“Precisely. Up to your neck.”
She rose to her feet, brushing specks off her skirt. “I’ll have a word.”
“He’s buggered off. Got a call from Henry Brand. Man’s ready to talk but only the boss is good enough. You weren’t around, so he grabbed Khan. Probably thinks the lad needs a lesson from an old pro.”
She curled her lip.
“By the way, Morriss, when are you making your début?”
It had always been an act. She could see that now. How else could she have opened her thighs to a load of wankers? It was a good little earner, of course. Cash in hand as well as cocks. But it wasn’t the real Vicki Flinn out there. It was obvious now she’d had time to think about it. She’d closed her eyes and sent a stand-in. No one had even come close.
’Course that was BC – Before Charlie. Under Charlie Hawes’s malevolent wing, she was out on her own, playing for more than a fistful of fivers. AD wasn’t something she dwelt on.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. If there’d been a carpet, her pacing would have worn a trail. She’d bunked off loads of times, in her head: gone bopping down Broad Street with the girls; had a drink or two in the Jug; polished off a few Big Macs. Had to do something or she’d crack.
She kept going back to the first time, the very first punter. Saw herself tottering out the front door in Annie’s huge heels; red strappy little numbers, they were. She got a leathering for that, later. A Friday, it was. Good Friday. Not last year, the year before. Just hit fifteen; same age as Shell. She’d needed a few bob for the flicks. It was a damn sight easier than a paper round. Anyway, Annie had turned more tricks than the Magic Circle – it was no big deal.
But it was.
Hanging round street corners, trying to look cool, when any minute she thought she’d throw up or shit herself. Locking eyes with some bloke, having a split second to work out whether he was straight or a sicko. Touching up his wallet before his dick, but feeling nothing.
Easier said than done.
She’d soaked for hours, thought she’d never get out of the bath. Couldn’t get rid of the stink: sweat and booze and greasy cooking. Swore she’d never do it again. Five weeks later, she needed a pair of boots. Like everything, it got easier. Easy come, easy dough. Big joke, wannit? Regular stand-up comedian, she was.
She sighed, wrapped thin arms round her body. Hadn’t had a bundle of laughs of late. There’d been five blokes last night. All pushing sixty. Where was Charlie getting the buggers? Must have added a senior citizen’s shag-scam to his other rackets. And what else had he planned for her? She shuddered at the possibilities.
He kept his cards close, but she’d heard the odd whisper out on the landing: one-sided calls on a mobile. She’d listened intently, memorising bits and pieces. Never knew when that sort of info’d come in handy. There were gonna be changes when she got out of this place… if she could get out of this place. A proper job for one thing; police snout, maybe.
“You decent?”
She recognised the voice. It was man-planet’s idea of a joke. Question was: had Pluto got it in him to be her straight man?
19
Bev’s blood pressure was hitting six figures; not unlike the sum Dawn Lucas was bandying about.
“Lost my little girl, haven’t I?”
Bev watched her knuckles turn white. It was lucky Earth Mother was on the end of a phone.
“And you’re inquiring about..?”
“Compensation. Criminal injuries. It said in the paper, she was…”
Bev’s pencil snapped. The woman was a dog turd. The Bet Lynch voice had uttered barely a syllable of sorrow, let alone regret or curiosity. On the other hand, they’d had no joy tracking her down. Bev needed to keep her sweet.
“Where are you calling from, Mrs Lucas?” She retrieved the business end of the pencil.
“Phone box.”
“Give us the number. I’ll call you straight back.”
There was silence for a few seconds; she might have been weighing up the pros and cons. “I can’t make it out. I ain’t got me glasses.”
Good excuse, if it was the truth; either way Bev was none the wiser to the woman’s whereabouts. “Glad you rang anyway, Mrs Lucas. As Michelle’s next of kin there are one or two things –”
“I’m not identifyin’ her. I just couldn’t do it.”
She’d done sod all else; why spoil the habits of a lifetime? In the absence of relatives, they’d had to call on the superintendent at the children’s home. The woman had passed out.
“It’s been done already. So it’s not strictly necessary for you to go through the procedure again.”
“Good. I’d rather remember her like she was.”
Like she was three years ago? The sentiment stank of hypocrisy. Bev kept her voice neutral; she still had to get the woman to Birmingham. “There are Michelle’s belongings, of course.”
Another pause. “Oh yeah?”
Michelle’s entire legacy, as Bev was painfully aware, was stuffed in a couple of black bin liners, currently under lock and key at the kids’ home. She didn’t think Lucas would go a bundle on a few clothes and a hairbrush. She took a deep breath, wishing she’d done a season at RADA as well as her time at police college.
“Thing is, Mrs Lucas, you’ll have to collect them. Sign for them, you know?”
“Difficult, that. Gettin’ time off and everythin’.”
Don’t put yourself out. “There’s a few bits of jewellery. A gold watch.”
“Is there any…” There was a slight hesitation.“… money?”
Bev recoiled at the avarice. “There is a bit, yes.” Four grimy tenners stashed in a shoe.
“I’ll think about it.”
Bev started doodling a fat juicy carrot. “We could discuss the compensation claim as well… if you were passing, like.”
“I hate that place. Gives me the creeps.”
Much like you give me the creeps, Bev thought. The woman had done a bunk with a bloke who’d been playing round with her daughter. “Where are you living now, Mrs Lucas?”
“Manchester.”
“Big place, that.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Small talk wasn’t on Dawn Lucas’s agenda. “What you reckon then? Is there a claim in it, or what?”
“Could well be. Thing is, Dawn – mind if I call you Dawn? – thing is: we will need to talk in person. See, when it’s a big pay-out, the bean counters have to make sure there’s no monkey business. Know what I mean?” Much as it grieved her, a claim would be considered. Bev shook her head; shame Michelle’s death hadn’t caused a bit more grief.
“How big?”
If she got anything, it’d be the standard £11,000. Fatal tariff, they called it; blood money, Bev called it. “Phwor. You got me there. I’d have to have more to go on, before I can give you a steer on that.”
“Fire away.”
Pass the excocet. “Sorry, love. Not on the blower. More than my job’s worth. Know what I mean?”
Silence. Bev held her breath. Could go either way. And if Lucas hung up, guess who’d get it in the neck?
A response came reluctantly, but it came. “I’ll meet you.”
I’d rather eat shit. “Good thinking.”
“I ain’t comin’ there, and I ain’t going to no cop shop neither.”
“Could be a problem, that.”
“Why?”
“The CICA boys won’t buy it. Not with big claims like this…”
The pips sounded. Bev mouthed a prayer which was answered by the clink of coins being fed into the slot.
“What were you sayin’ ’bout big claims?”
That’s my girl. “The criminal injuries lot. They’ll want it all done proper. Full interview, name on the dotted line. Have to be done here, see. Can’t dish out a load of readies in a Little Chef, can they?” There was another pause then Bev came up with the cherry on the carrot cake. “’Course, there could be a reward in it as well. I’ll be honest with you, lov
e. We need all the help we can get. More we know about Michelle, more chance we have of catching the killer. We’ve spoken to all her mates and teachers and stuff but everyone paints a different picture. We still haven’t got a proper handle on her, know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I’d need to think about that.” You sure would. “This compensation stuff? Give it out straight away, do they?”
“All the time, Dawnie.” Seven months, if you’re lucky.
Another silence; more held breath.
“You can bring someone with you for a bit of moral support.” Bev curled her lip; propping up Lucas’s morals’d be a struggle for the Archbishop of Canterbury. “Shell’s dad perhaps?”
“Don’t talk wet. The man’s never laid eyes on her.”
Bollocks. “Must’ve got our wires crossed. We were told there was a Mr Lucas at Gorse Street with you and Michelle.”
“Was there ’ell. That was Ginger Riley.”
Yes! A name. Bev’s fist hit the air, her voice stayed level. “Perhaps Mr Riley would like to come with you?”
“Bet he’d love to. He’s been dead two year.”
Double bollocks.
“I ain’t gonna get any crap from you lot, am I?”
Unfortunately not; not without evidence. “How do you mean?”
“I know what them dozy morons round there were sayin’ ’bout me.”
Who didn’t? According to neighbours, Dawn Lucas had the maternal instincts of a cuckoo.
“Slaggin me off, sayin’ I dumped Shell.”
That wasn’t all they were saying. She listened with half an ear while scrolling through witness statements on the computer. She paused at Jack Goddard’s, the caretaker at Michelle’s school: …Lucas shacked up with some bloke known as Sicknote… blah blah… place like a branch of the social… blah blah… bruises… neglect… underage sex… Bev sighed. They’d heard the same story time and again, but street talk and hearsay wasn’t going to convict Lucas. It wouldn’t even get her in court.
Bev tuned in properly. The woman had stopped talking but only to light a baccy. “Honest to God, I begged her to come but she dint want to leave her mate. Said she was gonna stay with her. Arranged it with the girl’s mum and everythin’.”
“You did?” Bev hoped her incredulity wasn’t showing but there was no cause for concern.
“Nah. Shell done all that.”
“What was the family called?”
“Come on. It were three year ago.”
“Does the name Flinn mean anything to you? Vicki Flinn? Annie Flinn?”
“No. Never heard of ’em.” The answer was quick. Too quick? “Anyway it weren’t just that. There was her schooling. Loved Thread Street, she did. She were dead settled there.”
According to records, Michelle was as settled as a vegan in an abattoir. “Kids?” Bev said. “Who’d have ’em, eh? Always think they know best, don’t they?”
“Tell me about it. Mind, our Shell weren’t thick. Sharp as a knife, she was. Told her many a time, she’d cut herself if she weren’t careful.”
Bev closed her eyes. “Chip off the old block, eh, Dawn?”
“Will I get me expenses? Train fare. Stuff like that?”
The woman had a one-track mind. “Don’t see why not. How soon can you get here?”
“Tuesday, innit?” Bev waited as the woman worked it out. “Next Wednesday. A week tomorrow.”
“Can you make it a bit sooner?”
“What’s the rush?”
A sloth on mogadon had more urgency. “Just that the authority meets on Friday. If I had the gen by then…”
“Tomorrow. I’ll give you a bell from New Street. I’ll have a good old think ’bout things – see what I can come up with.”
“You do that, Dawn…”
The pips hadn’t gone; Lucas had hung up.
Deep in thought, Bev replaced the receiver. On the face of it, Lucas knew diddly. Point was: the end of a phone wasn’t on the face of anything. A good cop needed eye contact for all those little giveaways. She could have been lying through her teeth. Bev was under no illusions. Dawn Lucas wasn’t going to waltz in with the killer’s identity. But she was the girl’s mother. She might – conceivably – give them an insight into Michelle’s.
Either way, she had to admit it: the appalling woman intrigued her. She’d met loads of low-lifes before, but Dawn Lucas was in an under-class of her own. Sod all the psycho-crap about social deprivation and dysfunctional families; she wanted to know what made the woman tick. At the same time, it might shed light on why her fifteen-year-old daughter was lying in the mortuary.
Bev tilted her head back, tried stroking away the tension in her neck. Her eyes were closed. In the darkness, all she could see was Michelle.
20
She was like a corpse, naked, flat on her back, one arm hanging over the side of the bed.
Lying doggo: that’s what they called it. It was an act and she was bracing herself for her big scene. She’d run it through her head a dozen times, had no idea how it would pan out. Even so, when the key turned, her body stiffened. She was better prepared for the sudden shaft of light from the landing, she didn’t move a muscle.
“I said, are you decent?”
Pluto was framed in the doorway. She sensed him hovering, wondering what the problem was. Ordinarily, she’d be up and about, dying for a pee. His face was hardly friendly, but it was becoming familiar, and lately she’d taken to babbling on, in vain attempts to get him to talk. Seeing her like this, she was hoping the fear factor would get him over the threshold. If anything bad had happened, Pluto’d be in a whole world of trouble.
“Get your arse off that bed.”
Was there uncertainty in the voice? Difficult to tell, when she only had a series of grunts to judge by. She had to get him to open up, had to get him closer, and not just feet and inches. The longer he treated her like a piece of meat, the likelier she’d end up a carcass.
“Come on, you lazy cow. It’s gone nine.”
She didn’t need telling. The toast and coffee combination coming up the stairs was alarm call enough. She was ravenous but if her stomach rumbled, so would Pluto. Once he was in, she’d busk it; play on his weak spot, assuming she could find it. She’d be working to her strength. As far as she knew, she only had one.
She counted the silence: ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, then she heard the key being taken out of the lock and the door closing. She held her breath, heard his footfall. He was inside, getting nearer, she could smell him now, smoke and soap. She’d already calculated where he was likely to touch her and didn’t flinch when he tapped her arm.
Her legs were slightly apart and she’d bet a week’s takings his eyes were opened wide. Up to now, Pluto’s ogling had been done on the sly. She’d clocked him gawking through the crack in the bathroom door and sneaking glances every time he dropped off a tray. He’d have to be gay or carved out of granite not to be getting an eyeful. There was no rush. A bloke with a hard-on had to be easier to manipulate. And this was the tricky bit. Soon as he realised she wasn’t sick, the second she moved, it might all go pear-shaped.
She kept her eyes closed, although something told her his peepers wouldn’t be glued to her face. She eased her thighs apart, lifted her haunches a tad and moaned. Her left hand was lying at her side. She inched it over her hips and let it lie between her legs. He didn’t make a murmur. She stroked her fingers through her pubes then slowly drew the tips up her body; over her belly and between her breasts. He hadn’t given her a slapping; she hoped it was a good sign, hoped he was gagging for it.
She ran her tongue along her lips and lifted her hand to her mouth, moistening each finger with exaggerated licks, then gently slid her leg over the side of the bed where he was standing. There was definitely a bit of heavy breathing now. She’d better open her eyes, in case he figured the whole palaver was a wet dream.
He was looking at her fanny. Looming over her, he seemed even bigger. What was he? Six foot two, more
than twice her weight, old enough to be her dad. She wondered if he had kids; bet he wouldn’t want his daughter holed up in a place like this. Up close, he wasn’t as gross as she’d thought: dark chocolate eyes, long lashes. He was wearing black again: combats and a cotton shirt, open at the neck, a pack of Silk Cut in the breast pocket. But what was going on inside?
She was only going to get one crack at this. If she said the wrong thing, hit the wrong button, it’d be back to square one. Coming on strong had got him in, but talking sweet – if anything – was going to get her out. She waited till he was looking at her face then flashed her brightest smile. “It gets lonely in here.”
He shrugged but didn’t move away. She sat up, hugged her knees, watched as his eyes roamed down. “Hate sleeping on me own. Always have. Ever since I was a kid. Hated it when me ma turned the light out. Always thought there was a bogeyman under the bed.”
She shivered, hunched narrow shoulders. “Seems like nowadays, they’re all in it.”
She looked down at her feet, put a catch in her voice. “They make me skin creep. All them old geezers, pawing and slobbering all over the place.” She sniffed loudly, ran the back of her hand across her nose.
She knew he was looking at her now, she lifted her head and met his gaze. “Know what I do when they’re trying to get it up?” She paused but there was no reaction. “I think about you. Imagine you’re in here with me. Pretend you’re my feller.”
He was frowning. She made a space on the bed but he stayed where he was.
“I’ve got this favourite one, see. You’ve taken me to the pictures. Something mushy, romantic. We’re holding hands in the back row and all that. Popcorn, cokes, choc-ices, the lot. Then you take me to that posh Indian place down Broad Street. Some geezer comes in selling flowers and you buy me a red rose. Then we go back to our place and we take each others’ clothes off and have a bath.” She paused. “And all that.”
He perched on the edge of the bed. “All that what?”
She wasn’t brilliant at coy; hadn’t had a lot of practice. She bowed her head. “You know.”
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