Dead Old (7 page)

Maude Taylor rang her friend’s number again. Like all the other times, it went unanswered. The old woman stood gazing through the window into her garden. A scruffy magpie
was teasing next-door’s ginger tom. Normally Maude would have observed the antics with delight, but she was distracted, her thoughts elsewhere. She was wondering if it was too soon to contact
the police.

It was so unlike Sophia not to be in touch. They rang twice a day; an arrangement set in stone. Leaning on her stick, Maude crossed to the sideboard and poured a large sherry. Why, oh, why had
Sophia moved from Guildford? Birmingham was miles away. What if she’d had a fall? What if she’d had a stroke? What if she’d been attacked?

Maude took several calming breaths and a sip of Bristol Cream. She really must stop this. Sophia would be aghast; she’d always been the clear thinker, always taken the lead. Odd, really.
Maude was so much taller, more solid-looking – ample was the word – whereas a gentle breeze would blow Sophia away. Appearances were often deceptive.

She glanced across the room, a smile lighting up her face. The photograph, now in a silver frame, was on the piano. She’d come across it again just the other week, sorting through old
boxes and cases in the spare room. Amazing to think it had been taken seventy years ago. Two little girls on a beach in Devon. Sophia stood behind, resting her hands on Maude’s shoulders. Her
hair streamed like ribbons in the wind, ink-black shiny ribbons. Maude with her mousy plait had always wanted hair like that. Maude was sure Sophia would remember why they were laughing.

She was still smiling when the phone rang.

“Mrs Taylor?”

“Who is this?” Disappointment sharpened her voice.

“Mrs Carrington asked me to call.”

Her hand went to her throat. “What’s happened?”

“She’s gone away for a few days. Asked me to let you know.”

Thank God.

“You still there, love?”

The initial relief was already slipping away. “When will she be back?” Maude was due to go up for a few days later in the week. The trip had been planned for ages.

“Sorry, love. I’m only a neighbour. She just asked me to give you a bell so you wouldn’t worry, like.”

She absently noted the Birmingham accent, but was more concerned with what he was saying, not how. “Why couldn’t she call herself?”

“As I say, I’m just a neighbour.”

“Of course.” He sounded such a nice young man and it was good of him to call.

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Just call me Simon.”

There were so many questions she should be asking and her mind couldn’t come up with a single one. “Could I take your number, dear? In case I need to get in touch?”

“Got a pen?”

Where was it? It should be here. She’d have to grab the felt tip off the notice board in the kitchen. “Could you hold on a moment, Simon?”

“Take your time.”

Maude hurried but the pen wasn’t in its place. By the time she’d found a pencil in the dresser drawer she was convinced he’d be gone.

“Hello? Sorry to…” It was her fault. If she hadn’t taken so…

The voice rattled off an 0121 number.

“Thank you so –” He had gone this time. It was a shame; she had several questions now. Never mind. If she didn’t hear soon she could always get back. Sophia was fine.
That was the main thing.

The pathologist’s question startled Byford. The Detective Superintendent hated post mortems. Always had, always would. The sights, the sounds, the stench; images that returned to haunt
years after you thought they’d gone. As far as possible, he tried to switch off. This time he’d turned over and fears of his own mortality had flashed on the screen.

Harry Gough – gowned, gloved and bloodied – was still waiting for a response.

“I’m fine,” Byford said.

“Stop sighing, then. You’re putting me off.” The pathologist gently placed a liver on the shiny scales suspended above the slab. Byford averted his gaze and prayed to God that
when the time came he’d escape all this. On the other hand, who’d want to die like his father and brother? He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“And if you’re fine, I’m Jamie Oliver.” Harry studied Byford over half-moon glasses.

Byford could do without the visual examination, never mind the wisecracks. He didn’t want Harry on his case and there was nothing funny here. A broken and battered old body: thirteen stab
wounds, twice as many shattered bones. And they still couldn’t even grace it with a name. He shook his head, wondered what sort of monster could inflict this violence on a little old
woman.

The two straight-bladed black-handled knives removed from the body would reveal nothing. Byford would bet his pension on that. The killer might be mad; he wasn’t stupid. But the knives
weren’t the only evidence. Harry’s assistant had spent hours working the body, collecting samples, taking swabs, recording data. Every fibre, every speck, every loose hair was en route
to forensics.

“She had a good few years ahead of her.” Harry nodded at the slab. “Great nick for her age.”

“So she wasn’t a drunken old lush, then?” Shields’s wide smile seemed inappropriate. It was hardly a cause for celebration.

Byford had almost forgotten the DI’s presence. Maybe she shared his aversion, was distancing herself from the indignities of dissection. On the other hand, the snide remark suggested she
was developing an aversion of her own and the target, Bev Morriss, was very much alive and kicking.

Harry ignored the interruption. “Non-smoker. Didn’t drink much, heart sound as a bell. I’d say this was one old lady who took good care of herself.” He pushed his glasses
into a thatch of suspiciously dark hair and winked at Byford. “Definitely not one of Bev’s old bag ladies.”

What was going on here? Byford frowned. “Easy enough call, given what she had to go on.”

Harry grinned. “She’d certainly had a bit to go on.”

“What do you mean?” Byford’s voice was calm, the challenge was in his slate-grey eyes. Harry was reminded of storm clouds.

The pathologist raised his hands; he’d only meant it as a joke. “Not a thing.”

“Oh, come on, Mr Gough,” Shields coaxed. “Morriss said herself she’d had a late night.”

“So? Who doesn’t?” Byford said.

“Absolutely, sir.” Shields studied her nails. “And hangovers.”

Byford narrowed his eyes. “And you’re saying…?” He knew Bev liked a drink. Knew, too, she’d been under pressure in the last few months. He’d been there
himself a couple of years back. If it didn’t affect her work, who cared?

“No one would mind ordinarily,” Shields murmured. “But who knows? If she’d been there a little earlier?”

He frowned, recalled the conversation with Vince Hanlon about Bev being on the scene first thing. There was no way Bev could have arrived any earlier. Unless Vince had been covering up for her.
“Are you making this official, Inspector?”

“No, sir.”

Byford didn’t know the mortuary had a tannoy until a call went out for Danny Shields. The DI headed for the door, pausing briefly to add, “I’ve already had a word with
her.”

Harry blew out his cheeks. “Quite a handful.”

“Her or Bev?” Byford asked.

Harry nodded at the door.

“Has she got a point, though?” Byford asked.

“I reckon she’s got a sewing kit.”

Apparently Shields had called Harry to sound him out on the theory that the old woman had been sleeping rough. “I told her it was a non-starter. She was no more bag lady than me. Thing is,
Bill, I knew it was Bev’s idea ’cause she floated it at Cable Street.”

“What did you say to Shields exactly?” Byford asked.

“I told her the old girl was well-nourished. The dirt was superficial. I even reckoned she might have been doing a bit of gardening. She had some twine and a pair of scissors in a pocket.
The soil under her nails was consistent with that.”

“You told Shields all this on the phone?”

“Yeah. Funny thing, though, she’d been there herself and not said a bloody word. I only realised who I’d been talking to when she turned up here with you.”

“She didn’t introduce herself?”

“I thought she was with the media, at the time. Keeping a distance, you know? So why’d she take a pop like that?”

Byford rubbed a hand over his face. No doubt he’d be finding out.

“Anyway, Bill. As I say.” Harry was removing the gown. “The old lady would have been good for a few years yet. She died from the stab wounds, loss of blood, shock. Hopefully
she was already out of it; she took a hell of a beating. And I know what I’d do to the bastard who killed her.” The voice held venom. Byford had noticed before how Harry hated violence
against old people. For most police officers, crimes involving children were worse. The guv knew that maintaining motivation would become a factor if the case dragged on.

“Tell you what, Bill.” Harry rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’ll be glad to get out of this bloody game.”

The pathologist’s plans were an open secret. He was bowing out just before Christmas, hitting the Caribbean with a laptop. Harry Gough fancied himself as another Ian Rankin. He’d
done the time, now he was going to write the crime.

Byford was toying with the idea of early retirement himself. He was aware that if his wife Margaret were alive he’d probably have packed it in already. It was three years now but he missed
her, missed being married, loathed going back to an empty house. Work gave the illusion of a full life. But it was an illusion; he knew that. Knew, too, that worry over his health was making him
question the future.

“Penny for them?”

For a second or two he considered confiding in Harry. They weren’t close but they sank the occasional pint at the Jug of Ale. Harry was a medico; he’d have valid input. It
didn’t have to be cancer. It was just that, somehow, voicing his fear gave it more substance. He kept quiet about the tests but mentioned his thoughts on quitting the force.

Harry gave Byford’s shoulder a gentle punch. “Go for it, Bill. I tell you, I’m counting the days. No more early shouts, no more late calls, no more freezing your bollocks off
in all weathers, picking up the pieces of another bleeding murder or motorway pile up, Nah, mate, sun, sea, sand and sex. Lots of. For ever and ever.”

“Amen,” Byford provided. “I’ll drink to that.” Both men turned as DI Shields popped her head round the door.

“That was Highgate on the phone,” she said. “Iris Collins won’t be helping our inquiries into daffodils. Or anything else come to that. Sergeant Morriss appears to have
finished the old girl off.”

5

It was a bad joke in worse taste. Iris Collins’s weak heart had given out an hour or more before Bev even set foot on the doorstep of the house in Harborne. It
hadn’t stopped the sick humour doing the rounds at Highgate. Vince hummed the opening bars of the
Funeral March
whenever he saw her, and some clown had stuck a bunch of daffs on her
desk.

It was OK for that lot. They hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen the wasted limbs, the wizened features, witnessed the daughter’s pain and fury over her mother’s death. The
general thinking on the team was that Iris Collins was just an old woman who’d had her time. Bev had even heard the old ‘she’d had a good innings’ line trotted out. What the
hell was that supposed to mean? Iris would probably still be batting out on the pitch if a bunch of mindless thugs hadn’t scared her witless.

Bev leaned back in the chair, blew out her cheeks, idly registered her fringe needed a trim. Iris’s death had impacted on the direction of the investigation as well. Short of a ouija
board, the daffodil line was going nowhere. She doubted whether Angela, Iris’s daughter, had even taken their gentle questioning on board: questions they’d not yet had a chance to put
to the second victim, Joan Goddard. Neighbours didn’t know where Mrs Goddard had gone, never mind when she’d be back.

Bev sighed. Maybe Shields was right. Maybe the daffodils had sod all to do with anything. Not so much red as yellow herrings. She groaned.
Not funny, Bev.
Boy, it had been a long day. And
it wasn’t over yet. There was a flat in Balsall Heath to view at eight o’clock. Though she didn’t really want a flat and didn’t really want to live in Balsall Heath.

A quick glance at her watch confirmed it’d be cutting it fine if she nipped home to change. Anyway, although the office was small, grey and purely functional apart from her brown suede
beanbag and a
Pirates of the Caribbean
poster, it also happened to be empty. And time alone was luxury enough these days. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mum and Sadie
but…

Stifling a yawn, she scrolled through the latest from Cable Street: scores of interviews, not a single lead; nothing earth-shattering from the search teams, either. They’d be out again at
first light. Bev closed her eyes, pictured the old woman’s body. What a shit way to die. They had to get an ID. Knowing who she was might give them a steer on why she’d been
murdered.

“Haven’t you got a home to go to?”

She shot up. How come the guv always made her feel guilty? She was a police officer, for Christ’s sake. “Guv. How’s it going?”

Byford perched on the edge of her desk. “I’ve released Marty Skelton.”

“Oh?” Only surprise was how long he’d been detained.

Byford’s lips twitched. “Quite the star, Marty. He’s in shot on virtually every frame from the pub.”

“Thank God for CCTV?”

“Thank God it wasn’t karaoke night.”

She grinned but noticed Byford’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It was unfortunate, Bev. That cock-up with the media.”

And that was why. He’d come to give her a bollocking. Sod that. The unofficial news briefing at Cable Street was a pisser but it wasn’t down to her. “Not for Marty, guv. Talk
about chequebook journalism. Bloke must’ve made a mint out there.”

She was avoiding the issue. Byford forced it. “What time did you get there?”

Why are you asking?
She’d mull that one over later. Right now it was a tough call. The truth and Vince Hanlon would be in the dog poo. A lie and her unscheduled lie-in would be on
the agenda.