7
Back at Highgate, an increasingly hostile news conference was underway in the press briefing room. Matt Snow, crime correspondent of the Evening News, was centre stage. He fancied himself as leader of the pack and was clearly on the scent of a steaming trail. Separated by only a few feet, and the highly polished surface of a mahogany desk, were Bev, Byford and news bureau chief Bernie Flowers, their nonchalant pose and air of authority slipping perceptibly. DI Shields, presumably pissed off at getting zilch on the Marty Skelton front, was even now interviewing Jimmy Vaz over at his corner shop in Kings Heath. Which left the three Bs to take the flak. Bev shifted uneasily in her chair as the audience of bored-looking hacks sat up and sharpened their collective wits.
“I need more than this to go on, Superintendent.” Matt Snow held his reporter’s spiral notebook ostentatiously aloft, displaying an empty page to anyone who cared to look.
Bev stifled a snort. Snow was the author of the report on Iris Collins’s ‘murder’. He’d gone a hell of a long way then without appreciable police input. She sat back, folded her arms tightly across her chest. Snow wasn’t so much a thorn as a rose bush in the flank of the police. Everyone knew he was desperate to break into telly. No one dared tell him his face was made for radio. As for the voice: pure Birmingham barrow boy.
Byford was struggling to stay cool. “I can’t give you what I don’t have, Mr Snow.”
It wasn’t working. Bev was close enough to count the beads of sweat on the guv’s top lip. He was in the full glare of more than a few TV lights. A bog-standard appeal for witnesses and par-for-the-course call for help in identifying the victim wasn’t going to cut any ice with bolshie journalists after blood.
Bev checked the line-up: the Beeb, Central, local radio and three or four rags. It wasn’t a bad turnout but she’d expected more: old dears obviously weren’t as sexy as young kids. Talking of sex, there was one face she’d not seen before, and not one you’d easily forget: imagine Catherine Zeta Jones on a tighter budget. The dark-haired lovely looked about Bev’s age, twenty-six, twenty-seven. The comparison stopped there. The woman exuded radiance and poise. Classy was the word, Bev thought, as she watched the reporter take copious notes, apparently oblivious of her effect on the men in the room.
Snow was showing off, obviously desperate to make an impression. Even though he had Byford in his sights, he kept glancing round to see if the new hack on the block was watching. “It strikes me, Superintendent, you didn’t release what you did have.”
“Sorry, I don’t do riddles.” The guv reached for a glass of water. Bev wondered if anyone else had noticed the tremor in his hand.
“There’s nothing enigmatic about a gang of teenagers terrorising old women. Why didn’t you issue a warning? At least the old dears would have been on their guard.”
Bev knew Byford had agonised over it. The balance was difficult: weighing up what might or might not be a genuine threat against panicking more than half the elderly population of Birmingham. Details of the attacks had been released as separate incidents. The media had been desperate to forge a link that the guv had consistently refused to go along with. It hadn’t stopped the coverage getting more lurid by the day.
“Now look here.” Byford dropped his pen on the table. Bev didn’t think it was deliberate. “I’m not –”
“Our viewers are asking for answers as well. We’re getting loads of calls on this.”
Bev knew that voice. It was Marty Skelton’s mate, Richard Peck, the man from the Beeb. Both reporters got to their feet, perhaps hoping the extra height would add weight to their argument. Peck towered over Matt Snow but the Evening News man was like a dog with a bag of bones. Bev wondered if he got the cheap brown suits as a job lot. She’d never seen him in anything else. Not that she could talk. She watched as he brushed a dull blond fringe out of caramel-coloured eyes already filled with contempt.
“You didn’t issue a police warning and you tried to prevent the media issuing one.”
“Rubbish,” Byford snapped. “And since when has anything ever stopped the media speculating?”
Snow jabbed a stubby finger. “I’m only sorry we didn’t push harder. It’s obvious elderly women in this city are at risk. I tried to warn them. I wish I’d done more.”
Perhaps he was waiting for a round of applause. No. He wanted a wider audience for the corollary. “How do you feel about it, Superintendent? The police are supposed to protect the vulnerable in our society. Do you regret letting them down?”
Bev flinched. That one was below the belt. Come on, guv.
Byford leaned forward, hands pressed on the desk. “I deal with evidence, not emotion, Mr Snow.”
You wouldn’t think so looking at his face, nor the imprint left by his moist palms on the wood. She wondered if she should pass him a note with the gist of the Marlow interview. She’d not had time to brief him since the hasty summons back to base. A couple of E-fits wouldn’t get him out of the hole but they might prevent further digging. She scribbled a few words but Snow was still on the attack.
“Try telling that to the victims and their families, Superintendent.”
She should probably hang fire but the guv looked in desperate need of a break. She cleared her throat. “We should be in a position to release new information before the end of the day.” The confident tone even surprised Bev. It worked briefly. The pack sniffed a new scent. “We can’t say any more at the moment but it could be a significant development.” Sweat was pooling and cooling in the small of her back. She glanced at the guv. His face was a blank. Not surprising, really.
Snow scratched his ear, head cocked to one side. “What sort of ‘significant development’ are we talking about?”
Bev swallowed hard. “It’s too early to say but you’ll get a release soon as.”
Peck sat down but Snow held his ground. “’Scuse me if I don’t hold my breath.”
A print journalist used the standoff to throw in a query about the daffodils. There was nothing new to report. The guv glossed over it. Radio WM asked for a one-to-one which seemed to signal the session was winding down. Chairs were scraped back and pens pocketed. Bev blew out her cheeks. Thank God it was over.
Byford gathered a few papers. “Thanks, ladies and –”
No one had told Snow. “How many more old women are going to die before the killers are caught?”
Byford’s hands stilled momentarily. “We’re doing everything in our power to arrest those responsible but there’s still no firm evidence the Cable Street murder is linked to the other attacks. We don’t even have proof that the first three assaults were carried out by the same assailants.”
Bev noticed Snow cast another glance in the direction of the lovely Miss Jones. The reporter had her head down, writing furiously. “Even now,” the reporter carped, “after three assaults and two deaths, you still can’t admit it, can you?”
Byford jammed his hands in his pockets. Bev heard a jangle of keys. “I’m not ruling it out. There’s always the possibility.”
“I put it to you again,” said Snow. “How many more deaths will there be before you admit you’re wrong?”
She opened her mouth to remonstrate but Byford silenced her with a hand. No one was going to grace that with a response.
“I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. It’s vital we establish the identity of the woman whose body was found yesterday. No one who fits the description has been reported missing. Maybe she lives alone? Has an elderly neighbour failed to return? If anyone can help –”
Snow had heard it all before. “What about a warning?”
“An old woman’s been murdered. The killer or killers are still at large. I don’t think it needs spelling out.”
“I do. And tonight we’ll be asking our readers what they think.” Snow stowed his notebook in the back pocket of his trousers, the journalistic equivalent of a V-sign. “We’ll be asking them if they feel safe on the streets. Asking them what they think of the police o
peration. I wonder if they’ll share your confidence in the way you’re running this inquiry.”
Trial by redtop; it wouldn’t be a first. Byford shrugged. “I’ll look forward to that, Mr Snow.”
Whatever riposte Snow may have fired was lost in the sound of a door slamming against the back wall.
One way to make an entrance, thought Bev. Everyone turned and watched as DI Shields strode to the front, headed straight for the guv. She knelt in close, whispered in his ear. Byford nodded a couple of times, jotted down a few words. Byford’s face didn’t change, though his voice had a softer edge when he addressed the gathering again.
“As a result of information received, there are a number of significant developments you need to know. We’re anxious to trace anyone who was in the vicinity of Princes Rise at around 5.30 on Sunday evening. A woman we believe to be the victim was seen entering the shop on the corner there with Keats Road. We particularly want to speak to a middle-aged man wearing an England football shirt and blue mud-stained jeans. A key witness is working on a detailed description of a youth also seen in the area at the relevant time. We’ll have an E-fit for you in a few hours.”
Bev heard a few moans about deadlines and news desks but Byford stilled the buzz with a hand. He was saving the best until last.
“One more thing. We now know the identity of the murder victim. We can confirm she’s a Birmingham woman in her late seventies. We’ll be releasing her name as soon as relatives have been informed.”
“Thanks, Danny. Good work, Danny. Three bags full, Danny.”
Bev’s Byford impersonation was rubbish. Oz got it in one.
“Sarge.” His lips were pursed. “We’ve got an ID, I don’t see the problem.”
Shields had ordered them back to Kings Heath to mop up the Cable Street house-to-house calls they’d failed to complete earlier. Not that they needed a bucket. People were either at work or so keen to crack Countdown they barely opened the door. Bev shrugged. Oz was right. But twice now, Shields had muscled in on interviews that Bev felt should have been hers. It still rankled. Not content with stealing Bev’s thunder, she’d then pissed on her parade.
“Go on, say it. It’s pathetic.” She glanced at Oz out of the corner of her eye.
“You want it straight?”
“Sure.”
“It’s pathetic.”
He wasn’t even looking at her. She hoisted her shoulder bag higher, shoved her hands in her pockets.
“Look, Sarge. We’ve got a job to do and it doesn’t help if you’re at each other’s throats. Maybe you need to back off a bit.”
“When I want your advice I’ll ask for it.”
Oz shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Numbers 15, 19, 27 and 30 were as much help as a paper raincoat. The proverbial three monkeys had seen, heard and said more. The silences between the door-knocking were stretching. Bev was no good at the tight-lipped stuff.
“Fancy going out tonight?” Apart from the odd drink and a curry, they’d barely seen each other outside work since she’d moved back to her mum’s. Maybe they needed a bit of duvet time. She hated feeling like a nun. God knew what the enforced celibacy was doing to Oz.
“Sorry, I’ve made arrangements.”
“No sweat.” There was no rancour in her voice but she had to turn her head. She’d reached the stage where she’d decided to open up with Oz. Maybe she was making too much of it but that felt like a rejection.
The seven o’clock news bulletin on Radio WM led with the old woman’s ID: Veronica Amery, aged seventy-eight. Bev heard it in the motor on the way home, a bottle of Pinot Grigio on the passenger seat and a wet umbrella on the floor. The sudden downpour back in Cable Street had said it all: the door-to-doors had been a washout.
She was about to switch off the engine when she heard a voice she knew: female and fruity, as in ripe plums. DI Danny Shields was appealing for relatives of the dead woman to come forward. Bev frowned. Who’d made the ID, then? Presumably Jimmy Vaz. Not that it mattered. The next stage was more important: piecing together the victim’s life. As jigsaws go, a name was just one of the corners.
Bev was flat out on the sofa watching some flaky celebrity of whom she’d never heard eat insects and animal parts she’d never imagined. Maybe she should try something similar; it was one way to lose weight. The top button of her trousers was already undone and she was contemplating easing down the zip an inch. It was her mum’s fault. Comfort food? It wasn’t doing anything for Bev’s peace of mind.
Her mum and Sadie had nipped out to a neighbour’s for their monthly dose of culture. The Crime Lovers’ Book Club had been meeting for nearly two years now. Forget Austen and Amis: this was Morse and Miss Marple, with the occasional dash of mean streets. Bev smiled at the thought of the half-dozen or so genteel women gathered over the road discussing the finer points of murder and mutilation. Sadie was always on at Bev to join, but the way Bev saw it she barely had time to read books, let alone talk bollocks about them afterwards.
She heard the key in the door and the sort of raucous giggling that usually followed a book club night. Bev suspected the group only met to get tiddly and swap gossip.
“Hello, love.” Emmy popped her head round the door. “Fancy a cup of something?”
Bev joined the other Morriss women in the kitchen. The room was warm and cosy, lots of polished pine and pink gingham. The soft lighting meant Emmy wasn’t in action at the Aga. All three perched on stools at the breakfast bar, enjoying a little time together. Bev skimmed the blurb on the back of the book chosen for next month’s read, listened with a smile as her mum and gran talked her through the night’s highlights. Their eyes sparkled as they finished each other’s sentences or interrupted with a vital point. They were like a couple of kids. By the time they’d finished, Bev felt she’d been there anyway.
Bev had been studying Emmy closely. Everyone said they were like peas in a pod, but apart from their build, Bev had never really registered it before. Now she saw herself in her mum’s features, or how she’d look in a few years. Maybe she’d best stop frowning straightaway. And laughing. Sod that for a game of soldiers. At least if she inherited the grey, it might add a touch of gravitas to the Guinness.
Her mum shoved the biscuits across and Bev had dunked two digestives in her tea before recalling her former belt-tightening resolve.
“Is my bike still in the shed, mum?”
Emmy looked sceptical. “Why? Who needs it?”
Bev curled a lip. “Very droll.”
Sadie snorted, sounding not unlike her only granddaughter. Sadie was a star: a skinny little thing with a lovely face. She was late seventies but had twinkly blue eyes and a Hollywood bone structure. The thick sable hair was usually pinned up but she could sit on it when she let it down. Bev loved brushing it for her.
“You haven’t been on that bike since you were in pigtails, our Bev.” Fifty years in Birmingham and Sadie still sounded as if she’d just stepped off the coach from Blackburn.
“So?” Bev said. “You never forget how to ride a bike.”
Sadie chortled. “I remember every time you fell off as well.” She pointed to the dresser. “Pass us my specs, lovie.”
Sadie had more glasses than an optician. She was always losing them, but she also co-ordinated the frames with a not inconsiderable wardrobe that frequently included Bev’s T-shirts and trainers. The pair she handed over looked like a cast-off from Dame Edna.
“I’m serious about the bike,” Bev said. Cycling had to be better than a gym full of testosterone and tight lycra. She frowned; the guv never had answered her query about the gym. Come to think of it, post-news conference he’d hardly spoken to her at all. There’d been a time when they’d get together at the end of a day, toss ideas around less formally than at the briefings. She missed those little chats. Ditto Oz. Where was he? He’d said he’d made arrangements, she doubted he was talking flowers. She closed her eyes, tried to banish niggling thoughts.
“What’s
up, lovie?”
Her gran’s emotional radar was sharper than NASA’s.
“I’m fine, bit tired.” She faked a yawn and overdid a stretch. “I need more exercise.”
Sadie winked at her daughter. “Best stock up on the Germolene, Em.”
While the kettle boiled, Maude Taylor searched the house in Kings Heath. It was exactly as she expected to find it: clean, tidy and comfortable. There was just one problem. Where was its owner? There was no sign of Sophia, no clue to her whereabouts.
Maude was almost sure her friend hadn’t gone away. Her toothbrush and other toiletries were in the bathroom. Suitcases were under the bed. She tried hard to come up with a convincing scenario. Sophia could conceivably have left in such a rush that there’d been no time to pack. But Sophia had no family and few remaining friends. Who could have made such an urgent claim on her?
Maude returned to the kitchen. It was spotless, uncluttered, a place for everything and everything in its place. Except for the vases. Sophia would never have left them lined up on the windowsill like that. Where could she be? Maude barely felt up to the task of trying to find out. She was exhausted. The hold-up on the M42 had been interminable. It was eight o’clock now. She was too tired even to contemplate eating. She’d have an early night; recoup her energy for tomorrow. First thing, she’d try to find that nice young man, Simon. He was a neighbour. He couldn’t be that hard to track down. If she had no joy, she’d have to call in the police. Who knew? Sophia might be back by then.
Having made a decision, Maude felt slightly better. She poured tea into a china cup, took the drink into the sitting room and was asleep before it had cooled.
8
Apart from a colony of rust and a cape of cobwebs, the purple Raleigh was in better shape than its rider. It had taken Bev fifteen minutes to cycle to Highgate, mostly downhill. She’d almost booked a woman for applying mascara while she was driving but the lights turned green. Bev didn’t have the horsepower to keep up with a 4x4. At the nick, it was a tough call which was worse: the numb bum on dismounting or the chorus of Daisy, Daisy from the station clowns.
Dead Old Page 8