Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

  She sneaked a glance at Powell’s face which appeared to consist mostly of mouth.

  “That’s after you’ve filled in the inspector.”

  “Any time, guv.” She knew Byford had a soft spot for her, but he rarely made it so obvious. She shouted a somewhat belated “Catch you later” at his retreating back.

  “Talking of catching things,” Powell baited. “Where are the worms, Morriss?”

  “You what?”

  “Early birds and all that..?”

  “Yeah. Right.” She wasn’t rising this time; getting to the scene first had nothing to do with brownie points. She lived closer; simple as that. She turned away, concentrated on the activity around the body. Michelle Lucas’s brutal death was attracting a lot more interest than her short life. A photographer was taking shots from every angle; then there’d be the movie version; then there’d be the close ups: samples and swabs extracted from every orifice. As for what would happen on the slab – Bev didn’t even want to think about that.

  “Where the hell’s Goughie?” Powell demanded. “There’ll be a few worms on her, if he doesn’t hurry up.”

  “Watch what you’re saying.” The man was an arsehole.

  “No point getting all sensitive, Morriss. Look at her.”

  “I’ve seen her. I was here before you. Remember?”

  “You’ll have clocked it already then, won’t you?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Clocked what?”

  “Come on, Morriss. Where’s your inititative? You don’t need me to tell you. It’s staring you in the face.”

  She knew what he was getting at, just couldn’t believe he was going there. “Enlighten me.”

  “Look at her, Morriss. She was a tom.”

  Bev hated the expression. It was police-speak – police like Powell, anyway. “If you mean she was a prostitute, why don’t you say so?”

  “What? ‘A rose by any name..?’ Call her what you like, Morriss, she was a whore.”

  He was probably right. Bev had recognised the possibility the minute she’d laid eyes on the body. But right now, that’s all it was. And even if it was confirmed – so what?

  “That makes all this okay, then, does it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t you?” She wanted to knock the smirk off his face.

  “It goes with the territory, Morriss. It’s a meat market out there.”

  Even without last year’s secondment to vice, Bev knew she had a sensitivity that Powell – and most of the blokes, come to that – would never achieve.

  “Listen, Cliché Man, you’re talking bollocks.”

  “Oh! Pardon me! I didn’t realise I’d been granted an audience with Mother Superior.”

  He bowed his head in mock supplication. Bev turned on her heel before she said something she wouldn’t regret, but he grabbed her arm.

  “A few weeks on tom-watch doesn’t give you divine insight, Morriss.”

  She shook him off before making eye contact. “Vice squad. Six months. Acting Inspector.”

  “Have it cracked by breakfast then, won’t you?” Powell countered.

  “Breakfast? I should be so bloody lucky.” The voice was unmistakeable. Bev greeted Harry Gough with a warm smile. She’d never quite got used to a Del-boy soundalike who was the spit of Richard Burton.

  “The sodding alarm didn’t go off. There I am having a bit of how’s-your-father with the luscious Sarah Montague. Next thing I know, one of your geezers is on the blower telling me to come as fast as I can. I ask you. What’s a bloke to do?”

  Bev laughed. Goughie was so old school, he was classic. He’d be hanging up his scalpel in eighteen months and nothing was going to change the old boy now. As far as Harry was concerned, PC was either a young bobby or a saucy postcard. Bev didn’t have a problem with that; at least it was in-your-face, not between-your-shoulder-blades.

  “So what did you do, Mr Gough?”

  “Shot out of the sheets and prayed to God I’d have the same nocturnal visitation tonight.”

  She smiled. Despite his advancing years and regressive attitudes, Goughie was as good as pathologists get. One of his juniors had once told Bev that his nickname at the morgue was Psycho. It was payback for all the times he called them ‘a bloody shower.’

  “What’ve we got then?” he asked, peeling on surgical gloves.

  She ran through what little they knew, watched as Gough’s expression changed half a dozen times. Eventually, he knelt by the girl’s body, not caring whether the slowly thawing earth soiled his dark suit. The initial examination was by sight, seemingly long moments spent in visual study and assessment. It was Gough’s way – like the guv, she realised. She watched the man’s ice-blue eyes linger over every contour and crevice. They widened and narrowed, registering and recording.

  Powell’s tuneless whistling was beginning to bug her. Like a Virgin was either a deliberate wind-up or incredibly crass. She glared furiously but he was studying his watch.

  “In a hurry, lad?” Gough asked. Bev hid a smile; Goughie never missed a trick. “More haste, less speed, young man. You know what they say?” The pathologist met Powell’s eyes. “Softly, softly, catchy monkey.”

  “Start at the zoo then, shall I?” It was an attempt at humour. Powell was the only one laughing.

  “Not funny, sonny.” Gough said. “Why don’t you cut the comedy and get on with the job?”

  It was unfair but Powell had asked for it. Bev did her UN peacekeeping bit.

  “What can you tell us, Mr Gough?”

  “The body’s a punch bag. Poor kid. None of the marks are that recent: three days, maybe four. She could have fallen. More likely to have been a fist, or a boot. I’ll know more when I get her on the slab.”

  Bev had already noted the bruising on the shin and inner thigh, filed it under pimp?

  “Cause of death’s pretty obvious,” Powell proffered.

  Bev glanced at the pathologist. Even tiptoeing on Goughie’s territory was not to be advised. Words like fool and angel rushed to mind.

  “Really, Inspector?” said Gough. “Do share.”

  Bev’s eyes widened as Powell mimed a throat being cut.

  “How terribly illuminating.” Gough turned his back on the DI. “As Doctor Powell has kindly pointed out, Bev, a slashed throat is not conducive to good health. Especially in this case. The blade’s gone through the jugular and the carotid. She was killed here. You can see how much blood she’s lost, how it’s spurted, the spray it’s left. I’d say she didn’t have a clue. There’s little sign of a struggle, no defensive wounds. She was attacked from behind, taken by surprise and dead by the time he lowered her down.”

  “He?” Bev asked.

  Gough paused, considering. “Could have been a woman, I suppose. No great strength needed. Especially, as I say, with the element of surprise.”

  She nodded. “Any thoughts on the weapon?”

  “Sharp, that’s for sure. Look at that wound.”

  Bev had seen enough. “Doc Jordan reckoned about nine hours?”

  “Gone already, has he?” Gough asked.

  Paul Jordan was on the GP call-out list. A new boy, or he wouldn’t have left the scene without having a word with Goughie.

  “Yeah. Emergency call,” Bev white-lied.

  “I’ll not argue with him. Not yet anyway.” Gough rose, removing the gloves. “I’ll do the biz this afternoon.”

  She watched Gough climb the slope; she’d miss the old boy when he retired.

  “I’m going up to the school, Morriss. Have a word with the guv.”

  Powell was easier to read than a primer. “Okay,” she said. “‘I’ll hang round a while. See what they turn up.”

  As well as the SOCOs, a team of officers and dog handlers was scouring the park for any trace of Michelle Lucas’s last movements. They’d be bagging butt ends and bus tickets, spent matches and crumpled packets; every scrap of humanity and sign of life, to try to unearth a pointer to the girl’
s death.

  Bev walked away from the body, noticed again the scuffed shoe. She thought of glass slippers and fairy stories and sighed. Michelle was no Cinderella and any prospect of living happily ever after had been written off in the first chapter.

  She frowned, went down on one knee, something had caught her eye. She glanced round for a twig, used it to prop up the shoe then peered closer. Lining the sole was a stash of cash. Ten-pound notes. Dirty money. Bev shook her head. Finding this particular piece of evidence gave her no pleasure. Out with the vice, kerb trawling, it was the first place they looked. It was the oldest trick in the book of the oldest profession. And it cleared up any remaining doubt that young Michelle Lucas was a fully paid-up member.

  2

  “Any of you lot seen Shell?”

  Five pairs of young eyes reluctantly left their appreciation of Orlando Bloom’s glistening pectorals and glanced towards the door.

  “’ere, Vicki. Come and get a load of this.” The invitation was issued by a skinny girl with bright red hair and a nose stud. But Vicki Flinn had laid eyes – and other body parts – on more naked flesh than Stud and the other kids had wolfed down TV dinners. She was unmoved by heat’s latest centrefold, spread as he was across a corner table at the Copper Kettle caff.

  “I’m in a rush, Rose. Any idea where she is?” Vicki asked.

  Maybe the nasal attachment gave the girl an authority denied the others, but Rose was clearly their mouthpiece. “We ain’t seen her for ages. She ain’t been in school all week. You ’ang round with ’er more than us, anyroad.”

  Vicki frowned. It was true. She was a couple of years older than Shell. Been on the game that much longer. Shell was the only one who’d shown any interest. Rose and her cronies got what they wanted from shoplifting, not dropping their knickers. Kids who lived at home and had family – such as it was – didn’t want to know. Shell was different. She and Vicki had big plans. They were going to work the streets together, get some readies, then leg it. They’d get out of Birmingham, start a business some place: hairdressing maybe, or a sandwich bar. First she’d got to get Shell away from Mad Charlie.

  “You sure she ain’t been in?” It was nearly 10am. They were supposed to have met outside the Odeon at nine, go to Mac’s for a bite to eat, then pick up a few bits and pieces in town. Rose’s attention was elsewhere; one of her badly-bitten nails was tracing a line round Orlando’s navel. “Rose! Are you listenin’?”

  “I’ve told you once,” she glared. “You wannit in writin’ or sumfink?”

  Given the girl’s patchy school attendance, Vicki reckoned that was well optimistic. She stood in the middle of the floor, chewing her bottom lip, working out the next move. Her red leather skirt was only slightly longer than the leopard print blouson she’d nicked off the market. There was a ladder running up the inside of one black stocking.

  “You want somethin’?”

  Vicki turned. The question came from a huge woman with a washed-out face behind a none-too-clean counter. Her hair looked like a mauve meringue. A nylon cap was perched on top, but it was only a gesture towards public health regulations. Any beneficial effect was largely negated by the smouldering cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth. Vicki curled her lip.

  “You’re jokin’, ain’t you?”

  The woman plonked sausage-shaped fingers on the mounds of fat floundering around the vague location of her hips. “I ain’t Benny ’ill.” Vicki watched the cigarette keep time with the woman’s mouth, apart from odd flecks of ash that were floating towards the Eccles cakes. “And if you ain’t buyin’ you can bugger off. I don’t want your sort in ’ere.” She extracted the dog-end and ground it underfoot. “And get a move on or I’ll call the Old Bill.”

  Vicki knew that after a quick once-over, the woman had jumped to several fast conclusions. She dragged a hand through her Gothic crop and tugged the hem of her skirt. Her stick-thin legs were none too steady atop pink plastic wedgies. The place wasn’t crowded and it wasn’t the Ritz but she felt a blush creeping up her neck and over her face. The miserable cow. There was no need to talk to her like that. She felt like giving her a mouthful and throwing a cup of cold tea in her ugly mush. Still, the old bag had given her an idea. In the girls’ line of business, cops were an occupational hazard: she reckoned her mate had been nicked. It’d be a first for young Shell. She smiled picturing the girl cooling her heels in a police cell down at Highgate nick. She’d better get herself down there, find out when they were letting Shell out. The overnight accommodation might well have been at Her Majesty’s pleasure, but it sure as hell wouldn’t have done a lot for Ms Lucas’s.

  3

  Thread Street Comprehensive had seen better days. Then again, mused Byford, hadn’t we all?

  The Superintendent was on an impromptu walkabout. He was searching for signs to the head’s study and at the same time, taking in pointers to the state of the school. Five out of ten, could do better, was his initial verdict. Its paintwork was having a mid-life crisis; ubiquitous, grey vinyl flooring was stained and skid-marked; discarded sweet wrappers lurking in corners, keeping the dustballs company. Byford was taking mental notes and trying not to make assumptions. He still hadn’t tracked down the study. He was beginning to think it was a deliberate ploy to keep the little dears at bay; either that or the little dears had been playing silly beggars with the signposts.

  There was no point in following his nose; everywhere he went was the same strange smell. It was difficult to pin down but encompassed cheesy socks and stale curry.

  “Can I help you?” A cut-glass voice that evoked Home Counties’ home comforts had no difficulty carrying the length of the corridor.

  Byford turned. A tall woman, late thirties, not unattractive, was standing in a doorway. She was wearing a well-cut, dark blue trouser suit but there was nothing masculine about her. He wondered how long she’d been watching him.

  He retraced his steps. “Detective Superintendent William Byford. I’m…”

  She glanced at her watch. The movement was meant to be noticed. “Yes. I’ve been expecting you. I’m Elizabeth Sharpe. Headteacher. Will this take long?”

  He bit back his first response. He might regret it later. “Hope not. Let’s make a start, shall we?”

  “Follow me.” She spoke without smiling. He trailed behind, feeling like a recalcitrant schoolboy. Again, he noticed her height. He was six-two and she wasn’t much shorter. She was big-boned but not fat: not yet. There was a faintly regal air about her. She was walking at a sedate pace with her head held high and her shoulders back. He could imagine her waving from the back of a Bentley Perhaps it came in handy when dealing with hundreds of truculent kids.

  She reached her study, held the door open to let him pass. No sweaty footwear or bearded vindaloo here. It was more furniture polish and air freshener.

  She gestured him to a chair and talked as she walked across her own spotless floor. “It’s quite beyond me. Absolutely unbelievable. Michelle Lucas. Dead.” She didn’t actually utter, “And on school grounds,” but the words hung in the air. “You’re sure there’s no mistake?”

  How many times had he heard that? “Quite.”

  Her eyes were a pale-blue and her gaze hadn’t left his since he’d sat down. Byford wasn’t a fan of unremitting eye contact. He put it in the same league as an overfirm handshake.

  “Thank God it’s Saturday,” she said.

  His face must have betrayed his reaction and she lifted a hand to quell a protest he hadn’t voiced. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… well, at least the children are at home. By Monday perhaps…”

  He watched as she returned an errant strand of chestnut-coloured hair to an otherwise obedient bun. His first impression was wrong, he realised now. She was older.

  “We’ll need a room,” he said.

  “A room?”

  He might just as well have been asking for a handbag. Byford nodded. “Just for a few days. The main incident unit will be at headqua
rters but we’re going to need something nearer the scene.”

  “But surely…” She put a hand over her mouth. He noticed that the red nail polish was chipped and make-up was caught in the creases around her eyes. At this distance, it was highlighting the defects she hoped to hide.

  He tried an encouraging smile. “We may get an early break. But it’s not something we can bank on. We have procedures and we have to implement them as soon as we can.”

  “Yes.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “A girl’s been murdered, Mrs Sharpe. We have to find out who did it.”

  “Of course. It’s just that the whole thing is so distressing. We have exams coming up. An OFSTED next term. The children will be…”

  Byford was picturing Michelle’s body. “One of those children has been murdered.”

  Her mouth tightened slightly. He thought she was about to argue but she said nothing.

  “What can you tell me about Michelle Lucas?”

  She walked to the sash window behind her desk, stood with her back to it and casually ran a finger along its dust-free ledge.

  “What have you learned already?”

  He shook his head. “That’s not important. I’m interested in what you can tell me. I need to know everything about her. Who her friends are. Where she went. What she did.”

  “Surely you don’t think someone here..?”

  “I don’t think anything at the moment, Mrs Sharpe. All I know is that a girl is dead and whoever killed her is still out there.”

  Her eyes widened. “My God.”

  He looked at his watch. The gesture wasn’t lost. She returned to the chair, sat back with legs crossed, hands in lap. “Michelle was a lovely girl. Especially when you consider… Well, her life’s not been easy.”

  He bit back a remark about her death.

  “Are you aware she was in care, Superintendent? She’d been at Fair Oaks Children’s Home for about two years. Michelle was abandoned by her mother. There were rumours of abuse. Violence.”

  “Rumours?”

  “Nothing ever got to court.” She looked at her nails. “And… Michelle…”