They looked up to find Powell looming, a take-out coffee and a couple of doughnuts on a tray.
“Sir?” The query was Sumitra’s; Bev had already caught the drift.
He nodded at the women’s hands. “If that’s not just a harmless bit of palmistry – you want to watch out. People’ll talk. They’ll have you snogging in the rape suite before you know it.”
Sumitra snatched her hand away. Bev studied her fingernails. “You should hear what they say about you.” She noticed that the smile didn’t reach his eyes, didn’t get anywhere near his voice.
“Y’know, Morriss, I wouldn’t have thought you had time to sit on your backside talking crap.” He jabbed a thumb at Sumitra. “And if she was any good at telling the future she’d have told you about the old man. He’s in his office. Popped my head round already. Can’t see him for steam. Makes Raging Bull look like Ronnie Corbett.’
“It’s just not on.” Byford was at the window, his back to Bev. The rain had cleared but a leaden sky was making no promises. Bev was sitting in front of his desk, trying to work out what, exactly, was off. It was either her handling of the Henry Brand interview or the fact that some plonker on the front desk had given the headteacher from hell Byford’s home number. Come to think of it, probably both. Byford turned, perched on the sill.
“Just because he’d met the woman at a parents’ evening and she insists it’s crucial to the case, he assumes it’ll be okay.”
“Maybe she threatened extra homework.”
“And that’s another thing.” He moved to his own chair, sat facing her. “There are enough jokers round here without you going into a stand-up routine at the drop of a hat.”
“Sir.” For a man whose office walls were plastered in old Private Eye covers, she reckoned he had little room to talk. But when on thin ice – keep shtum. His mood wasn’t entirely down to Elizabeth Sharpe’s out-of-hours call. Bev knew he was pissed off with last night’s débacle. Water wasn’t the only commodity that had gone down the drain: it had cost a packet to police Thread Street.
“You know what this place is like. It’s full of comedians. Everyone’s going round humming ‘Swinging in the Rain’ and Vince Hanlon’s running a limerick competition.”
“Shame they’ve got nothing better to do.” She folded her arms and crossed her legs, mentally working on a first line.
“We’ve all got something better to do.” The reminder was unnecessary; everyone knew it was forty-eight hours since the discovery of Michelle’s body. He sighed. There were smudges under his eyes. She wondered how much sleep he’d had. Probably as little as she’d had.
“Is there a link, Bev? Is Hawes playing sick games?”
She had no answers. She’d lain awake, running through the night’s highlights but reaching few conclusions. The dummy had to be a warning and it had to be Charlie Hawes. But was there a connection with Michelle’s murder? And did it have anything to do with her own attacker? The guy could have kicked the shit out of her. So why hadn’t he? She was still smarting and not just from the cuts, but she couldn’t put it off any longer.
“Talking of games, I got roped in to a spot of footie last night.”
A raised eyebrow asked for more. Bev passed him the statement she’d worked on in the early hours. She’d underplayed it but as she watched him read, she thought the pen in his hand was about to snap. She’d felt the same as she’d written it. She’d gone over the incident again and again, but it was like trying to catch bubbles. She’d come up with snatched impressions, vague smells and a voice as featureless as the face she hadn’t seen. Stale tobacco, heady scent and a rustling sensation weren’t going to make Crimewatch. In the witness stakes she was a non-starter and her anger added to the humiliation she still felt. At home, after a medicinal brandy or three, she’d even toyed, briefly, with the crazy idea of not reporting it at all. Ridiculous, of course. Apart from anything else, there was the missing mobile and ID to report. The stolen ID had come as a bit of a shock.
“This is bad news, Bev.”
She shrugged. “Wrong time, wrong place.”
“Wrong answer.” He jabbed the pen at her. “You can’t possibly imagine this is unconnected to the inquiry.” He gave her what Bev’s mum would call an old-fashioned look. “This was down to Hawes. It has to be.”
“I don’t see it, guv.”
“Get an eye test, then.” He threw the pen on the desk. It seemed a touch over the top. “Within hours of getting out there, looking for the man, you’re attacked in the street and threatened at knife-point. Strikes me he had more luck tracking you down than —”
The look on her face stopped him in his tracks. She rearranged it into something less incredulous but still regarded his outburst as unbelievably unfair. It was one thing to get pinned down by some unknown assailant, but then to get it in the neck from the old man… True, there were a few seconds last night when she’d thought Hawes was the joker playing piggy-back, but on reflection, Charlie’d never get his own hands dirty. Equally true, the man had a whole herd of heavies for the crap, but on balance she’d convinced herself it was a run-of-the-mill-mugging. Or maybe, she didn’t want to believe that Hawes had been so close, so very close, and she hadn’t done a fucking thing about it. She’d been there, so didn’t like it.
“I kinda think I’d be on a hospital trolley by now if Charlie’d had a hand in it.”
“It’s not funny.” He reread the notes, shaking his head.
No, really, I’m fine, guv. Don’t fuss. She’d have balled her fists but the palms still stung.
“Forensics?” he asked without looking up.
“In hand.” The scarf and her coat were on their way to the labs. They’d get the full treatment but she didn’t hold out much hope. The replacement phone and ID were already in her bag and putting a stop on her credit cards had taken one phone call. As for her purse, she couldn’t see bag-man getting much joy out of a library card, vid membership, or last week’s lottery ticket. The few quid in cash certainly wasn’t going to change his life.
“We’ll wait and see what comes up, then.”
Sounded like a dismissal. She stood. Thanks for asking, guv. It hardly hurts at all.
“I haven’t finished yet.” Byford said.
She felt like tugging her gymslip. What was his problem?
“We’ve got to pull Hawes in. The man can’t just disappear. Someone must know where he is.”
Bev said nothing. She’d checked with the hospital already that morning. Cassie Swain was still unconscious. The next best bet – Vicki – could be anywhere, could even be with Charlie. Bev hadn’t entirely dismissed Powell’s jibe about her being one of Hawes’s girls. She had to accept that she didn’t know Vicki well; didn’t really know her at all.
“Mike Powell reckons the Flinn girl’s been leading you a merry dance.”
She looked up, surprised. The mind-reading was pretty selective. She shrugged. “It’s one conclusion to jump to.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. Thoughts of Vicki Flinn had been among all the others keeping Bev awake last night. She’d run through their conversation in the canteen; recalled how easily the girl had already lied. A mother who’d died of cancer. Christ. Bev had been close to tears. Even being caught out only meant she laughed it off, changed the subject. How many other quick changes had there been?
“Look, Bev.” Byford said. “She’s not a minor. She’s not been reported missing. There’s not a lot we can do.”
She nodded, didn’t need telling. It didn’t make her feel any better. “If that’s all, sir, I’ve got a lot on this morning.” She stood again.
“No. It isn’t all.” She waited as he rose and walked round the desk. “Are you sure you should be in at all, Bev? Your hands are a mess. God knows what state the rest of you is in, but that muck on your face certainly isn’t working. He marked you, didn’t he?” The voice was gentle at last, and it was giving Bev a hard tim
e.
“Muck? This is Max Factor’s finest. Cost a fortune, mate.” She hoped the verbal light touch was doing a better concealing job than the ton of slap. “Honest. I’m fine. It only hurts when I laugh.”
“Must hurt like hell then.”
She smiled. He was still looking concerned. “Have you had a doctor look at you?”
“No treatment for injured pride, guv.”
“I’m serious, Bev. You could have been killed last night.”
She thought for a minute he was going to touch her. He was obviously worried sick; no wonder he’d been such a grumpy old sod. She was the same way herself. In fact, next time she laid eyes on Vicki Flinn, the girl was in line for some serious verbals.
“Don’t worry, guv. I can take care of myself.” Despite the night’s events, she still believed it; had to believe it. She hoped Vicki Flinn could as well. As Byford had said, the girl wasn’t a minor and hadn’t been reported missing. Until they had something to go on Vicki Flinn was on her own. At least, given what little Bev knew about Charlie Hawes, she hoped so.
Vicki shook violently. She was on her own, in the middle of a room without a window. She must have slept. It must be morning. She hugged her knees. The heat was stifling, but she shivered remembering the night’s bedfellows.
The fat ones were the worst: slabs of pasty flesh slapping about. The stink of their bodies and booze was still on her skin. Get it up, get it over, get the hell out, was her usual style. Except she couldn’t get out, couldn’t escape. And even if she could, now she knew what she knew, she wouldn’t. Anyway, there was a minder the size of a planet on the landing. She’d only caught a glimpse when Charlie had hustled her in but she’d had further snatches every time Pluto opened up for another punter.
Looking back, she’d been stupid. Charlie had followed her in, sat her on the bed and gently removed her clothes and shoes. He had an overnight bag with him, and at that stage she’d actually believed he wanted to stay with her. She shook her head; should have known by the state of the room. She’d seen better furniture on a skip and the paper with its faded climbing roses was falling off the walls. Not Charlie’s scene at all. She remembered his silence: it was spooky – he just sat there, stroking her all over with his fingertips. Then without warning, he’d stood in front of her and cupped her chin in his hands.
“You’ve been a naughty girl, Victoria. I’ve told you before. Someone in your position has to be very careful about the company she keeps.” He wrenched her head back. “Who knows what secrets you’ve been giving away? No, Victoria, I’m afraid there’ll be no more nights out with the girls. You’ll be working from home from now on.” He’d glanced round. “This home.”
She wondered if the panic had reached her eyes.
He released her, kissed the top of her head then wandered to the chair where he’d left the bag. She watched his every move. He never hurried, always seemed to operate in slow motion. It must have given her a false sense of security; she’d run to the door, screaming and ranting, hurling threats and throwing fists. Where was the filth now? Where the fuck was Bev Morriss? She wished she’d never laid eyes on the bloody woman.
He’d come up behind, forced her elbows back, steered her to the bed. “Calm down. No one will hear. And if they do – no one gives a stuff.”
She watched as he collected her clothes, folded them neatly and placed them in his bag. She bit the inside of her cheek, tasted blood. “Charlie. I never said nothing to her. Honest. Please, don’t do this. I’ll go away. Somewhere they won’t find me.”
“Oh, I don’t think they’ll find you here, Victoria.”
He walked to the door, then turned and put a hand in his coat pocket. “I almost forgot.” He threw a bundle on to her lap. “Just in case you get any silly ideas.”
It was a small, soft, pink rabbit. Brand new. She’d bought it a couple of weeks earlier, a present for Lucie. Forgotten she still had it.
“Cute, that,” he said, snatching it back. “Kid’ll love that. Maybe I’ll go round and deliver it in person. Know what I mean?”
She gasped.
“Yeah,” he said, turning it over and over in his hands. “Maybe I will. Real soon.”
She watched him leave, unable to speak, her vision blurred by tears.
Seven hundred and sixty-two kids attended Thread Street Comprehensive on Monday morning. It was an all time record. They knew about Michelle Lucas’s murder and they watched The Bill.
Unsuppressed excitement pervaded the hall, making for much shuffling of feet and shifting of eyes. Bev stood at the back, kicking her heels, trying to look inconspicuous. Byford was on the platform, aiming for an affable approachability. A face that said: Come and talk to Uncle William. She smiled, knowing it concealed gritted teeth due to his belief that he’d been outflanked by the woman standing centre stage.
They’d arrived for the interview with Elizabeth Sharpe only to be warded off by the school secretary. The Head was busy, she said; finalising a form of words for the morning’s special assembly. A placatory offer had been thrown in: Byford could address the children after.
Bev stifled a yawn. The Sharpe woman obviously liked the sound of her own voice, which was more than the kids did. She’d already witnessed the confiscation of three Gameboys and the dishing out of half a dozen detentions. Bev switched off after the Head’s references to Michelle. It was all a bit damning with faint praise. She cast her eyes along the kids in the last row. Clearly the guidelines on school uniform didn’t stretch this far back. Blimey. Bev’s vests were longer than most of the skirts on show and she’d swear a few of the lads were wearing mascara. One girl had more rings on her fingers than a pair of curtains. Hell’s bells. One of the little buggers had farted. That’s right. Innocent looks all round. Blame it on the class anorak. Been there. Done that.
She dipped into Sharpe’s oratory but the head was banging on about mock SATS. Bev wondered where the other teachers were, especially the delightful Henry. Hopefully, Ozzie might shed a little light; he was back at the ranch doing some digging on a file marked Brand H.
She heard Byford’s name mentioned and tuned in again.
“… other officers will be on school premises from time to time during the course of the investigation. I expect everyone in this hall to extend the same level of courtesy and co-operation to the police as you do to members of staff.”
“Fuckin doddle then.” The voice emanated from a few feet away: the girl with the rings. Bev edged sideways to get a better look. The movement caught Little Miss Public Speaking’s attention and she turned. In a tentative, hand-of-friendship gesture, Bev smiled and winked. The girl smiled back but the obscene hand gesture accompanying it had nothing to with winking – she was a letter out. Cheeky little cow. Bev came the heavy with a look practised in the bath. The girl stuck out a tongue: pierced. And pulled a face: ugly. Unattractive as it was, there was something vaguely familiar. Bev was trying to place it when a booming voice broke the train of thought.
“Joanna Rigby. I do not appreciate talking to the back of your head.”
The girl faced the front and Elizabeth Sharpe finally got her act together and called Byford to take the floor.
Bev filed it away then concentrated on the governor. She was impressed. The old man was good with kids. Had two of his own of course. Even so. Most of this lot probably thought Family Values was a cheap supermarket.
“… I never knew Michelle,” Byford was saying. “But some of you did. And I want you to really think. It’s the little things you saw. The little things you heard. Things you might not even think are important. In my experience they often make all the difference…”
He was injecting a touch of mild Brummie. There was no use talking posh to kids like this; it was an instant turn off.
“We’ll be wanting to speak to some of you. Specially anyone close to Michelle. But if anyone else wants to have a word with me or Sergeant Morriss who’s standing at the back of the hall…”
Seven
hundred plus heads turned. Thanks, guv.
“…or any of my officers, then come and make yourself known. In the meantime, if any of you have any questions – don’t be afraid to ask.”
A hand shot up at the front and a little boy with a loud voice asked Byford for his autograph.
“What’s it like being a celebrity, guv?”
Bev handed Byford a coffee, resisting the urge to shove an imaginary microphone in his face. He glanced up, detecting a cheekful of tongue. “Little sod still thinks I’m Inspector Morse.”
She tutted, head shaking. “They don’t teach them anything these days.”
He gave a weary smile then returned to the notes on his desk. Bev lowered herself gingerly into a chrome and canvas chair. They were killing time in the school’s first-aid room, waiting – again – for Elizabeth Sharpe. Shame there were no dishy doctors about; Bev’s back was playing up, not to mention her feet. The DMs had been ten quid off in the sale but she was paying for it now. She took a sip from a mug that proclaimed a love of New York and took a closer look round. She’d been in cosier morgues. The only colour in the place was the cross on a medicine cabinet. They could have used the room next to Sharpe’s. It was up and running as a temporary incident unit but – when the woman finally graced them with her presence – the guv didn’t want any interruptions.
Bev had popped her head round to touch base and cadge the caffeine.
“Where is the damn woman?”
Byford was beginning to lose it. Bev was glad she wasn’t in Sharpe’s shoes. The sound of footsteps pre-empted an answer. She sat up straight and was amused to see the guv straightening his tie. The gestures were wasted. The next thing they heard was a glass-shattering: “Young! This is not a race track!”
There was a squeak of rubber on wood as Young’s skid came to an abrupt halt just outside the door. They heard a mollifying shout of: “Sir,” followed by a more muted: “Dickhead.”
Dickhead bestowed a detention on Boy Racer and quiet, if not calm, was restored.
Byford sighed. “And they say they’re the best days of your life…”
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