Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

  “I take it Goughie didn’t have much to add?”

  He pursed his lips. “Not a lot. Looks like the same MO. He reckons she was attacked from behind. There are no defence marks, but there were fibres of some sort under her fingernails. They’re on the way to the lab.”

  “Better than nothing, guv.”

  “If we ever get anything to match them with.”

  “When, not if.” She sounded more confident than she felt.

  He dismissed the sentiment with a flap of his hand. “What have we got to go on? We’ve had a couple of sightings of a BMW. Apart from that, no one’s seen anything, heard anything or saying anything. I’m getting flak from upstairs and flak from the press. And you know what’s worse?” He paused. “It could easily happen again.”

  He was right. They had no motive; didn’t know what they were dealing with.

  “The attack on Louella wasn’t sexual. She wasn’t touched,” Byford said.

  “Thank God.” Gary and Louise would be spared that agony.

  “But why was she killed, Bev? Was it to get at us? Is there a pattern here or was it a random attack?”

  She shook her head, sighed. “What about releasing details on Charlie Hawes? You know the sort of thing. We’re anxious to trace blah-de-blah.”

  He folded his arms and leaned forward. “I think you’re developing a fixation about this man, Bev. We know he’s a pimp. That’s all we know. There’s nothing to link him to the murders.”

  She opened her mouth to argue but Byford wouldn’t take kindly to a slanging match. She kept her voice level. “Hawes was grooming Michelle Lucas. He scares the shit out of the girls. I think he could be holding Vicki Flinn against her will. At the very least, it would be useful to talk to him.”

  “And where’s the photograph? Or E-fit?”

  It was a valid point. Without a visual of some sort, the appeal wasn’t likely to get anywhere. All Vicki had told her was that Charlie was fit, dark and a bit of a looker. “I could try to persuade one of the girls to work with a police artist. We might come up with a decent likeness.”

  “We still haven’t got anything on him.”

  She was impatient and didn’t hide it. “I think it’s worth a shot – unless you’ve got a better idea.”

  He sighed meaningfully. It was an opportunity to apologise. She didn’t take it.

  “What’s that?” She’d just noticed an evidence bag partially covered by a couple of files.

  “Crime scenes must have left it while I was at the morgue.” He scanned the handwritten tag. “Yes. It turned up this morning, not far from the girl’s body.” He was frowning. “What do they call these things, Bev?”

  She took the bag for a closer look. Inside was a soft ball of stretchy black fabric. “Scrunchies.”

  He’d never heard of them.

  “For hair,” she explained. “Plaits, ponytails.”

  He nodded, but his attention was now on a note he was reading.

  “Anything there?” she asked.

  “Scene of crimes report. Just a few edited highlights till later. Lots of prints and tracks but not much good. The place was a quagmire with all that rain. They’ve turned up the usual stuff. That,” he pointed to the bag Bev was still holding, “was about the only thing that stood out. The hairs that were on it are at the lab.” He tossed the paper on the desk. “No guarantee it’s hers of course. And even if it is, I can’t see where it’ll take us.” She was lost in thought; puzzled. “Something on your mind, Bev?”

  “I don’t see how it can be Louella’s. I can barely get my hair in a ponytail, and Louella’s was much shorter.”

  “Doesn’t have to be Louella’s,” Byford said. “Lots of girls use the park. I’ll get on to forensic though, tell them to rush it through.”

  It wasn’t much to go on. They still had to find the killer. Even then, it might be unconnected. On the other hand, it could be evidence that would help secure a conviction.

  The phone rang as he was reaching for it. He grabbed a pen and scribbled on a lined pad. The call was over in seconds. “Thanks, Vince. Hang on to him. I’ll send her down.”

  She pulled a face, had intended getting straight off to Annie Flinn’s.

  “Best put the Flinn interview on the back burner. Chap downstairs reckons we’ve been looking for him. Says his name’s Charlie Hawes.”

  28

  The lawyer looked more like the pimp. That was Bev’s initial impression. She was observing through reception’s one-way mirror and guessed, rightly, that the older bloke was a brief. Charlie had come prepared: quite the little boy scout. They were waiting stiff-backed near the front desk, standing out like designer gear on a market stall. Rumpole’s broken nose was floundering in a sea of acne scars and his hairline hadn’t so much receded as done a runner. Alongside him was the elusive Mr Hawes.

  Bev cast a long, lingering look. They’d been trying to flush him out for days and there he was. She stared, trying to match up the Armani-clad man in front of her with the glimpsed figure in New Street. Had it been him?

  She half expected Hawes to sport a pair of horns or have ‘mad git’ stamped across his forehead. But no. Vicki was right. He was well fit. Mind, a tan like that would work wonders for an anaemic anorexic. Not that he was skinny; he had the profile and proportions of some Greek statue; she just hoped he’d have a damn sight more to say. She used her fingers as a comb, checked her skirt wasn’t stuck up her knickers and went to find out. Vince was embroiled in paperwork; the Telegraph crossword, probably. She let him get on with it.

  “Mr Hawes?” Both men turned: the only reaction. “I’m Detective Sergeant Morriss.” There were no smiles or social niceties on either side.

  Charlie nodded, then gestured at his sidekick. “This is Max Viner. My legal representative.”

  She tilted her head quizzically: as good a way as any of asking why he thought one was needed.

  “Mr Hawes is here because it has come to his attention that the police are anxious to speak with him in connection with the recent tragic deaths of two young women.”

  Despite the lawyerspeak, and a face like an over-cooked pizza, he could do voiceovers for silk. Bet he gave good phone. Best place for him, as far as Bev was concerned. “Yeah. You could say that. Let’s go and have a little chat, shall we?”

  Viner wagged a short stubby finger. “Before we go anywhere, let me make it quite clear that my client is here in order to help the police with their inquiries. It is also his intention to illustrate his innocence of any allegation or involvement in either of these shocking crimes. And –” a final ferocious wag – “in order to prevent any further harassment by members of the West Midlands police force.”

  The voice had coarsened as the volume increased. Vince lifted his gaze from four down.

  “Everything okay, Bev?”

  “Never better.” She smiled broadly. Viner could shove it. Whatever crap he spouted, Hawes was in it up to his neck. The man was either an arrogant fool or believed himself fireproof. They’d soon find out.

  Byford was waiting in Interview One. Not a place in which to spend much time. Stale smoke and sweat hung round, despite a daily swabbing with a dose of Jeyes. A grey metal desk matched the grey walls and floor. A tinfoil ashtray was the only accoutrement.

  He looked up but stayed seated as she ran through the introductions. She could tell by a tightening of the guv’s mouth, that Viner was as welcome as a sweet-toothed wasp. A lawyer in the equation played hell with their strategy: Byford was going to take the lead but encourage Hawes to do the talking; give him enough rope, etcetera. Bev would sit quietly, smile disarmingly and trip him the second he cocked up. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Charlie flourished a virginal handkerchief and wiped a chair before sitting. Viner stayed on his feet while opening a slim attaché case and taking out several sheets of typed A4.

  “My client has prepared a written statement, detailing his whereabouts and activities from the day of the first mur
der to –” he glanced at a chunky gold wristwatch – “a little over an hour ago. No doubt you will want to check everything. Indeed, my client is anxious that you should do so. You’ll see that there are names, addresses and telephone numbers of colleagues, acquaintances and friends who will verify Mr Hawes’s presence and vouch for his good behaviour at all relevant times. I can personally guarantee the integrity of most of these people.”

  Bev had no doubt he could. She had no doubt the story would check out in every detail and that every one of the characters would lie through their dental-work to save Charlie’s flawless skin.

  Byford accepted a copy and tossed it on the desk. “Perhaps I could ask why your client has gone to so much effort to put his case across?”

  Viner was making great play of smoothing his tie. “It’s not so much putting the case across, Superintendent, as setting the record straight.”

  Byford inclined his head.

  “We have heard on excellent authority that your police officers have been paying visits to various establishments across the city asking questions which can only cast doubt on Mr Hawes’s good name and reputation.”

  “What reputation?” The question slipped through Bev’s credibility gap.

  Viner glanced disparagingly, concentrated on Byford. “My client is a respected businessman. He has no criminal record and has never had dealings with the police.”

  Bev noticed a thin line of moisture above the lawyer’s rubbery lips, dreaded to think what was oozing from his armpits. She glanced at Charlie, realised he’d been looking at her. He still was. More than that, he was studying her, appraising her, probably marking her out of ten. Knowing she was watching, he continued the appraisal. She crossed her legs, managed to stop herself folding her arms. He’d be expert in body language; she refused to talk it. He looked her in the eyes and flicked his tongue along his top lip; the movement so fleeting, she might have imagined it. But not the smile. His mouth was creased at the corners, as he looked down at his smooth hands with their perfect pink nails. She forced herself not to shift in the seat.

  “My client is concerned that erroneously pursuing him will have a detrimental effect on the inquiry. Mr Hawes is anxious that you do not waste further time.” He allowed himself a tight smile. “Particularly after reading press reports of your progress so far.”

  “That’s decent of him,” Byford said, leaning back, hands crossed behind his head.

  “And what exactly is your client’s line of business?” The question was directed at the brief but Bev was looking at Charlie.

  “Though it has no relevance to your investigation, Mr Hawes is a freelance leisure consultant. His services are used by several of our leading citizens.”

  “That posh for pimp is it, Charlie?” Bev was hoping for a reaction. “Was Michelle Lucas one of your services, Charlie?”

  A flustered Viner darted a glance at Hawes. “My client is here at his own volition. I see no — ”

  Hawes silenced the lawyer with a single raised finger. “That’s all right, Mr Viner. Sergeant Morriss has every right to ask her tacky little questions.”

  He smiled as if at a naughty child, then turned to Byford. “As far as I can recall, I never even met the girl. As for my business dealings, you’re welcome to go through my books, look round my premises. My vehicles are at your disposal should you wish to carry out forensic tests. My home is available for you to search, should you think it necessary. Like you, Superintendent, I want these dreadful crimes solved.” He glanced at Bev. “And I want her off my back.”

  Viner gave a discreet cough, started collecting his belongings. “I hope this little meeting has been useful, Mr Byford. I’m sure we all want this investigation brought to a successful and speedy conclusion.” He laid his case on the desk. “There is one other small matter…”

  Bev exchanged glances with Byford. The brief was doing casual, very carefully. Her crapometer was off the scale.

  “My client is concerned that your diligence in pursuing him might be down to deliberately misleading information.”

  Bev snorted. And you’re on which planet?

  “Let me make myself clear. We are concerned that a business rival, indeed someone who may bear ill-feeling towards Mr Hawes, may be misdirecting the course of your inquiry in order to incriminate my client.”

  The penny plunged. “Stitch him up?” Bev asked. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  Viner held out fleshy hands. “Who can say? It’s a point to bear in mind. The corollary would be, of course, that if someone is trying to implicate Char… my client… then it begs the question: why?” He paused, then supplied the answer. “Are they, for instance, eager to shift the blame from themselves?”

  So that was Hawes’s little game. Play the innocent and drop some unsuspecting sod in the excrement. She almost admired the cheek.

  Both men stood. Her eyes widened. There was cheek, but this was taking the piss. They thought they could just swan out. Charlie gave an ostentatious bow in Bev’s direction. She spotted a flash of white flesh at the nape of his neck; his expensive tan had sold him well short.

  “Going somewhere, gentlemen?” Good on you, guv. Byford wasn’t in the habit of being dismissed. “You haven’t finished your tea yet.”

  Bev blinked. What was he playing at? Even Viner had lost his air of insouciance. He sounded almost as bewildered as he looked. “What tea? There isn’t any.”

  “No,” Byford agreed. “But there will be. Answering questions is thirsty work. And by the time your client’s finished, he’ll be parched. Won’t you, Mr Hawes?”

  Bev almost missed the flash of anger across Charlie’s face. The smile that followed was more lingering, and probably just as lethal. “It’s a funny thing, Mr Byford, I never touch the stuff. It’s the caffeine, you know. Bad for the health.”

  “Not the only thing, is it, Charlie?” She expected to be ignored; she was.

  Hawes sat, pointed at the empty chair and nodded at his brief. Viner took his cue and lowered himself into the seat. “I really don’t see what further —”

  “Michelle Lucas, Mr Hawes. What can you tell me about her?” Byford was holding a pen, looking expectantly.

  Hawes held out empty palms.

  “Cassie Swain, Mr Hawes. What can you tell me about her?”

  They were still empty.

  “How many girls are you grooming, Mr Hawes?”

  “I don’t do hair, Mr Byford.”

  “Do a lot of make-up, though, don’t you, Charlie?” Bev couldn’t even fake a smile. She lifted his statement. “How much of this little lot is fantasy?”

  “Shut the — ”

  “My client has nothing further to add.” Viner put a restraining hand on Charlie’s arm.

  “Everything you need is in there, including Mr Hawes’s home address and business premises. There are also several telephone numbers where he can be contacted again.” He added doubtfully, “Should the need arise.”

  Bev glanced at the guv. He was furious. “Sergeant, get that tea sorted.”

  “My pleasure, guv.” It was anything but. She was just beginning to needle Charlie; more prodding might reveal him as the little prick he was.

  Byford held up the man’s statement. “We’ll need this checked, Sergeant. Give it to DC Newman.”

  “No prob.”

  It obviously was for the brief. “How much long —”

  Byford looked at Viner. “As long as it takes.”

  Charlie was leaning back in the chair, a gentle smile on his lips. Bev sauntered past, dropped a casual, “How’s Vicki, Charlie?”

  “Fine.”

  Gotcha! She spun round. Apart from profanities, it was the only spontaneous remark he’d uttered during the entire charade. Her broad smirk was short-lived.

  “At least as far as I know.”

  She wanted to wipe the yawn off his face. “And how far’s that, Charlie?”

  He was casually picking sleep out of the corner of an eye. “I vague
ly recall the name. She came to me for a job once.”

  Lying bastard. “As what?”

  “Part-time scrubber.” He smiled. “I had an opening for a cleaner.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “I couldn’t take her on, of course.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Didn’t like the look of her.” He was eyeing Bev again; bopping him would be a joy.

  “Too old for you, Charlie? Schoolgirls are more your line, aren’t they?”

  “My client –” Viner was on his feet.

  “Shut it, Max. Sit down.”

  “So when did you last see her?”

  “Months ago.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Prove it, bint.”

  Bev smiled. The veneer of civility was cracking. Viner tried for damage-limitation in the shape of distraction. “Are you arresting my client, Mr Byford?”

  “No.”

  “In that case —”

  “…not yet.”

  Charlie was tapping his fingers on the table. It was the only sound. Bev glanced at each man in turn. They all knew that until there was evidence, Charlie could walk whenever he wanted. Viner stated the obvious. “Unless you’re arresting Mr Hawes, he is free to leave. I remind you, Superintendent, that my client is here to further your inquiries, not as a target for hostility and offensive comment.”

  “Chill, Max. Let them run their little checks. I’m in no hurry. Make sure you’re recording it all for the case, though.”

  Bev glanced at the brief. He clearly wasn’t up to speed. “Case?”

  Charlie outlined it, slowly. “Police harassment. Defamation. Perverting the course of justice.”

  She snorted. That was rich. That was rolling in it. Byford obviously agreed.

  “Tell DC Newman to start with Mr Hawes’s car, Bev.”

  “Cars, Superintendent. I have several. For business, of course.”

  “Of course,” Byford murmured.

  Bev opened the door, but she didn’t want to leave; didn’t want to stop pushing the bastard about Vicki. But she knew she had to play it clever. She couldn’t reveal she’d heard from the girl. If Charlie did have her holed up, there was still a chance he didn’t know about the message. Finding out could be bad news: the worst. Bev glanced back to find Hawes’s gaze on her legs. “Eh, Charlie, I hear Vicki’s gone to Brighton. Know anything about that, do you?”