Loins girded and resolve firmed, she swept through the revolving doors as though she owned the place. She misjudged her momentum and had to make a pretty sharp exit or she’d have found herself back on the street. As it was she staggered in, hoping not to be mistaken for a drunk. Not that a bit of Dutch courage wouldn’t go amiss.
There was time to perfect the spiel. Two old dears and a suit were already in a queue, behind a nice young man giving details of the aliens who’d abducted him from New Street Station in 1602. Vince Hanlon was on the desk and did not look convinced. Val winked in commiseration. She was glad it was Vincey; he was a good bloke. She grabbed a seat against a wall that was livened up with posters of the ‘Have You Seen This Man?’ variety. She’d shagged two of them but her eyes had been closed at the time. They were wide open now as she sat back and had a good look round.
Front of house was well plush compared with what the girls knew as the dungeon. Actually, Patty the crackhead always called it custody but only because some clever dick had told her it was named after the paintwork. There was no flaky yellow out here, it was all executive greys and aristo blues, and so much greenery she wondered if there was work going as a gardener.
She listened as the Elizabethan space traveller filed a complaint of police negligence and watched him head happily back into the community. The suit had long since left. The old biddies were now banging on about a flasher at the bottom of the garden. Val couldn’t work out whether they were reporting or requesting one. Vince listened patiently, said he’d see what he could do, and sent them on their way. She waited while he quaffed half a mug of tepid tea then wiped his lips with the back of a hand.
“God almighty. It’s no wonder I’m going grey. Y’need to be a Freud to work in this place.”
Val sniffed. “That’d be Clement, would it?”
The face was deadpan but he wasn’t fooled. “Daft sod. Anyroad. To what do I owe the pleasure..?”
Thirty quid sprang to mind but she was meant to be acting sombre. She leaned closer, looked round and dropped her voice. “I’m scared, Sarge. I’ve been getting these death threats.”
“Death threats?”
She nodded vigorously. “And I’m not the only one. Most of the girls are saying the same.”
Given the nature of the girls’ game vilification was par for the course, but in the light of Michelle’s murder Val was betting the claim would be taken seriously.
Vince poised pen on paper. “What sort of threats? Tell me about them.”
“Look, Sarge. No offence. I’ve been hanging round out here long enough. It’s like a bloody shop window. Know what I mean.”
“Don’t worry, love. If you’re not safe here…”
“I’m not gonna be here, am I? I’ll be out as soon’s I’ve said me piece. Anyway, Sarge, like I say, no offence, but I’d rather talk to a woman. This business has put the wind up me. Another woman’d know where I’m coming from.”
There was a tremble in her hands and a catch in her throat.
“Okay, love. I’ll see who’s in.”
“Not some kid just out of nappies, Sarge.” He reached a hand to the phone. “And not one of them stuck-up cows that treat you like shit.”
Vince saluted with a smile. “Does madam have anyone in mind?”
“Nah.” She dismissed the remark with a wave of her hand and made towards the chair but turned before he’d finished punching the numbers. “Actually, Sarge, if you’re serious – there is someone I wouldn’t mind having a word with. Can’t remember her name. Dark hair. Bit shorter than me. Nice smile. Got a real gob on her.”
Vince’s frown gave way to a smile. He lifted a finger to halt the flow. “I’ll just see if she’s in.”
“May as well get back.” Byford turned to Bev. “Not a lot we can do here.”
She could think of a few things but none of them legal. She moved away from the window as the ambulance disappeared down the street, Henry Brand’s last words still ringing in her ears. The final glimpse through gaping doors had been Brand hovering solicitously as a paramedic worked on his wife.
“Convenient, isn’t it?” Byford was in key-jangling mode, and despite what he’d said, was obviously in no great rush. He had thoughts and wanted to sound her out. She could always tell.
“What’s that, then?”
“Just as we learn he was with Michelle on the night she was murdered, wife takes an overdose, and he starts screaming police harassment.”
“You saying he helped her?”
“No.”
Bev picked up the hesitation. “But…”
He shrugged. “It helps him no end, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t look too good if I pulled a man in for questioning when his wife’s at death’s door. Specially with the press gang outside.”
Bev’s face suggested she wouldn’t have the same dilemma. But much as she disliked Brand, the theory didn’t hold. “He couldn’t have known he’d been seen by Lil – it’s less than an hour since we found out ourselves.”
“True. But he was well aware I wanted to question him. Neither me or Mike got a word in edgeways with this lot going on.”
She looked round. “Where is Superman?”
Byford gave an exaggerated sigh. “Inspector Powell’s handling the media.”
“He’ll like that.” The smile faded. “How the hell did they –”
“You tell me. They were all over the place when we got here. And there’s Brand shouting his mouth off about the police hounding innocent people in their own home.”
Sounded familiar. “Been there. Had that.”
Byford rubbed a hand over his face. “Yes. He mentioned you.”
“I aim to please.” She smiled, then was serious. “A bloke like Brand wouldn’t risk topping his wife just to avoid us, would he?”
He shrugged. “Nothing amazes me any more, Bev.”
“Hold on.” She paused trying to recall what Brand had said. “She was in bed last time I came. Migraine or nerves or something. I got the impression she was a bit fragile.”
“She is now.”
“What’s she supposed to have popped then?”
“Don’t know. Brand was in no state to help. He was running round like a headless chicken. He thought she was shopping, turns out she never got up. He found her in bed. Unconscious.”
“What time was that?”
He looked at his watch. “Half an hour ago?”
She was trying to work it out but the timing was all wrong.
“I know, I know,” Byford said. “I’m asking the same questions, Bev. Trouble is… no one’s got any of the answers.”
“I can help you there.” Powell was striding across the room looking pretty pleased with himself. “The press boys got an anonymous tip. Well, Matt Snow did. He was the only one giving anything away.”
“Big help, that.” The smile suggested she meant it. “But it can’t be that anonymous when you think about it.”
Byford obviously was. “Course not.” He looked at Bev. “Who else but Brand could have known what was going on?”
“Unless he made the call himself.” Bev was interrupted by Powell who’d lost his earlier perkiness.
“No way, Morriss. He’d only just found her. He was gutted.”
Byford didn’t share the view. “If you’re so concerned, you can get yourself up to the hospital and hold the old boy’s hand till he’s ready to answer a few questions.”
“Me?”
“Problem with that, Mike?”
“No, it’s just —”
Byford wasn’t interested. “Brand’s the closest we’ve got to a break in this case. He was seen with Michelle on the night she died. At the very least he’s a witness. I don’t know what’s been going on here but it takes second place to that girl’s death. I want answers, and whatever Brand has – or hasn’t – been up to, he’s going to supply them.”
The ensuing silence was broken by footsteps in the hall. Ozzie popped his head round the door. “Sarge? There’
s a call. Vince Hanlon. Says one of the girls has turned up at Highgate. Wants to talk to you. Something about death threats?”
13
It had to be the big redhead in the corner. Bev grabbed a couple of coffees on the way over. “Wotcha.”
The woman looked up from the stars in The Sun and mirrored Bev’s smile.
“Val, isn’t it? Val Masters?”
Any hesitation was down to the current Titian beehive, jostling with the black raffia bouffant in Bev’s memory bank. Uncertainty vanished the minute the woman opened her mouth. “Lend us a couple of quid, Sarge. Me belly thinks me throat’s cut.”
Bev already had her hand in her pocket. “I’ll get it. What d’you fancy?”
“I could murder a plate of chips.”
She’d got death on the brain; must be the threats. “Two secs.”
“Maybe a couple of eggs on the side?”
“No prob.”
“That geezer’s sausages look a bit of all right.”
Bev glanced at the next table, relieved to see someone tucking into bangers and mash.
“Okay, sausages.”
Val was still scanning the horoscopes when Bev staggered back with a tray.
“Got you a few slices of bread and butter, Val.”
“Better be low-fat.” Then, with barely a pause, “Joke.”
She waited while Val built a chip buttie the size of a house brick.
“Let’s have a look at these threats then.”
“I’ve only got the one. I bunged the rest in the bin.” She licked grease from her fingers, burrowed in a black shoulder-bag and eventually retrieved a crumpled, none-too-clean sheet of cheap, lined notepaper. Bev bet there’d be dabs all over it, and not a single whorl the writer’s. She skimmed the words; read them again. The author had clearly not had the benefit of a grammar school education.
FUCK OFF SLAG
NO MORE WARNINGS
YOUR NEXT WHORE
She waited until Val’s mouth was more or less empty. “Fill me in, love. How many have you had? When did it start?”
Val pursed her lips, which by now had lost at least one layer of scarlet. “Must be a good six, seven weeks since the first. It come by hand, though. Not in the post.”
A nod from Bev. “’bout Christmas, then?”
Val winked. “Made a change from all the cards.”
Bev watched, fascinated, as Val pensively ran a sausage along her lips then sank suspiciously-white teeth into the meat. Her mastication was attracting quite an audience.
Bev cleared her throat. “Er, Val, you were saying..? ’Bout the letters?”
“Sorry, chuck, I was miles away. Let’s see, now. There’s been four, definite, mebbe five. Tell you the truth, Sarge, I didn’t reckon much to it at first. Not till young Shell, like. You get used to the abuse and that. People shouting filth, shoving shit through the letterbox. Know what I mean?”
Another nod. “What did the others say?”
“Same sort of crap. Slag, whore, tart.”
Bev pointed at the note. “It says no more warnings. Tell me about the earlier ones.’
Val shrugged. “Sorry, chuck, can’t remember. As I say, I got rid of the buggers straight away.”
Bev was distracted by raucous laughter from a group of blokes at the next table. Bet they weren’t discussing needlework.
“So you can’t remember anything?”
The headshake was loosening the beehive’s foundations. “One of the others might.”
“Go on.”
“After Shell, a few of us got together. Started chatting like, and it turns out I’m not the only one on his mailing list.”
“His?”
“Do me a favour, Sarge.” Bev shrugged; a lesser woman would have quailed under so much contempt.
“You obviously don’t recognise the writing, but any ideas who might be sending them?”
“Don’t be soft. I’d tell you if I knew. Or I’d send the boys round.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Bev put her elbows on the table and leaned closer. “Talking of boys, what do you know about a big boy called Charlie Hawes? Word is, he was Michelle Lucas’s pimp.”
“Name rings a bell…”
Hallelujah. “They call him Mad Charlie,” Bev said. “Mind, that’s unfair to psychos.”
Val turned her mouth down. “Nah. Can’t place it. But you know me, Sarge. I keep well away from pimps. Can’t be doin’ with the bastards.”
Bev hid her disappointment; someone had to know him, didn’t they?
“Tell me about the meeting.”
“What?”
“The girls. You said you got together.” Intriguing, that was. She knew about the national groups; the more vociferous women had been joining voices for years but she couldn’t see the likes of Val and Vicki becoming card-carrying members of the Collective.
“It was just me and the kids really.”
Curiouser and curiouser. “Oh?”
“Some of them are still at school, Sarge. Someone’s gotta look out for them.”
“Gonna be a regular thing is it?” Could be useful, that.
“What do you think we are? The Women’s Institute?”
“Just wondered.” She couldn’t see Val filling jars – not with jam anyway. Shame, though.
“As it happens, they’re coming over to my place tomorrow. There’s another protest on the patch. Usual load of God-botherers and do-gooders. They’re a bloody nuisance. It don’t half piss the punters off. Me and the girls are gonna crack a few cans, get a vid.”
“Can I come?”
Val choked on her sausage. “You what?”
Bev sneaked a chip. “I mean it. I’d really like to.”
“I dunno…”
“Go on, Val. It’d be great. Could be dead useful. Captive audience and all that.” She bit back a line about two birds with one stone. There must be worse ways of putting it, but offhand she couldn’t think of one. And anyway, she’d have to clear the idea she was working on with Byford before sharing it with anyone else. Val was clearly still considering the request.
“Dunno if they’ll buy it. You being the Bill.”
“If anyone can swing it, you can. Go on, Val. Put a word in. Tell them I haven’t got two heads.”
Val was chewing her bottom lip.
“Look, Val, you said yourself, you’re not the only one getting these threats. Those girls are easy meat, standing targets. I’m not looking to give them a hard time. Nothing I say’s gonna get them off the game. I just don’t want to see anyone else hurt.”
The big woman made up her mind. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Brill.”
“Can’t guarantee how many’ll turn out though. One of the kids has already legged it.”
“Who’s that then?” Bev tried to keep her voice casual.
“Don’t know if you’d know her.” Val wiped vestiges of yolk with the last of the bread. “Dead pally with Shell, she was. Girl called Vicki.”
“Vicki Flinn?” Bev frowned: Vick had done a runner?
“Yeah. She give me a bell last night.”
“Where from?”
Val closed her eyes. “Hold on. It’s on the tip of me tongue. Somethin’ with a B.” Eyes wide and finger in the air, it finally emerged. “Bognor. No. Wait a min. Brighton. That’s it. Brighton.”
“Big place, Brighton. Did she say where she’s staying? Who she’s with?”
“Nah. Cheeky little cow. Only rings cause she wants me to tell her ma she’s all right. I says, ‘Who’d you think I am? Your social worker?’ I mean, it’s a couple a buses to Annie Flinn’s place and I hardly know the woman.”
“Want me to go?”
“Nah. I’ll get round to it. Don’t bother.”
“I’ll nip round this evening. Best she knows. She’ll be worried if she doesn’t hear.”
Val snorted. “Worried? About Vicki? Pigs’ll fly jumbos. I’ll go at the weekend. Put her out of her misery.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Got the address?” May as well get it from Val. Bev could have dropped Vicki anywhere the other night. The girl had lied about her mother’s death. There was no guarantee she’d been on the level about where her mother lived.
“Got a pen?” Val ripped a corner off the newspaper, scribbled a few lines and passed it across.
Good. Bev looked back at the big woman. “If you get any more of these letters, hang on to them. And tell the girls the same. The more we have, the more there is to go on. I’ll be straight with you, Val. At the mo, there’s not a whole bunch we can do. The nutters who go in for this kind of thing are sick but they aren’t stupid. They know not to leave fingerprints, not to lick envelopes. We’ve more or less got to catch them red-handed. Or hope they cock up. Big time.”
“Reckon it’s the bastard who killed Shell?”
Bev hunched her shoulders, held out her hands. The gesture was eloquent enough. “What time are the girls coming round, then, Val?”
“Eight, half eight?”
Bev pushed her chair back and got to her feet. “Great.”
“Thank your stars then.”
“You what?”
Val shoved The Sun across the desk, pointed out a horoscope.
Bev leaned over and read aloud. “Do not be afraid to let new people into your life. With your instincts at their most reliable, you would do well to trust them. Remember, a little friction is not always a bad thing.”
Val was nodding sagely; knew all about friction, did Val. Bev grinned; didn’t know it was yesterday’s paper, though, did she?
14
Byford was on the phone when Bev popped her head round his door. He beckoned and she took a seat, waiting as patiently as she could for him to finish. She’d been doing some calculations and if the Lucas case was a bank account, they were in deep red shit. After her chat with Val, she’d checked their deposits with both incident rooms. Getting on for four hundred statements had been taken; twice as many doors knocked; visits were ongoing to massage parlours, adult cinemas and dodgy vid shops. In the eighty hours since they’d gathered round Michelle’s body in the park, there was next to nothing in credit. Apart from Lil, no one had had a sniff, and Charlie Hawes made the Scarlet Pimpernel look like the ubiquitous bad penny. It was time to speed things up.
Working Girls Page 12