Dead Old (18 page)

She tried lying on her back, arms behind her head. Not many words from Oz, either. The distance between them appeared to be growing. She wanted him badly, wasn’t sure nowadays that the
feeling was mutual. He’d barely reacted when she told him about the house. And her lie about being out with Frankie hadn’t helped, though Oz hadn’t said anything.

She threw off the duvet, angry with herself as much as anyone. Too much wine after dinner; she needed water. She padded down to the kitchen, grabbed her bag on the way back. She paused briefly,
smiling at the sounds coming from her mum and her gran’s rooms: stereo snores. The envelope Maude Taylor had given her was still there, she’d forgotten about that. She took it out along
with the tablets.

She spread the photographs around her. Sophia had been a beautiful woman. Not in-your-face, nothing blowsy about her and if she wore make-up it was subtle. The attraction was in the bone
structure, the shape of her eyes, the mouth with slightly turned-up lips as if on the verge of a smile.

Bev sighed. “Talk to me, lady.”

She swallowed a couple of paracetamol and drained the glass. 1.50. She gathered the pictures and turned out the light. A noise woke her just as she was drifting off. She knew what it was,
couldn’t put her finger on it. Of course. The curtains were billowing, flapping in the draught.

As she closed the window, she saw him. A figure all in black in the bus shelter over the road. She moved swiftly to the side, peeping through the gap between the window frame and the curtain.
Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t waiting for a bus; the last service left before midnight.

Why was a man standing in the dead of night, staring at her house?

Her coat was hanging on the banister. She slipped a torch into a pocket and gently drew back the bolts on the door. The dark form had given her a shock but she’d have the element of
surprise. That was the theory. She threw open the door and sprinted out. Not a soul in sight. She came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road. He could have gone either way. She scanned both
directions. Nothing. Could she have been mistaken? Had she seen a shadow? Was it a trick of the streetlight?

She walked slowly to the spot where she’d seen him, peering at the pavement. He’d been there for some time. There were half a dozen butts, and shadows don’t smoke.

15

The uniform had been posted outside Princes Rise all night. There were coffee-coloured smudges under his tired eyes. He straightened as Bev approached, but didn’t quite
quell a yawn. She delved into her bag and whipped out an emergency Mars bar.

The young constable’s eyes lit up. “Wicked. Ta, Sarge.”

“All quiet?” She accepted a bite-size chunk. He already had a mouthful but she got the picture. Her knock on the door echoed in the early-morning street. A blackbird halted its solo
but only for a second or so. Bev hoped Maude wasn’t still in bed. If her cop’s instinct was right, her late-night prowler was the same man who’d paid Maude an uninvited visit. He
couldn’t get to Maude so he was having a pop at Bev. As to why, she could only hazard a guess.

Maude was in her nightdress, a floor-length white cotton affair buttoned to the neck, the normally regal hair rumpled, a puffy ochre cheek bearing pillow creases.

“I need to take a look round, Mrs Taylor.” Bev smiled. “Sorry – Maude.”

“It’s awfully early, Sergeant. What are you hoping to find?”

Whatever he’d been after.
Bev shrugged. “Not sure yet.”

She searched for two hours. Drew a blank. Everywhere. No false panels, hidden drawers, loose floorboards. She’d worked up a sweat and gathered a stack of dust but as to answers: diddly.
Not surprising, really; the place had already been combed by SOCOs.

When she popped her head round the sitting room door, she found the full-dress version of Maude sorting boxes and crates, parcelling up what was left of Sophia’s life; neat packages ready
for sale or disposal.

“Can I get a drink of water before I go?” Bev asked.

“Help yourself, dear.” Maude was distracted, lost in memories.

Bev ran the tap for an age, held the glass to her forehead to cool down. She glanced round; the kitchen was definitely a room to spend time in. The rest of the house was clinical by comparison.
And she did like the hanging wicker baskets –

She narrowed her eyes, then placed the glass in the sink and dragged a stool over, careful not to slip in stockinged feet. The brittle stalks and papery petals were covered in a delicate lattice
of cobwebs; grey strands clung to the sweat on her hands as she carefully parted them. Nothing had been touched for months, presumably since Sophia had created this arrangement of dead flowers.

An arrangement designed to ensure that it concealed what lay beneath.

Byford was pacing, head down, hands in pockets. There’d been nothing from the hospital. Again. It wasn’t the only communication failure. “We’ve got two
youths in the cells,” he said. “And we’d get more joy out of the brickwork.”

Fraser and Lewis hadn’t even confirmed their own names. A duty solicitor had been assigned but she was getting the same treatment.

“Any bright ideas?” He glanced round. The squad was definitely subdued, affected maybe by the frustration he couldn’t hide. It wasn’t just arsy adolescents and failures
at the General. He’d taken the significance of Angela Collins’s phone call badly.

It didn’t help that it was purely by chance they had anyone in custody. Uniform weren’t actually crowing but the fact was, it was their result. Not that it was all over. A smart
brief could probably talk the youths out of serious charges. Being in possession of the stolen jewellery wouldn’t automatically convince a jury they’d nicked it, and there wasn’t
a shred of evidence to suggest they’d been involved in the attacks.

“Sergeant Morriss reckons we’ve got the monkeys, not the organ grinder,” Oz offered.

Byford raised an eyebrow. The phrase was certainly more Morriss than Khan. He glanced at his watch; she was taking her time at Maude Taylor’s place. He reckoned she was probably right.
He’d read the social reports. The youths barely had a grey cell between them. You didn’t need to be clever to beat up old women; you did need a modicum of nous not to get caught.
“So where’s the organ grinder now?” he asked.

“Not at Winston Heights, that’s for sure.” Oz had been out with crime scenes to the empty tower block in Edgbaston. Serious squatting had been going on for months. One room on
the ground floor was ankle-deep: fast-food cartons, sweet papers, lager cans, enough porn mags to fill several top shelves. Only two sleeping bags, though.

“More to the point, what’s he, or they, going to do next?” Oz was thinking out loud.

“Go on,” Byford said.

“Joan Goddard and Ena Bolton thought there were three if not four gang members. So in theory there could still be two out there. We need to know why they’re doing it. Or we’ll
not stop them.”

“The motive’s obvious, surely?” Shields said. The youths in custody were users; they’d flog body parts for a fix.

“If they need money, why hang on to the rings?” asked Oz. “Why not sell them straight away?”

“Or at least get rid of them.” Byford narrowed his eyes.

“Unless –” Oz hesitated, not completely at ease with either spotlight or theory. “Maybe it’s not about the cash. Or at least not any more.” He glanced at the
murder board. “Look at the old ladies, guv. The violence is worse every time.”

“A taste for blood? You think it’s that now?” Byford mulled the notion over, gave a shrug. “It happens.”

It didn’t go far enough. Oz took another tentative step. “I keep thinking about Sophia Carrington being a doctor –”

“Don’t go there.” Shields didn’t give him a chance. “I made the checks myself. She didn’t bury any mistakes.”

“Carry on, officer.” Byford was interested. Oz Khan was rarely so vocal. Bev usually had more than enough to say for both of them. The guv registered the fact, filed it for future
consideration.

“Maybe it’s not Sophia specifically. Maybe it’s a general medical thing. I’m wondering if any of the other victims worked in the profession: a nurse, maybe, or a cleaner,
a hospital secretary. Carrington trained here in Birmingham. Is it possible there’s a link between the victims as well as the villains?”

Byford turned his mouth down. It was a hell of a conjecture. But what else had they got? “Best find out, hadn’t you, Oz?”

The photographs had no name on them – only a date on the back of each, February 20th in succeeding years, beginning with 1955. There were sixteen in all, the last from
1971. You didn’t have to be an expert. It was the same child, a girl, different ages: newborn, gap-toothed toddler, gangly teenager.

“And Maude Taylor says she’s never seen them before?” They were closeted in the guv’s office. Bev sat across the desk from Byford. DI Shields leaned against the
windowsill, hands wrapped round a mug.

“Adamant,” Bev said.

“I find that hard to believe,” Shields sneered. “To hear Taylor talk, they were Siamese twins, joined at the hip. I wouldn’t have thought they had any secrets between
them.”

Shields’s snide remarks were getting to Bev. Was the DI pissed off because she hadn’t come up with the goods? OK, they might not lead anywhere and they certainly raised more
questions than answers, but at least it was a new line. Frankie’s ‘be nice’ advice was a bugger.

“We’re assuming the date’s the girl’s birth date?” Byford asked.

Bev held her hands out. “The checks are going in now.”

“I don’t see the relevance,” Shields said. “Even if the old woman had a child. So what?”

“Not if,” Bev said. “She did. It’s in the PM report.” Sophia Carrington had fitted the ageing spinster profile so well, no one had bothered to check. Bev had
confirmed it with Harry Gough over the phone on her way in. “As for its relevance, who knows? It needs following up.”

Shields shrugged. The casual dismissal infuriated Bev. “You got anything better?”

Byford tightened his jaw. He gathered a few papers and slipped a pen in his top pocket. “If you need a hand, use Darren New. DC Khan’s got something on.”

“Oh?” She wanted to hear more but the guv was about ready to break it up. She paused at the door. “Know what gets me, guv?” She fanned out the photographs. “If
these do mark birthdays, a photo for each year of her life –” she paused – “how come they stop at sixteen?”

Oz glanced over as Bev entered the incident room. He gave her a half-smile as she perched on the edge of his desk while he finished the call, the last of a series. The
turned-down mouth was pretty telling, but he filled her in anyway. Joan Goddard hadn’t been in hospital as a patient, let alone a worker. Ena had been an office worker, hated hospitals,
prided herself on never taking a sickie in her life. Angela Collins confirmed that her mother had never worked outside the house, not even voluntary stuff. And they knew of each other only as
fellow victims via the media.

“So another one bites the dust?” Bev commiserated.

Oz sighed and threw his notes into the bin.

“It was good thinking, Oz. Worth following up.” It was meant to buck him up.

He rose, pulled on his jacket. “Don’t patronise me, Sarge.”

Touch-ee. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She’d been there herself, loads of times. A great idea and it panned out to squat. “I’m getting nowhere fast
too.”

Sophia had given birth but there was no record anywhere, nothing on paper, no birth, no death. So what happened to Sophia’s baby? It was possible the child was stillborn and the girl in
the photographs was unrelated, a friend’s perhaps, even a patient’s. They still had little idea who she was or why the photographs ended in 1971.

Oz ran a finger along his chin. “There must be something. They were hot on records even back then.”

“I’m sure the birth was registered. Didn’t have to be in the right name, though.”

They exchanged glances. No exactly a piece of piss. Oz was calling it a day. She watched as he logged off.

“Fancy a drink?” She wanted to spend time with him as much as share a few thoughts.

He shook his head. “Nah. I’ve got something on.”

She so wanted to call him back, was sure she could talk him round. She didn’t. In case he said no.

Walking always helped Oz think. He was pounding the streets of the city centre. He’d have preferred a beach or the Malverns, even a park, but you can’t have
everything. It was dry and dark, still early enough not to have to sidestep the late-night delights of drunken yobs and pools of vomit. The young people milling round the Bullring were in good
spirits, laughing and joking. Bars and bistros were filling up, snatches of music and scents of a dozen cuisines drifted into the cool air. In a way the buzz and bright lights helped. It was easier
to blank out than the sometimes cloying attention of his parents and sisters at home.

He dug his hands in his pockets, crossed into Corporation Street. He wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. Actually, it was Bev he wasn’t sure how to handle. Clearly he
didn’t know her as well as he thought. The aggro with the new DI was bad enough. Bev had a beehive in her bonnet about Shields. But it wasn’t that particularly. She’d probably
work it through. It was the other business. The lying. “Frankie was on top form,” she’d said. He could have told her that.

When he’d bumped into Frankie the same night, Frankie had asked him to give Bev her love. He hadn’t. He hadn’t even mentioned it. He was waiting for Bev to tell him what was
going on. Why she’d lied. Who she’d been with. Why she was messing him around. He was accustomed to taking shit from the Highgate hard men, but not Bev. She’d held his hand in
more ways than one this past year.

Maybe it was time to let go. The guv had called him in earlier for a chat. Oz still reckoned it was early to be talking sergeant exams and maybe a transfer, but there was no harm giving it some
thought.

His mobile beeped a message. Miss you Bev x. His face softened as he pictured her tapping it out, finger hovering over the send button, probably chewing her bottom lip. It was the nearest
she’d come to admitting a need. But need for what? She’d never let him get close, maybe never let anyone. He’d picked up on it right from the start: the softer her emotions, the
sharper her tongue. And forget serious relationships. She didn’t do deep. Too risky. Too much potential for pain down there. You didn’t need a psychology degree to work out why.
She’d only talked to him once about her father, but it was enough. Losing someone was never going to hurt that much again.