Working Girls (27 page)

She clutched the sheet so tightly it was like a second skin.

“Shame, really. I thought you’d be ready by now. But I want my girls to be happy in their work.”

She couldn’t hold back the snort. “Like Shell?”

“That should never have happened.”

“Accident was it, Charlie? Tripped over a razor, did she?”

“Shut the fuck up.” She recoiled, ready for another smacking but he regained control quickly. He clearly had other things on his mind. She watched as his hands moved to his crotch.
“Thing is, Victoria: what am I going to do with you now? I thought you’d fit the bill but I don’t think I can trust you out there. Not after tonight.”

Out there? Out there! She saw a life-line, met his gaze. “Course you can, Charlie. I only fibbed cause I didn’t want Dan to get in the shit.”

“I don’t give a monkey’s about Danny boy, but that phone call, Victoria. That was very ill-advised.”

“No harm done, Charlie. Like I say, she wasn’t there.” She hoped she didn’t sound too eager.

He sighed, moved closer; stroking the bulge in his trousers. “I’m just not sure anymore. I’ll have to give it some very serious thought.”

“You do that Charlie. You’ll see. I’ll do anything you want.” She dropped the sheet and opened her thighs.

“There’s never been any doubt about that, Victoria.” Casually he knocked her legs together with his knee. “But I’m not going in there. Not after Dirty Dan and God
knows who else has been sniffing round.”

It was as bad as a smack in the mouth. She blinked hard but tears were pricking her eyes.

He ran a finger along her lips. “Still. I’m sure we can come up with an alternative. What do you think, Victoria?”

27

“What do you reckon, guv?” There was no need to ask; Byford’s face said it all.

“There’s nothing to go on. She doesn’t even say where she is.”

Bev sighed; tell me something I don’t know. She was sitting at her desk. Byford hadn’t bothered to pull up a chair. She’d played the message twice for him now but any number of
encores wasn’t going to make it any clearer.

Even Bev had put it down to a heavy breather at first; a breather with attitude. “Where the fuck are you? You’ve got to get me out of this hole.” There was a slight pause on
the tape, then, as if Bev was besieged daily by anonymous abductees: “It’s Vick.”

Bev had known better starts to a morning. A wrong number had woken her just after seven and then she’d spotted the flashing red light of the answer phone. She’d hit the button and
Vicki’s voice had floated from the speaker. Bev’s first thought was, thank God, she’s alive.

Alive, even though she sounded scared to death.

She’d played the tape again and again, against a video-wall of snatched images still running in her head: the pounding along wet pavements; the ghouls in Thread Street; Byford’s
lonely figure by the water’s edge; a body in the mud. She’d been wrong about the victim being Vicki, but she was right about the girl not being in Brighton. So where was she? Why
hadn’t she said? And why had the call ended so abruptly? Bev had an idea about that and didn’t want to go there.

All the way to Highgate she’d been asking herself if it would have made a difference if she’d been in to take the call. She still didn’t know the answer. Maybe she’d
hoped for reassurance from Byford, but the boss was looking as shattered as she felt. They’d had a late night and the day ahead was going to be long. It could explain his indifference.

She watched as he tossed the newspaper he’d been holding onto her desk. A picture of Louella Kent, smiling and smart, in school uniform, took up most of the front page. “At least
Vicki Flinn’s alive,” he said.

It was an echo of her own initial reaction, but it rang hollow. “Yes. But for how long?”

“Come on.” He was heading for the door. “We haven’t got all day.”

“Hold on. What are you saying? That we just give up on her?”

“I’m saying there are priorities.”

She opened her mouth but he was clearly in no mood for argument. “Look, Bev. You’ve done everything you can. The number’s not traceable. And, even if it was, there’s no
saying it would lead back to Hawes.”

But something had to. Or someone. She ran a couple of recent conversations through her memory. Neither Val nor Annie Flinn had told the truth about Vicki, but did they know they’d been
lying? And who had enough clout to put words into mouths? “Guv. Charlie could —”

“It’s not a priority. We’ve got enough on as it is.” He pointed to the paper. “I shouldn’t have to spell it out.”

She watched him leave, then scanned the headlines.

Bev mouthed a “Whoops.” No wonder he was in such a good mood. Just wait till the media found out who she was.

Matt Snow, Crime Correspondent of the
Star,
was front row but centre stage. Bev glanced at Byford. He was good, she’d give him that. She doubted anyone else had spotted the
tell-tale jaw-clench. On the subject of telling tales, as Bev well knew Louella’s name hadn’t been released, let alone her parentage. More than that, both were being deliberately
withheld. Though Gary’s elimination as a suspect looked imminent, the Kents were under enough pressure without a posse of hacks stalking their every move.

Bev turned her attention to Snow. His fringe was in its customary Tintin tuft. The ubiquitous brown suit had mud splatters up the legs. No prizes for guessing where he’d been earlier. Snow
and the rest of the media had been scavenging in the park, until the action switched to Highgate and a 10am news conference. Three dozen hacks and hackettes had filed in, filling the room with
cheap scent and expensive aftershave, moaning about newsdesks and banging on about deadlines. Snow had certainly bided his time. The proceedings had been gradually winding down after what Bev
considered a masterly damage-limitation exercise by the guv. Then Snow had lobbed his bomb. He could barely conceal his glee. Not just at outmanoeuvring the police but at getting one over on the
broadcast boys. There were more cameras around than in a branch of Dixon’s, but Snow had sniffed out the biggie.

Bev was taking it all in from the platform. Mike Powell and a couple of press officers were also in attendance but the safety-in-numbers theory was looking pretty shaky. Byford laid his pen on
the table, then met the reporter’s gaze. “I’m not yet in a position to release the victim’s identity.”

Bev had heard the tone before; it was designed to quash further inquiry. This time there was a design fault.

“But you do know it?” Snow persisted.

“I have that information. It’s not for release.”

“I’m not asking for identification. I’m asking for confirmation.” Bev shuffled in her chair, watching Byford’s discomfort increase as Snow’s peers sat back to
enjoy the show.

“You’re splitting hairs, Mr Snow.”

“I’m doing my job, Superintendent, which –” He paused, glanced at his notebook – “according to the people I’ve been speaking to, is more than you
are.”

Bev kept her face blank but was shocked at the attack. God knew what it was doing to the governor. The case was getting to him anyway without trial by tabloid. Snow didn’t hang around for
a reply. “People are scared, Superintendent. Two teenage girls have been found dead, virtually in the same place, within the space of six days. One of the victims was a known prostitute. And
you’re sitting there saying there’s no link?”

“I’m saying it’s too early to draw that sort of conclusion.”

“And will it be too late when another girl’s found with her throat cut?”

“How do you know that?” Bev felt herself flush. She was meant to be observing, now all eyes were on her. “The cause of death. Who told you that?”

Snow’s pause was a second too long. “I assumed it was the same as the Lucas girl.”

“Assumed?” She glared at him. “And did you also assume her father’s identity?”

She was pleased to see his unease but it only lasted a couple of seconds.

“If you must know, I got a tip-off. And as you’re well aware, I can’t reveal my source.

“Anyway – ” He returned his attention to Byford. “The real question is, did the killer assume last night’s victim was a street girl. In which case, shouldn’t
you be issuing a warning to women about a serial killer?” He paused. “Or did he know exactly what he was doing? Did he kill the girl because her father’s a copper?”

Either option was a minefield. Bev could see the headlines now. There’d either be a rash of ‘New Ripper’ scare stories or Gary Kent would find himself splashed across every
front page in the country. She glanced round the room; in effect they had no option. The pack was licking its pencils and sharpening its claws.

Byford folded his arms, leaned forward. “At this stage in the inquiry, speculation of any kind is unhelpful and could be damaging. We should all be dealing in known facts. What we know
– as opposed to what you’re conjecturing – is that two girls are dead and the killer or killers are still at large. What we need are witnesses —”

“Witnesses!” Snow was on his feet, his rise so sudden the chair toppled back. “There must have been two hundred people in Thread Street last night and a good many of them were
your officers. I’d have thought you had witnesses coming out of your ears.”

Bev glanced at Byford. He was doing the jaw thing again. It was difficult not to notice this time.

“Your figures are as overblown as your theories, Mr Snow. We are in the process of interviewing everyone who was involved in last night’s protest. The numbers are nowhere near what
you claim. And as you well know, our interest begins much earlier in the day. We are anxious to speak to anyone who was in the area from around 3pm onwards.”

Snow was smirking. The point had been made and would appear in bold print later, no doubt.

“What lines of inquiry are you following, Superintendent?”

“We’re anxious to trace anyone who may have seen either girl during the relevant times. We’re checking backgrounds, family, friends, anyone who knew either of the victims. As
in any major investigation, we are asking people with information to come forward.”

“The people I’ve been talking to want information from you. They want to know whether their streets are safe to walk in. They want to know what steps you’re taking to catch
this man. People are scared, Mr Byford. They’re scared and they want to know what you’re doing about it.”

Bev watched as Byford gathered his papers and got to his feet. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He stared at Snow. “Not while I’m wasting time talking to you.”

Bev was beginning to think it was a waste of time. Twenty eight and a half minutes kicking your heels on a draughty concourse at New Street Station was enough for anyone, especially when you
were downwind of a burger bar. Eau d’onion and hot fat was clinging to her hair.

Dawn Lucas had suggested the spot; it beat wearing a red carnation and carrying a copy of
Bella
which had been her other bright idea for mutual recognition in a sea of strange faces.
She’d phoned from a call box just before boarding a train at Manchester Piccadilly; a train that had pulled in – Bev checked her watch for the umpteenth time – half an hour ago.
She was keeping her eyes peeled for a twenty-something female with blonde hair and blue eyes: Dawn’s lavish, and fairly useless, self-portrait.

So far, Bev had been accosted by a less than fragrant bag lady and serenaded by a tone-deaf busker whose repertoire was limited to
Tiptoe Through The Tulips
and
Abide With Me.
The
man’s whippet was in better voice. Bev had handed over a pound on the understanding he’d tiptoe off.

She needn’t have bust a gut to get here, though anything was preferable to the news conference from hell. Byford was going round like a bear with a migraine and the fall-out had filtered
down the ranks. Everyone was under pressure to get a result but no one knew where the goalposts were. The plods were on witness interviews; Ozzie and a few teams were still trawling the massage
parlours; others were tracking down known kerb crawlers. Byford and Powell – poor sods – were at the post mortem. It was all routine stuff, deadly dull but more often than not it
cracked cases. Either that or a killer got cocky or careless; hopefully both.

For Bev’s part, she was going on the patch tonight. She’d fixed it on the phone with Val. The girls were reeling over the latest killing, so how many would show was anyone’s
guess. At the very least, it would give Bev an opening to pursue the Brighton line, face-to-face; she hadn’t told Val about the message from Vicki on her answer phone. The only decent bit of
news was that Gary Kent’s alibi checked out. Not that his wife would be too pleased to learn where he’d been, or who with. Gary had even turned up for work, said it was the only way he
was going to get through the next few days. Louise didn’t need him; she had her sister with her. The guv had eventually relented and sent him off to the General to interview a GBH: some bloke
found in a Balsall Heath alleyway with both legs broken and a face in desperate need of a nose.

“’ere, are you Bev Morriss?

It was a voice that could grate hard cheese. Bev turned to see who owned it. She was a short, skinny, blonde with more slap than Boots and a red Lycra skirt that could have doubled as a
headband. Her smile revealed a gap in her teeth that was navigable.

“Wotcha.” Bev held a hand out in greeting. “Thought you’d got lost.”

“Nah. I got chattin’ to this bloke on the train. We went for a swift half. There’s a bar just round there. Then I needed a pee.” She smiled. “Bin waitin’
long?”

Sarcasm was too cerebral. Bev shook her head. “Let’s go, shall we?”

“Go? Go where?”

“We need to talk, Dawn. That’s why you’re here.”

“It’s dinner time. I ’aven’t eaten yet. I’m starvin’.”

Two Happy Meals and a bag of chicken nuggets it took. Bev paid, then chauffeured Dawn to Highgate. It was like having a hyperactive stick insect in the passenger seat. The woman never shut up:
EastEnders,
the Royals, Birmingham drivers. Not a word about Michelle. The loquacity lasted till they were ensconced in an interview room at Highgate, then Dawn ran out of steam.