Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

  Byford wasn’t speaking at all. She glanced up: he was leaning back, eyes closed. She yawned, laid the paper to one side. It had been a long day. And night. And the prospect was more of the same. There was already a mountain range of paper work: statements from the dead girl’s teachers, friends, staff at the home. Then there were the door-to-doors, the crank calls and the usual string of confessions from the local nutters. Two Jack the Rippers had left blood-stained letters at the front desk.

  She looked at Byford again; had he dropped off? She cleared her throat, stage whisper style.

  “I’m resting my eyes,” he murmured.

  She smiled; he was as knackered as her. He’d been leaving the building as she arrived but had seemed keen to turn round and hear how the evening had panned out. Perhaps, like her, he didn’t always fancy going back to an empty house.

  She downed the scotch and was debating whether to slip out when he got to his feet.

  “Come on, Bev. You look shattered. Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll walk you to that arrangement of corroded metal you call your car.”

  She held the door, waiting while he logged off and extinguished lights. “Dunno about shut-eye,” she said. “I certainly had my eyes opened tonight.”

  “I’m intrigued. Go on.”

  The walk to the car park was accompanied by a lively account of Bev’s venture into the city’s low-life night life. Vicki had been an invaluable, not to say voluble guide. Despite the disappointment, they’d had a few laughs; more than that, Bev reckoned they’d got on really well. The girl had a wicked sense of humour and a tongue like a needle; it was sharp and had Bev in stitches. She was talking Byford through the best bits but he wasn’t exactly rolling in the aisle. “What’s up, guv?”

  “Nothing. Carry on.”

  “Anyway, Vick says…”

  “Vick seems to have had a lot to say tonight.”

  There was a hint of something in his voice; the emphasis he put on the girl’s name. Bev couldn’t pin it down and the glance at his face didn’t help. “Problem with that?”

  “You make it sound like a girls’ night out, Bev.” There was no mistaking the disapproval this time.

  She took a deep breath, told herself to chill. “That’s not fair and it isn’t true.” She added a reluctant “Sir.”

  “She’s an informant and a potential witness, not a mate. There’s a professional distance to keep.”

  She was furious. He had no right. She wasn’t some bloody rookie. Then thoughts of futons and spare rooms flashed in her head. Okay, maybe he had a point. It didn’t lessen her anger; made it worse. Now she was cross with herself as well as him.

  His face softened. “It’s a gentle reminder, Bev, that’s all.”

  They were almost at her MG. An inept spray job with insufficient black paint had added a certain je ne sais quoi to the original shade of chicken-crap sallow. The Midget looked like a malformed hornet, but she’d christened it Trigger in an optimistic attempt to inject horsepower. She unlocked the door, aware Byford was still by her side. Maybe he regretted the earlier stuff.

  “I’d like to meet the girl, Bev. You’ve given her quite a buildup.” He smiled.

  Bev nodded. It was an apology of sorts but she was still smarting. He was still hovering. “Come on, Bev. I have faith in you. You know that.”

  She relented. He was a good bloke and he had her interests at heart. She smiled. “Ta, guv. I reckon I know how to handle her. Trust me on this.”

  “Sure. I think she could be crucial to the inquiry, as well, Bev. She was very close to young Michelle. When are you interviewing her again?”

  “Tomorrow, hopefully.”

  “Hopefully?”

  She heard what he was not saying: that ‘hope’ wasn’t enough. But a definite meet had been difficult to set up. She’d dropped Vicki round the corner from her ma’s but it was no guarantee she’d spend the night there. “She’s almost NFA, guv. She said she’d get to Highgate as soon as she could. If there’s a problem, she’ll give me a bell.”

  “You gave her your number? Your home number?” He was more surprised by that than by Vicki’s no fixed abode status.

  Bev crossed her fingers; hated porkies. “Nah. Here. Front desk’ll get a message to me.” She watched him open his mouth to remonstrate, then presumably changed his mind. In Bev’s mind was an image of Vicki, tottering on her wedgies down an unlit street to a house she could no longer call her home. Bev felt she’d let the girl down, should have stuck up for her in the face of Byford’s criticism. She knew it was irrational but tried to redress the balance anyway.

  “She’s a nice girl, boss. She’s had a rough time. Been through a lot of shit.”

  “Think of Michelle. Another nice girl. Dead. Covered in it. Be careful, Bev. That’s all I’m saying.”

  The words rang in her head all the way home.

  6

  “The bells…the bells.”

  Bev staggered out of bed, completing her impromptu Quasimodo with a bleary-eyed lurch towards the alarm. The clock, a fraternal Christmas present, was blaring from behind rainbow curtains on the far side of the room. She hid it in a different place every night. The daily enforced fumble in the dark meant less chance of a return to the duvet.

  She yawned, headed for the bathroom. It might be Sunday, but Bev’s gut told her it was not going to be a day of rest. She studied her face in the mirror over the basin.

  “Now look, punk. Are you gonna have a good day?” She paused, did a passable Clint Eastwood: “Or are you gonna have a good day?”

  The morning mantra was more Felix Barry than Dirty Harry. Felix tried hard to teach her Tai Chi. Not hard enough. The job kept getting in the way. Still, Felix was a fervent proponent of positive thought and verbal reinforcement. Bev reckoned anything was worth a try.

  A pee and a shower, and it was back to the boudoir to grab a suit. Days of dithering in front of the mirror were long gone. She now wore blue. Blue. Or occasionally: blue. Picasso could have painted her wardrobe. She still hadn’t sewn the button on her skirt’s waistband and was scrabbling round for a safety pin when there was a hammering on the door.

  “Hold on. I’m coming.”

  It had to be Mave. Who else was going to come calling before seven on a Sunday? It was. She breezed in bearing a plate of bacon sandwiches and trailing a blend of Persil and Players.

  “Get these down your neck. You can’t operate on an empty stomach.”

  Bev grinned. There was enough to keep the BMA going for a fortnight. “You’re a star, Mave. Know that?”

  “Milky Way, me, mate.”

  Some people have neighbours; Bev had Mavis Holdsworth. Think Joan Collins on income support, out of Oxfam. Mave looked on Bev as the daughter she’d never had.

  “What’s up?” Bev asked.

  “Me.” Mave said as if a single syllable was sufficient.

  “And?” Bev grabbed the kettle.

  “I’m up when I should be in bed. It’s supposed to be my day off.” Mave was the manageress and queen of the Washwell Deluxe Laundrette and Dry Cleaners.

  “And?” Bev waved Mave’s resident mug in the air – interpreted the shrug of narrow shoulders and chucked in a tea bag.

  “Rita’s called in sick again, hasn’t she?” Mave worked with a woman who had more time off than a stopped watch.

  “Never mind. Least it’s not far to go.”

  A flight of stairs to be precise. Their maisonettes were above a row of shops that included the launderette, a dodgy vid store and a deli to die for.

  Mave pointed at Bev, pointed at the bacon butties and took over the teamaking. “I wouldn’t care, but it’s not the first time.” She did care. Mavis chewed gum incessantly; her mouth was going like a piston.

  Bev was munching smoked back and Sunblest. She could only nod. Besides, she didn’t want to get involved. Not that Mave seemed to notice.

  “Twenty hours a week she’s s’posed to do. By arrangement with me.”

  The woman w
as positively bristling. Nose out of joint? Or something more? It wasn’t like Mave to take a downer on anyone. Looking on the bright side and seeing the best was Mave’s style. It was the unswerving cheerfulness that had endeared her to Bev in the first place. That, plus her propensity to pick up the odd bit of gossip with the ease of an industrial hoover.

  “A sickie’s a sickie. Not much you can do.” Bev said.

  Mave stuck her gum on the side of her mug and took a gulp of steaming tea. “It’s one thing after another, Bev. Bruised ribs. Sprained wrist. Detached retsina.”

  “Retina.”

  “Same diff.”

  A Greek Adonis, bearing crystal glasses on a silver tray across a golden beach, flashed before Bev’s eyes. “Not quite.”

  “I mean, Bev, how many doors can one woman walk into?”

  “What you saying, Mave?”

  “She’s either swinging the lead,” Mave finished the tea and retrieved her Wrigley’s, “or some bastard’s swinging it at her.”

  “Shit!” Bev had caught sight of the clock on the cooker. “I’ve got seven and a half minutes to get to Highgate.”

  The woman’s face fell. “Sorry, Mave. Do you want me to have a word with her? Rita, isn’t it?”

  Mavis sniffed. “She won’t talk. I’ve tried to get her to open up. She won’t say a word.”

  “I can have a go.” Bev smiled as she shrugged into her jacket. “They don’t call me silver-tongued Morriss for nothing, y’know.”

  “Pay them, do you?”

  That was more like it. Bev winked. “Cheeky tart.”

  “Cassie Swain’s our best bet.” Bev looked round, encouraged by a few nodding heads.

  The whole team was now up to speed – a meagre two miles a fortnight, she reckoned – and a subdued Byford sat back, having just thrown the briefing open. Bev was on her feet at the front, chucking in her two penn’orth. “The girls were the same age. Went to the same school. Shared a room at Fair Oaks.”

  “Not all they shared, is it?” Bev recognised the voice, forced herself not to show a reaction. Twenty bodies were crowded into the incident room and, without looking up from her notes, she’d bet eighteen pairs of eyes were now focused on Mike Powell. She’d spotted him earlier, leaning against a side wall, examining his nails.

  “Not sure what you’re saying.” She tried to match his casual delivery, but her heart sank. She wasn’t in the mood. She was tempted to sit, decided to stand her ground. Everyone knew the girls were on the game but what was Powell playing?

  “Both in the same line of business, weren’t they?”

  Eyes were back on her now. It felt like the centre court at Wimbledon. She tried to ignore the crowd; kept her voice level. “And that makes them what? Stupid? Unreliable? Liars?”

  “It makes them tarts. Lie as soon as look at you. False names. Fake addresses. That’s when they’re talking at all. When it comes to pimps – they’ve all taken a vow of silence.”

  She was aware of bums shifting; of her own foot tap-tap-tapping and a trickle of sweat, cold down her back. She’d met a handful of cops who openly admitted hating whores; bragged about it; wouldn’t touch vice with a sterile barge pole. But Powell? She had zilch time for the man, but she wouldn’t have put him in that underclass. He was probably just on the bait.

  “And we all know why,” she said. “They’re shit scared. If a girl opens her mouth she gets a size ten in it. That’s if she’s lucky and doesn’t wake up in Casualty.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She waited, there was clearly more to come.

  “Blame it on the blokes. The toms are all little pussy-cats, aren’t they, Morriss?”

  There were a few sniggers but the man was so dense, the double entendre was probably unwitting. Bev shook her head, aware they were waiting for a one-liner; a Morriss special, but instead of Wimbledon, this was beginning to resemble something out of Gladiators – and guess who was the Christian?

  Byford was getting to his feet; thank God.

  “That’s it,” he snapped. “A young girl’s been murdered. For whatever reason, she was on the game. If anyone has a problem with that, they’d better say so. Now.”

  Bev glanced at Powell whose hands were spread, palms-up.

  “No problem.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. We’ve wasted enough time here. You all know what’s needed. The teacher interviews need finishing. The gaps on the house-to-house have to be plugged. Mike and I still have a few people from the CUTS campaign to track down. And Bev, I want you to look for Cassie Swain.”

  A phone rang. He ignored it. “It’s twenty-four hours since the murder and unless anyone has any better ideas…”

  “Guv.” D C Newman had his hand over the mouthpiece. “No need for a search party. Cassie Swain’s turned up. It’s the General. She’s in Intensive Care.”

  “You can’t see her. And she won’t be talking. Not to anyone. Not for a long time.”

  Bev’s palms tingled. She wanted to slap the smirk off the bloody woman’s face. The badge on her seriously white coat said Dr Thorne. And she was – in Bev’s side.

  She and young Ozzie had been kept waiting in a room the size of a soap dish so long that Bev had gone through enough coffee to keep the Brazilian economy afloat. Oz didn’t touch the stuff. He’d only been in CID a few weeks, hadn’t had time to pick up too many bad habits. Bev was supposed to be keeping an eye on him. DC Khan was the tastiest bloke at Highgate, it was no hardship. Thorne, on the other hand, was a pain.

  “Can you be more specific?” Bev’s tone was polite.

  The response was not. “The girl’s jaw’s smashed. A fair number of her teeth have been knocked out. And if the swelling in her skull doesn’t go down – we’ll be lucky to save her. So. No. I can’t.”

  Bev had no problem with a woman five years younger, fifteen kilos lighter, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Kate Moss. It was the doctor’s attitude that was the pisser. From the second the woman had swept in, she’d looked down. She did it so well, Bev reckoned she practised. Bev moved closer. She’d had a bad night; kept awake by vague worries she couldn’t pin down. Sleep – when it came – had been fitful and filled with gory images of Michelle and other girls she’d known. This Bright Young Thing crap she could do without.

  “What’s your problem, love?” Even to her own ears, it was a threat. She felt Ozzie’s gaze on her.

  Doctor Thorne had an uncertain smile on her face. “I beg your pardon?”

  Bev was standing, feet apart, arms folded. “I’m not asking you to beg my pardon. I’m asking for a bit of respect.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes you do. I’ve been hanging round so long someone wanted to plant flowers.” She jabbed a finger in the air. “When you eventually get your act together – it’s a one-liner saying sweet FA.”

  “I don’t have time for this. I’m a busy person.” She was fondling a stethoscope slung casually round her neck. Bev wasn’t impressed by the prop; she’d seen enough episodes of ER to bluff her way into medical school.

  “And I’m not?” She felt Ozzie’s hand on her arm. Another time, she’d have left it there. You could file nails on his graduate cheekbones. She kept her gaze on the doctor who was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain eye contact.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re saying. Your attitude? It sucks.”

  “Sarge?”

  Bev looked at Oz. He was tapping his watch. She glanced at the time. “Okay, okay. I’m out of here.” She turned to the doctor. “Let’s hope, Ms Thorne, that I get to the mad bastard out there, before some other kid gets a taste for hospital food. Not that you can eat a lot when your jaw’s wired and your teeth have gone AWOL.”

  The woman ran her hands through her hair. Bev watched as it fell perfectly into place.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I’m dead on my feet.” The voice hadn’t got much life either. Bev examined the doctor’s face. Faint mauve smudge
s were just perceptible beneath the immaculate make-up under the eyes; she’d probably been on call for ages without so much as a Kit Kat.

  But Bev was fresh out of compassion. “And Michelle Lucas is dead. Full stop.”

  Dr Thorne looked set to argue but capitulated quietly. “Point taken.”

  Bev capitalised by pushing another. “Cassie Swain? We really need to speak to her.”

  The doctor shook her head. “I really don’t know. I’m concerned about the head injury. The next few hours are crucial.”

  What about the hours Cassie had already lost? Beaten and kicked within an inch, then tossed onto a skip. Not hidden. Not buried. Half way down Thread Street. It was a message. A bloody message. And what if old Bert hadn’t been on the trawl? Thank God for insomniac winos. Bev shivered. She picked up her bag; they’d get nothing here. There was a clock on the wall. It had been bugging her all morning. She pointed. “That needs a new battery.”

  “Don’t we all?” the doctor said.

  Bev smiled. Superwoman might be human after all. She glanced at Ozzie. “We’d best be off.” They were almost through the door when the woman relented and called them back. Bloody hell, Bev realised, Thorne looked even better when she let down the barriers, stopped trying to put on her official face.

  “Leave me your number. If there’s any change. Anything at all. I’ll let you know.”

  “You’re on.” Bev took a card from her bag, scribbled on the back. It was only a few hours since she’d done the same for Vicki. Which reminded her… why hadn’t the girl been in touch?

  “Don’t want mine as well, do you?” The voice had hope rather than conviction.

  “No, DC Khan.” Bev shook her head, smiling. “She does not.”

  “Let me get this clear, Mr Leigh. You saw nothing, heard nothing and if you’d seen Lord Lucan waiting for a 35 bus you’d say nothing.”

  Ronnie Leigh wiped lager from rubbery lips and burped. It was 11am and this was a house call that was going no further than the front step. “Bright for a cop. Aren’t you?” His right hand transferred the excess alcohol to denims that had once been blue.