He was spot on about the meeting, though. It was a girls’ thing. A working girls’ thing.
27
The flat-roofed red-brick functional building stood mid-block in a Digbeth back street. Its dusty black front door had a tall sash window either side, and three mini versions in a row above. The premises, like its neighbours, could have housed an insurance company or an accountancy firm, something of that ilk. Bev had already walked past the bland exterior twice without it registering. Val had said to keep an eye out for a sign in a window reading SWAT. The acronym had made Bev smile, picturing burly Los Angeles cops and a high-powered special weapons and tactics unit. Nothing could be further from the truth in this case – SWAT stood for ‘Strong Women Acting Together’. Bev reckoned the only special weapon they’d be wielding would be a swat for seeing off flies.
Eyes peeled and on the third pass, she finally spotted what she was looking for and took a step forward to get a closer look. She’d hardly expected a lurid in-your-face billboard, but something a tad bigger than a postage stamp wouldn’t have gone amiss. Okay, an exaggeration. It was business-card size, but even so.
Still, fair dos: outreach workers wouldn’t exactly advertise a drop-in centre’s whereabouts on a hoarding. Vulnerable, abused and shit-scared women fled to places like this to get away from bullying blokes and predatory punters. Last thing they needed was a knock on the door from a violent pimp or a homicidal john. On the other hand, Bev now stood facing the entrance and had yet to locate a bell, let alone a knocker. She clocked a tiny peephole, though. Parking her shades in her bob, she plastered on a winning smile, then readied a fist to do the biz when someone beat her to it.
‘Come in, chuck.’ Val’s head appeared in the gap. ‘Took the scenic route, did we?’
‘You spying on me,’ she drawled, wiping her feet on a rush mat.
Val winked. ‘Would I? Come on through. Sonia’s in t’office out back.’
Switching her phone to vibrate, Bev tailed behind, catching the odd whiff of burnt toast and baccy smoke. Did Val have a touch more spring in her Reeboks this morning? Yeah. Must be true what she’d said. That helping here gave her a sense of self-worth, made her feel she was contributing something useful, important. And if it prevented just one woman going through the sort of hell she’d suffered, it’d be job well done.
Glancing round, Bev reckoned the place itself could do with a bit of TLC. She glimpsed peeling paint-work, walls the shade of bruised bananas, grubby grey carpets, and a mishmash of tatty furniture that could’ve come via a skip. Probably had. Cash was tighter than a hippo’s thong, apparently. There was no council funding: the organization was run by volunteers and kept going by donations. The top priority wouldn’t be tarting up the décor or hiring a Michelin-starred chef.
Sonia Abbot looked to Bev like more of a fast-food fan anyway. And that she enjoyed her grub. The woman was big-boned if Bev was being polite; a tad on the beefy side if she wasn’t. Her glossy chestnut page-boy, plump pink cheeks and beaming smile brought to mind a Vicar of Dibley lookalike. Until Sonia closed her laptop and came round the desk to greet Bev: the woman must’ve stood a good foot taller than the TV reverend. No black cassock or crucifix either; Sonia sported navy blue dungarees teamed – if that was the right word – with red Docs. Up close she looked older than Bev’s initial guesstimate. Late-forties, early fifties maybe.
‘Come in, sit down,’ Sonia said showing her dimples again. ‘Val’s told me all about you.’
‘All good I trust, Valerie?’ Bev raised an eyebrow.
‘Yeah, you can settle up later,’ she drawled. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ She’d already flicked on the kettle.
Sonia flopped down in her seat again and waited for Bev to settle. ‘As it happens, you do have quite a bit to thank her for, sergeant.’ Apparently without Val’s ringing endorsement, Sonia would have been loath to let Bev into the premises, never mind take her into her confidence. ‘I hope you understand, but I’m ever so protective of the girls.’
‘Of course.’ The women were vulnerable and cops and prostitutes didn’t always make the best bedfellows, so to speak. ‘No worries. And the name’s Bev.’
Head inclined, Sonia held Bev’s gaze. The warm brown eyes and steady smile struck Bev as an asset in Sonia’s line of work. The soft, friendly voice would help too. ‘I know what you want, Bev, but would you mind hearing a little about what SWAT tries to do first?’ ‘First’ meant, before they got down to business.
Bev felt her heart sink. Given her job, she’d been on the sharp end of dealing with desperate women in all manner of appalling situations for a heck of a lot longer than Sonia. A lecture – or sermon – she could live without, but needs must and the subject was clearly close to the woman’s heart.
‘I’m all ears, me. Fire away. Ta, Val.’ Bev took the proffered mug, only to see One Direction’s toothy grins beaming back at her. A boy band? Here? Really?
‘Cheers.’ Val held up matching merchandise, then perched on what looked like an old church pew.
‘Help yourself.’ Sonia pushed an opened packet of Hobnobs across the table before starting to spread the word, as it were. From what Bev gathered, the services here didn’t differ much from those at similar drop-in centres, just fewer and on a smaller scale, the set-up less formal and with no links to the council or other outside agencies. The phrase ‘happy amateurs’ sprang to mind. Still, give Sonia her due: she ran the place on a shoestring with a mere handful of helpers, and just talking about the work made her eyes light up.
Sipping tea, Bev tuned in and out, subtly casing the room as Sonia waxed on regardless. Apart from anything else, Bev had heard most of it from Val the other night. The only factor that gave this place the edge was that the volunteers had all worked as prostitutes in the past: old hands who’d been there, done that, bought the fishnets. They knew the score well and were as adept at doling out free condoms and rape alarms as they were at giving advice on drug and alcohol abuse, gen on the risks of HIV and STDs, and tips on how to stay safe on the streets – or at least to minimize the risks.
Bev’s glance fell on a framed photo on the desk. Smiley women posing with raised wineglasses: team SWAT bonding on a night off? She angled her head for a closer look, but Sonia’s wildly gesturing arm kept getting in the way. ‘So that’s us in a nutshell,’ she said. ‘Any questions?’
Yeah, the phone in Bev’s pocket was vibrating yet again, and she was wondering who was so keen to make contact. Checking the screen right now would not go down too well, though. Besides, they were getting to the juicy bits and Bev was curious on one point.
‘Mind me asking what made you go on the game, Sonia?’
Throwing back her head, she roared with laughter. ‘Where on earth did you get that idea?’
Bev shuffled in the seat, struggling not to cut Val a glance in case it dropped her in the doo-doo. ‘My mistake. I assumed you all had hands-on experience.’ Cringe-cringe. That could’ve been put better.
‘Don’t worry, chuck,’ Val drew fire. ‘I must’ve give you the wrong impression.’
‘Pass the tissues, Val.’ Sonia had just about stopped laughing but her eyes had teared up. ‘Sorry but … me? Turning tricks? That’s priceless, that is, Bev.’
Thank God she’d seen the funny side. Mind, Bev felt a right prat. She gave an uncertain smile. ‘What made you get into all this, then?’
‘Ah. Now that’s a long story.’
Bugger. Not another saga.
Sonia hunched forward, elbows on the table. ‘Save it for another time, shall we? Let’s talk about why you’re really here: the shit-faced little toerag who goes by the name of Dean Hobbs.’
Bev’s eyes widened. The profanity-packed punch coming from a previously non-potty mouth. Shit-faced little toerag. She twitched a mental lip. Maybe she’d try curbing the language herself in future if it made people sit up and listen. Right now her ears were flapping like an elephant’s in a force ten.
According to Sonia, Hobbs aka T
ommy Gold had been running round terrorizing street girls as part of an ongoing turf war across the city. His mission? To cream off the best earners for any pimp who paid him top whack. ‘Of course, like the mercenary little shit-for-brains he is – sorry, was – Hobbs was only following orders.’
Bingo. Confirmation Bev’s thinking had been along the right lines. She felt like giving high-fives all round, but Sonia hadn’t finished
‘Or at least doing his damnedest to try and carry them out. As you’ll be aware, Bev, for most prostitutes a pimp is a pimp is a pimp. And it’s usually a case of, better the devil you know.’
She nodded. Bev had heard the same story often enough before and from several authentic sources. Why leap out of a frying pan when you might end up in a blazing inferno?
‘So when Hobbs couldn’t get the girls to agree with what his paymasters wanted,’ Sonia said, ‘he’d cut up rough. And down. And across. Any which way. Made no odds to the vindictive little bastard. But of course …’ She swallowed hard. It looked to Bev like she was welling up. ‘I’m sorry. Of course … it … left the girls…’
As damaged goods. ‘I know,’ Bev said gently. She also knew it meant the girls wouldn’t have lost just their looks, they’d have lost their value on the meat market. And that left irate pimps out of pocket and seeking revenge. Not on the girls, no mileage there. But on their business rivals. Pimp eat bloody pimp.
Bev leaned forward. ‘Can I talk to the girls he attacked?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Sonia shook her head. ‘None of them’s prepared to yet.’
‘Yet?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Don’t hold your breath though, chuck,’ Val said, ‘You know how it is.’
Only too well. She’d come across prostitutes who’d rather cut their own throat than dob in a pimp. Even on the odd occasion when a case made it to court, it was touch and go whether at the last minute a girl would refuse to go in the dock and give evidence.
‘What about names?’ Bev appealed to Sonia. ‘Of the men, I mean.’
‘That I can’t help you with. All I’ve heard is three are involved. Maybe four.’
Bev narrowed her eyes. Four? As in, gang of? Had four pimps or their henchmen ganged up to butcher Hobbs? His body bore multiple stab wounds inflicted, according to the pathologist, by four different knives. Then there’d been the four tiny puncture marks. One each? What the hell did it all add up to? Two plus two equalling diddly squat? Or one down, three to go? Shame she’d always been shite at maths.
‘If you like,’ Sonia said, ‘I’ll ask around again.’
Like, she’d bloody love it. ‘That’d be great, ta.’
‘Excuse me one minute,’ said Sonia, answering the landline.
Bev’s thoughts had been racing so fast she’d barely registered the ringtone. Now she was keen to pose a bunch more questions. Tapping a foot she glanced at Sonia, who seemed to be doing a hell of a lot of listening. Come on, lady, come on.
Still, sauce, goose, gander. It was as good an opportunity as any to check her phone. Six times shit with knobs on. Every missed call was from Powell. He’d even overcome his congenital aversion to texting, though not his appalling lack of grammar, and left an almost legible message: ‘body, building site, raddlebarn road, your needed.’
He could go whistle. They’d barely scratched the murky surface here. Except just as she was slipping the phone back in her pocket, another text arrived: ‘thinking its the same perp don’t piss round bev.’
The same perp? Frowning, she lifted her head to see Sonia standing at the side of the desk.
‘I’m really sorry, Bev. I’m needed elsewhere.’
‘No worries.’ Ditto. ‘I’ll catch you later.’
She’d already decided to pull out. Powell’s ‘bev’ as much as fearing the perp had struck again clinched it. The use of her name usually signalled something seriously off, and not just the DI’s dodgy syntax.
28
Bev knew it wouldn’t be good when she saw Powell pacing the pavement like a dad outside a delivery suite with a missus about to pop quads. Before she even exited the motor, he had the door open, and as soon as she stepped out, he silently handed over his supply of Vick.
‘That bad, huh?’ she drawled, stuffing the jar in a pocket and putting on her sunglasses.
‘It ain’t pretty, Morriss.’
Get over it. It was a stiff, not a still life. ‘I’ll grab a bunny boiler from the boot.’ Her current pet name for a forensic suit.
He held up two fingers. ‘While you’re there, love.’
She tightened her lips. Why not bring your bloody own? He’d clearly not come as well prepared as she’d thought, which meant Baden-sodding-Powell couldn’t have gotten down and dirty with the body yet – not without wearing protective gear.
‘Shove ’em in your bag, Morriss. It’s a fair trek yet.’ Yes sir, no sir, three blahs et-cet-er-ar.
‘Yeah, I’d noticed.’ Like a load of rubberneckers, she’d had a decko through the chain-link fence. Spotted a couple of FSIs in the distance laying clear plastic sheeting and duckboards. Bev always likened a forensic corridor to the crime scene to a red carpet in Hollywood and the like, though anyone could see that the terrain beyond the boundary was more wasteland than La La Land.
‘Where we at then, gaffer? Still reckon it’s the same perp?’
He waggled a hand. ‘Dunno.’ Heading for the gates, he told her he’d only taken a quick gander at the body before withdrawing to let the police camera crews get close-ups. Made sense. As with any major crime, the entire scene had to be captured digitally asap, not just to preserve visual evidence but so that a complete record would be available for things like squad briefings, jury viewings, post-mortem aides-memoires. While movies and stills were being shot, Uniform had started marking out a wider perimeter with police tape. Again, it was all about PE – preserving evidence. As far as gathering it went, Powell said he had a search team on standby, more Forensics officers ready to rock, house-to-house set to roll.
‘Police surgeon been?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, breezed in, pronounced death, buggered off. Not that it was a tough call. We’re still waiting on the pathologist for the cause. It ain’t natural. I can tell you that.’
All textbook stuff. Mind, she was vaguely impressed, given his predilection for delegation, that he could still remember procedures. ‘No ID, I take it?’
‘Not that I could see.’
A young police constable with a clipboard, poised pen and perky smile hovered at the site’s main entrance. She reckoned he had to be new to the job ’cause the poor sod had been landed with log duty – recording details of anyone who set foot inside, arrival and departure times, favourite colour, collar size, inside leg, you name it …
‘DS Bev Morriss,’ she said, ‘two ars, two esses. Laters.’ Sailing past, she tapped a mock salute.
The rookie called, ‘Arrs?’
Bev missed a step, frowned, cut a glance at Powell. ‘Did he just call me an arse?’
‘Calm down, Morriss. He’s from the land of the brave.’
‘Straight up?’
‘His name’s Cameron Macleod, he’s got red hair and an accent thicker than Taggart. Go figure.’
Fair enough. Scoping out the surroundings, she kept pace with Powell across a yet-to-burgeon building site. Apart from the odd tree stump, gnarled root system and a bit of post-demolition debris, the ground had been more or less cleared, but the start date on a mega all-singing, all-dancing housing development had been held up big-time owing to some sort of funding hitch. She’d followed progress, or lack of, in the local press: stories on the delay had kept the papers busy for weeks. Kept a few cops occupied, too, sorting out kids who sneaked in to use the place as an adventure playground. Cheaper than Alton Towers any day. She dared say the place attracted a bunch of night life, too. Vermin generally, mostly the four-legged variety.
‘Watch your step, Morriss.’
She skirted a p
ile of dog poo before joining Powell just shy of the forensic preps. ‘Gonna be much longer, lads?’ he called.
Glancing over his shoulder, one of the guys lifted two gloved fingers.
‘Coupla mins, then.’ Bev bit her lip.
‘Give us that Vick back, Morriss. And stop taking the piss.’
Handing it over, she murmured, ‘As if.’ Any hint of levity faded when she followed Powell’s stony gaze towards a depression in the earth just beyond the cordon. Slowly she took off her shades, stowed them in her hair. Almost wished she’d kept them on. Prayed the injuries had mostly been inflicted post-mortem. Powell had talked about the body being found in a trench, but to Bev it looked more like a grave. A too-shallow grave. The bloated semi-naked corpse lay in little more than a dip. The victim had been left face-up. What remained of the face. As for the mottled flesh, it had a bloom that put Bev in mind of overripe plums.
Still staring at the damage, she slipped a suit out of her bag, silently handed it across to Powell.
‘Hang on. I need to—’ Sneeze into a tissue. And sneeze again.
The racket startled a bunch of crows lined up on the wire. They took off in a flap of wings, cawing blue murder. A bull elephant with a streaming cold couldn’t have sounded any louder than Powell.
‘Bloody sun always sets me off.’ He sniffed. ‘Talking of “off”’,’ – pointing one of his loafers towards the body – ‘God knows how long he’s been there.’
Her glance could’ve withered steel. Apart from incredulity at the footling show of respect, to Bev’s way of thinking God wasn’t the only fount of all knowledge on the timing front. Whoever ditched the victim would also have a damn good idea. Okay, the stench of rotting flesh was rank, but every cop knew heat speeded up decomposition, especially in a cadaver open to the elements. She’d guesstimate days, not weeks. What interested her more was who’d dumped it. And why in this particular location?
Suited up now, she slowly swept her gaze over a roughly circular site, virtually ringed with high-wire fencing, a rash of Keep Out notices and strategically placed floodlights.
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