“Only one answer to that.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Get another life.”
She gave a wry smile; it was easier said than done. For a lot of the kids, Thread Street was as good as it would get. She’d interviewed girls round these parts who saw pregnancy as a career move. One of her mates had a daughter at junior school half a mile away. Nadir was the only kid in the class with married parents who still lived under the same roof.
“So sorry to have kept you waiting. There are always a million things to do on Monday mornings.”
Bev looked round and caught a glimpse of Sharpe. The woman was already halfway across the floor; a stealth bomber would have made more noise. Bev was registering a navy blue suit: classy, costly and a cut above anything in her own wardrobe. The impeccable double rows of silver buttons added a vaguely military air to the authority exuding from every pore. Bev didn’t know whether to curtsey or salute. In the event – and after a nod from Byford – she relinquished her seat, eschewed perching on the plastic covered couch and made for the nearest wall.
Byford didn’t get up, didn’t smile. “First thing I want to do is establish why you failed to mention the allegations Michelle Lucas was making in the days leading to her death.”
Come on boss; don’t mince your words. Bev kept her face blank but it spoke volumes compared with Elizabeth Sharpe’s. The woman was giving nothing away, neither was her voice.
“There was no failure on my part. I had already dealt with Michelle’s so-called claims. As far as I was concerned, the matter was closed.” She crossed her legs at the knee and held her hands together loosely in her lap.
This was Bev’s first opportunity to observe the woman at close quarters. She’d met the type before but was too wise to write her off on the basis of an initial assessment. Still, what the hell: bossy, patronising, pushy.
“And how did you deal with it?” Byford asked.
“I invited Michelle to substantiate what she’d been saying. She could not do so. In my opinion the entire episode was based on nothing more than malice and mischief-making. When I pointed out to her the consequences of slander against a senior member of staff, she withdrew every word.”
“What exactly was she accusing Henry Brand of?” Bev’s voice was deceptively casual.
Mrs Sharpe glanced over, and Bev had the satisfaction of catching a hint of irritation flash across her face.
“I believe you’ve already questioned him.” She paused. “Or maybe harassed would be a better word.”
Bev shrugged, stayed silent.
Mrs Sharpe pulled her skirt over her knees, then made great show of brushing off a speck of dust near the hem. Bev had no intention of getting the same treatment. “Mr Brand? What was he up to?” She made direct eye contact with the headmistress. “Only according to Michelle, of course?”
The flash of irritation had given way to a sustained glare. She appealed to Byford. “Do we really have to drag all this up again?”
“The girl’s dead, Mrs Sharpe. I’ll drag the canal system if I have to.” He sat back, waiting.
The woman took a deep breath and folded her arms.
“Perhaps you’ll find it easier if you consult your notes?” he asked.
“What?”
“A serious complaint against a member of staff? Obviously, you’ll have a record of everything said.”
“I saw no reason for that.” She shifted slightly in the chair. “Anyway, I have total recall.”
“Shame we can’t say the same for Michelle.” Bev couldn’t resist it; the woman was acting as if she deserved a medal.
“You have a very unfortunate manner, Sergeant Morriss.”
“Thanks,” Bev smiled. “Now perhaps you can summon up your amazing powers of recall to put us in the picture as well. What – exactly – was Henry Brand accused of?”
“Michelle said he’d touched her breasts and tried to put his hand up her skirt.”
“He groped her, then?” Bev asked. “According to Michelle, of course.”
Mrs Sharpe pursed her lips. She glanced at Byford but if it was a plea for intervention, it was ignored. Bev had already been given the nod to carry on.
“This assault? Where did it take place? Allegedly?”
The woman glanced round, uneasily. Bev followed her gaze: the sick-bed? Never.
“Mrs Sharpe?” The poise had gone. “Here?” Bev pushed. “It happened here?”
An impatient sigh preceded the answer. “She’d complained of nausea and was sent to lie down.”
“Who by?”
“Mr Brand.”
“And?”
“She said he came in during break and asked how she was feeling. She told him she had stomach ache. She said he told her to close her eyes and lie still. She claimed he then assaulted her. Untrue, of course. Mr Brand says —”
“Don’t worry about what Henry Brand says,” Byford interrupted.
She shrugged. The woman’s complacency was infuriating. Bev wanted to shake her. “So what did you do?”
“I questioned her closely, of course. It soon became clear she had a particularly sharp little axe to grind against Henry and was quite prepared to do so.”
“And why would she want to do that?”
“You’ll have to ask him, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry. We will.”
“Not today you won’t.” She closed her eyes, traced the left eyebrow with her index finger. “Not here at any rate. Henry’s not coming in. He’s not well.”
Bev glanced at Byford. “What’s the problem?”
“A migraine, I believe. He spoke to the secretary first thing.”
“Takes a lot of time off, does he?” Bev asked.
Mrs Sharpe folded her arms, took a deep breath. “No, Sergeant, I can’t recall any other occasion.”
She bit back a remark about total recall. “Funny, that.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs Sharpe sounded as if it was the last thing she’d beg.
Bev held out her hands, inviting the others to share the joke. “The one day we want to question him and he’s on a sickie.”
“Your attitude leaves a great deal to be desired. I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply but I don’t care for it.” Bev widened her eyes. She’d always been taught it was rude to point. “Let me make one thing absolutely clear, Sergeant: whatever you may think, I have every faith in my staff —”
“How much do you have in your kids, Mrs Sharpe?”
Byford got to his feet. The exchange had gone on long enough and wasn’t going anywhere. “We’ll leave it there for now but I’ll want to speak with you again, Mrs Sharpe. In future, don’t take it upon yourself to withhold information because you don’t happen to see its relevance. I should have been told about this at our first meeting.”
Mrs Sharpe rose as well. “I fully intended to mention it then. I have nothing to hide, Superintendent. As I recall it – you were the one in a hurry. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
Her departure was as smooth as her dismissal. Bev watched the woman disappear, looked at Byford and slapped the back of her wrist. “How come I’m the one who feels naughty?”
“Years of practice.”
She nodded blithely, then realised what he’d said.
10
“Come on, Sarge. You can’t be in two places at once.”
Bev gave one of her snorts. The governor was on his way to Brand’s house with Powell, and she was still smarting. Ozzie sensed something, but wasn’t in on the details. His solicitude was touching but she reckoned he was too sensitive for his own good. If the tables were turned she’d tell him not to be such a moody. “Yeah. And I’d rather be any where but here.”
‘Here’ was walking along a rundown row of shops in one of Balsall Heath’s sleazier back streets. They’d just passed a butcher’s where a crowd of flies was window-shopping. Bev paused to read the ads in the next-door newsagent’s. Gemma – who clearly had difficulties with English –
was offering advanced lessons in French. So were Sonia, Sasha and Suzie.
Ozzie was looking over her shoulder. “Oo la la.”
She grinned. “Come on. It’s just round the corner.”
They waited while a couple of guys in dusty overalls struggled across the pavement with a heavy pane of glass. She glanced at the shopfronts, decided it was for the video store, unless its owner was into the hardboard look.
The business they were seeking was over a second hand bookshop and entrance was through a side door. She rang the bell but there was no response. Ozzie hammered on the wood, dislodging a few flakes of grimy green paint.
A sash window was raised and a woman’s head appeared. The stiff blonde hair looked bleached as well as starched, except for the roots that were as dark as the mascara-caked eyelashes through which she was peering.
“What bleedin’ time do you call this?”
Bev glanced at her watch. “Quarter past eleven.”
“Christ almighty. Sod off. Anyway, it’s men only – unless you’re after work.”
“Okay, Marlene. Cut the crap. Get down here and open up.”
“All right, all right. Keep your hair on, Sarge.”
The face disappeared and a wide-eyed Ozzie turned to Bev. “You know her?”
“Everyone knows Marlene. More bookings than the Odeon when she worked the streets. All the cash that didn’t go on fines went into this.”
‘This’ was massage work. Thousands of Marlenes and the odd Marlon ran parlours all over the city. Every last one would be getting a police visit. Byford wanted Charlie Hawes’s head on a plate.
When the face appeared next, it had a cigarette in its mouth. Marlene was puffing so furiously, Bev wondered if she was sending smoke signals. ‘Piss off’ probably.
There was ash on her skimpy pink nightie and at least another inch about to join it. “Gorra warrant?”
“Gorran ash tray?”
The inevitable happened and Bev watched, fascinated, as it fell into a cleavage of Grand Canyon proportions.
“Shit.” Marlene swatted energetically but ineffectually, oblivious of the effect on a pair of 42 FFs.
Bev grinned as Ozzie took a step back, concerned that he might be knocked off his feet by the swell.
“You wanna watch it, Marl,” she said. “You’ll set yourself on fire one of these days.”
The woman winked lasciviously at Ozzie. “Set everyone on fire, me.” She yawned, stood back and opened the door wider. “You comin’, or what?”
Ozzie didn’t look over-keen but Bev shooed him in first then nipped in quickly, before Marlene’s hands had a chance to wander.
“Down me passage, lad, then straight up.”
Bev would have given a day’s pay to see his face. They mounted the stairs in silence. The light was so low, she nearly asked if there was a power cut. Competing smells of dope and incense made her nose twitch.
Ozzie halted on the top step, a tentative hand on the nearest door knob. “This one, Mrs..?”
“Any one you like, lover boy.” She was clinging to the bannister, catching her breath. “And it’s Marlene to you.” The voice was deep and husky and down to forty a day as much as the flirting.
The room was small, the bed vast. A clash of lilac and fake fur struck Bev first, then the distinct lack of chairs. “Okay, Marlene, that’s enough.”
Without a word, Marlene turned and led them into the office: the business end of the massage market. A market Marlene knew like the palm of her hand. If there was a degree in Giving The Punters What They Want, Marlene had a Masters. A wardrobe full of low-cut tops and skin-tight leather was as much a part of her service as an accent out of the Bull Ring and a script out of a Carry On film.
She sank into a beaten-up leather armchair, crossing her legs on top of a battered old desk. It was no mean feat and Bev was only thankful that Marlene slept in her knickers. Ozzie grabbed the seat furthest away and showed a sudden, intense interest in his notebook.
Bev strolled to the window, leaned against the sill and glanced round: cheap lino, no frills, every expense spared. Marlene was keeping the overheads down, in line with her retirement plan. She intended going for the golden handshake soon as she hit forty. Bev had heard it all before, but in Marlene’s case… who knew?
“What can I do you for?” She recrossed her legs, giving Ozzie the eye, but he still hadn’t come up for air. Bev wiped the smile off her face and considered her approach. She plumped for in-your-face. “I’m after a pimp.”
Marlene’s mouth made an exaggerated O. “Aren’t they payin’ you enough?”
Bev tapped a foot, slowly. Marlene lowered her legs and made for a drawer in the desk. A brief fantasy that Charlie Hawes might be hiding in it vanished when a half-bottle of Gordon’s made an appearance.
Marlene smacked her lips. “Want to join me? Got a mouth like a desert, I have.”
“That’d be the Gobi, would it?” said Bev.
“Cheeky cow. Sling us a glass, lover.”
Ozzie lifted his head from a still virginal sheet of paper.
“In that cupboard on your left, you lovely boy.”
Ozzie held a tumbler at arm’s length but Marlene’s scarlet-tipped fingers still managed to linger a tad longer than strictly necessary. Bev shook her head. Marlene made Mae West look like the girl next door. Thirty-two-years old and she’d had more men than the Russian Army. “If I didn’t know better, Marlene, I’d say you were trying to change the subject.”
She poured a finger of gin. “What subject’s that?”
“Pimps in general. Charlie Hawes in particular.”
Bev watched the liquid disappear. Marlene ran a finger along her top lip.
“Nothing particular about Charlie. He’s got fingers in more pies than Mr Kipling.”
“You know him then?”
“Kipling? Yeah. Gives good cake.”
“Marlene!”
“Got a fag?”
Bev shook her head.
“Back in a min. Must have a fag. Helps me think.”
Bev sauntered over to Ozzie, who still had his head down. He jumped when she tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “She won’t bite, you know.”
He didn’t look too sure.
“Come on. She likes you. She might open up if you talk to her.”
“That’s what scares me,” Oz said.
Marlene returned wreathed in smoke and carrying a pack of Marlboro.
“Anyway,” Bev said, “about Charlie Hawes.”
“He’s a mad bugger. Bad for your health, is Charlie.”
“So’s baccy but I know where to get hold of it.” Bev moved towards the desk. “We have to find him, Marlene. A girl’s dead, one’s in hospital, a third’s missing.”
Marlene ground the half-smoked cigarette into a tin ashtray, then reached for another. “I’m sorry about that. But I can’t help.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Do you have any idea what the man’s like? Charlie Hawes doesn’t make idle threats. If he says jump, you make for the nearest window.”
The accent had all but disappeared. Bev wondered what else was false or laid on thick.
“How many have you been through, Marlene?”
“Don’t be stupid. I just listen to what people say.”
The denial was too fast. Bev jabbed a finger in the space between them. “You’re right there, Marlene. Everyone says he’s a vicious bastard. Everyone says he beats up on his girls. Everyone says he’s a pile of steaming shit. But you know what? No one wants to do a sodding thing about it.”
She took a deep drag, then talked through the smoke. “Ever wondered why?”
Ozzie cleared his throat. “Thing is, Marlene, if he gets away with it, he’ll just carry on. If you were to point us in the right direction, he’s no way of knowing we got the steer from you. If you’re worried, we could arrange protection.”
Bev closed her gaping mouth and returned her gaze to Marlene, who was sitting with one ar
m across her chest, the other hand cupping her chin. There was a lengthy silence while she weighed Ozzie’s words. “A babysitting copper? ’Bout as much use as a crocheted condom.”
“That’s a no, is it?” Bev asked.
Marlene gave a deep sigh. “I’ll think about it. I can’t say fairer than that. Thing is, Charlie’s got mates all over the place. If he found out I’d opened my gob, it’d be dead meat time, know what I mean?”
Bev recalled the butcher’s window. She gave a reluctant nod. “Okay, Marlene.” She handed her a card. “You can get me on this number. Anytime. Just don’t leave it too long.” Bev gave Ozzie a nod. They were at the door when the woman spoke again.
“The girl that’s missing? What’s her name?”
Bev turned. “Vicki. Vicki Flinn. You know her?”
“Tall bird. Skinny. Shacks down in some squat by the park?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yeah. Haven’t seen her lately. Can’t see Charlie Hawes being interested though. He’s more into kids.”
“Christ, Marlene. She’s only seventeen.”
She lit another cigarette, releasing twin streams of smoke through flared nostrils. “Exactly.”
Bev narrowed her eyes. The way Marlene was talking didn’t tally with a woman who claimed to know Charlie Hawes only by repute.
“She knows a damn sight more than she’s letting on.”
Bev paused, sandwich midway to mouth. Ozzie wasn’t usually so categorical, or so judgmental. She agreed, but was curious to hear his thinking. She took a bite out of a cheese bap. “Go on.”
He glanced round, as if Charlie Hawes might be lurking behind a Busy Lizzie or a bottle of sauce. There were only a dozen tables and Bev couldn’t picture Pimp King or any of his coterie in a place that boasted red gingham cloths. Anyway, there was no alcohol, no smoking and definitely no lap dancing. It was pensioners’ happy hour in the Kozee Korner on a Monday lunchtime. Added to which, the hairdresser’s next door, Curl Up and Dye, was another magnet for the local wrinklies. Going by the scattering of white hair and pink scalps it was a case of shampoo and set, followed by soup of the day all round. Either way, the place wasn’t a million miles from Thread Street and as for decent sarnies it was streets ahead of the police canteen.
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