Authors: Maureen Carter
“What mind?” Bev asked.
He paused, deep in thought, then hunched over the table, cradled his head in his hands. There was a shudder in his next breath and another in the subsequent sigh. She glanced at the guv. My God.
Was the hard man cracking?
After what seemed like hours, he sat up, hands posed in surrender. “Is it too late?”
She answered quickly, her breathing suspended. “Too late for what?”
“To report the theft of my car.”
She wondered if he practised the smile in his mirror; imagined how it would look minus a few of those perfect white teeth. Thankfully, there was a knock on the door. Bev relieved Andy of the
tray, managed to resist dumping it in Charlie’s lap.
“No sugar for me. Everyone says I’m sweet enough. What do you think, Beverley?”
She gave him the finger.
“Should I describe the sergeant’s gesture for the tape, Superintendent?”
He was enjoying it. She went back to the door, out of harm’s way: his. Would nothing get under this scumbag’s skin?
“Let’s cut the crap, Charlie.” Byford changed tack and tone. It had the desired effect on Bev; no effect on Charlie. He must have played cool guy so often, he no longer
recognised the heat. Byford increased it.
“This story of yours about the motor. That’s all it is, isn’t it? A story. Once upon a time…” He leaned forward. “Only this time they didn’t all live
happily ever after. Michelle Lucas didn’t live at all. What happened, Charlie? You were her pimp. What went wrong? Did she get greedy? Did she want a bigger cut?”
“Not the most appropriate choice of words, Superintendent.” Charlie was scratching the back of his neck. Byford was dangerously close to wringing it. Bev had never seen the old man
so close taking a pop.
“Just supposing the girl had ever worked for me.” Charlie glanced at his watch. “And that’s a very big supposition, Mr Byford. But let’s just say she did. Why on
earth would I kill her? Fifteen years old? Beautiful girl like that?” He was barking, if he thought they’d fall for that. “Not that I knew her, of course.” He smiled.
“I saw her picture in the papers. A pimp would have to be mad to get rid of a kid like Michelle. Talk about killing the goose.”
“Profit and loss. That’s what it comes down to, is it, Charlie?” Bev asked.
He ignored her, held out his hands. “I’m a businessman, Mr Byford. I make killings all the time. On the market or on paper. Not in real life.”
“Tell me about Louella Kent. Where does she fit into this?”
“How the hell should I know?” A touch of impatience? Good. Bev folded her arms. “Look, I’m getting bored. How much longer is this going on?”
“Till you stop faffing around and tell us the truth.”
“I did not kill Michelle. I did not kill the other girl. I’ve never even heard of her.”
He sounded genuine, but then he would. God, thought Bev, why wasn’t it like cops-on-the-box, all cut and dried in an hour?
“I may have met Michelle,” he conceded. “I meet a lot of people. But I sure as hell never came across the Kent girl.”
He must have. Whoever killed Michelle had also killed Louella. It was all or nothing. He was leaning forward, his hands on the desk as though closer proximity would add credence. Bev returned to
her seat, regretting that the guv’s magic appeared to have vanished. They could do with another evidence bag of tricks.
Charlie glanced at his watch again.
“What’s up?” Bev asked. “Expecting visitors?”
He flashed a smile. “What a sense of humour! Must be great compensation when you’re such a dog.”
His veneer of charm had slipped. She tilted her head. “How kind.”
Byford cleared his throat. “I want to take you through your statement step by step. We’ve spoken to most of the people whose names you gave us. But there are one or
two…”
Bev tuned out, struck by a sudden thought. She narrowed her eyes. It was wing and prayerish. She hoped it wasn’t a flight of fancy. As she saw it, Charlie Hawes was better groomed than a
stable: manicured, pedicured; coiffeured. So how come his all-over tan wasn’t? How come he had a tidemark to rival Annie Flinn’s?
“When did you have your hair cut, Charlie?” she asked softly.
“What the —?”
“How long was it, Charlie?”
“Sod off — ”
“Tied it back, did you, Charlie?”
“Fuck you.”
“You first.”
She got up, stood in front of him, invaded his space. “You see, Charlie, we found a scrunchy near Louella’s body. It had lots of long dark hair in it. Long dark hair just like I bet
yours used to be. And you know what? We’re going to get a match.”
For the first time, he looked unsure. “Can’t be. I’ve never been near the girl.”
“That’s what you said about Michelle.”
“I’m being framed here.”
“Said that before too.” She smiled sweetly. “Didn’t you, Charles?”
Byford gave her a nod, scraped back his chair. “I’m suspending this interview for the time being.” She barely noticed the wind-down spiel for the tape; her focus was on Charlie
and his growing unease. It increased further when the guv spoke again. “You need to consider your position very seriously, Mr Hawes. I strongly recommend that when we resume you have your
solicitor present.”
32
“You look like a bleedin solicitor. What you playin’ at?”
Bev looked nothing like a brief. Not the Max Viner variety anyway. Charlie’s legal representative, the smooth-talking Mr V, was currently at Highgate earning his doubtless massive
remuneration. Jules’s was on the patch looking to make a few quid. Her comment wasn’t so much a reflection on Bev’s sad-git gear, more a disappointment that she wasn’t a
punter.
Bev had driven to Thread Street straight from work. It was a bad move. Jules’s face was still falling.
“Got me hopes up there,” she whined as Bev joined her at the railings. “Haven’t had a john since Tuesday.”
“Another quiet night on the Thread Street front?”
Jules gave an eloquent eye-roll. “Apart from Cyanide Lil and Marathon Man.”
“Marathon Man?”
“The runner. That bloke you saw the other night? Set your watch by him, you can. Oh! And a cheeky sod in a three-wheeler. He offered me a fiver. Said he’d settle up on pay
day.”
Bev grinned. “What did you say?”
“Told him I didn’t do charity cases and how come he’s always hangin’ round the job centre.”
Bev glanced at Jules. “How’d you know? You looking for work or something?”
She sniffed. “Could be.”
The crossed arms and tapping foot warded off further questions and anyway, Jules’s job prospects weren’t the reason Bev was here. “You on your own?”
“Yeah. Val’s got somefin’ on…”
“Makes a change.”
“…and the others are still twitchy.”
She watched as Jules scanned the street. The fake-leather coat was no match for the February cold. Jules was shivering and her bare legs looked like slabs of brawn. Bev was bringing good news,
but it could be better. It could be Hey Jules, you’ve won the lottery, you’ll never have to freeze your ass on a street corner again. Yeah, yeah. Yada yada.
“Look, love, I can’t say much at the mo but it looks as if it’ll all be over soon. Perhaps you can let the others know?”
Jules looked stunned. “You got someone banged up?”
“You could say that.” What with Charlie protesting his innocence and Ferguson still protesting his guilt, the cells had a glut of bad guys.
The momentary thrill had gone. Jules was staring at her wedgies. “If you’re talkin’ Charlie Hawes, you’ll never pin anythin’ on him.”
Bev narrowed her eyes. “I want a word about that.” It had been bugging her off and on since she’d left Val’s. “How come you knew it was Charlie being pulled in? As
far as you lot were concerned Charlie Hawes didn’t exist, you’d never heard of him, you wouldn’t know him from the invisible man.”
“Got a fag?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Well, what do you expect? Who’s dumb enough to admit knowin’ Charlie?”
“What’s so special about him? He’s just a bloke, Jules. And with a bit of luck, he’s going down. And staying down.”
“It’ll take more than a bit of luck. He’s got this place in his back pocket. Anyone who crosses Charlie’s gotta be tired of life.”
Bev sighed. The girl seemed to have shrunk. The feistiness had vanished. How come men like Hawes held such sway over girls like Jules? She’d seen it time and again: cases falling down
because a woman won’t stand up in court; sleazeballs walking free, then forcing their girls to pay. Women either backed off or lied through their teeth; more often than not, teeth the bastard
had broken. But not this time. This time was different.
“We’re nearly there, Jules. We’re nearly there.”
“Yeah. Well, forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.”
33
It had not been a good night. She’d arrived home curiously depressed after the conversation with Jules. Morriss Towers didn’t help. It was warm and cosy but –
as always – empty. Times like that, you needed to talk. Perhaps she should get a lodger? She’d recced all the rooms but the new locks had deterred visitors, authorised or otherwise. She
was reduced to talking to herself. Again.
“Okay, Bev, the evidence against Charlie isn’t enough for a conviction, but it’s early days. He’s not asbestos man and this time, he’s gonna burn.”
It took three large Grouse and a microwaved chicken Kiev before she actually began to believe it, and she’d woken next morning with a head that had a mind of its own. It had issued
warnings about imminent death without immediate oxygen. An early run seemed the only option.
It wasn’t as much fun without Frankie, not having anyone to talk to, but it was great for getting rid of the cerebral cobwebs. Wouldn’t like to do it on her own all the time, though.
Loneliness of the long distance runner and all that. Not that three miles qualified.
“Two down, one to go, Bev.” God. She must stop talking to herself. Not that there was anyone around. Not when the grass was skimmed with ice and her breath was like something out of
the Flying Scotsman. Still, you noticed things more when you weren’t rabbiting on about tasty blokes or wankers at work. Rustic touches like a trail of paw prints or baby snowdrops sprouting
in a crop of cotton buds. Crop of cotton buds? Pass the sick bag! What about all the glue-sniffing gear and empty cans of Special Strong Brew. Mind, it was good to be about when the park was quiet.
Couldn’t see the point in getting out later, pounding pavements, dodging lippy schoolkids and smoking exhausts. Still, horses for courses and all that. Jules’s Marathon Man didn’t
mind the fag end of the day. Set your clock by him, she said.
She stopped dead, heard her breathing in the still air as disjointed thoughts fell into a sort of focus. The Thread Street runner. It was his patch, as much as the girls. Had he been
interviewed? Had he seen anything? Had he come forward? And if not, why not?
It took a couple of false starts but Bev was propping up Marathon Man’s sink before he’d downed breakfast. Cyanide Lil had eventually pointed her in the right direction. There
weren’t many locals the old dear hadn’t clocked in her time and Bev was banging the bloke’s front door in line with the eight o’clock pips. He lived in a redbrick bed-sit.
Like many in Balsall Heath: gross on the outside, inside what you made it. Jack Crane hadn’t made much of it. He hadn’t made much of himself; his cheap grey tracksuit was out at the
knees and he’d obviously cut himself shaving. Either that or he had strange ways with bog roll. At thirty-something, he had a schoolboy fringe that fell into deep blue eyes. He wasn’t
one for clutter: bare walls, empty shelves, no knick-knacks or newspapers. She thought maybe he’d just moved in but the packing cases were Jack Crane’s idea of a dining suite.
He hadn’t stopped gabbing since he’d opened the door. He’d apologised for the mess, offered her a bacon sarnie, explained how the wife had kicked him out and how he was on
benefit. All this in the time it took to cross the cracked lino into what passed for a kitchen. Yet she didn’t get the impression he was jumpy, just saw a lonely guy glad to have someone to
talk to, even if she was a copper.
“Sure I can’t get you something? Piece of toast? Coffee?” He was hovering like an anxious waiter.
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Finish yours.”
He perched on the only stool, self-consciously forking scrambled eggs. “I eat as well as I can.”
She nodded. Bloke sounded almost apologetic. “Have to. Running like you do.”
“I love it. Keeps me going in more ways than one. I don’t smoke, don’t drink. Can’t afford a telly. I’d go mad if I stopped in this place all day.”
“That’s what I want to talk about. Your evening runs.”
She waited while he swallowed. “Thought you said it was to do with a murder inquiry?”
“It is. You may have seen something that could help us.”
“Happy to. When did it happen?”
Bev studied his face. Was it possible he didn’t know? “Not it. Them. Two girls. You haven’t heard anything?”
“Should I have?”
“It’s been in the news a lot. Loads of people talking about it down the pub, that sort of thing.”
He shrugged. “Not my scene.”
She gave him edited highlights, concentrating on dates, times. His face was rapt, set in concentration.
“Can’t help you with Tuesday. There was a big protest in Thread Street. Threw me off my regular course.”
She nodded, impatient. “What about the Friday before?”
He had a mobile face, she could see him playing the events of the evening in his mind. Come on, come on.
“No.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t have been…”
“What?” The outburst filled the tiny space. “Sorry, Mr Crane. What couldn’t have been?”
He was so slow. This was so painful.
“I didn’t see any girl. Nothing like that.” There was an unspoken but. He frowned, met her gaze. “He seemed a nice bloke.”
“Who did?”
“Said he’d had a fall.”
“Who did?”
“This bloke. Looked all shook-up. Had quite a tumble. I took him for another runner. Lot of blood on his top.”
“Can you remember what he looked like?”