Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

  Byford replaced the receiver. “There’ve been a couple of sightings of a BMW on the cruise, Friday night, about the right time.” He nodded at the phone. “I’m sending Kent and Newman, see if they can flesh it out.”

  Gazza and Dazza. They’d love that. Three-day-old sightings of a motor.

  “Anything on the reg?” she asked.

  “What reg?” He shook his head. “No. We’ve got two different partials from two different sources. They’re both iffy, anyway.”

  “Nothing on Charlie at Swansea?”

  Byford rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”

  “Not so much as a push-bike.” It figured; a man whose business was so shady it was subterranean was hardly likely to leave a paper trail. Charlie’d know as well as her, that as long as the DVLA had an address, he could register his motors in any name he liked. It was illegal, but it wasn’t exactly up there with pimping, murder or the odd spot of mayhem.

  Sending Gaz and Daz out was all a bit drowning men and clutching straws. She was about to grab at one herself. She studied the guv’s face. It was difficult to gauge how he’d react.

  “What would you say to me doing a bit of moonlighting?”

  “What?” His eyebrows were heading for his hairline.

  “With the girls.”

  “What!”

  “Look, guv, we’re getting nowhere, we’re talking to blind Trappists. We’re not even close.”

  She gave him edited highlights of her interview with Val, including the news about Vicki. It had pissed Bev off, the thought that the girl had done a bunk without so much as a goodbye. She noticed he didn’t say much; probably didn’t want to rub it in.

  “Thing is, guv, if I can get the girls’ trust, go out on the streets, it could give us the break. I’m bound to pick something up. Might even flush Charlie Hawes out of his sewer. At the very least they need a minder.”

  “No. No. Absolutely no.” The table bang was superfluous. The message was loud, clear and too quick.

  “Is that an ‘I’ll think about it’?” The voice had an edge he was meant to catch. She wasn’t talking off the top of her head; she’d given it a lot of thought. She wasn’t some kid who watched too much telly and – as he well knew – she’d passed every self defence course going.

  “Is this down to Sunday? Look, guv, I was jumped from behind. There was nothing I – or anyone – could’ve done about it. This’d be different. Apart from anything else, I’d be prepared.”

  “Prepared for what? Round two? For Christ’s sake, Bev, the man had a knife. It wasn’t for carving your initials in a tree.”

  She held her arms out. “Look, I’m fine. I made too much of it. No one’s even mentioned it.” That was a porkie but needs must. “Come on, guv, at least say you’ll consider it?”

  “What’s to consider? Apart from anything else, you can’t possibly expect me to agree to one of my detectives getting tarted up and hanging round street corners?”

  She appeared to give it some thought. “Well… maybe not Mike Powell or Oz Khan.” She smiled; he didn’t.

  “Not funny, Sergeant.”

  “Come on, guv. Think of it as a fact-finding mission. I’m not talking turning tricks.”

  “I should bloody well hope not.”

  She couldn’t recall the last time she’d heard him swear. She leaned closer.

  “If I can’t win the girls over, it’s a non-starter anyway. But it’s got to be worth a try. Won’t you even have a think?”

  She was asking a lot, but the stakes were high. One girl dead, another under armed guard in hospital , and Vicki Flinn holed-up in Brighton. The phone rang, pre-empting Byford’s answer.

  She watched as the colour drained from his face, tried to read upside down the notes he was making. The phone back in place, he laid the pen on top of the paper and looked up slowly. “I can’t give you official backing.”

  “But?”

  He rose, walked to the window, perched on the sill. “Apart from any risk to yourself – there’s a host of pitfalls. We’re talking entrapment, inadmissible evidence, endangering witnesses. Never mind the egg on faces all round if it fails or gets thrown out of court.”

  Sound arguments but there was still something about his voice. It was almost as though he was thinking aloud. She waited a few seconds then gave a gentle prompt.

  “But..?”

  He seemed reluctant to meet her gaze; he was reluctant. “That was Harry Gough on the phone. She’d been cut. I’m not referring to the neck wound.”

  Bev closed her eyes; there’d been no other knife marks on Michelle’s body. She took a deep breath, afraid of what was coming.

  “Internal injuries. Serrated blade. Knife. Hacksaw. Something like that. Post mortem. Thank God.”

  Eyes still closed; image still there. Come on, Bev, blank it out, concentrate on the killer. She looked down at her hands. The right palm was warm and sticky. Her nails had opened up the cuts.

  “Was she raped?”

  “She’d had sex.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “She was a prostitute, Bev. She’d had intercourse several times. It’s impossible to say whether the killer raped her. She was too badly damaged.”

  She closed her eyes again, spoke softly through teeth clenched tightly. “I want this bastard.”

  Byford spun round. ‘No, Sergeant. We’ll get him. This is police business, not personal. Get that straight. If you’re not clear on that score, there’s no way you’re going out there.”

  She watched as he moved back to his desk, sat down.

  “I can do it? You’re letting me go?”

  He rested chin on hands for a few seconds. “I can’t sanction it officially. You know that, Bev. I’m talking blind eyes, unpaid overtime. And…” He paused. “If the shit hits the fan, you’re on your own. At the same time, you tell me everything. Every time you go out, I want to know where you are, where you’re going, who you’re with, what you’re doing.”

  “You sure about the last bit?”

  “Shut up before I change my mind. I’ll have a word with Mike Powell, maybe mention it to a couple of the others but the less people who know the better. Okay?”

  It was the best she’d get and more than she’d hoped. Better than taking leave and going out on a limb which was what she’d intended.

  “I’ll be at Val Masters’s place tomorrow. Eightish. Drinking. Smoking. Watching porn.’

  She kept a straight face. So did he.

  “Be able to keep an eye on the protest as well then, won’t you?”

  “What?”

  He lifted a hand. “Joke! Don’t panic. We’ll look after that, you stick to the girls.”

  “Like glue. Y’know, according to Val, the first threat arrived about Christmas.”

  “Same time the CUTS lot started up. I had realised.”

  She got to her feet. “Thought so. Just keeping you on your toes.” She smiled, headed for the door.

  “And, Bev,” Byford said, “make sure you stay on yours.”

  “Always said you were a tart, Morriss.”

  “Ho, ho.” Pause, pause. “Sir.”

  Bev was about to swap insults with Mike Powell, whom she’d bumped into on the wide, stone staircase of the City General.

  He gave her arm a supposedly playful punch. “It’ll give the lads a good laugh. They’ll all be wanting a look at your charge sheet.”

  “How long you been working on that, then?”

  The grin vanished. “Trouble with you, Morriss. No sense of humour.”

  Apart from finding Powell as amusing as a war zone, she wasn’t in the mood for laughter.

  She was on the way to see Cassie Swain; see was all she’d be doing. She’d phoned ahead. The girl was still unconscious. Bev would have been hard pushed to explain the visit, apart from a vague feeling that Cassie and the girls was what the case was all about. And, sadly, it was too late to do anything to help Michelle. “I take it the governor’s had a
word?”

  “Just.” He gestured at the hospital. “I’ve been called off, thank God. Back first thing.”

  “Get anything out of Brand?”

  “Sod all. He won’t leave the wife’s bedside. They won’t let me near him.”

  She watched as he pulled on a glove. “Must be off his head,” Powell said.

  His train of thought was never easy to follow. “Brand?”

  “No, dummy. Byford.” Now she knew where it was going. “What’s it going to achieve, Morriss? Apart from you making a bit on the side?”

  “Jealous?”

  “Incredulous.” There was real venom in his voice. Bev reckoned it was down to the boil festering on the side of his neck. “The margin for cock-ups beggars belief.”

  Not bad. But he wasn’t punning. “Good to know I have your support on this one. Sir.”

  “You don’t. I wouldn’t let you loose in a convent. God knows how you managed to swing it with Byford.”

  “He’s always had a soft spot for a pretty face.”

  Judging by his four-letter snort, irony wasn’t Powell’s forte. Bev hoisted her shoulder-bag higher. “By the way. If the guv’s had a word, he’ll also have told you to keep it quiet. So if I hear any smut going round the station about my charge list – you can bet your ass, I’ll put your name under deposits.” She smiled sweetly. “Night. Sir.”

  Monday evening. Half seven. The General was fairly quiet. Bev waved her ID at reception, nodded at the security guard and headed for IC. Hated hospitals, always had. Post mortems were a doddle compared with visiting the sick. Enervating heat and nauseating smells didn’t help, but it was more than that.

  “Sergeant Morriss.” A smiling Dr Thorne was coming down the stairs, still managing to look like something off the cover of Vogue. Me, thought Bev, I’m more of a Beano babe.

  “How’s it going, doc?”

  “It’s gone.” She grinned, glancing at her watch. “I’ve been off duty for precisely one hundred and thirty-three seconds. I’m off home to change then I’m going for an Italian.”

  “We’re talking food here, aren’t we?’ Bet the damn woman could eat like a pig without gaining a gram. Was there no end to the injustice?

  “I’ve no energy for anything else.”

  “It’s Bev, by the way.”

  “Bev?”

  “Bev Morriss.”

  The doctor held out a hand. “Ursula. But my friends call me Lal.”

  “I didn’t realise you shouldn’t be here,” Bev said. “You should have mentioned it on the phone.”

  She shrugged. “No problem. I’m glad you wanted to come.”

  That was a bit of a turn-up given her attitude last time. Bev’s eyes widened. “Cassie hasn’t come round, has she?”

  “’Fraid not.” She propped open a heavy fire door with her backside, then they were on the corridor leading to the unit. “Sounds stupid, I know. It’s just kind of nice to think someone cares.”

  “No one’s been to see her?”

  She turned her mouth down. “Flying visit from her social worker. Your officers pop their head round the door from time to time. That’s about it.”

  “They’re not getting under your feet, I hope.” The twenty-four-hour police guard was being split between three PCs. It sounded heady stuff but in reality it meant sitting round for hours at a time with nothing to do.

  The doctor shook her head. “You’d hardly know they were here.”

  Bev scanned the empty corridor. “You can say that again.”

  “Don’t worry, she’ll be in with Cassie. The woman officer often sits by the bed for a while. The men tend to stay outside more.”

  Bev nodded. It figured. Alison Granger was in her forties, had teenage daughters of her own.

  The doctor paused at the entrance to the unit. “One thing I meant to mention – a huge bouquet of white lilies arrived this morning for Cassie.”

  Bev suddenly shivered. “Can I see the card?”

  “I’ll get one of the nurses to chase it. I’m just going to get out of this coat, grab my bits and pieces. You only want a few minutes, yes?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then. She’s at the end, on the right.”

  Bev crept in, strangely cowed by the life-or-death battles being waged in the still silence. She tried not to think, but it was bringing it all back. The daily, sometimes twice daily, visits to her dad. She and her mum sitting either side of the bed as the invisible cancer carved deadly inroads. The three of them talking about anything but: banal chit-chat about ready-pasted wallpaper or West Bromwich Albion. As a good little Catholic girl, and with the unshakeable faith of a twelve-year-old, she knew he’d get better. Even now, the anger and unfairness could reduce her to tears.

  She nodded at an intense-looking blonde woman stationed behind a console in the middle of the room. Her eyes were scanning a bank of monitors, and judging by the look on her face, Bev reckoned that viewing vital signs was a lot more demanding than watching This Is Your Life. She moved on, aware that her presence had barely been registered.

  Bev was wrong about the silence. There was a constant low-level hum from countless hi-tech machines fulfilling functions that failing organs could no longer perform. Human sounds were what was missing. All eight beds were occupied but there was no noise, no movement, nothing. She thought of dust sheets and still lives, wondered why she was creeping around on tiptoe. Bev smiled. “All quiet?”

  She watched as Alison pushed a hand through a mousy fringe, surprised to see grey roots along the hairline.

  “As the gra —” She stopped herself. “As the proverbial.”

  Bev put a finger to her lips. “I get the picture.”

  Alison lowered her voice. “I’d rather you get the bastard who did that.” She was pointing behind her. “Know what, Bev?”

  She shook her head, had a feeling she was about to find out.

  “Hanging’s too good for some people.”

  The woman was halfway to the door, trying to hide tears that Bev had already spotted. She covered the short distance to Cassie’s bedside.

  It was the first time she’d laid eyes on the girl. Her head was swathed in bandages and she was on a ventilator with a drip in the back of each bony wrist. A stiff white sheet was covering most of her body but just about every visible part was badly bruised. The damage to the girl’s face was obvious; God alone knew what was going on in her head.

  She moved closer, gently stroked Cassie’s hand. She was what? Fifteen, almost sixteen.

  She’d been in care for two years and on the game for eighteen months. In care! Some bloody care. Children’s homes were cash-and-carries to the likes of Charlie Hawes. All a pimp had to do was flash a few wads and a show of affection and a vulnerable kid like Cassie was carted off to vice-land.

  Bev had seen it time and again. A cycle of abuse. Broken home, parental abuse, children’s home, pimp abuse. Not at first, of course. Pimps weren’t stupid. They made the girl feel good: bought her a few clothes, bits of jewellery, talked about love. By the time she realised she was destined for red lights not bright lights, it was too late. She’d be hooked on booze, drugs or – more often than not – the bloke himself. They genuinely loved the bastards. And when it was eventually beaten out of them, they were trapped: shit-scared and totally dependent.

  Bev could count on the fingers of one hand how many girls she knew who’d stood up in court to give evidence that would send a pimp down. There was a gentle tap on her shoulder.

  “You okay?” It was Doctor Thorne.

  Bev rubbed her eyes with finger and thumb. “Fine. Bit tired.”

  The doctor looked but said nothing.

  “Thanks for arranging this.” Bev glanced at her watch. “I’d best get off now.” She paused. “Will she..?”

  Dr Thorne shook her head. “I don’t know. There’s been no real change since she was admitted.”

  They were in the corridor when the doctor spoke again. “I che
cked, but there was no name.”

  Bev looked puzzled.

  “The flowers?” Dr Thorne prompted. “You wanted to see the card?”

  “Right.”

  “The nurse remembered it well. She threw the card away, but it said: Cassie. My Girl. Forever.”

  Bev frowned. “Why did she throw it away?”

  “She thought they’d made a mistake at the florists’s. It was black-edged. They’re for mourning. She didn’t want Cassie to be upset. When she comes round.”

  Bev nodded, comforted the word ‘if’ hadn’t been used. She made a mental note to check flower shops. “Talking of coming round – d’you know anything about an Enid Brand? Brought in this afternoon with an overdose?”

  They started the walk to reception. “Yeah. A&E gets first crack at anything like that. She should be okay. She swallowed a stack of paracetamol but we almost certainly got to her in time.”

  “Did you come across her old man by any chance?”

  “Certainly did. If I was married to him, I’d swallow acid.” She put a hand to her mouth. “Forget I said that. Very unprofessional.”

  Bev smiled. “Go on.”

  “The man was impossible. A walking ego. Making demands. Insulting everyone. I threatened to call security if he didn’t back off.” She paused, stunned at herself. “What am I saying? I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  “It’s my charm.”

  “It’s your cheek.”

  They’d reached the front desk by now and Bev watched as Dr Thorne casually applied a perfect coat of lipstick. She was well impressed. Without a mirror, Bev ended up looking like a refugee from Chipperfield’s or as if she’d been smacked in the mouth.

  “Why’d you ask?”