Authors: Maureen Carter
“My fault?” Bev was all righteous indignation. “That’s good, that is.”
“Not a patch on Banjo, though,” Val crowed.
“Banjo?”
“Bev.” Val slipped an arm round the man’s waist. “Meet Banjo. Banjo Hay. He’s my mate.”
Bev held out a hand and Banjo beamed. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Val winked again. “Not yet it ain’t.”
Bev opened her mouth to remonstrate but Val was still revelling in the set-up she’d staged.
“Hate to break up the party,” Banjo said, “but I gotta split.”
Bev glanced at her watch. It was almost eleven, she had an early start and she had a gut feeling that Hawes wouldn’t be back tonight.
“I’m gonna call it a day as well. Fancy a lift, you pair?”
“Banjo’s droppin’ me, aren’t you, chuck?”
It looked like news to Banjo, and it was a bummer for Bev; she’d wanted to press Val about Charlie Hawes and the Brighton line. It would have to wait. “Jules? How ’bout
you?”
The girl hid a yawn behind her hand. “The night is young. Anyway, it’s chuckin’ out time soon. Should make a bob or two then.”
Bev shivered, felt someone walk over her grave, realised it was the prospect of some cheesy knee-trembler between Jules and a dirty old man with beery breath and clammy flesh. It shouldn’t
be happening. Not to any kid. Any night. Anywhere. “We could go via the chippie?”
The girl’s face lit up. “You buyin’?”
“You bet.”
“You’re on.”
She could murder Jules. She’d had Bev in stitches with her take on Val’s version of
I Got You Babe,
but now she couldn’t get the damn tune out of her head. It was half
an hour since she’d dropped the girl at a run-down tower block on the wrong side of Edgbaston. If Jules had sung it once, she’d sung it half a dozen times, and now even Bev was doing
a Cher in the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t as though there weren’t other thoughts churning round in the grey matter. The postcard, for instance. Bev had nipped back for it while Jules
waited in the MG. It was bagged and tagged and ready to go, but she’d bet a pound to a penny it wouldn’t take the case any further.
It wasn’t just the card. There was something bugging her. It had been niggling away even before she went on the patch; lurking at the back of her mind. It would come tantalisingly close
then dart away before taking shape. It might have been something she’d seen. It could just as easily have been a word or a phrase. It was getting to her, almost as much as that sodding
tune.
“Sleep on it, our Bev.” That’s what her mum would say. It was Emmy Morriss’s answer to everything. That, and a nice cup of char. Bev brushed her teeth, still tasted salt
and vinegar, brushed again. “Dar-da-dar-da…” She tightened her mouth, grabbed a hot water bottle and flushed the loo. She checked the answer phone for the umpteenth time then
reset the alarm. Her running gear was laid out ready for the morning; she’d rescued it from the back of the wardrobe when she’d dropped off the Tesco goodies earlier.
Sometimes the place seemed more like a hotel, though the room service wasn’t up to much. The laundry basket was overflowing in one corner and the shoe tidy wasn’t living up to its
name in another. She ignored both and, full of good intentions, headed for the cheval glass. Head on one side and hands on hips, she took an appraising look. The black silk jimmies added a certain
oriental touch. She wondered if she could get away with them in class: decided they were more Bruce Lee than Tai Chi. Still, what the hell? There was no one around. Might even make her feel
virtuous. She stood, eyes closed, feet apart, knees bent, resting her palms gently on the front of her thighs. She took a deep breath, tried focusing on her Chi then thought: sod it, can’t be
arsed.
She flung the duvet back, making a conscious effort to stifle yet another saccharine rendering of
I Got You Babe.
“Babe! Of course!” She perched on the side of the bed, ran
the scene at the Flinn place through her head again. That was it. There’d been no sign of the baby. Lucie could have been asleep upstairs. But Annie hadn’t even mentioned her. There
were no bottles, no bibs over the radiator; none of the paraphernalia that had cluttered the kitchen on her earlier visit.
Where was Lucie? What did it mean? Bev had no idea. Yet. Just a feeling that it was important and a conviction that she had to find out.
30
Bev poked her head gingerly out of her front door. It was 6.30am and one degree above freezing. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Mavis Holdsworth was out with her broom,
giving the communal balcony a good going over. That’s all I need, thought Bev, a nosy neighbour with altruistic insomnia. The idea of a dawn run was already losing what little attraction it
had ever had, without a biting commentary from a woman whose idea of exercise was chewing gum.
“There y’are, our Bev.” Mavis leaned on the broom handle. “Thought you’d be up with the worms.”
“Larks.”
“Yeah, them an’ all.”
Bev refused to ask how she’d acquired the insight; Mave would spill the beans anyway.
“I dropped your washing in last night. Saw you’d dragged the joggin’ gear out of retirement.”
There were advantages to leaving a spare key with a neighbour. Bev just couldn’t think of one at the moment. “How’s that mate of yours? Rita, is it? I haven’t had a
chance to have a word.”
Mave sniffed. “You’re too late. She’s done a bunk.”
“Oh?” Bev tried not to sound too relieved.
“Yeah. Phoned me up. Full of herself, she was. She’s back on the game.”
“What?”
Mave tapped the side of her nose. “Dark horse, that one, Bev. Never opened her mouth the whole time we work together, then she gives me a bell and I can’t get a word in
edgeways.”
“That’d be a first.”
Mave ignored the remark. “Knocked it on the ’ead, she said, when she got spliced, but the old man was goin’ out every night, comin’ back with a skinful, claimin’
’is conjugals and knockin’ ’er about. Said she was back on the streets. Whorin’ was a damn sight better paid.”
“Licensed prostitution.”
“You what?”
“Marriage.”
Mave still looked blank.
“It’s how some people see marriage,” Bev said. “Licensed prostitution.” She looked at Mave’s uncomprehending features and shook her head. “Never mind.
Anyway, I’ll cross Rita off my list of things to do.”
“Just as well, isn’t it?”
Bev had turned to go but there was something in Mave’s voice. “Why’s that, then?”
“This new fella of yours.” Mave leaned the broom against the wall, took a butt end from behind an ear and a box of matches from an overall pocket. “Kept quiet about ’im,
didn’t you?”
“New fella?”
“Yeah. He was round last night.”
“Last night?”
“Is there an echo out ’ere?”
“What are you saying, Mave?”
She watched as concern replaced laughter and Mave put a hand to her mouth. “You ’aven’t got a new bloke, ’ave you?”
Bev shook her head.
“’e was in your place. Said you wanted ’im to pick up a few things.”
“What things?”
“I didn’t like to ask.”
“Since when?” Bev ran a few thoughts. “What time are we talking here, Mave?”
“Bout ’alf eight. ’E had a key. Knew ’is way round.”
Bev pursed her lips. She’d have to go back in. She hadn’t noticed anything odd; nothing obvious had been taken or deposited. Mind, given her housekeeping skills, the place usually
looked as if it had been done over.
“I’m ever so sorry, Bev. I never thought, not with the flowers like. I mean, your bog-standard burglar doesn’t usually come armed with a bouquet, does he?”
Bev tried to think, to picture. She couldn’t recall seeing so much as a weed in the flat. “What did this bloke look like?” she pressed.
“Well that’s why I thought you ’adn’t said anythin’. I mean, ’e’s not exactly your usual type, is ’e?”
Bev put her hand on her hips. “Enlighten me, Mave. What type are we talking here?”
Mavis finally lit her fag. “I just thought ’e was a bit young for you. That’s all.”
“And that’s it? A young bloke with a bunch of flowers.”
“And the ’air.” Hollows appeared in Mave’s cheeks as she took a drag. “I don’t like deadlocks even on black blokes.”
“Dreadlocks, Mave. Dreadlocks.” Bev frowned. “So he was white?”
“As you and me.”
Bev glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m doing this run if it kills me.” Mave rolled her eyes. “When Frankie turns up, keep her talking. I’m just nipping back for a
second. While I’m gone, have a think about last night. What time did he leave? Was he carrying anything else? Would you know him again? Remember everything you can. Close your eyes and
imagine the whole scene as it happened.”
“You could get me hypnotised,” Mave offered eagerly.
“Lobotomised,” muttered Bev.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
She considered doing the James Bond bit: back pressed against the wall, slow slide round the door and lightning-fast drop into the firing position. Then she thought again: a
mobile phone wasn’t particularly quick on the draw, and hardly likely to scare anyone.
More to the point, it was too late, far too late. Whoever had been in could have returned while she was asleep. She’d been dead to the world. Bad choice of phrase, Bev. It was true though.
He could have come back and made it a permanent lying in state. So why hadn’t he?
It was one of a stack of thoughts doing the rounds in her head as she checked the place over. The TV and vid hadn’t been touched: literally. She’d have spotted prints a mile off in
the dust. Her camera was still on the sideboard, she’d made a mental note last night because she’d need it for Frankie’s gig on Saturday. As for her hundred quid emergency money,
she’d hidden it so well, she hadn’t a clue where it was.
It all appeared as she’d left it; nothing gained, nothing gone. In a weird way, that made it worse. Some bastard had been in here, invading her space, and she hadn’t sensed a thing.
Her only gut feeling last night had been a touch of heartburn cause she’d pigged out on fish and chips. So much for the famous Morriss intuition.
And where were the flowers? The only thing green and growing was a distinctly jaded Christmas cactus, skulking in a corner of the sitting room.
She searched the kitchen bin, glanced round, chewing her bottom lip. She didn’t like it; didn’t like it at all. Some lying toe-rag had smooth-talked his way around and presumably had
a good nose. But why? If Mave hadn’t opened her mouth, Bev would be none the wiser. So what was his game?
She shivered; tried telling herself it was cold, but it was more than that. It was a bit late in the day, but she was feeling spooked. She’d counselled Christ knew how many burglary
victims in her time; now she knew what they meant. It wasn’t that belongings were nicked, it was that a stranger had been prowling round.
Her gaze fell on the evidence bag. She moved closer, folded her arms. Charlie Hawes. Was it down to him? Was he trying to pull her strings? Not content with putting the wind up her in the park,
had he organised a welcome-home party as well? She considered the timing. He could have done it himself; more likely he’d sent a gorilla to say it with flowers. So where were they?
No, no, no. She saw it now. They were a floral smokescreen for Mave’s benefit. Worked a treat, hadn’t it? The way Bev saw it, the flowers were never going to be left; the idea was to
scare her shitless. She snorted; sod that. She squared her shoulders, made for the door. And stopped.
Think again, bird brain. How the hell could he have known that Mave was going to be around? Maybe the flowers were a prop, but as it turned out, he didn’t need to leave them – mouthy
Mave would get the message across better than a host of daffodils.
Bev pulled a face; she needed more time to think it through but Frankie had arrived a couple of mins back, and was clearly on good form going by Mave’s cackles.
She took a last look round then dashed into the bedroom to grab some lip balm. She’d half-turned when it caught her eye. She did a double take. That was odd. She always left it in her bag;
certainly couldn’t recall taking it out last night. She flipped it over, took a steadying breath. Looking on the bright side, it was one less mystery to solve. She now knew where her stolen
ID was.
It was less clear why the thief had cut out her eyes.
The cold was making Bev’s eyes water: the cold and chilling thoughts about unlooked-for eye surgery. She ran harder; she’d soon warm up. She hadn’t said
anything to Frankie, didn’t want her to fret. As for Mave, Bev would buttonhole her after the run. If she made it. She was puffing like an asthmatic whale. As for Frankie – the girl who
was supposed to be recovering from injury – she was setting a cracking pace.
“What was all that about then, Bev?”
Bev aimed for casual. “I had a gentleman caller last night.”
“Lucky you. Left a box of Milk Tray, did he?”
“You watch too much telly.”
They ran in silence for a while, for which Bev was truly grateful. She concentrated on the run. It was amazing how the old fitness levels plummeted when you broke the exercise routine. Now that
she was just about hitting her stride, she realised that in a masochistic sort of way she’d actually missed it.
The streets were deserted at this time in the morning, apart from a couple of milk floats and the occasional 35 bus. The redbrick houses had that sleepy appearance of dimmed lights behind drawn
curtains. She caught the odd blast of John Humphrys drifting out of a window or two, Radio WM out of a few more. “Nothing changes, does it, Frankie?”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s, what, nearly a month since the last run? But everything carries on as per usual.” She pointed at a house coming up on the left. “They’ll have breakfast telly
on. We’ll get a whiff of bacon from number 12 and any minute now, you’ll get a whistle from Wolfie.”
They didn’t know his name but the guy at 17 left for work at the same time every morning. He invariably waited till they were a few doors along, but the two-tone greeting never
altered.
“There you go.” A few seconds later, he sailed past in a beat-up Beetle. Bev gave an ostentatious wave. “I rest my case.”