Dead Old (8 page)

“Soon as, guv. Marty made sure his media pals got first shout.” That was obfuscation covered in fudge, and by the look on the guv’s face he’d seen through it. She held
her breath, waiting for the explosion. But he dropped a different bombshell.

“The BBC reports, first thing, quoted an
Inspector
Morriss, did you know that?”

She felt her colour rise, neck to hairline. “Christ, guv, I didn’t give him the time of day.”

“I’ve watched the tapes, Bev.”

Hold on. It was coming back to her now. Marty had been arse-licking. The reporter had picked up on it. Her heart sank. She’d tried to put him right, but then Oz had discovered the body.
She’d not given it another thought after that.

“Well?”

“A misunderstanding, guv.” Technically it was her sin of omission, but an old woman had been murdered. Who gave a fuck about rank? Bev did. She sat back, arms folded. “Anyway,
there’s only one female DI round here. Everyone knows that.”

Byford shook his head. It was tough but she was making it worse. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Nope.”

The wail of a police siren from outside broke the silence.

“I’m told she’s a sharp operator, Bev. She comes highly commended.”

From Crufts? “I’ll take your word on that, guv.” She was uneasy with this conversation, still reeling from the post-briefing confrontation with Shields. She couldn’t talk
about it, hadn’t even mentioned it to Oz.

Byford sighed. “Don’t take my word, Bev. Get to know her. Make her welcome.”

There was a message in there somewhere. If she could read it.

“Cuts both ways, guv.”

She thought he was about to add something but he just shook his head. She watched as he rose and stretched his arms. “I’m out of here. Early shout in the morning.”

Thank God. The worst was probably over. “You joined a gym, guv?”

“What?”

“You’ve lost weight. Looking a bit trim.” If anyone said the same to her she’d be looking a lot happier than he did. “That’s a compliment, guv.”

“Sorry. I was miles away.” He put on his trademark fedora and tapped the brow. “See you first thing.”

“Sure.” She was thinking of getting into the exercise thing herself. “The gym, guv. You didn’t answer the question.”

He turned at the door. “Neither did you.” She looked puzzled. “The time you got to Cable Street.”

WHY NO POLICE WARNING
?

Killer daffodils?
The billboard creased you up – if you hadn’t laid eyes on the corpse. Bev had only bought the evening rag because it was on her mum’s
list. It was in the back of the motor with the rest of the stuff. Thank God for late-night shopping. But her mum had better not get used to home deliveries. Bev sighed. Shame it wasn’t so
easy to buy a house.

The flat in Balsall Heath was the pits. The seller was a cheesy bloke in a sad wig and a surplus of saliva. Bev had to wipe white flecks off her jacket every time he parted his rubbery lips.
She’d made no excuses and left.

Oz was sulking because she’d viewed the place on her own, so now an early night beckoned. She chewed her lip, picturing Oz. He’d been well put out, but what was the point in him
trailing round property with her when he was never going to live in it? Maybe she could have put it better. Telling him he had more chance of shacking up with Kate Moss was a tad harsh. She loved
Oz to bits, fancied him like mad but not even Mr Depp would be allowed that close to home.

A red light flashed on the dash. Shit. Not to worry. There was a Texaco on the Moseley Road. She’d get baccy and Polos at the same time. She hadn’t had a smoke all day, unless you
counted Marty’s roll-ups. Mind, she and the girls had been billowing it out last night. Emmy wouldn’t let her light up in the house so it’d probably be a crafty fag outside.

“Twenty Silk Cut please, love,” Bev said.

There was something familiar about the skinny kid behind the counter. She’d been texting, thumbs furiously tapping the pads on a flash-looking mobile. Every bony finger was covered in
rings but it was the silver scars crisscrossing the knuckles that clinched it for Bev. “Jules?”

She waited till the girl looked up and added another stunningly incisive question. “What you doing here?”

“Auditioning for
Star Wars.
What’s it look like?” The girl blew the biggest pinkest glob of gum Bev had ever seen. Shame it burst. Neither of them could keep a straight
face.

“You haven’t changed a bit, kid,” Bev laughed.

But she had. Jules was one of the teenage prostitutes Bev had got close to last year. So where was the slap? The skirt that doubled as a waistband? As for the hair, it was more Bev’s
Guinness than the aubergine of old. The girl currently perched on the stool behind the glass was fresh-faced and fine-featured, her gear more H&M than S&M.

“You can talk. You still look like a friggin’ social worker. Never seen you in anything but blue.” She winked. “’Cept when you was on the game.”

Bev rolled her eyes. “How are the girls?”

Jules didn’t see them much; she’d jacked it in.

“Great,” Bev said. She meant it; she still had nightmares about kids on the streets.

Unwittingly, perhaps, the girl ran a finger along a scar on her right hand. She was lucky. Flogging petrol was a damn sight safer than turning tricks.

“Yeah, well, it’s early yet. Have to see how it goes.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Two days.” As long as that? “Mind, I only do nights. I’m at college. GCSEs.”

“Good on you, girl.” Bev shouldered her bag. “You still got my number?”

“Why, you still looking for work?”

Bev was still smiling when she pulled up outside her mum’s house. She hoped it’d pan out for Jules. She’d keep in touch, take her out for a meal from time to
time. Social worker indeed. Bev reached behind for the bags, wavering between a supper of scrambled eggs or Emmy’s steak and kidney pie. Home cooking was fine until you started looking like
the back of a house. Her favourite skirt pinched and she’d only been back three weeks.

The
Evening News
fell into her lap and she did a double-take. Not at the main picture but at the double-column in the bottom left of the front page. The photograph had been taken from the
end of the garden at 12 Cable Street, a moody shot of a ludicrously mournful Marty Skelton gazing down from an upstairs window. Her first thought was that NIMBY should snap up the copyright for a
poster campaign. Her second was serious. The horrible little man was holding a more than a melodramatic pose.

Marty looked like a fox who’d been to cunning college.

“Inspector –” Uriah Heep, eat your heart out, this was a hand-wringing masterclass.

“Cut the crap, Marty.” Bev was halfway down the hall before he’d even turned round. She didn’t think what she was looking for was down here. “Upstairs.
Now.”

A wave of wolf-whistles and catcalls cascaded from the kitchen. She poked her head in. Marty had a few lads round. Four middle-aged fat boys crammed round a formica-topped table. The place stank
of booze, balti and body odour. Recycle the empty cans and you could scaffold a small town.

Judging by the pile of grimy tenners at the empty place, Marty was a dab hand at poker as well as press relations. It was doubtful if the other players could make out anything through the shroud
of smoke but she flashed her ID anyway. “Mr Skelton’s helping me with inquiries.”

“Takin’ down ’is particulars, are you, darlin’?” Baldy was a couple of jokers short of a deck.

“How original,” she smiled. “Come on, Marty. Now.”

“Can I just finish this hand?”

A tapped foot suggested not. He led the way, not a word of protest. Lots of others, though. Shame she couldn’t see his face. She always associated verbal diarrhoea with nerves, and nerves
with guilt. Threadbare carpet ran out halfway up the stairs. There were bare floorboards on the landing and posters of naked women on the walls. The air stank of piss, Brylcreem and sweaty socks.
And something else.

“OK, where is it?”

“What?” Marty nervously stroked his mangy moustache. Bev half-expected it to come off in his hand.

“The dog. Where is it and where’d you get it?”

The snuffles and asthmatic panting coming from the back bedroom answered the first enquiry; Marty ignored the second. “That? It’s an old stray. Took it in out the kindness of my
heart.” What did he want? A commendation?

“The animal was nicked, Marty. An old woman gets the shit beaten out of her. Then her dog goes walkies.”

Bev studied Marty’s face. Something was going on behind those shifty amber eyes. It didn’t emerge from his mouth.

“Sick, isn’t it, Marty?”

All of a sudden the floorboards were fascinating. “Wasn’t down to me.”

“Says you.”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“Who, then?”

He must know something, surely? Maybe he was consulting his conscience.
Stupid girl.

“Told you: I found it on the streets.”

“Where?”

“Can’t remember.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You have to,” he pleaded.

“Where does it say that, Marty? What book is that in?”

He knew something. She was sure of it now. Silence is a powerful tool in a police interview. It didn’t always work.

“OK. Break the party up downstairs.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you to the station.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Watch me.”

Marty rubbed the back of his neck with a hand, scuffed a trainer across the bare boards. “He said he was gonna drown it.”

She kept her voice flat, knew her pulse was rising. “Who did?”

“This bloke.”

“What bloke?”

“ In the pub.”

“What pub?” Stone. Blood. For fuck’s sake.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“No. Honest. I’d had a drink or two…”

“That’s not like you, Marty. So?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Right. I’ve had enough. Get your coat. And Marty.” She jabbed a finger in the middle of his scrawny chest. “I’ll not tell you again: don’t call me
Inspector.”

6

It was the early brief at Highgate; the inquiry was entering its second day. The body language from the floor spoke volumes. Bev had never seen so many slouches and sprawls.
Not surprising. They’d been working their metaphorical balls off and come up without so much as a sniff: no ID, no motive, no lead. Bev had just outlined last night’s development but
Marty Skelton’s contribution was not proving as crucial as she’d hoped.

She resumed her seat at the front and only then noticed a clump of dog hairs on the sleeve of her jacket. Shit. Thanks, Humph. With Marty banged up for questioning, Bev had given the dog a bed
for the night before reuniting him with Ena Bolton on her way in. Breakfast had gone by the board again but it was worth it. Bev reckoned the old dear had lost ten years in as many seconds. Even
Emmy and Sadie had been smitten. They’d been talking about getting a dog when she last saw them. Bev smiled as she surreptitiously brushed off-white hair from midnight-blue polyester.

“So let’s recap.” DI Shields unfolded her lean frame from the chair and paced the floor. Even Bev had to admit she looked immaculate: classy taupe skirt suit, matching heels,
hair in a neat ponytail, subtle make-up. The fingers she ticked to underline her points ended in perfect nails painted scarlet. “We have an old lag, an old dog and a mystery man in a pub with
no name.” Shields paused, glanced at the audience. “So what’s the punch-line? I mean, this is a joke, isn’t it?”

No one was laughing. Bev seethed. She wasn’t looking for a medal but cheap cracks she could do without. She tried to keep her voice calm. “The toe-rag who snatched that dog smacked
an old woman in the mouth. He could be the same bastard who stabbed the next one to death.”

Shields slipped a hand into the pocket of her linen jacket. “There’s no way of knowing he’s the same man Marty met in the pub. As for him being the killer, that assumes a link
with the ongoing operation that – pardon me if I’ve missed something – has yet to be established.”

Bev shrugged a grudging acceptance. She wasn’t going to get into a slanging match. Anyway, the bloody woman was right. A connection between the cases wasn’t a given. And a gut
instinct wasn’t hard fact. But Marty Skelton was no Francis of Assisi. Bev couldn’t see him taking pity on an old dog unless he thought it was about to be killed. He’d been
spooked by something. Or someone. Marty’s problem was the booze. A goldfish had more memory. Tallish darkish youngish was the best-ish he could come up with. As for the name of the pub?
Forget it. Marty had.

“I should get a bit more out of Marty this morning,” Bev said. “At least he’ll be sober after a night in the cells.”

Shields was running a pen down the notes on her clipboard. “I want you and DC Khan in Cable Street. House-to-house. You’ve interviewed Marty Skelton twice with no joy. I’ll see
him next.” She looked up and smiled. “I’ll let you know what I get.”

Bev glanced at the guv, hoping he’d intervene. Byford was staring into the middle distance. Maybe he hadn’t heard.

In her office, Bev angrily shoved a mobile phone and a few papers into her shoulder bag. Oz perched on the edge of the desk, crossed leg swinging, watching every move.

“Don’t say a word,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

“You could take that up, you know.”

“What?”

“Ventriloquism.”

“It’s not the voice I’d like to throw.” What was Danny Shields’s game? “I was so close to getting something out of him, Oz.” OK, that was an
exaggeration, but Shields would stand even less chance. “She’ll get right up Marty’s nose. He’ll stay so quiet he might as well have taken a vow of silence.”

“He might like a bit of posh,” Oz said.

Unlike Oz, she wasn’t smiling. It wasn’t funny. Marty was all they had.

“Come on, Sarge. What is it you always say to me? Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

She slung an empty Diet Coke can into the bin. “Sanctimonious bullshit.”