Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

“Tell me. What do we do? When we’ve had this bath?”

  She looked up; he had a lovely voice, like something off the radio. She lifted her hand to brush an imaginary eyelash from his cheek, well pleased when he didn’t back off. He wouldn’t have let her touch his boots ten minutes ago. Her smile was genuine, the first for days. “Not what you think. It’s different with you.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We have a good snog and everything. But in bed, we just have a cuddle and hold each other tight all night. You whispering my name and…” Her bottom lip quivered, then she swallowed hard.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “What is it? What’s up?”

  “I can’t call you anything. I don’t know your name. You know I’m Vicki and I don’t know what to call you. Spoils it, doesn’t it?”

  He took the cigarettes from his pocket. “Smoke?”

  She nodded, like a child who’d been offered ice cream. “Yes, please.”

  He lit hers as well, handed it over. “You can call me Dan.”

  “Dan.” She tried it a few times. “I like that. Thanks, Dan. Tonight’ll be even better. I’ll be able to call —”

  “You said the film one was your favourite?”

  “That’s right. There’s loads, though.” She took a deep drag, spoke through the smoke. “The thought of you’s the only thing that gets me through.” She was swinging her legs. “Don’t suppose you’d..?”

  “What?”

  “Nah. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Go on.”

  She laid a hand on his knee. “We wouldn’t have to do anything, like. But one night, when everyone’s gone, and I’ve had a bath and everything, could you just come in and lie with me, just for a couple of minutes or something, just till I get off to sleep, like?”

  He moved her hand a few inches higher. “Maybe. Who knows?”

  She left her hand where he’d placed it, started circling her forefinger. “It’d be lovely. Just the two of us. It’d give me something to look forward to.” She dropped her glance, realised how true it was.

  He inched his thighs open. “Have to see, won’t we?”

  21

  “What you got there, Sarge?”

  Bev glanced over her shoulder. She was in the viewing suite at Highgate, so engrossed she’d only just noticed Vince at her elbow.

  She curled a lip. “Not a lot, mate.” The footage was from the CCTV at the General. It had landed on her desk, minutes after the Lucas phone call had left her reeling. It was not going to win any Oscars.

  “Looks like a Yeti in a snow storm.” Vince said.

  “It’s not that good.”

  Either the hospital’s camera needed major surgery or this was a duff tape. It amounted to the same thing: it was not going to prove that Henry Brand had surreptitiously left his wife’s bedside. The obnoxious little snot rag was in the clear. The blur was so impenetrable, Bev couldn’t have picked out her own mother. Shame. The enlightening call she’d envisaged putting through to Byford was a no-go now. She rubbed her eyes, everything looked as bad – and not just on the screen. The boss and Ozzie were still at Brand’s place. She hadn’t heard a peep and they’d been gone more than two hours.

  She stood, removed the tape, held it aloft. “I was hoping this was going to nail someone, Vince, but it’s about as much use as a glass hammer.”

  “Can’t win ’em all.”

  “Every now and then’d do.” She smiled. “Still, you never know, one of the techies might be able to tweak a few knobs.”

  She grabbed her bag, made for the door. “Who’s out tonight, Vince?”

  “Thread Street?” He fell into step with her. Uniform had asked for extra bods from CID to police the protest, especially after the provocation on the airwaves that morning.

  “Three-line whip, isn’t it?” Vince said. “You going, Bev?”

  “Nah. I’ve got something on.” It was the first meet with Val and the girls. They were at the lift door. “By the way, Vince, did you want something?”

  “Sod it. Sorry, Bev. The guv wants a word. In his office. Like yesterday.”

  “I couldn’t budge him. He gave a categorical denial. Says the girl withdrew the allegation. According to Brand, Michelle Lucas backed down completely.”

  “Yeah, well.” Bev shrugged, sniffing. “In the words of whatsername, he would say that, wouldn’t he?”

  “Mandy Rice-Davies.” Byford turned from the window, put his hands in his pockets. “Wasn’t she a bit before your time?”

  “So was Attila the Hun. But I’ve heard of him.”

  The quip was her first since entering Byford’s office. She’d found him sitting at his desk, going through papers, no more and no less affable than normal. She’d listened without interruptions to a run through of Brand’s interview. It was a case of Henry ‘Brickwall’ Brand. He denied seeing – let alone talking to – Michelle on the night of the murder. As for Cyanide Lil, he offered to pay for an eye test; his own wife had perfect vision and would be only too pleased to confirm his presence in the home throughout the hours in question. Or she would, as soon as she’d recovered from the accidental overdose. The final brick in the façade had been Brand’s assertion that a tearful Michelle had taken back the sexual assault allegations. There’d not been a single syllable about official complaints or bent coppers. Bev sat back and started to relax.

  “We’ve only got Brand’s word for it, guv.”

  He nodded, walked back to his seat. “And in the absence of any evidence, that’s all we will have. As for the assault claims, even if Michelle was alive, it would still be her word against his.”

  “Yeah. And who’s going to listen to a trainee tart?”

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “I’m not having a pop at you, guv, but you know as well I do, there are blokes in this place who wouldn’t piss on a prostitute if she was on fire.”

  He was rolling a pencil between his fingers. The movement stopped but he didn’t pick up on the remark. “Brand could be lying through his teeth, but without proof…”

  Bev recalled Brand’s idiosyncratic notion of home entertainment. “Must be something, somewhere. Have to take a closer look.”

  “You could have had a bird’s-eye view this morning. I wanted you with me. Why weren’t you at the briefing?” Most people shouted when they were angry; Byford didn’t.

  Her bum was prickling. She tried not to shuffle. “I’m really sorry, guv. There was a stack of things on my desk when I got in. I lost track of time.”

  “It’s vital everyone’s there. In future – make time.”

  She nodded. Great word that: future. Maybe she could consign Ozzie’s light-fingered fuck-up to the past.

  “If you can’t cope with what’s on, the undercover stuff will have to go.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Was he having misgivings? Already? Either way, he was deadly serious. So was she. “There’s no question of my not coping, sir. Several matters needed immediate action. I thought I was prioritizing.”

  “And my briefing was last on the list?”

  She was saved from another foot in mouth by Byford’s secretary who came in with a tray of coffee.

  “Helen. Thank you.” He glanced at Bev. “An extra cup, please.”

  She smiled; it looked as if the worst was over.

  “I mean it, Bev. You can go ahead with the meeting tonight then we’ll take another look.”

  It wasn’t the time to argue. “Okay.”

  “Right.” He was rubbing his hands; he’d said his piece and it was time to move on. “You’d better fill me in with what was so pressing this morning.”

  She returned his smile, told him about the CCTV tape, the slight chance that it could be enhanced and mentioned the check – blank so far – with city florists and black-edged cards.

  “What about the stuff from the local radio?”

  “There’s a goodie bag on my desk: transcript and recording. I’ve had another listen, but…” Empty hands held out made
the point.

  “Get someone to drop it in. I’d like to hear it myself.” He tried the coffee, added more sugar. “Is that it?”

  “Saving the best bit till last, guv.” She saved it a few seconds longer while Helen deposited another cup.

  He sat back, hands on head, as Bev brought him up to speed on the Dawn Lucas phone call, omitting her own enhancement of the woman’s chances of hitting immediate paydirt.

  He listened carefully, nodding here and there. “Think she knows anything?”

  “Difficult to say. She was cagey as a zoo when I spoke to her.”

  “And she’s calling from New Street tomorrow?”

  She nodded, knew what was coming.

  “Shame we couldn’t get an address.”

  “Tell me about it.” The dig was unwarranted and she refused to rise. She leaned across and took undue delight in nabbing the last chocolate hobnob. It would have to keep her going till lunch with Frankie. She took a bite and brushed the inevitable crumbs off her skirt. “Like Brand in a way, isn’t it?”

  “It is?”

  “Well, what did you get from him? How long were you there? An hour? Two hours? What’s he said? Naff all. Just enough to get us off his back. He’s never going to give anything away, is he?”

  His eyes were searching her face. “You think he’s got something to give?”

  She looked down, couldn’t meet his gaze. She hated the deception. It wasn’t the way they worked. “I’m just saying people only tell us what they want us to know. We can’t actually force them to say anything. Certainly not the truth.”

  “You don’t like Brand, do you?”

  She shrugged. “What was he like with you?”

  He opened a drawer to his right, helped himself to four Jaffa cakes. “Hospitable. Apologetic. Keen to help.”

  “Regular little Uriah Heep.”

  He leaned forward, held up a finger. “I’ve told you before, Sergeant. Don’t let personal likes and dislikes get in the way of your professional judgement. You and Brand obviously didn’t hit it off. Maybe the man has a problem with women in positions of authority.”

  Women in any position. She let it go. “Point taken.”

  “How’s young Khan shaping up?”

  The sudden change of tack nearly threw her. She reached for her coffee and a few seconds thinking-time. “Fine. He can chew gum and walk in a straight line.”

  “He’s not running for president. And you’re not answering the question.”

  “Really, guv. He’s a good bloke and I think he’s got the makings of a decent cop. He’s enthusiastic, alert, keeps his eyes and ears open.”

  “What about his mouth? He hardly said a word when we were at Brand’s. Seemed on edge as well.”

  She placed the cup back in its saucer. “Might have been a bit nervous with you around, guv. He’s never like that with me.”

  “It sends the wrong signals. Keep an eye, Bev. A lot of people round here are dying to see him fall flat on his face.”

  “Wouldn’t be all those geezers with the tart-resistant fire extinguishers, would it?”

  “Put it away! You’ll get us arrested.”

  Bev flapped her hands, not that anyone noticed the semaphore. Prêt à Manger was enjoying the floor show. Bev groaned; the place was packed. Trust Frankie to make an entrance. Five minutes late, she’d raced over like a thoroughbred filly, class on legs, despite the fake fur, fishnets and a quiet little number in fire-engine red. As if the wardrobe wasn’t loud enough, she was also brandishing a black lace basque like some sort of demented matador.

  “It’s for you. Thought it’d give you a bit of street cred.” She tapped the side of her nose. “Know what I mean?”

  Bev shuddered; she had a good idea. Maybe she should’ve kept mum about the girls. She watched, aghast, as Frankie held the thing up to the light.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you should sit down.” The hiss was through clenched teeth. “Now!”

  “Don’t get your teddy in a twist.”

  Bev lunged forward, stuffed the offending article in her coat pocket. “It already is.”

  Frankie shrugged, then eased her five-ten frame on to the sort of stool that challenged the less vertically blessed. Amid an expanse of gleaming chrome and sparkling glass, she shone like a bird of paradise in a sackful of sparrows. A gentle ripple of applause emanated from a set of suits at the nearest table. She inclined her head with the nonchalance of a diva, then leaned forward to ask Bev if she thought they were bankers.

  “Don’t, Frankie. Just don’t.”

  She laughed, tossed her head, clouds of blue-black hair billowing. Bev sighed; if she ever tried that, they’d come and take her away.

  “Come on, my friend. Chill out.”

  “Chill out? If I got into that I’d be effin’ hypothermic.”

  “No chance.” Frankie was casually rifling through the goodies Bev had bought for lunch. “It only just fits me.” She winked. “Unless you want to take it along tonight. Show you’re game. Break the ice.”

  Bev smiled, shook her head. The girl was a nutter. They’d been mates since infant school and there was nothing they didn’t talk about. It was cheaper than therapy and any confidences were as safe as state secrets. Safer, come to think about it.

  “This for me, Bevvie?” She’d commandeered the BLT. “Good girl. This fat’s no good for you.”

  Bev pursed her lips. The girl could eat for Europe and still get into a size eight. And she made the pre-Raphaelite lot look like a bunch of losers with alopecia. “It’s a good job I like you. Otherwise, I’d really hate you. Know what I mean?”

  Frankie fluttered her eyelashes and flashed a smile. Then, suddenly serious, she said, “Only trying to cheer you up, my friend. Sounded like you were having a bad day.”

  “I’ve had better. But no shop talk. I whinged enough on the phone. What’ve you been up to? How’s your pa?”

  Frankie grimaced, held crossed index fingers aloft. “Don’t mention the P-word.”

  Bev grinned. Far from being the embodiment of evil, Giovanni Perlagio worshipped the ground his only daughter walked on. Trouble was, he covered it in cotton wool as well. He approved of Bev; lady cop, wasn’t she? Mature? Responsible?

  “When you gonna get a proper job? he says. When you gonna get a good man? he says. When you gonna have bambinos? he says.” The accent was so heavy it needed subtitles.

  Bev laughed. “Nothing new there, then?” How she was going to find a fellow who’d even approach Gio’s wish-list was anybody’s guess. Bev reckoned the Pope would be borderline.

  “If only! He’s getting worse. Says he’ll double what I’m on if I’ll join him in the business.”

  He ran a restaurant and wanted to run Frankie’s life as well. She was holding out; making ends meet with flexi-hours in Music Zone while struggling as a semi-pro session singer.

  “Tell him you’re on five grand a week.”

  “I wish.”

  Bev winced as Frankie used her teeth to tear open the last of the sandwich packs. “You will. One day. Then I’ll be able to tell everyone: I knew her when she was just a shy, retiring little nobody.” Frankie crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out. Bev laughed. “Maybe not.”

  “I’m doing the Fighting Cocks Saturday. You coming?” Frankie asked.

  “You know me, mate. I’ll be propping up the bar… if I can get away.”

  “Yeah. Sure. That means you’ll be working.”

  Bev grinned. “You sound just like my dear old mum.”

  They halved the low calorie chicken club and chatted about books, blokes and when they’d start running again. Bev realised she’d switched off for the first time since Michelle’s murder.

  “Another coffee?” Frankie asked, getting up.

  Bev glanced at her watch. “Yeah, why not?” Lunch breaks were like blue moons; might as well savour it. Anyway, the nick knew where she was and there was always the mobile. She moved the stool nearer t
he window. She always sat upstairs, best place for a spot of people-watching. Talking of which, the rain was getting worse. Multi-coloured umbrellas were sprouting like giant mushrooms all over New Street. Probably why the bloke wearing the serious shades just across the way caught her eye. That and the fact the rest of his gear looked like a job lot from the Mafia shop: long black coat, pristine shirt, shoelace tie. Most people in a similar get-up would look ludicrous. So how come he didn’t?

  She glanced round as Frankie arrived with refills. “Eh. Frank. Get a load of that. Fit or what?”

  Frankie pressed her face against the glass, screwed her eyes, turned her mouth down. “Bit short for me. Anyway, you know what I think about blokes with pony tails.”

  “Hadn’t spotted that.”

  “Sherlock would’ve.” Bev groaned then brightened at the sight of a double-chocolate-chip cookie. Frankie was looking out of the window again. “Reckon you’re on a loser anyway, Bevvie. Ponytail Man’s already got a little friend. Coming on a bit strong, isn’t he? Talk about frightening the horses.”

  Bev wasn’t listening. She was looking at the girl. She’d seen her before. Thread Street.

  Yesterday. Same class Michelle Lucas had been in.

  “Bev! Where you going?”

  “Won’t be a min.”

  The man didn’t have to be Charlie Hawes. It could be anyone. Gut feeling, instinct, whatever, was telling her different. Her heart was racing and it had nothing to do with the speed she was taking the stairs. A contretemps with a tray full of sushi slowed the pace. She almost missed her footing. She did miss the action over the way. The birds had flown. She couldn’t believe it; stepped out into the road, scanned the street; turned and looked up. Frankie was miming a steering wheel and pointing in the direction of Victoria Square. Shit. The street was supposed to be pedestrianised.

  She was aware of furtive glances as she made her way back; must have cut quite a dash tearing out like that. “Didn’t get the number, did you?”

  “Chassis? Ignition? Engine? ’Course I didn’t.”

  In as far as it’s possible to slump on a stool the height of Blackpool Tower, Bev slumped.

  Frankie sighed. “I haven’t got my lenses in. I’m sorry. Is it important?”