Authors: Maureen Carter
“I –” She broke off. No point putting Sadie straight this late in the day. The little-wife thing wasn’t based on the pressures of being a cop. Before this case,
she’d never wanted kids or commitment, full stop. Now? She wasn’t so sure.
She nodded, hoped the smile reached her eyes. “You said it, gran. Try and get some rest now, eh?”
28
“Here you go, Davy.” Bev placed a mug of chocolate topped with marshmallows on the metal table. She’d have added parasol, cocktail cherry and a couple of 99
flakes if she’d thought it would oil the wheels. She held out a hand. “I’m Sergeant Morriss. Bev.” She reinforced the gesture with a warm smile. Neither elicited a response
of any kind.
Suit yourself.
Shame that, because this wasn’t a ‘he said, she said, who gives a fuck’ sort of interview. This mattered. Or it should. Not that Davy Roberts was aware – not by the look
of him. He’d barely glanced at Bev. She was less interesting than the stainless steel toilet bowl and the almost certainly semen-stained mattress. The cells at Highgate were not
five-star.
A quick sip of Cadbury’s didn’t count as an indication of gratitude, but it was the youth’s only acknowledgement of her existence. Another slurp added to the nascent chocolate
moustache. Bev restrained an urge to dab his top lip. It wouldn’t do much for his ego, which was clearly struggling as it was.
“Gonna tell me about it, Davy?” Bev’s faded denims and bomber jacket said cool rather than cop, but maybe Davy wasn’t listening. His expression could have turned cream.
But it didn’t reach the lad’s startled, and startlingly blue, eyes. She caught a flicker of something else there: vulnerability? Fear? She registered the same unwitting conflict in his
body language. His legs, in baggy black combats, were sprawling-wide-boy but those skinny hunched shoulders were curled in on themselves. She mirrored his stance with her own legs, glanced round
ostentatiously. “Nice place you got here.”
He sniffed. Not something she’d recommend, given the competing odours. Floral disinfectant was no mask for urine, stale sweat and the ghosts of a thousand farts.
She waited a while, taking covert glances at the lad, but the laid-back approach was going nowhere.
“Why’re you doing this, Davy?” She didn’t mean biting his nails, not that there was much left to chew; all ten were down to the quick; a couple were bleeding.
“You’ll go down big-time. Know that? When you come out, you’ll not need to nick pension books. You’ll have one of your own.” If you’re lucky.
It was no bedtime story, though he’d closed his eyes. Bev bit her bottom lip. The silly little bugger was going to take the rap for something she was convinced he hadn’t done. She
had no idea why, or who was behind it, but when it came to piling on the pressure she’d just been to the pressure shop.
“Who’s bullying you this time, Davy?” She’d clocked the bruises when she’d sneaked a butcher’s at the lad last night. Butcher’s was right; skinny pale
arms blotched the colour of liver. “What bastard’s scaring the shit out of you now?”
A toilet flushed along the corridor. She waited. And waited. It wasn’t going to work.
She itched to knock some sense into him, opted to hit where she sensed it hurt most. “’Course, they’ll probably let you out for Gert’s funeral.” So that’s
what eyes snapping open looked like. Carry on, Beverley. Go for the closed mind now. “Poor old soul looked like death yesterday. Doubt she’ll last till the trial.”
His eyes were pleading but the mouth was still clamped. Trouble was, she had no time for finesse. The minute he was formally charged, there’d be no more little chats like this. What was
happening now wasn’t just off the record, it was off Bev’s own bat. And she had no intention of being caught out. She lowered and softened her voice, pulled the chair closer.
“This isn’t a game any more, Davy. It’s big boys’ stuff.”
Half a minute’s grace for him to take that in then, slowly, casually, she outlined the evidence they’d uncovered in his room: the handbags, the bloodstained clothing. She had a
feeling it was news to him: bad news. “It couldn’t be more serious, Davy.”
He opened his mouth, then swallowed hard, as if to stop words he’d later regret. But the urge to speak was there. She’d read the signs, seen them before. It was a question of finding
the right button. She found a possibility in her bag, pushed the photograph across the table.
For a heartbeat or two, she thought he was going to throw up. His body tensed, he darted wild glances round the cell walls, anywhere but on the bloody battered face of the murdered Sophia. Not
that it mattered. The split-second glimpse was enough. He covered his eyes but the image was recorded forever. The brain could play it back any time. And would, if Bev’s experience was
anything to go by. She felt a momentary pang of conscience. The picture show had been well out of order. Tough.
“Gert doesn’t believe you did that, Davy. She reckons you’re a good lad.” She reached across, slipped the still back in her bag. “Poor old dear was crying her eyes
out when I left. She’ll not cope on her own. I guess the Social’ll find her somewhere.”
His face was wet but the tears weren’t enough. She had to get the lad to talk. She was up against the clock and fresh out of buttons. She re-ran the scene with Gert, desperate for a
lead-in. There was only one avenue she hadn’t gone down. She frowned, walked it mentally again. Came across a thought that sparked an idea. Stay cool. It was too crucial to blow.
“I’m wasting my time here. You’d best have this.” She chucked him another photo, a copy of the picture she’d borrowed from Gert. Davy and his gran linking arms;
smiles wider than the old girl’s girth. “It’ll give you something to remember her by.”
She gathered her bits, headed for the door. It was a throwaway line; she turned to see if he caught it. The lad had his head down, cradling the photograph in both hands.
“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 carriage. 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.