Dead Old (3 page)

“Who?”

“Marty Skelton? Bony M?” The blank look revealed a gap in Oz’s musical education. “He’s a one-man scam factory. Surely you’ve come across him? Bow-legged?
Sandy hair? Straggly moustache? Christ, Oz, he’s got his own mug at Highgate. The custody sergeants are thinking of charging him B and B.”

“Small bloke? Tattoos? Got a veg stall down the market?”

“Flowers, isn’t it?” She gave a one-shoulder shrug.“Whatever.”

A fine drizzle, barely enough to occupy the wipers, was falling desultorily as they turned into Cable Street. It was trellis territory with a smattering of pebbledash. A few houses had obviously
been done up; others looked as if they’d been done over.

“There’s loads of places for sale down here,” Oz said.

Bev knew more about the current Birmingham property market than a chain of estate agents. She was after a place of her own. It didn’t have to be a dream house, just one that didn’t
give her nightmares. “Prone to subsidence. Roads in a bad way. And no garaging.”

Oz was only half-listening; he was scanning a near-empty street. “No cameras, either. Reckon it was a duff call?”

A flash car was almost blocking the pavement a few houses down on the right. Bev nodded in its direction. “Let’s take a look.” A BBC logo came into sight as they drew
alongside. Either the Beeb had an exclusive or everyone else had left. On the other hand, the anonymous caller may have been tight with the truth.

“It’s hardly crawling, is it?” Oz sounded peeved. “Where is everyone?”

“One way to find out.”

Knocking on number 12’s door wasn’t it. “Best try the back,” Bev said. “Hold on.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Did you hear that honk?”

“Honk?”

“Yeah, look.” She pointed up. “Wild geese.”

He managed half a smile. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

The rear of the property was accessed down a narrow side alley strewn with damp newspapers and dog shit. Mouldy vegetable peel and a rotting chicken carcass spilled from a black bin liner; even
the air was rancid. Mean little gardens backed on to a narrow strip of communal land, with lethal-looking iron railings beyond it, bordering council allotments.

Distinguishing which residence was attracting the attention wasn’t difficult. Satellite dishes sprouted from just about every wall but only one back yard had a film crew. And it
wasn’t shooting
Gardener’s World;
the meagre bit of scrubland belonging to number 12 didn’t even boast weeds. Unless you counted the two-legged variety.

“I might have known.” Bev held back, hand on hip. “What’s he up to now?”

Marty Skelton was having his fifteen minutes all right. Bev couldn’t begin to imagine what the interview was about. As far as she knew, Marty only had one area of expertise and it was the
sort you didn’t broadcast.

She talked as she walked. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Marty Skelton. As I live and breathe.”

“Button it, sister. We’re recording.” The TV reporter didn’t even turn round, just shot out a hand to underline his message. Bev almost cuffed it.

“You’re not my brother. And you can be halfway through open-heart surgery. I don’t give a monkey’s. You’re this close to getting arrested. Buddy.”

Three heads turned. There was a finger and thumb and no discernible gap in between.

Bev glared at Marty. Was the sneaky little toe-rag going red under all those freckles? “What’s going on, Marty?”

“Inspector Morriss –”

Talk about toadying. Marty Skelton knew her rank as well as she did; she’d booked him enough times. She silenced him with a Morriss-glare. “Don’t call me –”

The reporter laid a smooth hand on her forearm; the nails were too long and not overly clean. She shook it off angrily but the newsman was more tenacious.

“You’re the
police
?” His voice held pleasure beyond his wildest imagining. Anyone’d think she was offering a blowjob. “Would you mind awfully, Inspector, if
I just finish with Mr Skelton? Then perhaps we can just change shot… I’m dead keen on the daffodil angle –”

She’d have probably bopped him at that point but a heartfelt “Fucking hell!” from Oz demanded everyone’s attention. Oz had ventured further into the wasteland. Bev
followed, compelled by the expression on his face as much as in his voice.

The sight was so unexpected, so surreal, she almost giggled. For a split second she was sure it was an early April Fool. But this was no joke, however sick. She tried to blank out everything
else, concentrate only on what lay before her.

An old woman sprawled on a damp, foul-smelling mattress in a cruel parody of peaceful sleep. Bev put out a steadying hand. It was so still, so quiet she could hear the pulse whoosh in her ears.
She concentrated again on the macabre tableau. The woman’s baggy pink knickers were round her twig-like ankles; one of her eyes was partially obscured by a blue beret that had probably been
rammed on after the attack. The victim was filthy and scruffy and stank of human waste and booze.

But this was no death by natural causes. What sort of sick bastard rammed flowers down a dead woman’s throat? It was an indignity too far.

Bev clenched her fists, briefly closed her eyes. The daffodils were some sort of sick message; the killer hadn’t used them to choke his victim. The old lady hadn’t died from
asphyxiation. There was too much blood for that, far too much. And anyway, the murder weapons were still in place.

2

Bev rose to her feet, brushing mud and bits of unidentified vegetation from her skirt. “You’re in shit so deep, Marty, you could be a turd.”

Marty shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shuffled his feet, gazed at the ground. The reporter broke what was becoming an uneasy silence. “What’s the problem,
officer?”

Bev switched her glare to the tall twenty-something newsman. Either he’d had a perm or his hair had curled in the drizzle. It gave him a curiously old-fashioned look, as did the
double-breasted suit. It was well-cut and probably expensive but far too big for him, like the air of authority that he assumed went with a loud voice and posh accent. Not that Bev was biased, of
course. She just thought he was a dickhead.

“Where shall we start,
sonny
?” She made the points by ticking her fingers. “Tramping over a murder scene? Contaminating evidence? Obstructing an inquiry? Or perverting
the course of justice?”

“That’s ridiculous. We haven’t touched a thing. Mr Skelton says –”

Bev flapped a hand, her glance now on Marty. “What does Mr Skelton say? Exactly?”

Marty was saying precisely nothing. This was rare coming from a man who could flog the fuzz off a bruised peach. While Marty stalled, Bev tried to work out a likely sequence of events. Her
hangover was receding slightly but it was still like swimming in cobwebs. An old woman, a bag lady by the look of it, had been brutally murdered. That was non-negotiable. Plus the fact she’d
ended up in Marty’s back yard.

“It’s down to you, Marty. You talk here or Highgate. I don’t care where.”

“Can I just grab a quick interview?” The newsman flashed a practised smile as he straightened his tie. “A few words from the police point of view? I’m sure you’ve
done this sort of thing before.”

Bev swirled round, eyes flashing. This was taking the piss. “You just don’t get it, do you? A line’s been crossed here, sonny –”

He took a step nearer to Bev. “I’m not your sonny. And I don’t like being patronised.”

Bev installed herself in the middle of his personal space. She dropped her voice but the menace was unmistakeable: a trick she’d picked up from the guv. “A woman’s dead here,
sonny.”

She could see flecks of loose skin in his eyebrows and a crumb of something caught between his front teeth. For a split second, she sensed an inner fury and thought he was going to go for her.
But then, as quickly, the public face was back in place.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, officer.” He held out a hand. “I’m Richard Peck. BBC.”

Bev folded her arms, tapped a foot. “And you’re here doing what?”

Peck shrugged. “I’m trying to do my job. Surely you see this is a matter of public interest? If the killing’s linked to the other attacks people have a right to know
–”

Oh, please. Not the right-to-know line. She glared at the man, enunciated each word slowly, precisely. “They have a right to the facts.”

“Talking of which. What about the flowers? Have daffodils featured in the other attacks?”

That thought hadn’t just crossed Bev’s mind, it was taking up residence. As she and every other cop in the city were aware, over the last month, three old women had been attacked and
robbed. Though badly beaten, none had died. In each case, cash and jewellery had been taken. Bev knew a bunch of daffodils had been found at the home of one of the victims. There’d been no
reason before now to give it significance. The media had already speculated endlessly about the incidents being linked but it was a possibility the guv didn’t go along with.

Peck went for another winning smile. “Look, if you won’t do an interview will you at least give me a statement? I can stick it in a piece-to-camera.”

“Is it just me or what?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “How often do you need telling? You shouldn’t be here and you certainly can’t use any of this
stuff.”

Peck glanced at his watch. “The first piece went out on the eight o’clock. So I’d say you were wrong there. And the woman from Central was pushing the daffodil line a lot
harder than me.”

Could it get any worse? Scenes-of-crime were going to have a collective coronary when they eventually arrived. Central TV had been and gone. God knew how many other media people had been milling
around. How the hell had the press got here first?

She felt a hand on her elbow. It was Oz, who’d been on the phone to Highgate, rounding up the troops. He’d even located a couple of paracetemol. She slipped them distractedly into
her pocket, her thoughts still on the media.

“They’re on the way, Sarge. The full works.”

Of course. Oz had been tipping off the good guys. She’d bet a pound to a penny Marty had been on the blower to the baddies. She narrowed her eyes. “Who did you call first,
Marty?”

“You what?” He pulled at a fleshy ear lobe, glance still on the ground.

“Eye. Main chance. Cash for questions.” She moved towards him, jabbed a finger at his scrawny chest. “Did you toss a coin? Heads the Bill, tails the Beeb?”

“I didn’t call no one.”

Bev turned on the reporter. “How much are you paying him?”

Peck shrugged, studied his nails.

“I asked you a question.”

“A facility fee isn’t payment. As such.”

“Facility fee?” The snarl was almost audible. “Is that what decent people call a bung?” She sighed, shook her head. “I don’t believe it. A woman’s dead
and all you’re bothered about is a few quid and a bit of airtime. So did you tip off every news desk in the Midlands before calling Highgate?”

Marty sniffed; ran a nicotine-stained finger along his moustache. “I may have phoned a couple of contacts in the media.”

“And the cops?” Bev pushed.

“Do me a favour.”

There was a first for everything – even Marty telling it for real. Bev made a mental note. No. Better not risk it. She delved into her shoulder bag, brought out a notebook and pen. They
might not find out, it might not be important, but if Marty hadn’t made that call – who had?

Flecks of vomit clung to his sodden sweatshirt like porridge on canvas. Davy Roberts retched again and again but his belly was empty, the murky contents in a phone box on Keats
Road. He’d give anything to get rid of the image in his head as easily. He leaned on the sink, stared in the mirror, surprised he couldn’t see the revulsion on his face. He looked just
the same. Blond hair, blue eyes. His mates called him baby-face. He hated it. He dipped his head in the sink; cold water splashed over the edges, showering the bathroom tiles and his filthy Nikes.
Though his body felt on fire, sweat ran cold down the clammy skin on his spine.

“Davy! Is that you?”

His gran’s voice, faint but high-pitched, drifted up from the bottom of the stairs. He pictured her standing with one podgy hand clutching the banister, the other clamped round a walking
frame. If he didn’t answer she’d drag herself up to find out what was going on. Automatically he clicked the lock on the door. Company was the last thing he needed.

He took a deep breath, forced his voice to sound normal. “Down in a min, gran.”

“Where’ve you been? I been worried sick.”

“Just nipped to the shop, gran. Shan’t be a tick. I’ll get you a bite of breakfast.”

He hated lying to her, but sometimes there were things she really didn’t need to know.

“A fry-up, Davy? A lion’s breakfast?” Her voice sounded even more girlie than usual.

He groaned at the thought of bacon and eggs swilling in lard, but how could he disappoint her? He’d have been in a kids’ home if she hadn’t taken him in. Five years old he was
when his ma snuffed it. As for his dad, he could be anywhere – or anyone, come to that. “You bet, gran.”

Thank God he hadn’t thrown up in here; she’d have been fussing round, asking questions, demanding answers. He loved two people in this world and one was the fat cantankerous old
woman downstairs, but she’d go ape-shit if she knew the half of it. He glanced down ruefully at the sick, then carefully slipped the sweatshirt over his head. The stench hit his nostrils and
he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He thrust the garment into a plastic carrier. He didn’t want the damn thing anyway. He’d dump it later.

An hour or so on and Cable Street resembled
The Bill
with a live audience. Eager fans, mostly young mums and pensioners, were grouped opposite number 12; more spectators
lined the railings at the back. In the absence of the governor, Bev had directed operations; the show was almost on the road.

Marty’s place was cordoned off, uniforms were posted at strategic points, house-to-house teams were on the knock; SOCOs, search teams and a police photographer were chomping at the bit
waiting for the path man to do his.