely. Oz appeared unmoved. She held out empty palms.
“I can’t do it on my own.” Not rifle a haystack the size of a planet for a couple of thin needles: Doctor Carrington’s missing daughter and the youth with spiked hair.
Oz looked unconvinced. “Can’t see why you’re so keen on this Jake character. Lots of kids have face studs. Stupid hair. We’re making a hell of a lot of work for ourselves if he turns out he’s just a mate of Davy’s.”
He was right. But then Oz hadn’t been there. Davy had only said one word but she’d never forget the look on the lad’s face. If Jake was a friend, Davy Roberts sure had no need of enemies.
Jake was late. Unexpected delay. Best not to rush it anyway. He deliberately slowed his step, cast surreptitious glances down the street. It was empty apart from a few motors, a couple of kids kicking a football round. He pulled his hood up, then paused to light a Marlboro. No sense in attracting an audience, not when the final act was so near and he’d soon be staging an exit. He moved on, slipped a hand gingerly into his pocket. The blade was lethal; he’d sharpened it. It was a different knife, but Kitchen Devils were easy to buy. Not that he’d be prepping veg.
He was approaching the house now. Was he going to kill her? Hadn’t made up his mind. Could go either way. Personally he didn’t give a shit. She was a bargaining counter. He had a bit of loose change in his back pocket. Maybe he should toss for it? On one hand, it was always good to see the knife go in, the flesh parting; but if the old girl was dead, Davy had nothing left to lose. He brightened at the prospect of another thought. What if the old lady lost something? An ear, maybe, or a finger? He pictured Davy opening the parcel. Jake smiled. Oh, that was good. That was very good.
A car pulled up behind. Fuck it. Don’t look back. He didn’t break stride, walked straight past the house, turned as he reached the corner. Thank God he’d carried on. It was the cop with the big nose and even bigger mouth. His eyes narrowed as his fingers tightened round the knife’s handle. He might have doubts about offing Gert Roberts; he had none whatever about getting rid of Miss Piggy.
29
By late afternoon Oz reckoned he’d drawn the short straw. Make that miniscule, with excrement. He’d been stuck in Highgate while Bev was paying house visits and calling in favours, flashing a photo of Davy Roberts and the TV still of Jake whoever-he-was to tame snouts. Informants loathed granny-bashers almost as much as paedophiles. Could be they’d supply a name, a break, at least put the word on the street. She planned running the pics past the old ladies as well. It was a long shot but it just might jog a memory or two. Despite the odds, it had more going for it than Oz’s share of the workload.
He’d been left holding the baby. Or not holding it, trying to get a fix on it. It’d be easier tracing Lord Lucan than Sophia Carrington’s offspring. Antecedents were no problem; Sophia’s lineage went back generations. But post-Sophia: nothing. The family tree appeared to have contracted Dutch elm disease.
He lounged back, legs sprawled, hands on head. He’d checked every which way: family records, general register office, adoption society. The information had to be there. But clearly not under Carrington. Without the right name, it was like trying to breach a firewall without a password.
“DC Khan? I didn’t know you were in today.”
Oz shot up. DI Shields was framed in the doorway behind him. The woman moved like a stealth bomber. How long had she been standing there? He lifted his mobile. “Just making a few calls.” He reached for the mouse to clear the screen but thought better of it.
“Don’t let me stop you. I’m out of here.” The salute was obviously mock, he was still wondering about her smile when the phone rang.
“Wotcha.” It could only be Bev.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s not.”
“That good, huh?”
He talked her through it; listened as she reciprocated. “I’ve put the word out. Have to wait and see. Ena and Joan? Not brilliant. They’re keen to help but neither’s a hundred per cent.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Do us a favour, Oz?” He thought he already was. “I need another look through Sophia’s journal. I think I left it in my top drawer. Can you bring it tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Your call. My treat.” She owed him for all this. Big time. Owed him the truth over Marlow as well. Anyway, there was catching up to do; they never did get that night of passion.
“You’re on,” Oz said. “What you up to now?”
“I’m nipping in to see Gert Roberts, then I’m calling it a day.”
“I’d help like a shot but I never met the lad. I told Davy he should bring him home, like. He never did. Sorry, love.”
Gert Roberts looked glum; sounded it too. Life without her grandson was taking its toll. She relinquished the photograph of the pale-faced spike-haired youth with a grimace of regret. Bev sighed, should have known it’d be a waste of time. She’d already spent the better part of an hour up in Davy’s room. No point, really, not when SOCOs had given it the works. Anything vaguely useful had been removed: clothes, computer, letters, books.
“You look whacked,” Gert said. “Shall I make us a cuppa? It’ll only take a minute.”
No way. “Yeah, go on then.” She couldn’t resist the childlike plea in the old woman’s voice. Must be lonely as hell for her without the lad. Gert was struggling to raise her bulk from the chair. “Want me to do it?” Bev offered.
“Smashing. The fixings are on the side. Can’t miss them.”
She was beginning to regret the impulse. The kitchen stank: stale fat, sour milk, unwashed flesh. Gert’s little-girl voice wafted in from the sitting room. “Can’t stop thinking about him. Wondering what he’s up to. How he passes the time.”
“He’s got books, magazines.” The dishcloth was teeming: bacteria heaven. Bev ran it under the tap and dabbed halfheartedly at a surface or two.
“Takes after me. Loves reading. Has done since he was a kid.”
“Oh yeah?” She sniffed her fingers, chucked the cloth in the sink and washed her hands.
“You’ll find a bit of Swiss roll in the tin.”
It was next to the chip pan: vintage Charles and Di, beaming couple, golden carr
iage. Bev’s snort said it all.
“Here you go.” She plonked the tray on a low table.
“You not having cake?” Gert’s incredulity suggested Bev was cutting back on oxygen.
Bev shook her head. “Trying to give it up.” They drank PG, talked Davy. Bev listened, made the right noises. Gert’s strained face shed a few years in the reminiscences. Nothing like being in denial. Barring a miracle, the lad would be in court on Monday, remanded in custody. Forget the fatted calf. Davy wouldn’t be home any time soon. The old girl lapsed into silence, staring into space.
Bev shifted forward on the seat. “You gonna be OK, Mrs R?”
“I reckon.” She ran a hand over her face. “Sister’s coming down from Liverpool. She’s widowed. On her own now. We’re gonna muck in together. See if it works.”
Bev nodded. “Sounds good.” She put her mug on the tray and rummaged in her bag for a card. “Anything comes to mind, give us a bell, OK?”
Gert was reaching for another dog-eared paperback before Bev had reached the door. She turned to smile, spotted one of the old dear’s reads on the floor in imminent danger of disappearing under the chair. The book was sticky as well as tacky. Bev handed it over and wiped her hand on her jeans.
Gert frowned. “This isn’t mine. I’ve never seen it before.”
Bev took a closer look. The stickiness wasn’t down to Gert’s sweet tooth. The book had been stuck to the underside of the chair with masking tape that had lost its grip. She opened the pages and her eyes lit up. Whoever had hidden it had taken great care. The cut-out was virtually undetectable. The floppy disk fitted so snug she broke a nail easing it out.
“Hey, Khanie, you heard?” Big Vince was on the desk at Highgate. There was a faint whiff of cheese and onion in the air.
Oz was halfway down the stairs, in a hurry. “What’s that, Sarge?”
“They’ve found the knife.”
The blade used on Marlow last night? Had to be. “Prints?”
“Full set. Name tag on the handle.”
Oz widened his eyes, the mouth already O-shaped.
“Had you going there, didn’t I?” The big man winked. “Nah. It was clean as a bishop’s conscience, ’cept for the blood. Dumped in a bin down Bolt Street.” Vince reached in the drawer, tore open another pack of crisps. “Want one?”
Drawer. Journal. Bev. Shit.
“No, ta. Just put one out.”
He took the stairs two at a time. Where was the damn thing? She’d said top drawer.
He pulled out everything but the sink unit: tapes, black tights, property details on half of Birmingham and two squares of fluff-covered dairy milk. He smiled, shook his head. She’d be a nightmare to live with.
It was wedged in. He tugged the handle gently. Not gently enough. The cover was well torn. Bev’d kill him. The sodding thing had survived unscathed for half a century until Oz got his clumsy mitts on it. Or maybe not. He moved nearer the light.
The journal’s original cover was intact. Not a mark on it. Little wonder. It had been protected by another cover on top. Oz glanced round for a ruler, letter-opener, anything to prise open the rip he’d made.
Very gently he extracted the cutting. It hadn’t even been folded. He held the tiny scrap of paper between his thumb and forefinger. Protected between the two covers, it hadn’t got brittle and faded. It would have looked like this the day it appeared in the Evening News: 10th March 1985.
Two lines of print, eleven words:
Collison, Sara. Beloved daughter of George and Hannah. Rest in peace.
So Sophia Carrington’s murder happened on the twentieth anniversary of the death of someone named Sara Collison. Someone whose death notice was hidden in Sophia’s journal. Oz tapped a finger against his lips. Like Bev, he didn’t do coincidence, not when the connection was staring him in the face.
Jake hadn’t factored it in – the cop turning up out of the blue like that. Obviously he’d be taking her out, that was a given, had been almost from the start. Doing her now was tempting but it’d throw the timing right out. Nah, he’d stick to the plan. It had served him well so far. Jake double-checked the blade and took a last deep drag on his cigarette before moving off. The old lady was gonna lose a bit of weight. As for the pig, he’d settle for a shot across the bows for the time being. The snicker was involuntary; shot across the bows… That was good, Jay, my son. That was very good.
“Shit-for-brains fuckwits.” Bev halted outside Gert’s house, hands on hips, fury incarnate. Her MG had gained a go-faster stripe: badly executed and fucking unbelievable. The deep gouge had penetrated right through the new paint-job. Now a jagged line of the original dull yellow ran the entire length of the black re-spray. She dashed to the passenger side; if anything, it was worse.
She scanned the street, fists clenched. Given the area, she was lucky the motor was still there. With a sinking feeling, she checked the tyres. Thank you, God. There were still four, none slashed. Last thing she needed was a hold-up. Not with Davy’s floppy burning a hole in her pocket. Even so, a cruise round the block on yob-watch couldn’t do any harm. She completed two clear laps before heading home.
It took twenty minutes to get there, slinging her bag on the kitchen table and snatching up yet another note from her mum. Emmy’s missives usually rambled stream-of-conscious style, but this offering was to the point, more or less.
Hi love, Were seeing a man about a dog. Again! Check the answerphone. Loads of messages for you. Have a nice time tonight! Love, mum. PS Found your earring so you can stop looking!
Bev pulled a face. Stop? She hadn’t started. Anyway, the little earring looked more like one of Sadie’s. She made for the box room that Emmy grandly dubbed ‘the office’, and played back the answerphone tape while the computer was booting up.
Frankie had landed a gig at the Jug of Ale next Friday. “Be there, Beverley – or else.” Bev smiled, jotted details.
Baldwin Street was back on the market; the agent with a lisp and a wandering eye asked if he should resubmit her offer. You bet!
Maude Taylor wondered when Sophia’s body would be released for burial. Bev’s smile faded. She ought to pop in, bring the old girl up to speed on the inquiry. “Oh, and Sergeant Morriss, I think that young man telephoned again. Simon? He said it was a wrong number but I feel sure it was him.”
Bev tensed for a second or two. The 24/7 police presence out there had been called off. On the other hand, patrols were still keeping an eye open and Maude was too canny to take risks. She jotted down Simon, underlined the name twice. He’d never been traced, remained just a voice on the line. She frowned. Come to think of it, there’d been quite a few of those. She added a reminder. It had to be worth a check.
Another addition to the To Do list…
There was a hang-up, then the guv. His voice brought a smile to her face until she registered what it was saying. Shields had been on to him. She’d found out Bev was still sniffing around. Tight-lipped, she punched in the guv’s number: no reply. She’d keep trying. As for Shields, the woman could take a running jump.
She reached in her pocket, urged herself to stay calm. The disk could contain Davy’s geography essay for all she knew. But she’d stake a month’s salary on it going further than a bit of course-work.
She tapped the mouse, held her breath. There was only one file. She speed-read it, then went back to the top, taking her time. At last she leaned back, gave a low whistle. Should have made that a year’s salary.
30
“Are you showing off?”
Oz wielded chopsticks in one hand and a hard copy of the contents of Davy Roberts’s disk in the other. Bev was attacking crispy bashed duck with knife and fork. She preferred to eat while the food was still hot.
“I’m ambidextrous,” he said without looking up.
“Must be a cure for it.”
He rolled his eyes, nonchalantly plucked a tiny prawn from a mound of rice. She was playing it cool, but her voice told him how wired she was. H
e’d managed to get a word in about the concealed cutting, the fact that for the first time they had a name to go on. But it was Davy’s hidden disk that was sending out sparks.
“What you reckon, then?” Her fork indicated the printout.
“He’s no Adrian Mole, is he?”
“Hope not.” Mole’s diary was fiction; she was counting on Davy’s words being fact. Oz needed a tad longer to take in the details. Bev poured another glass of Pinot, absorbed the ambience. The Happy Gathering heaved with city-chic types gearing up for a Saturday night bop. She’d have been up for it herself if she’d had time to change. Oz was in black: silk shirt, linen trousers. Tasty. He placed the sheets of A4 to one side. She wondered how long he’d been looking at her.
“Why did he record it all like this?”
She shrugged, not sure. It seemed simple, at first. The excited outpourings suggested Davy was having the time of his life. A chance encounter in the street had led to a new best mate and Davy revelled in the attention. Jake’s largesse extended to cash handouts, cool gifts, regular treats and, above all, she suspected, making Davy feel good.
’Course it came at a price. When Jake suggested picking a pocket or two, how could Davy refuse? Turned out to be good training. Soon Jake had taken on a couple more recruits and the gang graduated to street robberies. Kev and Robbie, the Shrek boys who’d taken a vow of silence, provided the muscle. Bev couldn’t shake off the image of a Fagin-style operation with Davy as the Artful Dodger. It was sad in a way; the lad was besotted. She understood why he needed someone to look up to but as role models go, Jake sucked.
“My guess is, it was exciting, cool, wicked. Little Davy in with the big boys at last.”
“Cool?” Oz said. “Knocking old ladies about?”
The names were there: Ena Bolton, Joan Goddard, Iris Collins, a couple more Bev didn’t even recognise. It was Operation Streetwise writ large.
“Money for old rope.” Not the best choice of phrase. She pushed her plate aside. “Until the doctor’s murder.”
Dead Old Page 21
