Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

  “She’s Vicki’s, isn’t she?”

  She didn’t need Annie’s confirmation. The picture had developed on the drive over. A prostitute getting pregnant? It was an occupational hazard. Look at Jo. Look at Dawn Lucas. Look at the effing statistics.

  Annie flicked ash into the sink. Bev had to fight the urge to spin her round, force her to talk. “It’s why she’s gone AWOL, isn’t it? She’ll do anything to protect her baby. Where is she, Annie? Who’s she with?”

  The woman blew a column of smoke rings, watched them drift upwards. Bev unclenched her fists, brought down the volume. “Charlie’s got her holed-up, hasn’t he? Has he got Lucie as well? I can just about see how you’d stand by and abandon Vicki. Big girl now, isn’t she? Made her bed and all that. But a baby? What sort of a woman are you?”

  Annie spun round, eyes glaring. “You know sod all. Why don’t you just fuck off and leave us alone?”

  “I’ll leave when I have answers.”

  “Me sister’s lookin’ after the bab. I’m not well. I need a break.”

  Bev lifted her arms, played an imaginary violin.

  “It’s your bloody fault,” Annie screamed. “Police harassment, that’s what this is. You’re turning me into a nervous wreck.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Annie closed her eyes gave a deep sigh but at least she answered. “Blackpool. Long weekend.” She doused the butt end, threw it in the direction of the bin. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  There was a hammering at the front door. Bev could almost feel the woman’s relief.

  “That’ll be the cab.”

  “Send it away. I’ll take you to the station. When we’ve finished.”

  She was back within seconds, which was time enough. The suitcase was no longer on the table. Most of its contents were sprawled across the floor. Annie froze, silhouetted in the doorframe. Bev was kneeling, holding up baby clothes and a soft, pink blanket. “Clumsy cow, aren’t I?”

  The woman lifted a hand to her gaunt features.

  “Can’t say I think much of your holiday gear, love.”

  Annie’s eyes were unnaturally bright. “You’ve no right…”

  “Save it!” Bev rose to her feet. “Where were you taking it?”

  “Oxfam.”

  The callousness was like a red rag. “Why not try looking out for your own kid, Annie?”

  “That’s exactly what I am doing. Now why don’t you just bugger off? I don’t have to tell you nothing.”

  Short of thumbscrews or a rack, she was right. A copper’s instinct wasn’t evidence, and proof of any crime was nonexistent. Bev shook her head in disbelief. “How do you look at yourself in the mirror, Annie?”

  Just for a second, it looked as if the woman was about to crack. Bev was so focused she barely heard the mobile. She swore under her breath as Annie turned away, then snatched the phone to her ear and barked a peremptory, “What?”

  Byford was on the other end. Recognising the voice was no problem. The difficulty was taking in what he was saying. “I want you back. Now. We’ve got a confession. Both murders.”

  31

  Highgate nick was buzzing with news of a result, the corridors full of high-fives and wide grins. Bev kept her head down, mind open, and made straight for Interview Three. A plod with bulging hair and big biceps was hovering at the door.

  “Can’t let you in, Sarge. The governor wants him to sweat.”

  She nodded. “Shove over, Andy. I just want a peep.” Jack the Ripper could have been in there, it still wouldn’t convince her they had the right man.

  Couldn’t be, could it? It wasn’t Charlie Hawes.

  She had to stretch to reach the eye hole. A thin bloke in his forties was perched on the edge of a metal chair. His knees were clamped, fingers cradled in his lap. He looked like a backroom bean-counter: a tad pompous but essentially anonymous. She took in the Burton’s suit, the matching shiny grey shoes, the heavy eyebrows, the thin lips and the flecks of grey in the slicked black hair. She almost missed the tiny cross dangling from his left ear. Once spotted, she couldn’t take her eyes off it. It was like a silverfish, darting and quivering. There was either a draught in the room or man at Burton’s had the wind up him.

  “He been charged?” Bev’s nose was still on the door.

  “Nah. He just walked in off the street. The governor was in with him earlier for an hour or so. Him and DI Powell. Didn’t say a dicky bird to me. I’m just here to keep an eye.”

  “Can’t see you having a problem.” She turned to face him. “If he’s the killer, I’m the Virgin Mary.”

  “He’s a time-waster, guv. Got to be.”

  Byford’s unwavering stare was adding to Bev’s unease. She was standing on the other side of his desk, shuffling her feet. She’d popped her head round the door, fully expecting that by now, Prime Suspect would be Prime Plonker and Byford would be banging on about eliminating yet another moron from the inquiry. It happened all the time. Every big case, every witness appeal, every Crimewatch reconstruction, the loonies came out like a rash and were generally let off with a slapped wrist. That was the usual scenario, only this time Byford had summoned her, was using a different script. This time the story appeared to stand up. The man’s background was being checked and though the guv wasn’t cracking open the Moët, there was a sparkle in his eyes. Bev’s only conviction was that they were in danger of being distracted by a futile diversion. She wanted nothing to slow the inquiry.

  “Have you spoken to him?” Byford asked, knowing she hadn’t.

  “No,” she admitted, “but — ”

  “But nothing. Sit down.” He took a tape from a drawer. “Keep still. And listen.”

  Given the tone, it was not the time to argue. “This is what he’s told us so far.”

  She watched as he put the tape in the machine and pressed play. A soft voice, accentless and without inflexion, began to describe the final moments of Michelle Lucas’s life. He told them where he’d picked her up, described her clothes and her wounds.

  Bev could hear the whoosh of her heartbeat in her ears. She was straining to pick up a nuance, waiting to pounce on the slightest slip. She was trying to marry the narrative with the nerd downstairs. It was too pat, too prepped. It wasn’t possible. Was it?

  “He could have got it from the papers, guv.” She hated the hint of pleading in her voice.

  “Keep quiet!” he thundered, face flushed. “Concentrate on the voice.”

  She screwed up her face, listened less to the words, more to the way they were spoken. There was something familiar. When had she heard it before? Byford was watching, way ahead. It felt like a test but her mind was a blank.

  He hit the pause button. “Kenny. Remember him?”

  Of course. The nutter on the radio. The studio interview; all that rabble rousing. “And that proves what?”

  “On its own, very little.”

  Obviously more to come. “So?”

  “You recognised the voice. Eventually.” He took a sip of coffee; he hadn’t offered her a cup. “Mike recognised it immediately.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Kenny,” he said, as if the name it had inverted commas, “also happens to be the man who discovered Louella Kent’s body on Tuesday night. His real name is Duncan Ferguson. Mike interviewed him at the scene.”

  Golden Rule Number One: suspect the victim’s nearest and dearest. Golden Rule Number Two: suspect the person who found the body. She’d always hated rules. She studied her nails. “He’ll be blaming it on voices in his head next.”

  “He already is.”

  The attempted nonchalance failed. Her head shot up, eyes wide. “What?”

  “He says he’s acting under instructions from the devil. Voices tell him what to do. He’s scared he’ll kill again.”

  She shook her head and sighed. “Classic.”

  “For God’s sake, Sergeant, he wouldn’t be the first nutter to kill a hooker. It doesn’t mak
e the girls any less dead.”

  She felt the first faint stirring of doubt, wouldn’t admit it even to herself.

  “Come on, guv, if you were so sure you’d have charged him by now.”

  He banged the desk with his fist. “That’s enough.”

  She’d seen him angrier, but never at her. He leaned across the polished wood, pointed a finger. “You can’t accept the killer isn’t Charlie Hawes, can you?”

  She met his eyes, registered the deep lines and lilac shadows. The media were still giving him a hard time. She felt sorry for him. But not that sorry. “And what about you? Are you so desperate for a collar, you’ll take the first one that comes along?”

  The silence lasted for ten seconds. She looked away first.

  “Get out.” Only two words, but the delivery had more impact than a diatribe.

  She held her hands out. “I just – ”

  “Now.”

  She halted at the door, hated leaving it like this. She had more time for Byford than any cop she’d ever worked with. But it didn’t mean he was always right.

  “Before you go,” he said, “you need to bear two other factors in mind.”

  She turned, not sure she wanted to hear.

  “Ferguson goes on to describe both murder scenes in detail. There’s no way he could have picked it up from the press. A lot of it hasn’t reached the papers.” He paused, obviously wanting her to be quite clear on the point. “And he told us about the money in Michelle’s shoe.”

  She pursed her lips. It could have been an inspired guess; most prostitutes hid their cash.

  “And before you add anything,” Byford said, “he knows how much and which shoe. And he knows because he says he put it there.”

  The shock must have shown in her face. However great the temptation, Ferguson could no longer just be written off.

  Ozzie was sitting at her desk, scribbling a note. Bev plonked down a steaming cup of coffee and folded her arms. “You might be fast track but no one gets promoted that quick.”

  Ozzie glanced up and grinned, saw her face and shot up smartish. She flopped into the chair, stretched her legs. “Checking it out for size were you?”

  “Bit big for me, Sarge.”

  He said it with a straight face, but Bev’s was poker-like. “Thanks, mate.”

  “I didn’t – ”

  She flapped a hand. “Forget it.”

  “You all right, Sarge?”

  No, she bloody wasn’t. “Fine.”

  She’d done a detour via the interview room, wanted another butcher’s at Duncan Ferguson. He’d been on his knees, eyes closed, fingers steepled. Talk about God-bothering, he was certainly getting up her nose. She’d asked herself the same question over again. If Ferguson was in the frame, was Charlie Hawes still in the picture?

  “Thought you’d be chuffed,” Ozzie said. “What with the case being pretty well sewn up.”

  “Tacked round the edges, Oz. Tacked round the edges.”

  “Not what I’ve heard.” He pulled up a seat. “Word is, DI Powell’s found a stack of stuff at Ferguson’s place.”

  “Powell couldn’t find yeast in a brewery.”

  “Well, he’s come up with enough for charges.”

  “Murder?”

  “Not yet.”

  She shrugged.

  “You don’t buy it, do you?”

  She put her elbows on the desk and her head in her hands. “I just don’t know, Oz.” When she closed her eyes, she still saw Charlie Hawes. Was her mind sealed as well? “It just doesn’t feel right.”

  “Doesn’t always come down to feelings, does it, Bev?”

  There was a touch of concern in the voice. It was time to change the subject. “What’s Powell come up with?”

  “Scrapbook full of cuttings. Prostitute murders going back to the Ripper. Hate mail he hadn’t got round to posting.”

  So Ferguson was the arse-wipe who’d sent the girls their loo paper. She recalled Jules’s graphic demo during the meet at Val’s place. Wouldn’t do any harm to check; she made a mental note, reached for the coffee. The case against Ferguson was mounting. So how come she felt so low?

  The concern was in his face now. “None of it makes Charlie Hawes a saint, Sarge. There was every reason to go after him. No one’s gonna think any the less of you.” He paused. “I certainly don’t.”

  Were her feelings that obvious? “What did you want anyway, Oz?”

  He pointed to a couple of print-outs on the desk. “Came through earlier. Makes interesting reading.”

  “Steve Bell?”

  He nodded. “Bit academic now.”

  She sipped the coffee, skimmed the reports. “It’s a soddin’ crime wave, Oz. Christ, you could swim in it.”

  Stephen Joseph Bell was older than he looked and even more brain-dead than he appeared. He was twenty six and he’d been in and out of youth detention for years before getting to spend time with the big boys. Probably saw it as career progression. The list was impressive: taking without consent, criminal damage, assault, wounding. She looked at Oz. “One of life’s givers, then?”

  “He’s been straight for three years.”

  “He’s been lucky for three years.” She threw the papers on the desk. “Losers like Bell don’t do straight.”

  Ozzie was studying his fingernails. “Word is he does both.”

  “Oh? Swings both ways?”

  He nodded. “Someone in the incident room remembered him from way back. Reckons he boosted his pocket money down the Queensway as a rent boy. Got into it while he was still at school.”

  “Let’s do a bit of digging.”

  He looked questioningly. “Reckon it’s still worth it?”

  “Sure do. Ferguson might have confessed, but he hasn’t been convicted. And you know what they say, Oz?” She tapped the side of her nose. “It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”

  “You said it, Sarge.” He turned but she still caught the rider. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Lucky the phone rang; she was about to chuck it at his rapidly departing back.

  “Thanks for the call. I got here soon as I could.” Bev was struggling to keep up. Why did doctors always walk so fast? She blamed ER. Mind, Doctor Thorne looked very fetching in a flapping white coat. She smiled; Oz’d be sorry to miss it.

  “I didn’t ring till I was sure. She’s definitely coming out of it. She’s opening her eyes, trying to talk.”

  They stood to one side as a muscular porter raced past with an unconscious child on a trolley. A woman – presumably the mother – was running alongside. Bev caught a glimpse of her face and prayed the future didn’t hold a similar fate for herself.

  “You all right?” the doctor asked.

  Bev nodded. “I take it Cassie hasn’t had any flowers since I last checked?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  They’d reached Intensive Care. “You’d be better off asking one of the nurses.” Doctor Thorne smiled. “They know far more about what goes on round here than I do.” She held the door open. “I’ll catch you later.”

  Alison Granger was at the bedside again. Cassie was about the same age as one of Alison’s daughters. Bev tiptoed down the ward, not that normal footsteps were likely to wake many of its occupants.

  “Hi, Alison. How’s the patient?” Bev’s face fell; the patient looked as lively as a wet park bench.

  “Not so bad, Sarge,” she winked. “Bit tired, if you know what I mean.” She rose and beckoned Bev towards the end of the bed. “She’s trying it on.”

  “Not with you, Alison.”

  “She’s as compos mentis as you and me, when she wants to be.” She leaned closer. “I’ve caught her peeping every now and again. If anyone’s around she doesn’t like the look of, she pretends to be asleep.”

  Sounded reasonable to Bev. Bit like a one night-stand she’d once had. “She said anything yet?”

  “About half an hour ago. Asked where she was
. How long she’d been here.”

  Good signs. Bev nodded. “I’ll sit with her. You grab a coffee and a bite to eat.”

  The seat was still warm; Bev pushed it nearer. The bear she’d bought earlier was at Cassie’s feet. She rescued it, laid it on the pillow. She thought she caught a flicker in the girl’s eyes but might have been mistaken.

  Gently, she held Cassie’s hand, willing her to respond. There was only the rise and fall of her breathing under the thin white sheet. Gradually Bev started to talk. She told her about Michelle, she told her about Vicki, she told her about the other girls and what they were trying to do. She held nothing back: she ran through her thoughts on Louella, Annie Flinn, Charlie Hawes, and the anorak who’d confessed. She kept her voice soft and confiding, as if Cassie was a good mate and as she spoke, she stroked the girl’s hand. “Thing is, Cass, what if we’ve got the wrong man? What if he’s a wally after the proverbial fifteen minutes? Anyway,” she lowered her voice even further, “you can’t tell me Charlie Hawes is Mr Clean. God, I’d like to pin something on him.”

  Bev felt a slight pressure under her fingers but Cassie’s face remained a blank canvas. “I bet he did this to you, didn’t he? See, I reckon you and me, we could put him away, but I can’t do it on my own.”

  Bev held her breath. Nothing. Short of a good shake, there was little more she could do. “I’m all talked out, Cass. Bore for England, me. I’ll just sit a while if that’s okay with you.” She slumped back in the chair, still clutching Cassie’s hand, and closed her eyes. She was knackered; knackered and racked off. She’d invested too many hopes. Cassie was as scared as the others; probably even more terrified. Unbidden, images sprang to Bev’s mind. Michelle naked in the mortuary, Louella dead in the park, a laughing Vicki across the table in the police canteen. As if that wasn’t enough, she recalled the little girl from the trolley, and her own father with as many drips in him as an umbrella stand.

  She swallowed hard but knew it wouldn’t stem the flow. Sodding hospitals; bloody places. She sniffed loudly and dashed her cheeks with the heel of her hand, the damp tears cooling her skin. She let go of Cassie, wrapped the girl’s fingers round the bear, leaned over and pecked her forehead. “I’m off now, Cass. Ta for listening.”