Authors: Maureen Carter
“With you,” Bev feigned enlightenment. “You only tell porkies to pigs you don’t know.”
Vicki laughed. “Porkies. Pigs. Good, that.”
Bev made a face. Vicki got the drift. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Anyway the old lady’s gaff’s a no-no if her toy boy’s around.”
“Toy boy?”
“Steve.”
Bev waited for more but Vicki was chasing the last piece of batter round her plate. “It’s still your home, Vick.”
“Yeah. Let’s just say two’s company where that pair’s concerned. Except for the baby, of course.”
“Baby?”
“Lucie. She’s a right little doll. Come as a right shock, though. I thought the old lady was past all that nappy changing lark.”
“How old’s your ma, Vick?”
The girl turned her mouth down. “Thirty-two, three? Something like that.”
“Well ancient.” Bev sniffed.
“You got kids, Bevvie?”
She shook her head. She had the maternal instincts of a Sumo wrestler. “I still can’t see why you can’t go round, Vick.”
“Got chucked out on my arse, didn’t I? She caught him givin’ me the eye. Next thing – I’m out on my elbow.”
Bev kept up with the anatomical references but they still didn’t make sense. “I don’t get it. You get slung out. And he’s still there?” Shit. Didn’t anyone
have a proper home these days? A mum and dad; meat and two veg? Bev’s parents hadn’t been perfect but they had been there. Okay, so the old man had been down at the pub as well, but he
didn’t come back all rat-arsed and flying fists. Her mum was still cut up and he’d been dead five years. The chances of them showing her the door were bigger than winning the Lottery
– twice. Bev had left home years ago, and Emmy Morriss was still peeved.
“What happens if this bloke’s there, then?”
Vicki was removing all traces of sauce with the last of her bread and butter. “Somethin’ll turn up.”
Bev was toying with the idea of the spare room at her place. She knew all about keeping a professional distance but maybe that was the problem. Everyone Vicki had ever known kept a distance.
Maybe she should mention it to Mave? Mave’d had the odd PG in the past. Very odd, come to think of it. Anyway, crossing bridges and all that. She’d wait and see. “Want a
lift?”
Vicki grinned. “Gonna put the flashers on and do the old naa-naas?”
“You’ve been watching too much telly.” She scraped the chair back. “You comin’, or what.”
Vicki looked up and slowly crossed her legs. “Nah. It’s just the way I’m sitting.”
Bev shook her head, gave a wry smile. The kid had lost her home but was clinging to a sort of sense of humour; there was a grin from ear to multiple-pierced ear. The girl’s beam gave way
to a sudden frown.
“What is it, Vick?”
“I don’t know where Charlie hangs out.” She tapped the side of her nose. “But I know a girl who does.” Vicki rose, tugged at the skirt clinging to her thighs.
“First we have to find her. Then we get her to talk.”
Vicki’s eyes shone; her excitement was catching. A girl groomed by Mad Charlie would have a sack load of goodies. Bev was hoping that Charlie’s Girl was one of life’s
sharers.
“In a word, guv: diddlysquat.” Bev puffed out her cheeks. It was late. She was knackered. Her high hopes of tracking down Vicki’s mate had been dashed. Not even a companiable
nightcap – half a finger of Famous Grouse – in the boss’s office was compensation. She’d hit every dive in town and drawn blank after blank. “As Vicki put it, guv:
the bird has flown.” ‘Fucked off,’ was what Vicki had actually said. Bev was giving edited highlights; Byford could be iffy about bad language.
“Done a runner more like,” he said.
She took a sip of scotch, not sure she liked where he was going “How do you mean?”
“You know as well as me, Bev, these girls don’t want to talk to cops at the best of times.” She waited as he reached down to retrieve a copy of the local rag from an
overflowing bin. “This is hardly that.”
It was the
Star
’s final edition. Michelle Lucas’s image was splashed across five columns, complete with coffee stains and tea leaves. Bev shook her head: the girl’s
murder was already yesterday’s news. She took it from him, skimmed through Matt Snow’s so-called exclusive. She shook her head again and gave a suitable snort. The only thing he
hadn’t made up was the girl’s name, and even that was misspelt. “My God,” she said. “What happened to all that stuff about not speaking ill of the dead?”
Byford wasn’t speaking at all. She glanced up: he was leaning back, eyes closed. She yawned, laid the paper to one side. It had been a long day. And night. And the prospect was more of the
same. There was already a mountain range of paper work: statements from the dead girl’s teachers, friends, staff at the home. Then there were the door-to-doors, the crank calls and the usual
string of confessions from the local nutters. Two Jack the Rippers had left blood-stained letters at the front desk.
She looked at Byford again; had he dropped off? She cleared her throat, stage whisper style.
“I’m resting my eyes,” he murmured.
She smiled; he was as knackered as her. He’d been leaving the building as she arrived but had seemed keen to turn round and hear how the evening had panned out. Perhaps, like her, he
didn’t always fancy going back to an empty house.
She downed the scotch and was debating whether to slip out when he got to his feet.
“Come on, Bev. You look shattered. Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll walk you to that arrangement of corroded metal you call your car.”
She held the door, waiting while he logged off and extinguished lights. “Dunno about shut-eye,” she said. “I certainly had my eyes opened tonight.”
“I’m intrigued. Go on.”
The walk to the car park was accompanied by a lively account of Bev’s venture into the city’s low-life night life. Vicki had been an invaluable, not to say voluble guide. Despite the
disappointment, they’d had a few laughs; more than that, Bev reckoned they’d got on really well. The girl had a wicked sense of humour and a tongue like a needle; it was sharp and had
Bev in stitches. She was talking Byford through the best bits but he wasn’t exactly rolling in the aisle. “What’s up, guv?”
“Nothing. Carry on.”
“Anyway, Vick says…”
“Vick seems to have had a lot to say tonight.”
There was a hint of something in his voice; the emphasis he put on the girl’s name. Bev couldn’t pin it down and the glance at his face didn’t help. “Problem with
that?”
“You make it sound like a girls’ night out, Bev.” There was no mistaking the disapproval this time.
She took a deep breath, told herself to chill. “That’s not fair and it isn’t true.” She added a reluctant “Sir.”
“She’s an informant and a potential witness, not a mate. There’s a professional distance to keep.”
She was furious. He had no right. She wasn’t some bloody rookie. Then thoughts of futons and spare rooms flashed in her head. Okay, maybe he had a point. It didn’t lessen her anger;
made it worse. Now she was cross with herself as well as him.
His face softened. “It’s a gentle reminder, Bev, that’s all.”
They were almost at her MG. An inept spray job with insufficient black paint had added a certain
je ne sais quoi
to the original shade of chicken-crap sallow. The Midget looked like a
malformed hornet, but she’d christened it Trigger in an optimistic attempt to inject horsepower. She unlocked the door, aware Byford was still by her side. Maybe he regretted the earlier
stuff.
“I’d like to meet the girl, Bev. You’ve given her quite a buildup.” He smiled.
Bev nodded. It was an apology of sorts but she was still smarting. He was still hovering. “Come on, Bev. I have faith in you. You know that.”
She relented. He was a good bloke and he had her interests at heart. She smiled. “Ta, guv. I reckon I know how to handle her. Trust me on this.”
“Sure. I think she could be crucial to the inquiry, as well, Bev. She was very close to young Michelle. When are you interviewing her again?”
“Tomorrow, hopefully.”
“Hopefully?”
She heard what he was not saying: that ‘hope’ wasn’t enough. But a definite meet had been difficult to set up. She’d dropped Vicki round the corner from her ma’s
but it was no guarantee she’d spend the night there. “She’s almost NFA, guv. She said she’d get to Highgate as soon as she could. If there’s a problem, she’ll
give me a bell.”
“You gave her your number? Your home number?” He was more surprised by that than by Vicki’s no fixed abode status.
Bev crossed her fingers; hated porkies. “Nah. Here. Front desk’ll get a message to me.” She watched him open his mouth to remonstrate, then presumably changed his mind. In
Bev’s mind was an image of Vicki, tottering on her wedgies down an unlit street to a house she could no longer call her home. Bev felt she’d let the girl down, should have stuck up for
her in the face of Byford’s criticism. She knew it was irrational but tried to redress the balance anyway.
“She’s a nice girl, boss. She’s had a rough time. Been through a lot of shit.”
“Think of Michelle. Another nice girl. Dead. Covered in it. Be careful, Bev. That’s all I’m saying.”
The words rang in her head all the way home.
6
“The bells…the bells.”
Bev staggered out of bed, completing her impromptu Quasimodo with a bleary-eyed lurch towards the alarm. The clock, a fraternal Christmas present, was blaring from behind rainbow curtains on the
far side of the room. She hid it in a different place every night. The daily enforced fumble in the dark meant less chance of a return to the duvet.
She yawned, headed for the bathroom. It might be Sunday, but Bev’s gut told her it was not going to be a day of rest. She studied her face in the mirror over the basin.
“Now look, punk. Are you gonna have a good day?” She paused, did a passable Clint Eastwood: “Or are you gonna have a good day?”
The morning mantra was more Felix Barry than Dirty Harry. Felix tried hard to teach her Tai Chi. Not hard enough. The job kept getting in the way. Still, Felix was a fervent proponent of
positive thought and verbal reinforcement. Bev reckoned anything was worth a try.
A pee and a shower, and it was back to the boudoir to grab a suit. Days of dithering in front of the mirror were long gone. She now wore blue. Blue. Or occasionally: blue. Picasso could have
painted her wardrobe. She still hadn’t sewn the button on her skirt’s waistband and was scrabbling round for a safety pin when there was a hammering on the door.
“Hold on. I’m coming.”
It had to be Mave. Who else was going to come calling before seven on a Sunday? It was. She breezed in bearing a plate of bacon sandwiches and trailing a blend of Persil and Players.
“Get these down your neck. You can’t operate on an empty stomach.”
Bev grinned. There was enough to keep the BMA going for a fortnight. “You’re a star, Mave. Know that?”
“Milky Way, me, mate.”
Some people have neighbours; Bev had Mavis Holdsworth. Think Joan Collins on income support, out of Oxfam. Mave looked on Bev as the daughter she’d never had.
“What’s up?” Bev asked.
“Me.” Mave said as if a single syllable was sufficient.
“And?” Bev grabbed the kettle.
“I’m up when I should be in bed. It’s supposed to be my day off.” Mave was the manageress and queen of the Washwell Deluxe Laundrette and Dry Cleaners.
“And?” Bev waved Mave’s resident mug in the air – interpreted the shrug of narrow shoulders and chucked in a tea bag.
“Rita’s called in sick again, hasn’t she?” Mave worked with a woman who had more time off than a stopped watch.
“Never mind. Least it’s not far to go.”
A flight of stairs to be precise. Their maisonettes were above a row of shops that included the launderette, a dodgy vid store and a deli to die for.
Mave pointed at Bev, pointed at the bacon butties and took over the teamaking. “I wouldn’t care, but it’s not the first time.” She did care. Mavis chewed gum incessantly;
her mouth was going like a piston.
Bev was munching smoked back and Sunblest. She could only nod. Besides, she didn’t want to get involved. Not that Mave seemed to notice.
“Twenty hours a week she’s s’posed to do. By arrangement with me.”
The woman was positively bristling. Nose out of joint? Or something more? It wasn’t like Mave to take a downer on anyone. Looking on the bright side and seeing the best was Mave’s
style. It was the unswerving cheerfulness that had endeared her to Bev in the first place. That, plus her propensity to pick up the odd bit of gossip with the ease of an industrial hoover.
“A sickie’s a sickie. Not much you can do.” Bev said.
Mave stuck her gum on the side of her mug and took a gulp of steaming tea. “It’s one thing after another, Bev. Bruised ribs. Sprained wrist. Detached retsina.”
“Retina.”
“Same diff.”
A Greek Adonis, bearing crystal glasses on a silver tray across a golden beach, flashed before Bev’s eyes. “Not quite.”
“I mean, Bev, how many doors can one woman walk into?”
“What you saying, Mave?”
“She’s either swinging the lead,” Mave finished the tea and retrieved her Wrigley’s, “or some bastard’s swinging it at her.”
“Shit!” Bev had caught sight of the clock on the cooker. “I’ve got seven and a half minutes to get to Highgate.”
The woman’s face fell. “Sorry, Mave. Do you want me to have a word with her? Rita, isn’t it?”
Mavis sniffed. “She won’t talk. I’ve tried to get her to open up. She won’t say a word.”
“I can have a go.” Bev smiled as she shrugged into her jacket. “They don’t call me silver-tongued Morriss for nothing, y’know.”
“Pay them, do you?”
That was more like it. Bev winked. “Cheeky tart.”
“Cassie Swain’s our best bet.” Bev looked round, encouraged by a few nodding heads.
The whole team was now up to speed – a meagre two miles a fortnight, she reckoned – and a subdued Byford sat back, having just thrown the briefing open. Bev was on her feet at the
front, chucking in her two penn’orth. “The girls were the same age. Went to the same school. Shared a room at Fair Oaks.”