“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.
“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 bro
ke 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.”
KILLER DAFFODILS
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.
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