Working Girls (7 page)

“Not all they shared, is it?” Bev recognised the voice, forced herself not to show a reaction. Twenty bodies were crowded into the incident room and, without looking up from her
notes, she’d bet eighteen pairs of eyes were now focused on Mike Powell. She’d spotted him earlier, leaning against a side wall, examining his nails.

“Not sure what you’re saying.” She tried to match his casual delivery, but her heart sank. She wasn’t in the mood. She was tempted to sit, decided to stand her ground.
Everyone knew the girls were on the game but what was Powell playing?

“Both in the same line of business, weren’t they?”

Eyes were back on her now. It felt like the centre court at Wimbledon. She tried to ignore the crowd; kept her voice level. “And that makes them what? Stupid? Unreliable? Liars?”

“It makes them tarts. Lie as soon as look at you. False names. Fake addresses. That’s when they’re talking at all. When it comes to pimps – they’ve all taken a vow
of silence.”

She was aware of bums shifting; of her own foot tap-tap-tapping and a trickle of sweat, cold down her back. She’d met a handful of cops who openly admitted hating whores; bragged about it;
wouldn’t touch vice with a sterile barge pole. But Powell? She had zilch time for the man, but she wouldn’t have put him in that underclass. He was probably just on the bait.

“And we all know why,” she said. “They’re shit scared. If a girl opens her mouth she gets a size ten in it. That’s if she’s lucky and doesn’t wake up in
Casualty.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waited, there was clearly more to come.

“Blame it on the blokes. The toms are all little pussy-cats, aren’t they, Morriss?”

There were a few sniggers but the man was so dense, the double entendre was probably unwitting. Bev shook her head, aware they were waiting for a one-liner; a Morriss special, but instead of
Wimbledon, this was beginning to resemble something out of
Gladiators –
and guess who was the Christian?

Byford was getting to his feet; thank God.

“That’s it,” he snapped. “A young girl’s been murdered. For whatever reason, she was on the game. If anyone has a problem with that, they’d better say so.
Now.”

Bev glanced at Powell whose hands were spread, palms-up.

“No problem.”

“I’m glad to hear it. We’ve wasted enough time here. You all know what’s needed. The teacher interviews need finishing. The gaps on the house-to-house have to be plugged.
Mike and I still have a few people from the CUTS campaign to track down. And Bev, I want you to look for Cassie Swain.”

A phone rang. He ignored it. “It’s twenty-four hours since the murder and unless anyone has any better ideas…”

“Guv.” D C Newman had his hand over the mouthpiece. “No need for a search party. Cassie Swain’s turned up. It’s the General. She’s in Intensive
Care.”

Bev’s palms tingled. She wanted to slap the smirk off the bloody woman’s face. The badge on her seriously white coat said Dr Thorne. And she was – in Bev’s side.

She and young Ozzie had been kept waiting in a room the size of a soap dish so long that Bev had gone through enough coffee to keep the Brazilian economy afloat. Oz didn’t touch the stuff.
He’d only been in CID a few weeks, hadn’t had time to pick up too many bad habits. Bev was supposed to be keeping an eye on him. DC Khan was the tastiest bloke at Highgate, it was no
hardship. Thorne, on the other hand, was a pain.

“Can you be more specific?” Bev’s tone was polite.

The response was not. “The girl’s jaw’s smashed. A fair number of her teeth have been knocked out. And if the swelling in her skull doesn’t go down – we’ll be
lucky to save her. So. No. I can’t.”

Bev had no problem with a woman five years younger, fifteen kilos lighter, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Kate Moss. It was the doctor’s attitude that was the pisser. From the
second the woman had swept in, she’d looked down. She did it so well, Bev reckoned she practised. Bev moved closer. She’d had a bad night; kept awake by vague worries she couldn’t
pin down. Sleep – when it came – had been fitful and filled with gory images of Michelle and other girls she’d known. This Bright Young Thing crap she could do without.

“What’s your problem, love?” Even to her own ears, it was a threat. She felt Ozzie’s gaze on her.

Doctor Thorne had an uncertain smile on her face. “I beg your pardon?”

Bev was standing, feet apart, arms folded. “I’m not asking you to beg my pardon. I’m asking for a bit of respect.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do. I’ve been hanging round so long someone wanted to plant flowers.” She jabbed a finger in the air. “When you eventually get your act together –
it’s a one-liner saying sweet FA.”

“I don’t have time for this. I’m a busy person.” She was fondling a stethoscope slung casually round her neck. Bev wasn’t impressed by the prop; she’d seen
enough episodes of
ER
to bluff her way into medical school.

“And I’m not?” She felt Ozzie’s hand on her arm. Another time, she’d have left it there. You could file nails on his graduate cheekbones. She kept her gaze on the
doctor who was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain eye contact.

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s exactly what you’re saying. Your attitude? It sucks.”

“Sarge?”

Bev looked at Oz. He was tapping his watch. She glanced at the time. “Okay, okay. I’m out of here.” She turned to the doctor. “Let’s hope, Ms Thorne, that I get to
the mad bastard out there, before some other kid gets a taste for hospital food. Not that you can eat a lot when your jaw’s wired and your teeth have gone AWOL.”

The woman ran her hands through her hair. Bev watched as it fell perfectly into place.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m dead on my feet.” The voice hadn’t got much life either. Bev examined the doctor’s face. Faint mauve smudges were just perceptible
beneath the immaculate make-up under the eyes; she’d probably been on call for ages without so much as a Kit Kat.

But Bev was fresh out of compassion. “And Michelle Lucas is dead. Full stop.”

Dr Thorne looked set to argue but capitulated quietly. “Point taken.”

Bev capitalised by pushing another. “Cassie Swain? We really need to speak to her.”

The doctor shook her head. “I really don’t know. I’m concerned about the head injury. The next few hours are crucial.”

What about the hours Cassie had already lost? Beaten and kicked within an inch, then tossed onto a skip. Not hidden. Not buried. Half way down Thread Street. It was a message. A bloody message.
And what if old Bert hadn’t been on the trawl? Thank God for insomniac winos. Bev shivered. She picked up her bag; they’d get nothing here. There was a clock on the wall. It had been
bugging her all morning. She pointed. “That needs a new battery.”

“Don’t we all?” the doctor said.

Bev smiled. Superwoman might be human after all. She glanced at Ozzie. “We’d best be off.” They were almost through the door when the woman relented and called them back.
Bloody hell, Bev realised, Thorne looked even better when she let down the barriers, stopped trying to put on her official face.

“Leave me your number. If there’s any change. Anything at all. I’ll let you know.”

“You’re on.” Bev took a card from her bag, scribbled on the back. It was only a few hours since she’d done the same for Vicki. Which reminded her… why hadn’t
the girl been in touch?

“Don’t want mine as well, do you?” The voice had hope rather than conviction.

“No, DC Khan.” Bev shook her head, smiling. “She does not.”

Ronnie Leigh wiped lager from rubbery lips and burped. It was 11am and this was a house call that was going no further than the front step. “Bright for a cop. Aren’t you?” His
right hand transferred the excess alcohol to denims that had once been blue.

Powell moved forward but Byford put out a restraining hand.

“Perhaps we could talk about your involvement in CUTS, Mr Leigh.”

Byford had verbal and visual evidence that put Ronnie in the campaigners’ frame but Ronnie refused to be drawn; he scratched his groin with thick hairy fingers. “And perhaps we
couldn’t.”

Byford sighed. “This isn’t getting us very far.”

Ronnie made to close the door. “You do your job, copper. I’ll do mine.”

Byford put a foot in the jamb. “What exactly is your line of business these days, Ronnie?” This was not small talk. He knew Ronnie’s history so well he’d pass the
exam.

“I’m on the sick.”

“Nothing trivial, I hope?” Powell’s bright smile confused the man.

“Nah. Bit of back trouble.”

“Have to watch what you lift, do you, Ronnie?” Byford was at it now.

“You bein’ funny?”

“I’m being serious. Dead serious. That break-in at The Eagle? Your name’s all over it, Ronnie.” Byford was busking; he had no particular incident in mind, but the pub had
seen more raids than a kid’s piggy bank. Keeping track of Ronnie’s record was difficult. Even for Ronnie.

Byford’s surmise struck gold. He watched as the man’s alcohol-induced flush drained, leaving his face whiter than his T-shirt.

“That was nothing to do with me, you bastard.”

“That’s not what my man says.” Byford looked at his watch. “Come on, Mike. Let’s get back. That warrant should be about ready.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Ronnie was rubbing his chin. Byford didn’t think the man was considering a shave. “I can’t help with the girl. I didn’t see
nothin’.”

“Save it.” Byford gave a mock salute. “See you in an hour. Don’t go walkabout, Ronnie.” He stepped back as the man reached to grab his arm. Byford wasn’t
overly fastidious but Ronnie’s personal hygiene left everything to be desired.

“There’s no need for that, Mr Byford. I haven’t been near The Eagle for months. Honest.”

Powell put his hand to the door. “Won’t mind us taking a look round then, will you?”

Panic crossed Ronnie’s irregular features. He clearly didn’t want them in the house and it wasn’t because he hadn’t got round to the hoovering. Byford made a mental note:
The Eagle might be a non-starter but Ronnie Leigh had been up to something.

“How ’bout if I keep my ear to the ground. Let you know if I hear anything?”

Given Ronnie’s shady network, it wasn’t a bad offer.

Byford shook his head. “Not good enough.”

Ronnie’s glance darted between the two men. Byford noticed a line of sweat where the lager had been. “One thing I do know…”

Byford raised his eyebrows, waited.

“Tonight. Thread Street. There’s gonna be a show of force.” He leaned forward, dropped his voice. “And I’m not talking police force.”

Bev replaced the phone. “I’ll get over it.” She sat back, tried to relax. World’s worst passenger, Bev. Ordinarily, she’d be behind the wheel but there’d been
a couple of calls she needed to make. Recalling them brought back the concern. Vicki still hadn’t turned up. There’d been no word left at the desk and no message on Bev’s
answerphone. What to make of it? She’d thought they were beginning to make a connection. She didn’t want to think Vicki had done a bunk. But what did she know? She wanted to believe her
but Vicki could have been lying through her lip piercing. She was a free agent, wasn’t she? The outside chance that she might not be was another thing Bev didn’t want to think about.
There wasn’t time.

“We stopping for a bite after this?”

She glanced at Ozzie’s profile. Talk about tasty; he was Darcy with a suntan. She found herself musing about pleasing countenances, gentle dispositions and Ozzie wading out of the nearest
lake. She was miles away.

“Sarge?”

“Sorry, Oz. Things on my mind.”

“Must be good,” he said. “I’ve never seen you smile like that.”

Boy. He’d been looking at her. “Keep your eyes on the road, Constable.” Shit. Why had she said that? She sounded like a sodding driving instructor.

“Anyway, Sarge, we stopping or what?”

Yeah, tongue sandwich. Stop it, Beverley! “Best not. There’s too much to get through, Oz.”

“Fair enough.”

They drove in silence for a while. Bev was calculating whether she’d have a chance to pop home before Byford’s Thread Street briefing. There’d obviously be a plod presence but
the boss wanted a few of his own people out as well.

Oz was clearly thinking along the same battle lines. “Reckon there’ll be trouble tonight?”

She shrugged. “Depends on the turnout. If the girls get wind of it and stay home, the johns won’t hang around. Could be a damp squib.” She yawned.

“Hope so. I could do with an early night.” Oz turned left into a wide, tree-lined street. “What number we after?”

“Twenty-two.” She spotted it. “Just passed it. Go to the end and turn round.”

“Posh ’ere, innit?”

She was coming to the same conclusion. The Cedars estate was the sort of place estate agents tell the truth about. Half-beamed, black and whites. Mock Tudor, real money. Some of the garages were
bigger than Bev’s last bedsit. So were the cars, come to that.

She sniffed, put a pound of plums in her mouth. “Very Edge-bar-ston, dahling.”

He grinned. “Ooh, don’t.”

“What?”

“I love it when you talk clean.”

“Daft sod.” She smiled: not just a pretty face, Oz.

They pulled up. He gave a low whistle. “How much are teachers on these days?”

“Dunno. Reckon we’re in the wrong game?” She consulted a hastily scribbled note. “Anyway. This bloke’s a Head of Year. The ones kids are supposed to go to if
there’s a problem.”

“Must have seen a lot of Michelle then.”

A sign told them to Beware of the Dog. She reckoned there should have been another warning callers about the bell; it played Greensleeves.

“Mr Brand? Henry Brand?”

She was looking at a small, portly man, probably mid-fifties. Half-moon glasses were perched on a high domed forehead, kept in position by ear flaps she reckoned he could land a plane with. He
didn’t look at her and addressed his remarks to Ozzie. “I’m not buying anything. I’m an agnostic. And I contribute every month to a charity of my choice.” He was about
to close the door.