Working Girls (13 page)

Her departure was as smooth as her dismissal. Bev watched the woman disappear, looked at Byford and slapped the back of her wrist. “How come I’m the one who feels naughty?”

“Years of practice.”

She nodded blithely, then realised what he’d said.

10

“Come on, Sarge. You can’t be in two places at once.”

Bev gave one of her snorts. The governor was on his way to Brand’s house with Powell, and she was still smarting. Ozzie sensed something, but wasn’t in on the details. His solicitude
was touching but she reckoned he was too sensitive for his own good. If the tables were turned she’d tell him not to be such a moody. “Yeah. And I’d rather be any where but
here.”

‘Here’ was walking along a rundown row of shops in one of Balsall Heath’s sleazier back streets. They’d just passed a butcher’s where a crowd of flies was
window-shopping. Bev paused to read the ads in the next-door newsagent’s. Gemma – who clearly had difficulties with English – was offering advanced lessons in French. So were
Sonia, Sasha and Suzie.

Ozzie was looking over her shoulder. “Oo la la.”

She grinned. “Come on. It’s just round the corner.”

They waited while a couple of guys in dusty overalls struggled across the pavement with a heavy pane of glass. She glanced at the shopfronts, decided it was for the video store, unless its owner
was into the hardboard look.

The business they were seeking was over a second hand bookshop and entrance was through a side door. She rang the bell but there was no response. Ozzie hammered on the wood, dislodging a few
flakes of grimy green paint.

A sash window was raised and a woman’s head appeared. The stiff blonde hair looked bleached as well as starched, except for the roots that were as dark as the mascara-caked eyelashes
through which she was peering.

“What bleedin’ time do you call this?”

Bev glanced at her watch. “Quarter past eleven.”

“Christ almighty. Sod off. Anyway, it’s men only – unless you’re after work.”

“Okay, Marlene. Cut the crap. Get down here and open up.”

“All right, all right. Keep your hair on, Sarge.”

The face disappeared and a wide-eyed Ozzie turned to Bev. “You know her?”

“Everyone knows Marlene. More bookings than the Odeon when she worked the streets. All the cash that didn’t go on fines went into this.”

‘This’ was massage work. Thousands of Marlenes and the odd Marlon ran parlours all over the city. Every last one would be getting a police visit. Byford wanted Charlie Hawes’s
head on a plate.

When the face appeared next, it had a cigarette in its mouth. Marlene was puffing so furiously, Bev wondered if she was sending smoke signals. ‘Piss off’ probably.

There was ash on her skimpy pink nightie and at least another inch about to join it. “Gorra warrant?”

“Gorran ash tray?”

The inevitable happened and Bev watched, fascinated, as it fell into a cleavage of Grand Canyon proportions.

“Shit.” Marlene swatted energetically but ineffectually, oblivious of the effect on a pair of 42 FFs.

Bev grinned as Ozzie took a step back, concerned that he might be knocked off his feet by the swell.

“You wanna watch it, Marl,” she said. “You’ll set yourself on fire one of these days.”

The woman winked lasciviously at Ozzie. “Set everyone on fire, me.” She yawned, stood back and opened the door wider. “You comin’, or what?”

Ozzie didn’t look over-keen but Bev shooed him in first then nipped in quickly, before Marlene’s hands had a chance to wander.

“Down me passage, lad, then straight up.”

Bev would have given a day’s pay to see his face. They mounted the stairs in silence. The light was so low, she nearly asked if there was a power cut. Competing smells of dope and incense
made her nose twitch.

Ozzie halted on the top step, a tentative hand on the nearest door knob. “This one, Mrs..?”

“Any one you like, lover boy.” She was clinging to the bannister, catching her breath. “And it’s Marlene to you.” The voice was deep and husky and down to forty a
day as much as the flirting.

The room was small, the bed vast. A clash of lilac and fake fur struck Bev first, then the distinct lack of chairs. “Okay, Marlene, that’s enough.”

Without a word, Marlene turned and led them into the office: the business end of the massage market. A market Marlene knew like the palm of her hand. If there was a degree in Giving The Punters
What They Want, Marlene had a Masters. A wardrobe full of low-cut tops and skin-tight leather was as much a part of her service as an accent out of the Bull Ring and a script out of a
Carry
On
film.

She sank into a beaten-up leather armchair, crossing her legs on top of a battered old desk. It was no mean feat and Bev was only thankful that Marlene slept in her knickers. Ozzie grabbed the
seat furthest away and showed a sudden, intense interest in his notebook.

Bev strolled to the window, leaned against the sill and glanced round: cheap lino, no frills, every expense spared. Marlene was keeping the overheads down, in line with her retirement plan. She
intended going for the golden handshake soon as she hit forty. Bev had heard it all before, but in Marlene’s case… who knew?

“What can I do you for?” She recrossed her legs, giving Ozzie the eye, but he still hadn’t come up for air. Bev wiped the smile off her face and considered her approach. She
plumped for in-your-face. “I’m after a pimp.”

Marlene’s mouth made an exaggerated O. “Aren’t they payin’ you enough?”

Bev tapped a foot, slowly. Marlene lowered her legs and made for a drawer in the desk. A brief fantasy that Charlie Hawes might be hiding in it vanished when a half-bottle of Gordon’s made
an appearance.

Marlene smacked her lips. “Want to join me? Got a mouth like a desert, I have.”

“That’d be the Gobi, would it?” said Bev.

“Cheeky cow. Sling us a glass, lover.”

Ozzie lifted his head from a still virginal sheet of paper.

“In that cupboard on your left, you lovely boy.”

Ozzie held a tumbler at arm’s length but Marlene’s scarlet-tipped fingers still managed to linger a tad longer than strictly necessary. Bev shook her head. Marlene made Mae West look
like the girl next door. Thirty-two-years old and she’d had more men than the Russian Army. “If I didn’t know better, Marlene, I’d say you were trying to change the
subject.”

She poured a finger of gin. “What subject’s that?”

“Pimps in general. Charlie Hawes in particular.”

Bev watched the liquid disappear. Marlene ran a finger along her top lip.

“Nothing particular about Charlie. He’s got fingers in more pies than Mr Kipling.”

“You know him then?”

“Kipling? Yeah. Gives good cake.”

“Marlene!”

“Got a fag?”

Bev shook her head.

“Back in a min. Must have a fag. Helps me think.”

Bev sauntered over to Ozzie, who still had his head down. He jumped when she tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “She won’t bite, you know.”

He didn’t look too sure.

“Come on. She likes you. She might open up if you talk to her.”

“That’s what scares me,” Oz said.

Marlene returned wreathed in smoke and carrying a pack of Marlboro.

“Anyway,” Bev said, “about Charlie Hawes.”

“He’s a mad bugger. Bad for your health, is Charlie.”

“So’s baccy but I know where to get hold of it.” Bev moved towards the desk. “We have to find him, Marlene. A girl’s dead, one’s in hospital, a third’s
missing.”

Marlene ground the half-smoked cigarette into a tin ashtray, then reached for another. “I’m sorry about that. But I can’t help.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Do you have any idea what the man’s like? Charlie Hawes doesn’t make idle threats. If he says jump, you make for the nearest window.”

The accent had all but disappeared. Bev wondered what else was false or laid on thick.

“How many have you been through, Marlene?”

“Don’t be stupid. I just listen to what people say.”

The denial was too fast. Bev jabbed a finger in the space between them. “You’re right there, Marlene. Everyone says he’s a vicious bastard. Everyone says he beats up on his
girls. Everyone says he’s a pile of steaming shit. But you know what? No one wants to do a sodding thing about it.”

She took a deep drag, then talked through the smoke. “Ever wondered why?”

Ozzie cleared his throat. “Thing is, Marlene, if he gets away with it, he’ll just carry on. If you were to point us in the right direction, he’s no way of knowing we got the
steer from you. If you’re worried, we could arrange protection.”

Bev closed her gaping mouth and returned her gaze to Marlene, who was sitting with one arm across her chest, the other hand cupping her chin. There was a lengthy silence while she weighed
Ozzie’s words. “A babysitting copper? ’Bout as much use as a crocheted condom.”

“That’s a no, is it?” Bev asked.

Marlene gave a deep sigh. “I’ll think about it. I can’t say fairer than that. Thing is, Charlie’s got mates all over the place. If he found out I’d opened my gob,
it’d be dead meat time, know what I mean?”

Bev recalled the butcher’s window. She gave a reluctant nod. “Okay, Marlene.” She handed her a card. “You can get me on this number. Anytime. Just don’t leave it
too long.” Bev gave Ozzie a nod. They were at the door when the woman spoke again.

“The girl that’s missing? What’s her name?”

Bev turned. “Vicki. Vicki Flinn. You know her?”

“Tall bird. Skinny. Shacks down in some squat by the park?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah. Haven’t seen her lately. Can’t see Charlie Hawes being interested though. He’s more into kids.”

“Christ, Marlene. She’s only seventeen.”

She lit another cigarette, releasing twin streams of smoke through flared nostrils. “Exactly.”

Bev narrowed her eyes. The way Marlene was talking didn’t tally with a woman who claimed to know Charlie Hawes only by repute.

Bev paused, sandwich midway to mouth. Ozzie wasn’t usually so categorical, or so judgmental. She agreed, but was curious to hear his thinking. She took a bite out of a cheese bap.
“Go on.”

He glanced round, as if Charlie Hawes might be lurking behind a Busy Lizzie or a bottle of sauce. There were only a dozen tables and Bev couldn’t picture Pimp King or any of his coterie in
a place that boasted red gingham cloths. Anyway, there was no alcohol, no smoking and definitely no lap dancing. It was pensioners’ happy hour in the Kozee Korner on a Monday lunchtime. Added
to which, the hairdresser’s next door, Curl Up and Dye, was another magnet for the local wrinklies. Going by the scattering of white hair and pink scalps it was a case of shampoo and set,
followed by soup of the day all round. Either way, the place wasn’t a million miles from Thread Street and as for decent sarnies it was streets ahead of the police canteen.

“I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her,” Ozzie confided.

Bev grinned. “You’re just peeved cause she was giving you a hard time.”

“I beg your pardon.” His face was going as red as his tomato juice.

She lifted a placatory hand. “Sorry. I meant, winding you up.” She wished he wouldn’t purse his lips like that. “Anyway, you know what I mean.”

“You’re simple enough. It’s women like her I can’t follow. All that nudge-nudge wink-wink stuff.”

Bev shovelled sugar into her tea, then remembered she’d given it up.

“You’re not going all prudy on me, are you, Oz? She’s a hooker. She’s not going to spout Shakespeare, is she?”

He shrugged. “S’pose not. Anyway her tactic’s pretty subtle, isn’t it?”

It certainly was. “What tactic?”

“Obfuscation. And not just at my expense. She hid behind it from the word go. All those gags about you looking for work and Kipling’s cakes.” He wiped a bread roll round his
soup dish. “While she’s cracking dubious jokes, she’s not exactly giving anything away.”

Obfuscation? Must be a legal term. She’d never seen him so heated, but was it anger at what he saw as Marlene’s wool-pulling or was he pissed off because she’d flashed her
knickers at him?

“What makes you think the lady’s got any goodies worth sharing?”

“Methinks the lady dith protest too much.”

“Doth.”

“Whatever.” He shrugged and there was a peal of laughter from four old dears at the nearest table. Oz flashed them a smile. Bev wondered if he went for the older woman and quickly
calculated how many years she could give him.

He was still waiting for her response.

“I hear what you’re saying, Oz. All that stuff about jumping from windows. And liking them young.”

“And how come she only asked about Vicki Flinn? You told her a girl was dead.”

“And another was in hospital.” Bev chewed her bottom lip. “She might have seen it in the paper. Michelle’s murder was all over the front page on Saturday. And
Cassie’s attack made a few lines in the
Star
this morning.”

“Could be. You’d think she’d have mentioned it though.”

“Then again she could be genuinely scared. One toe out of line and, with Charlie Hawes, you’ve lost your legs.”

“That’s the trouble, Sarge. If people don’t talk – how the hell are we going to find out anything?”

“Let’s go and have a word with old Lil. Nothing fazes her. She’s seen off three husbands and number four didn’t look too good last time I saw him. If that doesn’t
work –” she brushed stray crumbs off her skirt – “I’ll have to come up with something else.”

She waited outside while he settled the bill. She’d said nothing to Oz, but Marlene had already given her an idea. She just needed a little time to think it through.

“They’ll rot your teeth, y’know.”

Bev laughed; judging by the state of Lil’s pearlies, she spoke from bittersweet experience. Seen it all, had Lil. The old girl had been a fixture on the corner of Thread Street as long as
anyone could remember. Back in Bev’s days on the beat, the kiosk had been a regular port of call for many a clandestine smoke. Sucked mints then, as well. She handed Ozzie a tube and pocketed
the other. “Anyhow, Lil. How’s it going?”