Bev turned her attention to Snow. His fringe was in its customary Tintin tuft. The ubiquitous brown suit had mud splatters up the legs. No prizes for guessing where he’d been earlier. Snow and the rest of the media had been scavenging in the park, until the action switched to Highgate and a 10am news conference. Three dozen hacks and hackettes had filed in, filling the room with cheap scent and expensive aftershave, moaning about newsdesks and banging on about deadlines. Snow had certainly bided his time. The proceedings had been gradually winding down after what Bev considered a masterly damage-limitation exercise by the guv. Then Snow had lobbed his bomb. He could barely conceal his glee. Not just at outmanoeuvring the police but at getting one over on the broadcast boys. There were more cameras around than in a branch of Dixon’s, but Snow had sniffed out the biggie.
Bev was taking it all in from the platform. Mike Powell and a couple of press officers were also in attendance but the safety-in-numbers theory was looking pretty shaky. Byford laid his pen on the table, then met the reporter’s gaze. “I’m not yet in a position to release the victim’s identity.”
Bev had heard the tone before; it was designed to quash further inquiry. This time there was a design fault.
“But you do know it?” Snow persisted.
“I have that information. It’s not for release.”
“I’m not asking for identification. I’m asking for confirmation.” Bev shuffled in her chair, watching Byford’s discomfort increase as Snow’s peers sat back to enjoy the show.
“You’re splitting hairs, Mr Snow.”
“I’m doing my job, Superintendent, which –” He paused, glanced at his notebook – “according to the people I’ve been speaking to, is more than you are.”
Bev kept her face blank but was shocked at the attack. God knew what it was doing to the governor. The case was getting to him anyway without trial by tabloid. Snow didn’t hang around for a reply. “People are scared, Superintendent. Two teenage girls have been found dead, virtually in the same place, within the space of six days. One of the victims was a known prostitute. And you’re sitting there saying there’s no link?”
“I’m saying it’s too early to draw that sort of conclusion.”
“And will it be too late when another girl’s found with her throat cut?”
“How do you know that?” Bev felt herself flush. She was meant to be observing, now all eyes were on her. “The cause of death. Who told you that?”
Snow’s pause was a second too long. “I assumed it was the same as the Lucas girl.”
“Assumed?” She glared at him. “And did you also assume her father’s identity?”
She was pleased to see his unease but it only lasted a couple of seconds.
“If you must know, I got a tip-off. And as you’re well aware, I can’t reveal my source.
“Anyway – ” He returned his attention to Byford. “The real question is, did the killer assume last night’s victim was a street girl. In which case, shouldn’t you be issuing a warning to women about a serial killer?” He paused. “Or did he know exactly what he was doing? Did he kill the girl because her father’s a copper?”
Either option was a minefield. Bev could see the headlines now. There’d either be a rash of ‘New Ripper’ scare stories or Gary Kent would find himself splashed across every front page in the country. She glanced round the room; in effect they had no option. The pack was licking its pencils and sharpening its claws.
Byford folded his arms, leaned forward. “At this stage in the inquiry, speculation of any kind is unhelpful and could be damaging. We should all be dealing in known facts. What we know – as opposed to what you’re conjecturing – is that two girls are dead and the killer or killers are still at large. What we need are witnesses —”
“Witnesses!” Snow was on his feet, his rise so sudden the chair toppled back. “There must have been two hundred people in Thread Street last night and a good many of them were your officers. I’d have thought you had witnesses coming out of your ears.”
Bev glanced at Byford. He was doing the jaw thing again. It was difficult not to notice this time.
“Your figures are as overblown as your theories, Mr Snow. We are in the process of interviewing everyone who was involved in last night’s protest. The numbers are nowhere near what you claim. And as you well know, our interest begins much earlier in the day. We are anxious to speak to anyone who was in the area from around 3pm onwards.”
Snow was smirking. The point had been made and would appear in bold print later, no doubt.
“What lines of inquiry are you following, Superintendent?”
“We’re anxious to trace anyone who may have seen either girl during the relevant times. We’re checking backgrounds, family, friends, anyone who knew either of the victims. As in any major investigation, we are asking people with information to come forward.”
“The people I’ve been talking to want information from you. They want to know whether their streets are safe to walk in. They want to know what steps you’re taking to catch this man. People are scared, Mr Byford. They’re scared and they want to know what you’re doing about it.”
Bev watched as Byford gathered his papers and got to his feet. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He stared at Snow. “Not while I’m wasting time talking to you.”
Bev was beginning to think it was a waste of time. Twenty eight and a half minutes kicking your heels on a draughty concourse at New Street Station was enough for anyone, especially when you were downwind of a burger bar. Eau d’onion and hot fat was clinging to her hair.
Dawn Lucas had suggested the spot; it beat wearing a red carnation and carrying a copy of Bella which had been her other bright idea for mutual recognition in a sea of strange faces. She’d phoned from a call box just before boarding a train at Manchester Piccadilly; a train that had pulled in – Bev checked her watch for the umpteenth time – half an hour ago. She was keeping her eyes peeled for a twenty-something female with blonde hair and blue eyes: Dawn’s lavish, and fairly useless, self-portrait.
So far, Bev had been accosted by a less than fragrant bag lady and serenaded by a tone-deaf busker whose repertoire was limited to Tiptoe Through The Tulips and Abide With Me. The man’s whippet was in better voice. Bev had handed over a pound on the understanding he’d tiptoe off.
She needn’t have bust a gut to get here, though anything was preferable to the news conference from hell. Byford was going round like a bear with a migraine and the fall-out had filtered down the ranks. Everyone was under pressure to get a result but no one knew where the goalposts were. The plods were on witness interviews; Ozzie and a few teams were still trawling the massage parlours; others were tracking down known kerb crawlers. Byford and Powell – poor sods – were at the post mortem. It was all routine stuff, deadly dull but more often than not it cracked cases. Either that or a killer got cocky or careless; hopefully both.
For Bev’s part, she was going on the patch tonight. She’d fixed it on the phone with Val. The girls were reeling over the latest killing, so how many would show was anyone’s guess. At the very least, it would give Bev an opening to pursue the Brighton line, face-to-face; she hadn’t told Val about the message from Vicki on her answer phone. The only decent bit of news was that Gary Kent’s alibi checked out. Not that his wife would be too pleased to learn where he’d been, or who with. Gary had even turned up for work, said it was the only way he was going to get through the next few days. Louise didn’t need him; she had her sister with her. The guv had eventually relented and sent him off to the General to interview a GBH: some bloke found in a Balsall Heath alleyway with both legs broken and a face in desperate need of a nose.
“’ere, are you Bev Morriss?
It was a voice that could grate hard cheese. Bev turned to see who owned it. She was a short, skinny, blonde with more slap than Boots and a red Lycra skirt that could have doubled as a headband. Her smile revealed a gap in her teeth that was navigable.
“Wotch
a.” Bev held a hand out in greeting. “Thought you’d got lost.”
“Nah. I got chattin’ to this bloke on the train. We went for a swift half. There’s a bar just round there. Then I needed a pee.” She smiled. “Bin waitin’ long?”
Sarcasm was too cerebral. Bev shook her head. “Let’s go, shall we?”
“Go? Go where?”
“We need to talk, Dawn. That’s why you’re here.”
“It’s dinner time. I ’aven’t eaten yet. I’m starvin’.”
Two Happy Meals and a bag of chicken nuggets it took. Bev paid, then chauffeured Dawn to Highgate. It was like having a hyperactive stick insect in the passenger seat. The woman never shut up: EastEnders, the Royals, Birmingham drivers. Not a word about Michelle. The loquacity lasted till they were ensconced in an interview room at Highgate, then Dawn ran out of steam.
“You okay?” Bev asked.
“’ot in ’ere, innit?” She shrugged off a sky-blue fleece and stretched her little sparrow legs. “Could do with a drink.”
“I could probably rustle up a cup of tea.”
Dawn curled a lip as if it had been an offer of paraquat. “Aw, go on then.”
She returned to find Dawn crashed out, lolling and snoring like a rag doll with dodgy adenoids. She moved nearer and looked closer. Dawn’s crop top had ridden up to her bra. This doll also had heavy bruising and cigarette burns. The marks were unmistakeable when you’d seen them before. Bev stood and stared for a while then shook Dawn gently on the shoulder. The woman shot up, saw Bev and relaxed. “Must’ve dropped off. Sorry ’bout that.” She realised where her top was and why Bev was silent. She tugged it down with both hands. “Had a nasty fall.”
“On an ashtray?”
“That the tea? Ta. Pass us a spoon.” Subject closed. Bev sighed. If a man ever lifted a finger to her, he’d walk with a limp for the rest of his life. For all Dawn’s hard-woman posturing, she was some bastard’s punch bag. And like so many women, she was letting the thug off the hook. Bev took a seat across the table and opened a file.
“Them the papers I gotta sign, then?” Dawn’s face was creased in an effort to read upside down.
“All in good time. I need a statement first.”
“But I don’t know nothin’.”
“Michelle was your daughter, Dawn. Tell me about her.”
Dawn Lucas’s story, in some respects, was like so many Bev had heard.
“Fell for Shell at fourteen, I did. We told her she was me sister. Only found out like when she were six or seven.”
“So Michelle was close to your mother?”
“Well, she were till me mam died. She got cancer.” Dawn closed her eyes for a second or two. “Bloody doctors. It should have been picked up on one of them smears. Forty-seven, she was. Anyroad, our Shell came to live with me and Kev. But he didn’t have no time for kids so he buggered off. I was stuck in a poxy bedsit all day, couldn’t get a job, couldn’t see a way out. Did a bit of street work to make ends meet. You know how it is.”
And so did Michelle, Bev thought.
“Anyroad, I met this bloke and me and Shell moved in with him. She were ten, eleven, summat like that. She were growin’ up fast. Had her own friends. Always out, always up to tricks, know what I mean?”
Bev had a good idea. “Who were her friends? Can you give me any names?’
She pulled a face. “Never bin no good with names. Sorry. Anyway, this bloke gets offered a job up in Manchester, good money, movin’ expenses, the lot, and he asks me to go.”
“And Michelle? Was she included in the deal?”
Dawn’s eyes flashed in anger. “I told you before. She could’ve come if she’d wanted.”
Bev said nothing, her expression asked for more.
Dawn looked away, then down at her hands. “To tell you the truth, she dint have much time for Ginger. Reckoned he was a dirty old sod.”
“And was he?”
“Nah. He were a good laugh. He were a good bit older than me. But I still miss him. Treated me okay. Know what I mean?”
Her eyes were too bright. She was on the verge of tears. Bev found herself almost feeling sorry for the woman. “Anyway. Michelle didn’t go. And as far as you were aware, she’d arranged to stay with the family of a schoolfriend?”
“That’s right. Next thing I know she’s in care.”
Bev pushed Dawn for more details. They went over the same ground again and again but they were getting nowhere. Bev put her pen down and rubbed her face.
“That it, then?” asked Dawn. “Shall I sign the papers now?”
The woman was getting well excited over a release form and a witness statement. Bev nodded. “Yes. Sure. You’ll be wanting Michelle’s things. Then I’ll get you a cab.”
“Hold on! What about the compensation? You said I had to sign a load of stuff. I was thinkin’ like, if it was a good bit I might stick round. There’s not much to keep me up north. I ’aven’t got a job or nothin’. Thought, mebbe I could make a fresh start. A mate of mine down the market reckons it could be hundreds and hundreds of thousands.”
Bev looked down, already regretted talking-up the woman’s hopes. She reached into a drawer. “I’ve got the paperwork here for you, Dawn. You’ll have to fill it in and wait and see.”
Dark eyebrows were drawn together. “What about the big payout, and the meeting on Friday?”
“I’m sorry, Dawn.” Bev pushed an application form across the desk. “They will look at your claim but it’ll be eleven grand, max. It’ll take a few months.”
“But you said…” Her voice was like a kid’s who’d just been told there’s no Father Christmas.
Bev felt like the wicked fairy. “I’m really sorry, Dawn. I had to get you here to talk about Michelle. I shouldn’t have lied. It was wrong of me.” She’d have felt less of a heel, if Dawn had thrown a wobbly or called her a lying cow, but the woman just sat back, resigned to yet another kick in the teeth. “Nah. It’s okay. Had a day out, ain’t I?” Consciously or not, her bony hand was stroking her bruised flesh. She sighed, then retrieved a cheap, white bag from the floor. “I’d best be off, then.”
Bev laid her hand over Dawn’s. “I can give you a number. In Manchester. Someone to talk to. A place to go if things get really bad.”
“Women’s refuge?”
Bev nodded.
“Been there, done that.” She rubbed the dark skin under her eye. “’e always fetches me back. It’s only when ’e’s on the juice…” There was no need to explain. “Anyroad.” She scraped the chair back. “No worries. Summat’ll turn up.”
Bev doubted that. Dawn was nearly thirty and so far, nothing even halfway decent had appeared. The woman wasn’t a monster, just another victim. “I’ve had Michelle’s bits and pieces brought over.” Bev got to her feet. “I’ll just go and get them.”
“No.” Dawn shook her head. “I don’t want nothin’. I don’t need anythin’ to remember our Shell. I’ve got a nice picture. That’ll do me.”
Bev froze. “What did you say?”
“I’ve got a picture. Sent it me she did. Not long after I left.”
Bev swallowed. “Got it with you?”
Michelle was on the left, long hair like blonde curtains, either side of a cheeky grin. A taller, skinny girl had an arm round her shoulders. She was as dark as Shell was fair. Bev didn’t need to ask who it was. The photograph was a couple of years old and she hadn’t seen her for nearly a week but she’d know Vicki Flinn anywhere. Question was: who was the figure in the background?
“I was asking the wrong questions, guv.” Byford was holding a photograph between his fingers. Bev was hovering the other side of his desk. “When I went to Annie Flinn’s, it was to find out what she knows about Vicki. Turns out, I should have been asking about Michelle.”
Byford nodded. “Worth another visit, at least.”
She sniffed; a bit of enthusiasm would be nice. The snap didn’t prove anything but it raised a few queries. Dawn had been loath to
leave it but changed her mind when Bev handed over travelling expenses and slipped the woman a few quid from her own pocket. Talk about pound of flesh – she’d then persuaded Bev to help her with the CICA application. She said she’d lost her glasses, but Bev reckoned a pair of binoculars wouldn’t have helped much. Dawn knew her ABC but had trouble with anything after D.
Byford was still looking at the picture. “Who’s the other girl, Bev?”
“Don’t know yet.” Bev had already spent ages poring over the blurred outline mostly hidden by the trunk of a sprawling horse chestnut. Either the girl just happened to be walking past or she was deliberately ducking out of shot. There was a lot of hair and not much else.
“I’ll get back to the Flinn place, then, shall I?”
He shrugged. “May as well.”
She reached for the print but Byford held onto it for a few seconds. “Beautiful, wasn’t she? Michelle.”
Bev glanced at his face; wistful like the voice. “You okay, guv?”
“I’ve just spent two hours watching Harry Gough carve up Gary Kent’s girl.” He glared at her. “What do you think?”
She stared back. “I think it’s the pits. It comes with the territory.”
He lifted a hand. “Sorry. It’s not your fault. Anyway…” He gave a rueful smile. “If you read the press, it’s all down to me.”
She had. Vince Hanlon always kept a Star on the front desk. She’d seen the latest edition. It couldn’t get any worse in the final. Not with words like police, chief, clueless, all over the front page. “Come on, guv, they’d blame their own granny if it sold more papers.”
“Maybe.”
She watched as he rearranged bulging files and piles of clutter on his normally pristine desk. He looked tired, gaunt, and though he was dismissing her, she didn’t want to go.
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