Dead Old (5 page)

Look at Kev and Robbie. If Jake hadn’t fixed them up they’d still be getting buggered about in the kids’ home. Now they had a place of their own. OK, it was a tatty flat in an
empty tower block, but sod it: if the council couldn’t be arsed to knock the friggin’ thing down, whose lookout was that? Kev and Robbie were happy enough. Jake wanted young Davy in
there as well. Davy was his star pupil: made the Artful Dodger look like a sore thumb. And with a face like that he could get away with murder. Anyway, Jake liked to keep an eye on his boys.
He’d given them a good trade, had Jake. They made a decent enough living.

He laughed out loud, ignoring the uneasy glances in his direction. Oh, Jay, my son. That was good. That was very good.

*

An hour in a windowless room with Marty Skelton was bad. Chuck in a pair of cheesy, vomit-sodden trainers and the man’s intermittent flatulence, and terminal traffic duty
had its attractions. Whichever way you looked at it, Bev reckoned Interview Room One was going to need more than a dose of Jeyes and a squirt of polish before it was back to normal. As for Oz,
he’d pushed his chair as far from the olfactory action as it would go.

“Run it past me one more time,” Bev sighed, and raked a hand through hair she was itching to wash. Marty was rolling yet another fag: liquorice paper and a parsimonious pinch of
shag. The tin ashtray in the middle of the metal table already held six damp butts that looked like the droppings of a constipated rodent. A corresponding number of empty coffee cups was scattered
across the tabletop. What with the nicotine and the caffeine, Marty couldn’t keep his skinny frame still. His feet were bouncing on the sludge-coloured lino and a tic fluttered in his right
eyelid. He was either on something or up to something. As for his movements during the relevant hours of the inquiry, he hadn’t budged an inch.

“You can have it as often as you like, darlin’.” Either the tic was getting worse or he’d just winked. Bev pursed her lips and tapped her fingers on the table; Marty
eventually got the picture. “I’ve told you what happened,” he added. “It ain’t gonna change.”

The fact that Marty had eschewed a brief suggested there were enough witnesses to back him up. Normally, he wouldn’t open his mouth without a tame lawyer checking every syllable. According
to Marty, while the old woman was getting killed he’d been at the Red Lion getting rat-arsed. He’d stopped off for curry and chips on the way home, and taken both food and a bottle of
Johnnie Walker to bed. Partway through the fourth telling, Bev’s gaze drifted to the big-breasted women tattooed on Marty’s arms. Her eyes widened as naked female flesh appeared to
undulate in time to the flexing of what remained of Marty’s muscles. She raised an eyebrow; the artwork made quite a change from eagles or anchors, and it was a damn sight more riveting than
his alibi.

“What about when you were in bed?” Oz asked. “Did you hear anything suspicious?”

Bev almost jumped at the sound of Oz’s voice, switching her attention back to the proceedings. But Marty in bed surrounded by greasy foil containers was not a thought she wanted to hold.
“Did you get up in the night?” She knew as soon as the words were out they’d been a mistake.

“Sure did.” He gave a lewd hand gesture just in case the double entendre had passed them by.

“Don’t fuck with me, Marty.” Again, it wasn’t the aptest turn of phrase.

“Don’t flatter yourself, darlin’.” He sucked smoke through ill-fitting dentures and gently lifted a buttock. “I’ll tell you one more time. I went to bed, I
went to sleep and I was out of it. Nothing short of nook-lear would have woke me.”

Bev curled a lip. Oz was surreptitiously sniffing his new Hugo Boss jacket. Eau de low-life. Great. She scraped her chair back. They wouldn’t get any more. Not yet. Marty could sweat.
Actually Marty didn’t need permission. He was sweating like a pig on a spit.

Davy was dreading it. Jake would go ballistic. Davy was watching him now, drinking coffee over by the window. Starbucks was where they always met after working the Bullring.
Davy hadn’t got the bottle to join him yet. He didn’t know how he was going to tell Jake he wanted out. Thing was, Jake had been dead good to him, a bit like Davy imagined a dad would
be. Except that was stupid. Davy might not look it but he was seventeen and he reckoned Jake was only a few years older. He couldn’t really explain but right from the word go, Jake had made
him feel good: made him feel he was
somebody.

Before Jake, Davy’s mates had all been losers. Christ, they were either banged up in Feltham or dodging bullets in Basra. Then a few months back Jake had come up to Davy in Kings Heath
High Street. He was tall and weird-looking, what with the spikes and the leathers, but he was smart. Jake was the smartest guy Davy had ever known. So Davy couldn’t believe it when Jake said
he could join the gang. Had to prove himself, of course, pick a pocket or three, that sort of thing. But Jake had shown him the ropes and Davy had been on the payroll ever since. Davy had never
been so minted. But it wasn’t just the cash. It was being with Jake. Jake was cool. And he used his head. They never took unnecessary risks. Took everything else, though.

Davy’s smile faded. They’d been targeting coffin-dodgers recently. Like everything else, it was Jake’s call. It was good practice, he reckoned, and easy money. But Davy
hadn’t liked it; specially not the knocking them about. Now Davy wanted out. Jake wouldn’t like it. And there were times you didn’t question Jake.

“What the–?” Bev was lost for a fitting expletive. It’d be a pisser to be late for the guv’s briefing but it wasn’t every day you saw
Spiderman emerging from the gents at Highgate. A young PC with a cheeky grin waited outside, leaning casually against the wall. “It’s OK, Sarge. He’s with me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, don’t tell me: the Incredible Hulk’s in the canteen.”

“Batman, actually. And he’s in Interview Two.”

Of course: the early shout at Spaghetti Junction. Fathers 4 Justice making another big show. Ironic, really; a lot of women Bev came across couldn’t trace their kids’ dads for love
nor money. F4J on the other hand had a higher profile than Father Christmas.

Spiderman almost lost a limb when he lunged at Bev, but he was only pointing out a few crumbs on her jacket. She’d just wolfed down a pasty at her desk, an attack of the munchies being the
only legacy of the morning’s hangover. Her rushed break had turned into a working lunch, owing to the fact the phone never stopped ringing. Though come to think of it, apart from the feedback
from the Red Lion, the calls had been more domestic than detective duties. Her offer on a house in Highbury Road had been slung out. And her mum wondered if she could pop into Sainsbury’s on
the way home.
Home?
Why the hell she’d moved out of her last place before securing the next she’d never know. She brushed at the crumbs, reckoning if the pasty had been within a
hundred miles of Cornwall, she was Kylie Minogue.

Bev watched as Spiderman and his police escort entered the lift, then glanced round with a frown. The clack of high heels echoing along the corridor was another thing you didn’t often come
across at Highgate. A woman came into sight, looking lost. Bev had seen her before but had to think for a second before placing her. Of course. Harry Gough’s ladyfriend from this morning. The
pathologist had probably left her at reception while he had a word with the coroner’s officer.

“If you’re after the ladies, you’ve just passed it,” Bev called. “Turn round, keep going and it’s last door on the right.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The loo.” Bev was alongside the woman now. She pointed the way and gave her a friendly smile before opening the conference room door. “This is a briefing, sweetheart. The
public’s not allowed in.”

The room wasn’t big and the twenty-strong squad made it appear even smaller. There was tension in the air, along with the sort of frisson that only came with a murder inquiry. As every man
and woman in the room knew, a killer was out there. And if they didn’t catch him, they could be looking at another victim.

Bev was about to perch on a desk at the back but the guv pointed out a seat next to him up front. She hadn’t seen Byford since Friday. By the look of him, he’d had a couple of late
nights. His complexion was sallow at the best of times but today the skin around his eyes looked bruised and the lines on his face appeared deeper than normal. What was he now? Fifty-two?
Fifty-three? Bev reckoned he was beginning to look it.

She gave Bernie Flowers a quick nod as she sat down, which he returned with a “Wotcha, Bev.” Bernie was chief of the police news bureau. He looked like a junior cabinet minister with
his grey suits, grey ties and silver-rimmed specs, but in fact he was one of the sharpest operators around. Word had it he’d edited a national mass-circulation tabloid till a drink problem
forced him out. Not long after his arrival at Highgate, one of the station clowns had made some crack about the sun never setting over the yardarm. No one knew exactly what Bernie said in response
but the joke was never repeated.

Bev was still smiling at the recollection as Byford rose and prepared to address the troops. Her smile was still there seconds later as the door at the back of the room swung open and almost
every head turned to catch the late arrival. The smile froze.

The guv was welcoming the new DI – and Bev wanted to die.

Davy Roberts reckoned it had to be a joke. Jake could not be serious. Davy glanced at the other members of the gang but either they weren’t listening or didn’t
care. Kev was shovelling a chocolate brownie down his neck and Robbie was checking cinema times in the
Evening News.
Starbucks would be closing any time soon and Davy was desperate to get it
sorted. He’d soon realised there was no way he could tell Jake he wanted out but they couldn’t just carry on as if nothing had happened.

“Come on, man,” he asked Jake again. “What we gonna do?”

Jake rested his hand on the younger boy’s arm, though there was nothing relaxed about the touch. “I’ve told you once: zilch.”

Davy was beginning to wish he’d kept his big mouth shut. Jake was scarier like this than when he was on the rant.

“But, Jake –” He hated pleading but he had to get through. “She’s dead.”

“So?” Jake increased the pressure.

“What if someone was watching?” Baiting an old biddy in the street and nicking a bar of chocolate was fair game but this morning’s show had been gross.

“There was no one around.” Jake’s voice was soft and low, the Birmingham accent barely discernible. “And even if there was – so what?”

Davy said nothing, too scared to voice his suspicion. Jake picked up on it anyway. “I get it.” He was still speaking softly. “You think we went back and finished the job after
you’d gone? Is that it, Davy?” He tightened his grip on the boy’s arm.

Tears pricked Davy’s eyes. It wasn’t just the pain; he was desperate not to lose Jake’s friendship. But Jake’s face was creased with contempt.

The other gang members were tuned in now. “You wanna watch what you say,” Kev sneered. “Little tosser.”

Robbie never said much; he had a line in threatening looks.

Davy thought his arm was about to snap.

“We know where
we
were, don’t we, lads? ” Jake didn’t wait for a response. “You were the one buggered off on your own. How do we know where you went, what
you were up to? Sitting there like butter wouldn’t melt.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Davy tried a faltering smile but Jake was deadly serious. “Come on, Jake, you know I’d never –”

“Never what?” Jake ran a finger along Davy’s cheek. “Smack an old girl round the face?”

Kev and Robbie sat back, brawny arms crossed. They were enjoying the master-class; it was the closest they’d come to school for years. With their shaven heads and acne scars they looked
like the Brothers Grimm. With his blond hair and blue eyes, Davy was definitely not one of the family.

Jake wrenched Davy’s arm one last time before finally releasing his grip. “Only joking. You wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, Davy?”

He smiled uncertainly. Was Jake winding him up? He could never tell. “I’m only saying that maybe we need to lie low. Keep our heads down for a bit.” Davy didn’t just want
to lie low; he never wanted to go near another wrinkly as long as he lived. Except his gran.

Jake appeared to give it deep thought, nodding slightly with a finger pressed on his pursed lips. “Maybe you’re right, my old son.” Then he leaned in so close Davy could smell
the espresso on his breath. “Tell you what, though. For old times’ sake – there’s just one little job I’d like you to do.”

4

Detective Inspector Danny Shields.

Daniella.

Bev wanted the floor to open. She needed to disappear for a while. A couple of light years might do the trick. No. A miracle would be better. Dear God, raise me from the dead embarrassed. The
new DI wasn’t just a woman, she was the woman Bev had casually dismissed as Harry’s latest totty and – oh, shit – the woman she’d just blithely despatched to the
toilet. Talk about cringe. Bev’s toes were so curled they had cramp. She tried concentrating on the case – difficult with Danny Girl in the next seat.

Byford was still running through the introductions. Reactions from the floor were predictable, with most of the men casting covert glances at the new DI’s legs. Bev pulled her skirt down
as far it would go, covered her lap with a clipboard. With the social niceties out of the way, the guv was in business. He took up position alongside the murder board, started outlining the
previous attacks and comparing them with the latest crime. The talk was illustrated; they’d all seen the police photographs on the board before. Three pairs of frightened eyes stared from
faces battered purple; grossly swollen bumps and coarse black sutures exacerbated the horror.

Until today Bev had sensed that some of the team was growing inured to the sight, the shocking images losing their impact. She’d even caught a few sick granny jokes doing the rounds. But
now a new picture had been added to the gallery of shame. This morning’s still nameless victim was up there with Iris Collins, Joan Goddard and Ena Bolton. Were they linked? Bev was unsure;
there were glaring inconsistencies as well as apparent connections.