30
Bev poked her head gingerly out of her front door. It was 6.30am and one degree above freezing. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Mavis Holdsworth was out with her broom, giving the communal balcony a good going over. That’s all I need, thought Bev, a nosy neighbour with altruistic insomnia. The idea of a dawn run was already losing what little attraction it had ever had, without a biting commentary from a woman whose idea of exercise was chewing gum.
“There y’are, our Bev.” Mavis leaned on the broom handle. “Thought you’d be up with the worms.”
“Larks.”
“Yeah, them an’ all.”
Bev refused to ask how she’d acquired the insight; Mave would spill the beans anyway.
“I dropped your washing in last night. Saw you’d dragged the joggin’ gear out of retirement.”
There were advantages to leaving a spare key with a neighbour. Bev just couldn’t think of one at the moment. “How’s that mate of yours? Rita, is it? I haven’t had a chance to have a word.”
Mave sniffed. “You’re too late. She’s done a bunk.”
“Oh?” Bev tried not to sound too relieved.
“Yeah. Phoned me up. Full of herself, she was. She’s back on the game.”
“What?”
Mave tapped the side of her nose. “Dark horse, that one, Bev. Never opened her mouth the whole time we work together, then she gives me a bell and I can’t get a word in edgeways.”
“That’d be a first.”
Mave ignored the remark. “Knocked it on the ’ead, she said, when she got spliced, but the old man was goin’ out every night, comin’ back with a skinful, claimin’ ’is conjugals and knockin’ ’er about. Said she was back on the streets. Whorin’ was a damn sight better paid.”
“Licensed prostitution.”
“You what?”
“Marriage.”
Mave still looked blank.
“It’s how some people see marriage,” Bev said. “Licensed prostitution.” She looked at Mave’s uncomprehending features and shook her head. “Never mind. Anyway, I’ll cross Rita off my list of things to do.”
“Just as well, isn’t it?”
Bev had turned to go but there was something in Mave’s voice. “Why’s that, then?”
“This new fella of yours.” Mave leaned the broom against the wall, took a butt end from behind an ear and a box of matches from an overall pocket. “Kept quiet about ’im, didn’t you?”
“New fella?”
“Yeah. He was round last night.”
“Last night?”
“Is there an echo out ’ere?”
“What are you saying, Mave?”
She watched as concern replaced laughter and Mave put a hand to her mouth. “You ’aven’t got a new bloke, ’ave you?”
Bev shook her head.
“’e was in your place. Said you wanted ’im to pick up a few things.”
“What things?”
“I didn’t like to ask.”
“Since when?” Bev ran a few thoughts. “What time are we talking here, Mave?”
“Bout ’alf eight. ’E had a key. Knew ’is way round.”
Bev pursed her lips. She’d have to go back in. She hadn’t noticed anything odd; nothing obvious had been taken or deposited. Mind, given her housekeeping skills, the place usually looked as if it had been done over.
“I’m ever so sorry, Bev. I never thought, not with the flowers like. I mean, your bog-standard burglar doesn’t usually come armed with a bouquet, does he?”
Bev tried to think, to picture. She couldn’t recall seeing so much as a weed in the flat. “What did this bloke look like?” she pressed.
“Well that’s why I thought you ’adn’t said anythin’. I mean, ’e’s not exactly your usual type, is ’e?”
Bev put her hand on her hips. “Enlighten me, Mave. What type are we talking here?”
Mavis finally lit her fag. “I just thought ’e was a bit young for you. That’s all.”
“And that’s it? A young bloke with a bunch of flowers.”
“And the ’air.” Hollows appeared in Mave’s cheeks as she took a drag. “I don’t like deadlocks even on black blokes.”
“Dreadlocks, Mave. Dreadlocks.” Bev frowned. “So he was white?”
“As you and me.”
Bev glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m doing this run if it kills me.” Mave rolled her eyes. “When Frankie turns up, keep her talking. I’m just nipping back for a second. While I’m gone, have a think about last night. What time did he leave? Was he carrying anything else? Would you know him again? Remember everything you can. Close your eyes and imagine the whole scene as it happened.”
“You could get me hypnotised,” Mave offered eagerly.
“Lobotomised,” muttered Bev.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
She considered doing the James Bond bit: back pressed against the wall, slow slide round the door and lightning-fast drop into the firing position. Then she thought again: a mobile phone wasn’t particularly quick on the draw, and hardly likely to scare anyone.
More to the point, it was too late, far too late. Whoever had been in could have returned while she was asleep. She’d been dead to the world. Bad choice of phrase, Bev. It was true though. He could have come back and made it a permanent lying in state. So why hadn’t he?
It was one of a stack of thoughts doing the rounds in her head as she checked the place over. The TV and vid hadn’t been touched: literally. She’d have spotted prints a mile off in the dust. Her camera was still on the sideboard, she’d made a mental note last night because she’d need it for Frankie’s gig on Saturday. As for her hundred quid emergency money, she’d hidden it so well, she hadn’t a clue where it was.
It all appeared as she’d left it; nothing gained, nothing gone. In a weird way, that made it worse. Some bastard had been in here, invading her space, and she hadn’t sensed a thing. Her only gut feeling last night had been a touch of heartburn cause she’d pigged out on fish and chips. So much for the famous Morriss intuition.
And where were the flowers? The only thing green and growing was a distinctly jaded Christmas cactus, skulking in a corner of the sitting room.
She searched the kitchen bin, glanced round, chewing her bottom lip. She didn’t like it; didn’t like it at all. Some lying toe-rag had smooth-talked his way around and presumably had a good nose. But why? If Mave hadn’t opened her mouth, Bev would be none the wiser. So what was his game?
She shivered; tried telling herself it was cold, but it was more than that. It was a bit late in the day, but she was feeling spooked. She’d counselled Christ knew how many burglary victims in her time; now she knew what they meant. It wasn’t that belongings were nicked, it was that a stranger had been prowling round.
Her gaze fell on the evidence bag. She moved closer, folded her arms. Charlie Hawes. Was it down to him? Was he trying to pull her strings? Not content with putting the wind up her in the park, had he organised a welcome-home party as well? She considered the timing. He could have done it himself; more likely he’d sent a gorilla to say it with flowers. So where were they?
No, no, no. She saw it now. They were a floral smokescreen for Mave’s benefit. Worked a treat, hadn’t it? The way Bev saw it, the flowers were never going to be left; the idea was to scare her shitless. She snorted; sod that. She squared her shoulders, made for the door. And stopped.
Think again, bird brain. How the hell could he have known that Mave was going to be around? Maybe the flowers were a prop, but as it turned out, he didn’t need to leave them – mouthy Mave would get the message across better than a host of daffodils.
Bev pulled a face; she needed more time to think it through but Frankie had arrived a couple of mins back, and was clearly on good form going by Mave’s cackles.
She took a last look round then dashed into the bedroom to grab some lip balm. She’d half-turned when it caught her eye. She did a double take. That was odd. She always left it in her bag; certainly couldn’t recall taking it out last night. She flipped it over, took a steadying breath. Looking on the bright side, it was one less mystery to solve. She now knew where her stolen ID was.
It was less clear why the thief had cut out her eyes.
The cold was making Bev’s eyes water: the cold and chilling thoughts about unlooked-for eye surgery. She ran harder; she’d soon warm up. She hadn’t said anything to Frankie, didn’t want her to fret. As for Mave, Bev would buttonhole her after the run. If she made it. She was puffing like an asthmatic whale. As for Frankie – the girl who was supposed to be recovering from injury – she was setting a cracking pace.
“What was all that about then, Bev?”
Bev aimed for casual. “I had a gentleman caller last night.”
“Lucky you. Left a box of Milk Tray, did he?”
“You watch too much telly.”
They ran in silence for a while, for which Bev was truly grateful. She concentrated on the run. It was amazing how the old fitness levels plummeted when you broke the exercise routine. Now that she was just about hitting her stride, she realised that in a masochistic sort of way she’d actually missed it.
The streets were deserted at this time in the morning, apart from a couple of milk floats and the occasional 35 bus. The redbrick houses had that sleepy appearance of dimmed lights behind drawn curtains. She caught the odd blast of John Humphrys drifting out of a window or two, Radio WM out of a few more. “Nothing changes, does it, Frankie?”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s, what, nearly a month since the last run? But everything carries on as per usual.” She pointed at a house coming up on the left. “They’ll have breakfast telly on. We’ll get a whiff of bacon from number 12 and any minute now, you’ll get a whistle from Wolfie.”
They didn’t know his name but the guy at 17 left for work at the same time every morning. He invariably waited till they were a few doors along, but the two-tone greeting never altered.
“There you go.” A few seconds later, he sailed past in a beat-up Beetle. Bev gave an ostentatious wave. “I rest my case.”
“Creatures of habit, Bev. We all are. You should know that.” Frankie slowed the pace. They were approaching the park and needed to cross the road.
“Sure we all have routines. But…”
The train of thought was lost as she waited while Frankie negotiated the narrow iron gate. The vast open space of Highbury Park was nothing like its gloomy dense equivalent at the back of Thread Street but Bev still found herself fighting flashbacks. Good job Frankie was alongside.
“Wolfie was a bit tardy this morning, anyway, Bevvie.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, we were late leaving your place. And you changed the subject brilliantly. You still haven’t told me what was going on. Who exactly is Milk Tray man? And has he got a mate I can have?”
God forbid, thought Bev. “He didn’t exactly leave a calling card, Frankie.”
“Mave must have known him, surely?”
“Mystic Mave? ’Fraid not.”
They ran past one of the park’s regulars, an elderly woman with an adolescent Dalmatian. Bev was relieved to see the dog was on a lead. It had taken quite a shine to her in the past.
“This secret admirer of yours, then, Bev, what was he up to in your pad?”
She banished the new-look ID to the back of her mind. “Mave said he was dropping off flowers.”
“Cool. Last man who gave me flowers was my dad. And that was only ’cause I was in hospital.”
Hospital. The General. Waxen white lilies. And Cassie Swain. Bev pulled up sharp.
“What’s up, my friend?” Frankie asked. “You got a stitch?”
“You all right, Sarge?” Ozzie had joined her in the breakfast queue. The canteen was chocka; even the air was thick with hot fat and singed toast. But Bev’s three-mile run merited more than a bowl of Mave’s warm porridge. Not that the offer hadn’t been fulsome. Probably trying to bring the colour to Bev’s cheeks. She’d felt it drain when Mave confirmed that Dreadlock Man had been armed with white lilies. That and the fact that he had nice teeth was the sum of Mavis’s wisdom on the intruder front. Another stunning success for her own personal Neighbourhood Watch.
Bev reached for a pat or four of butter and flashed Ozzie a smile. “I’m starving.”
“I can see that.”
She mentioned the run, then touched on the break-in. She kept it light but Ozzie’s face dropped. “Jeez, Sarge, you should get the locks changed. Pronto.”
She slammed her forehead with a palm. “Coo! Wish I’d thought of that.” She rolled her eyes. “Course I’m getting them changed. There’s a bloke sorting it now.”
He ran a finger along his jawline. “Any idea who it could have been?”
Byford had asked the same question twenty minutes earlier. She’d had to mention Hawes, of course, but she’d held back and hedged. If the guv thought Hawes was going after her, he’d put the kibosh on the undercover stuff. Anyway, as Bev saw it, the closer Hawes got, the easier he was to collar. She gave Ozzie a similarly potted version as they shuffled along the counter, then changed tack. “Is that all you’re having?”
He looked from his slice of toast and marmite to Bev’s heaving plate. “I’m okay. Anyway, if I change my mind, there’s enough there for two.”
She drew herself up to her full height. “This is fuel, Ozzie. The body’s a temple.”
“Way you eat, it’s a listed building.”
“All right, our Bev?” Doreen on cash desk interrupted, saving Ozzie’s life. Her eyes, like sultanas in a Peshawar naan, peered at Bev. “You look a bit peaky.” She totted up sausages, eggs, tomatoes, beans and double fried slice. “Still, nowt wrong with your appetite, is there?”
Bev thought this a bit thick coming from a woman who wore skirts you could camp in.
“’ave you done your limerick yet?” Doreen asked.
Bev pocketed the change, shaking her head. She’d forgotten Vince’s venture into the literary world.
Doreen ploughed on. “They’ve got to be in by tomorrow. ’e’s got a stack already.”
“What’s the prize?” Ozzie asked.
Doreen tapped the side of her nose. “It’s a secret.”
“Knowing Vince, it’ll be edible.” Bev looked round, then made for a table by the window. She nodded at Gary Kent, who was just leaving.
“If I were the boss,” she told Ozzie, “I’d make him take time off. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in a month.”
He shrugged. “Coming in is his way of coping. I suppose the routine’s important to him just now.”
“Talking ’bout routine, have you run a check on Steve Bell yet?”
“First thing. Should hear back any time.”
She nodded. They ate in silence. Bev ran through a mental list of things to do. She’d already checked with the General. There’d been no visitors for Cassie, or further floral tributes. Highest priority now was Lucie. Last night’s conviction had not lessened. She glanced at Ozzie, who was stifling a yawn. “How was the babysitting?”
“Apart from being up half the night, it was brilliant.” His eyes crinkled into a warm smile. “I’m now not only Number One Uncle but also the world’s greatest living authority on Thomas the Tank Engine.”
“I’m well impressed,” she said. He was glowing with pride, you could hear it in the voice. She’d bet he was brilliant with kids. There weren’t many blokes who’d show you that side of their character. She was trying to remember the last time someone had gone all gooey on her over a baby. She narrowed her eyes. Oh, shit.
“You all right, Sarge?” Oz’s face was creased in concern.
She raked her fingers through her hair. “I should have seen it before.”
“Seen what? What are you on about?”
She was still thinking it through. “How could I have been so blind?”
The chair tipped as she sprang to her feet. “Cover my back. I can’t make the briefing.”
“Where are you going?” Oz asked.
“To get some answers.”
“You got built-in radar, Annie?”
“What the f*ck’s that supposed to mean?”
Bev leaned against the door jamb. “Just that every time I show my face round here, you’re on your way out. Thought you might have a little device that tells you when I’m coming.”
Bev watched the emotions flicker across Annie Flinn’s face; her voice had none.
“Thought you were the cab.”
“Yes. I bet you did.” This time the woman’s departure was more than wishful thinking. Annie Flinn was wearing full slap and a half-decent coat. Bev had little interest in what was on her back but a lot on what was in her hand. “What’s with the suitcase, Annie?”
“I’m getting away for a few days.”
Bev shook her head slowly. “No, you’re not. Not till you’ve answered a few questions.”
The woman tried closing the door but a size seven DM was in the way. Bev followed through with a firm hand on the peeling paintwork. They were so close she could smell lemon shampoo and see where Annie had missed a bit with the make-up.
“I’ll give you a lift,” she offered. “When we’ve had a little chat.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Fine by me. I’ll do the talking.” She pushed the door further open. “After you.”
Annie shrugged her shoulders, trailed down the hall. The narrow passageway was just as gloomy but at least it wasn’t full of junk. Bev’s soles stuck on the grimy brown lino but a bit of oil was preferable to another whack on the shin. “Where you off to, then, Annie?”
The woman dumped the suitcase on the kitchen table, then walked to the sink. Bev hated talking to people’s backs. Not that this one was saying anything. “Come on, Annie. Where are you going?”
A tap dripped and the fridge hummed. There was a stale emptiness about the place: old smoke and ancient cooking smells. She tried a new topic. “Where’s Lucie?”
Annie’s hand shook as she filled a glass from the tap and lifted it to her mouth. Bev waited till she finished drinking, then waited some more. It eventually became clear that an answer wasn’t imminent. The woman had her hands on the edge of the sink and was staring through the window. Bev took a deep breath. “Okay, then. Where’s lover boy?”
Not a murmur, not a movement. So that was the game. Keep your trap shut so you don’t fall into one. Bev would have preferred a slanging match; silence was infinitely harder to play with. She let it hang for a while, then moved closer and laid a hand on Annie’s bony shoulder. “Where’s Lucie?”
Annie shook it off irritably, turned away.
“I know the truth, Annie.” Well, a bit of it.
The woman took a crumpled pack of Silk Cut from her pocket, lit one from a gas ring, then resumed her place by the window. Bev tightened her mouth; there was more to all the stonewalling than just being arsey But Annie’s face had already unwittingly confirmed Bev’s suspicions. She’d seen it in the woman’s eyes; or rather she hadn’t. The likeness between Annie and Lucie was missing. Maybe it was there in diluted form but it wasn’t the real thing. Not the mirror image that Bev had finally seen. Not the same dark blue eyes. Not the same wide smile. Oz’s unbridled delight had prompted the memory of a girl. A girl who’d lied about her mother. And a girl who’d lied about her daughter.
“She’s Vicki’s, isn’t she?”
She didn’t need Annie’s confirmation. The picture had developed on the drive over. A prostitute getting pregnant? It was an occupational hazard. Look at Jo. Look at Dawn Lucas. Look at the effing statistics.
Annie flicked ash into the sink. Bev had to fight the urge to spin her round, force her to talk. “It’s why she’s gone AWOL, isn’t it? She’ll do anything to protect her baby. Where is she, Annie? Who’s she with?”
The woman blew a column of smoke rings, watched them drift upwards. Bev unclenched her fists, brought down the volume. “Charlie’s got her holed-up, hasn’t he? Has he got Lucie as well? I can just about see how you’d stand by and abandon Vicki. Big girl now, isn’t she? Made her bed and all that. But a baby? What sort of a woman are you?”
Annie spun round, eyes glaring. “You know sod all. Why don’t you just f*ck off and leave us alone?”
“I’ll leave when I have answers.”
“Me sister’s lookin’ after the bab. I’m not well. I need a break.”
Bev lifted her arms, played an imaginary violin.
“It’s your bloody fault,” Annie screamed. “Police harassment, that’s what this is. You’re turning me into a nervous wreck.”
“Where are you going?”
Annie closed her eyes gave a deep sigh but at least she answered. “Blackpool. Long weekend.” She doused the butt end, threw it in the direction of the bin. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
There was a hammering at the front door. Bev could almost feel the woman’s relief.
“That’ll be the cab.”
“Send it away. I’ll take you to the station. When we’ve finished.”
She was back within seconds, which was time enough. The suitcase was no longer on the table. Most of its contents were sprawled across the floor. Annie froze, silhouetted in the doorframe. Bev was kneeling, holding up baby clothes and a soft, pink blanket. “Clumsy cow, aren’t I?”
The woman lifted a hand to her gaunt features.
“Can’t say I think much of your holiday gear, love.”
Annie’s eyes were unnaturally bright. “You’ve no right…”
“Save it!” Bev rose to her feet. “Where were you taking it?”
“Oxfam.”
The callousness was like a red rag. “Why not try looking out for your own kid, Annie?”
“That’s exactly what I am doing. Now why don’t you just bugger off? I don’t have to tell you nothing.”
Short of thumbscrews or a rack, she was right. A copper’s instinct wasn’t evidence, and proof of any crime was nonexistent. Bev shook her head in disbelief. “How do you look at yourself in the mirror, Annie?”
Just for a second, it looked as if the woman was about to crack. Bev was so focused she barely heard the mobile. She swore under her breath as Annie turned away, then snatched the phone to her ear and barked a peremptory, “What?”
Byford was on the other end. Recognising the voice was no problem. The difficulty was taking in what he was saying. “I want you back. Now. We’ve got a confession. Both murders.”