“And did you?”
“I did actually. Then I needed the readies for somethin’ else. Carn even remember what, now.”
“Couldn’t you have asked your mum?”
She threw her head back, laughed out loud. “You’re kiddin’, ain’t you? It was ’er idea in the first place.”
A tracksuited jogger ran down the pavement on the other side of the road. They watched till he turned the corner. “Mad or what?” Bev asked. It was so cold, frosted net curtains had formed on a couple of parked cars.
“He’s harmless. Never gives you any grief. Not like most o’ the miserable sods round ’ere. Spit at you, some of ’em.” She jammed her hands in her coat pockets. “I always think the geezer what cut me was mad. You know. Mental.”
“Yeah?”
“Only young, he was. Mind, I reckon they’re the worst. They get what they’re after then don’t want to put their hand in their pocket. Always get the money first, Bev. Best tip I ever had.”
“Right.” She nodded sagely before remembering she was here to keep an eye on the girls not boost her bank balance.
“Yeah. This nutter had a blade. Cut me tits he did, then dumped me down some poxy country lane. Me own fault. Shouldn’t have got in the car. ’Nother tip: never get in a motor with a strange john.”
Bev felt she should be making notes in case there were questions later.
The girl pulled a pack of Embassy from her pocket, lit one and took a deep drag. Bev was relieved not to have been offered.
“In them days, I never looked a punter in the face. You have to, though. You can always tell by the eyes. It’s true what they say. You get a sixth sense. And watch out for the good lookin’ geezers. Cocky sods. Reckon they’re doin’ you a favour.” She stifled a giggle. “There’s one bloke so full of himself he reckons Patty ought to pay ’im. Says she owes ’im a fortune.”
“What about when you leave school?”
“What? You mean…” She put on a posh voice that didn’t quite fit. “When you gonna get a proper job?” She sniffed loudly. “Everyone asks that.”
“Okay. When are you?”
She jabbed the air with her cigarette. “Listen, darlin’. My sister, Mand. She’s eighteen. She works in an ’airdressers five days a week. Brings home fifty-five quid. I make twice that in an hour – and I ain’t on me feet all day.”
The attraction was obvious: city streets paved with punters’ gold. The hidden costs seemed a high price for the easy money.
The girl missed nothing. “It’s all right for you, innit?” She took another drag, let the smoke drift down her nostrils. “Bet you’ve got A-levels comin’ out your arse. Bet you’re a real daddy’s girl. And I bet your ma ain’t on the game.”
The thought of Emmy Morriss playing anything more strenuous than a game of Scrabble almost brought on a coughing fit. But the poor little poor girl act was bollocks. It was as unattractive as it was unconvincing and needed knocking on the head. “Do me a favour, Jules. You’ll be telling me next you live in a cardboard box in the middle of the road.”
Jules tossed her head back with a furious “Fuck you.”
“Well, come on.” Bev was extricating the thermos. “Loads of kids have it tough; doesn’t mean they all turn tricks.”
Jules’s flush almost matched her hair colour and her eyes flashed as she stamped an ankle-booted foot. “Yeah, well. Let’s just say I… I…” She struggled to find the right words, then flung them out defiantly. “Let’s just say I like it!” She raked her fingers through her hair. “And that’s another thing all you nosy cows want to know: what’s the sex like? Well, I’ll tell you. The only diff between me havin’ a quick shag and you havin’ it off on a one-night stand is I get paid for it.”
Bev said nothing: what could she say? She poured tea into the flask top, lifted it to her lips. She could have mentioned AIDS, unwanted kids, broken bones, but it was nothing the girl hadn’t heard a million times before.
Jules took a final drag and flicked the cigarette over the road. “Birds like you’ll never understand.”
They both watched as the red end glowed then faded into the dark. Bev tried not to think of Shell’s young life snuffed out too soon. She sighed. “You’re selling yourself short, love.”
“Oh yeah?” Jules grabbed the cup and gave a filthy laugh. “How do you know?”
Bev smiled, shook her head, then sprang back as Jules spat out the tea.
“What the ’ell’s this muck?”
“Earl Grey.”
“You forgot the soddin’ milk. It’s like gnat’s piss.”
“It’s not –” Bev got no further. She watched, open-mouthed, as Jules’s hand shot down her knickers. A hip flask had never been so aptly named. The girl took a slug, wiped her mouth with her fingers. “Val give it me. Bit of Dutch courage.” She lifted it to her lips again, winked at Bev. Shame you’re on duty.”
Bev snatched it away. “Shame you’re under age.”
“What for?”
They burst out laughing.
“Glad someone’s happy in their work.” They turned at the sound of Val’s voice. She’d ditched the bin liners but still sported a Cher wig, and was tottering gingerly towards them on a pair of red stilettoes that put new meaning into hell for leather. Bev looked down smugly; thank God pumps had made a comeback.
“Me soddin’ feet are killin’ me.” The big woman relieved Bev of the Scotch. “I wouldn’t care but I have to sing I Got You Babe these days before he can get it up.”
Jules sniffed. “Tell him to sod off.”
“You’re jokin’.” Val fanned a fistful of notes. “I’m all right till the weekend now.”
“Did you get anything out of him?” Bev asked.
Val’s eyebrows met in the middle. “Oh! I see what you mean. Nah. He never had owt to do with Shell. He keeps away from the kids. Prefers his women with a few miles on the clock.”
“Old bangers, you mean?” Jules asked, all innocence.
“Cheeky cow.”
Bev joined the laughter and tried to keep it going, even though she’d just spotted something that wasn’t funny. She looked again, screwing up her eyes. It could have been a trick of the light; except there was no light. There was something, someone, in the park. She kept her voice casual; alerting Jules and Val would be tantamount to putting it on Tannoy. “I’m just going to take a turn down the road. Stay together while I’m gone, right?”
“What’s up, Bev? Need a pee?” Jules grinned.
“Something like that.”
“Should’ve brought a bottle, chuck. You never get caught short, that way.”
“She’s got a flask, Val. Mind, I reckon it’s full already.”
Bev shoved the thermos back in her waistband and headed down the road. She’d recced the boundary earlier and as far as she could tell there was no gap. Soon as she was out of sight, she’d be going over the top. And given the height of the railings and the length of her skirt that was exactly what she’d be doing. Needs must when the devil blah-de-blah.
It wasn’t the most elegant of sights: good job there was no one around. The landing was a tad more graceful. She stood and waited for a few seconds, listening; just listening. The muffled hum of traffic from the High Street was a constant, but apart from her own breathing, that was about it. Her eyes were used to the gloom now, and she scanned her surroundings. She was heading for a massive oak off to the left. It was her marker for whatever it was she’d seen. It had only been a blip on the edge of her vision, but it shouldn’t have been there. The park was in near-darkness – and trees don’t move.
An owl hooted overhead and she jumped. The need for back-up flashed through her mind, but only amid a jumble of thoughts. Uppermost was a picture of herself, Charlie Hawes and a pair of cuffs. She shook her head; stupid and not true. There was no point calling in a load of plods till she’d got a better handle on what was going on. Anyway, it was just as likely to be the neighbourhood flasher or a saddo gawping at Jule
s and Val. What’s more, approaching from behind would give her the element of surprise. If it began to look iffy, she’d keep back, maintain surveillance and summon the troops.
She was inching forward, senses on full alert, when she heard it. A rustle. Ground level. Not far. She gently eased the flask out. Another scurrying. Even closer. She pressed herself against a tree: moss, slimy under her fingers. She strained her ears till she could hear her own pulse. It was there again. She widened her eyes. Shit a masonry block. It was a huge great rat. It was two sodding rats.
The hiss she emitted was loud enough for the rodents to think catfood, but not so loud as to alarm the two-legged variety.
She moved on slowly, soundlessly. The oak was in spitting distance. She waited, watched, listened. There was no movement; no sound. Then she saw it. A card. Pinned to the tree like a mini wanted poster. She held back, silently counted to sixty. She tightened her grasp on the flask, edged forward, looked closer. He must have been doing this when she’d glimpsed him from the street. She didn’t need to take it down; it was easy to read. She didn’t recognise the handwriting and there was no name, but she’d have staked her life on knowing who it was from. She read it again: Wish you were here. It was a postcard from Brighton.
Her heart hammered, palms damp despite the cold. She had to get back to the girls, but first she needed a minute to calm down. She took a deep breath, gave it thought. It was Hawes. It had to be. The bastard had been watching her, goading her. There’d be no prints, nothing to nail him, but this was a follow-up to his crack that afternoon in Interview One. It was a threat, and it wasn’t even veiled. She gritted her teeth; a habit she thought she’d lost. They’d had to let the shit go, of course. His statement checked out.
She looked round carefully. Without knowing why, she was certain he’d gone. Equally sure the girls were safe. She’d been the target tonight, and she’d walked straight into his sights. It was a game of cat-and-mouse and she’d just played Jerry.
She glanced at the card again. She’d bag it later, maybe send a SOCO in the morning, but Hawes would be water-walking till hell froze over.
She sighed; best get back. Flask in knickers, she retraced her steps. The climb was easier this time round; she had a leg-up from a handy tree. As she rounded the bend, she spotted the girls.
Sweet Jesus. They weren’t alone.
For a second, she thought it was Hawes, but this man was big; way too big. Oh, my God. Hawes had sent a heavy. She cursed her stupidity. She’d been duped by the side-show in the park. She broke into a run; saw him lift his arm. What the —?
Hold on. Val was doing the same. Now Jules. Bev slowed, tried to catch her breath. It was a round of high-fives.
“There you are. Where you been?” Jules asked.
“You all right, chuck? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
The heavy breathing prevented more than a slim smile and a gasped, “Never better, Val.”
Now she was nearer, it was obvious the bloke wasn’t Charlie Hawes. Christ, he was black for one thing.
“That’s good.” Val handed her the hip flask anyway.
Bev took the booze without thinking. “Why’s that?”
“This gentleman here is asking for you.”
The flask halted halfway to her lips. Bev studied him a little closer. “Really? What can I do for you, Mr..?”
Val nudged Bev’s elbow. “It’s more a question of what you can do for him, Bev.”
The big woman’s wink was superfluous. Bev swigged deep. She just stopped herself stammering, “Come again?” opted instead for, “How d’you mean?”
The man’s broad smile would have lit a black hole, but he wasn’t so hot on the verbals.
Jules was. “He wants a shag,” she explained.
“Yeah, he clocked you just before you went walkies,” Val said. “He liked the look of your ass, so he hung on.”
Bev had another swig. “How nice.”
“’Ow much you charge, little lady?”
Little lady? She’d have had another drink but she was driving. She reckoned the aggro in the park had gone to her head ’cause she surely wasn’t thinking on her feet. “Well, actually, Mr… er…”
“I’m a bit short on cash, right now. I was wonderin’ whether American Express..?”
The man was so incredibly polite, Bev almost agreed. Almost. She narrowed her eyes.
Jules had her head down and was clutching her sides. Val had her legs crossed in the fight to keep her face straight. The face lost. Bev watched as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Jules was doubled up now. “I’m wettin’ me knickers here. And it’s your soddin’ fault.”
“My fault?” Bev was all righteous indignation. “That’s good, that is.”
“Not a patch on Banjo, though,” Val crowed.
“Banjo?”
“Bev.” Val slipped an arm round the man’s waist. “Meet Banjo. Banjo Hay. He’s my mate.”
Bev held out a hand and Banjo beamed. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Val winked again. “Not yet it ain’t.”
Bev opened her mouth to remonstrate but Val was still revelling in the set-up she’d staged.
“Hate to break up the party,” Banjo said, “but I gotta split.”
Bev glanced at her watch. It was almost eleven, she had an early start and she had a gut feeling that Hawes wouldn’t be back tonight.
“I’m gonna call it a day as well. Fancy a lift, you pair?”
“Banjo’s droppin’ me, aren’t you, chuck?”
It looked like news to Banjo, and it was a bummer for Bev; she’d wanted to press Val about Charlie Hawes and the Brighton line. It would have to wait. “Jules? How ’bout you?”
The girl hid a yawn behind her hand. “The night is young. Anyway, it’s chuckin’ out time soon. Should make a bob or two then.”
Bev shivered, felt someone walk over her grave, realised it was the prospect of some cheesy knee-trembler between Jules and a dirty old man with beery breath and clammy flesh. It shouldn’t be happening. Not to any kid. Any night. Anywhere. “We could go via the chippie?”
The girl’s face lit up. “You buyin’?”
“You bet.”
“You’re on.”
She could murder Jules. She’d had Bev in stitches with her take on Val’s version of I Got You Babe, but now she couldn’t get the damn tune out of her head. It was half an hour since she’d dropped the girl at a run-down tower block on the wrong side of Edgbaston. If Jules had sung it once, she’d sung it half a dozen times, and now even Bev was doing a Cher in the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t as though there weren’t other thoughts churning round in the grey matter. The postcard, for instance. Bev had nipped back for it while Jules waited in the MG. It was bagged and tagged and ready to go, but she’d bet a pound to a penny it wouldn’t take the case any further.
It wasn’t just the card. There was something bugging her. It had been niggling away even before she went on the patch; lurking at the back of her mind. It would come tantalisingly close then dart away before taking shape. It might have been something she’d seen. It could just as easily have been a word or a phrase. It was getting to her, almost as much as that sodding tune.
“Sleep on it, our Bev.” That’s what her mum would say. It was Emmy Morriss’s answer to everything. That, and a nice cup of char. Bev brushed her teeth, still tasted salt and vinegar, brushed again. “Dar-da-dar-da…” She tightened her mouth, grabbed a hot water bottle and flushed the loo. She checked the answer phone for the umpteenth time then reset the alarm. Her running gear was laid out ready for the morning; she’d rescued it from the back of the wardrobe when she’d dropped off the Tesco goodies earlier.
Sometimes the place seemed more like a hotel, though the room service wasn’t up to much. The laundry basket was overflowing in one corner and the shoe tidy wasn’t living up to its name in another. She ignored both and, full of good intentions, headed for the cheval glass. Head on one side and hands on hips, she took
an appraising look. The black silk jimmies added a certain oriental touch. She wondered if she could get away with them in class: decided they were more Bruce Lee than Tai Chi. Still, what the hell? There was no one around. Might even make her feel virtuous. She stood, eyes closed, feet apart, knees bent, resting her palms gently on the front of her thighs. She took a deep breath, tried focusing on her Chi then thought: sod it, can’t be arsed.
She flung the duvet back, making a conscious effort to stifle yet another saccharine rendering of I Got You Babe. “Babe! Of course!” She perched on the side of the bed, ran the scene at the Flinn place through her head again. That was it. There’d been no sign of the baby. Lucie could have been asleep upstairs. But Annie hadn’t even mentioned her. There were no bottles, no bibs over the radiator; none of the paraphernalia that had cluttered the kitchen on her earlier visit.
Where was Lucie? What did it mean? Bev had no idea. Yet. Just a feeling that it was important and a conviction that she had to find out.
30
Bev poked her head gingerly out of her front door. It was 6.30am and one degree above freezing. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Mavis Holdsworth was out with her broom, giving the communal balcony a good going over. That’s all I need, thought Bev, a nosy neighbour with altruistic insomnia. The idea of a dawn run was already losing what little attraction it had ever had, without a biting commentary from a woman whose idea of exercise was chewing gum.
“There y’are, our Bev.” Mavis leaned on the broom handle. “Thought you’d be up with the worms.”
“Larks.”
“Yeah, them an’ all.”
Bev refused to ask how she’d acquired the insight; Mave would spill the beans anyway.
“I dropped your washing in last night. Saw you’d dragged the joggin’ gear out of retirement.”
There were advantages to leaving a spare key with a neighbour. Bev just couldn’t think of one at the moment. “How’s that mate of yours? Rita, is it? I haven’t had a chance to have a word.”
Mave sniffed. “You’re too late. She’s done a bunk.”
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