Dead Old (31 page)

“You have my support. You know that.” He’d already spoken up for her; she’d been hauled over more coals than a pit pony. That’s when supposed mates weren’t
shit-bagging her or taking the piss. She knew what they called her now, it wasn’t behind her back any more.

Lonely. Fucking felt it, too.

“Yeah, right.” She examined her nails. “That’ll be your full backing from some beach in Bermuda?”

An envelope had appeared at the front desk. She’d added a tenner to the leaving collection. She couldn’t blame him. Take the money and run. The only bright spot since the Collison
debacle had been the guv’s relatively clean bill of health. The tests had revealed IBS. He’d even joked the B stood for Bev.

“Are you really packing it in, guv?”

“Are you?”

She’d asked herself the same question a thousand times. She wanted to talk it through with Oz, but had barely seen him since Bloody Sunday. He was keeping his distance. Or was it her
imagination? Her judgement was shit at the moment.

“I’ve had enough.” She was knackered, barely sleeping; like Sadie, just different nightmares.

He brought out a bottle of malt and a couple of glasses from the filing cabinet. Bev took the largest measure and swallowed half. A belated
Cheers
was anything but. She slumped in the
chair, legs stretched out in front. The body language said a lot and Byford was listening.

“It was a result, Bev. He’ll go down.”

“He’d have gone down for good if his girlfriend hadn’t decked me.”

She was scared. Scared how far she’d gone; scared there’d come a time when she wouldn’t stop.

“We’ve all been there, Bev. We’re only human. We get pushed to the limit. It’s not surprising we falter now and again.”

“Falter? Is that big boy for fuck-up?

He held his hands out. “You went too far. It happens. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”

“Can’t imagine you taking a pop, guv.”

“I’ve taken more than a pop.”

She sat up, folded her arms. “Go on.”

He shook his head. “One day, maybe.”

Another snort. “Saving it for your memoirs?”

He held her gaze. “At least I’ll have something to write. You won’t. Not if you go now.”

She shrugged, drained the glass.

He leaned forward. “You’re a good cop, Bev. Don’t beat yourself up.”

She bit back a line about beating up other people. It wasn’t the only stick with which she’d hit herself. “I let him take me out, guv. How dumb was that? I must be the only cop
in history to get wined and dined by a serial killer.”

He turned his mouth down. “Jodie Foster? Hannibal Lecter?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Bev. Marlow, Collison, whatever you want to call him, was entirely plausible. He faked his own stabbing, for God’s sake. He pulled the wool over everyone’s
eyes.”

She sniffed. “Cashmere.”

“There you go, then. If you hadn’t stopped him, he might have got away with it. He had flights booked, cases packed. Him and his ladyfriend.”

That was another thing. She hadn’t even run a check on Grace Kane. The woman had lied through her teeth. She was no more into journalism than Bev was into anger management. It had been a
ruse to try to get an inside track on the inquiry. Kane and Collison were lovers. Bev put her head in her hands. Talk about being wrong-footed. Christ. She should be walking with a limp.

“What I can’t work out is how he got them to do his bidding.” Byford swirled his glass. Tea-leaves would have been a better bet. “He had them all in the palm of his
hand.”

“Tell me about it.” She shook her head. Charisma? Cash? Fear? He’d certainly given Davy Roberts the shits. With good reason. Jake had told him if he ever opened his mouth, Gert
was dead meat. For the Shrek boys, Kevin Fraser and Robert Lewis, silence was golden. Jake had promised them megabucks to keep shtum.

He could afford to. He wouldn’t have been around for the pay-off. He only existed when Collison adopted the persona. None of the lads had even heard of Collison, let alone Tom Marlow.

“Mind,” she said, “they can’t drop him in it fast enough now. They’re still dishing the dirt.”

Even Marty Skelton had come forward with a shovel. Soon as the story broke on the telly news, Marty offered a witness statement. He could identify the bloke he got the dog from – for a
small fee. He eschewed payment after being threatened with a charge of withholding.

“And with the forensics,” Byford said, “even if Collison changes his plea, he’ll still get life.”

“Damn sight more than his victims.”

The ‘lucky’ ones had been damaged irrevocably. Even the indomitable Sadie jumped at every sound; she was scared staying in, hated going out. It could become a real problem when Bev
moved to Baldwin Street next month. Sadie was already begging her not to go. An eight-week-old golden retriever wasn’t much of a substitute for a kick-ass cop.

“There’ll always be victims, Bev. All we do is keep the numbers down.”

“We?” A vision of Byford lolling around on a beach flashed before her tired eyes. “Christ, guv, it’s bad enough when you’re here…” The Byford eyebrows
were on alert. “You know what I mean. You’re a good bloke, but the thought of working under Shields…

Words petered out; she studied her nails again. She’d always imagined there’d be some short of showdown; pistols at noon, that sort of thing. The DI hadn’t exchanged a word
with Bev since Collison’s arrest. It hadn’t stopped her submitting a damning written report that would stay on file. Bev was under no illusion that her every step would be closely
monitored for the foreseeable.

“You wouldn’t be working under her,” Byford said.

“What?” She reached for her drink but the glass was empty.

Months before hitting Highgate, he explained, Shields had been interviewed for a DI post in Devon. It had been close but no cigar. But now the candidate appointed had quit unexpectedly and
Shields had been offered the job.

Bev punched the air under the table.

Byford shook his head. “Very mature.” He poured a couple of refills and pushed her glass across the table. “Come on, Sergeant, you can’t run out on us now.”

There’d be an acting DI post up for grabs, she’d had two large Laphroaigs on an empty stomach and the guv was in a good mood. And she was a cop. What the hell else could she do?

“Tell you what, guv.” She paused. “I’ll stay if you will.”

She held her breath as he rose, watched him pace the room, then perch on the edge of the desk. Could be the Leapfrogs or an oxygen shortage, but she felt dizzy.

“Tell you what, Bev.” He winked, raised the glass and drained the last of the malt. “I’ll think about it.”

Bev was whistling an old Tears for Fears number as she strolled past the front desk. Vince Hanlon lifted his glance from the sports pages. “Can’t argue with that,
Bev.”

“What’s that, Vincie?”

“It’s a mad world, right enough.”

She laughed. “Sure is.” Mind, it could be worse. It was Friday night. In a couple of hours, she’d be whooping it up at Frankie’s gig in the Jug of Ale. Her hopes
weren’t high, but Oz hadn’t ruled out dropping in for an hour or so. There was serious sorting still to do but they had to start someplace. Either way her young friend, Jules, would be
there. Bev had stopped off at the Texaco earlier in the week to invite her along. Apart from a promise to herself she’d keep in touch, Jules was a reminder that a cop’s job was still
worth doing. Sometimes.

She swung her bag over her shoulder. “I’m off, Vince. Catch you Monday.”

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

There was something in his voice that made her look back and reluctantly return.

“Heard what?”

“What do you want first? The good news or the bad?”

She folded her arms, tapped a foot.

Vince glanced in both directions than leaned forward conspiratorially. “The guv’s not going anywhere.”

She frowned. That was quick. It was less than an hour since she’d left him cogitating in his office.

“Just between you and me, right?” Vince paused for a nod of agreement. “He let it slip the other night in the Prince. He’s knocked the retirement idea on the
head.”

“That definite, is it?” Bev was picturing Byford, perched on the desk promising, a tad patronisingly as she recalled, to give it some thought.

“Horse’s mouth.” He tapped the side of his nose. “You know what the guv’s like when his mind’s made up.”

She certainly did. “I’ll have my tenner back, then.”

“Tenner?”

“The collection.” She held out a hand.

“Please yourself.” So why was he looking put out? “I thought it was a nice gesture, considering.”

“Gesture?”

“Yeah. It was the old man’s idea. A whip-round for Danny Shields. She’s only been here five minutes but the guv thought we should get her some flowers or something. She’s
off next Friday.”

She pursed her lips. “Tell me, Vince. Do I look gullible?”

A wavering hand suggested a close call. She gave a wry smile. What the hell? The guv was staying. As news went, it didn’t get much better. Vince could keep the cash – as long as he
put it towards a bunch of daffs.

They both glanced round when the main doors shot back. Oz saw Bev at the desk, headed over like a man on a mission.

“Have you heard?”

She was about to mention echoes and déjà vu. Oz couldn’t wait to share.

“DI Powell’s in the clear. He’s back. Monday week.”

Vince opened his mouth but Bev lifted a hand. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “That so has to be the bad news.”

Epilogue

Faint light flickered from a corner of the room as Bev parked the MG and walked towards the house. Through the window, she could see Maude Taylor watching television. Must be a
good programme; the old woman was rapt.

Bev raised the knocker then stilled it, loath to butt in, but she’d been spotted. Maude was reaching for her stick and struggling to her feet.

“Sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to return this.” She proffered Sophia’s journal. Maude took it, returned Bev’s smile. “Thanks for letting me see it, Maude.
Your friend must have been quite a woman. I wish I’d known her.”

Maude opened the door and stood to one side. “Come in, dear. I’d like to show you something.”

A half-packed suitcase and several boxes littered the hall floor. “When are you off?”

“Tomorrow. First thing. Do go through.”

Maude hadn’t been watching television. Bev’s heart sank when she saw the screen and the projector. Holiday slides or home movies she could live without.

“I know what you’re thinking, but humour me.”

She hid a grin. The old woman never had missed much.

There were several metal canisters on the table but Maude rewound the film already in the machine.

“The others I’ve seen lots of times, but I didn’t even know this existed.”

Bev perched on the arm of a chair, waited patiently while Maude cued the old footage. The colours had faded to soft pastels over the years. Bev watched as the camera panned across extensive
lawns, decorated with the palest of daffodils, before steadying and focusing on two figures on a bench.

“I think I can guess who took it,” Maude said. “Only one other person in the world knew about the baby then.”

“The father?” Bev asked

Maude nodded.

“And you’ve no idea who he was?”

“None.”

Bev wasn’t sure she believed her. “Where was it filmed?” Why am I whispering?

“In the grounds of the nursing home.” Maude pointed with her stick. “Look, you can just see the edge of the building.”

Bev was more interested in the woman and the tiny baby. Both were warmly wrapped against what was presumably a chill in the air. The child was swamped in a thick ivory shawl, her pale face and
dark hair just discernible under a pink bonnet.

Bev felt an unutterable sadness as she imagined how often Sophia had watched this film, lingering over every frame, savouring every precious second of the motherhood she’d felt forced to
sacrifice. Christ. The past wasn’t a foreign country; it was an alien universe. Bev knew fourteen-year-olds around these parts with three kids by three different blokes.

Sophia was gently stroking her daughter’s cheek.

“Did she want to keep her baby, Maude?”

“More than you can ever imagine, my dear.”

Both women watched as Sophia Carrington lifted her glance to the lens. A gust of wind snatched at the blue beret. Maybe the cold was stinging her eyes, but it could just as easily have been a
tear on the young doctor’s cheek as she smiled for the camera.