Dead Old (15 page)

“When’s your birthday?”

He smiled again. “Will you excuse me one moment?”

She watched him head towards the gents, noticed a few female heads turn as he strode past. The white T-shirt under the black Armani made him look a bit like a trendy vicar. Thank God she’d
made an effort. Not socialite, perhaps, but definitely not social worker. She knew it wasn’t going anywhere but was grateful for the distraction. She was worried sick about the guv; the
Shields thing was getting to her; her domestic set-up was driving her doo-lally. Tonight had been the first in a while she’d really enjoyed.

She smiled as Luigi served coffee, then left her to her thoughts. She had to admit the first couple of minutes in the bar had been a tad awkward. Then Tom confessed he hadn’t a thing to
add to the inquiry; he’d used it as an excuse to ask her out. He’d understand if she wanted him to leave. She didn’t. He was a twenty-six-year-old property developer who played
piano and loved to ski, though not necessarily at the same time. The more she learned, the keener she was to find out more.

He was in the house. How did he get in? She’d checked every door, every window, twice, three times. But he was in the hallway, just standing there, listening. Surely he
could hear her heart? It was beating, thrashing against her ribs. She had a sudden terrifying thought. Supposing he wasn’t alone? She strained to hear anything over the pulse in her ears.
What if she collapsed? She put a hand to her chest. No. She wouldn’t make it easy. What was that? Oh God. He was on the stairs. Was he one of the men terrorising old women? She’d seen
their faces on the news. Knew the terrible things they’d done. What was he going to do? What did he want? Would he kill her? Was it possible to die of fright?

How many times had Bev been asked that? Most people envisaged policing as wall-to-wall murder and mayhem, ignored the fact that it was mainly plodding and slogging followed by rainforests of
paperwork. It had its moments, sure, when a life could be on the line, but they were a blue-moon event. Usually she deflected further queries but there was something in Marlow’s voice.

“You can’t afford to get scared,” she said. “After, maybe.” When it sinks in and the flashbacks start and the nightmares continue.

He nodded. “It’s a hell of a job –”

“For a woman?” The smile didn’t disguise the challenge in her eyes.

“I didn’t mean that. I just wondered what attracted you.”

“I fancied the uniform.”

He raised a hand. “You don’t like talking about it. Sorry. Let’s change the subject.”

It was too late. The scene was in her head again. The police tape cordoning off the back of the sports hall at her comprehensive school, a classmate in a body bag. The lead detective had gently
coaxed a fifteen-year-old Bev through several interview sessions. She’d been closer to Donna than the other girls and he needed her help, he said. She’d forgotten his name now but
he’d been kind and calm and he’d made her feel she was doing something for Donna. The killer was caught within days, a paedophile released early on licence.

Bev was stirring the espresso though she hadn’t added sugar. “I guess I feel I can make a difference.”

Tom cocked his head slightly.

“Most people live by the rules, yeah?” she said. “They may not like them, they may not want to, but they do. They’re pretty decent. They play the game. Then there are
others who don’t give a flying fart. They see something they want? They take it. They see something they don’t like? They destroy it. Have you any idea how shit it is to tell a mother
her daughter’s never coming home again, or a wife that her husband’s on life support because some smack-head’s beaten him to a pulp?”

She glanced round, aware that Tom wasn’t the only listener, and lowered her voice. “Sorry. I get fired up. I hate the bastards who make other people’s lives a misery. The more
we put away the better.”

He nodded slowly. “Don’t apologise. I can see how much it means to you.”

She could count on the fingers of one finger how many people she’d shared that with. “Yeah, well.”

“No, really. You have passion, commitment. You must be really good at what you do.”

She was about to answer but noticed him glance at his watch. Slightly miffed, she pre-empted him. “We’d best get the bill.”

“Only checking if there’s time for more coffee before they throw us out.”

That half-smile was a killer. “Sure,” she nodded. “That’d be good.”

She watched as he beckoned Luigi, wondered what she’d say if he asked her back to his place, wondered how good that would be. Not that she would, of course. Not with Oz in the picture. She
couldn’t. Could she?

The call on her mobile pushed all speculation out of her head. It took a few seconds before she recognised the voice. The message was instantly clear. There’d been another attack.

12

“There’ll be a lot of bruising but I don’t think I broke anything.” Maude Taylor paused and added a rueful, “More’s the pity.”

Bev shook her head. The way things were going, the old woman was lucky not to have inflicted more damage. She’d probably have ended up in court on an assault charge. At the moment she was
in the spare bedroom, propped up by several pillows. She’d been in bits until Bev dispensed a nightcap large enough to sedate a safari park. SOCOs, complete with goody bags, were just about
ready to leave. Bev was still trying to get her head round the details.

“Where do you think you hit him, Mrs Taylor?”

“Difficult to say, dear. It was rather dark.” The hint of satisfaction in the old woman’s voice suggested the double Armagnac had kicked in.

“He’ll have a sore head, that’s for sure.” They’d found a clump of short dark hairs inside the attacker’s mask. So it didn’t look as if this episode was
down to blondie. Baby Face must’ve been tucked up in bed or having a night off. Just as well. Maude’s sedation could have been terminal if there’d been two assailants.

“It’s such a shame I didn’t see his face. As soon as I grabbed the mask, he ran like the wind.”

Shame was an understatement. They had a shedload of E-fits but none of them did. They needed finer detail. They were chasing shadows, trying to catch smoke. They hadn’t even established
how many were in the gang. Three? Maybe four? There was Iris and Joan’s Baby Face, Marty Skelton’s Tall Dark Dog-loather and Tom Marlow’s Pale Youth With Studs. That’s
assuming they were connected in the first place. And that they’d graduated to murder. Bev blew out her cheeks.

“Are you all right, dear?” Maude asked.

“Me? I’m fine.” Miles away but fine. “What about you? You were very brave to go for him like that.”
And stupid.

“I was very stupid, as you well know.” Maude laid a hand on her chest. “There was a moment or two, dear, when I thought I’d die of fright. Then I thought of what
he’d done to Sophia. I was absolutely furious. I just hit out. The awful thing is –” she couldn’t meet Bev’s eyes – “I wanted to hurt him. I really wanted
to hurt him.”

Bev took the old lady’s hand; it was the only way to stop the tremor. “We don’t know for sure it’s the same man, Mrs Taylor.” Not that there was much doubt. The
crime scene guys reckoned whoever it was had a key. Sophia Carrington’s house keys were missing.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Maude said.

Neither did Bev. Hopefully the lab might come up with a few conclusions. “And you’re sure nothing was taken?”

“I’m not sure of anything, to be honest.” She was shivering now, delayed shock. Bev pulled up the duvet, tucked it in closer.

“Try and get some sleep. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

“Thank you for getting here, dear. You weren’t in bed, were you?”

Close. Bev smiled, shook her head. Tom had been all concern, even offered a lift to Kings Heath. She’d made a joke about not mixing business with pleasure. She hadn’t been sure what
to make of his parting remark. She’d mulled it over in the cab. A man saying he’d ‘better get used to this sort of thing’ made assumptions which both tickled her pink and
pissed her off.

“You’d been so kind and I desperately needed to see a familiar face.”

Bev wagged a finger, softened the admonition with a wry smile. “You’d have had one if you hadn’t sent Jude packing.” The family liaison officer had become too familiar;
Maude had told her to piss off, though not in so many words.

“You’re right,” the old woman managed a weak smile. “At least I didn’t hit her with my stick.”

Bev shook her head. “Mrs. T. What are you like?”

She shuddered. “Anything but that, Sergeant. You’d better start calling me Maude.”

“Maude it is.” Bev got to her feet. “I’ll be off. And don’t worry. As well as the uniformed officer at the door, there’ll be patrols 24/7.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Bev was halfway down the stairs when the old woman called her back. She found Maude sitting up in bed, clutching the duvet to her neck. “You think he’ll try again, don’t
you?”

If he hadn’t found what he wanted, an old woman, even a feisty old woman with a stout stick, wouldn’t deter him. Bev crossed her fingers behind her back. “He’d have to be
mad to do that, wouldn’t he?”

“The old bag went for me. She’s fucking crazy.” Davy was in a phone box round the corner from his home. It stank of vomit and piss and sweat, some of it
his.

“Did you get the stuff?”

“You’re not listening, Jake. I told you: she attacked me. She was lying in wait with a knife.”

“She cut you?” Could be handy. Jake waited. The pause was too long.

“No. I knocked it out of her hand.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not. I got whacked.” Davy hated the whine in his voice.

“Christ, man. She’s not in the fuckin’ SAS. Get a grip.”

“Fuck you. I’m going home.” He didn’t care anymore. He’d nearly pissed himself on that landing and his arms now had matching bruises. He braced himself for a load
of verbal abuse but this time Jake’s voice was soft and low.

“Sorry, Davy. Was that one or two?”

That was better. The old Jake was back. Davy breathed a sigh of relief. Lately he’d begun to feel he didn’t know Jake any more. Or like him. “One or two what, Jake?”

“Apologies.”

“Sorry?”

“You fucking will be if you don’t get your arse round there and get what I want.”

“I can’t.” He didn’t know which was worse: the threats or the silence. “Jake?”

“I’m waiting.”

“I can’t go back.” He wasn’t going to tell Jake but he’d have to now. “The old cow saw my face. She grabbed the mask.”

“She still got it?” Even better.

“Yeah.”

“That’s OK. Makes it easier.”

“What for?”

“For you to go back.”

Thank God there was a phone line between them. “I’m not going back, Jake.”

“You will, Davy. You’ll do anything I tell you. Or the old girl’ll get it.”

Davy pictured his gran back at home. Last time he’d seen her she’d been ploughing her way through a family pack of liquorice allsorts, reading another romance. Jake was right. He had
no choice.

13

Bev almost choked on her cinammon toast. “I beg your pardon?”

Emmy Morriss licked a finger and turned a page of her tabloid, instantly taken with:
I stole my sister’s husband. Why does she hate me?

“I didn’t hear you come home. I was worried.”

Bev exchanged an eye-roll with her gran. Sadie’s was quite scary, given the magnification from today’s lime-green glasses. “I’m a big girl now, mum.”

A drawled ‘yes’ meant Emmy wasn’t listening properly.

Bev glanced at the headline. “Good, is it?”

Her mum blew a smattering of crumbs off the paper. “It helps the job.” She did two days a week in Kings Heath library.

“Oh yeah?” Bev said. “How does that work?”

“Articles like this are about people, aren’t they? What makes them tick.”

“Sick, perhaps.” Bev winked at Sadie but her gran had her head down in the book club’s latest read. Bev screwed her eyes, tried to make out the title upside-down.
Beneath
the Skin.
Sounded more top-shelf than middlebrow.

“That’s not nice, dear,” Emmy protested. “Lots of our callers are sick. Some are suicidal.”

Shoot. She’d forgotten the Samaritans’ stuff. “Sorry, mum. How’s that going these days?”

Emmy put in a couple of nights a month, sometimes more. Bev reckoned she might as well stay home if all she needed was a bunch of problems to sort. Her mum laid the paper down and lowered her
voice. “Well, obviously, I can’t go into details –”

“Good,” Sadie interjected without looking up. “Any chance of a boiled egg?”

Bev grinned. The old girl got away with murder. Bev’d miss her when she finally found another place to live. Not that a move was exactly imminent; it wasn’t even vaguely imminent,
though there were a couple of properties to view today.

“I’ll eat out tonight, mum. Don’t save me anything.”

Emmy sniffed, turned a page. “I wasn’t going to.”

The smell hit Bev as soon as she entered the swing doors. Highgate reception looked like a branch of Interflora. A bouquet of red roses, all cellophane and scarlet ribbons, very nearly obscured
Vince Hanlon. No mean feat, given the Sergeant’s bulk.

“What’s all this, Vincie?” Bev asked. “You trying to get round me?”

“Not me, mate.” He beckoned her forward, handed over a small envelope. Her name had never looked so good: perfect copperplate. Vince had a Masters in deciphering the written word
upside-down. She stepped back to a point where X-ray vision wouldn’t have had a chance.

Luigi sends his love,
she read.
As well.

“You should smile like that more often,” Vince said. “Better than a face-lift, that is.”

She raised an eyebrow but gave him the benefit of the doubt.

“Who’s madam’s secret admirer, then? Anyone we know?”

Bev frowned. He certainly wouldn’t be the only one asking. “Vince? Do us a favour?”

Too late. “Morning, Khanie.” Vince smirked, held the flowers aloft. “What do you think?”