Authors: Maureen Carter
She met his gaze but was unable to read it. She watched as he pushed his plate to one side. Either the cheese pasty was as flaky as it looked or she’d had an adverse effect on his
appetite. Oz leaned forward, carefully positioned elbows to avoid unidentifiable spillages. “Then why’s he saying he did?”
She sighed. Couldn’t argue with that. It sounded as if Davy Roberts was going to put his hand up to every charge slung his way. Not that a confession was crucial. Not given what SOCOs had
come up with. The bloodstained clothing and old-lady handbags found at his home would incriminate the Archbishop of Canterbury. So why hang on to the stuff?
“It just doesn’t stack up.” Davy Roberts didn’t have so much as an acne scar, let alone a face full of studs. Whoever he was, whatever he’d done, she had serious
doubts that he’d killed Sophia Carrington. And he hadn’t attacked Sadie.
Oz scraped his chair back. “So prove it.”
The murder room was doing a Marie Celeste. Daz had stuck a post-it on Bev’s desk:
We’re in The Feathers. Catch you later.
She lobbed the note in the bin,
didn’t see jack-shit to celebrate. Not that, strictly speaking, she’d been invited. She slung her jacket over the back of a chair. Oz had issued a challenge: put up or shut up. She
flexed her fingers. Criminal records was as good a place as any to start. She logged on, tapped a few keys. Davy Roberts had barely cut a demo: a couple of cautions for retail levitation. Since
when had lifting a pair of Nikes led to grievous bodily harm?
She raised her head, glanced at the grim gallery on the murder board. The leap to offing old women was almost inconceivable. It just didn’t work that way. And it severely holed her
fledgling theory as to why Sophia Carrington had been killed.
She riffled through a sheaf of papers, looking for the youth’s social report. OK, Davy Roberts hadn’t been in the running for a school-attendance award. Who had? Christ, Bev had
bunked off any number of times and she’d had both parents around back then to keep her grounded. Davy hadn’t had so much as a name for his dad, let alone a bit of paternal support.
She read on. The lad’s mother had no trouble bonding: with smack, heroin, Charlie. A five-year-old Davy had been found alone with the body – syringe still attached – and the
poor little sod had been rewarded with a place in care.
Given the background, he should be doing a hell of a lot worse. So why wasn’t he? A few lines further on and a possible answer emerged. Davy Roberts, a youth staring at a life sentence for
murdering an old woman, appeared to have had his life turned round by another old woman. Bev tapped a biro against her teeth. How did that work, then? Kill or cure?
“Mrs Roberts?” Bev hoped her revulsion didn’t show but keeping it under wraps was nigh on impossible. The fattest female she’d ever seen virtually
filled the doorframe. Gert Roberts had taken her time getting there; wonder was she’d made it at all. Bev pocketed her ID. She didn’t want the neighbours in on the action but seriously
doubted whether Gert was physically capable of manoeuvring her vast bulk back inside.
“Can I have a word?”
“Where’s Davy? What’ve you done with him?”
Bev’s eyes widened; where did that come from? The little-girl voice was thin and reedy. Bev paused slightly, not sure what Shields had told the old woman or how much she’d absorbed.
“He’s helping with a few inquiries.”
It was hard not to stare. The Cher-piece had to be a cheap wig and she must have had planning permission for the foundation. Christ knows what she’d had for the blusher. Not a mirror.
“What you gawping at?”
“Sorry. I…” Couldn’t possibly say. “I need to talk with you about Davy.”
The old woman clapped a surprisingly tiny hand to her massive… bosom was the only word. Oh, God. A wobble. Bev shot out a steadying arm, simultaneously aware it would do a fat lot of good
if Gert went down. Talk about shoring up the Great Sphinx with a pin. It was touch and go, then panic over. Gert was hanging on in there. Bev breathed again and caught a whiff of rancid body odour
laced with pee. Compassion vied with contempt. How could anyone get in such a state? Then again, she chided herself, what did she know of this woman’s life?
“Can we go inside?”
Gert’s swaying rump, encased in a dull grey frock that could have doubled as a duvet cover, just about glanced off the hall walls. Bev trailed in its wake, weighing up the place. The
sitting room was all swirly carpets and flock wallpaper; MFI meets Pound Shop. Cheap and cheesy pottery animals lined a dusty mantelshelf. Bev feigned fascination in a purple hippo sporting a grass
skirt and straw hat. It passed the time until Gert, now beached on a settee, had enough laboured breath to speak.
“Put that back where you got it. I don’t want it smashed.”
Really? Bev did as bidden, then perched on a chair next to Gert. A pile of paperbacks in pastel covers had already bagged most of it. “Tell me about your grandson, Mrs Roberts.”
“He’s a good lad. Never done nothing wrong.”
Bev raised an objection with an eyebrow.
“Nothing serious,” she added hastily. “He got in with a bad lot a couple of years back. Did a bit of shoplifting. I’m not excusing it. It’s wrong. But you know what
kids are. He got a load of stick from the others ’cause he didn’t have the proper labels and that.”
Designer fear. Bev nodded, noncommittal. “Does he still hang with the same crowd?”
“No. There was a falling-out.”
“Who’s he knock round with now?”
The huge shoulders shrugged. “He doesn’t go out much.”
It didn’t answer the question. And it was bit late for that sort of protection. “He must have mates, Mrs Roberts.”
The lines of her mouth went down.
“It could be important,” Bev persisted. She counted to twenty, keeping time with the hiss and plop of a gas fire. Maybe it was the stifling heat or Gert’s apparently cool
indifference. “OK. Stuff it. If you don’t want to help the lad …” She reached for her bag.
“He’s mentioned some fella recently. Jake.”
“And?”
“I don’t know his other name.”
“Where does he live?”
“Haven’t a clue. Davy’ll tell you.”
“Davy’s in serious trouble, Mrs Roberts.” She broke the news as gently as she could. Not easy, given it encompassed murder, assault, theft, breaking and entering.
The great head shook. “Never in a million years.”
“It’s what he’s saying, Mrs Roberts.”
Gert stared into space, trembling fingers kneading rolls of thigh. Poor old dear. The shock was doing her head in. Bev waited and watched. Kids’ laughter drifted in from the street. Maybe
that was the catalyst… She jumped a mile as Gert pummelled the arm of the settee, sending up a cloud of fine dust.
“It’s all lies. He’d not harm a living soul. He’s too soft for his own good.”
Bev moved in closer; elbows on knees. “There’s evidence, Mrs –”
“Then he’s been framed!” Gert’s eyes were the colour of over-ripe limes. “And I’ll tell you this for nowt, if you lot have harmed a hair of his head –
” The rest was lost in huge shuddering sobs as tears coursed down flabby cheeks and collected in the folds of her chins.
Bev rummaged in her bag for tissues. “Here you go.”
Gert dashed at the tears. The make-up smeared and ugly red blotches stood out against a sickly pallor. “What do you want, anyway? Why are you here?”
Bev paused, adding weight to the words. “I’m trying to find the truth.”
The eyes almost disappeared as her face creased in… what? Disbelief? Doubt? Hope? Gert lowered her head, started shredding a damp tissue, scattering the tiny scraps in her voluminous
lap.
“Hates seeing anything in pain, does Davy. When he was a kid, he’d bring birds home, try and fix their wings so they could fly off. Dog we had got run over. The lad cried for a
fortnight.” She looked up, willing Bev to believe. “He couldn’t have done them terrible things. He just couldn’t.”
She would say that, wouldn’t she? But she’d also said something a lot less predictable. “What do you mean, ‘he’s too soft for his own good,’ Mrs
Roberts?”
Gert flapped a hand. “He’d never fight back. I told him he’d to stand up for himself. But he never would.”
Bev eventually elicited the full version of the persistent bullying Davy had endured at school. A gang of older kids inflicting daily beatings and verbal abuse. Davy’s only retaliation had
been to take countless sickies. It was another note that didn’t ring true with his alleged crimes, unless she was tone-deaf. Or was it possible the prolonged attacks had brutalised him? If
you can’t beat them…
Gert dismissed the notion with a snort. “Brutal? Don’t be so bloody soft. Look at him.”
Bev followed Gert’s indulgent smile. She’d already registered the photograph on top of the telly; assumed the old woman had other grandchildren. The blond-haired blue-eyed boy
linking arms with Gert at first bore no resemblance to the kid back at Highgate. Bev moved nearer, looked closer. The eyes had it.
“How long’s he been dyeing his hair?”
“He’s only done it the once. A week back, maybe. Why?”
Bev was pretty sure she already knew the answer. “Can I borrow the pic for a day or two, Mrs Roberts?”
Davy Roberts was a dead ringer for Baby Face. No angel, definitely. But a killer?
It was all over the front page but Jake was reading between the lines.
Detectives are questioning a youth in connection with the murder of Birmingham pensioner Sophia Carrington. The body of the retired doctor was found…
Yada-yada. Get on with it…
The youth, believed to be from the Kings Heath area, is also helping police inquiries into a series of attacks on elderly women in the city. Two other youths have already been charged in
connection with the investigation and will appear in court again next
… blah blah…
Operation Streetwise is headed by Det Supt William By ford…
Jake folded the paper, caught sight of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, barely recognised himself at first. Certainly didn’t realise he’d been smiling. Still, why not?
Mission accomplished. One or two loose ends to tie, then he’d hit the road. He drained the glass, ordered another pint. Talk about making a killing. This called for a toast: absent
friends.
“Is this the midnight oil or are you still burning two-ended candles?”
Bev glanced up from a desk buried by paperwork. How come he never knocked? Guv’s perk, she supposed. She replaced a grimace with a weary smile. It was good to see a friendly face.
“Nah. I need the overtime to work on my expenses.”
“Very droll.”
It wasn’t that late. Just after eight. The meet with Tom wasn’t till nine. This early, Friday night, Highgate wasn’t exactly buzzing; it was a good place to get her thoughts in
some sort of order. There were too many conflicting theories in her head. Just as she thought she saw a connection, there’d be a bunch of anomalies in the way. All she knew for sure was that
she had serious doubts about Davy Roberts’s culpability. He was definitely involved; they had a forensics match on the hair recovered from the mask at Maude Taylor’s place. But murder?
DI Shields wouldn’t even give Bev’s misgivings a proper hearing. Oz was generally a decent sounding-board but he’d gone out to play. Indoor cricket, as it happened. Until the guv
put in an appearance, she’d been talking to herself.
“You got a min, guv?” Given the briefcase and buttoned coat, he was on his way out; she pulled a chair over before he could say no.
He sighed, took a seat and gave her a look. “Have you done something to your hair?”
She tugged at a fringe that was more Siegfried than Vidal. No one else had commented; maybe no one else had dared. “I gave it a trim. Stop it getting in my eyes.”
“Seeing things straight now, are you?”
There was an edge to the voice you’d have to be blind to miss. She had an idea where he was coming from but there was no harm in asking. “Your point being?” Pointedly, he
waited for a ‘sir’.
“I’ve had Danny Shields on my back. She says you don’t have Davy Roberts down as our man. That you’re undermining her authority. That your negative attitude’s bad
for the team.”
She felt the twitch of a muscle in her cheek, counted to five in her head. “Fuck that.” Should have made it ten. “Maybe I don’t want to be in a team that bends the
rules.”
Byford rarely shouted when he was angry. The reverse. “You’d better have grounds for that.”
It had been a struggle to catch what he said. “That came out wrong; rule-bending’s over-stating it. What I’m saying is you can’t claim a victory if the game’s not
over.” Impatient, she scratched her head. “Look, guv, Shields is going round like she’s pulled in Bin Laden. The sound of backs being slapped is making me puke.”
“Davy Roberts has confessed to killing Sophia Carrington, admits the other assaults. What more do you want?”
She slumped in the chair. “I don’t buy it. I don’t think he’s capable and I don’t see the why.”
His fingers drummed the desktop. “We know why.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. OK, at first it looked as if it was about nicking a few quid, slapping old dears round a bit. But Sophia’s murder doesn’t fit the
pattern. It was savage, guv. Christ, you saw the damage.” She could have added, “And she’d been cleaned up by then.” But they both knew that. She outlined her recent visit
to Gert Roberts; told him of Davy’s troubled past, reiterated why she didn’t see him as a murderer.
Byford listened. The occasional nod didn’t mean he agreed. “Violence escalates, gets out of control. That’s why it’s called mindless.”
“What if it wasn’t mindless? What if it was meticulously planned?”
“I’m not with you.”
She wasn’t sure where she was headed herself. But wherever her thoughts strayed, they invariably returned to the same starting point. “What if the murder of Sophia Carrington is what
this is all about? Has been all along? DC Khan thought her profession might have had something to do with it. I reckon it was because of her past.”
“Not sure I go along with you.” He reached for his case. For a second she thought he was leaving. He ferreted around, found what he was looking for. The journal. “Her story
wasn’t unusual. It happened. People moved on. Buried the past. Made new lives.”