late calls, no more freezing your bollocks off
in all weathers, picking up the pieces of another bleeding murder or motorway pile up, Nah, mate, sun, sea, sand and sex. Lots of. For ever and ever.”
“Amen,” Byford provided. “I’ll drink to that.” Both men turned as DI Shields popped her head round the door.
“That was Highgate on the phone,” she said. “Iris Collins won’t be helping our inquiries into daffodils. Or anything else come to that. Sergeant Morriss appears to have
finished the old girl off.”
5
It was a bad joke in worse taste. Iris Collins’s weak heart had given out an hour or more before Bev even set foot on the doorstep of the house in Harborne. It
hadn’t stopped the sick humour doing the rounds at Highgate. Vince hummed the opening bars of the Funeral March whenever he saw her, and some clown had stuck a bunch of daffs on her
desk.
It was OK for that lot. They hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen the wasted limbs, the wizened features, witnessed the daughter’s pain and fury over her mother’s death. The
general thinking on the team was that Iris Collins was just an old woman who’d had her time. Bev had even heard the old ‘she’d had a good innings’ line trotted out. What the
hell was that supposed to mean? Iris would probably still be batting out on the pitch if a bunch of mindless thugs hadn’t scared her witless.
Bev leaned back in the chair, blew out her cheeks, idly registered her fringe needed a trim. Iris’s death had impacted on the direction of the investigation as well. Short of a ouija
board, the daffodil line was going nowhere. She doubted whether Angela, Iris’s daughter, had even taken their gentle questioning on board: questions they’d not yet had a chance to put
to the second victim, Joan Goddard. Neighbours didn’t know where Mrs Goddard had gone, never mind when she’d be back.
Bev sighed. Maybe Shields was right. Maybe the daffodils had sod all to do with anything. Not so much red as yellow herrings. She groaned. Not funny, Bev. Boy, it had been a long day. And
it wasn’t over yet. There was a flat in Balsall Heath to view at eight o’clock. Though she didn’t really want a flat and didn’t really want to live in Balsall Heath.
A quick glance at her watch confirmed it’d be cutting it fine if she nipped home to change. Anyway, although the office was small, grey and purely functional apart from her brown suede
beanbag and a Pirates of the Caribbean poster, it also happened to be empty. And time alone was luxury enough these days. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mum and Sadie
but…
Stifling a yawn, she scrolled through the latest from Cable Street: scores of interviews, not a single lead; nothing earth-shattering from the search teams, either. They’d be out again at
first light. Bev closed her eyes, pictured the old woman’s body. What a shit way to die. They had to get an ID. Knowing who she was might give them a steer on why she’d been
murdered.
“Haven’t you got a home to go to?”
She shot up. How come the guv always made her feel guilty? She was a police officer, for Christ’s sake. “Guv. How’s it going?”
Byford perched on the edge of her desk. “I’ve released Marty Skelton.”
“Oh?” Only surprise was how long he’d been detained.
Byford’s lips twitched. “Quite the star, Marty. He’s in shot on virtually every frame from the pub.”
“Thank God for CCTV?”
“Thank God it wasn’t karaoke night.”
She grinned but noticed Byford’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It was unfortunate, Bev. That cock-up with the media.”
And that was why. He’d come to give her a bollocking. Sod that. The unofficial news briefing at Cable Street was a pisser but it wasn’t down to her. “Not for Marty, guv. Talk
about chequebook journalism. Bloke must’ve made a mint out there.”
She was avoiding the issue. Byford forced it. “What time did you get there?”
Why are you asking? She’d
in all weathers, picking up the pieces of another bleeding murder or motorway pile up, Nah, mate, sun, sea, sand and sex. Lots of. For ever and ever.”
“Amen,” Byford provided. “I’ll drink to that.” Both men turned as DI Shields popped her head round the door.
“That was Highgate on the phone,” she said. “Iris Collins won’t be helping our inquiries into daffodils. Or anything else come to that. Sergeant Morriss appears to have
finished the old girl off.”
5
It was a bad joke in worse taste. Iris Collins’s weak heart had given out an hour or more before Bev even set foot on the doorstep of the house in Harborne. It
hadn’t stopped the sick humour doing the rounds at Highgate. Vince hummed the opening bars of the Funeral March whenever he saw her, and some clown had stuck a bunch of daffs on her
desk.
It was OK for that lot. They hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen the wasted limbs, the wizened features, witnessed the daughter’s pain and fury over her mother’s death. The
general thinking on the team was that Iris Collins was just an old woman who’d had her time. Bev had even heard the old ‘she’d had a good innings’ line trotted out. What the
hell was that supposed to mean? Iris would probably still be batting out on the pitch if a bunch of mindless thugs hadn’t scared her witless.
Bev leaned back in the chair, blew out her cheeks, idly registered her fringe needed a trim. Iris’s death had impacted on the direction of the investigation as well. Short of a ouija
board, the daffodil line was going nowhere. She doubted whether Angela, Iris’s daughter, had even taken their gentle questioning on board: questions they’d not yet had a chance to put
to the second victim, Joan Goddard. Neighbours didn’t know where Mrs Goddard had gone, never mind when she’d be back.
Bev sighed. Maybe Shields was right. Maybe the daffodils had sod all to do with anything. Not so much red as yellow herrings. She groaned. Not funny, Bev. Boy, it had been a long day. And
it wasn’t over yet. There was a flat in Balsall Heath to view at eight o’clock. Though she didn’t really want a flat and didn’t really want to live in Balsall Heath.
A quick glance at her watch confirmed it’d be cutting it fine if she nipped home to change. Anyway, although the office was small, grey and purely functional apart from her brown suede
beanbag and a Pirates of the Caribbean poster, it also happened to be empty. And time alone was luxury enough these days. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mum and Sadie
but…
Stifling a yawn, she scrolled through the latest from Cable Street: scores of interviews, not a single lead; nothing earth-shattering from the search teams, either. They’d be out again at
first light. Bev closed her eyes, pictured the old woman’s body. What a shit way to die. They had to get an ID. Knowing who she was might give them a steer on why she’d been
murdered.
“Haven’t you got a home to go to?”
She shot up. How come the guv always made her feel guilty? She was a police officer, for Christ’s sake. “Guv. How’s it going?”
Byford perched on the edge of her desk. “I’ve released Marty Skelton.”
“Oh?” Only surprise was how long he’d been detained.
Byford’s lips twitched. “Quite the star, Marty. He’s in shot on virtually every frame from the pub.”
“Thank God for CCTV?”
“Thank God it wasn’t karaoke night.”
She grinned but noticed Byford’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It was unfortunate, Bev. That cock-up with the media.”
And that was why. He’d come to give her a bollocking. Sod that. The unofficial news briefing at Cable Street was a pisser but it wasn’t down to her. “Not for Marty, guv. Talk
about chequebook journalism. Bloke must’ve made a mint out there.”
She was avoiding the issue. Byford forced it. “What time did you get there?”
Why are you asking? She’d
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