Dead Old (22 page)

“No comment.” Her voice was surprisingly calm as she added a rather artistic cluster of weeping pustules round his mouth.
Eat your heart out, Tracey Emin.

“Ah, come on, love, it needs a bit of human interest.”

Human interest? Sadie getting smacked around? Bev concentrated on the addition of warts round his genitalia. “It’s still no comment.”

It begged the question, though: who had opened their big mouth? She glanced round, hoping it was no one here. The squad knew the score. A bland media release had been agreed. It carried bald
facts: no name, no address, certainly no connection to Bev. Apart from respecting Sadie’s insistence on no publicity, no one at Highgate wanted the finer points broadcast, literally or
metaphorically. The idea was to get a steer on the attacker, not lead the media pack to the Morrisses’ front door.

“As I understand it, the latest victim’s related to you. And the assault took place in your mother’s house. Is that right?”

“Which part of ‘no comment’ is difficult for you, Mr Snow?”

He paused, probably revising tactics. “She must be quite a woman, your granny.”

Bev rolled her eyes. The little shit had the bones anyway. He was after the flesh. As for the matey chat approach, it had to be the oldest trick in the journalist’s book. Bev was on a
different page and definitely not playing. Didn’t stop Snow, though. Guy must be playing with himself.

“Fighting back like that. An old woman taking on a vicious thug.” The voice was an embossed invitation to comment. It provoked only a deep sigh. Bev knew Snow was making it up as he
went along, flying kites. She made a few strokes with the pen; his neck looked good with a noose.

“Bet you’d like to get your hands on him, wouldn’t you, love?”

She snapped. “I’d like to get my hands on the fantasist who’s feeding you this crap.”

“It’s not true, then?”

It was a lose-lose scenario. She cut her losses and broke the connection. The phone rang within seconds.

“Hey, love, I s’pose a piccie’s out of the question?” Snow’s snivelling persistence almost made her relent; she could always furnish him with his own portrait,
warts and all. She settled for another grand slam instead.

Boy. Did this guy never give up? She snatched at the receiver. “Back off, Snowie.”

“Nice one, my friend.”

Frankie.
Just the voice made Bev smile. “Sorry, mate. I’m really up against it.” What with the poor man’s Paxo and other assorted time-wasters, her list of
things-to-do had fewer ticks than a bald sheep.

“Wow!” Frankie enthused. “Lucky you. And they pay you as well?”

The smile broadened. “Only when I’m good.”

“Bev, my friend, you’re so damn good I’m going to whisk you away for a treat. Café Rouge. Half an hour.”

“Babe, I’d love to –”

“That’s a no, isn’t it?”

“Sorry.” There was a shedload to get through. The early media coverage had prompted a stack of calls that needed monitoring and prioritising, same with the material coming back from
house-to-house. And she was waiting on Tom Marlow. He could ring any time. “I would if –”

“Say no more. I suppose you’re dumping your old friends now you’re famous.” There was an arch quality to the voice that could span a canal.

Bev laughed. “What are you going on about?” If anyone made it on to
I’m a Celebrity
it’d be Frankie. The girl had already turned down a load of modelling agencies,
though she’d kill for a recording contract. Think Aretha Franklin meets Nina Simone. Only Italian.

With mock awe dripping from every fractured syllable, Frankie added, “Could I possibly make an appointment? Would you have a five-minute window between Trisha and Parkinson?”

“Have you stopped taking the tablets?” The bemusement was genuine. She hadn’t a clue where Frankie was going with this.

“You are so easy to wind up, my friend.” She dropped the banter, adopted business-like. “I clocked you on the telly news. Actually, I’d’ve missed you if I’d
blinked.”

“When was that, then?

“They were interviewing some woman outside the nick about that murder in Kings Heath? And there’s my mate Bevvie striding past, looking all serious and important. How come you
don’t get to do the exciting stuff?”

Some woman? That was the DI doing her media appeal. “That was Shields, Frankie.”

“The woman I’m gonna send the boys round to sort?”Frankie laughed.

“What did you think of her?” Bev asked.

“The boss lady? Didn’t really notice. Not once I’d spotted my best mate.”

“Bull.” Knowing Frankie, she’d have been glued to the screen with a points card.

“Come on, Frankie,” Bev urged.

The pause had been dramatic. “Never trust a woman with skinny lips and shifty eyes. Guaranteed to be a pain in the arse.” Head. Nail. On. Bev grinned; that was so what she wanted to
hear. “Whereas you, darling,” Frankie continued, “looked a million dollars.”

Talk about flannel. Pass the butter. “Thought you only caught a glimpse?”

“Must be your very presence, Bev. Your charisma, your –”

“Hold on a min, Frankie.”

The girl had loosened a thought or two; Bev needed to tie them. One was a shot so long you couldn’t see the end. Or perhaps you could.

Bev had been in frame the other day, caught unwittingly on a wide-angle. It must happen all the time. Had it happened in Cable Street? Was it possible the BBC crew had filmed more than
Marty’s ugly mug? Cameras attracted ghouls like moths to a light show. At the very least, the footage could reveal potential witnesses; people who’d been around but hadn’t come
forward.

“You’re a genius, Frankie. Have I ever told you I love you?”

“Not unless you want to get arrested.”

The chance of capturing the perp on tape was infinitesimal, Bev knew. Even so, killers were cocky. Some killers were so damn cocky they cried out to be caught.

*

Bev found Oz in the canteen. An empty plate, apart from a few smears of ketchup, suggested a full stomach. Going by the papers spread across the table, he was now digesting more
than a policeman’s lunch.

“What you up to?” She perched on the seat opposite, wondering why he’d swept the papers up and turned them face down on the formica.

“Nothing important.” He sounded casual but there was no eye contact. She didn’t pursue it.

“Good. I have. Got something important.” Well, potentially. She’d stopped to make one phone call after the chat with Frankie. It should be set up by now. “If you’ve
finished –” her nod took in plate and papers – “we can push off.”

Oz rose, slipped into his jacket. “Where’re we going?”

“I’m taking you to the pictures.”

There was no popcorn and definitely no adverts. Bev and Oz were in an edit suite at the BBC’s new canal-side studios in the city centre. The Beeb had only just moved into
the Mailbox from its old premises at Pebble Mill. And it wasn’t the only occupant. In a previous life the Mailbox had been the Royal Mail’s main sorting office. Now it boasted prestige
business names, exclusive bars and restaurants, luxury hotels and posh shops. Not so much upmarket as celestial.

In edit suite six, the ginger ponytail pushing the buttons was an old mate, Steve Rock. The hair, like the flashy earring, was a recent affectation. Bev didn’t care if he was into
leopard-print thongs as long as he could still do things with video.

“This what you’re after?” Steve nodded at the left-hand monitor where the news footage from Cable Street was running: Marty Skelton’s impromptu and decidedly unofficial
press conference. “Christ. That bloke’s ugly.” Coming from Steve, that was harsh.

“It’s not pretty boy I’m interested in.” She rolled the chair forward, hunched over the control desk. Marty was centre frame, shooting off like it was soapbox corner.
Thank God for volume control. The soft hum of technology from a bank of classy-looking kit was just about the only sound in the booth; a full-scale orchestra wouldn’t have distracted Bev as
the action moved on. There were exteriors of Marty Towers: yawn; a wobbly-vision pan across the railings at the back: boring; a piece-to-camera from the boy wonder. The end shot was a bunch of
daffodils, all moody and soft-focus. It had obviously been planted, but not by Monty Don or any other gardener. Journalistic licence, it was known in the trade.

“Is that it?” Bev slumped in the chair, arms folded.

“What do you want? Tom Cruise?”

She rolled her eyes. It was a good-natured tease but the timing was bad.

“That’s just the rushes, isn’t it?” Oz asked.

Bev stared, not quite open-mouthed. Steve’s features clouded over, his thunder stolen. “Not just a pretty face, are you?” He turned, missing a face even Mrs Khan wouldn’t
describe as pretty. Seconds later the editor was inserting a tape into a player.

Bev’s eyes reflected the glow from the screen. This was cutting-room-floor stuff. Only digital. At first it was more of the same: exteriors and gvs. The fluffed pieces to camera were a
hoot. They fast-forwarded after a few duff takes from the Beeb’s boy wonder and nearly missed it.

“There!” Her finger was almost on the monitor, heart racing. No wonder this hadn’t made the final cut. The interview was just getting under way; Marty was in mid-shot and full
flow, oblivious to the figure behind.

She was on her feet, jabbing at the screen. “That’s what I want.” The next second it had gone; her groan was involuntary. She raked a hand through her hair, glanced
despairingly at the editor.

Steve was already rewinding the tape. He punched a few buttons and nodded at the right-hand screen where the crucial clip, brief and tantalising though it might be, was materialising. He winked
at Bev. “Don’t worry, petal. I can play with it now.” The finger-flexing was a tad over the top but she gave a weak smile. For the moment Steve was the maestro and she needed a
touch of magic.

Half an hour on, the magic tricks were more Tommy Cooper than David Copperfield. Bev bit her lip, fury vying with frustration. A face with pale skin and dark hair, almost
filling the monitor. Was it the youth they were after? She stared, muttering obscenities under her breath. The picture quality was so poor, Bev doubted the youth’s mother would pick him out
of a line-up, let alone Sadie or Tom Marlow.

It wasn’t Steve’s fault. He’d tried every which way. Enlarging the image was easy. But the quality was crap; all definition gone. She screwed her eyes, willing regular features
to emerge from the distortion. Talk about blurred vision. No wonder pixillation was used to disguise identity. Ironic or what?

Steve played around with the image a while longer, then sat back, fingers linked behind his head. “That’s the best I can do, Bev. At the end of the day, I can only work with what was
shot.”

She nodded, bitterly disappointed. “Let me have a copy anyway, will you, mate?” He’d wire her the file. There was an anorexic chance a police techie might have a bigger box of
tweaks.

Apart from a few sighs, the silence lasted till they were at the motor. She shrugged as she unlocked the door. “Sod it. I thought we had a goer there.”

“Still might.” He turned to fasten the seat belt, but not before she caught the look on his face. She hated it when he went all enigmatic.

“Christ, Oz. He’s not a miracle worker. We just viewed everything they shot.”

He was doing it again, with eyebrows this time. “That’s right.
They
shot.”

A slow smile spread across her face.
Of course.
It hadn’t exactly been an exclusive. The media, to coin a phrase, had been out in force at Cable Street.

“Come on, Einstein. Let’s hit the phones.”

24

Sod it. It was home time. Bev’s feet, figuratively speaking, hadn’t touched the floor tiles since the trip to the Mailbox. Her size sevens were currently taking a short break on a
desktop while she lounged back with a Curly Wurly Her smile was down to the call Tom Marlow had just returned. Saying he’d be happy to meet with Sadie any time – and Bev. Like tomorrow
for a drink.

Reluctantly she swung her legs down and took the tape Dazza was thrusting in her face. She was impressed with the quick turnaround. It was only a couple of hours since she and Oz had put the
requests in. All the picture desks had promised help, though none had given it priority. “Where’s it from?”

“It’s not from anywhere. It’s one of ours,” he said.

She licked chocolate from her fingers, waiting for enlightenment. It didn’t arrive.

“Come on, Daz. It ain’t Twenty Questions, what’s on it?”

Why was he looking at his feet? “I went to fix that puncture of yours.”

Puncture? “No diss, mate, but it’s been a long day…

“There’s a chunk of glass there. The tyre was slashed.” He nodded at the tape. “It’s all on that.”

“DC New sussed it, guv.” Bev hit pause on the remote, froze the tape. They were in Byford’s office, having just viewed it for the third time. So much for an
early out.

Dazza’s assertion that it was ‘all on that’ was unfounded. The CCTV footage was not a complete picture. A furtive hooded figure crouched at the bike’s front wheel. There
was no doubt what was being done. As to who was doing it…? There was no mug shot and due to the high camera angle there was no sense of the youth’s size. Christ, it could even be a
girl. Not that Bev thought so for a second.

“And there’s no other damage? Nothing else touched?” Byford tapped a finger against his top lip.

She shook her head. The implication was clear. It wasn’t random vandalism. It was a deliberate act. As she saw it now, there’d been a shadow on her tail far longer than she’d
suspected. Shame she hadn’t seen it back then. By walking home that night, she’d inadvertently played into his hands. It was as good as opening a door with Sadie’s name on it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Byford said. “It doesn’t necessarily follow.” She watched as he adopted his favourite stance by the window. Shame. She was
dying for a drink and the booze was in his bottom drawer. “We’re cops. We’ve all had run-ins with kids. It could just be little Johnnie’s idea of payback.”