Grey Ladies

by William Stafford

  “And where did she come from, this old woman?”

  “Out of nowhere!” Another puff from the inhaler.

  “Let me rephrase the question: where was she when you first saw her?”

  Candida Taylor steeled herself and marched to the spot on the path where the old woman had first been noticed. “The kids was all here, I was over there, the woman was here and then the old woman was...here.”

  “And by ‘the woman’ you mean the victim?”

  Candida nodded rapidly.

  “What was she doing there?”

  “I don’t know; she was just a punter. A member of the public. Come from the cafe, I suppose. And she was just standing around, earwigging the stories. For free. The cheek of some people.”

  Her face crumpled with guilt at speaking ill of the recently dead.

  “Go on, chick,” Miller encouraged, guessing her own local accent would soothe the poor girl better than Brough’s southern tones.

  “Well, the kids was all squailing and running all over the place and the taychers was all shouting and running after the kids. It was like chaos, like. And I day know what to do for the best. I tried to get them to come into the museum main entrance, over there (point) but of course nobody was listening. And I could see the old woman getting closer to the other woman, like some kind of zombie or summat, and the woman took off, screaming and running, into the keep over there (point) and the old woman went after her. And then I couldn’t see no more of ‘em and we rounded the kids up and I tried to tell them it was all part of the Visit and did they enjoy it? And we was just about to get them all indoors when there was this horrible scream, all loud and echoey, ‘cause of the staircase, I suppose and then down her come, all the way to the bottom, bouncing off the walls and her must have hit every step on the way down and her landed splat at the bottom. Right there.” A final point at the forensics tent and then a blow of her nose.

  “Thank you, Miss Taylor, that’s most -”

  “But,” the red-eyed guide interrupted Brough, “did her fall or was her pushed, Inspector?”

  “Well, that’s what we’re here to find out.”

  “And the old woman? Where did she go? Why day nobody see her come back down?”

  “We have lots of questions,” Brough nodded.

  “And you won’t find no answers neither.” The girl pointed a warning finger in Brough’s face. He backed away from the crumpled mass of wet tissue.

  They released the girl to the care of one of her co-workers from the museum, who steered her to a bench. A trolley bearing teas and coffees had been wheeled from the Grey Lady Cafe. Candida Taylor accepted with snivelling gratitude a plastic cup of hot, sweet water.

  “Hey up,” said Miller, jerking her head towards the path, along which Stevens and Woodcock were striding towards them.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Brough muttered.

  “Sharing intelligence, remember?” Miller switched on a welcoming if insincere grin.

  “I don’t think these half-wits can spare any,” Brough whispered before contorting his own features into something that might be considered a smile. “Gentlemen!” he greeted his colleagues.

  “Alright,” said D S Woodcock, giving Miller a nod.

  Stevens omitted the pleasantries and recited from his notebook.

  “Kids on the coach, worse than useless. Teachers and helpers just as bad. No one saw the old woman arrive or leave. Descriptions differ. Some say leopard print and some say grey shawls.”

  “The deceased was wearing leopard print,” Miller interjected.

  Stevens took this on board. “Mutton,” he concluded. “Mutton dressed as leopard.” He gave Woodcock a nudge. Woodcock opened his mouth and closed it again in lieu of actual laughter.

  “Our witness was rather helpful,” said Brough, with more than a hint of smugness. He went over Candida Taylor’s statement in the flattest intonation he could manage. The boys from Serious nodded, their eyes taking in the scene as Brough described the apparition and the course of events.”

  “Load of twaddle though, isn’t it?” Stevens rubbed his moustache.

  “The statement?” said Brough.

  “All this supernatural bollocks. For the tourists, isn’t it?”

  He was staring at Brough, daring him to say something, daring him to say that he believed ‘other forces’ were at work.

  Brough stared back. After about a minute and a half he said, “People can be susceptible. If the conditions are right, the mind can play tricks.”

  “Making our job a lot harder,” said Stevens. “Let’s try and keep the voodoo and the hoodoo out of this, shall we?”

  “No argument from me,” said Brough. Miller and Woodcock exchanged glances of disbelief and scepticism that were nothing to do with belief in the supernatural.

  D I Henry ambled over from the forensics tent.

  “Victim’s name was Loretta Phipps. Aged 49. Local woman. Unemployed. If the contents of her handbag are to be believed. We’ll have to contact the next-ofs for formal identification.”

  “We’ll do that!” Brough chimed in before anyone else could. “You’re calling her a victim. So we’re going with homicide, then?”

  “Victim...deceased...,” Henry weighed the words. “Victim of an unfortunate accident... At this stage, nothing is clear apart from there’s a dead woman lying in a heap at the bottom of those stairs.”

  “Any CCTV, sir?” Stevens asked what Brough thought was a surprisingly pertinent question.

  “No,” Henry shook his head. “Apparently, it doesn’t work up here. Something about the stone. Magnetic fields and whatnot. So they spared themselves the expense.”

  “Oooh,” Stevens wiggled his fingers spookily.

  Henry ignored him and turned to Brough. “Here’s the address. And don’t forget: we share everything on this one.”

  Brough snatched the paper and gave a tight-lipped smile.

  “Gentlemen,” he said again. “Miller, with me.”

  Miller smiled at the male detectives. Only Woodcock returned the courtesy. She hurried to catch up with Brough before he disappeared through the gateway. Hmm, she thought. That D S is a bit of all right.

  ***

  Loretta Phipps’s residence was a semi-detached a couple of miles out of town. Not a bad area - compared to some of the others - but there was not much money around, judging by the range and style of the shops and the general air of untidiness and lack of care around the streets.

  “Private rental?” said Miller, as she pulled up outside the house.

  “Her or the house?” said Brough. This earned him a scandalised look from Miller.

  “You’re as bad as that Stevens,” she scolded him. “Casting aspersions on the dead.”

  That shut him up. Not the accusation of casual sexism but the comparison to his arch-rival. Miller was pleased with the effect and vowed to keep that particular weapon in her arsenal.

  She took care to lock the car before joining Brough at the front door. He had gone for the combined ring the bell and knock the knocker technique and was already gazing up at the front of the house with impatience.

  “She’s not in, remember,” Miller reminded him. He gave her a withering glare and resumed the knocking.

  “Someone is,” he murmured. He pointed at the front bedroom window, where a curtain, recently twitched, was still moving.

  “Why don’t you look through the letterbox?” Miller suggested brightly.

  “Why don’t you look through the letterbox?” he snapped. Miller looked down. The letterbox was at ground level. A boon if you didn’t want your mail dropping from any height but a bugger for the poor postman who has to stoop.

  The front door opened as far as the chain that was restricting it would allow. A young woman’s nose and ey
e peered out. Brough glanced at his notes.

  “Fiona Phipps,” he deduced.

  “What of it?” said the girl. Brough showed her his badge.

  “May we come inside, Miss Phipps?”

  ***

  While Brough and Miller were breaking the bad news to Fiona Phipps, (with Brough doing the talking and Miller making cups of tea in the untidy kitchen), a couple of miles away in the Dorothy Beaumont rest home, Harold was carrying, without shedding too much of it, a mug of cocoa to Sandra Miller who was sitting by the window and fretting over a word search magazine.

  “You’ll cop it,” he laughed as he joined her.

  “Will I?” Sandra glanced around, genuinely worried.

  “You bloody will. That’s Mim’s spot. She likes to sit there. Wait till she gets back. There’ll be fireworks.”

  “I like fireworks,” Sandra smiled. “No fun for the pets, mind, but sod them, I say. It’s only one night. They have the rest of the year to do what they like.”

  “Where is Mim anyway?” It was Harold’s turn to look around.

  “I don’t know,” said Sandra. “She’s usually right here.”

  “It’s all a bit queer.” He flagged down a passing care worker. “Hoi, hoi, Tara!” The girl, pleasant enough, came over with a smile.

  “What have I told you about asking for more biscuits?” she teased.

  “Fuck the biscuits,” said Harold. “Where’s Mim?”

  “Oh?” Tara looked around. “She’s usually right here.”

  “That’s what we was saying.”

  “Odd...” Tara looked genuinely perturbed. “I’ll go and see if I can find out.”

  She skipped away.

  “Where’s my cocoa?” Sandra demanded. “Did she leave any biscuits?”

  “Did she buggery,” grumbled Harold.

  ***

  Fiona Phipps cradled the chipped cup of tea Miller had given her. She looked distraught. Her face worked as though her features couldn’t settle on any particular expression and so kept trying them all on for size.

  Miller sat beside her on the battered sofa that had too many mismatched ‘throws’ thrown over it. She placed a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. Her foot inadvertently kicked an empty champagne bottle, discarded like a couple of others on the carpet, along with the remains of what must have been a massive takeaway lunch.

  “I know this is difficult,” Brough said. Even he had softened his tone and Miller couldn’t help wondering if this was also the voice he used for pillow talk. “But any information you can provide, however trivial, could help us find out what happened to your mum.”

  Fiona’s face contorted again. She shook her head. “I can’t think of anything trivial,” she wailed.

  “Anything important, then?”

  Fiona sniffed a huge snot bubble back into her left nostril. Brough made gestures with his head and eyes that Miller should offer the girl a tissue. Miller made gestures with her head and eyes that he should offer the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket. What else was it there for? Bloody posing, that’s what.

  The girl, meanwhile, fished out a pre-used tissue from her sleeve and made loud use of it.

  Brough consulted his notes. A call from Stevens while they were en route had revealed the messages and emails on Loretta Phipps’s phone.

  “Did your mother ever mention a, um, Gavin to you?”

  Fiona’s eyes flickered, ever so slightly, towards the ceiling. “Um, Gav...” she tried to repeat as though it was an alien language.

  “Gavin,” said Brough. “Did she say anything about meeting him today at the zoo?”

  Fiona’s bottom lip stuck out and she shook her head slowly. It was like someone had punched a sad puppy.

  Brough’s phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out.

  “My colleague in the Serious Crimes Department has just forwarded me a picture of this Gavin.” He held the screen in front of Fiona’s face. The girl gasped and looked horrified. And so did Miller. Brough looked at the screen.

  That wanker Stevens had sent him the picture of Gavin’s excited genitals.

  “So you don’t recognise him then?” said Miller.

  Something went bump overhead. Brough sprang to his feet. “There’s someone up there!” he announced.

  “No!” Fiona cried. She jumped up in front of him but Miller was quick. She pulled the girl back to the sofa. Brough darted from the room.

  “Hold her, Miller,” he instructed.

  Fiona Phipps wriggled and squirmed but Miller held her wrists firmly.

  “Behave, love,” she warned her, “or I’ll have to sit on you.”

  Brough called up from the foot of the stairs. “This is the police. Come down with your hands where I can see them.”

  No one came. Brough put his foot on the bottom step and began to climb. He could hear sounds coming from the front bedroom. Scraping and cursing. The bastard was trying to get out of the window!

  Brough darted up the stairs, two at a time. Oof! He’d have to resume running in the park with Alastair if he was going to do this kind of thing more effectively.

  He crashed through the bedroom door just in time to glimpse a black head of hair drop from the windowsill. Brough navigated the unmade double bed and looked down at the front garden. Lying on the path, clutching a twisted ankle, a naked man in his thirties was swearing and moaning in pain. A quick glance at the fellow’s tackle confirmed this was indeed Gavin from the photograph.

  ***

  “Sorry, sorry,” Tara was back, apologetic for interrupting their cocoa and word-searching. “Just spoken to Janet downstairs and she said Mim’s probably in her room. Being examined. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  Sandra Miller cackled. “Old Mim’s under the doctor then, eh?” She nudged Harold sharply. Cold cocoa cascaded onto his cardigan. This made them both say “Whoops!” and cackle in harmony.

  Tara smiled. It pained her when the residents got, um, frisky and suggestive. “I’m sure she’ll be back in a bit. Here.” She reached into her tabard and pulled out a couple of packets of digestives to shut them up. She got away as fast as her flat shoes would carry her.

  ***

  Fiona Phipps and Gavin Foster got a car each to transport them down to Regional. They were to be questioned under suspicion of conspiracy to murder. Brough deemed it necessary to keep the apart from here on in so that their stories would not be collaborative efforts. He’d returned to the living room to find Miller sitting on the victim’s next of like she was an uncooperative beanbag. The toe of his shoe had clinked on a champagne bottle.

  “Party’s over,” he muttered. Both Miller and Phipps had rolled their eyes. Too many cop shows had taken their toll.

  Now, back at Regional HQ, Foster was in a holding cell while Stevens and Woodcock spoke to the girl. Brough and Miller watched on the video link. You don’t get those one-way mirrors in Serious.

  “I don’t know why we couldn’t talk to her,” Miller complained for the third time.

  “All in the interests of openness and sharing,” Brough replied without looking away from the screen. “Besides, you might stage another sit-in.”

  “You’re not funny,” she sniffed.

  Brough frowned. Whether it was from being hurt at hearing he wasn’t funny or because he wanted Miller to shut the fuck up because the interrogation was beginning, it was impossible to tell.

  Fiona Phipps, in high definition, sat sullenly, leaning back with her arms folded. Beside her, the duty solicitor, a middle-aged man by the name of Jarvis, was holding up his biro in a bid to get the detectives’ attention.

  Stevens (wanker!) hated to be interrupted just as he was about to launch into the spiel about starting the tape and who was present.

 
“What?” he roared.

  “My client has only just been informed of a terrible bereavement. Subjecting her to questioning in this manner is unkind at best and prejudicial at worst.”

  “Preju-what?” Stevens’s moustache squirmed like a caterpillar on a skewer.

  “My client is distressed. Anything she might say at this time might be distorted by her emotional state.”

  Stevens glanced at his colleague. “Woodcock,” he said.

  “Sir,” said Woodcock. He placed a box of tissues at the centre of the table.

  “Now,” said Stevens, his voice like gravel going down a drain, “let’s get to the bottom of this terrible fucking bereavement, shall we?”

  ***

  Brough and Miller were joined by Harry Henry. He parked a buttock on the edge of the table and clasped his hands together, smiling and humming at the scene on the screen.

  “Bit of a card, isn’t he, our man Stevens?” he smiled. “Always pushing the envelope.”

  “Likes to put his own stamp on things,” added Miller.

  The men stared at her. “What are you talking about, Miller?” growled Brough. He tapped the screen. “What’s he up to?”

  “Ooh,” Henry gloated with the air of someone with private information. “You might think he’s this bluff, old-fashioned kind of copper but he can be quite innovative in his techniques, you know.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Silly cow hasn’t been charged with anything. We put one of ours in, pretending to be the duty solicitor, and suddenly everything’s more serious.”

  “And he can do that, can he? He’s allowed?”

  “It’s a grey area,” said Henry, tapping his nose. “But watch that cow start mooing.”

  “I object!” said Miller, standing up. The men stared at her again. “That poor cow,” she pointed at Fiona Phipps on the screen, “just lost her mother.”

  “Poor calf then?” Henry shrugged.

  “No, no,” Brough raised a hand to placate his sergeant. “Miller has a point. Let’s mind our language, shall we? Lest we all turn into Stevens.”

  D I Henry looked stunned. He had played this wrong. Hadn’t realised he was in with the politically pernickety brigade. Well, excuuuuuuuuse me!