“Thanks,” Bev said. “Appreciate it. When can we see her?”
“Ain’t there no tasty docs round here?” The voice had lost little of its cheek. Bev located its source behind the screens of a cubicle, mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. Gratitude, it appeared, was the last thing on the patient’s mind. “How come I get landed with an old slapper like you?”
“Watch your mouth or I’ll stitch that as well.”
Bev’s lips twitched. Couldn’t have put it better herself. No point mollycoddling a kid like Jules. That’s what she’d told herself last night, driving away from Thread Street; but she’d been haunted by the memory of a pair of skinny legs in the driving mirror. She got to her feet, had to put out a hand to steady herself.
Dr Thorne turned all professional. “What is it, Bev? Are you okay?”
“Blood rush. I’ll be fine.” Relief rush more like, God knew what her stress levels had been up to on the way in, added to which she’d done a run and skipped breakfast.
The doctor was clearly concerned. “You look tired. Take it easy. Yes?”
Bev gazed at the woman’s face: the eyes had dark circles under them, and not so much bags as a set of luggage. “I will if you will.”
She inclined her head. “Touché.”
“Okay if I pop my head round?” Bev asked.
“If you don’t mind bitemarks.”
Bev considered for a second. “Her bark’s worse.”
Byford stood, fastening his coat. “If you know this girl, it’s probably best I leave you to it, Bev.”
“Scared you off, has she, Superintendent?” Dr Thorne winked. Bev’s eyes widened. Byford just grinned.
“Shaking in my boots, Doctor Thorne.”
“Nasty,” she smiled. “I could probably give you something for that.”
Gooseberry or what? The woman was actually flirting!
“I may take you up on that.” The guv was at it now! “Something wrong, Sergeant?” Bev wiped whatever expression was on her face. “Good. I’ll be off then. Let me know what’s happening.”
“Seems like a nice man.” The doctor watched as Byford saluted before disappearing round a corner. “Married, is he?”
“Yeah. Six kids. Wife’s an invalid.”
“You’re joking.”
“Had you going, though, didn’t I?”
She laughed. “Come on. I’ll see if she’s ready for a visit.”
“Ready or not, she’s getting one.”
“Where’s me grapes, then?”
Bev had to stop herself racing across the cubicle and giving the poor kid a cuddle. Frail and lonely on a massive trolley, both hands swathed in bandages, she looked like a boxer waiting for a pair of gloves. Sixty-odd stitches across fingers and hands and superficial wounds on her neck; the medicos wanted to keep her in. They had a battle on their plate but despite all the fighting talk, the sheet had more colour than the girl’s face and her dark eyes were brimming with tears.
Perching on the edge of the trolley, Bev said: “I’d have bought you some grapes. But they might have been sour.”
The girl turned her head as far as the dressing allowed. “Too clever for me, that.”
“Jules,” Bev asked softly, “why didn’t you phone me? Or get Val to put in a call? I thought we were getting on okay, you and me. I’d have brought you in, got it sorted.”
“Sorted!” She glared. “You couldn’t sort post.” Bev’s own words were thrown back; Jules even did the voice. “‘Can’t say much at the mo, love, but I reckon it’ll all be over soon.’ Over? I’ll say it was over. All effin’ over me.” She turned her head again. “Fat lot of good you were.”
Bev didn’t argue. “Tell me what happened, Jules.”
She was still staring at the wall. “I only wanted a packet of fags. I’d have had a lift in your poncey motor but I hadn’t got any dosh. Needed a punter. Just the one would have done.”
Bev swallowed hard, closed her eyes. What a price for a pack of twenty. Health warning needed an update. “I’d have given you a few quid. You only had to ask.”
She turned her head back. “Yeah.”
This time Bev looked away, studied her nails. “I’m sorry, Jules.” Sorry you’re on the game, sorry your life’s shit, sorry I let you down.
“No worries.”
Bev counted them, ran out of fingers. And toes.
“The bloke who attacked you. Punter, was he?”
“Nah. Johnny Depp. Wants me in his next film.”
Bev clenched her fist. “I know you’re hurting. And I know you’re scared. And I know you don’t have a lot of time for me at the mo – ”
“Correction: no time, any moment.”
The barb stung worse than a slap in the face. Bev hit back. “Blame me if it makes you feel any better, kid. But it isn’t going to find the bastard who did this to you.”
She watched as Jules lifted a hand gingerly to her eyes and gently rubbed. The bandage came away with black streaks from her kohl. She kept her eyes down and her voice flat, picking and pulling loose ends from the frayed edge. “Got took short, see. Desperate for a pee, so I go into the park. There I am squattin’, next thing there’s a blade at my throat. Thank God I didn’t have no knickers on. I put me hands up like this,” Bev nodded, “then I shoot up and I catch his chin with me head. Reckon it saved me. He loses his footin’ so I kick him in the balls and do a runner. Didn’t even hurt till I got to Val’s. Then it stung like shit.”
“You did good, Jules.”
“Yeah?”
“You bet,” she smiled. “This bloke. What’s he look like, then?”
She shrugged. “It was pitch black out there and he come from behind.” She was still fiddling with bits of thread. “Anyway, I was scared shitless.”
Disappointment vied with despair. “What about a voice? Did he say anything?”
“Not a word.”
“Had you been aware of anyone around? Anyone watching?”
“Come on, Bev, you were on the patch. It was turkey town on Christmas night.”
Bev nodded. But it wasn’t. Jules’s attacker had been there, hiding in the shadows.
Watching, waiting, biding his time. Had he seen Bev as well, seen her talking to Jules?
“You look knackered, kid. How about I let you get some shuteye?”
Jules looked up, the fear back. “You gonna be around?” She disguised it quickly with something more casual. “Case I remember somefin, like.”
“I’ve got a few things to…” She baulked at the word sort. “… see to, but I’ll do an Arnie.”
“You what?”
“I’ll be back.”
Jules’s face dropped.
“Don’t worry.” Bev made to pat her hand, thought better of it, ran a finger along her cheek. “No one’s going to get to you in here. Safer than a stainless steel condom, this place.”
It could have been a smile, more likely a grimace. Bev tousled the girl’s hair. “I meant what I said. You did really well, kid.” Bev frowned: it matched the new expression on the girl’s face. “What is it, Jules?”
“Hair.” She looked at Bev. “He must have had long hair.”
“You said you didn’t see him.”
“I didn’t. All I saw was the knife. But somethin’ brushed against the side of my face. Tickled a bit. Not that I was laughin’ at the time. Shittin’ meself, more like.” She looked at Bev seeking confirmation. “It must have been, he had long hair? There was a smell an’ all. Could have been shampoo. Not too sure.”
Bev was almost afraid to ask. “Jules? The clothes you were wearing last night?”
“They’re at Val’s.” She lifted a hand to an O-shaped mouth. “I told her to get rid of them. The stink was makin’ me heave. Apart from the blood an that,” she looked down at the covers, “I was sick as a dog.” Bev waited. “I was scared, Bev. Real scared.”
“You’re okay, now, kid.” She leaned across and kissed the girl’s forehead. “Get some zeds in. I’ll g
et someone round to Val’s place, see what’s what.” She’d already got a little list for Ozzie; one more job wouldn’t hurt.
The girl lifted her hands. “Know what really pisses me off about this?”
Bev turned her mouth down. “You’ll never play the piano again?”
Jules rolled her eyes. “Daft sod.”
“Give us a clue.”
“Think about it.” Bev watched, bemused, as Jules made a cack-handed attempt at a bit of hand relief. “Tools of the trade, ain’t they? It’ll be ages before I’m up to speed.”
There was no answer to that. Bev smiled, slowly shook her head. “I’ll catch you later.”
“Yeah.” Jules grinned. “And don’t forget the soddin’ grapes.”
The hospital caff had left Bev longing for a Greasy Spoon; greasy anything, in fact. She’d bolted down a bowl of All-Bran and prunes and come away more ravenous than virtuous. Fast food to keep her going. The notion was amusing but she’d have preferred black pudding and baked beans. She’d been tucked away in a corner with the mobile clamped to her ear for much of the meal, an increasingly tetchy Oz at the other end. She’d considered her few requests well reasonable until he’d asked if he should stick a broom up his backside and give the floor a good going over at the same time. It was her absentminded agreement that had really rattled his cage. Still, he’d acceded. Had no choice. Not when she’d used the C-word in every sentence. As in Constable.
Now she was sitting at Cassie’s bedside; had been for an hour or so. She’d swapped places for a while with Alison who was doing a stint with Jules. Bev was beginning to feel like the lady with the lamp. She just wished it would shed a bit more light on the case. It was like Jules’s bandage: all loose ends and unravelling threads. It got her thinking cobwebs and Charlie Hawes, a malevolent spider enticing unwary flies parlourwards. Except this spider was still banged up. It didn’t make sense.
She jumped a mile at a tap on her shoulder. “Not nodding off, are we, Sarge?”
She turned to see Ozzie grinning down, an armful of files in his grasp.
“Thinking, Constable. The word’s thinking.”
“Yeah, right.” He dumped the papers in her lap. “Bit of bedtime reading for you. Ma’am.”
She pulled a face, then grinned back. “Thanks, Oz. You’re an angel.”
“There’s a couple of reports you might not have seen. Came in this morning. I copied them as well.” He had a glint in his eye which she doubted stemmed from paperwork. It didn’t. “I’d have got away sooner but there’s a bit of a stink on back at the ranch.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Something to do with DI Powell. The guv’s had him on the carpet. No one really knows what’s going on, but you know what that place is like. You should hear some of the rumours.”
All manner of Powell’s shortcomings sprang to mind, but that was down to him being a pillock. Professionally, far as she knew, he toed the line. “So what’s the smart money on?”
Ozzie shrugged, inspected his shoes. He didn’t go in for bad-mouthing, so this must be a biggie.
“Go on, Oz.” Bev did not share his misgivings. “You must have heard something.”
He was hesitating and she was about to ask again when he spoke. “Ferguson’s name keeps cropping up.”
She blinked, mind whirring. Duncan Ferguson, fruitcake of this parish; hobbies included confessing to murder and making death threats. Powell had certainly spent a fair bit of time with the bloke. He’d spoken to him on the night of Louella’s murder, been to his home, led the interviews back at the nick. So what had Powell done?
“I give up,” she said after a few moments. “Give us a clue.”
He spread his hands. “Honest, Sarge. I’d tell you if I knew.”
She snorted. “You’d be the only one round here who does, then.”
Ozzie glanced round, clearly eager for another subject. He nodded at the girl in the bed, her fingers wrapped round Paddington’s neck. “Poor kid. Must’ve been quite a looker before some bastard got his hands on her.”
Bev put a finger to her lips, beckoned him closer. “She’s probably listening to your every word. She’s just being arsey. I’m hanging round cause I need her to give me a steer.”
“Hope you have better luck than me,” Oz said. “I called on your mate. Val? About the clothes? She’s burnt the lot. Said they were covered in blood.”
Mate? Bev wasn’t too sure about that. It still rankled that she hadn’t put a call in about Jules. It seemed even the oldest profession closed ranks. More importantly, it scuppered any chance of forensics finding a thing, let alone a stray hair or three to match the others that had surfaced elsewhere. “What you up to now, Oz?”
“I’m still digging.”
She looked puzzled.
“Steve Bell,” he explained. “Apparently he was at Thread Street Comprehensive a few years back. I’m having a word with the caretaker up there at lunchtime. Oh, and the guv wants me to organise this ID parade you were on about.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I think he just wants to put the wind up Hawes.”
“I can think of other things I’d rather put up him.”
Oz wasn’t listening properly, glancing at his watch, his lips in a rather fetching pout. “I should just have time,” he muttered to himself.
“Time for what?” she enquired.
“Desperate Dan.”
Bev looked blankly at him.
“The bloke duffed up a couple of days back?” Oz prompted. “He’s in here. Men’s Surgical.”
It was ringing a vague bell. “He the one Gazza’s been babysitting?”
Oz nodded. “Thinks he might talk but Gaz is otherwise engaged today.”
Bev looked at Cassie who was still doing a Sleeping Beauty, mouthed the query “Funeral?”
Oz nodded. “Anyway, the guv wants me to pop my head round while I’m here.”
Seemed a strange request. It was nothing to do with the case.
“I know what you’re thinking, Sarge. But this bloke’s in a bad way; any worse and it’ll be murder, not attempted.”
She lifted a few files. “Catch you later, then. This’ll keep me going.”
She ferreted out the fresh stuff first, browsed through. And froze. No wonder the guv wanted to go ahead with the ID parade. The hairs on the scrunchy found near Louella’s body matched Charlie Hawes. She grabbed at the next print-out, fingers fumbling in the rush then stopping dead. It didn’t make sense. Scraps of hair caught under the girl’s nails were definitely not Charlie’s. Neither had they found a match for the tiny particles of fibre. Fibre contaminated with minute traces of oil. She held the papers in her hands, staring ahead as if the answers were about to show up. She was back to loose threads, unravelling ends, but at the same time, a gut feeling that it was all here if she knew where to look.
She flicked through the rest of the reports, reread interviews and witness statements. She was as still as the comatose patients, a patch of calm surrounded by constant sound. She cut out the beeps and hums, ignored the occasional swish of cotton against nylon, the trill of a phone. She was miles away, head full of thoughts that one second seemed to connect and the next were as far apart as ever.
“Ain’t you got a home to go?” The voice startled Bev. She glanced at Cassie whose wide yawn showcased the benefits of fluoridisation. Shame about the gap in the front but even fluoride was no proof against a fist in the mouth.
“You’re not still knackered, surely?” Bev smiled.
“Need me beauty sleep, don’t I?”
Bev told her about last night’s attack on Jules, said she’d be around for a while yet.
“I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout what you said.” Cassie was staring at her hands. Bev held her breath. “It was all crap. You’re on completely the wrong track.”
“Put me on the right one then, Cass.”
“Charlie Hawes is a mad bastard but he ain’t stupid. He ain’t gonna kill his girls, speciall
y not a bird like Shell. Makin’ him a fortune, she was.”
Bev put her head in her hands, felt like putting them over her ears. She didn’t want to hear this. Heard it before; from the horse’s mouth, only yesterday. She sighed, looked at Cassie again. “I thought you were going to help me.”
The silence lasted a few seconds. “I don’t have to tell you anythin’.”
“No, ’course not — ”
“Will you shut the fuck up!” Bev took a deep breath. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a kid so angry. “I don’t have to tell you anythin’. You can see it for yourself. On tape. There’s half a dozen of ’em. Buried, in the park. They were gonna be Shell’s passport out of the game. I told her blackmail was wrong but she reckoned these tapes were gonna take her to a better place. They did that all right. Only trouble is she can’t never come back now, can she?”
The girl was telling the truth, it was in her voice, Bev just didn’t want to believe it. If it wasn’t Charlie Hawes, she’d been wrong since the start.
“So Charlie…” She got no further; Cassie was still seething.
“What was it your mate just said? Must have been a looker before some bastard got his hands on her? Well, for bastard read Charlie Hawes.” She was crying now. “Get him for what he done to me.”
It was something, but it wasn’t the biggie. “So the tapes. Who –?”
“An old fart from up at the school. Shagging the arse off some bugger.”
An old fart from up at the school? Bev was in a state of shock, mesmerised by her racing thoughts and the silent tears streaming down Cassie’s cheeks.
“Go and dig ’em up. Your lot get off on a bit of porn, don’t they? Have a good laugh. Then go get the bastard who really did kill our Shell.”
35
Bev recognised the location from Cassie’s description: an old, rotting tree stump, a stone’s throw from Bogart’s Pool. The same pool she’d thrown up in, the same stump on which she’d sat waiting for the waves of nausea to recede after the sight of Louella’s body. It had been night then, but even now in the middle of the day the park was dark and dank. Darker in places; last time there’d been emergency lighting.
Working Girls Page 30
