“Michelle?”
She forced a smile. “Let’s just say there were times when she had a vivid imagination.”
Byford scratched his left eyebrow. It was a warning – to anyone who could read the sign.
Elizabeth Sharpe leaned foward, rested her elbows on the desk. “Michelle liked to be the centre of attention, Superintendent. It happens a lot with children from broken homes. They need to be noticed. They want everyone to like them. Sometimes they make things up… I suppose it’s compensation for what they’ve lost.”
Spare me psycho-crap, thought Byford. “And Michelle…”
The silence was uneasy. He had no intention of breaking it.
“Michelle could be very caring. Very helpful.”
“But?”
She shrugged. “Mostly when there was something in it for her.”
Sounded like every teenager Byford knew. “For instance?”
“Oh, little things. Offering to tidy up after class to get out of a detention. Carrying a teacher’s bag to her car – so as to get a lift into town. That sort of thing.”
His withering expression suggested it was hardly major league.
She pursed her lips and upped the ante. “She smoked in school. And several times, my staff suspected she’d been drinking.”
“What about drugs?”’
“Not in school. But… she took rather a lot of unauthorised absences.”
Byford nodded. Bunking off they called it in his day. It was time to get on. “I’d like a list of her teachers and how they can be contacted. If you can think of any pupils she was particularly close to – put their names on it as well.”
“I’ve already made a start.” She handed over a file. He wondered why he wasn’t impressed with her efficiency. “You’ll need to speak to her Head of Year, Henry Brand. He works very closely with the children in his care and he’s been on the staff here for many years.”
“Right. Thanks. I’ll keep you informed.”
She smiled for the first time. “Actually if you don’t think you’ll need me…”
He waited. Was the woman incapable of finishing a sentence? “It’s just that when your man called at my home this morning, I was actually on my way out…”
He nodded but said nothing.
“It was no problem, of course. I don’t live far. I have to pass school to get to the course anyway.”
“Course?” He had visions of lecture halls and seminars.
“Golf. Woodley Manor. There’s a tournament on today.”
He was shocked, wondered if he had the right, had to stop himself bridling. “Don’t let me keep you, Mrs Sharpe. If we need you, we can always catch up with you on the green.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Inspector.”
He ignored the deliberate demotion. “In a murder inquiry, anything might be necessary, Mrs Sharpe.”
He remained silent, again wanting her to break it, wondering how she would. She sighed. “Michelle will be missed. She was very popular here. A lovely girl…”
Not for the first time, Byford thought that what Elizabeth Sharpe didn’t say was more interesting.
“But?”
She stood, held out a hand. “Nothing. I don’t believe in gossip and tittle-tattle.”
Byford shook her hand, trying not to feel that he was being dismissed; trying not to feel the antipathy and hostility she had, perhaps unwittingly, aroused. He couldn’t work her out; couldn’t get a handle, to borrow one of Bev’s favourite sayings. He made a mental note to point Bev in the woman’s direction. His sergeant had a knack for cutting to the chase by cutting out the crap (her words again). Byford reckoned she could sniff out bullshit in a rose garden. “Before I go… we haven’t sorted a room.”
“Use the one next to mine. It’s yours as long as you need it. If I’m not on school premises…” She paused, wanting to make a point but unwilling to spell it out. “I’ll be at home.”
He nodded: point taken. She walked him to the door, halted before opening it and placed a hand on his arm. He hoped the shock hadn’t reached his face.
“My staff and I will do everything we can to help. No one deserves to die in this terrible way. Whoever killed Michelle needs to be caught. And the sooner the better.”
The man tightened his grip on the girl, pulled her in close.
“I am not happy, Cassandra.”
There was a wide smile on his face but it didn’t get anywhere near his narrowed eyes. To a casual observer, they were love’s young dream, snatching a Valentine’s Day kiss in a shop doorway. No one was near enough to hear; he’d made sure of that. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you. You do understand?”
He licked his lips, brushed them gently against her cheek then released her.
“Honest to God, Charlie. It’s the truth. Straight up.”
He laughed, sending out waves of garlic and tobacco fumes. He wasn’t much taller than her own five-six, but workouts and weight training made every inch count. Cassie had fallen for his dark good looks. She’d always fancied blokes with long hair, especially pony tails. She couldn’t stand the sight of them now. He put his finger to her mouth. “You’d better hope so, Cassandra, baby.”
Cassie Swain wished she was a baby: a babe-in-arms. None of this would be happening if her stupid, crazy mother hadn’t swallowed a load of paracetamol then thrown herself in the river. Cassie wouldn’t be living in some poxy kids’ home. She’d never have heard of Charlie Hawes, let alone whored for him. And she wouldn’t be standing here now, scared shitless with wet knickers.
She took a step back. Why had she ever let him anywhere near Michelle Lucas? The sledge-hammer had added weight to his argument; he’d been swinging it at her knee caps. She tried to smile but her mouth hurt.
Cassie had long realised that Hawes had only wormed his way into her affections as a way of getting to Shell. Shell Lucas was a real looker: a nice little earner. Charlie had a string of girls but Shell was the youngest. And Cassie had led him right to her.
A year ago now it was. They’d started sharing a room at Fair Oaks and Shell wanted to know where Cassie was getting her swank clothes and posh jewellery. Charlie was dead generous in those days. Groomed his girls well. Till he got them where he wanted them: up against fat beer guts and inside thick wallets. Shell was his richest picking.
Cass’d had a load of grief from Shell’s mate, Vicki Flinn. Vick had gone apeshit. She was on the streets herself but she couldn’t be doing with pimps, especially Mad Charlie. Vick had been doing her best to protect the girl. At this moment, protection was the last thing on what passed for Charlie Hawes’s mind.
“Soon’s I see her, I’ll get her over to you, Charlie.”
“Yes,” he drawled. “You do that.”
It was easier said than done. Cassie hadn’t a clue where the silly little cow was. One thing was certain: she hadn’t slept in her own bed last night. Cassie had covered for her at breakfast: lying to the staff, coming up with some old tosh about a migraine. They looked out for each other at Fair Oaks. But getting on the wrong side of Charlie Hawes was something else.
She watched as he pulled up the collar of his brown leather trench coat then tightened the belt. Word was that he’d used it to top some crackhead. Probably just big talk but right now – Cassie really didn’t want to know.
4
“We need the pimp, guv.”
Byford nodded, sat up straight and put his hands behind his head. Bev reckoned it must be the school environment; he normally had his feet on a desk and the chair tilted. She noticed they’d made themselves at home; there was a great smell of coffee in the room and DI Powell had what looked like biscuit crumbs round his mouth. She’d mention it later, wind him up. Maybe.
She’d just brought them up to speed on finding the stash of cash in Michelle Lucas’s shoe, and, right now, the priority was finding out what sort of a scumbag had put a fifteen-year-old girl on the game.
“Any
bright ideas?” Byford asked.
Bev sighed; plenty of dark thoughts. All the way from the park, she’d been thinking about her time on vice, and the difficulties in getting to the average pimp.
Locating the coffee maker was a cinch by comparison. She made her way over and poured, still lost in thought. Every day she’d go in and see the fixed smiles of a bunch of slimeballs who made life hell for girls like Michelle. Grainy photographs of six suspected pimps had been pinned to a wall of the squad’s cramped quarters. It was the closest they’d come to nailing the bastards.
In every case, the pimp had been fingered by one of his women, and in all but one instance, those same women had subsequently withdrawn their statements and refused to give evidence. Bev could hardly blame them. The initial desire to turn a man in quickly turned into terror of the consequences. It was one thing for a woman to be beaten, burned and buggered; it was something else when her family, even her kids, were threatened. And prison didn’t stop the bastards. They had lackeys on the outside more than willing to lend a hand, or a boot, or a baseball bat.
It was no wonder they were all smiling in the snatch-shots, Bev thought. They believed – unlike their girls – that they were untouchable.
She took a sip of coffee, aware that Byford was waiting for input. She sipped again; it was good. Two shots of caffeine and she could still only come up with one thought. “If it’s okay with you, guv, I’d like to talk to the girls. I’ll probably get the bum’s rush but it’s got to be our best chance.” It was a weak link but it was the only one they had.
“Go on,” Byford prompted.
“There’s a group of them. They work a patch near the park. It’s causing a lot of grief cause it’s so close to the school. The people who live round there are well narked. They’ve been trying to get the girls moved on for ages.”
“Moved one on, haven’t they?” Powell held out his empty mug to Bev. “Two sugars, love.”
“Pot’s there, sweetie,” she said automatically. “I don’t know if it was Michelle’s beat. I’ve never seen her there, but it’s got to be the first place we try.”
Byford nodded. “Sounds good, Bev. Get out there, soon as you like.”
She’d have to chase a few addresses first. It was a bit early for the girls to show their faces. They’d be sleeping it off. She stifled a yawn; must be thought association.
“Late night, Morriss?”
“Early shout, Inspector.”
“Come on you pair,” Byford said. “Save the energy. You’ll need it. There’s going to be plenty of late nights for everyone until we get this cleared up.”
Bev swigged the last of her coffee and looked round for her shoulder-bag. It was a vast depository of junk with the odd essential item thrown in, and she was always promising herself she’d sort it. “I’m off then. I’ll catch you later.”
“I’ll walk out with you.” Byford got to his feet. “See what else you can get here then get back for the briefing,” he told Powell. “I want everyone back at Highgate by say, 10.45.”
“What about the press?” the DI asked. “The Star’s been sniffing round and I’ve had the radio people on the phone.”
“Best place for them,” Byford said. “I’ll have to talk them eventually. But not now. The priority’s getting the team up to speed. And finding everything we can on Michelle. The mother and that boyfriend of hers will have to be tracked down. And one of us is going to have to go over to Fair Oaks. Michelle was there longer than any of the other places. Even so, they’ll all have to be checked. We’ll get to as many of the teachers as we can before Monday. They’ll be able to tell us who her friends are. Strikes me, it’s the kids who’ll be able to tell us more than anyone.”
“Do you want me back at Highgate as well?” Bev hoped he’d say no. She was keen to get to the girls.
The phone rang. He lifted a finger. “Byford.” The conversation lasted less than a minute.
“That was Vince. He’s got a young woman called Victoria Flinn at the front desk. She wants to know if we’ve got a friend of hers locked up. A friend called Michelle Lucas.”
Bev slung her bag over her shoulder. “On my way.”
Vince Hanlon’s avuncular appearance was deceptive. In reality the desk sergeant was like a drill at the dentist’s: indispensable and just as sharp. There were only three stripes on his arm but, as Bev was well aware, a wealth of experience nestled in the rolls of flab under his belt.
So said, the sight that greeted her when she emerged from the revolving doors at Highgate nick was as arresting as catching Hannibal Lecter in a vegan restaurant. Big Vince had deserted his customary lair of the front desk for less familiar territory. He had his arm round a skinny girl, young enough to be his great-niece, who looked as streetwise as an A–Z.
He waved a hand at the floor. “The lass slipped. It shook her up a bit.”
Bev glanced at the lass’s footwear. Lucky: she could have broken her neck. The girl hadn’t looked round, hadn’t moved away; if anything she’d snuggled even closer to Vince. Her proximity to his paunch was having visible effects. Bev’s lips twitched as he pulled a huge white handkerchief from a trouser pocket, mopping sweat from his corrugated brow. His eyes darted round like a drowning man’s in search of a life jacket. “Thank God you’re here.”
At last, the girl glanced round, curious to see what Vince’s saviour looked like. Saint Bev was in her late twenties, five foot six, nine stone, with chin-length hair the colour of Guinness and a face that her mother called beautiful. She bestowed what she hoped was a suitably beatific smile, but the girl pulled a face and a few seconds later was floundering again in a mound of flesh that could have been Vince’s chest or abdomen; there was no perceptible demarcation. It was a wind-up. The girl was enjoying this.
Vince wasn’t. He tried to put a little distance between them but she was clinging like cotton-wool to Velcro. Bev was in no hurry to tear her away: break the news and break her heart.
The game soon lost its appeal. The girl looked up and smiled. “Feel a bit better now.” She moved away and ran a hand over her rear. “Mind, me bum hurts.”
“Bev here’ll look after you,” he said.
“Rather talk to you, Vince.”
Vince? Bev shot him a look. He was having a hot flush. Another time, it would have been funny. She sighed. The girl was still studiously ignoring her, so Bev moved nearer the desk and skimmed through the notes Vince had made before his temporary foray into community relations. She found what she was looking for and turned to face the girl. “Victoria?” She waited for an acknowledgment. It didn’t arrive. “I’m DS Morriss. Bev Morriss. Come on, love. Let’s get a cup of tea.”
Bev took a step back as the girl swirled round, eyes flashing. “I’m not your love. And I don’t want a soddin’ cup of tea.”
Good start, thought Bev.
The girl pointed a finger with a badly-bitten nail. “I’m not talking to no one in this place. I’ve come to pick up Shell.” She looked at Vince. “When can I see her?”
Vince shrugged, nodded towards Bev. She jerked her head, signalling the girl to follow her. “We need to talk.”
Something in Bev’s voice pre-empted another verbal attack. Vicki stared, nodded, said: “Okay.”
“We’ll be in number three, Vince.”
“Hey! I ain’t done nuffin’.”
Bev smiled reassurance, at the same time registering the fact that Miss Flinn clearly knew her way around Highgate nick. “I know that, Victoria. But we need somewhere private.”
The girl nodded again, gave what Bev suspected was a smile. Bev had to stifle a grin as the girl reached up to plant a kiss on Vince’s cheek. “Ta, Vinnie. And I will have that cup of char. Four sugars. And a couple of Hob Nobs.”
Bev noted the relief on Vince’s face. He was back on an even keel. Tea was no problem. Sympathy for a sexy slip of a girl floundering in his arms and playing havoc with his equilibrium was something else.
Bev had reckoned on a
bit of ranting and raving, a few screams maybe. But not this. Vicki was silent, still, as motionless as her best mate in the morgue. Perched on the edge of the desk, Bev watched a solitary tear slide past the girl’s nose and drop from the bottom of her chin. It was the only discernible movement. She was seventeen, going on seven. A kid who wanted to go home to mum. That’s if she had a mum – or a home. Bev would give her right arm to know what was going on behind those huge blue eyes.
“When did you last see Michelle, love?”
Vicki was staring into space. Had she heard? Was she in shock?
“D’you want a doctor, Vicki?” Bev stroked the bony shoulder. “Is there anyone I can call?”
Another tear. Another damp trail.
Bev knelt in front of Vicki, took her hands. They were cold and could be cleaner. She cupped them in the warmth of her own. No reaction. Bev might have been invisible. She rose, gently helped the girl to her feet. They were much the same height. It was probably the only thing they had in common. Bev searched her face, looking for answers to a million questions. It was blank. A plain cover for the hurt and pain Bev knew were there. She drew her close and stroked her hair, spoke the only words she could think of. “I’m so sorry, Vicki. So very sorry.”
It was like the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers. The girl circled her arms round Bev’s waist and cried like a baby. “Why Shell? Why little Shell? She was only a kid.”
The words came between shuddering breaths and pitiful sobs. Bev held her tightly, waiting until she was calmer.
“That’s what we have to find out, Vicki. Then we can nick the bastard who did it. Get him behind bars where he belongs. But we’re going to need your help.”
Bev held her breath. It could go either way. Asking a girl to grass on a pimp was tantamount to putting her neck on the block. Bev counted silently to ten, then twenty. She hit twenty-nine before Vicki pulled away. Bev saw the fear in the girl’s eyes, and she saw the grief, and she saw something else: fury.
“You’ve got it.” Vicki brushed away a tear with the heel of her hand. “And then you can throw away the fucking key.”
Working Girls Page 3