Dead Old (13 page)

“It’ll take a bit of getting used to.”

She was right there. Her blue-eyed blond-haired baby-faced grandson now looked like something out of the Addams family. He should have bought proper scissors while he was at it.

“It’ll grow on you, gran.” He winked. “And on me.” It was easy to make her laugh.

Jake hadn’t even cracked a smile. Davy’d slipped out first thing, hooked up at the Subway sandwich bar in Kings Heath High Street for what you might call a working breakfast. Jake
hadn’t clocked him at first, walked straight past the table. Had a face like a cat’s bum when he cottoned on. Told Davy it was an effing waste of time, the police weren’t even
close. Easy to say.

“You OK, Davy?” Gert asked.

Davy smiled; no sense upsetting the old girl. “Sure am. Just thinking ’bout making a bacon sarnie.”

That brightened her up. He strolled to the fridge, pulled out lard and a pack of smoked streaky. He wished that was all he had on his mind. Jake had dumped a load of grief on him. He chewed his
lip absently as he slung half a dozen rashers into the pan. It didn’t seem fair. He’d done exactly what Jake wanted, delivered the goods this morning. The cop didn’t even know
he’d been tailing her. It was supposed to have been his last job, ‘for old times’ sake’.

Davy shoved his hands in his pockets, ambled to the window and gazed through the grime. His mind’s eye wasn’t on the garden. It was re-running the action with Jake. He couldn’t
believe what he’d got to do now. Jake had moved the goalposts to another pitch.

Gert’s bulk was reflected in the glass. Given what Jake threatened to do to her, Davy had no option. He glanced round, shot back to the cooker; caught the bacon in the nick of time.

“I can see I’m wasting your time. I’ll get out of your hair.” The reporter slid her notebook into a black leather case.

Bev had recognised the face immediately. She was the looker from the news conference and she was as welcome as a cold sore. DI Shields was en route to Maude Taylor’s and Bev was stuck with
Lois Lane. It wasn’t the woman’s fault: she was engaging and impeccably polite. She wanted to pull together a series of articles on crime and the elderly, was looking to develop it into
a book. Could an officer involved in the inquiry help?

“I’m sorry,” Bev said. “We’re really up against it at the mo.” They were still in reception, not that Big Vince was complaining; Lois was easy on the eye. He
was on the phone but still in full ogle mode.

“That’s OK,” the reporter said. “I understand. I know how busy you must be.”

Up close she was even more stunning: blue-black hair halfway down her back, and eyes so green Bev almost asked if she wore lenses. She thought about the request again; it was fair enough.
“Maybe later,” Bev offered. “When the dust’s settled?” Dummy. What journo wants a story covered in dead skin?

“That’s a thought. Thanks, Sergeant Morriss.” Name check. Nice touch. Bev had been so pre-occupied with the Shields thing she hadn’t even registered the reporter’s
name. She asked for a business card. It was better than admitting a memory lapse. Italic script against expensive ivory: Grace Kane, journalist and author. There were a couple of numbers as
well.

“I didn’t think you’d speak to me at all. Not after that news conference.” Grace was looking at the floor, her face obscured by glossy hair.

“How d’you mean?”

“I felt ashamed to call myself a journalist. The way that little man in the brown suit tore into your boss was appalling.”

Bev couldn’t agree more. She glanced round at the desk. Darren New was handing Vince a mug. He mouthed something but she didn’t catch it.

“I read the article. It was so over the top.” Grace shook her head. “How does he live with himself?”

Bev cocked an eyebrow. She was a journo, wasn’t she? It was a bit pot and kettle.

Grace smiled, pushed hair behind an ear. “I can see what you’re thinking. I don’t blame you.”

Bev narrowed her eyes: am I a cynical old tart or is this for real?

“Can I tell you something?” Grace asked. “This isn’t just another job to me. I’m kind of personally involved.” She hesitated, studied Bev’s face before
continuing. “A few years back, my grandmother was attacked. We were asleep when a man broke in. He beat her, raped her then used a pillow to smother her. It might have been better if
she’d died.”

What could Bev say? Her face showed her feelings.

“No one could ever tell me why. I guess I’m still trying to find out.” She cleared her throat; the voice became brisker, more business-like. “These days I specialise in
writing about the elderly. I’ve had pieces in
The Guardian, The Independent,
most of the quality supplements. I could let you have some of my stuff if you like.”

“Call for you, Bev.” She glanced round. Vince.

“I’d better let you go.” Grace smiled. “Can I just say I’m not into sound bites? If we do get to talk, it’ll be a series of taped interviews. I’d really
like to speak to your boss as well. He struck me as a decent man. I’ll leave it with you.” She reached out a hand. “Thanks for your time.”

Bev took the phone from Vince, rolled her eyes at his nice-girls-places-like-this remark. He sure wasn’t referring to her. “Hello?” The line was dead. “Who was it,
Vince?”

“Some kid. Wouldn’t give a name.”

She turned her mouth down. Didn’t know many kids. Mind, Vince reckoned anyone under thirty was a pimply youth.

“Talking of names,” Daz said. “Who was the chick you were talking to?”

Chick? Daz could be a right airhead. He still dined out on the time he was in the States and some woman mistook him for Tom Cruise.

“For your information, she’s called Grace.”

“Amazing.”

Another eye-roll.

“Put a word in for us, Sarge.”

“Scrotum?”

“Jealous?”

“Not my type.”

“Come on, you pair,” Vince said. “Some of us have got work to do.”

Bev and Daz walked out, still sparring. Vince called her back, phone in outstretched arm. “It’s about time you got a secretary.”

She blew him a kiss as she took the receiver.

“Bev? It’s Carol.” DC Mansfield, second violinist. “Maude Taylor won’t play.”

The Morriss fist was in the air. “Oh?”

“DI Shields is hopping.”

“Old lady give her a kicking, did she?”

“Kick her? She won’t even talk to her. Shields wants you here. Like now.”

The call came as a hell of a shock. They had a cancellation – could he get in? One minute Byford was at home picking at a bowl of bran flakes, the next he was being
prepped for tests at the General. In a way it was a relief. It was the not knowing that was hardest to bear. Given the waiting lists, he’d seriously considered private treatment. Depending on
what they discovered, he still might.

“It’s a routine procedure. Nothing to worry about. You should be OK to leave this afternoon.”

Byford couldn’t speak; his mouth was too dry. The consultant’s smile grated. And how seriously could anyone take a man with red braces and Simpsons socks? But he knew his irritation
stemmed from fear. No, more than fear; he felt isolated. He’d confided in no one; had no one he wanted to confide in. The cover story for work was so lame it had crutches. He hoped it
wasn’t tempting fate to conjure up a family emergency.

He half-listened as the consultant ran through what was involved. He winced at words like
tube
and
camera.
Truth was, he almost didn’t want to know. How did Bev put it when
she’d heard enough on a subject?
Too much information, mate.
Now he knew what she meant. What mattered was that once it was over he’d have a name for whatever it was that was
scaring him half to death.

The consultant perched a buttock on the edge of the bed. “Thing to bear in mind, Mr Byford, is that the weight loss, the cramps, the fatigue – they can be due to a number of
conditions. I’m aware of your family history but it doesn’t have to mean cancer.”

Byford knew that. He’d been on any number of medical websites.

“The beauty of this technique is that if everything looks good, we’ll be able to tell you straight away.”

Byford nodded. “And if it doesn’t?”

10

It did not look good. Shields was in full seethe-mode, leaning against the side of an unmarked police car parked outside Maude Taylor’s place in Princes Rise. The
DI’s arms were clamped tightly round her body, legs crossed at the ankle. The old woman was standing in the front window looking defiant. Not surprisingly, Carol Mansfield was keeping her
head down in the car. Bev took it all in with a swift glance as she parked a few doors down.

“I’d stop that if I were you, Sarge,” Oz cautioned.

“Oh?”

“The humming,” he said. “
Who’s Sorry Now.
Not subtle.”

She sniffed. “True, though. Look at the face on her.” She noticed the briefest tightening of his lips. It wasn’t the first time he’d failed to hide his impatience.

Shields made no attempt. Bev was locking the car when the DI materialised an inch from her face. “What did you say to the old woman?”

Bev felt her colour rise, struggled to keep her hands down. “How –”

“Did you instruct her not to talk to anyone?”

Bev hesitated. She’d certainly asked Maude not to talk to the press. Could the old woman have mistaken the request?

Shields took the pause as an admission of guilt. “You told her you’d be back to continue the interview today?”

Bev nodded. There’d been no reason not to.

“For a woman with a reputation for having a mouth on her, you’re not saying a lot.”

“Know why?” Bev pocketed the keys and pointed Oz towards the house. “There’s not a single word I can say I won’t regret.”

For a second she thought the DI was about to grab her arm. It was Shields’s words that stopped her.

“I don’t approve of my officers cherry-picking witnesses.”

Cherry-picking? Bev turned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Maude Taylor’s an important witness. You got at her. She won’t talk to anyone else.”

Bev narrowed her eyes. “Bullshit. It’s you she won’t talk to. You can’t badmouth someone and then expect them to play ball.”

Shields hesitated but not for long. “Don’t foul this up, Morriss. If anything goes wrong, it’ll be down to you.” Bev shifted under the weight of the DI’s contempt.
“It’s true what they say, isn’t it?” The question was rhetorical. “You’ll never be a team player. Though no one actually puts it quite like that.”

There was an old bag in the house. Jake wasn’t expecting that. He checked the address again. It was definitely the cop’s place. Davy had seen her go in, even waited
till she went upstairs, pulled the curtains. The old woman was looking through the nets at the front. She’d clocked him. The bus shelter was a gift; Jake made out he was reading the
timetable. Nosy cow’d think twice before phoning Neighbourhood Watch or the cops. He grinned. That’d be a laugh, considering.

Next time he looked, the piss-dribbler was out of sight. Jake adjusted his shades, glad he’d worn them even though it looked as if it was going to piss down. Davy’d done good to come
up with the address. Good and stupid. Following the cop home was one thing – slashing the tyre on her bike something else. It was a hell of a risk. Still. It wasn’t Jake’s neck on
the block. He took a last drag on his spliff. Best not push his luck. He’d take a look round the back, then hit the road. The cop’s granny was a real bonus. All he had to do now was
work out when.

“It was the Sunday, Sergeant. Sophia should have phoned in the evening. I think I knew immediately something was wrong.” There was something different about Maude
Taylor. Bev was still trying to put her finger on it. She looked a bit knackered, maybe, but it wasn’t just that. “It had never happened before, you see. Never. We spoke twice a day,
every day.”

“How did she seem the last time you spoke?” Bev asked. “That’d be the Sunday morning? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Maude shook her head vigorously; the regal meringue was unmoved. “Absolutely not. We were looking forward to spending time together, planning where’d we go, what we’d do
–”

Bev paused; this was too much for an old woman. “I’m sorry, Mrs Taylor. Would you like a break?”

“No.” She rapped the floor with her stick. “The man who killed her is out there. Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to see him brought to justice.”

Bingo! That was it. Maude wasn’t a frail old dear anymore. She was all girded loins and stiffened sinews. Or maybe yesterday had been a one-off. Maybe this was the real Maude Taylor.
She’d certainly sent Shields packing. The DI was probably still picking fleas from her ear.

“This neighbour – the man who called himself Simon –” Bev began.

“Balderdash. I see that now. I should have trusted my instinct. If I’d alerted the police immediately, maybe –”

Bev pressed the old woman’s hand. It was stone cold. “It wouldn’t have made any difference, Mrs Taylor. Sophia was already dead by then.”

They still wanted to talk to the mysterious Simon, though. Oz was out there knocking on doors, retracing Maude’s steps. Tracking down a young man with a Birmingham accent. In Birmingham.
Easy-peasy.

“Did you notice anything odd when you arrived?” Bev asked.

“I’ve thought about that a lot, Sergeant. I checked everywhere. My greatest fear was that Sophia would be lying dead in the house.”

Bev nodded. She’d seen the stats: twelve thousand oldies died alone at home every year in the UK. Sad or what?

“My relief was short-lived,” Maude continued. “I couldn’t imagine where she’d go without this.” Maude reached for an expensive-looking brown leather bag at
her feet.

That was a turn-up. Bev eyes widened.

“I looked through it,” Maude said. “I thought her address book might be in there. I’d have called every number if need be.”

There wasn’t much: a purse, a comb with a strand of white hair, a powder compact. Bev looked up. “The book’s missing?”

“I can’t say for sure. She used to keep a little black one by the side of the phone but it was very old: pages coming out, the cover was torn and rather tatty.”