Working Girls (11 page)

“Follow me, you’re dead.”

In a flash, the pressure on both face and back was gone; so had her attacker. She shot up, immediately regretted it. It hurt, badly. She snatched at the blindfold. What was the expression? Clean
away. She didn’t even catch a pair of fleeing heels.

Call it in, Bev. Come on, girl. Get a grip. On what? The phone had gone. Her purse had gone. She’d only just held on to her bladder.

She started collecting the rest of her possessions. Her hands were shaking. She slowly got to her feet. Her legs were shaking. She took stock. Her whole body was bloody shaking. So, this was
shock. Deep breaths, Bev, come on. She had to get home; concentrate, focus, get down the details.

Her head spun, stomach churning. The thought of food made her want to throw up. Which was lucky. Sid’s finest had all but disappeared. The fish had landed at the bottom of the stairs and
the local wild life was out in force. A brindled dog with a touch of mange was amiably sharing the spoils with a scrawny, boss-eyed black tom. Three eyes locked on to hers. It was a low-life
Lady and the Tramp.

It was strangely funny, but she wasn’t laughing. And the tears burning her cheek had nothing to do with the lost supper.

9

“Good weekend, Beverley?”

Bev looked up sheepishly from a plate that held the better part of a small farm. She hadn’t expected anyone else to be in so early; hadn’t expected PC Sumitra Ghosh at all. Mouth
full, she nodded and flapped a hand at the chair opposite.

Sumitra sat, eyes wide, mouth open. “What happened to The Diet? The Running? The New Woman?”

Bev swallowed a fork load of mixed grill and wondered if she’d ever looked so cute in uniform. Sumitra had the face of an angel and legs up to her epaulettes.

“Had what you might call a run-in last night,” Bev told her enigmatically. “With Neanderthal Man. Gave me a bit of an appetite.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“You should get out more. What you up to anyway, Summi?”

“Playing catch-up. I’ve been off since Wednesday.”

“You still on porn?”

She nodded. “DOMS.”

Bev thought for a moment. The only DOMS springing to mind were her post-run variety: Delayed Onset Muscular Soreness. Hurt just thinking about it.

Sumitra enlightened her. “Dirty Old Men Syndrome.”

Bev smiled as she caught sight of someone coming in. “Talking of which.”

Sumitra bowed her head, blushing on Bev’s behalf. “Morning, Sir.”

Mike Powell strode to the counter barely acknowledging Bev’s over-bright salutation. Not that she’d lose any sleep.

“Not all old are they?” Bev picked up where they’d left off. “It’s not all dirty macs and liver spots.” Given some of the stuff Bev had seen on vice, neither
age – nor rainwear – came into it.

She looked down. Two sausages and a slice of black pudding were swimming in a pool of tomatoes and egg yolk. She pushed the plate aside. She had a vague feeling of unease and was trying to work
out whether it was more than the usual post-pig-out craving for a fag. “Can I have a look at the paperwork, Summi?”

“Don’t see why not. Clear it with Wiseman first.”

“Sure.”

“Why do you want it?”

“Just curious.”

“Not keeping you busy downstairs?” Sumitra smiled.

Bev held out her hands. “Rushed off me feet, mate.”

Sumitra frowned, gently took hold of Bev’s wrist, scrutinised a palm that resembled a road map. “That looks nasty, Beverley. Have you put anything on it?”

Bev winced; tried to hide it with a smile. “Double Savlon. Honest.”

“You read tea leaves as well, Ghoshie?”

They looked up to find Powell looming, a take-out coffee and a couple of doughnuts on a tray.

“Sir?” The query was Sumitra’s; Bev had already caught the drift.

He nodded at the women’s hands. “If that’s not just a harmless bit of palmistry – you want to watch out. People’ll talk. They’ll have you snogging in the rape
suite before you know it.”

Sumitra snatched her hand away. Bev studied her fingernails. “You should hear what they say about you.” She noticed that the smile didn’t reach his eyes, didn’t get
anywhere near his voice.

“Y’know, Morriss, I wouldn’t have thought you had time to sit on your backside talking crap.” He jabbed a thumb at Sumitra. “And if she was any good at telling the
future she’d have told you about the old man. He’s in his office. Popped my head round already. Can’t see him for steam. Makes Raging Bull look like Ronnie Corbett.’

“Just because he’d met the woman at a parents’ evening and she insists it’s crucial to the case, he assumes it’ll be okay.”

“Maybe she threatened extra homework.”

“And that’s another thing.” He moved to his own chair, sat facing her. “There are enough jokers round here without you going into a stand-up routine at the drop of a
hat.”

“Sir.” For a man whose office walls were plastered in old
Private Eye
covers, she reckoned he had little room to talk. But when on thin ice – keep shtum. His mood
wasn’t entirely down to Elizabeth Sharpe’s out-of-hours call. Bev knew he was pissed off with last night’s débacle. Water wasn’t the only commodity that had gone down
the drain: it had cost a packet to police Thread Street.

“You know what this place is like. It’s full of comedians. Everyone’s going round humming ‘Swinging in the Rain’ and Vince Hanlon’s running a limerick
competition.”

“Shame they’ve got nothing better to do.” She folded her arms and crossed her legs, mentally working on a first line.

“We’ve all got something better to do.” The reminder was unnecessary; everyone knew it was forty-eight hours since the discovery of Michelle’s body. He sighed. There were
smudges under his eyes. She wondered how much sleep he’d had. Probably as little as she’d had.

“Is there a link, Bev? Is Hawes playing sick games?”

She had no answers. She’d lain awake, running through the night’s highlights but reaching few conclusions. The dummy had to be a warning and it had to be Charlie Hawes. But was there
a connection with Michelle’s murder? And did it have anything to do with her own attacker? The guy could have kicked the shit out of her. So why hadn’t he? She was still smarting and
not just from the cuts, but she couldn’t put it off any longer.

“Talking of games, I got roped in to a spot of footie last night.”

A raised eyebrow asked for more. Bev passed him the statement she’d worked on in the early hours. She’d underplayed it but as she watched him read, she thought the pen in his hand
was about to snap. She’d felt the same as she’d written it. She’d gone over the incident again and again, but it was like trying to catch bubbles. She’d come up with
snatched impressions, vague smells and a voice as featureless as the face she hadn’t seen. Stale tobacco, heady scent and a rustling sensation weren’t going to make
Crimewatch.
In the witness stakes she was a non-starter and her anger added to the humiliation she still felt. At home, after a medicinal brandy or three, she’d even toyed, briefly, with the crazy idea
of not reporting it at all. Ridiculous, of course. Apart from anything else, there was the missing mobile and ID to report. The stolen ID had come as a bit of a shock.

“This is bad news, Bev.”

She shrugged. “Wrong time, wrong place.”

“Wrong answer.” He jabbed the pen at her. “You can’t possibly imagine this is unconnected to the inquiry.” He gave her what Bev’s mum would call an
old-fashioned look. “This was down to Hawes. It has to be.”

“I don’t see it, guv.”

“Get an eye test, then.” He threw the pen on the desk. It seemed a touch over the top. “Within hours of getting out there, looking for the man, you’re attacked in the
street and threatened at knife-point. Strikes me he had more luck tracking you down than —”

The look on her face stopped him in his tracks. She rearranged it into something less incredulous but still regarded his outburst as unbelievably unfair. It was one thing to get pinned down by
some unknown assailant, but then to get it in the neck from the old man… True, there were a few seconds last night when she’d thought Hawes was the joker playing piggy-back, but on
reflection, Charlie’d never get his own hands dirty. Equally true, the man had a whole herd of heavies for the crap, but on balance she’d convinced herself it was a
run-of-the-mill-mugging. Or maybe, she didn’t want to believe that Hawes had been so close, so very close, and she hadn’t done a fucking thing about it. She’d been there,
so
didn’t like it.

“I kinda think I’d be on a hospital trolley by now if Charlie’d had a hand in it.”

“It’s not funny.” He reread the notes, shaking his head.

No, really, I’m fine, guv. Don’t fuss. She’d have balled her fists but the palms still stung.

“Forensics?” he asked without looking up.

“In hand.” The scarf and her coat were on their way to the labs. They’d get the full treatment but she didn’t hold out much hope. The replacement phone and ID were
already in her bag and putting a stop on her credit cards had taken one phone call. As for her purse, she couldn’t see bag-man getting much joy out of a library card, vid membership, or last
week’s lottery ticket. The few quid in cash certainly wasn’t going to change his life.

“We’ll wait and see what comes up, then.”

Sounded like a dismissal. She stood. Thanks for asking, guv. It hardly hurts at all.

“I haven’t finished yet.” Byford said.

She felt like tugging her gymslip. What was his problem?

“We’ve got to pull Hawes in. The man can’t just disappear. Someone must know where he is.”

Bev said nothing. She’d checked with the hospital already that morning. Cassie Swain was still unconscious. The next best bet – Vicki – could be anywhere, could even be with
Charlie. Bev hadn’t entirely dismissed Powell’s jibe about her being one of Hawes’s girls. She had to accept that she didn’t know Vicki well; didn’t really know her at
all.

“Mike Powell reckons the Flinn girl’s been leading you a merry dance.”

She looked up, surprised. The mind-reading was pretty selective. She shrugged. “It’s one conclusion to jump to.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“I don’t know.” It was the truth. Thoughts of Vicki Flinn had been among all the others keeping Bev awake last night. She’d run through their conversation in the canteen;
recalled how easily the girl had already lied. A mother who’d died of cancer. Christ. Bev had been close to tears. Even being caught out only meant she laughed it off, changed the subject.
How many other quick changes had there been?

“Look, Bev.” Byford said. “She’s not a minor. She’s not been reported missing. There’s not a lot we can do.”

She nodded, didn’t need telling. It didn’t make her feel any better. “If that’s all, sir, I’ve got a lot on this morning.” She stood again.

“No. It isn’t all.” She waited as he rose and walked round the desk. “Are you sure you should be in at all, Bev? Your hands are a mess. God knows what state the rest of
you is in, but that muck on your face certainly isn’t working. He marked you, didn’t he?” The voice was gentle at last, and it was giving Bev a hard time.

“Muck? This is Max Factor’s finest. Cost a fortune, mate.” She hoped the verbal light touch was doing a better concealing job than the ton of slap. “Honest. I’m
fine. It only hurts when I laugh.”

“Must hurt like hell then.”

She smiled. He was still looking concerned. “Have you had a doctor look at you?”

“No treatment for injured pride, guv.”

“I’m serious, Bev. You could have been killed last night.”

She thought for a minute he was going to touch her. He was obviously worried sick; no wonder he’d been such a grumpy old sod. She was the same way herself. In fact, next time she laid eyes
on Vicki Flinn, the girl was in line for some serious verbals.

“Don’t worry, guv. I can take care of myself.” Despite the night’s events, she still believed it; had to believe it. She hoped Vicki Flinn could as well. As Byford had
said, the girl wasn’t a minor and hadn’t been reported missing. Until they had something to go on Vicki Flinn was on her own. At least, given what little Bev knew about Charlie Hawes,
she hoped so.

Vicki shook violently. She was on her own, in the middle of a room without a window. She must have slept. It must be morning. She hugged her knees. The heat was stifling, but
she shivered remembering the night’s bedfellows.

The fat ones were the worst: slabs of pasty flesh slapping about. The stink of their bodies and booze was still on her skin. Get it up, get it over, get the hell out, was her usual style. Except
she couldn’t get out, couldn’t escape. And even if she could, now she knew what she knew, she wouldn’t. Anyway, there was a minder the size of a planet on the landing. She’d
only caught a glimpse when Charlie had hustled her in but she’d had further snatches every time Pluto opened up for another punter.

Looking back, she’d been stupid. Charlie had followed her in, sat her on the bed and gently removed her clothes and shoes. He had an overnight bag with him, and at that stage she’d
actually believed he wanted to stay with her. She shook her head; should have known by the state of the room. She’d seen better furniture on a skip and the paper with its faded climbing roses
was falling off the walls. Not Charlie’s scene at all. She remembered his silence: it was spooky – he just sat there, stroking her all over with his fingertips. Then without warning,
he’d stood in front of her and cupped her chin in his hands.

“You’ve been a naughty girl, Victoria. I’ve told you before. Someone in your position has to be very careful about the company she keeps.” He wrenched her head back.
“Who knows what secrets you’ve been giving away? No, Victoria, I’m afraid there’ll be no more nights out with the girls. You’ll be working from home from now
on.” He’d glanced round. “This home.”