Working Girls (10 page)

There was a tap on the window. She smiled: set your watch by Banjo. She hauled herself up, threw the butt into the empty fireplace, ran her tongue along her teeth then licked her lips. She was
smiling when she opened the door. She’d have put it on the chain if she hadn’t been expecting Banjo. Talk about stables and bolting horses.

“What do you want?”

“Valerie, Valerie. That’s no way to talk to an old friend.”

“None of your friends reach old age, do they?”

“Let’s talk about that inside.”

“Let’s not.”

“It’s not a request, Valerie.”

The kick was fast and would probably leave a dent in the door. She didn’t see it coming; the edge of the wood caught her on the side of the face. Charlie Hawes was in the room before she
was off the floor.

He strolled round, hands in the pockets of an expensive-looking black coat. “Banjo sends his apologies. Got held up by a couple of mates. My mates.”

I bet he did, she thought. “What do you want, Charlie?”

“Me? I just want a quiet life. You know that, Valerie.”

“Join a monastery.”

He walked towards her slowly. She tensed when he lifted a hand but all he did was stroke a finger gently down her cheek.

“I’d put something on that if I were you. You’ll have a nasty bruise if you don’t look out.”

“What do you want, Charlie?”

“Sit down.”

“I’m okay.”

“Sit down.”

She perched on the bed.

“Michelle’s murder is not good news.”

Val looked down at her hands, clasped them tightly to stop the tremor.

He sat next to her, put an arm round her shoulder. “It’s giving me a lot of grief. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, Charlie.”

“See, the police want to talk to me and I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. It’s not good for business. You can see that, can’t you, Valerie?”

“Yes, Charlie.”

“So I want your help.”

“Me?”

“You.” He tightened the grip. “There’s a cop sniffing round. Asking questions. Too many questions.”

“I don’t talk to cops. You know that, Charlie.”

He took his arm away, turned her face towards his. “Thing is, lady, I want you to talk to this one. I want you to supply a few answers.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“That’s right. I’m going to fill you in.”

She bit her lip.

“You cold, Valerie?”

“No. I’m okay.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m okay.”

He stood, strolled over to the fireplace. “This cop. She’s at Highgate. CID. Name’s Morriss. I want you to get in touch.” He smiled. “Woman to woman, tart to tart.
Put her right on a few things.”

“Come on, Charlie, she ain’t gonna listen to me.”

He waved a hand. “Oh, I think so. See, a little bird told me you and Beverley go back a long way.”

“Shouldn’t listen to little birds. She’s pulled me in a few times, that’s all.”

“You’re not hearing me, are you? It’s not negotiable. And if that little bird’s been telling lies – I’ll just have to wring its neck, won’t
I?”

His voice was steady but Val’s heart was racing. She had a feeling the little bird might go by the name of Vicki Flinn.

“What do you want me to do?”

“That’s better, Valerie. Much better.”

Spelling it out didn’t take long. She listened in silence, nodding now and again.

“Hope it’s all clear. Don’t want you fucking up, do we?”

She shook her head. He smiled. “Any questions before I leave, Valerie?”

She had to ask, needed to know, kept her voice casual. “Haven’t seen Shell’s mate, Vicki, for ages. Any ideas, Charlie?”

He laughed, walked to the bed, patted her head, Labrador style. “Don’t you worry, Auntie Valerie. I’m taking good care of young Victoria. Matter of fact, she’s hanging
around outside now – waiting for her Uncle Charles.”

Ozzie released the belts before Bev hit the brakes. Blood was whooshing in her ears and her scalp was doing its hedgehog impersonation.

She flung open the door, gulped cold air. Ozzie’s heels rang in the silence. She knew she had to get up, had to join him, had to take control. She just needed a second.

He reached the body, looked back. “Don’t bother, Sarge.”

It was too late: she was already bent double, gazing into the gutter. She didn’t hear him walk back but turned her head when he tapped her shoulder. He was holding something in his hand.
“Nutters, or what?”

She swore as her eyes focused. The visual clarity did nothing for her vocabulary.

“Arseholes.”

“Sarge, it’s a joke. A sick joke. That’s all.”

The short black wig was askew now, obscuring the eyes but revealing a fibreglass skull. The head must have worked loose from the neck as the rest of the dummy swung in the breeze.

“Sarge, you all right?”

Her cheeks were moist, glistening. She dashed at them with the heel of her hand. “Get the bloody thing down. Now.”

It was easier demanded than done. She stood at his side, arms folded, barking orders while he lowered the cord and mock cadaver. The clothing was barely damp, obviously hadn’t been there
more than a few minutes. She scanned the street; there were no house lights on nearby and no one was about. She’d get the local radios to put out a witness appeal. Someone must have seen
something. A car was approaching. She’d been watching as it turned in from Thread Street.

“Come on,” she said. “We’d best get back. I’ll give you a hand.”

He grinned. “I’ll give you the head.”

“Balls!” It wasn’t an anatomical admonition; she’d just clocked the driver of the car. Her heart hit her DMs. Powell, Mike bloody Powell. It did not look good. The Rover
slewed across the pavement, doors gaping. Her and Ozzie man-handling a headless, half-naked, female form.

Powell sauntered over, smirking. “Look Morriss, whatever you pair get up to in private’s fine by me, but not in the street and not on police time.”

“Ha, ha.” She paused. He waited. “Sir.”

“What’s going on, then?”

How could she tell Powell when she had little idea herself? At best, it was a vicious wind-up. At worst, a graphic warning. Either way, the bloody thing had been dressed like Vicki Flinn. She
outlined the barest of bones and watched as he stroked his chin – in most people an indication of thought.

“So your little friend’s a two-faced tart?”

She shook her head, genuinely bemused. “Sorry?”

“Been stringing you along, hasn’t she?” Stringing? Was the man serious? “Making out she’s a mate when all the while she’s laughing up her sleeve.” He
was glaring at her now, jabbing the air between them. “Let me tell you something, Morriss. She was never going to take you to Mad Charlie. Pound to a penny she’s one of Hawes’s
whores.”

She sighed. Charlie jokes had been banned from day one and, more to the point, what was Powell going on about? “How do you work that lot out?”

“Stands to reason. He doesn’t want you poking your nose in. He’s saying back off, big time. They’ll have staged this charming little tableau between them, be laughing
themselves stupid.”

She shook her head.

“Don’t shake your head at me, girl.”

“Even if Hawes is behind it – and there’s nothing pointing that way – you can’t possibly know the girl’s in on it as well.”

“She’s a treacle. She’ll do as she’s told.”

“Precisely. He could be holding her…”

“Oh, I’ll bet he’s doing that.”

“…against her will.”

“Little slag should be done for wasting police time.”

Ozzie cleared his throat. “I think, perhaps, we should be getting back to Thread Street. Sir.”

Bev had forgotten Ozzie was there; Powell probably hadn’t even noticed.

“Don’t bother, laddie. Ronnie Leigh got his wires crossed. Thought I knew where I might find him. And there he was. Down the Royal Oak. The big one’s not tonight. It’s
Tuesday. Everyone else has buggered off and I suggest you pair do the same.”

Bev watched him leave then had to transform two fingers into a mock salute as he did a sudden about-turn. “By the way, Morriss. I was on the blower with Byford earlier. He wants a word
with you. First thing. His office.” He shook his head, tutting loudly. “Shove something hard down my knickers if I were you.”

It was the lure of mushy peas that did it. That, and the hunger-making exertion of grappling with an over-sized Barbie back at the nick. She shook her head, glanced in the
driving mirror and gave a wry smile. The sight of Bev Morriss giving a fireman’s lift to a dubious-looking dummy had inspired the wits of Highgate to a new low. Whatever. She’d been
heading for home with nothing more than a mug of Horlicks in mind when the culinary vision struck. A mere street away and it was now accompanied by haddock and chips. She was wavering but the
tempting smells drifting from Your Plaice or Mine tipped the balance.

“Hello stranger. Thought you’d turned Vulcan.”

She smiled. “Don’t you mean vegan? Wotcha, Sid. How goes it?”

He lifted a sizzling basket. “Swimmingly.”

She rolled her eyes. Nothing changed. Sid Gounaris ran the best chippie in town but threw in the worst jokes. It was just round the corner from Bev’s but she hadn’t been near the
place since the New Year and her week on a health farm.

“Y’all right, bab? You lookin’ a bit peaky.”

Dear Sid. He peppered the thickest Greek accent this side of Athens with the occasional dash of Brummie. Everyone was ‘bab’ – even the blokes. As for ‘peaky’
– she was sylph, not sick. Six kilos she’d lost since Christmas. On the other hand, coming across a Vicki Flinn look-alike dangling from a lamp-post probably wasn’t conducive to a
healthy glow.

“Top of the world, Sid.”

“Usual?”

“Twist my arm.”

Sid’s arms were covered in curly black hair. At his temples there was a dusting of grey.

“Funny you comin’ in tonight.”

She sneaked a chip. “Oh?”

“Yeah, had some bloke in earlier askin’ ’bout you.”

She waved a hand furiously in front of her mouth, blowing hard. Sid looked up from salt scattering and grinned. “Serves you right.”

The chip was still too hot to swallow but Sid was a dab hand at working out the garbled utterances of the impatient.

“Said he was friend of a friend.”

“And what did you say?”

“Said, yeah, and I’m Jamie Oliver. C’mon, bab, this bloke’s got dreadlocks down to his elbows and you can smell the jazz woodbines a mile away.”

She grabbed another chip before he wrapped them, blew on it before taking a bite.

“What time was this, Sid?”

“I’d not long opened. ’bout seven?”

“What did he want? Exactly?”

“Says he had a message. He knew you lived round here but he’d lost the number or something. I said it was news to me.”

“Ta, Sid.” She was delving into her shoulder-bag, coming across the odd kitchen sink and fluffy Polo. She only had a tenner. She’d try to get to a cashpoint on her way into
work.

He handed her the packet, voice becoming suddenly serious. “Look out for yourself, bab. There’s a load of crazies out there.”

By the time, she was parking, her only concern was whether Sid’s finest would still be piping hot after she’d buttered bread and opened chilled Frascati.

No one was into stupid risks, but the day the bogeyman lurked in every bush was the day to hang up the ID. The guy in Sid’s – given the two-bit description – could have been
anyone. She locked up, looked round.

The car park was a piece of open ground at the back of the maisonettes. Apart from residents, it was used by drivers nipping into the shops. At 10.30 on a Sunday night, it was almost deserted.
She frowned. The light by the staircase was out. Again. The local yobs used it for target practice.

Yes. She could see it now. There was broken glass on the concrete. Bloody nuisance, and nasty, given the number of little kids who played round the stairs. All those scabby knees and Germolene.
She kicked away the worst of it; gave herself a pat on the back. The sudden, sharp, sickening whack to the small of her back was down to someone else.

She tried swirling round, but the impact was forcing her forward and she lost her balance. Her glass clearing had not been entirely successful. Her brain was trying to work out the site of the
worst pain given the conflicting but equally pressing messages from both sources. It was no time for cerebral exercise; this was up close and physical. She was face down and pinned down; his knees
were clamped at her sides, pressing on her arms. Something brushed across her eyes. It felt soft; might have been a scarf. Whatever it was, it was now tightly tied. Come on, Morriss, think: you
can’t move, you can’t see. Maybe you can talk your way out of this.

“Why don’t we —“

“Shut the fuck up.”

Chatting was out, then. What was he doing? What did he want? Was he the guy who’d been quizzing Sid? Was he linked to the Lucas inquiry? There had to be a connection, didn’t there?
Otherwise it was too much of a coincidence. And Bev didn’t do coincidence.

On the other hand, it was mugsville round these parts. Anyone walking alone, after dark, was seen as a mobile cash dispenser. It was bad news for the crime figures but it had never bothered Bev
personally. Self-defence was second nature. This was hurting her pride almost as much as her spine.

“Look —”

She stiffened. Everything had changed. He had a blade. The metal was cold and hard against her neck. As her fear rocketed, so did her anger. She’d always loathed being pushed around,
couldn’t abide bullies and the thought that the mad bugger squatting on her back could possibly be Michelle Lucas’s killer acted as a spur. The only problem was that she couldn’t
move an eyebrow let alone a muscle.

“What do —?”

“Fuckin shut it, bitch.”

Whatever he was up to, he’d have to get a move on. The place was quiet on a Sunday night, but it wasn’t ghost town. Someone could pass by any time.

The knife was the sticking point; made her think twice about trying a swift kick or a fast buck. Several unidentified flying objects hit the ground not far from her head. A few others she
recognised: loose change, a box of matches. The smell gave it away. It even permeated the scents clinging to the blindfold. Leather and mints meant only one thing: he’d up-ended her
shoulder-bag. The blade was now pressing – no, resting – against her cheek. He hadn’t cut her; not yet.