Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

  “What?” Bev was still trying to work out the secret.

  “The Brands?”

  “Oh. Right. Need to ask them a few questions, that’s all.”

  “She should be out tomorrow. She’s only in for observation. The old man was walking across the car park when I came down to meet you.”

  “Out the back?”

  “Yes. There’s a bird’s-eye view from the staircase.”

  “Interesting.” She smiled but didn’t elaborate. Doctor Thorne wasn’t to know that Henry Brand was supposedly glued to his wife’s side or that he’d arrived at the hospital in the back of an ambulance. “Anyway, enjoy your fettucine or whatever.”

  “Fear not. After a carafe or three of Chianti – I’d enjoy a wet flannel.” She half-turned, looked back. “Fancy joining me?”

  It was the best offer she’d had all year: not-so-fast food; a cheeky little vino; the start of what could be a good friendship. Work encroached enough as it was and she wasn’t even on shift. “I’d really like to. But…”

  “No worries. Some other time.” The voice was brisk and Bev was already regretting the refusal as she watched the doctor stride towards the double doors. The woman was strikingly attractive, held down a top job and probably earned mega-bucks. And the invitation was as close to admitting she was lonely as she was ever likely to go.

  Bev sighed, put Doctor Thorne on her mental back-burner and headed for the security guard. Five minutes after that she was on her way to see Annie Flinn.

  15

  The woman looked as if she’d had an argument with a food blender.

  “Mrs Flinn?” Bev was unsure; there was a hint of Vicki round the eyes, but not in the hostility.

  “What do you want?”

  Nice to see you too. “I’m Bev Morriss. Detective Sergeant Morriss. West Midlands police.”

  “I’m very happy for you. Now sod off.”

  She’d have slammed the door if Bev’s foot hadn’t got in first.

  “I have a message from your daughter.”

  There was a barely perceptible pause in the flow of bile but it didn’t last long. “Which one?”

  It was half eight. It was brass monkeys. Tesco was closed. “Okay, missus. Up yours. I’m out of here.”

  The woman reached out an arm, milk-white and twig-thin. “Hold on. There’s no call for that.”

  She looked closer. Annie Flinn’s eyes were more than bloodshot; the whites were pinks and leaking like rusty taps. They looked sore, or Bev’s words had stung more than she’d intended. The woman sniffed and ran the back of her hand under her nose. “You comin’ in or what?” It wasn’t an apology but it was close.

  The kitchen was at the end of a narrow hall. There was no bulb and Bev almost tripped over an empty cardboard box taking up half the floor. Annie already had a hand on the kettle.

  “Tea?”

  Bev took a quick glance round and crossed her fingers. “No, ta. Never touch the stuff. Prick me, I’d bleed Nescaff.”

  The woman reached for a jar of instant. “No skin off my nose. All tastes the same to me. Milk? Sugar?”

  Bev’s smile was as weak as she knew the coffee was going to be. “As it comes.” There were no chairs; she leaned against the least filthy wall.

  “What happened to your face, Mrs Flinn?”

  Annie reached a hand to her cheek but it was way too late for concealment. “Thought you’d come to talk about our Vicki.”

  “That’s right.”

  The woman grabbed a dubious-looking dishcloth and started swatting the draining board. Bev asked again, keeping her voice gentle. Annie replied without turning round. “Oven cleaner. Me own fault. Should have read the instructions. Talk about Mr Muscle.”

  Bev was dying to talk to Mr Muscle: the muscleman who’d split Annie’s lip and put a shed-load of work her dentist’s way. She went on instinct with the next question. “This Mr Muscle wouldn’t go by the name of Charlie Hawes, would he?”

  For a split second Annie Flinn froze, then spun round, eyes blazing. Bev kicked herself for not having waited till the woman was facing her.

  “Are you deaf? It was an accident. Got the stuff all over my hands, then rubbed my face.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Balled fists were whisked under her armpits. “Nothing to see. I had gloves on.”

  “Right.” She sauntered over to the cooker, gingerly opened the oven door; there was enough grease for an oil spill. She looked at Annie, said nothing. The woman was lying, but was she lying about Charlie Hawes?

  Annie jerked a spoon round a couple of mugs then chucked it in the sink where it joined a bike chain soaking in six inches of black water.

  “D’you want this or what?” Her hand was shaking and hot liquid sloshed over the sides on to a formica top.

  The woman was on a knife-edge; Bev pushed. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “I don’t know any Charlies. Right?”

  But she hadn’t forgotten it. Her body language was tighter than a shoal of clams. If Bev didn’t change tack, she’d get nowhere.

  “How many daughters you got then, Mrs Flinn?”

  “What is this? Family Fortunes?”

  Bev shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  They swallowed a few sips in synch. Bev took a closer look round to take her mind off the taste. It occurred to her that Charlie Hawes had probably been here in the last few hours, standing where she was now, drinking from the self-same mug. She took another mouthful: maybe not. By rights, the man should have left tangible signs. She chided herself for the thought. What was she expecting? Cloven hoof marks and a whiff of brimstone?

  The silence was broken by a wail from above. Annie stiffened but her voice was calm. “That’s the bab. It’s time for her feed.”

  Bev smiled. “That’d be Lucie, would it?”

  The aggression was back. “What do you know about Lucie?”

  What? not how? And why the look? “Vicki mentioned her.”

  Bev’s smile was infectious but Annie’s was shortlived. She dropped it, then jammed hands in jean pockets. “Best say what you come for. She’ll just get worse till I sort her.”

  “Bring her down. I’d like to see her.”

  The woman shook her head. “She’ll not get back to sleep if I get her up.”

  Bev handed the mug back, grateful for the early out. “Right. I’ll leave you to it then. Just wanted to let you know Vicki’s in Brighton. Staying with a friend. She doesn’t want you to worry.”

  “Yeah. She sent a postcard.”

  “What?”

  “Told you. I got a card.”

  The baby sounded as if she hadn’t touched food for a month. Other noises followed: a creaking bed spring, a slamming door, footsteps across the ceiling.

  Annie was edging out of the kitchen. “Thanks for comin’.”

  “Hold on. When did you get this card?”

  “Can’t remember. Saturday, was it?”

  “I dropped her outside here on Friday night, Mrs Flinn.”

  “Yeah. That’s right. It come this morning. Anyway. She’s okay.”

  Bev stood her ground. “So what did it say? Wish you were here?” Her smile wasn’t returned.

  “I haven’t got time for this now.” The woman was increasingly agitated, her eyes willing Bev to leave.

  “I’ll just take a quick look then I’ll get out of your way.” Bev held a hand out.

  “What?” She looked as if she’d been hit.

  “The card. I’d like to see it.”

  “For fuck’s sake, I don’t know where the soddin’ thing is.” The woman ran a hand through her hair.

  Bev slowly fastened the buttons on her coat. Had Vicki really been in touch? Or was Annie lying? Or am I just pissed off at not being on the mailing-list? She tried reading the woman’s face but she was on a different page. “I need to speak to Vicki urgently, Mrs Flinn. If she gets in touch again, I want to know about it. Get an address, a number, or tell her to call m
e.”

  The woman was listening, but not to Bev. She was concentrating on the footsteps coming down the stairs. Her voice was louder than necessary.

  “I’ve asked you to go.”

  A man appeared in the doorway, holding a screaming baby under his arm.

  “Yeah. Sod off. Now.”

  Annie made to take the child but he pushed her aside, headed straight for Bev.

  She shouted over Lucie’s screams. “She’s a cop. CID.”

  He was a hand’s span from Bev’s face. “I don’t care if she’s CIA. You’ve been told to fuck off. Twice. You deaf or stupid?”

  Bev didn’t flinch despite the olfactory onslaught of second-hand halitosis and the baby’s stinking nappy.

  “Hello, Steve.”

  It was a lucky guess, based on Vicki’s toy-boy tag. The man invading her space oozed sex and was twenty if he was a day. He took a step back, but was still too close. “What you been saying?”

  He wasn’t addressing Bev but she answered anyway. “Mrs Flinn’s said nothing.”

  He narrowed piercing blue eyes, pupils like pinheads. “Lying slag.”

  He held the baby at arm’s length; there were puncture marks from his wrists to the inside of the elbow. “You’re supposed to keep this quiet. I won’t tell you again.”

  Annie took the child, held her close, cooed soothing sounds.

  He swaggered to the fridge, pulled the tab on a can of Red Stripe, swigged half the contents. He enjoyed an audience. He had a neat body, set off by a tight white T-shirt and black combats. He was a looker, despite the shaven head and dark stubble. Bev yawned. She’d seen it all before. Cocky little geezers who keep their brain cell in their Calvin Kleins. Think they’re real hard cause they only hit on soft targets. Give this bloke a few years and he’d be banged up or burnt out. He turned, can halfway to mouth. “You still here?”

  “I’m going. But I’ll be back.”

  He burped beer fumes across the kitchen. “Don’t bust a gut.”

  She strolled over, studied the piercings around his ear. “It’s not guts I bust.”

  He smirked but was first to drop his gaze. Bev turned slowly and walked across to Annie. “If you want to talk to me, at any time, you’ll get me at Highgate nick.”

  “She don’t talk to the filth.”

  “Talks to you, doesn’t she?” She spoke without turning.

  “You wanna watch your lip.”

  This time she turned her head. “I’ve been watching Mrs Flinn’s, as it happens. And I don’t like the look of it.”

  “I can’t help it if the clumsy cow —”

  Annie shrieked. “Steve. Enough. She’s going. Aren’t you?”

  “Walks into a door, Annie?” Bev’s voice was low but insistent. “Is that what he was going to say?”

  The woman shook her head. The movement disturbed Lucie who’d cried herself into a fitful sleep. The baby turned, fixing Bev with large, blue eyes. A tiny sob escaped on the deepest of sighs. Bev stroked a finger along the curve of a soft, warm cheek. Poor little love. It wasn’t so long since Vicki had been like this. She handed Annie a card.

  “Don’t forget, Mrs Flinn, if you hear from Vicki, tell her I need to talk. Call me any time. If there’s anything else – anything at all – I’ll be on this number. If not for yourself, think of Lucie.”

  Blotting it out was the only way. Vicki covered her eyes with the tips of her fingers, as if it would help, knowing it didn’t. The tears, warm at first, cooled as they ran down her cheeks, were cold by the time they reached the insides of her wrists. She was hunched on the edge of the bed, bony elbows sticking into her knees, listening out for the next tosser. It wouldn’t be long before she lost count. Thirteen so far. Wham. Bam. Up yours ma’am. Christ. They’d be getting discounts next; buy one, get one free. Charlie wasn’t in this for the cash, this was about control. She’d seen it in some mag at the clap clinic; control freaks they were called, blokes like Charlie. Too effin’ right they were. Forcing her to open her legs to his mates made him look well hard. No one messes with Charlie Hawes. That was the message. Great way to ram it home. None of his other girls’d be in any doubt. She was the one with the questions: who knew where she was? Was anyone looking for her? And how the hell did she get out?

  She uncurled her legs, balled her fists and started pacing. She couldn’t even have a pee without a minder breathing down her neck. Pluto, the man planet, took turn and turn about with a little sleazeball, acne on legs and more meat on a toothpick. First time she’d clocked him, she’d mistaken his squint for a glass eye. Talk about cold; he was a threat to shipping. No. If either of them was her passport out of this black hole, it wouldn’t be The Spot. If she’d worked it out right, Pluto would be on again in the morning. She’d have another go then. Sweet talk him? By the time she’d finished, he’d have honey trickling out of his arse.

  She halted where she imagined the window had been. A real drag, it being bricked over. Not that she’d jump. This was a top floor flat and she wouldn’t get far with a limp. She just wanted a glimpse of the sky, a butcher’s at normal people going about everyday biz. Her norm now was the bed, the bog and a quick bath between johns.

  She wandered over to the door. Locked. Natch. At least when the Bill banged her up, it was only for a night. She wondered again about Bev Morriss, their hours together, searching for Cassie. If it hadn’t got back to Charlie, she wouldn’t be in this mess. She’d stopped blaming Bev; she’d only been doing her job. Vicki hoped she was doing it now and was searching for her.

  There were footsteps on the stairs. She drifted back to the bed, wiped the dampness from her cheeks with the heel of her hand. She’d have used the sheet, but she knew where it had been.

  16

  The twin hollows in the squashy velvet were a dead giveaway: it was the comfiest seat in the house and Bev was a gnat’s eyelash from taking it. The sage-green and gold piping didn’t sit easy among the Ikea minimalism, but the chair was an Emmy Morriss hand-me-down and Bev had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Her own mouth was watering, thanks to the Easy Spice takeaway and Interview with a Vampire – her favourite movie of all time. She’d taped it off the telly and watched it at least once a month. She balanced and braced; Chicken Madras and Pinot Noir were on the tray, Brad Pitt and blood donor on the screen, posterior a nano-second from soft furnishing when some inconsiderate sod rang the bell.

  She couldn’t stop the groan; regretted its ear-shattering volume; feigning death or even deep sleep was no longer an option.

  “Okay, okay. This had better be good.” She parked her dinner on top of the telly and paused the vid.

  A quick glance at the clock confirmed a growing suspicion. There was only one person who’d come knocking, uninvited, at this time of night.

  “Mavis!” The bellow was an advance warning. “If you’re on the scrounge, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  The woman had borrowed so much sugar, she could open a sweet shop. It was a ruse, all she wanted was a goss. “It’s late and I’m knackered.” Bev tightened her mouth, narrowed her eyes and snatched at the door. “What the — ?”

  Ozzie lifted a hand in defence. “Sorry, Sarge, I didn’t… Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

  She saw his eyes take in her Black Watch jimmies and Garfield slippers. Bit of a couture shock after the blue suits and Doc Martens. She ran a hand through her hair: nerves rather than necessity. “I was just…”

  “Yeah. I can see. Look, no worries. I’ll catch you later.”

  “No. It’s okay.” It wasn’t every night Ozzie Khan came calling. It wasn’t any night, come to think of it. She held the door open. “Grab a pew. I’ll just slip into…”

  “Something less comfortable?”

  She heard a girlish giggle, realised it was her own, turned it into a cough. Oriental aromas pervaded the sitting room, reminder of an unconsumed feast. She gave the tray a lingering look, hoping he’d catch on fast.

  “Don’t
bother on my account, Sarge. Shame to let it get cold. Anyway, I’m used to seeing women with no clothes on.”

  There was a wide grin on his face till he clocked the look on hers. He tripped in the rush to explain. “Not women… I didn’t… just my sisters.”

  Her look was now a glare. He tried again. “Forever slopping about the place in their nighties. Mum’s always on at them.”

  She was intrigued, filing facts: Ozzie lived at home, then, surrounded by women. “How many sisters you got, Oz?”

  “Three.” His face softened. “Youngest’s sixteen. Oldest’s twenty-two.”

  “So you’re Big Brother?” She didn’t wait for a reply, but mulled it over in the kitchen, where she grabbed an extra plate and fork. He was kneeling down, browsing through a stack of videos when she came back. She retrieved the tray and took the weight off her feet.

  “Gonna get stuck in?”

  He looked up, puzzled, then saw what was on offer.

  “You have it, Sarge. I’ve eaten.”

  “It’s great, this. Chicken Madras. Have a bite of my naan if you play your cards right.”

  He shook his head. “It’s a bit coals to Newcastle.”

  Quick shrug. “Suit yourself.”

  He took a closer look. “Do you really like that stuff?”

  She paused, fork halfway to mouth. “No. Horrible. Can’t stand it.” Sarcasm dripped with the sauce.

  “Come on, Sarge, it’s vile. Now if we’re talking my Madras…”

  She laid the fork down; savoured the words. “Your Madras?”

  He gave an ostentatious sniff. “Legendary, mate.”

  She looked at him, looked at the tray. Wondered what the hell they were doing, in her place, ten at night, sounding like a couple of foodies? He surely hadn’t come to swap recipes? “Let’s do Delia another other time, Oz.” She waved a hand at the settee. “What’s it all about?”

  He sat, legs crossed, and stroked his chin, presumably recalling the reason for his visit.

  She nibbled naan while he arranged thoughts.

  “Are you watching that?”

  She glanced at the screen; Mr Pitt up to his neck – well, someone’s neck – in gore. “I was.”