Dead Old (17 page)

A couple of hours later, Bev and Frankie were ensconced in a Moseley wine bar. With chunky leather seating and fuck-the-diet food, it would be Bev’s local if her offer on
the Victorian terrace in Baldwin Street was accepted. A good cause for celebration.

And Frankie was another. A night out with her was better than a week in Rome. Frankie was human Prozac, happy pills on legs. Bev relaxed just listening to her. Frankie’s Italian accent was
a moveable feast. She laid it on shamelessly for her own ends, and right now she was using a JCB. She’d come up with a solution to the Danny Shields scenario: the final curtain.

“I’m-a gonna send-a the boys round, Bev.” She laughed, tossing back a cloud of blue-black hair that Rossetti would have died for. Bev had tried the tossing-hair thing once;
she’d ended up in a neck brace.

“What about a horse’s head on her pillow?” Bev put in hopefully.

Frankie flapped a hand. “That is so last week.”

They laughed, but Bev caught the concern darkening her best friend’s eyes. She’d listened to Bev’s blow-by-blow account of the confrontations with the DI, the mounting
hostility, the constant undermining of Bev’s work. Frankie had made all the right noises but, like Bev, couldn’t come up with a reason for the woman’s arsiness. She tended to
suspect Shields was insecure; aware, perhaps, her body was in better shape than her brain.

“Professional jealousy, Bev. No one can accuse you of using female charms to open doors.”

“Frankie!”

“You know what I mean,” she winked, and grabbed their empty glasses.

Bev watched as Frankie sashayed to the bar, all thigh and cleavage. Christ, the girl turned more heads than an osteopath. Unlike Shields, she had a sweet nature to go with it. Maybe Bev would
take Frankie’s advice: be
so
nice to the bloody woman she might change her shitty tune.

Bev’s mobile beeped a message. It wasn’t a number she recognised, but a puzzled frown gave way to a cat-like smile when she read the text: miss u sergeant morriss! when can i see you
again? Tom x

Of course she had to tell Frankie: she wanted the full works. They swapped man stories till it was time to hit the road. Frankie was shrugging into a full-length red leather trench coat when she
mentioned she’d bumped into Oz in Blockbusters.

“Oh?” Bev’s radar was on alert. “When was that, Frankie?”

“Last night. Didn’t he mention it? I asked him to give you my love.”

Last night. And she’d told Oz she’d been out on the town with Frankie.

It was dark when he arrived. The gates were locked. Not that it mattered. He made sure he wasn’t being watched, then shinned over the wall. He knew the way with his eyes
closed. No one had been since his last visit. He removed the old stems and wrapped them in paper. He’d bought a bottle of water for the fresh flowers.

The golden petals appeared a dull grey in the blackness of the night.

14

Monday, one week since Sophia Carrington’s murder, the early brief at Highgate.

“Why leave daffodils at the crime scenes?”

It was the guv’s question but Bev had been asking herself the same thing. She’d kept tabs on the inquiry over the weekend via calls to the incident room. Not difficult, nothing had
shifted.

“Could it be a ruse? To throw us off the scent?” Bev asked.

Byford sighed. “Are you trying to be funny?”

A Morriss-glare silenced a couple of sniggers. “I mean it, guv. There may be no significance. Just toe-rags trying to be smart-arses. You know, let’s take the piss out of Mr
Plod.”

It was the only conclusion she’d drawn, in between viewing houses and catching up on chores, not to mention a Thai takeaway and a Jude Law DVD. Oz had been playing it cool. So cool he
hadn’t even phoned. Unlike Tom Marlow, who’d called last night. They’d hooked up for a quick drink. She didn’t know if it was going anywhere but it was fun finding out.

“As cunning plans go,” Byford said, “it’s working.”

She smiled. At least the old boy still had a sense of humour. She wondered if he’d heard back from the hospital.

“Either way, where does it get us?” DI Shields’s low profile was lifting. She sauntered over to the murder board. “We’re no further forward.”

“It strengthens the connection,” Bev protested. “It’s almost certain the attacks are down to the same gang.”

“Is it? I don’t see it. We know flowers were found at the homes of two victims. We have no way of knowing who left them. And even if it is some sort of macabre calling card, I
don’t see any signatures. We’re no nearer a name, let alone an arrest, than we were this time last week.”

Bev barely heard the phone. DC Carol Mansfield picked up on the second ring. A nod and a note and she replaced the receiver. “I reckon we are now.”

Bev wasn’t in on the interview but a two-way mirror and covered speakers provided a ringside seat. The guv and Shields were in action but the star had yet to perform.

Fat Boy was one of two yobs hauled in by uniform after a stake-out at a condemned high rise in Edgbaston. They’d been spotted sneaking in. According to the tip-off that prompted the
stake-out, the place was a death trap and the stupid buggers were risking their necks.

Officers Flavell and Dilger had turned up expecting nothing worse than a bit of verbal. Two hours and full back-up later, Flavell was in A and E receiving treatment for knife wounds and one of
the ugliest kids Bev had ever seen was lolling on an orange plastic chair in Interview One. Think Shrek with acne. His equally aesthetically challenged squatmate was posing in similar fashion next
door.

It wasn’t threatening looks that had got them banged up. Apart from assaulting a police officer, one of the youths had lit what the response unit imagined was a diversionary fire in a room
on the ground floor. Among the ashes, officers had found two wedding rings and a charred scrap of paper with a couple of numbers printed on it. All that was left of a pension book.

“A name would be good,” Shields said. It was the sixth time she’d asked. Bev didn’t envy the DI. A silent suspect was the hardest to crack. Shields and the guv had been
at it for more than an hour. Bev and DC Darren New had fared equally badly with Shrek 2. No one had come up with so much as an initial. Bev squinted at the DI’s pad. It had the date in the
top right-hand corner. That was it. Shields slowly circled the room, then whacked the table with the flat of her hand. Water sloshed over the side of a glass and a tinfoil ashtray full of butts
bounced. The youth didn’t bat an eyelash. Bev was equally unmoved. No percentage in losing control.

“It’ll be easier if you talk to us, son.” The guv leaned a little closer.

The youth ran a slobbery tongue round tombstone teeth and spat in Byford’s eye.

By the middle of the afternoon, Ena Bolton and Joan Goddard had identified the rings. The pension book was a no-no, not enough numbers to establish ownership. Thank God pension
books were being phased out. Paydays at the post office were an open invitation to light-fingered low-lifes, old dears turned into walking cash dispensers. Not that the Shrek boys were putting
their hands up to anything. Neither youth had opened his mouth except to gob or stick in an Embassy Regal.

But as soon as the dabs match came through, criminal records came up good. Or bad, depending how you looked at it. Robert Carl Lewis and Kevin Joseph Fraser had spent more time in court than a
magistrates’ bench. It was minor stuff: shoplifting, taking without consent, criminal damage. Only tender years and soft beaks had spared them a custodial. They’d just turned
eighteen.

“Illegal entry, assaulting a police officer, receiving stolen goods.” Shields was pacing the floor “And that’s for starters.”

Murder and GBH could be the main course. “We’ve haven’t tied them into the attacks yet,” Bev said.

“We will. It’s only a question of time. They’ll crack.”

Bev had serious doubts about that. According to records, the youths were borderline special needs. Somehow she couldn’t see either of them having the brain cells to run a bath, let alone
orchestrate the events of the last few weeks. They might have netted a couple of small fry – there was still a Big White out there. Maybe two.

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.