Working Girls (12 page)

She wondered if the panic had reached her eyes.

He released her, kissed the top of her head then wandered to the chair where he’d left the bag. She watched his every move. He never hurried, always seemed to operate in slow motion. It
must have given her a false sense of security; she’d run to the door, screaming and ranting, hurling threats and throwing fists. Where was the filth now? Where the fuck was Bev Morriss? She
wished she’d never laid eyes on the bloody woman.

He’d come up behind, forced her elbows back, steered her to the bed. “Calm down. No one will hear. And if they do – no one gives a stuff.”

She watched as he collected her clothes, folded them neatly and placed them in his bag. She bit the inside of her cheek, tasted blood. “Charlie. I never said nothing to her. Honest.
Please, don’t do this. I’ll go away. Somewhere they won’t find me.”

“Oh, I don’t think they’ll find you here, Victoria.”

He walked to the door, then turned and put a hand in his coat pocket. “I almost forgot.” He threw a bundle on to her lap. “Just in case you get any silly ideas.”

It was a small, soft, pink rabbit. Brand new. She’d bought it a couple of weeks earlier, a present for Lucie. Forgotten she still had it.

“Cute, that,” he said, snatching it back. “Kid’ll love that. Maybe I’ll go round and deliver it in person. Know what I mean?”

She gasped.

“Yeah,” he said, turning it over and over in his hands. “Maybe I will. Real soon.”

She watched him leave, unable to speak, her vision blurred by tears.

Unsuppressed excitement pervaded the hall, making for much shuffling of feet and shifting of eyes. Bev stood at the back, kicking her heels, trying to look inconspicuous. Byford was on the
platform, aiming for an affable approachability. A face that said: Come and talk to Uncle William. She smiled, knowing it concealed gritted teeth due to his belief that he’d been outflanked
by the woman standing centre stage.

They’d arrived for the interview with Elizabeth Sharpe only to be warded off by the school secretary. The Head was busy, she said; finalising a form of words for the morning’s
special assembly. A placatory offer had been thrown in: Byford could address the children after.

Bev stifled a yawn. The Sharpe woman obviously liked the sound of her own voice, which was more than the kids did. She’d already witnessed the confiscation of three Gameboys and the
dishing out of half a dozen detentions. Bev switched off after the Head’s references to Michelle. It was all a bit damning with faint praise. She cast her eyes along the kids in the last row.
Clearly the guidelines on school uniform didn’t stretch this far back. Blimey. Bev’s vests were longer than most of the skirts on show and she’d swear a few of the lads were
wearing mascara. One girl had more rings on her fingers than a pair of curtains. Hell’s bells. One of the little buggers had farted. That’s right. Innocent looks all round. Blame it on
the class anorak. Been there. Done that.

She dipped into Sharpe’s oratory but the head was banging on about mock SATS. Bev wondered where the other teachers were, especially the delightful Henry. Hopefully, Ozzie might shed a
little light; he was back at the ranch doing some digging on a file marked Brand H.

She heard Byford’s name mentioned and tuned in again.

“… other officers will be on school premises from time to time during the course of the investigation. I expect everyone in this hall to extend the same level of courtesy and
co-operation to the police as you do to members of staff.”

“Fuckin doddle then.” The voice emanated from a few feet away: the girl with the rings. Bev edged sideways to get a better look. The movement caught Little Miss Public
Speaking’s attention and she turned. In a tentative, hand-of-friendship gesture, Bev smiled and winked. The girl smiled back but the obscene hand gesture accompanying it had nothing to with
winking – she was a letter out. Cheeky little cow. Bev came the heavy with a look practised in the bath. The girl stuck out a tongue: pierced. And pulled a face: ugly. Unattractive as it was,
there was something vaguely familiar. Bev was trying to place it when a booming voice broke the train of thought.

“Joanna Rigby. I do not appreciate talking to the back of your head.”

The girl faced the front and Elizabeth Sharpe finally got her act together and called Byford to take the floor.

Bev filed it away then concentrated on the governor. She was impressed. The old man was good with kids. Had two of his own of course. Even so. Most of this lot probably thought Family Values was
a cheap supermarket.

“… I never knew Michelle,” Byford was saying. “But some of you did. And I want you to really think. It’s the little things you saw. The little things you heard.
Things you might not even think are important. In my experience they often make all the difference…”

He was injecting a touch of mild Brummie. There was no use talking posh to kids like this; it was an instant turn off.

“We’ll be wanting to speak to some of you. Specially anyone close to Michelle. But if anyone else wants to have a word with me or Sergeant Morriss who’s standing at the back of
the hall…”

Seven hundred plus heads turned. Thanks, guv.

“…or any of my officers, then come and make yourself known. In the meantime, if any of you have any questions – don’t be afraid to ask.”

A hand shot up at the front and a little boy with a loud voice asked Byford for his autograph.

Bev handed Byford a coffee, resisting the urge to shove an imaginary microphone in his face. He glanced up, detecting a cheekful of tongue. “Little sod still thinks I’m Inspector
Morse.”

She tutted, head shaking. “They don’t teach them anything these days.”

He gave a weary smile then returned to the notes on his desk. Bev lowered herself gingerly into a chrome and canvas chair. They were killing time in the school’s first-aid room, waiting
– again – for Elizabeth Sharpe. Shame there were no dishy doctors about; Bev’s back was playing up, not to mention her feet. The DMs had been ten quid off in the sale but she was
paying for it now. She took a sip from a mug that proclaimed a love of New York and took a closer look round. She’d been in cosier morgues. The only colour in the place was the cross on a
medicine cabinet. They could have used the room next to Sharpe’s. It was up and running as a temporary incident unit but – when the woman finally graced them with her presence –
the guv didn’t want any interruptions.

Bev had popped her head round to touch base and cadge the caffeine.

“Where is the damn woman?”

Byford was beginning to lose it. Bev was glad she wasn’t in Sharpe’s shoes. The sound of footsteps pre-empted an answer. She sat up straight and was amused to see the guv
straightening his tie. The gestures were wasted. The next thing they heard was a glass-shattering: “Young! This is not a race track!”

There was a squeak of rubber on wood as Young’s skid came to an abrupt halt just outside the door. They heard a mollifying shout of: “Sir,” followed by a more muted:
“Dickhead.”

Dickhead bestowed a detention on Boy Racer and quiet, if not calm, was restored.

Byford sighed. “And they say they’re the best days of your life…”

“Only one answer to that.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Get another life.”

She gave a wry smile; it was easier said than done. For a lot of the kids, Thread Street was as good as it would get. She’d interviewed girls round these parts who saw pregnancy as a
career move. One of her mates had a daughter at junior school half a mile away. Nadir was the only kid in the class with married parents who still lived under the same roof.

“So sorry to have kept you waiting. There are always a million things to do on Monday mornings.”

Bev looked round and caught a glimpse of Sharpe. The woman was already halfway across the floor; a stealth bomber would have made more noise. Bev was registering a navy blue suit: classy, costly
and a cut above anything in her own wardrobe. The impeccable double rows of silver buttons added a vaguely military air to the authority exuding from every pore. Bev didn’t know whether to
curtsey or salute. In the event – and after a nod from Byford – she relinquished her seat, eschewed perching on the plastic covered couch and made for the nearest wall.

Byford didn’t get up, didn’t smile. “First thing I want to do is establish why you failed to mention the allegations Michelle Lucas was making in the days leading to her
death.”

Come on boss; don’t mince your words. Bev kept her face blank but it spoke volumes compared with Elizabeth Sharpe’s. The woman was giving nothing away, neither was her voice.

“There was no failure on my part. I had already dealt with Michelle’s so-called claims. As far as I was concerned, the matter was closed.” She crossed her legs at the knee and
held her hands together loosely in her lap.

This was Bev’s first opportunity to observe the woman at close quarters. She’d met the type before but was too wise to write her off on the basis of an initial assessment. Still,
what the hell: bossy, patronising, pushy.

“And how did you deal with it?” Byford asked.

“I invited Michelle to substantiate what she’d been saying. She could not do so. In my opinion the entire episode was based on nothing more than malice and mischief-making. When I
pointed out to her the consequences of slander against a senior member of staff, she withdrew every word.”

“What exactly was she accusing Henry Brand of?” Bev’s voice was deceptively casual.

Mrs Sharpe glanced over, and Bev had the satisfaction of catching a hint of irritation flash across her face.

“I believe you’ve already questioned him.” She paused. “Or maybe harassed would be a better word.”

Bev shrugged, stayed silent.

Mrs Sharpe pulled her skirt over her knees, then made great show of brushing off a speck of dust near the hem. Bev had no intention of getting the same treatment. “Mr Brand? What was he up
to?” She made direct eye contact with the headmistress. “Only according to Michelle, of course?”

The flash of irritation had given way to a sustained glare. She appealed to Byford. “Do we really have to drag all this up again?”

“The girl’s dead, Mrs Sharpe. I’ll drag the canal system if I have to.” He sat back, waiting.

The woman took a deep breath and folded her arms.

“Perhaps you’ll find it easier if you consult your notes?” he asked.

“What?”

“A serious complaint against a member of staff? Obviously, you’ll have a record of everything said.”

“I saw no reason for that.” She shifted slightly in the chair. “Anyway, I have total recall.”

“Shame we can’t say the same for Michelle.” Bev couldn’t resist it; the woman was acting as if she deserved a medal.

“You have a very unfortunate manner, Sergeant Morriss.”

“Thanks,” Bev smiled. “Now perhaps you can summon up your amazing powers of recall to put us in the picture as well. What – exactly – was Henry Brand accused
of?”

“Michelle said he’d touched her breasts and tried to put his hand up her skirt.”

“He groped her, then?” Bev asked. “According to Michelle, of course.”

Mrs Sharpe pursed her lips. She glanced at Byford but if it was a plea for intervention, it was ignored. Bev had already been given the nod to carry on.

“This assault? Where did it take place? Allegedly?”

The woman glanced round, uneasily. Bev followed her gaze: the sick-bed? Never.

“Mrs Sharpe?” The poise had gone. “Here?” Bev pushed. “It happened here?”

An impatient sigh preceded the answer. “She’d complained of nausea and was sent to lie down.”

“Who by?”

“Mr Brand.”

“And?”

“She said he came in during break and asked how she was feeling. She told him she had stomach ache. She said he told her to close her eyes and lie still. She claimed he then assaulted her.
Untrue, of course. Mr Brand says —”

“Don’t worry about what Henry Brand says,” Byford interrupted.

She shrugged. The woman’s complacency was infuriating. Bev wanted to shake her. “So what did you do?”

“I questioned her closely, of course. It soon became clear she had a particularly sharp little axe to grind against Henry and was quite prepared to do so.”

“And why would she want to do that?”

“You’ll have to ask him, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry. We will.”

“Not today you won’t.” She closed her eyes, traced the left eyebrow with her index finger. “Not here at any rate. Henry’s not coming in. He’s not
well.”

Bev glanced at Byford. “What’s the problem?”

“A migraine, I believe. He spoke to the secretary first thing.”

“Takes a lot of time off, does he?” Bev asked.

Mrs Sharpe folded her arms, took a deep breath. “No, Sergeant, I can’t recall any other occasion.”

She bit back a remark about total recall. “Funny, that.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs Sharpe sounded as if it was the last thing she’d beg.

Bev held out her hands, inviting the others to share the joke. “The one day we want to question him and he’s on a sickie.”

“Your attitude leaves a great deal to be desired. I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply but I don’t care for it.” Bev widened her eyes. She’d always been
taught it was rude to point. “Let me make one thing absolutely clear, Sergeant: whatever you may think, I have every faith in my staff —”

“How much do you have in your kids, Mrs Sharpe?”

Byford got to his feet. The exchange had gone on long enough and wasn’t going anywhere. “We’ll leave it there for now but I’ll want to speak with you again, Mrs Sharpe.
In future, don’t take it upon yourself to withhold information because you don’t happen to see its relevance. I should have been told about this at our first meeting.”

Mrs Sharpe rose as well. “I fully intended to mention it then. I have nothing to hide, Superintendent. As I recall it – you were the one in a hurry. Now if you’ll excuse
me…”