Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

  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.”

  “Problem?” Ozzie asked.

  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.

  Bev held out ID. “I’m Detective Sergeant Morriss. This is DC Khan. We need to speak to you about Michelle Lucas.”

  He glanced at the card then back to Oz. “This isn’t very convenient. Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’ll be on school premises from 7.30 onwards.” Ozzie didn’t move a muscle. Bev waited till the unspoken message finally got through. When she had the man’s undivided attention, she made a point of looking down. He had the Sunday Times business supplement in his left hand, the index finger keeping his place.

  “Sorry it’s inconvenient, Mr Brand. I’m afraid it can’t wait at all, let alone another day.”

  A sigh was followed by a resigned shake of the head. “You’d better come in.”

  As they filed through, she stuck out her tongue. It was childish but what the hell? She glanced back at Ozzie with a conspiratorial grin. He was looking straight ahead – into a huge, gilt-framed mirror on the far wall. She licked her lips a few times hoping to pass off the tongue business as a nervous habit. She looked round the hall: oak-panelling, stained-glass windows, a couple of ancient settles. Judging by the smells there’d been serious housework going on and not far away serious coffee was on the go. It soon became clear they were to go no further. Brand was dashing round closing doors. He came to a halt in front of Bev, arms folded, newspaper still in place. “My wife. She’s unwell. I don’t want her disturbed.”

&n
bsp; Bev’s sympathy was in short supply. “What can you tell us about Michelle?”

  “That you haven’t already learned? I doubt very much whether I can add anything at all.”

  She took out a notebook, gave her pencil an ostentatious lick. “Go on then.”

  “What?”

  “Have a go.”

  He took off his glasses, scratched his head. “Michelle Lucas was fifteen years old. An average student. Certainly not stupid. Had she shown more inclination, she might have achieved a GCSE or two. I did not anticipate that she would be applying for Oxbridge.”

  Supercilious git. “What did you anticipate, Mr Brand?”

  “The question is meaningless. You should attempt to be more precise.”

  “Go and stand in the corner, shall I?” She smiled, hoping for a latent sense of humour.

  “Is that meant to be funny?”

  She took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is this: from what you know of Michelle, what sort of girl was she? Did she have any problems, ever ask for advice? Is there anything you can tell us about her or her friends, that might help us find who killed her?”

  “There are at least four questions there. Do you have an order of preference?”

  Bev tapped a foot: never a good sign. “I prefer interviewees to help.”

  He sighed again. “Michelle Lucas was a typical by-product of a broken home and abusive parents.”

  By-product? Sounded like industrial waste.

  “She had no respect for authority, lacked any sort of discipline. She was an insolent and attention-seeking adolescent.”

  Bev glanced at Ozzie. This went against all the reports back so far. Most people had drawn a picture of a pleasant girl, eager to please and seemingly undamaged by a less than promising early childhood.

  “Attention-seeking?”

  “Short skirts, tight blouses, loud mouthed.”

  “Typical teenager then?”

  “She was a trouble-maker.” He was scratching his head again, obviously ill at ease.

  “In what way?”

  “She just was.” For a man who valued precision, the reply was woollier than a herd of sheep.

  Bev made a note and looked up. “Was there trouble at school?”

  “The girl’s dead. What’s the point..?”

  “That is the point.”

  She watched him weighing up what to say. “Look. You’ll probably find out sooner or later… There were allegations…

  “Allegations?”

  “Michelle Lucas made certain accusations against a number of members of staff.” He halted as if what he’d said was sufficient. The silence suggested otherwise. “It was absolute nonsense of course. And I wasn’t the only one.”

  “Michelle accused you?”

  “As I’ve already made clear – she constantly sought attention. It was me, me, me all the time with Miss Lucas.”

  “What was the nature of the allegations?”

  “She claimed I tried to touch her.”

  “And did you?”

  He widened his eyes, sharpened his voice. “That is a highly offensive remark, young woman.”

  “No more offensive than a schoolgirl being assaulted.”

  “Are you suggesting..?”

  “I’m suggesting nothing. What did the inquiry find?”

  “What inquiry? There was no inquiry. There was nothing to inquire into unless you count the delusions of an hysterical teenager.”

  “When were these allegations made?”

  He waved a hand. “Sometime last month, I think. She went to the head. Mrs Sharpe.”

  “And?”

  “Elizabeth soon had the truth out of her. Cock and bull from start to finish. I only mention it to prove my point about Michelle’s propensity for the spotlight.”

  Bev nodded. “And the others? You said you weren’t the only one she made accusations against.”

  “She never mentioned names. Well, she couldn’t, could she?”

  “She mentioned yours.”

  He pursed thin lips. “Look. I’ve done my best to help. If there’s nothing else…” His body language was screaming at them to go. Bev considered: there was obviously a lot more, but maybe not yet. She looked at Ozzie. He shook his head. She smiled. “That’s all. Mr Brand. For the moment.”

  “What you make of him, then?”

  Ozzie was talking through a mouthful of tuna baguette. Bev was licking sugar off her fingers. Two cups of cappuccino were cooling on the dashboard. Esso’s finest and a parking space just off the forecourt.

  “Pompous git,” she said. “Why do jerks like Brand go in for teaching?”

  He brushed a couple of crumbs on to the floor. “To buy a house like that for one thing.”

  “Reckon?” She paused. “I wonder. I think we’ll have a closer look at Henry Brand. And not just the size of his wallet.”

  “That stuff about Michelle?”

  She nodded. “He was up-front but he had to be. Like he said…we were bound to find out. He thought he was being smart.”

  Oz wiped his lips with a napkin from Bev’s doughnut. “I suppose it’s possible. She might have made up a story just to drop him in it.”

  “Anything’s possible, Ozzie. It’s possible Mike Powell will buy a round of drinks in the club one night.”

  He grinned. She liked working with this bloke, he laughed at her jokes. What’s more it meant she saw very little of Powell these days, in or out of the bar. She took a sip of coffee. “I just don’t see why Brand was so keen to shitbag the girl. Speaking ill of the dead, and all that.”

  She warmed her hands on the cup, swirled the liquid round, watching the patterns, thinking her thoughts. Why had he been such a bastard? He clearly hadn’t wanted them in the house. He could barely look at Bev. And he hadn’t shown the slightest sign of sorrow or regret at the waste of Michelle Lucas’s young life. Then again – who had? Apart from the caretaker who’d found Michelle’s body, the only tears Bev had seen shed were Vicki’s. The only decent lead had come from Vicki. The only promise of help, Vicki. Bev crumpled the empty cup in the palm of her hand. And where the hell was Vicki Flinn now?

  7

  Across the city, the girls were gathering in Big Val’s place: end terrace, back street, front room. The weekend’s events had forced a camaraderie of sorts on women who normally wouldn’t give each other the time of day. Out on the patch, they circled round like big cats staking territory. Now they were sitting round sharing six-packs, trying to look cool. Except Val.

  Val was the oldest, admitted to forty; the meet had been her idea. She’d put the word out: only the kids at this stage. Six had shown – just one face missing.

  Big Val had moved down from Leeds in the late seventies. She’d worked the streets longer than the Royal Mail. She was pinning a mass of unruly red hair into a beehive. “I’ll tell you something for nothing. If we don’t look out for each other, no bugger else will.”

  She was perched on a bed shared with a herd of stuffed pigs. Any size, any shade; if it had trotters and a curly tail, she went for it. Apart from a lumpy bean-bag, there was nowhere else to sit, so the girls were lying on the floor propped on an elbow or two. It was a wet Sunday, half past two, nothing else on.

  Jo leaned across and took a cigarette from one of several packs lying open on an ash-grey carpet, the colour as much accident as design. The fifteen-year-old had given up but might as well have been on twenty a day given the blue haze hovering overhead. She was nearly six feet in her wedgies. “Come on, Val. It’s not Ripper country, is it?”

  “One kid dead. Another on life support. It’s not Disneyland either.”

  A painfully thin girl called Jules took a swig from a can of Red Stripe. The purple in her hair matched a massive bruise on one of her arms. “If I’d wanted a row, I’d have stayed at home.” The fingers clutching the can had more rings than a Samuel’s window. “What we gonna do about it? That’s what you got us round for, innit? Or are you just trying to scare us
shitless?”

  Val was beginning to wonder. Maybe she’d over-reacted. The kids weren’t fazed. Shell’s murder hadn’t touched them, nor Cassie’s beating. Then again, they hadn’t been on the game long; it was still a bit of a giggle. Apart from the odd swinging fist and flying fuck, they were virtually unmarked if not untouched. Not Val. There was an old scar the width of her belly: and it sure wasn’t down to a dodgy appendix. She was lucky. Her best mate had lost an eye to the same crazy. She looked round, shook her head. These kids were more scared of their pimps than the perverts. They still believed they’d make a fortune, buy a cottage in the country and live happily ever. Yeah. And frogs still turn into princes. Jesus H. The pigs were the only things in the house she didn’t owe money on.

  “I know!” A girl who looked about twelve shot a hand in the air.

  Jo looked over, sniggered. “S’not fuckin’ school, Kylie.”

  “You’re so funny, ain’t you?” Kylie’s mother had been a hooker. Only part-time. She went out when the gas or electricity came in. Known as Bill, she was, till she keeled over one night in front of a bus. Dead drunk. Then just dead. “Anyway, listen.” Kylie was beaming, “We can work in pairs, can’t we? Go out together, like.”

  Val sniffed; they’d tried that in Chapeltown. “Sure. Charge double then can’t you?”

  “Y’know what I mean,” Kylie whinged.

  “What happens when you’re doin’ the business, Kyle? Your mate gonna stand round hummin’ Strangers in the Night?” Val countered.

  “Keep an eye out, can’t she?”’

  Val said nothing; it didn’t work like that.

  “I reckon we should stick to our regulars. Better the dick y’know…” Marj was seriously large: dress size twenty; same as her age. She was also the best looking woman in the room and had the most punters.

  “Could be right,” Val agreed. “Least till we know the way the wind’s blowin’.”

  “All right for you lot. Blokes only come to me once.” Patty was stoned out of her head so often, she barely recognised her own reflection.

  “Wonder why?” asked Jo.

  “Fuck off.”