Dead Old (2 page)

As the distance from the woman narrowed, Marty’s eyes widened to take in the bigger picture. In painting terms, it was a still life. There was more movement in the flea-ridden mattress
than in the body. Marty stopped and stared, hoped desperately it was an alcohol-induced hallucination or that the message from his eyes had somehow been scrambled on the way to his brain. Either
option was preferable to this. He hadn’t imagined the flowers but couldn’t believe where they were. He put a hand over his mouth. The human body as vase was a challenging concept for
any art lover, let alone a man who couldn’t tell a Picasso from a Pollock.

As for the liberal splashes of crimson, even Marty could see they hadn’t been applied with a brush.

The sight and smells tipped the little man’s already shaky equilibrium. His fist proved ineffectual in stemming a rising nausea, and he made a mental note to chuck his trainers in the
Hotpoint. First, revolting though the thought was, he’d have to take a closer look. Clearly the sooner he reported this the better, but he needed a few facts before making the call. Marty
checked there was enough credit on his mobile. It was a pay-as-you-go. Not that he had.

Johnny Depp was on the line again. She’d told him a million times not to phone her at the nick.

“Bev! Shall I get him to call back, or what?”

Reluctantly an eye opened. It wasn’t Johnny Depp; it wasn’t even Johnny Vaughan. Detective Sergeant Beverley Morriss wasn’t on the job. Fully awake now, if not entirely alert,
she clocked the time: half-past-late. She shot up and immediately regretted it. “No,” she yelled; regretted that as well. “Tell him to hang on a minute, mum. I’m on my
way.”

Bev clutched her head in both hands and tried focusing on a part of her anatomy that didn’t throb. The acute pain as she stubbed a toe on the foot of the bed was almost a relief compared
with the dull malady afflicting every other cell.

She grabbed a rainbow-striped dressing gown from a hook on the door and wrestled with the belt before deciding déshabillé would do. Why, oh why, had she had that last drink or
four? She put a hand to her forehead. The girls’ night out had been the latest in a series of sorrow-drowning sessions; with hindsight, it could have sunk a flotilla. It was a month since
she’d heard, but even now phrases from the appointment board’s letter still made her wince.
On this occasion… not successful…

Not successful? As in loser? She’d wanted the Acting Detective Inspector post so badly she could taste it. The failure probably explained the sour taste in her mouth. That and a vestige of
the vindaloo she vaguely recalled picking at several hours earlier.

The post had become available because DI Mike Powell, her erstwhile boss, was on suspension pending an internal inquiry. There was no love lost between them; there’d never been any to lose
in the first place. Bev had fantasised about stepping into his fancy Italian footwear, then running professional rings around him. Verbally she already did. And he loathed it; didn’t know how
to handle it. In Powell’s book, women were either decorative or domestic. Bev made no particular effort to be either. Way she saw it: if life’s too short to stuff mushrooms, it’s
not long enough to mess around with lip-gloss.

Anyway, as far as she was concerned, Powell was a yes-man without a single original idea under his expensive blond highlights. Christ, if the man weren’t so dense he’d be an airhead.
Nah, the DI post had her name all over it. It was a shame the men-in-suits couldn’t read. The girls had done their best to cheer her up last night. Her best mate, Frankie, had even raised a
laugh of sorts when she suggested Bev get a sex change. Either way you looked at it, it was a slap in the face.

She avoided looking in the mirror as she took the phone from her mum, at the same time attempting what she hoped was a bright smile. Emmy Morriss’s pained expression made plain the attempt
had failed. Bev clearly looked as bad as she felt. She ran a hand through her hair, not that it did any good, and mouthed, “Who is it?” The way Emmy had been twittering on, she probably
had the man’s life history by now.

Her mum shrugged. “Didn’t ask. He sounds awfully nice, though.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “He’s from work.”

Bev would have rolled her eyes but feared an ensuing wave of pain. Emmy pursed her lips, turned on her fluffy pink slippers and headed for the kitchen. There was nothing in Emmy’s world
that a cup of tea couldn’t fix. Her mum was one of Powell’s domestics: Delia with a Dyson. Bev loved her to bits but if she had to live at home much longer it would drive her round the
bend. She’d only been back three weeks after a deal on a house she’d been hoping to buy had fallen through.

At least Bev’s gran wasn’t down yet. Sadie, unlike her mum, wouldn’t hold back from asking about Bev’s night out. She’d want the low-down. Sadie had the curiosity
of a big cat and an interview technique that made Paxman look like Graham Norton. Bev usually had no problem indulging the old lady, but not this morning.

“Hello?” A frog with laryngitis appeared to be lodged in Bev’s throat; then she remembered all the Silk Cuts and indifferent Soave she’d got through in the Prince of
Wales.

“God. You sound rough. You should have phoned in.” Vince Hanlon’s voice veered from sympathy to censure in seconds.

“You what?”

“If you’re that sick, you should have called in.”

She cleared her throat a couple of times. Highgate’s longest-serving sergeant would have heard every lame excuse in the library. She opted for the truth; well, part of it.

“Sorry, Vince. Bad night. I overslept.”

She tried to read the silence. Vince was a good mate but he had no time for slackers.

“Not like you, Bev. Anything up?”

Life, the universe, everything. “Nothing serious.”

“If you say so.” He paused in case she wanted to elaborate. “Any road, we’ve had this call. Some punter reckons there’s something going off down Cable
Street.”

Cable Street? That was Kings Heath. She pulled up a mental picture of redbrick terraces, boarded windows and a smattering of graffiti. “Go on.”

“That’s it. An incident. That’s all he said.”

“Nutter?”

“How should I know? He didn’t give a name. Needs checking out, Bev.”

The smell of bacon grilling wafted in from Emmy’s empire. “Vincie, mate, can’t you send a uniform?”

She heard the sound as he slapped his forehead. “Silly me. Now why didn’t I think of that? Come on, lass, do us a favour.” The uncharacteristic sarcasm continued.
“It’ll have escaped your awesome powers of detection so far this morning, but we’ve got a factory fire in West Brom, a fatal in the city centre and Spiderman and Batman doing
stand-up on a bridge over the M6.”

A fry-up was out of the question, then. “I’ll be a little while, Vince. Sure there’s no one else?”

“Lass, I’ve got a sick list here longer than the General’s.” She could picture him now: jowls a-quiver, grizzled head shaking, paunch straining at the buttons of his
shirt. Big Vince was Yogi Bear on happy pills. “Anyway, Bev, far as the guv’s concerned, you’re already there. If you get my drift.”

The guv. Detective Superintendent Bill Byford. It took a second or two, owing to the mother of all hangovers but yes, the message was clear. Byford had been asking for her and Vince had done the
decent thing: covered her back. Good old Vincie. She couldn’t afford to get on the wrong side of the guv. Byford was a member of a dying breed: a man-in-a-suit who had time for Bev.
“Cheers, mate. I owe you.”

“It’s on the slate,” Vince said. “And there’s not a lot of room left.”

She did a quick calculation, simultaneously registering the smile in the sergeant’s voice: three-minute shower, forty-five seconds wardrobe, forego what little slap she occasionally
bothered with. “Ready in five, Vince.” Shame about the bacon bap.

“Don’t fret about wheels,” Vince said. “I’ve sent madam a carriage.”

*

Detective Constable Ossama Khan was holding open the passenger door when madam emerged from the house, chin-length hair the colour of Guinness still damp from the shower.
Seconds later, he spotted Bev’s mum chasing after her clutching a Barbie lunchbox. He couldn’t make out what was said during the handover but Bev’s face was a similar shade of
pink by the time she got to the motor. Oz had the nous not to comment.

The flush couldn’t hide the fact that she was seriously hung over. Her eyes might still be the clearest blue this side of an Optrex ad, but the puffiness around them wasn’t doing her
any favours. And the charcoal smudges beneath were a giveaway; the delicate skin under her eyes always darkened when she was tired. And emotional. He knew that, like he knew about the tiny rose
tattoo on the small of her back, how she cried at soppy films and hated the crumbs when they ate croissants in bed.

“Morning, Sarge. I take it I’m driving?” He caught a whiff of mint on her breath as she brushed past and plonked herself into the passenger seat. “I’ll take that as
a yes,” he muttered.

Apart from flared nostrils, he kept his face straight. Oz was well aware she’d been out getting hammered with the girls. Lucky girls. He’d barely seen her apart from work for three
weeks; living with her mum was a hell of an effective contraceptive.

They drove in silence for a while. Not surprising. Bev was slumped in the seat, hand pressed against her forehead, eyes closed. Oz gave a wry smile. He understood now why she always wore blue
for work. She reckoned it saved time in the mornings if everything you grabbed matched… after a fashion.

Today’s get-up was a bit pick-and-mix. He didn’t think much of the long navy jacket. He knew she thought it was slimming. Personally, he couldn’t see a problem. At five six and
nine stone, she was hardly porky. At least she’d teamed the jacket with a skirt, which he watched ride up her thighs as she twisted and turned to reach for the lunchbox she’d slung on
to the back seat.

“Breakfast,” she muttered through a mouthful.

Oz raised an eyebrow. The explanation was superfluous, given the smell of bacon and brown sauce. He lowered the window a couple of inches but only succeeded in adding rush-hour exhaust fumes to
the odours already circulating round the car’s interior. He sighed, took a left and turned into Butler Street. It was a rat-run off Kings Heath High Street, although it was more like a gentle
meander since the recent installation of traffic-calmers. Oz was keeping an eye peeled for the next turning and inadvertently shot over a sleeping policeman.

“Nice one, Oz. As if I’m not in danger of throwing up anyway.”

Given the inroads she was making on the sarnie, the argument didn’t hold a lot of weight, but at least the calorie intake had perked her up a touch.

“Feeling a bit brighter, are we, Sarge?”

“Is that another rhetorical question, officer?” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a half-smile, or was it a smirk? “Is there something amusing, Osama? Do share. Do
lighten the load of this dull and dreary Monday morning with one of your merry little jests.”

He tapped an elegant index finger on the steering wheel. “You always do that when you feel guilty about something.”

She turned her body to face him; the skirt rose at least another inch. “Do what?”

“Talk posh. It’s classic Morriss distraction.”

So was the expanse of thigh. She left the hem where it was. “I didn’t realise you’d read psychology, Sigmund.” She knew damn well he hadn’t. He’d taken law,
and though he didn’t brag about it, he’d come away with a First. Bev sometimes thought his track was so fast he’d make DI before her. Not that he had it easy at Highgate. Some of
the station’s hard men gave him a hard time. The racism was less in-your-face than it used to be but it was still there. Oz ticked all the boxes: Asian, academic and in line for accelerated
promotion.

He was also the tastiest bloke in the nick. Think Darcy without the pride and prickliness. “Go on,” she prompted.

“What?”

“Why am I feeling guilty?”

“Search me.”

She shook her head; not a wise move.

“Headache, Sarge?”

That was definitely a smirk. She ignored it. They were in an almost stationary line of traffic trying to get on to the High Street. Three or four youths had congregated near the junction,
jostling passers-by, yelling obscenities. They were in uniform but not for school: hoodies, black denims and trainers the size of two-berth boats.

“Look at that,” Bev snarled. “Little sods. What use is an ASBO round here? Give kids like that an anti-social order, they think it’s an award, juvie equivalent of a
knighthood.”

Oz saw her glance at the clock. “Don’t go there, Sarge. We haven’t got time.”

She cast a Morriss-glare at one of the youths as they drove past. It garnered a raised finger and a pierced tongue. Her mental note of dark hair, eyeliner and pasty skin was so vague it was
barely worth making. And Cable Street was top of the list at the moment.

Oz couldn’t add much to what Vince had said: a punter had called with a tip-off. Said the place was crawling with cameras.

“They’re probably shooting
Dalziel and Pascoe,”
Bev said. “They do a lot of location stuff round Moseley.”

“Hey,” Oz grinned. “We could be extras.”

Bev ran a hand through her hair Hollywood-style. “Sorry, darlink. I only strip for my art.”

“Your what?” He lifted a hand to ward off attack. “That’s more like it. You looked like death warmed up back there.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I worry about you,” Oz persisted.

“So does my mum. Give it a rest.” She flashed a smile to take the sting from the words. Her relationship with Oz had its downside. She’d probably already opened up too much.
Everyone knew her strengths; only Oz was aware of her weaknesses. Some of them.

Like the knock her confidence took during the Lucas inquiry. Two girls, one a teenage prostitute, had been killed. Bev had doggedly pursued the wrong man. Oz knew how badly it had affected her
but only Bev knew how close she’d come to a disciplinary. Bev and the guv.

“Cable Street,” she said. “Doesn’t Bony M live there?”