Dead Old (12 page)

She took a deep breath, and reached for Maude’s surprisingly small smooth hand. She hated this part of the job.

“Kick it in. We ain’t got time to piss about.” Sergeant Reg Layton, a chubby little charmer with a pencil moustache and a mouth like a main sewer, was in
charge of the search team on the council allotments in Kings Heath.

The flimsy shed door looked as if it would succumb to the slightest puff from an asthmatic wolf. It caved in completely with the sudden pressure of a size ten police boot.

Neither Reg nor his sidekick, the enthusiastic Constable Del Chambers, ventured into the ramshackle structure. The officers’ job was to find evidence, not trample it, and the stench
emanating from the dark damp interior screamed crime scene.

Reg called it in; Chambers cordoned it off. SOCOs were on site in twenty minutes. A growing gaggle of mawkish onlookers, mainly women wearing headscarves and old men in flat caps and mufflers,
was kept at bay by blue and white police tape flapping in a gentle breeze.

The interior was cramped and crammed. Auxiliary lighting cast vaguely menacing shadows over an array of gardening tools, seed packets, plastic pots and wire netting. There was room inside for
only one crime officer and the process took several hours, bagged more than thirty items. Blood type would be determined by forensics. There was no shortage for testing. A huge dark blot stained
the already filthy wooden floor.

Along with the usual finds of bus tickets, cigarette butts and sweet wrappers, the search came up with a number of hairs and fibres that might or might not prove significant. And it was clear
that if anyone had been careless enough to leave fingerprints, the most likely surface was on the empty half-bottle of brandy tossed into the back corner.

It was a first. Byford didn’t do the F-word. Well, Bev’d never heard him. It was nearing the end of a day she’d be glad to see the back of. She’d popped her head round
the guv’s door on her way out, surprised to see him still at his desk. Even more surprised he wasn’t entirely up to speed.

“No idea yet,” she said. “But she’s not the victim.”

Where had he been all afternoon? Surely DI Shields had filled him in on all this?

Byford rose, paced the floor. “I don’t believe it.”

Bev had found it difficult at first, but she’d had longer to take it in. The last few hours had been a nightmare. After alerting Highgate to the question mark over the ID, she’d
escorted Maude to view the body. It was the only way to be a hundred per cent sure. The devastation on Maude’s face was an image Bev wouldn’t forget. Reluctantly she’d had to
leave the old woman in the care of a FLO. Although sorting the fall-out was going to take more than family liaison.

“It’s a complete cock-up,” Byford said. It could be worse; probably would be when the Amery woman showed. A neighbour reckoned she was abroad. Byford snatched Bev’s
report from his desk. “This Maude Taylor. I take it she’s on the level? She’s not some sort of nutter?”

Bev pursed her lips. “The woman’s straight as a die. There’s absolutely no doubt. The victim’s Sophia Carrington. She’s seventy-six and she’s lived in the
city two years.”

The dodgy ID, Bev had discovered, was down to Jimmy Vaz. Not deliberately or maliciously, just an old bloke who’d made a mistake. Loads of old ladies came into the shop, he knew them all
by sight, obviously wasn’t so hot on names. She could see how it had happened. Jimmy had been under pressure to come up with the goods. It wouldn’t be right to make him a scapegoat.

The guv nodded. He was perched on the sill now, next to the cactus she’d given him for Christmas. By the look of it, it wouldn’t see Easter. “With hindsight, we’d have
been better off hanging fire. We should’ve waited for confirmation before releasing it.” He was so quiet he might have been talking to himself.

“You must have had a good steer, guv.”

He waited till she made eye contact. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whoever held Jimmy’s hand must have done the checks?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Where are you going with this, Bev?”

The woman had asked for it. “DI –”

“DI Shields wanted another twenty-four hours.”

“Right.” She closed her mouth before inserting another foot in it.

“I authorised the release, not Danny. It was a bad call.”

No wonder he was looking so rough.

“Where is she, anyway?” Bev asked.

“A community liaison meeting. I asked her to sit in for me.”

Given recent events, that could be a hot seat. Bev glanced at her watch. It was time to call it a day.

“Fancy a pint, guv?” A drink might do him good; she hated seeing him like this. He wasn’t even listening. She paused at the door. “At least things’ll start moving
now.”

They’d be interviewing Maude again in the morning, assuming she was in a fit state. They’d need every bit of history they could get. As for the present, there were still loads of
calls off the back of the media coverage. Although a dozen or more youths had been traced, questioned and eliminated, it hadn’t even scratched the surface.

But the shed on the allotment could turn out to be the forensic equivalent of striking oil. The owner had finally been traced and immediately eliminated as a suspect. Ernie Fellingham lived a
couple of doors up from Sophia, and had just returned from a few days at his daughter’s. He was an old man with dodgy knees and he’d been gutted to hear about the murder. They might get
some useful background from him when he’d got over the shock.

Bev looked at Byford, wished she knew what he was thinking. He was still staring listlessly into the middle distance. And if there was writing on the wall, it wasn’t anything good.

COP OUT

The sub must’ve liked the headline; it covered most of the front page. The head and shoulders didn’t do Byford any favours. Neither did the vituperative piece
of bile from Matt Snow. Just in case the double meaning was lost on readers, the reporter’s copy milked the pun inside as well. The bottom line was that Byford should bow out. An exclusive
poll on page five seemed to agree.

Bev flung the tabloid on the ring-scarred table. The Prince of Wales was the only watering-hole within walking distance of Highgate. It wasn’t exactly busy. The nicotine-and-racing-green
décor didn’t attract much casual trade these days. So why was Oz taking forever with the drinks?

“Have you seen that crap?” She started before he’d even sat down. She nodded at the
Evening News,
now spattered with fall-out from the ashtray. Making the guv look as if
he had a nasty case of the pox.

Oz handed her a glass of Pinot and a packet of dry roasted, then picked up the paper and gave it a shake.

“A bloody good cop and that runt’s crucifying him.” Half the wine had already disappeared down her throat.

He finished reading, folded the paper and placed it on the table.

“Well?” she demanded.

“You know him better than me.” Oz was on orange juice.

She saw red. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t want a row, Bev.” He helped himself to a nut.

She lit a cigarette, practised smoke rings.

Oz flapped a hand. “I thought you’d given up. Again.”

She was still seething. “Come on, Oz. You work with the guv. What are you saying?”

The words were lost in a crude guffaw from the far corner. Bev glanced across. If they were eighteen, she was Chief Constable. Under-age drinking wasn’t exactly big league. She’d
been there, done that. Anyway, Oz still hadn’t answered.

“I think he’s under a lot of pressure.” His words were weighed, the tone measured.

“’Course he is. We all are. Your point being?”

Oz hesitated. “Look, Bev, maybe he can’t take it like he used to.”

“That’s ridiculous.” It was an automatic response; maybe she didn’t want to give it careful consideration. Byford was The Man. He was the age her dad would have been if
he hadn’t died from cancer, and though she probably wouldn’t admit it, she regarded the guv in the same paternal light. She recalled the last time she’d seen Byford, perched on
the sill in his office. He’d looked shit. She put the image to one side; maybe she’d take it out later.

“You haven’t heard, have you, Bev?”

There was something in his voice she didn’t like. “Heard what?”

He was tracing the rim of his glass with a finger. “The rumours going round Highgate.”

She sniffed. “There’s always rumours going round Highgate.”

“Suit yourself.” He sipped the juice.

Oz was better at silences.

“For Christ’s sake. Are you going to tell me or what?”

“Byford’s thinking of leaving. Early retirement.”

She felt the colour drain from her face. She didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. “Right, yeah. Says who?”

“Vince told me. It’s all over the place.”

It couldn’t be. The guv would have said something, surely? She reached for her glass; it was empty. She snatched it and stood. “Want another?”

Her mobile rang while she was at the bar. Tom Marlow. She smiled, genuinely delighted to hear a friendly voice. It was even more attractive now she had a face to go with it. It wasn’t
urgent and he was away on business until tomorrow evening but could they meet for a drink? There was something he wanted to discuss. Of course she could.

Oz smiled as she returned with the refills. “You look as if you’ve won the lottery.”

“Frankie. Seeing her tomorrow.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, didn’t know why she’d lied. “Anyway, I’m gonna ask him. First thing.”

“You’ve lost me.”

Bev sighed. “The guv. If he’s calling it a day, I’m a child bride.”

“Who’s the lucky man?”

“The pope’s dad.”

9

Bev glanced round as she locked her trusty MG Midget. Darren New, who’d arrived on shift at the same time, nodded at the bike railings; the rusty steed languished in a row of gleaming
peers. She gave a Morriss-snort.

“Tell me about it.” She’d had to walk home last night, as deflated as the Raleigh’s front tyre. She’d have bummed a lift but Oz had already headed off.

“It’s only a puncture. I’ll fix it if you want.”

“Thanks, Daz. I’ll let you know.” She was having second thoughts on the cycling lark. Loved the theory; not too keen on the practical. Anyway, she’d enjoyed the walk last
night.

They were both heading for the incident room. “Much on today?” Daz asked.

She smiled. “Loads.” There was even a change of clothes in the boot if she couldn’t get away on time. She could swap the French navy two-piece for a sexy but subtle
ell-bee-dee. Not that the meet with Tom Marlow wasn’t work, of course. As for the rest of the day, Maude Taylor would take up the lion’s share. Once the briefing was out of the way.

There was the customary banter and joshing as people turned up, found a place to perch. She ran her fingers through her hair, calculating the likelihood of fitting in a quick trim. Her fingers
were still in her fringe when DI Shields sashayed into view. The DI waited for the buzz to die down. The sage coatdress looked good, although there was a button missing. It wasn’t the only
absentee.

“Superintendent Byford won’t be in today,” the DI announced. “He could be out for the rest of the week.”

Shit and double-shit. “What’s the problem?” Bev asked.

“Nothing to do with the inquiry, Sergeant.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m not here to answer pointless questions.” She turned her back. Bev’s fists were balled. Again. They had a mind of their own when it came to the DI. “We have an
unsolved murder on our hands. The Superintendent’s concerned about focus,” she said. “We don’t need another cock-up.”

Bev could barely keep a lid on it. The guv may have defended Shields but it was the DI who’d driven Jimmy Vaz to identify the body, and not just in the bloody car. Bev opened her mouth to
remonstrate but Shields was in full flow, spouting about teamwork and tight ships.

Bev tuned out, her thoughts on the governor. They’d worked together four years and she’d never known him take so much as a half-day Was it pressure from outside or above? Only one
way to find out, and it wasn’t via Shields.

“… it goes without saying I’ll do the interview.” The DI slipped a slim gold pen into a breast pocket. “Any questions?”

Bev frowned; she’d missed the first bit. “Sorry. What was that?”

“I asked if there are any questions?”

“No. The interview. What did you say?”

“Maude Taylor. She’s a key player. Obviously as senior officer I’ll lead.”

Bev’s eyes flashed. Playing second fiddle to Shields wasn’t how she’d read the score.

“Carol, I want you there as well. Women of Taylor’s age aren’t always happy with male officers.”

DC Mansfield looked slightly uncomfortable. She nodded, then dropped her head, curtains of red hair masking a pale face that showed the slightest blush. Bev’s flush was down to fury.

“Sergeant Morriss,” Shields smiled. “There’s a woman waiting at reception. Have a word, will you?”

“No.” Bev was on her feet, arms folded. Shields had muscled in on the Marty Skelton interview, the Jimmy Vaz interview; she’d not move in on Maude Taylor.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Maude Taylor’s mine.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maude Taylor’s an old woman, dead emotional right now. You really pissed her off yesterday. She won’t give you the time of day.”

Shields’s eyes narrowed. “Ready, Carol?”

The DI turned at the door. “And Sergeant, careful what you say to the woman at the desk. I believe she’s a reporter. A simple ‘no comment’ should do it.”

Gert Roberts’s gaping mouth was a black hole, a state not entirely due to the orthodontic challenge of her few remaining teeth. Her chubby hand went to her chest and she
blinked furiously; she wasn’t imagining things. “Whatever have you done to your hair?”

Davy, hands on narrow hips, turned his head from side to side with a grin. “Don’t you like it, gran?”

Ebony, it said on the pack; he’d used the lot. Done it when he got back last night. Just as well he’d had a jar or two.