Dead Old (6 page)

The first three victims were widows in their late seventies. Ena and Joan lived within a couple of streets of each other in Kings Heath. Iris had a three-storey redbrick in
Moseley.
Had
being the operative word. She was too frightened now to live alone, let alone too frail. She’d moved in with her daughter.

Iris Collins had been attacked first. Initially her daughter Angela believed that Iris had fallen downstairs. She’d driven over from Harborne to take Iris to the hairdresser’s. It
was a regular weekly appointment, thank God. The old woman had lain on the hall floor for only one night. Already enfeebled by a heart condition and mild dementia, Iris could barely speak by the
time her daughter arrived. It was three days before Angela discovered that Iris’s wedding ring was missing and the life savings her mother kept under the mattress had disappeared, and alerted
the police.

Bev had read the interview notes. According to DC Carol Mansfield, the old woman had been vague, incoherent, kept blathering on about a baby. A week later when the gang struck again, it appeared
the allusion might have more significance than the ramblings of a confused pensioner.

Bev interviewed Joan Goddard in hospital within a couple of hours of the assault. There was no doubt what caused the injuries; fist and footmarks were still visible. The old woman’s mind
was sharp, as her eyesight had been until the first punch detached a retina. Joan blamed herself for that, she told Bev. The yobs had been waiting for her when she returned from the shops: three
masked youths in the tiny sitting room, she may have heard a fourth upstairs. She’d snatched at the nearest one’s balaclava, caught a glimpse of his face. It was a costly move that
unleashed a rain of blows and a string of verbal abuse. They’d torn off her rings, stolen her purse. Joan kept her savings in the bank. She’d told them time and again but they still
tore the place apart and pissed in her bed.

It was when Bev was leaving that Joan provided the first and slenderest of leads. It also added credence to Iris’s so-called blathering. The youth Joan glimpsed had a baby face: blond
hair, blue eyes, round cheeks. The E-fit was so vague, the guv had dithered about releasing it. Short of anything else, he’d authorised its issue to the media. There’d been no useful
response.

The third victim, Ena Bolton, had no chance to snatch anything. Three, maybe four youths had been lying in wait when she returned home after an evening’s bingo. The fact they weren’t
wearing masks hadn’t mattered. They’d already smashed every light bulb in the house. Two gang members had bound, gagged and blindfolded her. The battering left her bruised, bleeding and
struggling to recall the tiniest detail to help identify her attackers. She didn’t care about the few pounds they’d stolen but they’d also taken her dog. Ena had shown Bev the
spaniel’s picture: head cocked to the side, one ear up, one down, an outstretched paw. Humph was deaf and a little lame. Ena had doted on him for fifteen years.

Bev had dropped by Ena’s place a few times now. The calls hadn’t just been part of the inquiry; Ena was a sweet old dear. It was during the last visit that Ena had mentioned the
daffodils. A neighbour or friend had apparently left flowers in the house while she’d been in hospital. “Such a kind thought, don’t you agree, dear?” Bev had smiled and
nodded, and until that morning never gave it another…

Byford was clearly waiting for an answer. The keys jangling in his pocket were as good an indication as the mild impatience on his face.

Busk or bluster? Bugger it. “Sorry, guv, didn’t catch what you said.”

Byford’s left eyebrow was in a mid-way arch, which according to Bev’s interpretation meant growing exasperation. It was confirmed in his voice. “Marty Skelton? Is he in the
frame?”

She wished she could say yes. It would certainly lift a bit of pressure off the guv’s shoulders. She held out empty palms. “I’d say not. There’s a couple of checks
outstanding but the alibi looks sound. The barmaid at the Red Lion reckons Marty was so off his face he could barely focus.”

“And how relevant is that? Exactly?” Danny Shields treated Bev to a thin smile. Her expression was one of polite interest, but the words, however softly spoken, were a challenge. A
challenge picked up by the entire team; backs straightened, ears strained. Everyone knew Bev had applied for the acting DI post. Now they watched the woman appointed uncross her long legs and lean
forward.

“The pathologist estimates that the victim died early on Sunday evening,” Shields went on. “Skelton could easily have killed her, then gone to the pub to establish an alibi.
The man’s alcoholic intake could be entirely commensurate with his guilt.”

The voice had class; must lecture a lot.

“Yeah,” Bev drawled. “Except he got to the Lion at lunchtime and never set foot outside the place till gone eleven.”

Bev’s contempt was barely masked. Shields let the silence linger for a few more seconds, then snapped. “Why wasn’t that in your report?”

Bev shrugged. “Only just had it confirmed. DC New called it in. He’s at the pub with DS Kent.”

A joker quipped, “Nothing new there then.” No one laughed; everyone was waiting for Shields’s response. A tuneless rendition of
The Archers
theme tune drifted in from
the corridor, courtesy of a tone-deaf whistler.

Shields narrowed her eyes. “Information of that calibre should be passed upwards immediately.” A raised hand forestalled any protest. “Time is of the essence. The first
twenty-four hours in a murder inquiry are crucial.”

“Pass the eggs,” muttered Bev. Byford ran a hand over his face.

“I beg your pardon?” Shields asked.

“The legs.” Bev pointed at Bernie’s chair. The news chief had it tipped back at a precarious angle. “I thought it was about to go. Wouldn’t want Bernie to take a
dive.”

The sniggers were audible. Shields glanced at Bev, then made a note on a lined pad on her lap.

“Obviously this later stuff will be in my report.” Bev paused. “When I’ve had time to write it. For what it’s worth, guv –” she turned pointedly to
Byford – “I actually think Marty’s a distraction. Maybe even a deliberate distraction. Let’s assume for a min we’re looking at the same gang that attacked Iris and the
others?” She waited for his assenting nod. “I think we need to go back to the beginning, only this time ask the old dears different questions.”

Another nod. “Go on.”

“As it stands, the only link is the approximate age of the murder victim. The other attacks happened in the old women’s homes, and none of them were life-threatening. It didn’t
look as if the woman this morning had anything worth nicking. On the face of it, there’s not much there. But what if there’s something else; something we’ve missed?”

“Like?” Byford asked.

She related Ena’s story about the daffodils. “It may be nothing. But if the same thing happened at Iris and Joan’s… We’ll know the attacks are down to the same
gang.”
And now they’ve killed.
The thought went unspoken but was shared by everyone.

“Worth a look,” Byford said. “I’m interested too in the timings. This theory of yours that the body was most likely concealed?”

“There’s a load of sheds on the allotments. Reg and the lads are giving it priority.”

“ID is priority at this stage, surely?” Shields turned her glance to Byford. “What about a news conference? Witness appeal? I don’t mind doing the honours.”

He silenced Bev with a look. “Thanks, Inspector, I may take you up on that. Although given the access the media’s already had, I can’t imagine they’ll be falling over
themselves for a talking head.”

A few bongs à la
News at Ten
chimed from the ranks but a Byford eyebrow muffled further sound effects. He then assigned the clowns responsible to the team that was already
ploughing through the paperwork generated by the early coverage.

Bev used the break to cast covert glances of her own at the new DI. The woman had to be in her mid-thirties; had a figure to diet for and unlined café latte skin. She was mixed race but
Bev’d be hard pushed to give a breakdown. The almond eyes and chestnut hair co-ordinated like a colour chart. Yet somehow the whole was less than attractive. Her sharp features gave her an
aloofness bordering on the chilly. Bev showed her emotions in her face; Shields had so far revealed nothing, though the smirk when Byford told Bev he wanted a word about the morning’s media
fiasco came close.

The ID issue was still unresolved. Bev waited for a gap and threw in a thought. “I have a hunch the old dear was sleeping rough. She was filthy, scruffy, been on the pop. Might be worth a
check with the shelters. See if someone can shed a bit of light.”

Byford nodded. “Good thought. We’ll get on to social services as well.”

“Actually –” Shields looked up from her pad. “I don’t agree with Sergeant Morriss’s hunch.” The stress on Bev’s rank was subtle; the stress on
hunch wasn’t. “I made a closer examination. The victim was well-nourished. The dirt was superficial. I don’t think she’d been drinking. I think the alcohol was poured over
her by the assailant, probably to show his contempt.” She paused for even more effect. “In fact, I believe the woman was wearing old gardening clothes. There was twine and scissors in
her pocket. I believe she may have been tending one of the allotments. She may even have picked the flowers herself. That, in my opinion, is where we should concentrate inquiries. I think
you’ll find the daffodils, if you’ll pardon the expression, are a red herring.”

There were a few polite smiles but not from Bev. She opened her mouth to speak but Shields hadn’t finished. “I’d go further and say I can see no connection with the ongoing
inquiry. There was nothing planned about this murder. It was vicious, frenzied almost. The killer or killers were probably stoned or drunk: blind drunk.”

Shields was probably having a pop, but at the moment that wasn’t important. Bev was more concerned about the DI’s take on the case. She replayed the Cable Street scenario in her
head. Had she read it wrong? Made unforgivable assumptions? Missed the pointers? And how and when had Shields picked them up?

“Did you hear me, Sergeant?” Shields asked.

Bev frowned. “Sorry. Say again.”

“I said in my opinion it’s premature to discard Marty Skelton. And it harms the investigation when people jump to conclusions.”

Bev glimpsed Byford fold his arms. Like everyone else he was watching her. She knew they expected a full-blown Morriss strop. She nearly obliged. It was the glint of malice in Shields’s
eyes that stopped her. For some reason the woman was spoiling for a fight.

“You’re absolutely right, ma’am.” Bev flashed her warmest smile. “I’ll aim to keep an open mind.” The pause was perfectly timed. “Like
you.”

“OK.” Byford had clearly had enough. “Let’s get on with it. There’s a mountain of stuff to get through.”

Further actions were assigned: Carol Mansfield and Del Chambers would check out allotment holders. Ken Rose and Brian Latham would visit the shelters and contact social services. Daz and Gary
were following up Marty’s marathon in the Red Lion. Bev and Oz would re-interview Iris et al. Everyone else would be on the streets of Kings Heath.

Bev was almost out of the door when Shields called her back.

“A word, Sergeant.” The woman hadn’t moved from her chair.

Bev hesitated briefly. Oz was fetching the car round. On the other hand, it was worth mending fences with Shields. It was only sense; they had to work together. Bev offered a hand. “Bit
late, but welcome to Highgate.”

Shields pointed to the seat opposite. “I don’t like your attitude.”

“Oh?” Bev sat, tapped her fingers on her thigh. “About?”

“Where shall I start?” Shields rose and circled the table. It was a common tactic. Cops used it all the time to intimidate the poor sod still seated. “First, all that crap you
came out with at Cable Street. ‘Oh, Mr Gough, I didn’t get the job because I don’t have the balls. I’m only a little woman.’” The girlie voice was as inaccurate
as the quote. But Shields had got the gist right.

Bev made an effort not to squirm. “I didn’t – ”

Shields stood in front of her and leaned down close. “It may have escaped your attention but
I’m
a senior female officer and
you
assumed I was some ditzy airhead after
the loo, whom you addressed as ‘sweetheart’. That makes you as culpable as the men you complain about.”

Bev shrugged but felt far from indifferent.

Shields started circling again. “Get this clear, Sergeant. You didn’t make DI because you lack the necessary skills. You’re slack, you have no attention to detail and
you’re not a team player. You get an idea and that’s it. Blinkered and stubborn.”

“I’m not listening to this.” Bev stood. “You don’t even know me.”

“I was warned before I arrived. Do you know what they call you behind your back?” She paused but Bev didn’t rise to the bait. “No. I didn’t think so.” She
jabbed a finger at the chair. “And I haven’t finished yet.”

Bev sat, arms folded, seething but at the same time shocked.

“You’re good at making assumptions, aren’t you? This morning, for example, you assumed the victim was a bag lady. You assumed she’d been drinking. It’s not good
enough. Anyway, from what I saw, the only person at Cable Street who’d been ‘on the pop’, as you so eloquently put it, was you.”

Bev balled her fists. “That’s it –”

“No. It isn’t. Sergeant, I’m not accusing you of drinking on the job, not even you would be that dense, but in my view you were clearly suffering the effects of an appalling
hangover.”

Bev opened her mouth to remonstrate but Shields lifted her hand again. It was obviously a habit of hers. “I don’t give a damn if
you
were suffering, Morriss.” Shields
gathered her papers, tucked them neatly under her arm. “But the second I think this investigation is suffering because of your incompetence, you’ll be off the case. Do I make myself
clear?”

The word crystal sprang to mind but so did its association with balls. Anyway, Bev would have been wasting her breath; when she looked up the DI had already gone.