how. “Why couldn’t she call herself?”
“As I say, I’m just a neighbour.”
“Of course.” He sounded such a nice young man and it was good of him to call.
“Thank you, Mr…?”
“Just call me Simon.”
There were so many questions she should be asking and her mind couldn’t come up with a single one. “Could I take your number, dear? In case I need to get in touch?”
“Got a pen?”
Where was it? It should be here. She’d have to grab the felt tip off the notice board in the kitchen. “Could you hold on a moment, Simon?”
“Take your time.”
Maude hurried but the pen wasn’t in its place. By the time she’d found a pencil in the dresser drawer she was convinced he’d be gone.
“Hello? Sorry to…” It was her fault. If she hadn’t taken so…
The voice rattled off an 0121 number.
“Thank you so –” He had gone this time. It was a shame; she had several questions now. Never mind. If she didn’t hear soon she could always get back. Sophia was fine.
That was the main thing.
“You OK, Bill?”
The pathologist’s question startled Byford. The Detective Superintendent hated post mortems. Always had, always would. The sights, the sounds, the stench; images that returned to haunt
years after you thought they’d gone. As far as possible, he tried to switch off. This time he’d turned over and fears of his own mortality had flashed on the screen.
Harry Gough – gowned, gloved and bloodied – was still waiting for a response.
“I’m fine,” Byford said.
“Stop sighing, then. You’re putting me off.” The pathologist gently placed a liver on the shiny scales suspended above the slab. Byford averted his gaze and prayed to God that
when the time came he’d escape all this. On the other hand, who’d want to die like his father and brother? He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.
“And if you’re fine, I’m Jamie Oliver.” Harry studied Byford over half-moon glasses.
Byford could do without the visual examination, never mind the wisecracks. He didn’t want Harry on his case and there was nothing funny here. A broken and battered old body: thirteen stab
wounds, twice as many shattered bones. And they still couldn’t even grace it with a name. He shook his head, wondered what sort of monster could inflict this violence on a little old
woman.
The two straight-bladed black-handled knives removed from the body would reveal nothing. Byford would bet his pension on that. The killer might be mad; he wasn’t stupid. But the knives
weren’t the only evidence. Harry’s assistant had spent hours working the body, collecting samples, taking swabs, recording data. Every fibre, every speck, every loose hair was en route
to forensics.
“She had a good few years ahead of her.” Harry nodded at the slab. “Great nick for her age.”
“So she wasn’t a drunken old lush, then?” Shields’s wide smile seemed inappropriate. It was hardly a cause for celebration.
Byford had almost forgotten the DI’s presence. Maybe she shared his aversion, was distancing herself from the indignities of dissection. On the other hand, the snide remark suggested she
was developing an aversion of her own and the target, Bev Morriss, was very much alive and kicking.
Harry ignored the interruption. “Non-smoker. Didn’t drink much, heart sound as a bell. I’d say this was one old lady who took good care of herself.” He pushed his glasses
into a thatch of suspiciously dark hair and winked at Byford. “Definitely not one of Bev’s old bag ladies.”
What was going on here? Byford frowned. “Easy enough call, given what she had to go on.”
Harry grinned. “She’d certainly had a bit to go on.”
“What do you mean?” Byford’s voice was calm, the challenge was in his slate-grey eyes. Harry was reminded of storm clouds.
The pathologist raised his hands; he’d only meant it as a joke. “Not a thing.”
“Oh, come on, Mr Gough,” Shields coaxed. “Morriss said
“As I say, I’m just a neighbour.”
“Of course.” He sounded such a nice young man and it was good of him to call.
“Thank you, Mr…?”
“Just call me Simon.”
There were so many questions she should be asking and her mind couldn’t come up with a single one. “Could I take your number, dear? In case I need to get in touch?”
“Got a pen?”
Where was it? It should be here. She’d have to grab the felt tip off the notice board in the kitchen. “Could you hold on a moment, Simon?”
“Take your time.”
Maude hurried but the pen wasn’t in its place. By the time she’d found a pencil in the dresser drawer she was convinced he’d be gone.
“Hello? Sorry to…” It was her fault. If she hadn’t taken so…
The voice rattled off an 0121 number.
“Thank you so –” He had gone this time. It was a shame; she had several questions now. Never mind. If she didn’t hear soon she could always get back. Sophia was fine.
That was the main thing.
“You OK, Bill?”
The pathologist’s question startled Byford. The Detective Superintendent hated post mortems. Always had, always would. The sights, the sounds, the stench; images that returned to haunt
years after you thought they’d gone. As far as possible, he tried to switch off. This time he’d turned over and fears of his own mortality had flashed on the screen.
Harry Gough – gowned, gloved and bloodied – was still waiting for a response.
“I’m fine,” Byford said.
“Stop sighing, then. You’re putting me off.” The pathologist gently placed a liver on the shiny scales suspended above the slab. Byford averted his gaze and prayed to God that
when the time came he’d escape all this. On the other hand, who’d want to die like his father and brother? He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.
“And if you’re fine, I’m Jamie Oliver.” Harry studied Byford over half-moon glasses.
Byford could do without the visual examination, never mind the wisecracks. He didn’t want Harry on his case and there was nothing funny here. A broken and battered old body: thirteen stab
wounds, twice as many shattered bones. And they still couldn’t even grace it with a name. He shook his head, wondered what sort of monster could inflict this violence on a little old
woman.
The two straight-bladed black-handled knives removed from the body would reveal nothing. Byford would bet his pension on that. The killer might be mad; he wasn’t stupid. But the knives
weren’t the only evidence. Harry’s assistant had spent hours working the body, collecting samples, taking swabs, recording data. Every fibre, every speck, every loose hair was en route
to forensics.
“She had a good few years ahead of her.” Harry nodded at the slab. “Great nick for her age.”
“So she wasn’t a drunken old lush, then?” Shields’s wide smile seemed inappropriate. It was hardly a cause for celebration.
Byford had almost forgotten the DI’s presence. Maybe she shared his aversion, was distancing herself from the indignities of dissection. On the other hand, the snide remark suggested she
was developing an aversion of her own and the target, Bev Morriss, was very much alive and kicking.
Harry ignored the interruption. “Non-smoker. Didn’t drink much, heart sound as a bell. I’d say this was one old lady who took good care of herself.” He pushed his glasses
into a thatch of suspiciously dark hair and winked at Byford. “Definitely not one of Bev’s old bag ladies.”
What was going on here? Byford frowned. “Easy enough call, given what she had to go on.”
Harry grinned. “She’d certainly had a bit to go on.”
“What do you mean?” Byford’s voice was calm, the challenge was in his slate-grey eyes. Harry was reminded of storm clouds.
The pathologist raised his hands; he’d only meant it as a joke. “Not a thing.”
“Oh, come on, Mr Gough,” Shields coaxed. “Morriss said
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