herself she’d had a late night.”
“So? Who doesn’t?” Byford said.
“Absolutely, sir.” Shields studied her nails. “And hangovers.”
Byford narrowed his eyes. “And you’re saying…?” He knew Bev liked a drink. Knew, too, she’d been under pressure in the last few months. He’d been there
himself a couple of years back. If it didn’t affect her work, who cared?
“No one would mind ordinarily,” Shields murmured. “But who knows? If she’d been there a little earlier?”
He frowned, recalled the conversation with Vince Hanlon about Bev being on the scene first thing. There was no way Bev could have arrived any earlier. Unless Vince had been covering up for her.
“Are you making this official, Inspector?”
“No, sir.”
Byford didn’t know the mortuary had a tannoy until a call went out for Danny Shields. The DI headed for the door, pausing briefly to add, “I’ve already had a word with
her.”
Harry blew out his cheeks. “Quite a handful.”
“Her or Bev?” Byford asked.
Harry nodded at the door.
“Has she got a point, though?” Byford asked.
“I reckon she’s got a sewing kit.”
Apparently Shields had called Harry to sound him out on the theory that the old woman had been sleeping rough. “I told her it was a non-starter. She was no more bag lady than me. Thing is,
Bill, I knew it was Bev’s idea ’cause she floated it at Cable Street.”
“What did you say to Shields exactly?” Byford asked.
“I told her the old girl was well-nourished. The dirt was superficial. I even reckoned she might have been doing a bit of gardening. She had some twine and a pair of scissors in a pocket.
The soil under her nails was consistent with that.”
“You told Shields all this on the phone?”
“Yeah. Funny thing, though, she’d been there herself and not said a bloody word. I only realised who I’d been talking to when she turned up here with you.”
“She didn’t introduce herself?”
“I thought she was with the media, at the time. Keeping a distance, you know? So why’d she take a pop like that?”
Byford rubbed a hand over his face. No doubt he’d be finding out.
“Anyway, Bill. As I say.” Harry was removing the gown. “The old lady would have been good for a few years yet. She died from the stab wounds, loss of blood, shock. Hopefully
she was already out of it; she took a hell of a beating. And I know what I’d do to the bastard who killed her.” The voice held venom. Byford had noticed before how Harry hated violence
against old people. For most police officers, crimes involving children were worse. The guv knew that maintaining motivation would become a factor if the case dragged on.
“Tell you what, Bill.” Harry rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’ll be glad to get out of this bloody game.”
The pathologist’s plans were an open secret. He was bowing out just before Christmas, hitting the Caribbean with a laptop. Harry Gough fancied himself as another Ian Rankin. He’d
done the time, now he was going to write the crime.
Byford was toying with the idea of early retirement himself. He was aware that if his wife Margaret were alive he’d probably have packed it in already. It was three years now but he missed
her, missed being married, loathed going back to an empty house. Work gave the illusion of a full life. But it was an illusion; he knew that. Knew, too, that worry over his health was making him
question the future.
“Penny for them?”
For a second or two he considered confiding in Harry. They weren’t close but they sank the occasional pint at the Jug of Ale. Harry was a medico; he’d have valid input. It
didn’t have to be cancer. It was just that, somehow, voicing his fear gave it more substance. He kept quiet about the tests but mentioned his thoughts on quitting the force.
Harry gave Byford’s shoulder a gentle punch. “Go for it, Bill. I tell you, I’m counting the days. No more early shouts, no more
“So? Who doesn’t?” Byford said.
“Absolutely, sir.” Shields studied her nails. “And hangovers.”
Byford narrowed his eyes. “And you’re saying…?” He knew Bev liked a drink. Knew, too, she’d been under pressure in the last few months. He’d been there
himself a couple of years back. If it didn’t affect her work, who cared?
“No one would mind ordinarily,” Shields murmured. “But who knows? If she’d been there a little earlier?”
He frowned, recalled the conversation with Vince Hanlon about Bev being on the scene first thing. There was no way Bev could have arrived any earlier. Unless Vince had been covering up for her.
“Are you making this official, Inspector?”
“No, sir.”
Byford didn’t know the mortuary had a tannoy until a call went out for Danny Shields. The DI headed for the door, pausing briefly to add, “I’ve already had a word with
her.”
Harry blew out his cheeks. “Quite a handful.”
“Her or Bev?” Byford asked.
Harry nodded at the door.
“Has she got a point, though?” Byford asked.
“I reckon she’s got a sewing kit.”
Apparently Shields had called Harry to sound him out on the theory that the old woman had been sleeping rough. “I told her it was a non-starter. She was no more bag lady than me. Thing is,
Bill, I knew it was Bev’s idea ’cause she floated it at Cable Street.”
“What did you say to Shields exactly?” Byford asked.
“I told her the old girl was well-nourished. The dirt was superficial. I even reckoned she might have been doing a bit of gardening. She had some twine and a pair of scissors in a pocket.
The soil under her nails was consistent with that.”
“You told Shields all this on the phone?”
“Yeah. Funny thing, though, she’d been there herself and not said a bloody word. I only realised who I’d been talking to when she turned up here with you.”
“She didn’t introduce herself?”
“I thought she was with the media, at the time. Keeping a distance, you know? So why’d she take a pop like that?”
Byford rubbed a hand over his face. No doubt he’d be finding out.
“Anyway, Bill. As I say.” Harry was removing the gown. “The old lady would have been good for a few years yet. She died from the stab wounds, loss of blood, shock. Hopefully
she was already out of it; she took a hell of a beating. And I know what I’d do to the bastard who killed her.” The voice held venom. Byford had noticed before how Harry hated violence
against old people. For most police officers, crimes involving children were worse. The guv knew that maintaining motivation would become a factor if the case dragged on.
“Tell you what, Bill.” Harry rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’ll be glad to get out of this bloody game.”
The pathologist’s plans were an open secret. He was bowing out just before Christmas, hitting the Caribbean with a laptop. Harry Gough fancied himself as another Ian Rankin. He’d
done the time, now he was going to write the crime.
Byford was toying with the idea of early retirement himself. He was aware that if his wife Margaret were alive he’d probably have packed it in already. It was three years now but he missed
her, missed being married, loathed going back to an empty house. Work gave the illusion of a full life. But it was an illusion; he knew that. Knew, too, that worry over his health was making him
question the future.
“Penny for them?”
For a second or two he considered confiding in Harry. They weren’t close but they sank the occasional pint at the Jug of Ale. Harry was a medico; he’d have valid input. It
didn’t have to be cancer. It was just that, somehow, voicing his fear gave it more substance. He kept quiet about the tests but mentioned his thoughts on quitting the force.
Harry gave Byford’s shoulder a gentle punch. “Go for it, Bill. I tell you, I’m counting the days. No more early shouts, no more
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