Working Girls (2 page)

He lifted an eyebrow. “Do go on.”

She noted the sarcasm. Not like Byford, that; he must be picking up bad habits.

“Mother and Father of the Year award?” she asked. “Missed it by a whisker.”

She consulted her notes again. “According to the caretaker – a bloke called Jack Goddard – Michelle was in care. She was taken in when she was about twelve.” She paused,
recalling the tears on Goddard’s leathery cheeks. “He didn’t recognise her at first.”

“Hardly surprising,” said Byford.

She glanced round at the sound of a car door being slammed. She hoped it was the scene-of-crime boys, or they’d be getting it in the neck from Byford. Even more than that, she hoped it
wasn’t Mike Powell.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Michelle was in Year Ten. Goddard says she was a nice kid. Had a heart of gold. Do anything for anyone.”

She was pretty good at interpreting Byford’s eyebrows; at the moment they were in his hair-line.

“There must be hundreds of kids at the school. How come he knows so much about Michelle Lucas?”

“Everyone knows Michelle,” said Bev. “She was the original
Home Alone
kid. Only her ma didn’t just take off on holiday, she took off, period. The story goes that
Mrs Lucas’s boyfriend was playing mummies and daddies with Michelle. The mother blamed the girl and buggered off with the bloke. Michelle’s been in children’s homes ever since.
Goddard says it was all anyone round here talked about for ages. He reckons – considering everything – she was doing okay. He couldn’t believe it when he found her lying
here.”

There was no doubt. Bev looked at the body again. The girl’s flesh was as unnaturally white as the fake-leather coat. The red slash across her neck was a grotesque parody of her
scarlet-painted lips. The only other colour was in the eyes. They were the deepest blue Bev had ever seen. She so wanted to close them for her. Like she wished she could slip the kid’s shoe
back on. It was lying to the left of the body; presumably, it had fallen off in a struggle. It looked cheap and shiny, the badly scuffed heel ridiculously high.

“And I bet she loved them,” whispered Bev.

“Say something?” Byford asked.

“Not really.”

“Okay, let’s get back to Goddard. What was he doing over here?”

“This bit of the park belongs to the school.” Bev nodded over Byford’s shoulder. “You can just make out the building through the trees.” She paused, though there
wasn’t a lot to see from this distance. “Anyway, some old boy left this area round the pool to Thread Street in his will. The school uses it as a nature centre. Teachers bring the
younger kids over to look at the wild flowers, the pond life. Goddard comes here regularly. Safety checks mostly. You know the kind of thing: broken glass, used condoms, rusty syringes.”

“Very rustic.”

She gave a token smile. “Anyway, it’s private land. You’re supposed to be a key holder. Doesn’t stop people getting in though. The railings aren’t that high. Youths
mostly. The odd wino. Whatever. They slip in, down a few beers, shoot up, sleep it off.”

“How many legitimate key holders?”

“I’ll get a list off the trustees. But as long as you live in the area and can afford £120 a year…”

She waited while he looked round. The park wasn’t large and in the middle of February it certainly wasn’t lush, but it didn’t take much imagination to realise that in a few
months it would be stunning.

“I had no idea the place existed,” Byford said.

It was well concealed, lying between Thread Street comprehensive at one end, and a row of high street shops at the other. Its sides were bordered by private properties, neither as imposing nor
as expensive as they had been twenty years back. The park was all that remained of a once vast estate, owned by the once mighty Bogart family. It was a rural throwback, a stone’s throw from
the inner city.

“No reason you should,” said Bev. “I only know ’cause my dad used to come here for the fishing. I got dragged along to bait the hooks. All those tins of maggots, I can
see them now.”

She grinned at his obvious unease until she realised it probably had nothing to with the dubious delights of her childhood pursuits.

“It begs a question though, Bev. Just how many people do know about it?”

The query went unanswered.

“Wotcha. Sorry. Couldn’t find the bloody place,” an approaching voice boomed.

“Shit,” Bev muttered. It was supposed to be sotto voce but it wasn’t sotto enough. She smiled a ‘sorry’ at Byford. Not that the expletive was directed at him. It
was aimed at the tall, well-dressed blond currently inching his way gingerly down the slope to join them. Bev hid a smirk as DI Powell checked the heels of his expensive Italian shoes.

She
knew
it was a cliché: young female cop on shite terms with sexist, senior male officer. She knew it. Only trouble was, Mike Powell lived and breathed it.

“Morning, Mike,” Byford greeted him. “Trouble with the motor?”

Bev wondered if he was taking the piss. Powell’s time-keeping was as dodgy as a sundial’s in the dark but it could have been a dig at the DI’s elderly Alfa Romeo.

“No way!” Powell said. “She goes like a dream.”

“Wet, no doubt,” murmured Bev.

He ignored her; nothing new there. “No. I got held up by the SOCO boys. They’ll be here any time. They’re just unloading. They weren’t sure how to get here, till I put
them right.”

“That was good of you,” Bev smiled, “seeing how you couldn’t find it yourself.” She knew it was childish, but he was a self-serving prat. The whole station was
aware of their loathe-bait relationship. It had intensified after last year’s board when he’d been made up to inspector. Even a few of the blokes reckoned Bev had been robbed.

“I used my initiative. You should try it some time, Morriss.”

“Surprised you know where it is.” The words were lost as she turned her head, making a mental note to get more nicotine patches. In Bev’s book, the man should carry a health
warning.

“There they are, guv.” Three white-suited figures emerged from a clump of winter-spindly trees. What with the suits, the protective masks and the steel cases, it was like an X-files
shoot.

“It’ll be worth checking taxi firms, Bev.”

Byford was at it again: mind-reading. Not really. She knew it was a pretty obvious route. They’d have to question anyone who was out and about at the relevant times. Mind, they had to
narrow those down. That’s where Harry Gough would come in: another player who was making a late entrance.

Byford’s mobile rang and she wandered over to have a few words with the crime scene lads. It was small talk mostly, while they prepared police tape, loaded cameras, lined up the gear.
Gathering forensics was a painfully slow business, and Bev’s sense of urgency was in overdrive. She made her way back as soon as she spotted Byford tightening the belt on his trench coat. It
was a sure sign of his imminent departure.

“I’m going up to the school to have a shufti, Bev.”

“Okay, guv.” She didn’t blame him. It was freezing out here.

“Obviously, the priority now is to find out what Michelle was doing in the park, and who she was with. We need to know who saw what; when; where. You both know what’s
needed.”

Bev wasn’t so sure; Powell was concentrating on his shoes, probably wondering if he’d ever get the stains out.

“You hang on here, Mike. Anything they turn up,” Byford nodded at the SOCOs, “I want to know about it. And make sure Goughie gets a move on with this one. Bev…” He
paused, as if considering, “You can use your initiative.”

She sneaked a glance at Powell’s face which appeared to consist mostly of mouth.

“That’s after you’ve filled in the inspector.”

“Any time, guv.” She knew Byford had a soft spot for her, but he rarely made it so obvious. She shouted a somewhat belated “Catch you later” at his retreating back.

“Talking of catching things,” Powell baited. “Where are the worms, Morriss?”

“You what?”

“Early birds and all that..?”

“Yeah. Right.” She wasn’t rising this time; getting to the scene first had nothing to do with brownie points. She lived closer; simple as that. She turned away, concentrated on
the activity around the body. Michelle Lucas’s brutal death was attracting a lot more interest than her short life. A photographer was taking shots from every angle; then there’d be the
movie version; then there’d be the close ups: samples and swabs extracted from every orifice. As for what would happen on the slab – Bev didn’t even want to think about that.

“Where the hell’s Goughie?” Powell demanded. “There’ll be a few worms on her, if he doesn’t hurry up.”

“Watch what you’re saying.” The man was an arsehole.

“No point getting all sensitive, Morriss. Look at her.”

“I’ve seen her. I was here before you. Remember?”

“You’ll have clocked it already then, won’t you?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Clocked what?”

“Come on, Morriss. Where’s your inititative? You don’t need me to tell you. It’s staring you in the face.”

She knew what he was getting at, just couldn’t believe he was going there. “Enlighten me.”

“Look at her, Morriss. She was a tom.”

Bev hated the expression. It was police-speak – police like Powell, anyway. “If you mean she was a prostitute, why don’t you say so?”

“What? ‘A rose by any name..?’ Call her what you like, Morriss, she was a whore.”

He was probably right. Bev had recognised the possibility the minute she’d laid eyes on the body. But right now, that’s all it was. And even if it was confirmed – so what?

“That makes all this okay, then, does it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t you?” She wanted to knock the smirk off his face.

“It goes with the territory, Morriss. It’s a meat market out there.”

Even without last year’s secondment to vice, Bev knew she had a sensitivity that Powell – and most of the blokes, come to that – would never achieve.

“Listen, Cliché Man, you’re talking bollocks.”

“Oh! Pardon me! I didn’t realise I’d been granted an audience with Mother Superior.”

He bowed his head in mock supplication. Bev turned on her heel before she said something she wouldn’t regret, but he grabbed her arm.

“A few weeks on tom-watch doesn’t give you divine insight, Morriss.”

She shook him off before making eye contact. “Vice squad. Six months. Acting Inspector.”

“Have it cracked by breakfast then, won’t you?” Powell countered.

“Breakfast? I should be so bloody lucky.” The voice was unmistakeable. Bev greeted Harry Gough with a warm smile. She’d never quite got used to a Del-boy soundalike who was the
spit of Richard Burton.

“The sodding alarm didn’t go off. There I am having a bit of how’s-your-father with the luscious Sarah Montague. Next thing I know, one of your geezers is on the blower telling
me to come as fast as I can. I ask you. What’s a bloke to do?”

Bev laughed. Goughie was so old school, he was classic. He’d be hanging up his scalpel in eighteen months and nothing was going to change the old boy now. As far as Harry was concerned, PC
was either a young bobby or a saucy postcard. Bev didn’t have a problem with that; at least it was in-your-face, not between-your-shoulder-blades.

“So what did you do, Mr Gough?”

“Shot out of the sheets and prayed to God I’d have the same nocturnal visitation tonight.”

She smiled. Despite his advancing years and regressive attitudes, Goughie was as good as pathologists get. One of his juniors had once told Bev that his nickname at the morgue was Psycho. It was
payback for all the times he called them ‘a bloody shower.’

“What’ve we got then?” he asked, peeling on surgical gloves.

She ran through what little they knew, watched as Gough’s expression changed half a dozen times. Eventually, he knelt by the girl’s body, not caring whether the slowly thawing earth
soiled his dark suit. The initial examination was by sight, seemingly long moments spent in visual study and assessment. It was Gough’s way – like the guv, she realised. She watched the
man’s ice-blue eyes linger over every contour and crevice. They widened and narrowed, registering and recording.

Powell’s tuneless whistling was beginning to bug her.
Like a Virgin
was either a deliberate wind-up or incredibly crass. She glared furiously but he was studying his watch.

“In a hurry, lad?” Gough asked. Bev hid a smile; Goughie never missed a trick. “More haste, less speed, young man. You know what they say?” The pathologist met
Powell’s eyes. “Softly, softly, catchy monkey.”

“Start at the zoo then, shall I?” It was an attempt at humour. Powell was the only one laughing.

“Not funny, sonny.” Gough said. “Why don’t you cut the comedy and get on with the job?”

It was unfair but Powell had asked for it. Bev did her UN peacekeeping bit.

“What can you tell us, Mr Gough?”

“The body’s a punch bag. Poor kid. None of the marks are that recent: three days, maybe four. She could have fallen. More likely to have been a fist, or a boot. I’ll know more
when I get her on the slab.”

Bev had already noted the bruising on the shin and inner thigh, filed it under
pimp
?

“Cause of death’s pretty obvious,” Powell proffered.

Bev glanced at the pathologist. Even tiptoeing on Goughie’s territory was not to be advised. Words like
fool
and
angel
rushed to mind.

“Really, Inspector?” said Gough. “Do share.”

Bev’s eyes widened as Powell mimed a throat being cut.

“How terribly illuminating.” Gough turned his back on the DI. “As Doctor Powell has kindly pointed out, Bev, a slashed throat is not conducive to good health. Especially in
this case. The blade’s gone through the jugular and the carotid. She was killed here. You can see how much blood she’s lost, how it’s spurted, the spray it’s left. I’d
say she didn’t have a clue. There’s little sign of a struggle, no defensive wounds. She was attacked from behind, taken by surprise and dead by the time he lowered her down.”

“He?” Bev asked.

Gough paused, considering. “Could have been a woman, I suppose. No great strength needed. Especially, as I say, with the element of surprise.”