Working Girls

by Maureen Carter

  She straightened and gave the girl a last glance. Her eyes widened as one of Cassie’s slowly opened.

  “England?” said the girl. “You could bore for soddin’ Europe.”

  Bev felt like shoving the bear in a bedpan, then she saw the girl’s smile.

  “You don’t half talk a load of crap. D’you know that?”

  “Give me the good stuff, then, Cass.”

  The girl’s smile vanished. “I’m cream crackered, honest.”

  “I’ll come back. Any time you’re ready.”

  The girl looked down at the teddy bear, stroked its ear between thumb and forefinger. Bev could have kicked herself; she’d asked too much, pushed too far. She’d almost given up, was about to leave, when Cassie spoke again. Her voice was muffled but the message was clear. “I’ll think about it. Come back tomorrow.”

  “If you’re tied up, I can come back.”

  Bev’s eyes travelled from the fluffy pink towel turbanning Val’s hair to a man’s blue-striped shirt barely covering her boobs.

  “Thursday, innit?” The big woman winked. “Don’t do bondage Thursdays. Come in, chuck.”

  Bev followed Val’s swaying rump as it sashayed into the front room. Frank Sinatra was doing the rounds on an old Fidelity. Bev’s mouth twitched, but any irony in the lady being a tramp was lost on the big woman. She watched as Val swooped to retrieve a smoking ciggie from an overflowing ashtray.

  “Don’t make ’em like that any more, do they?”

  The player? The records? Ol’ Blue Eyes? Bev hedged her bets, uttered a noncommittal “Right.”

  “Grab a pew. I’m on maintenance.”

  “Maintenance?” Bev sank into a bean-bag. “You make more than me. What you doing on maintenance?”

  Val rolled her eyes. “Body maintenance, you daft sod.”

  Bev was thinking grease guns and MOTs but looking round it was all moisturisers and CFCs. For someone whose make-up could fit in a matchbox, it was riveting.

  “I’ve waxed me legs, masked me face, shaved me armpits and I was just about to do me nails,” Val said.

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “As if.”

  Bev was keeping it light. There was a good chance it was going to get heavy later. “How’s Banjo?”

  Val wiggled her shoulders and arched an eyebrow. “Ooh, chuck. He can pluck my strings any day. Know what I mean?”

  “Pluck?”

  Val’s laugh almost dislodged the turban. Bev watched as she ran a finger along a display of tiny bottles on top of the mantelpiece. Colours started at lurid and went through every shade of garish. The finger hovered between scarlet and fuchsia. Val finally plumped for fresh blood. She perched on the bed, and hoisted up a surprisingly slim, elegant foot. For a woman of such generous proportions it was a bold move, a rare sight. And not one on which Bev wished to dwell. She glanced round. “Thought you only collected pigs, Val.”

  There was a toy rabbit under the table. Bev leaned across to retrieve it but turned back as Val let rip a string of expletives. The bottle was on the floor, the nail polish seeping into the carpet. “I’m still sticky,” Val said. “Grab a bit of cotton wool and get it up, will you, chuck?”

  Bev soaked a pad in remover and worked out as much of the stain as she could. Frank was still crooning away in the corner. He’d just hit the bit about not dishing the dirt with the rest of the girls. Bev looked at Val and knew what he meant.

  “Ta, kid. Chuck it in the bin, will you?” Bev looked round. Val smiled. “It’s out the back. Pop the kettle on while you’re at it.”

  The kitchen was obviously not a place in which Val spent much time. It was tiny, with a floor like a chessboard and walls in magenta. Even Bev felt a touch of claustrophobia. There was a packet of Yorkshire tea and a bag of sugar on the side. She made for the fridge, which was bare bar a carton of milk and a slab of Cadbury’s. A quick scout round the cupboards unearthed a taste for baked beans, pickled onions and Horlicks. Could explain why Val was short on crockery.

  “Do a lot of entertaining, do you?” Bev asked, placing a mug on the floor by Val’s feet.

  “Yes,” she smirked. “But not in the kitchen.” She was blowing her nails dry: finger not toe, thank God. “Anyway, Bev, what you doin’ here?”

  “Wanted you to have a decko at this.” She reached into an inside pocket.

  “You’ll have to hold it for us, chuck. Don’t want to smudge me handiwork, do I?”

  Bev held a plastic envelope in front of Val’s face. The letter inside was composed of words cut from newspapers, though Bev reckoned Ferguson had dropped an ‘L’ and inserted an ‘F.’

  Fuck off slag. Go home Hooker scum

  Val sniffed. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  “What do you think, Val? Is it the same as the others?”

  She screwed her eyes, chewed her bottom lip. “Not sure, chuck. To be honest, if you’ve seen one – ”

  “It’s important. Have another look.”

  Val checked her nails then took the envelope from Bev, held it closer, squinting. “It could be.” She shrugged. “That’s the best I can do.”

  Bev nodded. It was better than nothing.

  “Sorry, chuck. But they’re all much of a muchness. There’s only so many ways you can tell a tart to get lost. Know what I mean?”

  “Sure.” Bev took a sip of tea, wondered how long it would take Val to ask.

  The big woman handed it back. “Where’d you get it, Bev?”

  Was the tone a tad too cas? Bev made hers slow and deliberate. “From the bloke we’re about to charge with Michelle’s murder.” She was watching closely but had to dodge half a mouthful of tea as it shot out of Val’s mouth.

  The big woman dabbed at her chin, glanced at Bev. “Sorry about that, chuck. It went the wrong way.”

  Wrong way; wrong man? Bev said nothing; waited again. Sinatra was the only one saying anything. Bev took another sip. Her eyes never left Val’s face. Which was more important? What someone said, or what they didn’t? Bev was itching to find out.

  “You haven’t asked who,” she said.

  Val shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “You’d have told me if you wanted me to know.”

  “Would I, Val? Is that what you do? Only tell people what you want them to know?”

  The big woman’s mouth was like a letterbox in a post strike.

  “What would you say if I told you we had Charlie in?” Okay, I lied.

  “I’d say a you were a bloody miracle worker.” The sneer was genuine.

  “Hallelujah,” cheered Bev. “And I’ve just performed another.”

  “You what?”

  Bev leaned back, hands crossed behind her head, surveying the latest. “You’ve miraculously got your memory back. Never heard of him before, had you?”

  Val made an angry grab for a pack of Marlboro. “You bang on about him so much – it feels I’ve known him a lifetime.”

  There was real anger in the big woman’s voice. Bev had misjudged the pace. Sod it; there was nothing to lose now. She leaned forward, dropped her voice. “He’s gonna get away with it, Val. Charlie’ll walk. How many more lives is he gonna fuck up before someone says enough?”

  “I’ve got nothin’ to say.”

  “You didn’t get a phone call from Vicki, did you?”

  She lit a cigarette. It wasn’t much of an answer.

  “When did Vick have the kid, Val?”

  “What kid?” She was lying, but her eyes weren’t. Bev saw it among the terror.

  “Are you really so scared of the little shit?” she asked gently. “I really thought you were different, Val. I thought you cared.” She leaned closer. “He preys on kids. He’s a fuckin’ monster.”

  Val jabbed the air with her cigarette. “If you’re so sure he done it, get some soddin’ evidence. That’s what they pay you for, innit?”

  Bev looked away. There was a truth in there that was difficult to face.

  Val hadn’t finished. “I don
’t do any bugger’s dirty work. An’ I’ll tell you this straight, Bev. The way you go on about him? It sounds personal.”

  She’d never got out of a bean-bag so fast. She towered over Val, who’d slid down in the seat.

  “It is fuckin’ personal. Hawes has made it personal. He was in the park the other night – left me some fan mail. He’s been in my home. He’s threatening me. He’s trying to freak me out. But you know something, Val? I don’t scare easy.”

  Bev was surprised to find a moistness in her eyes and put it down to rage.

  There was concern in the big woman’s voice. “Leave it be, Bev. Back off.”

  “I don’t do back off. Oh, and Val…” She paused. “Next time you see Charlie, tell him that from me.” She was winging it. Val knew more than she was letting on, but it was anyone’s guess how much.

  “I don’t – ”

  Bev flapped a hand. “Save it.”

  At some point, Sinatra had segued into Luck Be A Lady. One letter out if you ask me, thought Bev. She reluctantly turned away.

  “The girls’ll be out tonight,” Val said.

  Bev didn’t react. So?

  “You comin’, or what?”

  It sounded like a spot of bridge-building. Bev was out of bricks.

  “Thought you didn’t do back off.”

  Bev glanced at the big woman. “Your point being?”

  “Didn’t last long, did it? Just a one-night stand for you, wasn’t it? It ain’t like that for me and the girls. On the game, they call it. Well, there’s not a lot of fun in it.” She flicked ash in her empty mug. “I thought you were supposed to be lookin’ out for us out there. Got cold feet, did you?”

  “Got cold everything.” Bev gave a tepid smile. She had to admit Val had a point. “Okay, I’ll try and make it.”

  Val’s reply was lost in a piercing scream coming through the letterbox. “Ma! Val! Let us in.”

  “Jules?” asked Bev.

  Val nodded, lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Christ, if she hammers the bloody door any harder, there won’t be anything to open.”

  Bev went with her, it was time to leave anyway. Jules was hidden by Val’s bulk so Bev heard rather than saw. The words tumbled out in the girl’s excitement.

  “They’ve taken him in, ma! Right outside Woolie’s. I’ve just seen it. Bundled into the back of a car, he was.”

  Val laid her hands on Jules’s shoulders. “Hold your horses, kid. What you goin’ on about? Who’s taken who, where?”

  “The Bill. They got Charlie Hawes. And I’m bleedin’ sure they ain’t takin’ ’im home.”

  The station. That’s where they’d taken Charlie Hawes.

  Bev was heading back under her own steam, still fuming she hadn’t been on the Highgate welcoming committee. She was driving as fast as she could, but the school run meant traffic was at a crawl. She’d left Val’s place and got straight on the phone. Her joy at Charlie’s detention was tempered by a childish churlishness that she’d been kept in the dark it was happening. Charlie was helping inquiries, Byford had told her. He’d been cautioned, was under arrest but not charged.

  They’d had a call. A Mr Angry, from Ladywood, complaining about his lock-up. There was something squatting in it. A black BMW. A black BMW that hadn’t appeared on Charlie’s helpful little list. A glaring omission as it happened, because the motor had Charlie’s name all over it. Okay, slight exaggeration. There was a phone bill made out to a Mr C Hawes. And there was more. There was evidence of a passenger. A girl with blonde hair. They had a Hawes-Lucas link, and forensics were working full pelt to see if they could pin down another with Louella Kent. The breakthrough had added impetus and focus, and every scrap of evidence from both crime scenes was getting the works.

  Bev listened to the details with a growing smile, a cross between smug satisfaction and incipient excitement. Quite what it meant as far as Ferguson’s confession went, she neither knew nor for the moment cared. The spotlight was back on Charlie, and Byford wanted her in on the questioning. The only thing holding her back was a C-reg Volvo full of snotty-nosed kids pulling revolting faces out of the back window. She could do that. She did a quick Quasimodo then brought out the star turn; no kid could top a flashing blue light on the roof.

  Talk about conjuring tricks. You had to give it to the guv. Bev was well impressed. In terms of the interview, she was taking a back seat. Mind, it had a great view and Byford hadn’t ruled out the odd heckle. She’d have to watch her lip a bit; the tape was running this time.

  Charlie, looking even tastier than before, was in the same chair that Ferguson had occupied only a few hours earlier. Rather than tight-arsed perch, Hawes was laid-back loll; legs stretched in front, hands crossed behind his head. The pose was in line with the look: expensive ivory chinos and baggy cotton shirt open at the neck. He was either feeling the heat or showing off his tan. Given the guv’s fancy footwork, she hoped the heat.

  “You can see my dilemma, can’t you, Mr Hawes?”

  Charlie shrugged, not even trying to conceal a yawn.

  “You were quite clear on the point when we last met.” Byford glanced down at a notebook. “‘I never even knew the girl’ is what you told us.”

  Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh. “What I actually said was as far as I know. And that’s still the case. I don’t recall meeting Michelle Lucas.”

  “Then how do you explain the fact that she was in your car?” Byford sounded awfully polite and reasonable. Bev would be putting the verbal boot in by now. Her glance went from Charlie to the evidence bags neatly lined up on the desk. Inside the first was a single hair which, though coiled, was blonde and very long. The tiny stain on the scrap of carpet in the second was less apparent to the naked eye. Not that it mattered, the tag was quite clear. There was more of the same at the lab. The findings in front of them were preliminary. Not so much a rush job as a rocket launch. Essential, with Ferguson still shouting his guilty mouth off. Charlie was saying nothing.

  “Blood and hair. Both Michelle’s. How did they get there, Mr Hawes?”

  Bev looked back at Charlie, searching in vain for a sign of unease.

  “I don’t know.”

  Byford smiled. “I think you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  “If I knew, I’d share it with you.” Was that a wink? The oik had actually winked at her. Cocky little sod.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like us to contact Mr Viner?” Byford asked.

  Charlie had already refused his solicitor. Bev reckoned he was about to change his mind.

  “When I feel the need to call Max, I’ll let you know, okay?”

  Bluff? Bravado? Bullshit? Bev hadn’t a clue, but anything that kept a brief at bay was fine by her.

  “So let’s get back to Michelle,” Byford said.

  Charlie pursed his lips, jabbed a thumb in Bev’s direction. “Can’t you send our Beverley to get coffee? I’m parched.”

  “I don’t do skivvy,” she snarled.

  “Sergeant.” Byford played peacemaker. “Just pop your head out.”

  PACE obliged them to feed and water sleazeballs like Charlie. At least if she could collar someone in the corridor, Byford wouldn’t have to stop the interview. Andy was passing and she put in an order.

  “I’m still looking for answers, Mr Hawes. At some stage Michelle Lucas was a passenger in your car.”

  Come on, guv, thought Bev, stop pussyfooting around.

  “The girl was a prostitute.” Byford’s polite tone didn’t waver. “What does that make you? Punter or pimp?”

  Bev would like to have seen Charlie’s reaction, but she was still by the door.

  “Confused, Mr Byford, confused.” He was doing a lot of heavy sighing, was Charlie. “I can only imagine it must have happened when the car was stolen.”

  “Stolen?” How Byford kept the incredulity out of his voice Bev would never know.

  “Yeah. Two, or was it three weeks back?”

  “And this theft,”
Byford paused, “was it reported?”

  “Come on, Superintendent. As if I’d bother the police with something as trivial as a missing motor.” He lifted his shoulders, turned to include Bev in the general bonhomie. “Not when you people have far weightier matters to keep you busy.”

  “This motor,” Bev asked, “how come you never mentioned it before?”

  Charlie was all innocence. “Didn’t I?”

  “Your little fairy story’s there, Charlie. Take a look.”

  He reached eagerly for the papers he’d brought to their first interview. Bev watched incredulously as he traced every line with a finger, his lips moving to the words he was pretending to read. He looked up, shook his head. “Nope. It’s not there.” He smiled at Bev. “It must have slipped my mind.”

  “What mind?” Bev asked.

  He paused, deep in thought, then hunched over the table, cradled his head in his hands. There was a shudder in his next breath and another in the subsequent sigh. She glanced at the guv. My God. Was the hard man cracking?

  After what seemed like hours, he sat up, hands posed in surrender. “Is it too late?”

  She answered quickly, her breathing suspended. “Too late for what?”

  “To report the theft of my car.”

  She wondered if he practised the smile in his mirror; imagined how it would look minus a few of those perfect white teeth. Thankfully, there was a knock on the door. Bev relieved Andy of the tray, managed to resist dumping it in Charlie’s lap.

  “No sugar for me. Everyone says I’m sweet enough. What do you think, Beverley?”

  She gave him the finger.

  “Should I describe the sergeant’s gesture for the tape, Superintendent?”

  He was enjoying it. She went back to the door, out of harm’s way: his. Would nothing get under this scumbag’s skin?

  “Let’s cut the crap, Charlie.” Byford changed tack and tone. It had the desired effect on Bev; no effect on Charlie. He must have played cool guy so often, he no longer recognised the heat. Byford increased it.

  “This story of yours about the motor. That’s all it is, isn’t it? A story. Once upon a time…” He leaned forward. “Only this time they didn’t all live happily ever after. Michelle Lucas didn’t live at all. What happened, Charlie? You were her pimp. What went wrong? Did she get greedy? Did she want a bigger cut?”