Faceless (25 page)

Patrick grinned at Anastasia and said gently, ‘Another few years and you will dance for your daddy, won’t you?’

She just clapped and clapped, her face wreathed in smiles.

Lucy stared at her supervisor in obvious distress.

‘Look, Luce, everyone knows the score here and I think you should take a few weeks off then decide whether you want to come back to work. Karen Black’s husband and brother were seen here early this morning, asking for you, but you didn’t hear that from me, OK? I sympathise, but I really have no intention of getting any more involved than I have to.’

He was embarrassed, and a part of Lucy felt sorry for him. The Blacks weren’t the type of people anyone wanted on their case. But after the events of the last few days she wasn’t emotionally strong enough to cope with this rejection on top of everything else.

‘What are you saying? That you don’t want me back? Fucking rich that is, coming from you. I assume your scam with the Blacks will continue even though Karen is locked up over trying to murder my mother?’

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‘That’s unfair, Lucy, and you know it.’

‘Do I?’

Her voice had all its usual belligerence.

‘How do I know that? I came in today for one reason and one reason only. To ask for a few weeks’ grace until I get back on me feet. But you more or less tell me to leave me job because you don’t want to get involved with my problems. I bet a solicitor will be interested in what’s happened here this morning. You’ll be hearing from mine soon.’

She picked up her bag and the supervisor’s voice stayed her.

‘Do you realise the animosity this has caused? I am heart sorry for what happened. Luce, who wouldn’t be? But this is the Blacks we’re talking about, love, and the fucking Waltons they ain’t. I am trying to help you here. They are lunatics and you know that. Look what they just did to your mum. Give it a couple of weeks, see how the land lies. I’ll make sure you get paid in full, I promise.’

She knew that to argue with him was futile. He made sense but she was so low that she wanted to hit out at someone, anyone.

She took her bag and walked from the office. As she passed through the factory she saw the pitying looks and ignored them. All she wanted to do was put her head on someone’s shoulder and cry.

But Mickey’s mother had put paid to that, only letting Lucy have the sofa to sleep on and then leaving her bedroom door open so Mickey couldn’t sneak down. Her father had not been in touch and she had no one else close. No real friends she could turn to. She had her mother, ill and difficult, and not another soul to call her own.

It finally occurred to her that her life was a wasted mess, but not that she was to blame for it. At least Karen Black had family to fall back on. People who cared. Lucy had no one.

Even Marie, the cause of everything bad that had happened, would have been welcome at this particular moment in time.

As she stood at the bus stop it took all Lucy’s will-power not to break down and cry. She wasn’t hurting for her mother, or her home, she wanted to cry for herself. For the terrible things that had happened to her. She would never understand that her own selfishness was the real cause of every single one of them.

Patrick smiled at the little girl beside him. Her roots needed doing, and her make-up was over-heavy, but she had a certain girlish charm that he liked. And more importantly, that he knew his customers would like.

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Her name was Maisie, and she had huge blue eyes, a slim body with small pert breasts and skinny bandy legs. She was streetwise beyond her years and knew the score. As she was offered a joint she took it with a cool smile.

‘What is it - grass?’

Patrick nodded.

‘It’s good grass.’

She lit the joint and expertly drew in the smoke, holding it for a few seconds before blowing it out. She sighed happily.

‘So what’s this going to cost me?’

Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Patrick didn’t answer her. She looked into his face and grinned.

‘Come on, Patrick. Let’s put our cards on the table. You want to pimp me and I want to be pimped. It suits me. I just want to know what’s in it for me? What do I get for my trouble, and what do you want for yours?’

He was impressed with her acumen. Most working girls never realised they were earning an actual living, they just lurched from one day to the next, spending indiscriminately. It was refreshing to meet one so young with a bit of nous.

‘What do you want, Mandy?’

She’d expected his reply and answered him immediately.

‘I want, Mr Connor, a fair whack of what I earn, a bit of grass now and again, and if possible another girl to do doubles with. Men like that more than most people realise. I don’t do hard drugs. I don’t need to. Don’t want to. I like to keep me head about me when I’m working. I need a few quid up front to settle a flat, and I want good protection when working the street, from the other girls as well as the punters. That’s about it in a nutshell. Oh, and I will not be treated violently. I do me work and don’t complain even if they’re eighty years old and stink of piss. This is all a means to an end for me, nothing more.

‘I will take on anyone with the money, and that includes you. I don’t do freebies for anyone, only Old Bill occasionally to get them off my back. I am discreet, reliable and clean. Always use a condom, always have. I will not work without one even if it’s for a king’s ransom. I don’t drink because I like to keep me wits about me, and the same goes for crack or skag.’

She smiled to take the edge off her words.

‘That about sums me up. And, by the way, the name is Maisie, OK’

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Patrick felt a sneaking admiration for the little girl sitting in his car. If only he had a few more like her he wouldn’t need to work so hard for a living. But then he liked to coerce them as well. It appealed to his dominant personality. In fact, it was a prerequisite for his daily happiness. But this little one interested him; she was more than aware of her own worth and for a whore that was a novelty. Usually they had a self-hatred that was fascinating to see, especially after a few years on the game when they were ageing faster than their civilian counterparts.

‘Aren’t you going to answer me?’

Maisie’s voice was bubbling with suppressed laughter. She was well aware of the impression she was creating on the man sitting beside her.

Patrick shrugged.

‘You got a deal, providing you’re as good at the job as you say.’

She sighed with pleasure and he saw that every now and then her right eye went skew-wiff. She had a lazy eye and instead of making her look bad it made her look appealingly childlike.

‘Tell me more about the double act,’ he suggested.

‘Just another young blonde girl. I’ll do all the work, but it can be lucrative. Especially with the ones who are just a touch off actual paedophilia. A couple of school uniforms is the only kit we need. Oh, and can I bring regulars to my flat when I get in? I like regulars, they’re easy and they pay more. After a while you can finish them in minutes and they give you a bonus.’

Patrick was having a hard job keeping a straight face. He was in a good mood because he had broken Tiffany and everything was working out just as he wanted. He had left the bag of rocks at her flat and phoned Social Services playing the concerned father. They should swoop on her at any minute. He would miss the kid in some ways but she was better off without a crackhead mother so he could convince himself that he had done it for the best.

He debated whether to slap this little bitch in the face and put her through her paces right now, give her the fist and subdue her. But he liked her in a funny sort of way. She reminded him of himself at the same age, knowing instinctively what she wanted. He had been the same.

Instead of hitting her he smiled.

‘I know just the girl for you to work with, Maisie. Her name is Tiffany and she’s as amoral as you are.’

Maisie smiled back and held out her hand.

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‘Let’s shake on it, I think we have a deal.’

As Patrick shook her hand he was beaming all over his handsome face.

‘You have obviously done this before. What brought you to London?’

She shrugged like a woman a million years old who had seen it all.

‘Let’s just say my last pimp tried to move the goal posts, shall we, and leave it at that?’

As Patrick looked at her hard he realised that this girl was a complete one off, and for some reason she actually made him a bit nervous. She was too self-contained and cold.

Emotional people could be easily controlled; being unemotional himself he had soon realised its usefulness to him. He was seeing too much of himself in this girl and now it was bothering him. She was as calculating as he was and he knew that was only a good thing while she worked for him and not against him. He would have to watch her closely.

It was amazing in someone of only fourteen.

Linda Harrison was thirty-seven years old and felt that as a social worker she had seen it all. She’d arrived at Tiffany’s flat with the police at a little after seven-thirty. She had tried to gain entry twice and been unsuccessful. The little girl’s crying was clearly audible from outside and Linda could see the mother slumped in the lounge as she looked through the letter box.

PC Kelly broke the door open with a lock buster and they entered the flat together. Tiffany was completely out of it. Before he had left, Patrick had given her a large glass of Ribena laced with Librium and she could hardly move. Her mouth felt as if it was full of cotton wool and her head was heavy and sore.

The crack and the sedative had poleaxed her. As she saw the woman pick up Anastasia she knew she should try and stop her but could barely move. Her speech was slurred, and her eyes refused to focus. She just wanted to go back to sleep. The social worker looked strange, her teeth seemed to be too big for her mouth and face was blurred round the edges. It was the tiredness. Tiffany thought, the extreme tiredness. She caved in. She couldn’t take any more. Her eyes were burning from trying to keep them open. She went back to sleep, the need to close her eyes overwhelming.

She dimly registered the policeman and something told her she

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was in trouble but she just didn’t have the energy to think about it, let alone do anything about it.

‘I’ll phone an ambulance, shall I?’

PC Kelly’s voice was flat, without emotion.

Linda Harrison picked up Anastasia and comforted her.

‘I have to arrange temporary care for this poor little mite. Has the mother got a pulse?’

Kelly nodded.

‘She’s just out of her brains. How do you stand this, day in, day out?’

He sounded disgusted.

She didn’t answer. Instead she got Anastasia a drink in a bottle and tried to calm the child down.

‘Could be the first time this has happened, let’s not write her off too quickly. Though according to the father of the child she’s a crack addict and a prostitute. He’s been worried for a while, apparently.’

She sighed.

‘Tiffany’s been in and out of care, and up until now she was supposed to be a good mum. Pressure, I suppose.’

They heard the ambulance in the distance.

When they’d taken Tiffany away, Linda packed a few bits and pieces for Anastasia and as she did so, registered the fact that the place was basically clean and the environment child friendly. Nice clothes, plenty of food in the fridge, and educational toys. This girl had tried to be a good parent whatever the policeman might think. She wondered what had gone wrong. Why she had just stopped coping.

Linda hoped the police left this as a case for Social Services and didn’t summons the girl for child neglect and endangerment. Then she saw the bag of crack on the table and sighed. If the child had chewed on these the mother would have been locked up as soon as she came round in hospital. That reminded her - she needed to get the hospital to alert her as soon as Miss Carter was capable of communicating. She hoped she wouldn’t have to take the kid permanently, but judging from the bag of crack she doubted the girl would be capable of looking after her child again. Crack addicts were like heroin addicts: totally dependent, physically as well as mentally, on the product of choice. It was heartbreaking to observe but it was far worse for the kids caught up in their parent’s nightmare.

She looked into the small heart-shaped face of Anastasia and

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instinctively hugged her. She was a nice child, seemed well fed and cared for. It was all such a shame. Why did these girls feel the need to take drugs that were so potent and destructive? What was wrong with a bit of grass or a nice cold glass of white wine? Linda was a child of another generation and saw soft drugs as harmless. Couldn’t understand the need for complete oblivion. She had never needed it.

She rubbed her eyes and finished packing the child’s things. These cases always made her feel sad. She gave Anastasia a bit of chocolate and settled her down as best she could. She knew a nice foster family who were mixed race and hoped they were available to take in this pretty little girl for a while. This child needed some loving and Linda was determined to provide it. Even if it was only short-term.

On the mantelpiece was a photo of the child with her mother, a good-looking girl with lively eyes and a sweet smile. She looked very different from the unkempt ragbag Linda had seen slumped on the settee.

Anastasia pointed at the floor and said clearly, ‘Mummy’s pipe.’

The social worker closed her eyes and bit her lip. The child looked so pleased with herself. So very, very pleased. With those shocking words all Linda’s kindly intentions flew out of the window. She was disgusted and shocked that the child was aware of what her mother was doing.

Linda’s face grew grim. The sooner this poor child was out of this flat and away from her mother the better.

Carole Halter was in the club, her broken nose still evident and her make-up much heavier than usual.

‘You can’t work with that boatrace, I’m sorry, Carole. Fuck me, you’ll scare off all the punters.’