Authors: Maureen Carter
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:
10
th
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. He’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.”
Sophia’s name was missing. The entries ended a couple of days before her death. As it happened, the hero worship was beginning to tail off as well. It was another guess but Bev reckoned
Davy was beginning to regard the diary as more than a record of events. Maybe he saw it as an insurance policy. It could explain why he’d taken to following Jake – so he could fill in a
few blanks. Thank God he had. Like Davy, they still didn’t have Jake’s last name but now they did have an idea where he lived. A spot of surveillance should narrow it down.
She watched as Oz rubbed a hand along his jaw. Could he be less enthusiastic?
“Come on, Oz. It means we’re nearly there. Soon as we haul the bastard in, end of story.”
He swallowed a sip of Highland Spring. “What does the DI reckon?”
“Haven’t a clue.” Bev flashed the waiter a smile as he cleared the table, aware of Oz’s open-mouthed stare. They both knew the information should have been referred up.
She ordered coffee, but going by Oz’s expression should have opted for something stronger.
“You are joking, right?”
Obviously it needed checking, but assuming Davy was on the level the main player was still out there. Going in mob-handed would be as good as a tip-off. The last thing she wanted was the bastard
legging it. “Couldn’t get hold of her.” Which was true, since she hadn’t put a call through.
He made a big deal of proffering his mobile. “Be my guest.”
“Later.” When she had a collar. When she could look Sadie and Ena and Maude and Joan in the eye and say it’s over.
“Bev!” His dark eyes flashed. “Davy Roberts has provided chapter and verse. You can’t sit on it.”
There was no need to sit on it; she’d already hatched the next move. “It’s not enough, Oz. We need the whole book.”
He knew exactly where she was coming from. “No way.” His arms were folded, lips clamped.
“Twenty-four hours.” She put her elbows on the table, leaned in closer. “If we don’t get a result. Fair enough.”
He shook his head. “It’s professional suicide.”
“Scared it’ll stymie your promotion?”
The sudden silence was broken by a peal of laughter from the next table. Oz’s glare didn’t waver an iota until he flung his napkin on the table and pushed back the chair. Bev
wasn’t the only one watching as he stormed out.
Fired up was an understatement. Oz was ballistic. A brisk walk might have had a calming effect but thin drizzle was turning into a heavy downpour. He cabbed it home through
near-empty streets slick with rain. Still undecided whether to call it in or not, he twice started tapping the DI’s number before angrily jamming the mobile back in his pocket. Bev was often
out of line: on this occasion she was out of her mind.
“Here you go, mate. £8.50.”
Cheap night, considering. Oz handed the driver a tenner, made a dash for the front door. The hall was all soft lights and scented candles; his mother was a sucker for makeover programmes. He
shucked off his jacket and froze on the spot. A high-pitched scream was coming from the sitting room. Almost immediately it was accompanied by screeching violins. He gave a half-smile; the hellish
cacophony was a sure sign his parents were out. Shulie and Amina would be watching a movie and knowing his kid sisters it wouldn’t be
The Sound of Music.
Dracula and copious amounts of
gore was more to their taste. He toyed with the idea of joining them but wasn’t in the mood.
A hot shower helped but Bev’s jibe still rankled. He lay on the bed, hands behind his head, listening to
Let It Be;
recalled the earlier scene, wished he could. There must be a
whisper about his application going round the Highgate rumour mill. Shame she’d only garnered half the story. She never sodding listened, anyway. She was so blinkered about her own thing
she’d barely taken on board his news about the cutting. giving them the name of Sophia’s child. It might not have the same urgency now, but it was still worth a look.
Oz narrowed his eyes, his attention caught by a daddy-long-legs lurching drunkenly across the ceiling. No wonder. Poor thing had lost a leg. If it went any nearer the light, it’d lose a
few more. He rose, cupped it gently in his hands and released it into the night.
Turning, he caught sight of Bev’s picture on the table by the bed. He couldn’t recall the last time she’d smiled like that.
Yesterday
was playing now. Talk about
‘all my troubles’. Oz knew the feeling.
It was why he’d have to make the call.
31
Saturday night. Viewing room, Highgate. Bev headed for the audio equipment, carrying reels of tape under her arms containing incoming calls to the nick on Monday and Friday.
Maude’s message on the answerphone about the mysterious Simon had planted the seed. It struck Bev there were more mystery voices in this case than at an international convention for mystery
voices. Unless the same one was being thrown.