Dead Old Read Free Page B

in-your-face than it used to be but it was still there. Oz ticked all the boxes: Asian, academic and in line for accelerated
promotion.
    He was also the tastiest bloke in the nick. Think Darcy without the pride and prickliness. “Go on,” she prompted.
    “What?”
    “Why am I feeling guilty?”
    “Search me.”
    She shook her head; not a wise move.
    “Headache, Sarge?”
    That was definitely a smirk. She ignored it. They were in an almost stationary line of traffic trying to get on to the High Street. Three or four youths had congregated near the junction,
jostling passers-by, yelling obscenities. They were in uniform but not for school: hoodies, black denims and trainers the size of two-berth boats.
    “Look at that,” Bev snarled. “Little sods. What use is an ASBO round here? Give kids like that an anti-social order, they think it’s an award, juvie equivalent of a
knighthood.”
    Oz saw her glance at the clock. “Don’t go there, Sarge. We haven’t got time.”
    She cast a Morriss-glare at one of the youths as they drove past. It garnered a raised finger and a pierced tongue. Her mental note of dark hair, eyeliner and pasty skin was so vague it was
barely worth making. And Cable Street was top of the list at the moment.
    Oz couldn’t add much to what Vince had said: a punter had called with a tip-off. Said the place was crawling with cameras.
    “They’re probably shooting Dalziel and Pascoe,” Bev said. “They do a lot of location stuff round Moseley.”
    “Hey,” Oz grinned. “We could be extras.”
    Bev ran a hand through her hair Hollywood-style. “Sorry, darlink. I only strip for my art.”
    “Your what?” He lifted a hand to ward off attack. “That’s more like it. You looked like death warmed up back there.”
    “Yeah, yeah.”
    “I worry about you,” Oz persisted.
    “So does my mum. Give it a rest.” She flashed a smile to take the sting from the words. Her relationship with Oz had its downside. She’d probably already opened up too much.
Everyone knew her strengths; only Oz was aware of her weaknesses. Some of them.
    Like the knock her confidence took during the Lucas inquiry. Two girls, one a teenage prostitute, had been killed. Bev had doggedly pursued the wrong man. Oz knew how badly it had affected her
but only Bev knew how close she’d come to a disciplinary. Bev and the guv.
    “Cable Street,” she said. “Doesn’t Bony M live there?”
    “Who?”
    “Marty Skelton? Bony M?” The blank look revealed a gap in Oz’s musical education. “He’s a one-man scam factory. Surely you’ve come across him? Bow-legged?
Sandy hair? Straggly moustache? Christ, Oz, he’s got his own mug at Highgate. The custody sergeants are thinking of charging him B and B.”
    “Small bloke? Tattoos? Got a veg stall down the market?”
    “Flowers, isn’t it?” She gave a one-shoulder shrug.“Whatever.”
    A fine drizzle, barely enough to occupy the wipers, was falling desultorily as they turned into Cable Street. It was trellis territory with a smattering of pebbledash. A few houses had obviously
been done up; others looked as if they’d been done over.
    “There’s loads of places for sale down here,” Oz said.
    Bev knew more about the current Birmingham property market than a chain of estate agents. She was after a place of her own. It didn’t have to be a dream house, just one that didn’t
give her nightmares. “Prone to subsidence. Roads in a bad way. And no garaging.”
    Oz was only half-listening; he was scanning a near-empty street. “No cameras, either. Reckon it was a duff call?”
    A flash car was almost blocking the pavement a few houses down on the right. Bev nodded in its direction. “Let’s take a look.” A BBC logo came into sight as they drew
alongside. Either the Beeb had an exclusive or everyone else had left. On the other hand, the anonymous caller may have been tight with the truth.
    “It’s hardly crawling, is it?” Oz sounded peeved. “Where is