Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

  “Dunno. Could be.”

  “Tell you what, Bev. It was a black BMW. And the driver was a woman.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure I saw lots of hair.”

  “Dreadlocks, maybe? Could it have been a bloke?” Bev could see the answer on her face. “No worries. Should be able to get a steer through the girl.” She took a sip of lukewarm cappuccino. “Frankie? Can I ask you something?”

  “’Course you can, my friend.”

  She leaned closer. “Do I look like a cop? Is it so obvious?”

  Frankie smirked.

  “It’s just that people keep staring. Have been ever since I came back.”

  Bev sighed as her friend ran through an exaggerated once-over routine. It didn’t last long, Frankie’s eyes soon widened and she threw a hand up to her mouth. Bev looked down. A basque dangling from your coat pocket did nothing for your social standing.

  “Thank God you’re not carrying cuffs, Bevvie.” Frankie was biting her bottom lip. Bev, dignity shot, felt herself blush. Both women were laughing when Ozzie Khan appeared. Bev spotted him first. He was walking up the stairs, obviously looking for someone. His frown lessened only a little when he saw her.

  “Sarge. It’s the Swain girl. She’s conscious.”

  “Who was the friend?”

  Bev glanced at Ozzie. He was all studied casualness.

  “Frankie? Mate from school. Six kids. Old man’s an all-in wrestler.”

  “You’re winding me u–”

  “Eyes on the road, Constable.”

  She turned to hide a grin. Frankie’d given Oz the full monty: prolonged eye contact, power-smiles, multilingual body language.

  “Seemed like a nice girl.”

  “And your mind on the job. Talking of which, what happened at Brand’s?” A scrawny cat shot out from under a parked car and Bev hit a phantom brake as Ozzie went for the real thing. The cat put its paw down and escaped intact. Bev glanced in the mirror. “Nice one, Oz. Anyway, you were saying…”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t remind me. I kept thinking: any minute now the old boy’s gonna say something. Tell the guv somebody’d been sniffing round, know what I mean? Then I reckon: how’d he know anyway? I’d put the tape back, left the keys where I found them. He’s not gonna open his mouth if he thinks his sordid little secret’s safe, is he?”

  The argument was solid; she’d been clinging to it herself.

  “Still felt as though I had guilty’ stamped on my forehead though. Having the chief there didn’t help either.”

  She resisted a crack about Indians; settled for a sage nod.

  “Tell you what, Sarge, Brand was real edgy; something was bugging him. He’d dropped the outraged-from-Edgbaston card completely. Offered coffee. Keen to help. Sucking up to the guv. Mind, he wanted us out of that place. Kept banging on about the wife; saying he was expecting a call any time. He’d have to pick her up straight away.”

  “No one’s spoken to her yet have they?” Bev made a mental note, didn’t wait for a reply. “What about the accidental overdose lark? You buy that?”

  He shook his head. “Naw, he was giving it the hard sell. If he mentioned it once, he said it half a dozen times.”

  They drove in silence for a while; wipers dealing with rain and spray. Bev switched to thinking about Cassie Swain, wondering what the girl might know; and more to the point, what she’d be willing to share. Ozzie was still on the Brand track.

  “The sleazeball’s sitting there as if butter wouldn’t melt in his armpit and all the time I’m thinking —”

  “Did a lot of thinking, did you?”

  She saw his head turn towards her. “Not with you.”

  “The guv reckoned you never opened your mouth. Must have been all the activity in your brain.”

  His mouth was open now. Wide. “Said you were on edge as well,” Bev said. “Don’t worry. I put him right.”

  The smile was weak. “Cheers.”

  “Don’t mensh.” She was studying her nails. “Thing is, Oz, that sort of set-up – it’s not good if you’re all uptight. You need to chill out more.”

  His left eyebrow looked unconvinced.

  “I’m serious. Relax. What you doing Saturday?”

  “Noth–” She smiled as he hedged his bets. “Dunno. Why?”

  “Fighting Cocks?”

  “Illegal, innit?”

  “The Fighting Cocks. Pub in Kings Heath. There’s live music at the weekends. They’ve got a blues singer who’s so laid back she thinks meditation’s a stimulant. It’d do you good, Oz. Take you out of yourself.”

  The turning for the General was coming up on the right.

  “Who’s going?”

  “Just me.”

  “Can I let you know?”

  “Frankie’ll be there already.”

  “What time?”

  She smiled, shook her head. Worked wonders every time, the F-word.

  “Not a word. I’m really sorry.” Doctor Thorne slid a slim gold pen into a holder on her white coat.

  “It’s okay. Not your fault.” Bev tried to hide her disappointment. Whatever secrets Cassie Swain might hold, they weren’t up for grabs. Not yet, anyway. Bev’s two-minute detour en route for Intensive Care had made no difference. According to the doctor, Cassie had barely opened her eyes, let alone her mouth.

  “She was beginning to respond. I’m almost certain she could hear me. And there was movement in her fingers.”

  “Positive signs,” said Bev.

  Doctor Thorne’s wavering hand signal was less sure. “There can be a series of false starts. You think they’re coming out of it, then…” she looked at Cassie. “And there’s no guarantee the brain hasn’t suffered permanent damage. Given that she does pull through, she may not remember anything.”

  Cassie was in the same position as the night before. The bed was huge and accentuated her slight, fragile frame. She was fifteen but looked about twelve. There was a dark eyelash on the bridge of her nose. Bev moved closer, smoothed the lash away then gently ran a finger along the outline of her face. She looked up to find the doctor staring.

  “Did you know her before all this, Sergeant?”

  The soft voice was hard to take. Bev shook her head, looked away and carefully cradled Cassie’s hand.

  “I’m sorry I got your hopes up,” the doctor said. “I should have waited.”

  “No, I’m glad you called. And thanks for going through Highgate. The mobile’s sorted now.” Bev smiled. It sounded so much better than “the mobile’s switched on now.”

  The doctor slipped a hand in her skirt pocket. “I’d better get off. If there’s nothing else… Sergeant?”

  “I’ll hang on a minute, if that’s okay. And I told you, the name’s Bev.”

  She smiled, was about to say something when her bleeper sounded. “I’d better get that. Catch you later.”

  Bev turned back to the bed. The girl was surrounded by people and medical paraphernalia, so how come she looked so vulnerable? Bev sighed. What she really wanted was to give Cassie a cuddle, stroke her hair, tell her someone cared. She lifted the flap on her shoulder-bag, fumbled around till her fingers felt the soft fur. She hoped Paddington’d be happy here. He’d gathered a bit of dust during his sojourn in the hospital shop so she flicked it off and popped him on the pillow close to Cassie. She stood back, smiling. The red coat and shiny black boots were quite a fashion statement. As for the message on the label round his neck, well he couldn’t have been in safer hands. Bev read the words again: Please look after this bear. Thank you.

  She looked back at the girl’s pale face. “And please look after Cassie,” she mouthed.

  22

  “What a night!”

  Bev was dripping all over Big Val’s doormat. Puddles were forming at her feet, rivulets trickling down her neck.

  “Still tippin it down?”

  Bev widened her eyes. “Nah. I always look like this.” Val, on the other hand, looked differen
t. What was it?

  “You comin or what?”

  “Yeah. Cheers.” Val pressed against the wall as Bev slipped through sideways. The woman wasn’t called Big for nothing.

  “First on the left, chuck.”

  Bev ran a hand through sodden hair. “It’s foul out there. You’d think everyone’d be tucked up by the fireside, but Thread Street’s buzzing. Must be a hundred or more on the protest already.” She’d left the MG outside, but done a quick recce on foot. Ozzie had been keeping a low profile with Mike Powell. The guv’s was even lower; she hadn’t spotted him at all. The uniforms were all over the place. Noisy but not nasty was the general verdict.

  Val yawned. “Tell me about it. I’ve been on all day. Have to make hay while the sun shines.”

  Make something, thought Bev. “It’s the hair!” She pointed. “What’ve you done?”

  Val’s red beehive had been supplanted by an unruly haystack.

  “This?” She lifted a hand. “It’s me Lily Savage. I’ve got a mate in the rug trade. Ever need sortin’ you know where to come.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  “Ditch the coat. Take the weight off your pins. I’m gonna put me face on. Shove that lot on the floor.” Her arm gave a wide sweep of the room. Bev peered round; the subdued lighting was crying out for a torch. Where exactly was she meant to sit? As far as she could see, there were no chairs. She eventually made out a bed, covered by a tartan throwover and what looked like several herds of stuffed pigs. She moved closer. There was a huge mountain of fluffy porkers, and barely room to perch a buttock. God knew what made her look up, but there was a matching tableau in the massive mirror above the bed. She grinned: pigs could fly, then.

  She decided not to join the farmyard action and gravitated towards the fake log fire. There was another mirror on the wall. She pulled a face and smoothed a few damp tendrils into place; looked down and pulled another. The dress wasn’t right. She’d scoured her wardrobe but it didn’t do police tart. She’d changed her mind – and gear – several times, eventually plumping for an above-the-knee, little aubergine number in crushed velvet. Compared with Val’s jade silk kimono – it didn’t work. Still, at least it wasn’t blue and no one would ask her to read the meter.

  Val had left the door open, and judging by the smell of dope was having a crafty drag. What was the nasal equivalent of a blind eye? The girls could get as stoned as a rockery as far as Bev was concerned.

  “Wanna drink, chuck?” Val was still in make-up but the forty-a-day voice was loud and clear.

  Bev dithered, then plunged. “Sure. What you got?”

  “Red Stripe, Red Stripe or Red Stripe.”

  She grinned and shouted back. “Cuppa char, then. Not!”

  She glanced at her watch. Twenty past eight. Where were the girls? Cold feet? Toe-nail cutting?

  “’ere y’are.”

  Bev turned, expecting to take ownership of a can of lager, but Val had a bean-bag in each hand.

  “Chuck one over there, Bev. There’s a couple more next door. Whether we’re gonna need ’em or not…” She shrugged and floated out on a wave of Lou Lou and Imperial Leather.

  Bev bagged a bag and watched as her dress rapidly turned from above-the-knee to below-the-knickers. Thank God she’d eschewed Frankie’s basque for M&S briefs. She grabbed the hem and gave a few tugs. It was one thing to enter into the spirit of the occasion but a girl had to draw the line somewhere.

  Val returned, cans in hands. “Cheers, chuck.”

  Bev had a couple of sips, regretted not bringing a bottle of wine or Scotch. “What time did you tell the others, Val?” The casual tone was supposed to conceal her growing concern.

  Val shoved the pigs over and flopped across the bed, back against the wall. “Eight.”

  There was an uneasy silence. It was beginning to feel like one of those parties where no one turns up.

  Val lit a Marlboro. “They know the score, Bev. It’s down to them whether they play ball.”

  Bev watched as she picked a fleck of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. The big woman obviously had something on her mind as well. Bev waited, hoping she’d share.

  “I have to say Bev, none of them was delirious at the prospect of meeting you, but only Marj told me to fuck off.” She paused. “Actually, she told me to tell you to fuck off.”

  “Marj?” Bev matched the name with a face; came up with black. “She hates cops.” The words ‘white’ and ‘woman’ went unspoken but both knew they were there. She looked round for an easier topic while she grappled with harder thoughts. “What’s with the pigs?”

  It was quite a collection, sixty-plus. Everything from a two-inch piglet to a two-foot porker, Barbie pink through pillar-box red and every lurid shade in between.

  Val opened her mouth then appeared to change her mind, settled for a wide grin and a vague: “Dunno, really. Just sort of grew, like.”

  “Nice.” It sounded pathetic even to Bev’s ears. She took another drink, wondered what she was doing, discussing cuddly toys with a middle-aged prostitute when a stone’s throw away her mates were trying to keep order on the streets. She cocked her head on one side. The crowd was beginning to chant and though the words were inaudible the message was pretty clear: tarts were not flavour of the month.

  “Don’t worry about that lot, Bev. It won’t stop the others. Not if they want to come.”

  She nodded. But did they?

  She took another swig. “Hey, Val, you heard any more from Vicki?” She was making conversation; nothing more.

  The hand with the cigarette halted, half-way to Val’s mouth. Bev asked herself why? And why was Val suddenly spouting on like there was no tomorrow?

  “Nah. She must still be down south. Lucky cow. I wouldn’t say no to a few days in Brighton.” She winked as she took a drag on her fag. “Could do with a bit of sea air. I love all that stuff, don’t you? A bit of a paddle; a few sticks of rock; fish and chips on the front. They always taste better outside, somehow, don’t they? You goin’ somewhere nice this year, Bev?”

  Bev tried not to narrow her eyes. One mention of Vicki, and the woman was babbling like a swollen brook. “Dunno. I haven’t thought about it, yet.”

  She studied the big woman’s face; stayed silent, hoping it would force the talk. While Val made a great play of sorting out the pigs, Bev flicked through her mental file on Vicki. Was she missing something, apart from the girl herself? She waited a while longer, but Val’s flow of words had apparently dried up.

  “Val?” She wasn’t even sure why she was asking; it was just another niggling doubt among all the unknowns and half-truths that seemed to make up the Lucas inquiry. “You did get a call from Vicki, didn’t you, love?”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  The response was fast, but it wasn’t an answer. But why would Val lie? And why were Bev’s bullshit antennae suddenly twitching? She was on dangerous ground; she stepped lightly. “’Course not, love, but anyone can make a mistake.”

  She watched as Val ground the butt into a glass ashtray. The woman was either working on a reply or ignoring the remark. After twenty seconds or so of silence Bev added softly.“It’s just that if we’re wrong about Vicki, the error could be fatal.”

  “I got a call. Right?” The big woman turned her face to Bev; it had ‘final answer’ all over it.

  “Sure.” If she pushed further, she’d likely be shown the door. She put a question mark over Brighton and lifted her can. “Absent friends.”

  Val nodded. “Absent friends.”

  Another uneasy silence was broken by a tap on the window.

  Val hauled herself off the bed. “That’ll be Patty. She’s got a thing about knocking on doors. She got chucked through one once. I won’t be a tick.” Judging by the smile and her manner, Val wasn’t going to dwell on the Vicki thing. Neither was Bev; it was time for action.

  She tried standing; wondered if anyone had ever come up with a dignified way of getting out of a bean-bag. Gi
ven the expanse of thighs she was showing and the gap in between, she decided not. A final push and she was on her feet, so how come she still felt like a sitting duck? She smoothed her skirt, sweaty palms leaving damp smudges. She swallowed, took a few deep breaths. Most of these girls, she’d be seeing for the first time. She felt like some bimbo on Blind Date.

  There were a few giggles and shushes then Val returned with not one girl but two. “Bev. This here’s Patty. This is Smithy.”

  Bev ran through a mental list drawn up by Val: Smithy the librarian; Patty the smackhead. Apart from their temporary resemblance to drowned rats, it checked out. Smithy’s pale face was swamped by huge red-framed specs. Patty’s looked as if it should be; poor girl blinked a lot and appeared to have trouble focusing.

  Bev smiled, bit back some inane drivel about the weather and held out a hand. “Good to see you.”

  Smithy growled, “Wotcha,” and made straight for the bed. Patty didn’t appear to notice. “Gorra smoke, Val?”

  Val chucked the pack and a box of matches but it was too much for the girl’s spatial skills. Bev retrieved both from the floor and handed them over.

  “Ta.” She studied Bev’s face. “I ain’t seen you before. Eh, Val, she new round ’ere?”

  Bev looked at Val, who rolled her eyes and tapped the side of her head. “Sit down, Pats.”

  Bev sighed; bright girl, then. She glanced at Smithy who had her nose in a book with a pink cover. Talk about hope over experience.

  “Jules’ll be here in a min. And Chloë.” Smithy imparted the information without looking up. “They’re doing the offie run.”

  “We had a whip round,” Val explained.

  Bev was working on a quip along the lines of “Lucky you.” It was never cracked owing to a hammering on the front door, backed up by a quasi-police rap through the letterbox.

  “Spread your legs and kiss the floor. Officer Dibble’s at the door.”

  Bev’s eyebrows were up to her hairline, till she caught sight of Val’s downturned mouth. She watched as the big woman strolled towards the door muttering something about bloody comedians.