Authors: Maureen Carter
Frankie shrugged, then eased her five-ten frame on to the sort of stool that challenged the less vertically blessed. Amid an expanse of gleaming chrome and sparkling glass, she shone like a bird
of paradise in a sackful of sparrows. A gentle ripple of applause emanated from a set of suits at the nearest table. She inclined her head with the nonchalance of a diva, then leaned forward to ask
Bev if she thought they were bankers.
“Don’t, Frankie. Just don’t.”
She laughed, tossed her head, clouds of blue-black hair billowing. Bev sighed; if she ever tried that, they’d come and take her away.
“Come on, my friend. Chill out.”
“Chill out? If I got into that I’d be effin’ hypothermic.”
“No chance.” Frankie was casually rifling through the goodies Bev had bought for lunch. “It only just fits me.” She winked. “Unless you want to take it along
tonight. Show you’re game. Break the ice.”
Bev smiled, shook her head. The girl was a nutter. They’d been mates since infant school and there was nothing they didn’t talk about. It was cheaper than therapy and any confidences
were as safe as state secrets. Safer, come to think about it.
“This for me, Bevvie?” She’d commandeered the BLT. “Good girl. This fat’s no good for you.”
Bev pursed her lips. The girl could eat for Europe and still get into a size eight. And she made the pre-Raphaelite lot look like a bunch of losers with alopecia. “It’s a good job I
like you. Otherwise, I’d really hate you. Know what I mean?”
Frankie fluttered her eyelashes and flashed a smile. Then, suddenly serious, she said, “Only trying to cheer you up, my friend. Sounded like you were having a bad day.”
“I’ve had better. But no shop talk. I whinged enough on the phone. What’ve you been up to? How’s your pa?”
Frankie grimaced, held crossed index fingers aloft. “Don’t mention the P-word.”
Bev grinned. Far from being the embodiment of evil, Giovanni Perlagio worshipped the ground his only daughter walked on. Trouble was, he covered it in cotton wool as well. He approved of Bev;
lady cop, wasn’t she? Mature? Responsible?
“When you gonna get a proper job? he says. When you gonna get a good man? he says. When you gonna have bambinos? he says.” The accent was so heavy it needed subtitles.
Bev laughed. “Nothing new there, then?” How she was going to find a fellow who’d even approach Gio’s wish-list was anybody’s guess. Bev reckoned the Pope would be
borderline.
“If only! He’s getting worse. Says he’ll double what I’m on if I’ll join him in the business.”
He ran a restaurant and wanted to run Frankie’s life as well. She was holding out; making ends meet with flexi-hours in Music Zone while struggling as a semi-pro session singer.
“Tell him you’re on five grand a week.”
“I wish.”
Bev winced as Frankie used her teeth to tear open the last of the sandwich packs. “You will. One day. Then I’ll be able to tell everyone: I knew her when she was just a shy, retiring
little nobody.” Frankie crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out. Bev laughed. “Maybe not.”
“I’m doing the Fighting Cocks Saturday. You coming?” Frankie asked.
“You know me, mate. I’ll be propping up the bar… if I can get away.”
“Yeah. Sure. That means you’ll be working.”
Bev grinned. “You sound just like my dear old mum.”
They halved the low calorie chicken club and chatted about books, blokes and when they’d start running again. Bev realised she’d switched off for the first time since
Michelle’s murder.
“Another coffee?” Frankie asked, getting up.
Bev glanced at her watch. “Yeah, why not?” Lunch breaks were like blue moons; might as well savour it. Anyway, the nick knew where she was and there was always the mobile. She moved
the stool nearer the window. She always sat upstairs, best place for a spot of people-watching. Talking of which, the rain was getting worse. Multi-coloured umbrellas were sprouting like giant
mushrooms all over New Street. Probably why the bloke wearing the serious shades just across the way caught her eye. That and the fact the rest of his gear looked like a job lot from the Mafia
shop: long black coat, pristine shirt, shoelace tie. Most people in a similar get-up would look ludicrous. So how come he didn’t?
She glanced round as Frankie arrived with refills. “Eh. Frank. Get a load of that. Fit or what?”
Frankie pressed her face against the glass, screwed her eyes, turned her mouth down. “Bit short for me. Anyway, you know what I think about blokes with pony tails.”
“Hadn’t spotted that.”
“Sherlock would’ve.” Bev groaned then brightened at the sight of a double-chocolate-chip cookie. Frankie was looking out of the window again. “Reckon you’re on a
loser anyway, Bevvie. Ponytail Man’s already got a little friend. Coming on a bit strong, isn’t he? Talk about frightening the horses.”
Bev wasn’t listening. She was looking at the girl. She’d seen her before. Thread Street.
Yesterday. Same class Michelle Lucas had been in.
“Bev! Where you going?”
“Won’t be a min.”
The man didn’t have to be Charlie Hawes. It could be anyone. Gut feeling, instinct, whatever, was telling her different. Her heart was racing and it had nothing to do with the speed she
was taking the stairs. A contretemps with a tray full of sushi slowed the pace. She almost missed her footing. She did miss the action over the way. The birds had flown. She couldn’t believe
it; stepped out into the road, scanned the street; turned and looked up. Frankie was miming a steering wheel and pointing in the direction of Victoria Square. Shit. The street was supposed to be
pedestrianised.
She was aware of furtive glances as she made her way back; must have cut quite a dash tearing out like that. “Didn’t get the number, did you?”
“Chassis? Ignition? Engine? ’Course I didn’t.”
In as far as it’s possible to slump on a stool the height of Blackpool Tower, Bev slumped.
Frankie sighed. “I haven’t got my lenses in. I’m sorry. Is it important?”
“Dunno. Could be.”
“Tell you what, Bev. It was a black BMW. And the driver was a woman.”
“Sure?”
“Sure I saw lots of hair.”
“Dreadlocks, maybe? Could it have been a bloke?” Bev could see the answer on her face. “No worries. Should be able to get a steer through the girl.” She took a sip of
lukewarm cappuccino. “Frankie? Can I ask you something?”
“’Course you can, my friend.”
She leaned closer. “Do I look like a cop? Is it so obvious?”
Frankie smirked.
“It’s just that people keep staring. Have been ever since I came back.”
Bev sighed as her friend ran through an exaggerated once-over routine. It didn’t last long, Frankie’s eyes soon widened and she threw a hand up to her mouth. Bev looked down. A
basque dangling from your coat pocket did nothing for your social standing.
“Thank God you’re not carrying cuffs, Bevvie.” Frankie was biting her bottom lip. Bev, dignity shot, felt herself blush. Both women were laughing when Ozzie Khan appeared. Bev
spotted him first. He was walking up the stairs, obviously looking for someone. His frown lessened only a little when he saw her.
“Sarge. It’s the Swain girl. She’s conscious.”
“Who was the friend?”
Bev glanced at Ozzie. He was all studied casualness.
“Frankie? Mate from school. Six kids. Old man’s an all-in wrestler.”
“You’re winding me u–”
“Eyes on the road, Constable.”
She turned to hide a grin. Frankie’d given Oz the full monty: prolonged eye contact, power-smiles, multilingual body language.
“Seemed like a nice girl.”
“And your mind on the job. Talking of which, what happened at Brand’s?” A scrawny cat shot out from under a parked car and Bev hit a phantom brake as Ozzie went for the real
thing. The cat put its paw down and escaped intact. Bev glanced in the mirror. “Nice one, Oz. Anyway, you were saying…”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t remind me. I kept thinking: any minute now the old boy’s gonna say something. Tell the guv somebody’d been sniffing round, know
what I mean? Then I reckon: how’d he know anyway? I’d put the tape back, left the keys where I found them. He’s not gonna open his mouth if he thinks his sordid little
secret’s safe, is he?”
The argument was solid; she’d been clinging to it herself.
“Still felt as though I had guilty’ stamped on my forehead though. Having the chief there didn’t help either.”
She resisted a crack about Indians; settled for a sage nod.
“Tell you what, Sarge, Brand was real edgy; something was bugging him. He’d dropped the outraged-from-Edgbaston card completely. Offered coffee. Keen to help. Sucking up to the guv.
Mind, he wanted us out of that place. Kept banging on about the wife; saying he was expecting a call any time. He’d have to pick her up straight away.”
“No one’s spoken to her yet have they?” Bev made a mental note, didn’t wait for a reply. “What about the accidental overdose lark? You buy that?”
He shook his head. “Naw, he was giving it the hard sell. If he mentioned it once, he said it half a dozen times.”
They drove in silence for a while; wipers dealing with rain and spray. Bev switched to thinking about Cassie Swain, wondering what the girl might know; and more to the point, what she’d be
willing to share. Ozzie was still on the Brand track.
“The sleazeball’s sitting there as if butter wouldn’t melt in his armpit and all the time I’m thinking —”
“Did a lot of thinking, did you?”
She saw his head turn towards her. “Not with you.”
“The guv reckoned you never opened your mouth. Must have been all the activity in your brain.”
His mouth was open now. Wide. “Said you were on edge as well,” Bev said. “Don’t worry. I put him right.”
The smile was weak. “Cheers.”
“Don’t mensh.” She was studying her nails. “Thing is, Oz, that sort of set-up – it’s not good if you’re all uptight. You need to chill out
more.”
His left eyebrow looked unconvinced.
“I’m serious. Relax. What you doing Saturday?”
“Noth–” She smiled as he hedged his bets. “Dunno. Why?”
“Fighting Cocks?”
“Illegal, innit?”
“The Fighting Cocks. Pub in Kings Heath. There’s live music at the weekends. They’ve got a blues singer who’s so laid back she thinks meditation’s a stimulant.
It’d do you good, Oz. Take you out of yourself.”
The turning for the General was coming up on the right.
“Who’s going?”
“Just me.”
“Can I let you know?”
“Frankie’ll be there already.”
“What time?”
She smiled, shook her head. Worked wonders every time, the F-word.
“Not a word. I’m really sorry.” Doctor Thorne slid a slim gold pen into a holder on her white coat.
“It’s okay. Not your fault.” Bev tried to hide her disappointment. Whatever secrets Cassie Swain might hold, they weren’t up for grabs. Not yet, anyway. Bev’s
two-minute detour en route for Intensive Care had made no difference. According to the doctor, Cassie had barely opened her eyes, let alone her mouth.
“She was beginning to respond. I’m almost certain she could hear me. And there was movement in her fingers.”
“Positive signs,” said Bev.
Doctor Thorne’s wavering hand signal was less sure. “There can be a series of false starts. You think they’re coming out of it, then…” she looked at Cassie.
“And there’s no guarantee the brain hasn’t suffered permanent damage. Given that she does pull through, she may not remember anything.”
Cassie was in the same position as the night before. The bed was huge and accentuated her slight, fragile frame. She was fifteen but looked about twelve. There was a dark eyelash on the bridge
of her nose. Bev moved closer, smoothed the lash away then gently ran a finger along the outline of her face. She looked up to find the doctor staring.
“Did you know her before all this, Sergeant?”
The soft voice was hard to take. Bev shook her head, looked away and carefully cradled Cassie’s hand.
“I’m sorry I got your hopes up,” the doctor said. “I should have waited.”
“No, I’m glad you called. And thanks for going through Highgate. The mobile’s sorted now.” Bev smiled. It sounded so much better than “the mobile’s switched
on now.”
The doctor slipped a hand in her skirt pocket. “I’d better get off. If there’s nothing else… Sergeant?”
“I’ll hang on a minute, if that’s okay. And I told you, the name’s Bev.”
She smiled, was about to say something when her bleeper sounded. “I’d better get that. Catch you later.”
Bev turned back to the bed. The girl was surrounded by people and medical paraphernalia, so how come she looked so vulnerable? Bev sighed. What she really wanted was to give Cassie a cuddle,
stroke her hair, tell her someone cared. She lifted the flap on her shoulder-bag, fumbled around till her fingers felt the soft fur. She hoped Paddington’d be happy here. He’d gathered
a bit of dust during his sojourn in the hospital shop so she flicked it off and popped him on the pillow close to Cassie. She stood back, smiling. The red coat and shiny black boots were quite a
fashion statement. As for the message on the label round his neck, well he couldn’t have been in safer hands. Bev read the words again: Please look after this bear. Thank you.
She looked back at the girl’s pale face. “And please look after Cassie,” she mouthed.
22
“What a night!”
Bev was dripping all over Big Val’s doormat. Puddles were forming at her feet, rivulets trickling down her neck.
“Still tippin it down?”
Bev widened her eyes. “Nah. I always look like this.” Val, on the other hand, looked different. What was it?
“You comin or what?”
“Yeah. Cheers.” Val pressed against the wall as Bev slipped through sideways. The woman wasn’t called Big for nothing.
“First on the left, chuck.”
Bev ran a hand through sodden hair. “It’s foul out there. You’d think everyone’d be tucked up by the fireside, but Thread Street’s buzzing. Must be a hundred or
more on the protest already.” She’d left the MG outside, but done a quick recce on foot. Ozzie had been keeping a low profile with Mike Powell. The guv’s was even lower; she
hadn’t spotted him at all. The uniforms were all over the place. Noisy but not nasty was the general verdict.