Dead Old (21 page)

Shields turned to face Bev. “Well?”

No sense in rushing it. “What’s Harry Gough said?” She’d spotted the pathologist’s Range Rover pulling away as they arrived.

“You know what he’s like. He won’t commit himself until he’s sure.”

Not in Bev’s experience. Harry might not set his initial thoughts in stone but he generally offered them. “Guess it makes no odds, really.”

Shields stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s nothing for us here, is there?”

“Nothing for us?” The DI struggled to keep her voice down. “This has to be the scene of the first attack. Iris Collins wasn’t the first victim. This woman was.”

Bev shook her head.

The DI persisted. “Machin fits the profile perfectly. This is a crime scene, Sergeant.”

Crime, maybe, but not the sort you find in the law books. Getting old. Not having two pennies to rub together. Living next door to people who watch
Neighbours
but can’t be arsed to
look out for their own. “Look around, DI Shields. There’s nothing worth nicking.”

Shields swept the room with a perfunctory glance. “No one would know that until they were in. The place has been turned over.”

Bev shuddered. The place was a tip all right. “No one broke in here, Inspector.” Certainly not the shits they were after. It was all wrong. Dolly’s wedding ring was still on
her finger. There was a pension book on the side in the kitchen. Bev had even found a few bob hidden in a Charles and Di tea caddy. One thing she hadn’t come across? A floral tribute. There
wasn’t so much as a dandelion, let alone a daffodil.

As for Dolly Machin, she’d been a sick woman. There were so many prescription drugs, the kitchen looked like a pharmacy. Bev nodded in the direction of the bloated, blotchy corpse.
“It’s a bloody awful way to go, but I’ll be amazed if it’s not natural causes.”

Shields ran a hand through her hair, acutely aware the crime lads were listening to every word. She lowered her voice. “Are you undermining my authority?”

A single lifted eyebrow expressed exactly what Bev was thinking; she wasn’t stupid enough to say it. “You’re in charge. Do what you think best.”

“That’s ex –”

Who the hell was ringing at this time of night? Bev lifted a finger to stem the DI’s flow as she took the call. She felt the colour drain from her face, the blood rush to her head. She was
about to pass out. She staggered, must have reached out a hand. Oz was there, arm round her shoulder.

“What is it, Sergeant?” Shields’s voice held concern. Bev tried to speak but her mouth wouldn’t work. Her mother’s screams were still ringing in her head.

21

Dear God. Let her be all right. I’ll do anything you say if you let her be all right.

It was a pact she’d made before. It hadn’t stopped her dad dying.
This time, God. This time…

She glanced at Oz, willing him to drive faster. Familiar roads flashed past in a blur, wet pavements reflected orange streetlight. Maybe Oz had heard her silent plea. Or maybe she didn’t
need to voice it. The body had its own language and hers was shouting. She couldn’t stop her right leg jerking. She clamped it with a hand, still felt the tremor through her fingers.

“Pull over.” She stumbled from the car, threw up on a grass verge, then sucked in lungsful of fresh air. The stink of death in her nostrils also clung to her clothes, her hair. It
wasn’t why she’d vomited.

Dear God. Let her be all right. I’ll do anything you want if you just let her be all right.

She was aware of Oz strapping her into the seat, wiping sweat and tears from her face. He gently placed a ball of tissues in her hand.

“She’ll be fine, Bev. Just fine.”

How the fuck do you know?
If she’d been in the house, it would never have happened. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t look at him, just wanted to get home. She closed her
eyes, clenched her fists, counted the seconds. She was halfway up the drive before Oz was out of the car.

Muffled voices came from the sitting room.

“It’s me,” Bev called. The last thing they needed was another shock. She stopped just inside the door. A bruised and bewildered-looking Sadie was lying on the sofa propped up
by cushions, sobbing her heart out. Without her glasses she seemed smaller, more vulnerable. Emmy had pulled up a chair and was holding Sadie’s hand. They turned at the same time, their faces
taut with fear and hurt. They both tried so hard to smile it broke Bev’s heart.

“Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?” Her voice quivered and the tears welling in her eyes spilled down her cheeks. She ran to comfort her gran, froze halfway
across.

Sadie’s beautiful hair. The bastard had hacked it off. Long grey hanks littered the carpet. Clumps had been casually tossed around the room. The senseless act, unbelievably callous, took
Bev’s breath away. She’d brushed Sadie’s hair a million times. It wasn’t just part of her gran’s appearance, it was part of her identity. Sadie hadn’t got a vain
bone in her body but she’d been proud of her hair. Slowly she went to Sadie and knelt at her feet. For once, she couldn’t find the words.

Sadie stroked her head, whispered, “I’m fine, Bev. Don’t fret. Everything’ll be OK.”

“Yes, gran, it will,” she breathed.
Because I’m gonna fucking kill the bastard.

It took an age to coax Sadie upstairs. And a promise they’d stay with her until she fell asleep. Oz’s offer of a policeman’s lift finally swung it; he carried
her as gently as if she were spun sugar. There were no broken bones; the doctor had confirmed that. But a crushed spirit? Sadie looked old and frail. The remaining hair, too short to pin up, looked
like a badly fitting bathing cap.

Bev closed the door and perched on the edge of Sadie’s bed. Her mum sat in a chair opposite. The silence didn’t last long. Some victims of violence withdraw, can’t think about
it, let alone talk. Sadie could. Bev fought for calm as she listened to the story. She glanced down, wondering why her palms were stinging, noted absently her nails had broken the skin. It was
nothing compared to the red rawness round Sadie’s wrists, and it hurt just to look at the bruises on her gran’s face. Sadie was trying to play it down but when she thought no one was
looking there was absolute terror in her eyes.

The intruder had appeared out of nowhere. Her gran had been dozing in front of the TV. “I thought I was dreaming, Bev. A masked man in front of me like that.” The rope and gag were
real. She’d screamed once before he smacked her in the mouth. Unwittingly, the old woman lifted a hand, stroked the swelling on the side of her face.

“No one’s ever laid so much as a finger on me, Bev. Not once. Not even when I was at school.”

Bev closed her eyes, had to swallow a couple of times. “No one’ll ever hurt you again, gran.”
Not if I can help it.

Emmy passed Sadie a tissue. Bev waited while her gran wiped her eyes. “Did he speak at all, gran? Can you remember anything about his voice?”

She put a shaking hand to her forehead. “I’m just trying to think –”

It hurt to see Sadie so confused. The old woman was normally bright as a box of buttons. Emmy wasn’t thinking straight either. “I should never have gone out.”

While Sadie was being attacked, Emmy had been playing the Good Samaritan, ministering to strangers.

Bev shook her head. “Don’t go there, mum. It’s not your fault.”
Nor mine.
She’d changed her tune on that score. The untold damage here was down to a piece of
low-life scum masquerading as a worthless shit.

“Bitch.” Sadie never swore.

Bev widened her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“That’s what he said. When he heard the knocking. He called me a bitch.”

Thank God for neighbours, thought Bev. The husband of the Crime Lovers’ Book Club hostess was pint-sized and hen-pecked, but had a bruiser’s baritone and strict instructions from his
wife: Sadie Morriss had left her glasses after the meeting and he was to return them. He’d been hammering away a full five minutes before he finally gave up and shoved the specs through the
letterbox. By then the attacker had taken flight.

“He was scared, though,” Sadie said. “I could see it in his eyes. He went as white as this sheet.”

Not scared enough. He’d already used Sadie as a punch bag and hacked off her hair, and before leaving he whacked her in the mouth again. Bev shuddered. She’d speak to the neighbour
later. He’d probably saved Sadie’s life. Broken glasses, cracked dentures, the kitchen scissors the bastard had nicked, they could be replaced. Her gran was a one-off.

“I kept thinking he’d come back,” Sadie’s voice quavered. “That was worst of all.”

She’d had three hours of fear while bound, gagged and tied to a chair. Sadie closed her eyes. Bev dreaded to think what was going on behind them.

She stroked the old woman’s hand. “Try and get some sleep, gran. I’m just nipping downstairs to have a word with the guys.” To see if Oz and crime scenes had come up with
anything to point them in the right direction. And if the signpost was marked Sophia Carrington, Iris Collins, et al. Coincidences happened. But this close to home? Bev didn’t think so.

Her hand was on the door when the thought struck. She stood stock-still, narrowed her eyes. She must have misheard. “Gran?” She turned round slowly. “The man’s face. You
said it went as white as a sheet.”

Sadie nodded. “That’s right.”

Bev fought to keep the fear out of her voice. “So the mask? He’d taken it off, had he, gran?”

Sadie didn’t pick up on it. She even had a stab at a joke. “Yes, dunno why he bothered. He was no oil painting, if you know what I mean.”

Bev walked slowly back to the bed. He’d let Sadie see his face, didn’t care if she could describe him. That meant two things: Sadie was now a prime witness. And she was lucky to be
alive.

22

It was mid-morning, Highgate. Byford, perched on the edge of a desk at the front, was taking the briefing. “At least we know what we’re dealing with.” He
looked round. “The attack on Sadie Morriss was no coincidence.”

Bev ignored concerned glances from members of the squad, concentrated on harsh reality. SOCOs had found eight daffodils at the back of her mum’s house. They’d been scattered at
random, almost certainly dropped by the attacker as he fled. The thug had clearly intended to say it with flowers. Add the floral message to the initial description provided by Sadie, and every
officer at the briefing shared the guv’s conclusion: Operation Streetwise had claimed another victim.

“Bastards.” Darren New voiced what everyone was thinking. Targeting a cop’s family was like shoving two fingers up at the police. The attack on Sadie was an act of defiance. Or
revenge. Probably both. The arrest of Robert Lewis and Kevin Fraser must have pissed the gang off no end. Another bout of mindless violence was a way of saying up yours. These and other theories
had been floating around for the last half-hour. Bev had listened without comment. The
why
was for later, right now she wanted a
who.

She clasped her hands in her lap. She’d had three hours’ sleep and been first in. It was her way of showing it was business as usual. Except it wasn’t. The case had a renewed
urgency. And a possible lead. She nodded at the murder board. “We need a name to go with that.”

Heads turned. In the early hours, they’d compiled an artist’s impression of Sadie’s attacker. It stared back now, and hopefully would soon be splashed across a few front pages.
Bev shuddered. Helping to elicit details from Sadie had made her blood run cold: late-teens-early-twenties, pasty complexion, facial piercings and dark spiky hair. Déjà vu or what?
Tom Marlow had painted an identical picture.

Byford rose, took a closer look. “Someone must know who he is.”

Bev sighed, shook her head. The Shrek boys certainly hadn’t provided any pointers. They were still banged up and buttoned down. Oz had called in first thing from the prison. They’d
been asked to look at the latest likeness and, according to Oz, neither had narrowed an eye, let alone opened a mouth. As performing monkeys went, they’d perfected non-speaking roles. Who was
the trainer? That was the big question. And how many others were in the act? Six weeks down the line and they still didn’t know for sure the size of the gang.

Bev glanced across at the sound of paper rustling. DI Shields was leafing through sheaves of printouts. “We’ve had that description before.” Her finger paused halfway down a
page. “A witness called Tom Marlow phoned in early last week. We need to speak to him again.”

Bev stifled a yawn. “It’s under control. I’m waiting for him to get back to me.” She wanted to check out a couple of things Sadie had mentioned. It might even be worth
getting the two of them together, see if it sparked any thoughts.

Shields nodded, said nothing. Bit like the note she’d left on Bev’s desk:
Dolly Machin. NFA.
No further action. SFA as far as thanks or even an acknowledgement went.
She’d saved Shields from a load of grief. Dolly Machin’s diabetes had killed her, not the scum they were after. Talk about ego on face.

Byford indicated the image on the murder board. “Is it possible you’ve seen him before, Bev?”

She shrugged. Every street, every day. It was uniform for a lot of youths. Appalling thought though it was, the attacker had found out where she lived, probably tailed her back, and DS Morriss,
shit-hot detective, had failed to notice. Logic told her he had to be the same figure she’d seen lurking in the shadows the other night: a figure she’d dismissed so casually. She
couldn’t believe she hadn’t taken it more seriously.

“There’s no point beating yourself up.” She widened her eyes. How did the guv do that? “You did everything right, given what you had to go on.”

She’d be doing a hell of a lot more now. Sadie had been assigned more minders than a royal crèche. The old woman had been targeted because of who she was. Bev was finding that
difficult to deal with.

23

“I need a quote, love.”

You need castration.
Bev’s red ballpoint had already scored through several sheets of paper, in the process of eviscerating a pen portrait of Matt Snow. Luckily for the
Evening
News
reporter, he was at the end of a phone.