Dead Old (11 page)

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.

There wasn’t much else to laugh about. The only upside to the early brief was its brevity. It didn’t take long to hear there’d been no significant developments overnight and no
one wanted to dwell on the
Evening News.
Its early edition was flagging full ‘explosive’ results of its police poll later in the day.

Bev glanced at the guv: another sleepless night. He looked drawn. No doubt the media hanging and quartering would come later.

“We’ll give it forty-eight hours,” Byford said. “Then I’m thinking we’ll go for a reconstruction.”

She turned her mouth down, registered similar expressions on other faces. Most of the squad considered it premature.

“Problem with that, Sergeant?” The query came from Shields. The DI certainly wouldn’t be riding a bike in that get-up. The dogtooth two-piece looked like Chanel.

Bev brushed her fringe out of her eyes, wondering why Shields had singled her out. She wasn’t in the mood. “Nope.”

“I know it’s a bit early…” Byford’s hand stroked his jaw-line. Was he wavering? That wasn’t like the guv.

“I’m with you, sir,” Shields said. “We need a break in this case. I’m happy to take on the organisation.”

“Thanks, Danny. I’ll let you know.”

Shields returned his smile, made notes on her pad. Bev gave a sotto snort.
Bet it’s a sodding shopping list.

Davy Roberts took the KwikSave bags straight through to the kitchen. The air was stale and once-yellow walls were slick with grease, the residue of countless fry-ups in second-hand fat. He
bunged the shopping on the table and shook his fingers to restore circulation restricted by a ton of tinned veg and canned mince. As usual, Gert was hunched over a Mills and Boon. She dog-eared a
page before laying it aside.

“You’re a good lad, Davy. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Neither did he and it worried him to death. How would the old girl manage on her own? The walking frame wasn’t much cop; even getting out of a chair was a struggle these days. Less she
went out, worse it got. Said she was agoraphobic. Sounded better if it had a name. But Davy reckoned names were the problem; she got a load of lip every time she set a foot out the door. Kids were
dead cruel. Mind, Gert was probably the fattest woman they’d seen in the flesh.

“What you got in there?” Davy followed her glance, moved the Boots bag out of reach.

“It’s mine, gran.” Her face fell. “It’s a surprise. I’ll show you later.”

Most people only saw as far as the mounds of mottled flab but Davy reckoned his gran had beautiful eyes, pale green with tiny darker flecks. He smiled back. “Cuppa tea? I got the
doughnuts.”

“Smashing.”

He was filling the kettle when Gert asked if he’d remembered the newspaper.

The water went everywhere. The pictures had been splashed across the front page. They weren’t brilliant, not like proper photographs, but they still put the wind up Davy. He dabbed
ineffectually at his sodden sweatshirt with a tea towel. “Sorry, gran. It was too early. They hadn’t come in.”

She sighed. The paper was a ritual, like
EastEnders
and
Corrie.
A life prescribed by tabloids and telly; and a daily injection of pap fiction.

“Don’t worry.” He was half out of his top, voice muffled. “I’ll pick one up later. You’ve not forgot I’m out tonight, have you?” He smiled but she
wasn’t looking at his face.

“Whatever’s that?” She was pointing to his arm, squinting, eyes sunk in the dough of her face. The bruise was livid, shades from plum to purple. “It’s not one of
them tattoos, is it, Davy?”

He picked a lie. “Nah. It’s a bruise, gran. I walked into a lamp-post.”

“Are them Ryan kids at it again?” The Ryan twins had got identical ASBOs banning them from Kings Heath High Street. They lived round the corner in Princes Rise and had been in
Davy’s year at school. They’d hadn’t laid a fingernail on him since Jake introduced Stanley. The knife had made a permanent impression on the boys.

Gert tutted, shook her head, jowls flapping. “I can’t abide bullies. Nasty pieces of work. Should be locked up, if you ask me. You’d tell me, son, wouldn’t you? I’d
sort the little sods out.”

Davy handed her a family bag of doughnuts. He nodded, said nothing.

DI Shields held the phone at arm’s length. “It’s for you, Sergeant.” The sneer was audible. “Your mother.”

Bev’s hand was on the door. Thank God she had her back to the incident room. She knew her face would be as red as the DI’s lippie. She muttered a thanks, and huddled into the
receiver. “What is it? I’m on my way out.”

The estate agents had called: a two-bedroom terrace, just on the market, completely refurbished, an absolute snip. Bev listened, tried to keep the impatience out of her voice, then wound up the
conversation. Shields was doing the same with her watch.

“What’s Highgate’s policy?” The DI was perched on the edge of a desk, swinging a leg that clearly knew its way round a workout.

“Sorry?” Bev said.

“Personal calls. Is there a policy here? We discouraged them at Little Park Street.”

Bev bit her lip. “I’m not –”

“Good.”

The DI was already on her way out. A ladder ran the length of her tights. It pleased Bev no end, but the waste bin still took the brunt of her Doc Marten. This thing with Shields was getting to
her. The aggro was pretty much constant. She’d never experienced anything like it, didn’t know how to handle it.

Maybe Frankie’d have a few thoughts. Bev and Francesca Perlagio went back to day one at Springfield Primary in Stirchley They were closer than sisters. Frankie cut to the chase better than
a scythe and never minced her words. Bev decided to give her a bell. On her own time, of course.

“Shouldn’t you be in Kings Heath?” DI Shields had returned and was now framed in the doorway.

Bev grabbed her bag, car keys in hand. “On my way.”

“Good. Look in here, will you?” A name and address was scribbled on a scrap of paper: Maude Taylor, Park View, Princes Rise. “It was a bad line and the old dear sounded gaga to
me. Still. As you’re passing –”

Bev recognised the address. It was an outstanding on the house-to-house. There was one other in the same street. She might kill two birds… First she had an old bird to
calm down.

“I’m not an idiot, Sergeant Morriss.”

“Of course not, Mrs Taylor.” Bev was politeness personified. She had to be. According to the old woman, DI Shields had bad-mouthed her before slamming the phone down.

“She was very rude. I’m not accustomed to being spoken to like that.” Maude Taylor was deeply distressed and it couldn’t all be down to Shields’s way with
words.

“I apologise for any misunderstanding. Can we talk inside?”

The woman looked ill. She was trembling and none too steady on her feet. Bev offered a willing arm and what she hoped was a winning smile. There was a second’s hesitation, then Maude
allowed herself to be gently escorted back into the house.

She was a big woman, a head taller than Bev and solid, with big hair that resembled an off-white meringue. The beige ensemble was a bit old-lady-bland but not the purple pashmina effortlessly
draped across Maude’s ample bosom. Her heavy wooden stick was the only indication of physical infirmity. Mentally she was well there but her emotions were all over the shop.

Bev made for the scent of basil and lemons. A quick glance registered a seriously cool kitchen: all moody blues and terracotta bowls. She loved the old wicker baskets someone had hung from the
ceiling. She helped Maude settle in a wheel-back chair, spotted tears gliding down the old woman’s face. New Men might cry these days but not old women. Not in front of an audience. Bev
bustled round, keeping a solicitous eye on Maude, while rustling up tea and making small talk, anything to give the old lady a few minutes’ grace. Maude’s dignity was in place at about
the same time as the Earl Grey and Rich Tea. She blew her nose, then tucked the handkerchief into the sleeve of a hand-knitted cardigan.

“Thank you, Sergeant. You can stop now.”

Bev widened her eyes; so much for subtle diplomacy. “Sorry, I –”

Maude flapped a hand. “I know. You were trying to be kind. And I thank you for that. Now why don’t you sit down so we can talk?”

Bev smiled. She could see Maude in a Merchant Ivory production, cast as great-aunt to someone like Helena Bonham Carter. “You don’t miss much, do you, Mrs Taylor?” The remark
wasn’t calculated but it scored points.

Maude inclined her head and took a genteel sip of tea.

“Anyway, I’m really glad you called,” Bev said. “We’ve tried the house a couple of times in connection with one of our inquiries. I guess you’ve been
away?”

Maude looked puzzled, then shook her head, impatient. “No, no, dear. This isn’t my house. It’s my friend’s, Sophia Carrington’s. That’s why I rang the police.
Sophia is missing. I’m afraid something awful’s happened to her.”

Bev frowned, thoughts racing. “Start from the beginning, Mrs Taylor.”

Maude explained about the twice-daily phone calls. “I’ve heard nothing from her, you see. It’s so unlike Sophia. I’d have come sooner. But the young man was so
reassuring.”

This did not sound good. “Young man?”

“He said he was a neighbour. He told me she’d been called away. He was so convincing. But I’ve knocked on every door in the street. No one’s even heard of a Simon living
round here.”

“How old’s your friend, Mrs Taylor?”

“Why, my age. Seventy-six.”

Bev’s heart was heading for her Doc Martens. “Can you describe her for me?”

It had reached the soles by the time Maude finished. The mention of an allotment and a blue beret clinched it. Bev was ninety-nine point nine per cent sure that the murder victim was Sophia
Carrington, not Veronica Amery. It was a police cock-up. Big time.