Dead Old (30 page)

Oz took the stairs three at a time. Was Bev still at Wentworth Close? He tried her number again. Pick up, for fuck’s sake. He flung the mobile on the passenger seat. It
was raining in sheets, the wipers could barely cope; the inside of the windscreen was fogged. He dashed a hand across, but only added sweat to smear. What if she’d already left? He glanced at
the clock on the dash. Forty minutes since they’d last spoken. If she wasn’t there, he’d check out Marlow’s place. If no joy there, he’d have no option but to call it
in.

He mouthed a silent prayer as he turned into the Close. Cars and vans were double-parked, no gaps. He eased the speed, anxious not to miss the MG. He did a three-point-turn, drove back even more
slowly. He needn’t have bothered. It wasn’t there.

“Sure I can’t get you a coffee?” Marlow’s coat was draped over the back of a chair. He was flicking through one of the Sunday supplements; it looked
like the
Observer.

Bev mirrored his smile. “Why not?” She watched him leave the room. Try as she might, it was impossible to imagine Tom Marlow as a piece of scummy street life. She’d never seen
him with a hair out of place, let alone a head of spikes.

“Doing anything later?” His voice carried through from the kitchen. She tried matching its nonchalance.

“Grabbing an early night, I hope.” There was no proof. A silver stud and a tube of gel wouldn’t get past the prosecution service, let alone stand up in court. She prowled a
circuit of the room, keeping her ears pricked for noises off. Come on, God. Give me a break: bloodstained balaclava, dripping knife.
Yeah, right.
“How about you? Anything lined
up?”

“Business meeting. No peace for the wicked…

“Coffee smells great.” Keep him sweet. The slightest inkling she was on to something and it’d make pear-shaped look perfect. She slipped a hand into the pocket of
Marlow’s coat and gasped. Not quite a signed confession. But getting there.

It was the post from Wentworth Close, every envelope addressed to Simon Collison. The toe-rag did have a pad in the city. By using it for surveillance, she’d virtually handed him a copy of
her movements.

“Milk. No sugar. Right?”

She raised her voice. “You got it.”

Her mobile beeped a message. Oz. Her personal fast-response unit. A faint smile morphed into a frown. His words didn’t make sense and why no reference to back-up? She reread the text and
began to get the picture.
sara collison heroin overdose. abortion/ miscarriage prior to death.
Tweaking a few mental knobs brought another blurred edge into sharper focus. It looked like a
motive to her.

As for the cavalry, Oz wouldn’t have pissed round with another message, he’d have hit the road pronto. She’d bide her time, play it by the book. They’d take Marlow in for
questioning, establish a hundred per cent he was the killer. Priority now was to make sure he didn’t pick up on her thinking.

“Here you go.” Marlow placed a tray with coffee and Amaretti biscuits on the table between them. “Shan’t be a tick, I left something in the kitchen.”

She took a seat on one of the chesterfields.

“There’s an ashtray on the side,” his voice drifted through. “You can smoke if you like.”

He re-emerged carrying a crystal vase. She watched, stunned, as he placed it in the centre of the tray. But it wasn’t the daffodils alone that stopped her in her tracks. Marlow was talking
again. The voice she’d likened to a Silver Ghost had gone. In its place, a nasal twang she’d recognise anywhere.

She had it on tape in the back of her MG.

“Letting you spark up’s a nice touch, right? Everyone’s entitled to a last request, aren’t they?” He sat opposite, casually crossed an ankle over a knee.

“Sorry?” An uncertain smile.

“A last request.” He flicked a speck of dust from his immaculate trousers. “As in before they buy it.”

He knew. It changed everything.
Think. Feet. On.
She forced herself not to show a reaction, felt her heart hammer her ribs. Split-second decisions, a million darting thoughts. Contain and
control. How to play him? She tried an indifferent shrug. The arrogant shit didn’t like that. Fury flitted across his face. For a split second she saw him for what he was. And for what
he’d done.

“Did Sophia have a last request?”

“I guess that’s something you’ll never know.” He gave the half-smile she’d found so appealing. She wanted to rip his face off. Images of his victims –
battered, brutalised old women – flashed in her mind’s eye. Christ. This was the sick bastard who’d hacked off Sadie’s hair. The horror increased with each passing second,
each realisation like acid in an open wound.

“Why did you do it?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“You can do better than that. Clever bloke like you.” He might fall for it; he was ego-on-a-stick.

Her mobile rang. She jumped a mile. Marlow didn’t bat an eyelid. “Answer it, you’re dead.”

“Piss off.” She took the phone from her pocket, recognised Oz’s number. She shouldn’t have taken her eye off the pus-ball. Marlow rammed the table into her shins and shot
out of his chair. She gasped in pain as he snatched the phone from her grasp. He towered over her now, face distorted in hatred, fist raised. She braced herself for the blow, still trying to free
her legs. It didn’t come. Marlow slowly lowered his hand, hurled the phone against the wall and sauntered back to his seat. What the fuck was he playing at?

She rubbed her shins, flesh already swollen. Hurt like shit. Her eyes shone in defiance. “Don’t come near me again.”

He ran his gaze over her body. “You should be so lucky.”

“Too young?” she snarled. “Old women more to your taste?”

He sniffed. “Whatever.”

“What I can’t work out is why someone so shit-hot cocked up big time.” She sensed a first glimmer of interest.

“My mistake was not taking you out earlier. You and your stinky grandmother.”

She counted to ten. Then twenty. “You are so going to regret that.”

“Am I? Your time’s running out, babe.”

She snorted. “I’m trembling in my boots.”

But she stiffened as he extracted a black-handled knife from a sheath strapped round his ankle. A blade put a different complexion on things. She needed to keep him talking, preferably at
arm’s length.

She made a big play of examining his face. “Yeah. It just might work.”

“Fuck you on about?”

“The insanity plea.” She pursed her lips, making out it actually mattered. “Mind, you can’t always tell with juries.”

“Mad? Don’t be ridiculous. Killing that old bag was the sanest thing I’ve ever done. The bitch killed my mother.”

“I’m listening.”

Maybe he liked an audience. He circled the room as he spoke. He’d idolised Sara. She was young and beautiful. It had been him and her against the world. Make that against the Collisons.
And the quack who killed her. Bev followed him with her eyes. It was clear he’d created a fantasy around Sara; he’d lost the real thing when he was a small child.

His grandparents told him he’d been abandoned. It was years before he discovered the truth. He forced it from George and Hannah before they perished in the flames. He considered it a
suitable death for religious fanatics who’d shown his mother no mercy and made his life hell. They’d thrown her on to the streets when she got pregnant again. She’d been forced
into an abortion and butchered by an incompetent doctor. Anyway, he needed his inheritance. Revenge would be sweet but it wouldn’t come cheap.

Bev listened, unmoving and unmoved. It was a tragic picture. But inaccurate and incomplete. An abortion hadn’t killed Sara Collison. Her heroin addiction had done that. Had the Collisons
lied? Was a so-called medical blunder more palatable than a drug overdose?

“And the other attacks –?”

A smokescreen to save his pathetic skin, ditto Davy and the Shreks. Bev shook her head; being right was no consolation. She had a zillion questions, asked just one.

“Why the daffodils?”

“Week after week, I had to stick fucking daffodils into a poxy vase at the grave while my mother rotted under the earth.” The half-smile was revolting. “Seemed a nice
touch.”

She’d listened carefully to every self-serving word. Not heard a syllable about adoption. He had no idea what he’d done.

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

He stopped pacing, focused on her. “What is?”

“Doctor Carrington didn’t kill your mother. She didn’t do abortion. She gave her own baby up for adoption rather than get rid of it.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’ve read her diaries.”

“Congratulations.”

“Why do you think Sara went to Sophia Carrington? A doctor practising miles away?” She waited, hoping the words would sink in. “Sophia wasn’t just another medico. Sara
sought her out. Sophia wouldn’t have recognised her. How could she? Sara was only a few days old when they took her away. Think about the irony: the daughter Sophia gave up for adoption
coming back to ask for an abortion.” She searched his face. “One thing I’m not clear on is whether Sara told the old lady about you. Because, at the very end, while you were
sticking her like a pig, she’d have worked out you were her grandson.”

He was there already. A case of shoot the messenger. Thank God he wasn’t carrying a gun. Still had the knife, though. She leapt to her feet, better prepared this time. During the talk
show, she’d worked on moves. He slashed out wildly, maybe hoping she’d panic. But Bev was icy calm. He wouldn’t be the first knife-wielding maniac she’d disarmed.

The training kicked in. She kicked out. Collison made a grab at her. Missed. He circled; she sidestepped. He thrust; she parried. He feigned a lunge; she mirrored it. It was a deadly
pas de
deux,
badly choreographed with no music. Panting and the occasional gasp punctuated the tension. She was out-stepping Collison at every move.

Frustrated and in blind fury, he took a sudden run, lunging at her with the knife. She stuck out a foot. It was all it took. He fell badly, on to his knees, in obvious pain. She kicked the knife
across the floor, then lashed out and sent him flying.

“Bitch.” He tried to get up.

She kicked again; heard a crack. Hoped it was a rib.

“Is that what you called your gran when you stuck the blade in? How much of a fight did she put up, big man?”

She could have left it there, slapped on the cuffs, walked away.

“Fuck you,” Marlow snarled.

She snapped. In a second she was straddling him, smashing a fist in his face. “That’s from Sophia, arsehole.”

She could have left it there.

“Fuck you.” He spat blood, flecks spraying with the words. Angrily she dashed them away, swung another punch. And another. And another.

She was vaguely aware of a presence behind her; guessed Oz had finally arrived. She took a final swing at the fucker…

And couldn’t work out why her head was exploding with sudden agonising pain.

As she went down, she caught a glimpse of a vaguely familiar face. Couldn’t put a name to it.

Was the hammering in her head? Bev opened an eye; the one that still worked. How long had she been out? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Collison was still down, his battered face a
hand-span from her own. He was bleeding heavily. She tensed. Another sound. Close. Mustn’t move. Not sure she could. Hammering again, louder. Not in her head. She tried the other eye.
Daffodils lay strewn, water pooled on the floor; her clothes were drenched. No broken glass.

“Police! Open up!”

Oz. Thank God. She risked a slight movement of her head towards the door. Well, well. Collison’s lady friend was standing there. Another distraction, another dupe. The band of merry men
included the delectable Grace Kane.

Bev watched as she turned the handle and stood back to admit Oz. He barely gave her a glance, certainly didn’t register she was clutching a vase, as he dashed across to Bev. Kane’s
approach was stealthier, armed with the same lethal weapon that had knocked Bev out cold. Oz was about to get the same treatment. Unless Bev headed it off. Timing was all. She waited till the last
second, then tripped him. Sorry, mate.

Oz’s fall left Grace Kane open to attack. Bev rolled on to her back, brought her knees to her chest and kicked out. Kane doubled over. A Doc Marten in the stomach does that. But her
recovery was swift; she swung the vase up and let fly. It shattered against the table, showering Bev’s face and hair with splinters of glass. She never knew how it missed her. It had missed
Collison too, although he looked as if his face had taken the full force.

Bev sat on the floor, head in hands, while Oz cuffed and cautioned Kane. It didn’t stop a verbal attack. “That woman should be locked up,” Grace screamed. “Look at him.
Look what she’s done. She’s insane.”

“Shut it,” Oz snapped. “What happened, Bev?”

I lost it. “I don’t know.”

The broken bleeding skin across her knuckles told Oz what she couldn’t. Collison’s shattered face added detail. She glanced up, registered a revulsion Oz couldn’t hide.
Directed at her.

“Oz, I –”

He lifted a hand. “I don’t want to know.”

She heard him call it in to Highgate. She knew what she had to do; she took a long hard look at what she’d already done. Collison’s face was a bloody mess: not dissimilar to how his
grandmother had looked.

34

The letter hadn’t taken Bev long to write. Byford took even less time to read it. He folded the single sheet of paper, laid it on the desk between them.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” he said.

Bev shook her head. They’d been through it before. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought; she couldn’t fool herself. It had taken nearly a week to make up her mind, the
longest of her life. She’d been going through the motions, acting a role: Detective Sergeant Normal.

“It was self-defence, Bev. The man had a knife.”

She snorted. It was self-control. Lack of. And if Collison had pressed charges, she wouldn’t be sitting here now.

Byford leaned forward. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

This time. Maybe.