Dead Old (28 page)

She gave the late show downstairs a miss. She’d seen the 3-Ds loads of times: drunks, dossers and druggies, wall-to-wall. Uniform could cope well enough. She was here for the sound
show.

She flicked switches, stifled a yawn. No time for tiredness. Oz’s arsiness had stiffened her resolve, increased the urgency. It was glaringly obvious to her now that Jake was no
organ-grinder; he was head of the strings.

The suite was empty but she slipped on headphones anyway. It cut out extraneous noise like the drunken chorus of
You’ll Never Walk Alone
from below. It was a comforting thought but
a touch distracting. Anyway, she needed all the concentration she could muster. He wouldn’t have made it easy. Not if he had any sense. All the calls were logged; it didn’t take long to
pinpoint the relevant sections. She cued both from the beginning then listened back-to-back. Repeating the process confirmed it.

“You arrogant arsehole,” she whispered. The first voice reported intruders at Winston Heights, the tower block in Edgbaston where the Shreks had been squatting. The second gave the
anonymous tip-off that led to Davy Roberts’s arrest. It was the same voice. No attempt to disguise it.

Bev shook her head. Cocky or what? She had no doubt it was Jake dobbing in his mates, creating distractions from the main man. And it had almost worked. She rubbed a hand over her face. Dear
God, don’t let him do a runner.

She made copies of the recordings. Maude needed to hear the voice as well. She secured the suite, then headed up another flight of stairs.

The murder room was deserted. Moonlight cast a pale glow over empty desks. The picture board was still in situ. The victims. That was what it was all about. She stood, arms folded, ran her gaze
over the gallery of battered old faces, eerily leeched of colour in the silvery light. In a way, it exacerbated the horror. Bev closed her eyes, saw the spike-haired sicko who’d orchestrated
the attacks. Why do it? What was in it for him? Surely more than a bit of cheap jewellery and a few quid?

She focused on the face of Sophia Carrington. Recalled her initial conviction that everything stemmed from Sophia’s murder. Had her instinct been right all along? Thoughts racing, she ran
her mind back over the conversation in the restaurant. Oz had mentioned a cutting, a death notice in a false cover of the old woman’s journal, maybe her daughter. The name had rung a faint
bell but she’d dismissed it in the face of Davy’s unwitting revelations. Unless…

She checked her watch. 12.15. She had to speak to Oz. It couldn’t wait. Her mobile was at the bottom of her shoulder bag. It rang as she reached to make the call.

“Twenty-four hours, right? Not a nano-second over.” It was Oz. No preamble. No need.

She punched the air, mouthed a silent yes! “I owe you.”

“What’s new?” he sighed.

“What changed your mind?” Not that it mattered.

“You’ll do it anyway. I don’t want you hurt.”

She didn’t comment on that. There wasn’t time. “Where are you now, Oz?” The phone was no good. There was work to do. She tapped her foot.
Come on, Oz. Not
difficult.

His voice was tentative. “I’ve still got the keys to Zak’s place.”

She narrowed her eyes, quickly calculating. As long as they had access to the net, it was as good a place as any. She pictured Oz, gave a slow smile. Make that better than most.

They’d been hunched over the laptop for the better part of an hour. At this rate Zak’s bachelor pad in Selly Oak wouldn’t be seeing any action in or out of
the master bedroom.

“It’s no good, Oz. It’s not going anywhere.” Bev had already kicked off her shoes. Now she was itching to put a boot through the screen of the laptop. Instead, she paced
the carpet, sucked on a biro, craving a Silk Cut.

She’d firmed up a theory on the way over. If Sara really was the baby Sophia Carrington gave up for adoption, what if Sara had kids of her own? Maybe a son? Called Jake?

But guesswork and gut instinct could only go so far. Bev had been banking on the adoptive parents to provide some quick answers. Problem was she’d need a medium. The Collisons had been
dead nearly five years. With a shortcut no longer on the cards, Bev and Oz would have to take the long route. Davy Roberts had recorded a road name. They needed the house. They’d start
surveillance at first light.

Oz sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been accessing the news archives that told the Collisons’ story. George and Hannah had died in a fire at their home in Solihull. No
suspicious circumstances. No police involvement. No surprise it had passed Bev by. She was right about Collison ringing a bell, though. George had headed up one of the Midlands’s biggest
transport companies. Back then, the name had been plastered across a fleet of HGVs.

Oz tapped a couple more keys, pulled up the
Birmingham Post.
It was the only version that carried a picture of the couple. “She looks a lot older than him.”

Bev stopped pacing, gazed at the screen over his shoulder. George and Hannah, snapped at a CBI fundraiser six months before their deaths, looking as if they didn’t have a care in the
world. “Poor sods,” Bev sighed. “It’s a good job we don’t know what’s round the corner.”

Oz turned to face her, an unreadable glint in his eyes. “Yeah. But we can usually find out what’s next door.”

She smiled slowly as comprehension dawned. Maybe one of the Collisons’ neighbours could shed some light. They’d have to go on the knock. They could split it, take turn and turn
about. Stake-out
and
shoe leather.

“Pass us those cards, Oz.” She’d noticed the pack on her last visit. It was still on the side. “Cut you for first surveillance.” It was a damn sight better than
knocking doors in Solihull at some ungodly hour on a Sunday.

Oz drew an ace and a happy face when Bev turned over the three of hearts.

“Sorry, mate,” she sympathised. “I’ll take Moseley.”

“Aces – ”

“Low.” She winked. “Still, you know what they say… ‘Unlucky at cards, lucky in love.’”

“Do they?”

She held out a hand. “They do now, Ossama.”

32

Richmond Green in Solihull was all detached properties and gleaming people carriers, long drives and tall hedges. Oz had cruised round a couple of times, clocked the
Collisons’ former pile. Even with a lottery win, he’d need a mortgage to buy the outbuildings. He parked, locked the motor, zipped his leather jacket. Door-to-doors were the pits, but
the sooner he started…

Twelve houses later he wished he’d stayed in bed or at least brought gloves. The temperature had taken a dive along with his high hopes. It was fewer than five years since the fire but so
far everyone he’d questioned appeared to be in the latter stages of collective amnesia. Either that or they didn’t do Neighbourhood Watch, let alone Speak. Mind, given the distances
between the ivory towers, they’d need binoculars and megaphones.

Hopefully Bev was having more joy. The thought of her brought a lazy smile. She was right. He wouldn’t mind losing at cards more often. Like every night. At the moment he needed a win. He
lifted yet another gleaming brass knocker, stamping his feet to remind the blood there were toes down there. The young woman who opened the door spoke little English; the plain black dress and
white apron were more vocal. Oz watched as, behind her, a much older female descended the sort of staircase the National Trust preserves.

Margot Whittle brought with her the scents of lavender and peppermint. Steel-grey hair was swept back into a loose bun; intelligent eyes a shade lighter. She took Oz’s ID and studied it at
close quarters through half-moon glasses. The slight nod indicated readiness. He had the questions off pat by now. Had she known George and Hannah Collison?

There was a slight narrowing of the eyes. “A little.”

Hoo-flipping-rah. He smiled encouragement. “How did you know them, Mrs Whittle?”

Slight hesitation. “We attended the same church.”

“We’re keen to trace surviving members of the family.” He lifted expectant eyebrows, received a blank look. The woman was probably too well-mannered to tell him to naff off but
for some reason she was wary. Oz had the distinct impression she was holding back. She was. She said nothing.

“Was anyone else living there at the time of the fire?” he prompted.

Another delay. “Not that I’m aware of. Why are you asking, after all these years?”

Strange question. “Just routine inquiries, Mrs Whittle.” He should have known the casual fob-off wouldn’t work.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help.” She made to close the door.

“Please. Mrs Whittle. If you –”

The slam echoed in the still morning air. A crow took off from the lawn, wings beating furiously. Oz watched it disappear, stood a while longer, debating whether to try again. He was convinced
the woman could tell him more but, then again, maybe she already had.

Ding bloody dong. Bev curled her lip. Church bells pissed her off. Always had, always would. On the other hand, if Jake were a God-botherer, how good would it be to nab him on
the way to worship? Yeah. Like that was going to happen. That’d be a sodding miracle. She lowered the car window a couple of inches, blew smoke through the gap. Despite what she’d said
to Oz, a stake-out could take days. Assuming the little shit hadn’t legged it already, and assuming Davy had pointed them in the right direction. She glanced in the driving mirror: nada.

The initial recce had been promising. It was the sort of area she could imagine Jake staying. The occasional skip and scaffolding suggested gentrification was on its way, but most of the
three-storey properties were still split into dingy bed-sits where keys changed hands faster than dodgy tenants. Front gardens resembled used-car lots. Here and there dusty greenery sprouted at
roof level from cracks in grimy brickwork. Wentworth Close was short on aesthetics, big on anonymity.

Which sucked. As did sitting round freezing her butt. Still, she was well ready. The passenger seat resembled a tuck shop: a prawn-and-mayo sandwich, beef-and-onion crisps, a Picnic bar and a
flask of caffeine. Tucked underneath somewhere was a picture of Jake. Not that she needed the visual reminder.

“Come to Bevvie, you little shit,” she murmured. Another glance in the mirror; still nada.

The sudden rap on the window could have led to a head-shaped dent in the roof. She spun round, ready to mouth off. Tom Marlow was standing there, looking as good as she’d seen him. He
lifted a hand in mock surrender, a wide grin on his face. She opened the window all the way and gave a token smile but felt a muppet. Maybe he picked up on it; he dropped the stance and lowered the
hundred-watt beam.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump, Bev.”

Slightly flustered, she flapped a hand. “How’re you doing?” There were sepia circles under his eyes. She wondered if he was still in pain.

“Stitches are a bit tender but I’m getting there.” He ran a finger along the scar in the Midget’s paintwork. “What in hell happened here?”

Don’t remind me.
“Blade job,” she snarled. “If I get the fucker, he’s dead.”

Marlow shook his head, still inspecting the damage. “Mindless.”

“Anyway, what’re you up to?” Stupid question. Judging by the Sunday papers under his arm, he’d bought a newsagent’s.

Marlow cocked his head at a two-skip property over the road. “A friend of mine has a flat on the top floor. I keep an eye on it while they’re away.”

“Where are they?” It was small talk, her eyes on the bigger picture.

“She, actually.” Tom switched the papers to his other arm. “In the States, visiting family. Why?”

It would be ideal, kill two birds with one outlook: great vantage point, no prying eyes. She opened her mouth, then thought again. Marlow was already one of the walking wounded; it wasn’t
fair to drag him in further. “Just wondered.”

He gave that half-smile. “Not after a place to rent, then?”

She dithered. It was tempting. A quick butcher’s couldn’t do any harm. “Actually, Tom, I’m desperate for the loo…”

Oz headed for the nearest phone box. Empty. Completely. No phone. No book. He’d try one more, then maybe think again. In the next one the directory was torn and tatty but
it was there. He cast an eye down the listings, noted the details of six churches. Back in the motor, he checked addresses against the A-Z, mapped out the best route. Saint John the Baptist’s
was in the next road. Oz gave a wry smile, envisioning heads on plates. In reality he knew it was never that easy. It wasn’t. The vicar at Saint John’s had no recollection of the
Collisons. Oz left a card on the off chance.

Five cards later, he was still drawing blanks. Margot Whittle appeared to be the only worshipper in the galaxy who’d heard of George and Hannah. He was toying with the idea of a return
visit when his mobile rang.

“DC Khan? Jane Cater here. Saint Mary’s.”

He frowned; he’d have remembered that voice: melting chocolate. “You spoke to my father,” she prompted.

Of course. Funny little man with a beard. “The Reverend..?”

“Cater. But he’s not the vicar. I am.” He sensed a smile, guessed she was accustomed to people jumping to conclusions. “You were asking about the Collisons.”

“Still am. Did you know them?” A mental crossing of the fingers.

“Not personally. We moved here several months after the fire. But my predecessor often spoke of them.”

“We’re keen to trace surviving family members.”

“Yes. Dad mentioned that. Alan Protheroe would be the best person to speak to.”

Oz jotted down the name. “Where can I find him?”

“They’re in Bath. He’s retired. Got a pen?”

It was a tough call. The flat was ideal for surveillance: top-floor front, unrestricted views of the street. The place wouldn’t be appearing in
Ideal Home
any time
soon, but who’d be looking at the interior décor? Bev flushed the toilet, washed her hands, leaned on the sink, gazed in the mirror. OK, here’s the deal: it’s too good to
pass up; tell Tom the score, then get him the hell out of there.

Marlow glanced up from sorting a pile of post as she entered the sitting room. An envelope drifted from his fingers as she passed. She knelt to retrieve it but he was already there, face almost
touching hers. Had he choreographed the encounter? It was hardly subtle. Neither were the slightly parted lips. The eyes were less easy to read but she reckoned ‘smouldering’ came
close.