Dead Old (16 page)

Oz glanced at Bev, then the bouquet, then back at Vince. Ordinarily she loved that uncertain smile of his.

“Bev won’t tell me,” Vince teased.

She pursed her lips. Go on, big man: drop me in it.

“Tell you what?” Oz asked, not taking his eyes off Bev.

“Whether I should get the missus some chocolates as well. It’s her birthday. Twenty-one again.”

Oz’s smile was slow in coming. “I’m sure she’s sweet enough, Sarge.”

“Best crack on,” Bev muttered. Oz was already so far ahead she had to run to catch up. When she glanced back, Vince was adding big strokes to an imaginary slate.

The Morriss desk usually resembled a snow globe with paper-flakes everywhere. For once there was just one message. Angela Collins had called. Iris was being buried at Hodge
Hill cemetery on Monday. Bev made a note of the time. There’d be a discreet police presence but she’d go along anyway. Paying her respects was the least she could do.

She grabbed a machine coffee en route to the briefing. The room was chocka, though the buzz had nothing to do with the case.

“Hey, Sarge, heard the latest?” Darren New patted the chair next to him. Oz was perched on the windowsill.

“Heard what?” She tugged at the hem of her skirt. It was a bit short for work but the blue linen matched her eyes.

“It’s the disciplinary today.”

No need to ask whose. Everyone in Highgate had a take on Mike Powell’s future in the force. Bev’s had shifted slightly in recent days. It was edging towards Better the devil you
know, but that was probably down to the woman who’d just walked in.

“Right, listen up.” DI Shields stood, arms folded, centre stage. Audrey Hepburn meets Posh Spice. Bev curled a lip. “A stupid mistake was made yesterday which could have cost
an old woman her life.” The DI let that little bombshell sink, then lobbed another. “If things had been handled professionally, the case might have been cracked. Instead, we’re
back to square one.”

Bev kept her mouth clamped. The squad would have read her report on the incident last night at Maude Taylor’s place, so everyone knew where Shields was coming from even if she wasn’t
naming names.

“Sergeant Morriss. Perhaps you’d like to explain why a vulnerable old woman was allowed to remain without protection in the house of a murder victim?”

Load the question, why don’t you? It would never have been asked if Shields had spent any real time with Maude. Bev didn’t know how the old woman would be affected by last night, but
prior to the break-in she’d had a mind of her own and wasn’t afraid to shout it. Despite all Bev’s entreaties, she’d refused point blank to stay elsewhere. Bev had
compromised as best she could.

When she eventually spoke, Bev’s voice was calm and measured. “Precautions were in place.” Apart from family liaison, she’d requested local patrols both foot and motor.
With hindsight, it wasn’t enough.

“Brilliant,” Shields said. “So how come an assailant lets himself in with a key?”

“Well, pardon me if my crystal ball’s broken.”

Shields flapped at the words with a dismissive hand. “Apart from the fact Maude Taylor was lucky to escape with her life, we could have been waiting for him and made an arrest.”

Bev was on her feet. “And that’s down to me?”

“Enough.” How long had Byford been in the room? A dozen heads turned as the guv made his way to the front. Bev was shocked at how haggard he looked. “You’re not the only
one who should have seen the possibility, Bev. We’re supposed to work as a team. The priority now is to make sure no one misses anything else.”

He took a seat as Bev resumed hers. Shields, after a nod from Byford, assigned tasks, then asked for input. Bev wanted to see Maude Taylor first thing. A good night’s rest might have
loosened memories.

“I’ll be coming with you,” Shields said.

I’d rather eat sick.
“That’ll be nice.”

At least the bloody woman used her own wheels. Imagine twenty minutes of small talk with Danny Shields: mission statements and monthly targets. Bev glanced in the driving
mirror. Shields was just pulling up behind.

“Your brake light’s not working,” Shields said.

Bev locked the MG, hoisted her bag.

The DI was waiting. “Let’s get this clear. I’m here in a supervisory capacity. I’ll take a back seat to observe your technique. And it had better be good.”

Bev bit a lip to mask a cynical smile. That was bullshit. The DI was only here so she didn’t lose face with the squad. Shields knew she’d be as welcome inside as bird flu.

A uniform was posted outside. It transpired he wasn’t the old lady’s only company.

“Come in, Sergeant. We’re having tea.” Maude’s invitation didn’t include Shields explicitly, but at least she wasn’t banned from entering.

“Did you sleep OK, Mrs Taylor?” She certainly sounded perkier.

“Come through, dear. I slept well, considering, and I thought I told you to call me Maude.”

Bev was expecting to see Jude Eastwood from family liaison. Instead, Grace Kane looked up from her tape recorder on a low table, Mont Blanc in hand, Hobnob crumbs on her classy ivory blouse.

“Sergeant Morriss. Hello. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Snap.”

“Mrs Taylor has kindly offered to help with my series.”

“You’re a reporter?” Shields’s tone suggested the profession was on a par with serial killing.

Maude waved vaguely at a couple of chairs. “She’s more of an author, aren’t you, Grace? I’ve been helping with a little research.”

Old photographs and letters littered the table and floor. Sophia at various ages was in most of the shots. Bev picked one up, gently fingered its edges. “What exactly are you hoping to
learn here, Ms Kane?” She kept her tone casual but the antennae were twitching.

“Background, attitudes, how society treats the elderly, that sort of thing,” the reporter offered.

“I thought you were mainly interested in violence against old people.”

“That’s right.” Grace switched off the recorder and capped her pen. “Look, I can see I’m in the way. You need to talk to Mrs Taylor. I’ve got more than enough
for now.”

The jade suit was Joseph. Bev followed it through to the hall. “Grace. Perhaps you could let me have a look at some of your stuff? It’ll be useful for when we get
together.”

“We can? That would be so cool. I’ll get it in the post later today. Thank you so much.”

The girl spoke as if she were in a teen movie. Made Bev feel quite old.

Maude appeared to have thawed towards Shields; they were chatting about the weather when Bev got back.

“Pleasant girl, isn’t she?” Maude’s fingers were toying with Grace’s business card. Its twin was in the jacket Bev wore yesterday. “Very professional,”
Maude added. “Awfully thoughtful as well. When I mentioned last night, she got really upset. Asked if there was anything she could do to help.”

“Did you talk much about Sophia?” Bev asked.

“A little.”

They stayed for half an hour or so. Maude wasn’t able to add much to her previous account. She’d had a look around and was pretty sure nothing was gone. Her feeling was that the
intruder had only just broken in before he felt the business end of her stick.

“Any idea why he was here? What he was after?” Bev asked.

Maude picked at the skin of her hand. “I’ve thought about that, but I don’t have any idea. All Sophia’s money is invested. She had no jewellery to speak of.”

“All Sophia’s money,” Bev echoed. “Is her estate large?”

“Substantial, rather than large, Sergeant. Around £600,000, I’d say.”

Bev exchanged glances with Shields. “Do you know who stands to inherit?”

“There are bequests to various medical charities.” Maude Taylor’s voice suggested more.

“And?” Bev prompted.

“The bulk of it will come to me.”

“We’ll check it out, natch,” said Bev. “But somehow I can’t see Maude in the role of killer granny.”

Oz nibbled on a curly fry. “How about the DI?”

Bev snorted. “Neither use nor ornament. Barely opened her mouth.”

They were in the Kozy Caff surrounded by blue rinses and beige crimplene. The board on the far wall said
Friday special – half-price pensioners.
Tasty.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Bev sneaked a glance at Oz. Was he being iffy? He didn’t share her antipathy towards the DI but it was a fact: the woman’s attitude hadn’t helped. Interviewing was all about
connecting and empathising. Bev knew she was damn good at it. In Shields’s presence, Maude had appeared inhibited if not downright intimidated. There’d been a couple of times Bev felt
the old woman might have been holding back. Oz was still waiting for an answer.

“Cash is a motive as often as not. Shields ordered the check.” And questioned Bev on why she hadn’t extracted the information earlier. She took one of Oz’s chips,
regretted going for the cheese salad. “Like as if I wouldn’t.”

As every cop knew, good liars practised a lot. And the most plausible practised the most.

Oz took a sip of coke. “Nice time last night?”

Where did that come from? She went for another chip, her other fingers crossed. “Frankie was on top form. How about you?”

“Interesting. I bumped into a friend.”

“Talking about bumping into people. That reporter? Grace Kane? She was at Taylor’s place, sniffing round.”

Her hand reached for another fry. Oz sighed and swapped plates.

“So? That’s what reporters do.”

She wondered whether to share her thoughts. According to Grace, the man who’d raped and beaten her grandmother was still at large. Was there an unwritten agenda in there as well?
She’d run a check, maybe mention it then.

“Don’t talk to Danny Girl about journos,” Bev said. “She went ape-shit when we left. Asked who else I’d tipped off. Implied I was on the take.” She glanced
round. There were no ashtrays. Shit. “I’m gonna have to do something about it, Oz.”

“What? Danny Shields or your smoking?”

Bev was stowing the roses in the boot of her motor. She’d already recorded her thanks on Tom Marlow’s answer phone, and paid off Vince with the promise of a pint or
six at the Prince.

A hand tapped her back, a tad too close to the butt. She whirled, eyes flashing, and barely recognised Mike Powell at first. The hair was longer and blonder. But it wasn’t that. He was
smiling. At her.

“Hello, stranger.” Made a change from a peremptory
Morriss.

“How’re you doing?” she asked

Staying at home, suspended on full pay, seemed to be working wonders. Had he had his teeth whitened? And he hadn’t bought the suit in a charity shop.

“I’m good,” he said. “Yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Makes a change.” He raised a hand. “Joke.”

“What time’s the disciplinary?” That wiped the smile off his face. For maybe a second she felt sorry for him. Almost. He fell into step as she headed for Highgate’s main
entrance.

“I see the guv’s having a hard time,” Powell said.

“It’s mainly the
News.
Matt Snow. He’s a shit-sack. You know that as well as me.” Having said that, they’d left Byford alone for a couple of days. The paper
had been going big on a paedo judge scandal.

“Will he go?” Powell asked.

The snort was one of her best. “’Course not. It’ll take more than a media mauling to get rid of the guv.”

“Not just that, though, is it?” He lowered his voice. “A little bird tells me he’s toying with the idea of an early out.”

“That little bird?” said Bev. “Shoot it.”

He shrugged, apparently indifferent. “The disciplinary’s three o’clock, by the way. And it’s just a formality.”

They were at the swing doors. “Shame,” she said. “You’d think they’d at least let you put your case.”

“Still a lippy tart, I see.”

She opened a door and stood back. “After you, Mike.”

The welcoming committee wasn’t exactly out in force. Just one friendly face waited to greet him. Bev watched as Powell strode over. “Danny. How’re you doing?”

The impersonation was pants but no one was listening. The rest of the squad was either on the knock or touring the streets with E-fits and clipboards. The CID office was empty, bar a cheese
plant and a picture of the Queen touching gloves with the Chief Constable. Bev slung her bag on the floor and slumped into a chair. Powell and Shields. What a thought. Just how far back did that
go? She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths. There was no point jumping to conclusions. She sat up and put the odd couple on the back burner. There was work to do.

By the time she’d finished it was gone six. A rare weekend off beckoned but she was loath to leave. She sat back, surveying the screen, her notes and a stack of files. She’d spent
nearly five hours going through five days’ worth of reports and witness statements.

She ran her hands through her hair, leaving it even more mussed. The case wasn’t at a crossroads, it was in a cul de sac. No one they’d interviewed knew anything about the attacks,
let alone the murder of Sophia Carrington. They needed conclusive evidence, connections. The diagram she’d worked on hadn’t helped. Sophia’s name was dead centre, but the links
were tenuous: victims’ ages, areas they lived, stuff nicked, that was about it. There had to be something else, surely? She screwed up the paper, slung it in the bin; it missed.

“And on that note –” she muttered.

The phone rang as she was on her way out.

“Sarge.” It was Oz. “I popped into the Goddard place on the off-chance. Guess what?”

It looked as if the daffodil theory had legs. Way Oz told it, he’d finally found Joan Goddard in; she’d been at her son’s in Bath for a fortnight. She’d come across the
daffodils in the kitchen sink the day she was released from hospital and assumed a friend or neighbour had left them. Under Oz’s gentle questioning, she realised she’d never given
anyone a spare key.

The daffodils had long since been thrown out. But a link, however tenuous, remained. It might be a tad premature to crack the Moet, but… She hit a button on her mobile. “Frankie, my
friend. What you up to tonight?”