Dead Old Read Free

mouthed, “Who is it?” The way Emmy had been twittering on, she probably
had the man’s life history by now.
    Her mum shrugged. “Didn’t ask. He sounds awfully nice, though.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “He’s from work.”
    Bev would have rolled her eyes but feared an ensuing wave of pain. Emmy pursed her lips, turned on her fluffy pink slippers and headed for the kitchen. There was nothing in Emmy’s world
that a cup of tea couldn’t fix. Her mum was one of Powell’s domestics: Delia with a Dyson. Bev loved her to bits but if she had to live at home much longer it would drive her round the
bend. She’d only been back three weeks after a deal on a house she’d been hoping to buy had fallen through.
    At least Bev’s gran wasn’t down yet. Sadie, unlike her mum, wouldn’t hold back from asking about Bev’s night out. She’d want the low-down. Sadie had the curiosity
of a big cat and an interview technique that made Paxman look like Graham Norton. Bev usually had no problem indulging the old lady, but not this morning.
    “Hello?” A frog with laryngitis appeared to be lodged in Bev’s throat; then she remembered all the Silk Cuts and indifferent Soave she’d got through in the Prince of
Wales.
    “God. You sound rough. You should have phoned in.” Vince Hanlon’s voice veered from sympathy to censure in seconds.
    “You what?”
    “If you’re that sick, you should have called in.”
    She cleared her throat a couple of times. Highgate’s longest-serving sergeant would have heard every lame excuse in the library. She opted for the truth; well, part of it.
    “Sorry, Vince. Bad night. I overslept.”
    She tried to read the silence. Vince was a good mate but he had no time for slackers.
    “Not like you, Bev. Anything up?”
    Life, the universe, everything. “Nothing serious.”
    “If you say so.” He paused in case she wanted to elaborate. “Any road, we’ve had this call. Some punter reckons there’s something going off down Cable
Street.”
    Cable Street? That was Kings Heath. She pulled up a mental picture of redbrick terraces, boarded windows and a smattering of graffiti. “Go on.”
    “That’s it. An incident. That’s all he said.”
    “Nutter?”
    “How should I know? He didn’t give a name. Needs checking out, Bev.”
    The smell of bacon grilling wafted in from Emmy’s empire. “Vincie, mate, can’t you send a uniform?”
    She heard the sound as he slapped his forehead. “Silly me. Now why didn’t I think of that? Come on, lass, do us a favour.” The uncharacteristic sarcasm continued.
“It’ll have escaped your awesome powers of detection so far this morning, but we’ve got a factory fire in West Brom, a fatal in the city centre and Spiderman and Batman doing
stand-up on a bridge over the M6.”
    A fry-up was out of the question, then. “I’ll be a little while, Vince. Sure there’s no one else?”
    “Lass, I’ve got a sick list here longer than the General’s.” She could picture him now: jowls a-quiver, grizzled head shaking, paunch straining at the buttons of his
shirt. Big Vince was Yogi Bear on happy pills. “Anyway, Bev, far as the guv’s concerned, you’re already there. If you get my drift.”
    The guv. Detective Superintendent Bill Byford. It took a second or two, owing to the mother of all hangovers but yes, the message was clear. Byford had been asking for her and Vince had done the
decent thing: covered her back. Good old Vincie. She couldn’t afford to get on the wrong side of the guv. Byford was a member of a dying breed: a man-in-a-suit who had time for Bev.
“Cheers, mate. I owe you.”
    “It’s on the slate,” Vince said. “And there’s not a lot of room left.”
    She did a quick calculation, simultaneously registering the smile in the sergeant’s voice: three-minute shower, forty-five seconds wardrobe, forego what little slap she occasionally
bothered with. “Ready in five, Vince.” Shame about the bacon