Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

  “Shit!”

  “You okay?” Oz asked.

  I’m alive, aren’t I? She said nothing; realised she was too angry to speak. They were close now. She could see torch beams playing through tree trunks, raindrops dancing in the flares. She gasped as a wider tableau suddenly appeared. She should have realised immediately that the police floodlighting had kicked in, but she was jumpy, on edge. It took time to get used to the glare; she used it for steadying breaths, aware there were worse sights ahead. Everything was bathed in shades of black and white and silver. It reminded her of a Hitchcock movie. She realised simultaneously, that the impression had been reinforced because she’d glimpsed the silhouette of a man standing near the water. It was Byford’s; maybe she’d tell him, one day. Now was not the time for small talk. She looked again, his head was down, hands deep in his pockets. There must have been others around – the crew that had rigged the lighting for instance – but he appeared a forlorn and lonely figure. It was as she moved further in, and he turned at the sound, that she saw the body. She froze for several seconds then forced herself to continue, focusing exclusively on the girl.

  She was young: early to mid teens; long limbs. The bobbed hair appeared black. The face couldn’t be seen from this angle. Bev was ninety per cent sure she knew whose it was. She concentrated on breath control and continued the visual examination. The girl’s arms were flung out as if she’d fallen, although there were no obvious injuries. She was wearing a short denim jacket and a denim skirt that was now round her waist. Bev itched to pull it down, straighten it, restore a little dignity. Given the greater degradation to come, the act would have been pointless, except in putting off the inevitable question. Byford voiced it anyway. “Do you know her?”

  Bev didn’t answer. Keeping her glance on the girl, she inched forward, anxious not to contaminate the scene or slip in the sodden earth. She was silently chanting prayers to a God she’d never forgotten but thought she’d long ago renounced.

  The girl’s head was facing the water. Bev had to work her way carefully around the body. There were noises: SOCOs gearing up; the bark of a police dog. All Bev remembered later was Byford’s whispered warning.

  “Prepare yourself, Bev. She’s a mess.”

  Bev knelt and gently lifted strands of hair obscuring the girl’s features. Her eyes were drawn not to the face, but to a gaping wound in the slender, white neck. She registered two thoughts. First: Byford was right, the body was a mess. Second: whoever it was, it wasn’t Vicki Flinn. She released a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and knew without doubt she was about to throw up.

  “It can happen to anyone. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  Bev’s eyes – and pride – were smarting. She gave a wan smile, aware Byford was only trying to make her feel better. She was still trembling, perched on an ancient tree stump, didn’t yet trust her legs to take her full weight. She could still smell blood and piss and decay but it wasn’t just that. She’d convinced herself the victim was Vicki and when she’d seen the dead eyes of a stranger, the shock had given way to a sick relief, followed by spasms of guilt, then a gut-wrenching anger. Literally.

  She’d never take the piss again when some other poor sod puked at the sight of a body. The only saving grace was that she’d made it to the water. The contents of her alimentary canal had sunk into the murky depths of Bogart’s Pool. Pity the poor bloody divers if they had to drag it. And they might. They hadn’t found an ID yet and it looked as if several items of clothing were missing. SOCOs were on the case, but a proper search needed daylight.

  “Why don’t you go home?” Byford suggested. “DC Khan can give you a lift.” He nodded at Ozzie, who was hovering at a discreet distance. “Get some rest, Bev. You’ll need all your energy tomorrow.”

  She looked up and a sharp pain shot through her head. “I can’t. There’s loads to do.”

  “It may have escaped your attention,” Byford drawled, “but half the bloody force is out here already.”

  Sarcasm and swearing; as bad as that. She was dying to know how the unthinkable had happened.

  “Don’t ask,” he sighed. “A body. Under our ruddy noses.” He nodded as a dog handler signalled to ask whether it was okay to go past. “Christ, I could do with a cigarette.”

  “Thought you’d never smoked.”

  “Exactly.” He rubbed a hand down the side of his face. “The doctor thought she may have been here several hours. She might even have been killed somewhere else and dumped later.”

  Bev nodded. At least the girl hadn’t been dragged off the street in full view of the local constabulary. “Couldn’t have been much before four, surely?” she asked. “It’s still light before then.” Even the most ardent dog walker or fun runner would break off pursuits to report a body in the park.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. That’s all we are doing till the post mortem.” He pushed up a coat sleeve, glanced at his watch. “Harry’ll be here any time. I’m happy to hang round. I still think you should get off.”

  “Who found her?”

  “Some bloke who says he nipped in here to take a leak.”

  She supposed it was possible. “One of the protesters?”

  He nodded. “Mike Powell’s talking to him now.”

  She closed her eyes, saw the girl’s gaping wound again, swallowed hard, tasted bile.

  “It’s the same killer, isn’t it?”

  Byford didn’t answer. He was staring into space, an expression on his face she hadn’t seen there before. It was an appalling crime. He seemed somehow diminished by it. She sighed. They’d all be diminished by it once the hacks got going.

  “The media circus’ll be setting up tent.”

  He shrugged. “We might need them if we don’t get a name soon. I thought you might know who she was.” He paused. “For a minute back there you did too, didn’t you?”

  She didn’t say anything. He pushed. “Vicki Flinn?”

  She gave a quick nod. “Sick, isn’t it? I was actually relieved for a second.”

  “You like the girl. It’s only natural.”

  “Natural? Somebody loves that girl.” Bev nodded towards the body. “She was somebody’s baby once. There’s a mother somewhere out there, waiting for her to come home.” She looked down at her hands. “And for a few seconds, I was actually pleased that it wasn’t someone I know.”

  “You’re all in, Bev. Go home.”

  “Hold on.” She narrowed her eyes. “The meeting tonight? A couple of girls didn’t show.”

  “Bev.” He kept his voice low. “She could be anyone. There’s no reason to suppose…”

  The mobile was in her hand before he’d finished. “It’s worth a check.”

  She guessed Val had been waiting by the phone. It was answered at the first ring. Bev dodged a few questions then put several of her own. It soon became clear the victim wasn’t Jo; the girl had turned up minutes after Bev’s sharp exit. Val’s description of Kylie was too close not to call. She hung on impatiently while Val searched for a number for the girl’s foster parents.

  Bev glanced round uneasily. Byford had wandered off to have a word with one of the crime-scene team. A dog barked, made her jump. She shivered; the place was giving her the creeps. She hated the shadows and the smells, the creaking of branches and snapping of twigs. She only had to turn her head to see the dead girl.

  It was a relief when Val came back with the goods. In return, the woman wanted details Bev didn’t know and reassurances she couldn’t give. She evaded another volley of questions and rang off promising to be in touch. She glanced at her watch: just after ten. It took less than a minute to establish that Kylie was safe at home. Bev shoved the phone back in her pocket, rubbed her face with her hands. Now what?

  “Sarge?” It was Ozzie, running towards her. “The dog. It’s found something.”

  She glanced over at Byford, who was already rushing back.

  “Just through here.” Ozzie was in front. “It was no
sing round one of the bins.”

  They reached a small clearing. Bev knew the handler by sight, couldn’t remember his name. At his side, a massive longhaired Alsatian was yanking frantically at its lead. “It wasn’t hidden, sir,” the man said. “It was just shoved on top of all the rubbish.”

  Byford was pulling on surgical gloves as he peered into the bin. “Looks like a bag or something.”

  Bev moved nearer, hair rising on the back of her neck. It was about time they had a break. She watched as Byford delved in. It put her in mind of a lucky dip at a church fete. But what he brought out was of no use to a middle-aged male cop. It was a tasselled hat, royal blue, with a silver trim. And it was part of the uniform for one of the best girls’ schools in the city. Bev recognised it immediately. And the name that had been embroidered so neatly on the tag inside.

  She must have gasped. There was a sharp edge to Byford’s voice. “What is it?”

  “I think it’s one of ours, sir.” There was silence as she struggled to make sense of what she was seeing. The dog barked, irritating an already impatient Byford. It acted as a prompt even though her thoughts were still unclear. “It’s the name. You don’t come across it very often.” Bev met Byford’s gaze. “I know a Louella Kent. And I know she goes to the Holy Child School.”

  “And?” Byford asked.

  “The Louella Kent I know is DS Kent’s daughter.”

  24

  “No. It can’t be.”

  The conviction was absolute. Not just in a voice clipped with authority but in the woman’s face. The regular features and blue eyes were unremarkable except for being fixed in total and utter disbelief. Until now, Bev had only encountered Louise Kent in court. The woman was a partner in a big city law firm. She didn’t suffer fools gladly; didn’t suffer them at all.

  “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  Louise sounded so convinced that for a moment Bev’s certainty wavered. Then she remembered the school books, the passport pictures sellotaped onto a Friends pencil tin.

  Louella and classmate: grinning and pouting, monkeying around. What kid hadn’t giggled through a session in a Woolie’s photo-booth?

  Bev swallowed hard. She hated the job, hated herself, hated the whole goddamn fucking mess. “There is no mistake. I’m so sorry.”

  Louise ran a hand through her hair. “It’s Tuesday. She’s with Gary on Tuesdays.”

  Bev shook her head. Louella wasn’t with Gary; she was en route to the city morgue. God alone knew where Gary was. Why the hell else was she doing this? Telling Gary would have been bad enough, but at least he could have broken the appalling news to his wife. That was going by the book. Trouble was the Kents didn’t have the book, and Bev was making it up as she went along. As soon as she realised Gary wasn’t at home, Bev had tried backing out, but Louise Kent wasn’t a woman who could be fobbed off. The solicitor knew damn well that a post-midnight police call wasn’t a social visit. Bev kept telling herself she’d had no choice. In an ideal world it shouldn’t be happening like this.

  “He hasn’t told you, has he?” Louise was fiddling with a bowl of potpourri on the hall table. She wouldn’t look at Bev, didn’t wait for a reply. “No. He wouldn’t want anyone at work to know.”

  Bev had no idea what the woman was talking about. “Know?”

  “You’d better come through.”

  Bev didn’t want to go through; didn’t want to discuss Gary Kent’s messy domestic arrangements. She’d just told the woman her daughter was dead. Either Louise Kent was in denial or the solicitor in her genuinely believed it was a police cock-up. Bev followed her into a room at the end of the hall. Louise had obviously been working. There was a dictaphone on a desk and a couple of pens were marking a place in a brief. A black tailored jacket was slung over the back of a swivel chair; soft leather pumps lay on the deep carpet.

  Bev tugged at her dress. She felt like something the cat wouldn’t deign to drag anywhere. Damp velvet still clung to her thighs and her hair was plastered like a cap to her skull. She cursed herself. Why hadn’t she brought a WPC? Why hadn’t she listened to the guv? Byford would’ve handled this nightmare a damn sight better. But, oh no. She was Gary’s mate, she’d argued, and shit job though it was, she’d do the decent thing. Some mate Gary was turning out to be.

  “Gary’s not here,” Louise said. “I threw him out. Two weeks ago.”

  What was she meant to say? And what the fuck was Gary playing at? How long did he think he could keep something like this quiet? “Mrs Kent. We… I…”

  “He has Lou one night a week and every other weekend.” She paused, honing the sarcasm. “Work permitting. Naturally.”

  No, he doesn’t. Not now. Not ever again. “Mrs Kent…”

  Louise Kent was perched on the edge of the desk, arms folded. There was a poster on the wall behind her, a tourist board promo: suntanned couple, toothy smiles, blue sea, bluer sky. But it wasn’t a poster. Bev looked again. It was a holiday snap blown-up. Louise and Louella posing on a cliff top, each with an arm round the other’s waist. They could almost have been sisters; the same dark hair, the same heart-shaped face. They looked so happy, it was impossible not to smile back. Bev realised Louise was watching. The woman had slipped her shoes back on and was swinging a leg. The body language was telling Bev to get a move on.

  Bev wanted to run. She wanted a drink so stiff she could carve it; more than anything she wanted to wake up and find it was a bad dream. She cleared her throat. “Mrs Kent. We found Louella’s…” She was searching for words; didn’t have the phrase book.

  “What? What did you find?” The woman’s hand went for the crucifix round her neck.

  Bev could smell her own sweat. “Your daughter’s school hat. Some of her books.” She could see them now. They’d been dumped in the same bin, their pristine covers spattered with fag ash and lager dregs.

  “It must be a prank. No!” The woman was desperately searching for the acceptable. “Bullies. It’ll be the bullies. The girls are soft targets for the thugs from Thread Street. They get jeered at in the street. They’re always having dinner money stolen. And their mobiles. One girl had her face slapped. Lou’s always saying how the Holy Child girls have to go round in groups. I’ve told her a million times not to cut through that park. Some lout will have snatched her bag and she’s been too afraid to say anything. I wondered why she hadn’t phoned. Then again, I was back late. That’s what it’ll be, won’t it?”

  She was babbling, trying to convince herself; pleading for reassurance.

  Bev took a few steps closer. “Mrs Kent. Is there anyone I can call?”

  “Of course!” She snatched up the phone at her side. “Gary’ll sort it. You’ll see. What time is it? Gone twelve. She’ll be in bed.”

  Bev waited as Louise hit buttons then tried to take the receiver from her.

  “No.” The courtroom voice was calm. “I’ll do it.”

  Bev watched as the colour drained from the woman’s face. The knuckles of the hand clutching the phone were white, the fingers of her other, still twisted the gold cross. Louise tried several times to replace the receiver but her eyes were unfocused, swimming with unshed tears. Bev took it gently from her, laid it in the rest.

  “Is he coming?”

  Louise nodded dully. “Half an hour.”

  “Can I get you anything? Tea? Brandy?”

  Bev needed a shot of something. She was thinking the un-thinkable. Every cop knew random killings were rare. Murderers almost always know their victim and the nearer the relationship the closer the odds. Gary was Louella’s father. He was also an insider. He knew details about Michelle Lucas’s murder that hadn’t been revealed to anyone outside the team. Position of the body; location of the wound; likely weapon. Details that appeared to have been duplicated in the latest killing. She told herself not to be stupid. Gary was a decent bloke. For God’s sake, his kid was lying on a slab. Either way, when a cop was in-volved in any crime, in any capacity, it was bad news. Bev was beginnin
g to feel out of her depth. She brought her mind back to basics. “Want to show me where everything is?” Louise looked blank. Bev prompted. “The kitchen?”

  The room was a clash of pine and primary colours. An un-finished game of Cluedo was still spread out on the table. A Mickey Mouse bookmark peeped from the pages of Wuthering Heights. It was more of a family room, she thought, then realised how inapt the description was. Gary was shacked up across town. Louella was dead.

  “Why don’t you sit down? I’m sure I’ll be able to find things.” Bev busied herself while Louise sat slumped, staring into space. The woman was falling apart. “While we’re waiting, I’m going to put a call through to my boss. Just to let him know what’s going on.”

  It was possible she hadn’t heard; she certainly gave no indication. Bev stood just outside the door, half an eye trained on Louise. The woman noticed nothing – not even Bev’s return.

  “That’s fine. He’ll be along shortly.” He was still at the scene, but it was only ten minutes in a car.

  “I want to see her.” Louise shot up and was making for the hall. “I want to go to her. Now.”

  Bev laid a hand on her arm, spoke softly. “It’s not possible. Not yet.”

  Louise stiffened, jerked away. Bev read the signs, braced herself. The woman was on a knife-edge, panic rising, her glance darting about in a frantic search for escape routes, a bolt-hole. Hands clenched into hard, tight fists, she struck out at the nearest target. If the blow had been more than glancing, it could have dislocated Bev’s jaw, but she dived to one side and grabbed the woman’s wrists. The tears in Bev’s eyes were not for her own pain, but they acted as a catalyst. Louise covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Bev laid her arm around the woman’s shoulder and steered her back to her chair. She pulled up a seat for herself and just stayed close. Words weren’t going to help at this stage. Questions – a mountain of questions – would come soon enough.