Overkill

by Maureen Carter

  The residents of Green Fields – those taking the air, anyway – looked to Bev more like urbanites than rustics. Four or five burka-clad women stood yacking on a corner. An elderly white couple tottered past, each toting a bag-for-life. A bald bloke in a Killers T-shirt tinkered with the engine of a beat-up Skoda. Kids wandered the street aimlessly, glued to smartphones. More fool them, Bev reckoned. If they had the sense they were born with, they’d be in school learning how to get on in the world rather than mastering the web.

  ‘And they say it’s grim up north,’ Wallace mused. ‘Just look at it.’ He was taking in the scenery a bit too much for Bev’s liking. Certainly didn’t need any verbal encouragement. ‘Tell you something, sarge, they sure won’t be shooting Countryfile round here any time soon.’

  Never mind the telly, sunshine. She’d prefer it if he watched the road. ‘It’s next right, Chad.’ Rose Terrace sounded almost prosaic compared with the other street names.

  ‘On it, sarge.’

  ‘Yeah, and the kerb.’ She winced. ‘Watch it, mate.’ That’d teach her to give him more notice in future. Not that he’d be driving again. Not with her as passenger, anyroad.

  When the motor finally juddered to a halt outside number 20, Bev mentally crossed herself. She waited until he’d locked up, then stretched out a palm. ‘Chuck us the keys, mate.’

  ‘What about –?’

  ‘I’ll do the honours on the way back.’ Deftly slipping the fob in her pocket. ‘’Sides, you’ll be busy.’ Before he could ask, she’d done an about-turn, heading for a reddish door that had seen better decades. No bell. No knocker. Needs must. She brought her knuckles into play. Spotting a hanging basket on the wall she wondered if they’d homed-in on the estate’s only green-fingered tenant. A quick snoop soon set her straight. Unless a bunch of fag ash and nub ends could yield a tobacco crop.

  Bev gave the door another rap, then pressed her ear against the wood.

  ‘She’s definitely in, sarge.’ Wallace whispered. ‘The curtain just twitched.’

  ‘Yeah,’ – she drawled, still leaning against the door – ‘I think I can hear someone moving ab—. Shit!’ Sodding hell. She’d very nearly taken a dive.

  ‘Whoops.’ Patting her hair back in place, she aimed for a friendly smile. ‘Mrs Gold, is it?’

  ‘Yes. Ivy Gold.’ And stony-faced.

  Bev reckoned the woman must be in her eighties and definitely bordering on obese, but boy, had she been light on her feet. ‘Sorry about that, Mrs Gold.’

  ‘Your foul-mouthed language or scaring me half to death?’

  She raised a placatory palm. ‘I meant—’

  ‘For all I know you could have been trying to break in.’

  ‘Not at all. We’re police officers. Let me set your mind at rest. Look, here’s my ID.’ Bev caught a twitch of her lip, clocked a gleam in the eye. Seemed to Bev the old dear had quite enjoyed the impromptu floorshow.

  ‘Put it away, duck.’ She flapped a hand. ‘Always so easy to wind up, are you?’ Without waiting for a reply she waddled off down a narrow hallway. Bev heard what could’ve been a titter, then: ‘You comin’ in, or what?’

  ‘Nice ice-breaker, sarge,’ Wallace in whisper mode again. ‘Well impressive.’

  ‘Shut it, Chad.’ She winked as she sailed past, added a sotto voce, ‘and the door.’

  Shame the stuffy little back room didn’t have ventilation. Nose wrinkled, Bev glanced round just to make sure there wasn’t a window lurking in the fug and gloom. They’d only been in the so-called snug a minute or two and already her jacket stank of stale smoke and cheap air freshener. The décor didn’t have a lot going for it, either: mustard walls; khaki woodwork; dark clumpy furniture. Très shabby. Chic not.

  Bev had taken an executive decision and turned down the offer of a hot drink on the grounds they were pushed for time. The old dear had scuttled off to the kitchen to brew up regardless. A generational thing, Bev supposed. Not watering a guest being a social gaffe that’d get an offender blackballed from polite pensioner society. Like farting in front of the queen.

  On the other hand, a wrinkly’s respect-for-authority gene hadn’t stopped the woman taking the Michael on the doorstep. Always so easy to wind up? Cheeky bugger. Nah. Maybe Mrs Gold just had a thirst on her and fancied a cuppa. Given the plethora of empty mugs dotted round the place, Bev assumed the woman was either addicted to tea or allergic to Fairy Liquid.

  ‘Should you be doing that, sarge?’ Wallace piped up from his perch on a beige leatherette settee. Mrs Gold had told them both to sit still and be good. The last bit had been added with a jocular twinkle in the eye. Least, that was how Bev interpreted it. Naturally she’d read it as an open invitation to prowl. Not that she’d picked up much gen. No photos, zilch books, nada paperwork – apart from a well-thumbed copy of the TV Times which suggested she watched the box a lot. A flat-screen telly the size of a football pitch gave the game away even more.

  ‘Doing what?’ she asked running her finger along another dusty surface. Tut-tut. Not that Bev-Quentin-Crisp-Morriss could talk.

  ‘Snooping.’

  She tapped the side of her nose. ‘It’s known in the trade as detecting. You might like to try it sometime.’

  ‘You might like to try and find a mirror.’

  Wide-eyed, she did a double-take. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘There’s a smudge of dirt on your face,’ he said, digging a hand in his pocket.

  ‘Ta, mate.’ Flashing a watery smile she took the tissue on offer. ‘Clean, is it?’

  ‘I’ll have it back if you don’t watch out.’

  She turned away, curved a lip. Had to admit, the newbie was growing on her just a touch.

  ‘Tea’s up.’ Muffled yell. ‘Get the door somebody.’

  A subsequent bang suggested somebody had taken to it with a battering ram. Bev spun round to see Chad doing the honours while the old dear entered struggling with a precariously balanced metal tray. The tottering gait and nervy smile brought to mind Julie Walters’ Mrs Overall – in a fat suit. Bee-atch, Beverley. Slapping a mental wrist, she made to relieve Mrs Gold of her burden. ‘Here, let me.’

  ‘I’m more than capable, duck. Just shift out the way.’

  Tray plonked on low table, she flopped into an armchair, fanning her face. ‘Just give me a min … need to … get me breath back.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll be mum, shall I?’ Bev smiled brightly, reached for a brown pot, stopped abruptly when she clocked Mrs Gold’s expression. God, what had she said? The old dear looked ashen, stricken, rheumy eyes welled up, her bottom lip quivered, fingers fluttered when she tried dabbing away the tears.

  ‘Here we are, Mrs Gold.’ Chad gently pressed a tissue into her hand. Must have shares in Kleenex. ‘Have a wipe,’ he said. ‘There’s no rush.’

  Bev put the tea on hold while the old woman composed herself. After a minute or so she swallowed another sob. ‘Sorry ’bout that, duck. It was hearing you say “mum”. It’s what Tommy called me. When he was a nipper.’ Gazing into space, reminiscing in her head, her features softened. Bev recognized the look, knew Mrs Gold would be replaying mental home movies, her grandson in the lead role.

  While the woman was in a world of her own, Bev formed a T with her index fingers waved them at Chad. Even then she had to tilt her head at the pot before he got the message.

  ‘You must’ve been really close, Mrs Gold,’ Bev said softly.

  Reverie broken, she gave a watery smile, nodded agreement. ‘Back then I was as good as a mum to him. Better than his own bloody mother, that’s for sure. Skedaddled, she did, before he was out of nappies. Not so much as a by-your-leave, nor a word since. I fed him, clothed him, tucked him up in bed at night, treated him as a son.’

  Bev gave a fleeting frown. So where was her real son – Tommy’s dad – in all this?

  Mrs Gold must’ve caught the look. ‘My boy died. Before Tommy was born. Accident.’

  Poor old soul. Bev thought about saying she was s
orry for Ivy’s loss, but the words seemed pitifully inadequate.

  ‘I was the only family the little ’un had. Maybe I even spoiled him a bit to make up for … y’know.’ She flicked a glance at Bev who nodded her understanding.

  ‘We’re a good team, Tommy and me. Means the world to me, he does.’ Eyes tearing up again, she laid a trembling hand across her mouth.

  ‘So of course you’re concerned he’s not been in touch,’ Bev said. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘I wasn’t too bad till you pair turned up.’ She fumbled down the side of her chair until she found her fags.

  Bev watched Mrs Gold spark up. ‘And now?’

  ‘I’m right worried.’ She took a deep drag, talked through the smoke. ‘I didn’t expect to see two detectives standing at my door. You’d not be here unless summat was up. Is he in trouble? Is that it?’

  ‘Has he been in trouble before, Mrs Gold?’ Bev asked gently.

  ‘No, no.’ Shaking her head. ‘Don’t put words in my mouth, duck.’ She took another puff, then ground out the butt in a saucer.

  ‘I just wondered why you ask if we’re looking for him.’

  ‘’Cause I’m worried sick, that’s why.’ She dropped her head in her hands, sobbing.

  Bev caught Chad’s eye and mimed writing on an imaginary pad. She gave Mrs Gold another minute or so before starting to coax details from her: Tommy’s address, where he worked, what motor he drove, names of mates, girlfriends. The old girl didn’t know a lot, was vague on most points, which was curious given how close they were supposed to be. On a couple of facts, she was precise: last time she’d seen Tommy was ten days ago, last phone contact, eight days.

  ‘And that’s unusual, is it?’ Bev asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. We never go more than a day or two without a natter.’

  Bev took a sip of tea, struggled not to spit it straight out. ‘When he was here last, Mrs Gold, did he seem like his normal self?’

  Yes, apparently. He’d no great concerns as far as she was aware. No money worries, nothing going on in his life to make him go shooting off without warning.

  ‘Do you have a photo of Tommy? A recent one.’

  ‘’Course I do. Wait here a min.’ She hauled herself out the chair and waddled off towards the door. Bev waited till the coast was clear then hastily tipped the tea back in the pot. Chad hesitated a second or two, glanced over his shoulder and followed suit. They exchanged complicit grins but the stuff tasted criminally vile.

  ‘What you thinking, sarge?’

  ‘About stopping off for a coffee soon as we’re done here.’ She winked. ‘Nah. Too early to say, isn’t it?’

  Mrs Gold reappeared, clutching a photo. ‘Here. Look at him. Not a care in the world.’ She handed it to Bev, then sank back in her chair.

  A tanned Tommy posed against a backdrop of azure sea and Mediterranean sky. Long dark hair framed delicate features and a wide grin showcased even white teeth. ‘Nice-looking bloke. On holiday, was he?’ Bev glanced up, smiling.

  ‘I see why you’re a detective, love,’ Mrs Gold joshed as she reached for her cup.

  Bev studied the pic again, looking for distinguishing marks. Like with their John Doe, nothing stood out, and she’d had more than an eyeful of the victim’s naked body on the slab. She asked Mrs Gold anyway if Tommy had any tats or piercings.

  ‘Ooh, no.’ Taking a slurp of tea. ‘Hates that sort of thing he does.’

  Bev nodded. Not that, on its own, it proved diddly. ‘Tell me, does Tommy still have a room here? Ever stay over at all?’

  ‘No. More’s the pity. Why?’

  ‘No worries.’ Except a comb or a toothbrush lying round complete with DNA could’ve nailed the ID one way or the other. Bev stood and placed a business card on the table. ‘You’ve been really helpful, Mrs Gold. My numbers are on there just in case anything springs to mind. Can we take this with us?’ Brandishing the pic.

  ‘’Course you can, if you think it’ll do any good.’

  Doing good. Great idea. ‘Chad?’ Bev cocked her head towards the tea fixings. Quicker on the uptake this time, he lifted the tray. ‘I’ll take this through for you, Mrs Gold.’ While he disposed of the evidence, the old woman led Bev to the front door. ‘Seems like a nice lad.’

  She masked a smile. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

  They were nearly at the car when Bev heard Mrs Gold shout them back.

  ‘I’ve just thought, duck … there is one thing … Tommy has this birthmark. A port wine stain?’

  Bev nodded. Knew what colour they were. Often appeared on the face. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s down here. You can’t miss it.’ She indicated the left side of her body. ‘It’s really big. Looks just like a nasty bruise.’

  ‘What’s your thinking, sarge?’ Chad had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her. Bev was reluctantly thinking she’d have to let him drive again. It’d be quicker in the long run. She had better contacts at the morgue and needed to put in a call pretty damn fast.

  ‘I’m thinking if you jump another red’ – slinging him the key – ‘I’ll do you for careless driving.’

  ‘No worries. It’ll be like riding in a hearse.’

  ‘That’s what scares me, mate.’

  Maybe the fact she was on the phone to the pathologist and Powell most of the journey, but she barely noticed how Chad was doing. Making notes on the pad in her lap had been a tad challenging, owing to how he took the odd corner and swerved to dodge a jay-walking dog with a death wish. But hey-ho, by the time she surfaced properly they were pulling into the car park at the back of the nick.

  ‘Ta, mate,’ she said, grabbing her bag, getting out of the motor.

  ‘Actually sarge, thank you.’ He kept pace with her this time.

  ‘For?’ Taking him along, he’d picked up a lot, he said. Interview technique, putting people at their ease, leaving those all-important silences. She cut him a glance. Was he taking the piss?

  ‘Seriously, sarge. I owe you. Maybe a drink some time?’ – holding the door for her – ‘Not tea, though, eh?’

  ‘Quick learner, aren’t you, sunshine?’ Whoops. Brain then gob, Beverley. Or it’d be bollocks o’clock again.

  ‘About that, sarge …’

  She was in a mad dash to give the DI a fuller briefing, but a quick glance showed such a sheepish-looking Chad, she paused to hear him out. Head down, he told her he was dead sorry. That he’d already been getting a hard time from Highgate’s machos on account of the fact he was gay.

  ‘Gay?’ It was news to Bev.

  He met her gaze. ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No idea, mate. So what if you are? Who fricking cares?’

  ‘Aw, shit, sarge. I thought you were just jumping on the bully-wagon.’

  Bully-wagon? A new one on her. ‘You really think I’d have to join a load of wankpots to make you feel bad? Look, mate, I don’t give a toss whether you’re gay, straight, or both at the same time hanging from a chandelier with a Mars Bar up your …’ Maybe not go there. ‘The only thing bothers me is the way you do your job.’ Okay, and how you drive. ‘And believe me, Chad, if I had a problem with that, the whole bloody world would know. Now sod off. We’ve got work to do.’ She flashed him a smile then headed down the corridor to track down Powell.

  ‘That’s another thing I like about you, sarge,’ he called after her. ‘You might tell it like it is, but your bark’s worse than your bite.’

  Oh, yeah? His assertion wouldn’t be so cocky if he knew about the time she’d sunk her teeth into a killer’s face. ‘I’d not bet on that if I were you.’

  23

  ‘Hidden in plain sight then, Morriss?’ Powell ran two fingers and a thumb along his jaw line. Bev had found the DI in the squad room studying the murder board, the hot-off-the-press exhibit now being a copy of Gold’s holiday snap. She’d phoned the DI from the car after the Ivy Gold interview and had just brought him up to speed on the finer points. Not as convinced as him on the concealment issue, she tu
rned her mouth down. She’d been visualizing Tommy Gold’s corpse in the morgue, the bruises she’d fancifully likened to a damson and purple quilt.

  A port wine stain in among the patchwork for anyone to see.

  But only if they knew about the birthmark. Once Bev had raised the possibility with the path man, he’d checked it out and rung back within minutes to confirm. Doc King had described it as resembling a small maroon-coloured map of Ireland. Begorrah bingo. After four days, the inquiry had a name for its John Doe. But someone had yet to break the news to Ivy Gold that she’d lost her grandson for good.

  ‘You’re not convinced the bruising was deliberate, Morriss?’ Powell asked.

  ‘Not sure.’ She waggled a hand. ‘Way I see it, unless the killer knew about the birthmark and masked it in a bid to hedge his bets, I kinda think the bruising was collateral damage.’

  She watched The Blond press a finger against pursed lips. Could almost see him joining the dots. He nodded when he got the picture. ‘So the face was the main target?’ On board fully now he tapped a colour print that showed a close-up of the injuries. ‘With the sole aim of making our guy impossible to identify.’

  ‘Well, obviously not imposs—’

  ‘Split hairs, why don’t you?’ he snapped, flapping a hand. ‘Okay, then: if not impossible, bloody difficult.’

  ‘Can’t argue on that score.’ ‘Bloody’ more than covered it. ‘Plus I’m thinking for the act to be intentional,’ she paused, ‘the perp would need to have known the birthmark’s exact location. And to be privy to that …?’ She shrugged, giving him another blank to fill.

  ‘Either he had insider knowledge or was on pretty close terms with the vic.’

  ‘If not intimate.’

  ‘You saying they were gay?’

  ‘Come on, gaffer,’ – rolling her eyes – ‘how would I know?’ It couldn’t be ruled out, but a couple of DCs had just started pursuing the line. ‘I need a drink.’ Anything to get rid of the taste of Ivy’s tea.