Dead Old (19 page)

“Give the old girl my love,” Frankie had said. Oz sighed, no longer sure he could even give her his own. There was one way to find out. He tapped in a reply. He didn’t mind
sending messages; he certainly wouldn’t be sending flowers. Especially roses.

Tears left shiny trails down Maude Taylor’s cheeks, tiny ski slopes in loose-powder snow. Was she crying for Sophia or herself? Maude had never knowingly told a lie in
her long life. She’d held back harsh facts from time to time but the sin of omission didn’t seem so heinous. When Sergeant Morriss had questioned her about the photographs that morning,
Maude had told the truth. She’d never seen the pictures.

She was aware of the story, though, and she’d just read a narrative that filled in the finer points. Maude clutched Sophia’s journal to her chest, torn between secrets and lies,
loyalty and duty.

Mystery Man was having a night off. Bev checked intermittently all evening. She’d dithered about mentioning the incident at home, reasoning there was little sense
worrying them needlessly. In the event she had a quiet word with her mum on the landing before turning in.

“We always lock up, dear. Always double-check as well.” Emmy frowned as she laid a hand on Bev’s arm. “It’s you I worry about.”

They’d been through it a million times. Emmy had never understood why Bev had gone into the police service. She’d tried pointing her down the education path, rather liked the idea of
Bev following in her dad’s footsteps. Bev couldn’t imagine anything worse than lecturing bolshie kids on Shakespeare. She shook her head, smiled gently. “Mum, let’s not go
there again. I know how to look after myself.”

“Give it a rest, Em,” Sadie shouted. The old girl was probably still reading. So much for keeping their voices down.

Emmy sighed. Two against one was never an even contest.

Bev checked the street a final time from her bedroom window. A police car cruised past. She’d mentioned it to uniform, though she had a feeling the prowler wouldn’t be back. She
might have imagined the whole thing. Might have jumped to conclusions about a connection with the case. Not surprising, really. It was uppermost in her mind most of the time.

There was a much sexier prospect going round in there now. She read Oz’s message for the umpteenth time. It was more of an invitation, really: a night of wild passion in a place belonging
to his mate Zak. She gave a slow smile. It’d be ace; she couldn’t wait, was already wondering if she’d have time to nip into Agent Provocateur in her lunch break. She’d kept
Oz waiting an age before replying. Best put him out of his misery. She hit the keys: yeah OK.

16

The offer on Baldwin Street in Moseley had not been accepted. Bev hung up, mouth down. Back to square one. She ran her hands through her hair, pissed off at the lack of
progress on every front. At least there was this evening to look forward to: Oz’s mate’s place. But there was a stack of stuff to get through first. The phone rang as she was about to
lift the receiver.

“Bev?” She frowned, couldn’t place the voice for a second. “Hope you don’t mind a call at work.” Of course. Tom Marlow. She jotted his name on her desk pad,
added a few curly embellishments. “A meeting’s fallen through and I’m only round the corner. I wondered if we could meet for coffee?”

“That’d be great.” Her voice held a smile. “Can you hold on a tick, the other phone’s going.”

It was Maude Taylor. Bev told the old woman she’d be right over, then switched back to Marlow, still on the line. “Sorry about that, Tom. I’d love coffee but no can do.
I’ve got so much paperwork, it’s a fire risk in here.”

He laughed. “How about tonight? There’s a great film –”

“I’d really like to, Tom, but I’ve got something on.” An ivory silk camisole, if they had it in her size.

“Not to worry. Another time?”

“You bet.”

“Cool. Well done, by the way. The attacks on the old ladies? I see you’ve got someone in custody?”

The remand had attracted a fair bit of news coverage. It was still quite rare for defendants to refuse to utter a word in court. Political prisoners, maybe, but not a couple of shit-for-brains.
The magistrates had ordered yet more reports while the Shrek boys developed a taste for prison food.

“Way to go yet, Tom. Look, I really have to cut this short. Can I call you back?”

She reached for a file, managed to knock a tray full of paper clips all over the floor. Sod it. The road to hell was paved with good intentions. What about the way to Kings Heath? Twenty minutes
later she was at Maude Taylor’s place.

Oz tapped the door, popped his head round. He checked the office for Bev’s jacket or bag. He must’ve just missed her; the seat was still warm. She needed the
address for tonight. He had a pen and reached for the pad, then paused. So Coffee Man was still in touch. He jotted down the number and street-name of his friend Zak’s place in Selly Oak. Tom
Marlow was something else they were going to have to thrash out.

Bev hadn’t had the heart to play the heavy. Maude Taylor’s eyes, when they eventually made contact, spoke volumes. Bev read guilt there and, even as the old woman
handed it over, doubt that she was doing the right thing. The journal had been hidden within the hollowed-out pages of a medical textbook. It was now, figuratively speaking, burning a hole in
Bev’s bag.

She was so focused she barely noticed the media scrum outside Highgate, just about took in that Danny Shields was doing a turn. While the DI was looking to make the news, Bev had her eye on the
past. She’d leafed through a few pages of the journal at Maude’s, registered the potential importance of the words. Every entry was in the same neat hand, written in black ink, probably
with the same fountain pen. Maude had confirmed it was Sophia Carrington’s handwriting. And definitely not the script that appeared on the back of the photographs.

“What’s up, son? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Gert Roberts looked up from her latest romantic dalliance. There was a greasy thumbprint on
the cover and the kitchen stank of fish and chips. Davy wrinkled his nose. At least there was no washing up. Gert reckoned they tasted better out of the paper, regretted they didn’t come
wrapped in yesterday’s news any more.

He shoved the note in the pocket of his jeans. It had been delivered by hand. Just. The regular post had arrived hours ago. “Nothing. I’m right as rain, gran.”

Gert’s smile didn’t reach her green eyes. Call her an old witch but she knew something was wrong with the boy. “You never mention that mate of yours these days, Davy.
What’s his name?”

Perhaps they’d had a falling-out. It’d be a shame, that. They’d got on really well. It had been a worry to Gert how much time Davy used to spend hanging round at home with only
his old gran for company. He didn’t seem to have many friends till this other lad came on the scene. Davy’d really come out of his shell since then.

The boy glanced at his gran, eyes narrowed. “Jake. Why?”

“Jake what?”

Davy opened his mouth, hesitated. “Dunno. What’s it matter?”

Gert shrugged massive shoulders. “You ought to ask him round. Get a pizza in or something.” She saw the look on Davy’s face. “You needn’t worry about me. I’d
make myself scarce. I wouldn’t get in the way.”

Davy struggled to keep a calm voice. “He’s not around. He’s gone away for a few days.”

Gert spied a chip she’d missed, popped it into her mouth. “When he gets back, then. It’d be nice for you, Davy love.”

Nice as shit pie. “Sure thing, gran. I might just do that.” Davy fingered the note in his pocket. He didn’t need to take it out; he remembered every word.

Tonight. I’ll see you there. Reckon Gert needs to die...t?

17

No one knows yet. Dear God, let no one ever find out. I’ve prayed so hard these last few weeks. Prayed to a God I’m not sure I believe in for a child to die. A
child who’s yet to be born. I’m shaking and feel shame even as I write the words. My only excuse is that I won’t do anything to jeopardise the pregnancy. An unborn life is
precious but precarious. If the foetus isn’t viable, the pregnancy will abort spontaneously. What a coward I am, what weasel words: foetus, viable, abort. I won’t hide behind them, not
here.

I am having a baby and I pray to God that I’ll miscarry.

How could I have been so careless? How could I have been so stupid? If the truth comes out it will ruin me. It will kill my mother. I can barely live with myself. Dear God,
let this baby die.

Shame is a corrosive emotion. Secret shame the most corrosive of all. It’s been burning into me like acid. I had to talk to someone. Did Maude suspect before I told
her? I think she may have. I’ve caught her looking at me in a certain way. She’s never asked about the baby’s father. I could never tell her. It would destroy his marriage.
Adultery is a sin. I finally told Maude I was expecting because I couldn’t – I can’t – do this alone. I can’t carry off this pretence, this charade, without help.
Weasel words again. This isn’t pretence – it’s deceit. I’m living a lie away from home, amid strangers who know more about me than my own mother and father.

I cry every night. The tears aren’t for me: my isolation, my duplicity, my shame. They’re for the growing baby. I feel him – I’m sure it’s a
boy – kicking and moving in my womb. I cried before because I wanted him to die. I cry now because I can’t bear the thought of losing him.

They’ve located a respectable married couple. Sister Bernadette stared at me coldly as she stressed the words respectable and married. Or did I imagine it? I seem to
live in a dream world these days. Sometimes I even picture myself keeping the baby and bringing him up on my own. Impossible. Ludicrous. Maude’s right. I’m an unmarried woman. What sort
of a life would it be with a child?

What sort of a life will it be without?

It’s Patrick’s birthday. I baked a cake. He blows out the candles – all six. He smothers me with kisses and my cheeks are damp with little-boy love. I
smile as I reach to stroke his hair. The movement wakes me and I open my eyes. I cram my fist into my mouth to stifle a scream. Sister Angela will move me if I disturb the others again. I taste
blood as I bite down on my fingers and feel the tears cooling as they trickle down the back of my hand. This is the cruellest dream so far. There’s less pain in the ones where the
baby’s born dead. I rub my belly, feel the outline of a tiny heel. Dear God, let him live.

“What the hell are you doing? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Danny Shields was framed in the doorway of the rape suite. It was about the only part of Highgate where you could get a bit of peace. Bev sighed, gearing up for yet another bloody battle. It
looked as if the media turn had gone well; the DI was still flushed from the performance. Bet the cameras loved the power dressing and the big hair. Bev blinked, realised her eyes were damp and
turned her head from the DI’s glare.

“You’re not paid to sit round reading. Everyone’s working their balls off out there.”

Bev opened her mouth to explain but was sick of justifying her existence to a woman who seemed intent on making her life a misery. Anyway, she needed time to think, to work out the significance,
the relevance, if any, of Sophia Carrington’s secretive past to her violent death.

“Well?” Shields planted her hands on her hips, her feet apart. Christ, if they were in the Wild West, she’d be going for her gun.

Bev shrugged. “Whatever.” She closed the journal, slipped it back into her bag and got to her feet. There was more to read but she’d finish it later. She felt strangely
protective of the old woman’s secrets, certainly wasn’t inclined to share them with Shields. Sophia had never meant anyone to read her words, Bev was sure of that. There were no dates,
few names. Weeks, sometimes months, went by between entries. It seemed she wrote when she hurt the most. It was a painful thought. Shields was still in the doorway. Bev barely noticed.

“Where are you going?” The DI moved aside at the last moment.

“To have a word with the guv.”

“Check visiting hours, then. He’s in the General.”

18

“You probably misheard.” Byford grimaced as he took a sip of orange liquid masquerading as tea. Even in profile, Bev looked as if she needed something stronger.
She’d jumped three red lights and the MG was parked on a double yellow.

“Shields said you were in the General. Said I should check visiting hours.” Her lips were tight, the folded arms and tapping foot far more informative of her feelings.

Byford tried to keep a bemused smile from his face. Bev’s concern was touching, if a little intense. “In a manner of speaking, I am.”

Bev snorted. “You’re at, not in. Seems to me there’s a difference there.”

Any clarification from Shields had been cut short by Bev’s hasty departure. She and the guv were leaning against the wall outside the hospital’s main entrance. Bev had needed
nicotine, was on her third Silk Cut. She wasn’t the only addict. Lines of smokers were propping up the brickwork, puffing away like there was no tomorrow. Which for some of them was probably
true. Bev took a last drag and ground the butt into an industrial-sized ashtray. Her panic was giving way to ice-cold anger.

Byford poured the dregs of his tea on to a sick-looking shrub and cast round for a bin. “Maybe it was wishful thinking on her part.”

“Nah, guv. She was pulling my strings.” It had been spiteful and sly. And it had scared the shit out of Bev. She’d asked around but no one else, not even Vince, knew where
Byford was, let alone what was wrong. She’d discovered him visiting the sick. Gerry Flavell, the officer knifed during the standoff at the Edgbaston high rise, was only supposed to have been
kept in overnight but a wound had become infected. Byford was doing the decent thing. He always looked out for his men. And women.

A long sigh lifted the fringe from Bev’s troubled eyes. “Why is she doing this, guv?”

He didn’t need to ask who or what. You’d have to be blind not to read the body language, feel the hostility.