Dead Old (23 page)

Nice try. She’d given it a passing thought herself. It didn’t stand up. “I don’t buy that, guv. Not given the timing.” The big question was why they’d
targeted Sadie. Byford asked it.

Bev ran a hand through her hair. It sounded fanciful even to her. “I think it was a trophy thing, guv. Bag a cop’s gran, show the pigs how smart we are.”

His face said it all. She hadn’t finished yet. “Look. What if we’ve been going about this the wrong way? We started off looking to nail a gang of toe-rags who duff up old dears
for a few quid –”

He sighed. It seemed a lifetime ago. “Operation Streetwise.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it should be Street sodding Genius.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I don’t think we’re dealing with a bunch of brain-deads. We’d
have got a fix on them by now. Yobs into granny-bashing are stupid. They’re cowardly. But they’re not killers.” She caught a flicker in those grey eyes, pressed on with the
argument.

“We’ve never really got to grips with this case, guv. There’s no evidence, barely any forensics, a serious lack of witnesses and descriptions so vague they couldn’t catch
cold. Christ, we don’t even know how many perps we’re after.” Her outstretched palms underlined the point. “Strikes me that’s either a run of fucking good luck or
someone’s way ahead of us at every point.”

He raised a hand. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” She frowned, closed her mouth. “Shouldn’t you be asking Lewis and Fraser if they feel lucky?”

“And what good’s that going to do? They’ve been in custody four days and haven’t uttered so much as a prayer. Why’s that, d’you reckon?”

He started circling the room. She swivelled to keep him in sight, restraining her impatience.

“Whatever they say is going to incriminate them,” Byford countered. “They’re scared to open their mouths.”

“Come on, guv. They could spout the complete works of Shakespeare, they’re still going down.”

Byford halted, sat on the corner of the desk. “So tell me.”

“They’re scared. You got that right.” She held his gaze. “They’re scared because they’re ASBO kids. Not killers. And I reckon right from day one that’s
what this has been about. It’s about Sophia Carrington – and everything else is a smokescreen.”

Byford closed the pages, laid down the book and drew his dressing gown tighter. It was cold and he was dog-tired. He should never have gone. “Drinks on me, guv,”
Bev had trilled. Boy, was he paying the price now. It hadn’t even been a late night. Bev had been keen to get back to Sadie, taking the old girl a tin of Roses and a Des O’Connor CD.
Painful.

The cramps had worsened the minute Byford’s head hit the pillow. It was now 2.11 and he’d spent more time in the loo than under the duvet, eventually decamping downstairs where it
was easier to read.

She’d handed him the journal as they were leaving. It hadn’t taken long to get through. Not your average bedtime story. He wondered what today’s kids would make of it. Laugh
their designer socks off, most like. Or wouldn’t believe a word. Not now, when women avoided marriage like the plague yet went out of their way to get pregnant. Anyway, who needed a man?
According to Bev, all you needed these days was an empty yoghurt pot. He wondered vaguely whether the flavour mattered.

He took up the journal again, flicked through the entries. Poor Sophia. She’d had a love-child and spent a lifetime hiding the shame. Had it come back to haunt her? Bev seemed to be
heading that way. He wasn’t convinced. There were no photographs of Sophia’s daughter after her sixteenth birthday. Besides, it was all so long ago. Tracking anyone involved back then
was a fine-needle-in-a-field-of-hay job.

He stretched his legs, winced at a sharp pain in the gut. He’d felt the first twinges late afternoon. Bev had picked up on it in The Feathers. She’d been incensed about the
continuing delay at the General. He smiled as he recalled her nagging. With hindsight, he reckoned she’d manoeuvred the session just to give him a grilling. She’d wanted the low-down on
the tests, slipped in casual remarks about early retirement and wondered idly about Powell’s disciplinary. She’d even asked if he’d heard her latest nickname. He’d not given
much away, certainly not what a few of the men had started calling her behind her back.

25

The sun had got its shades on. It was more mid-June than late March. Bev closed the door and looked out, relishing the early rays. Baby-blue sky, clean air, dew glistening like
fairy lights. She rolled her eyes and suppressed a grin. Much more of this and she’d launch into her Julie Andrews: not that there were many hills in Highgate.

The moment lasted till she clocked the MG. A young bloke in black jeans and a dark bomber jacket was bent double, peering in through the driver’s window. Bev halted alongside, arms folded,
tapped a Doc Marten.

The figure unfurled and flashed a smile across the top of the car. “Hi. I was hoping I’d catch you.”

It wasn’t a stranger. And it wasn’t a bloke. The trademark hair was scooped up under a baseball cap but this close the face was unmistakeably female. Bev nodded. Apart from a feeling
of having been wrong-footed, she was trying to work out how Grace Kane knew where she lived. As to the doorstep approach, Bev had a hunch already.

She watched as the writer made her way round the car, stroking the bonnet with a finger as she passed. “Low mileage. Good bodywork. You must look after it. I wish I’d held on to my
Midget. I loved it to bits.”

Bev narrowed her eyes.
Top Gear
auditions she could do without. Though an explanation for the small bunch of freesias the reporter was carrying would be nice.

“I heard what happened to your grandmother… I thought she might like these.”

So that was it. Grace and favour. Under that flawless skin and wide-eyed flattery, the reporter was little better than Matt Snow. Presumably it was the dog turd’s exclusive in the
Evening News
that had pointed Grace in the right direction. Bev was struggling to keep a civil tongue. It was bad enough for reporters to go round dabbling in the souls of strangers but no
one, not even Grace Kane, was getting anywhere near her gran’s.

“Thanks,” Bev said briskly. “I’ll make sure she gets them.” She took the flowers and turned to exit, aware it wasn’t in the script. Not Ms Kane’s
copy.

“Actually…” A winning smile.

“Yes?” A straight face.

“I was rather hoping to talk to her.” She was doing that Princess Di thing with her eyes.

“Really? Why’s that, then?” Surely Kane knew she was taking the piss?

The Di eyes darkened. Pique? Anger? Bev couldn’t tell. The writer held her hands out. “Look, I hate intruding. But sometimes it helps, talking it through… with a stranger like
me. It can be really cathartic.”

“Helps?” The word struggled through clenched teeth. “Helps who? It certainly won’t help my gran. Your bank balance, maybe.”

“This isn’t about money.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. “Don’t make me laugh. Next thing it’ll be ‘I’m only doing my job.’”

“I am. I believe I can make a difference.” There was something in the voice; she’d quit laying verbal bait. “Have you even bothered to read the stuff I sent?”

What stuff?

“You haven’t, have you? Look, I know you don’t like what I do. But we’re not all Matt Snows.”

Bev ran a hand through her hair. Had she been quick to judge? Maybe. “It’s not you personally, Grace. But Sadie’s not up to it at the moment. It’s a shit time. I’ll
have a look through your stuff, let you know. Maybe in a few days?” If she could find it.

The writer looked ready to argue but didn’t. “Of course. I understand. It must be awful.” She held out a hand. “Thanks for your time anyway.”

Grace Kane set off towards an Audi convertible parked a few doors down, then turned. “How about if you have a word with Sadie about me? At least give her the option. If she says no, fair
enough… You’ve got my number. I’ll be moving on at the weekend. But feel free to call me. Any time.”

The phone box stank as usual. It had better be a quick call. He already had the number for the cop shop. No point talking to the bint on the switchboard. He drummed his
fingers, waiting for connection to the incident room. He told the posh tart at the other end to listen up.

“The old lady who bought it down Cable Street? Got a pen?”

Bev’s desk was covered in large brown envelopes sent from news desks all over the Midlands. But had Christmas come early? She slung her bag over the back of a chair and
set her coffee on a beer mat. Oz was already making inroads into a mountain of calls he’d lined up.
Cherchez la femme,
Sophia’s mystery daughter, was the name of the game. Except
it was deadly serious.

Oz shook his head. No joy yet. Daz appeared to be the only one else around. He was hunched over a computer, two fingers worrying the keyboard. Bev took a seat, mental fingers crossed, while the
real ones started on the morning’s mail.

Five minutes later the bin was full of junk. She sat back, angrily brushed her fringe from her eyes. Christ. It had been bugging her for days now. There was barely time to wash it, let alone cut
it. Sod it. That was one thing she could do. She headed for the loo, pocketing scissors en route.

The mirror confirmed she was no Nicky Clarke. But at least the eyebrows were evident, even though Caz, her regular crimper, would throw a hissy fit when she saw the effects. Bev stood in front
of the glass, pulled her hair into a minuscule ponytail and posed, turning her head from side to side. She gave a pout or two, aiming for the elfin effect. She missed. More heartburn than Hepburn.
Mind, her Quasimodo was to die for: she crossed her eyes, stuck her tongue out, hunched a shoulder and swung a lifeless arm.

“Nice one, Sarge.”

Bev swirled round. DC Mansfield was just disappearing into a cubicle.

“Catch you later, Carol.” She put as much authority into the voice as she could muster and headed back.

It was the first thing she saw on her return: an edge of brown envelope poking out from under her desk. The missing link? She snorted. Given the results so far, the weakest link was more likely.
The cappuccino was cold but she swallowed a sip anyway and opened the envelope. Among the twenty or so stills there were two glossy black and whites that had her heart racing. The smile spread
slowly until it covered her face. “Gotcha!”

If she was right, she had a killer in her sights.

The police lab worked fast. Mainly down to having Bev on their back. She refused to leave until they came up with the goods. And they were very good indeed. The techies had
done their tweaking and a shadowy figure lurking on the edge of the originals was now in the limelight. Make that candlelight. The mug shots were well grainy, not perfect by any means, but both
pics showed a youth with a pale face, black spiked hair and piercings. The last thing Bev needed was to go off half-cocked, so she’d popped back to let Sadie see the photos just to be on the
safe side. Which was why, by the time she finally made the briefing, she didn’t even apologise.

“Where the hell have you been?” Shields snapped. The DI had adopted that Annie Oakley pose again but this time Bev was calling the shots.

Maybe if she hadn’t been so focused she might have picked up on the atmosphere, the tone in Shields’s voice. She didn’t. She headed straight for the murder board and pinned up
both prints. “That’s the bastard we need to nail.”

She swirled round, not exactly expecting applause. But why the blank looks and open mouths? Except for Danny Shields. The DI was smiling, an amused glint in her caramel eyes. Bev glanced round,
at last sensing the uneasiness. She’d misread the signs. The faces weren’t blank; they were embarrassed. For her.

“And what makes you so sure, Sergeant?” The amusement had spread to the DI’s voice now.

Bev felt a trickle of sweat race cold down her spine. She looked again at the dark hair, the pale skin and the piercings. She was right. She had to be. Anyway, Sadie was sure. As sure as an old
woman shaking like an orchard could be. Bev stuck to her guns. “He’s been identified. We just need a name.”

Shields gathered her papers from the desktop. “Oh, we have a name. In fact we have the killer. He’s in a cell. I’m just about to charge him.”

Bev felt the flush rise. No wonder people were sniggering. She’d produced a black and white print when apparently the original was banged up downstairs.

“Just one tiny anomaly, Sergeant Morriss.” Shields was halfway to the door, didn’t even turn to finish the sentence. “The youth we’re holding bears as much
resemblance to your pin-up boy as I do to Jordan.”

26

There were too many muttered asides and sneaky looks going round Highgate. Bev had retreated to the caff down the road to lick her wounds. Not that she was into humble pie.
Shields might be trumpet-blowing; it didn’t mean she was playing the right tune.

“Are you listening or what?” Oz was keeping her company.

Or what. She managed a half-smile, noticed a table full of Chavs giving Oz the ogle. He was oblivious, mind on other matters. And that didn’t include the downmarket décor or low
cuisine. Stan’s café was greasy knife, fork and spoon. Even the iceberg was deep-fried.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Oz enthused. “I mean all that shoe leather and it comes down to the DI’s witness appeal. She was over the moon. Took the call herself, you
know.”

Bev chewed desultorily on a chip. Everyone this side of Uranus knew by now.

“Talk about getting it on a plate,” Oz shook his head. “A name would have been good. But the address as well…

She was incredulous too. Different reasons. “Shame he didn’t come forward a bit sooner.”

Oops. He didn’t like that. The fork paused momentarily on the way to his mouth. “I heard he’d been out of the country.”

“Shields should have got a number. A name at least.”

He didn’t like that either; the eyebrows were knotted. “We got a result. What’s the problem?”

“Have you seen him?” Bev had, still could. Cowering in a corner; eyes like a rabbit’s at a floodlit racetrack. Black hair was the only similarity. Other than that, Davy Roberts
was too small, too young, too scared. “He didn’t do it, Oz.”