Working Girls (16 page)

“Who’s that then?” Bev tried to keep her voice casual.

“Don’t know if you’d know her.” Val wiped vestiges of yolk with the last of the bread. “Dead pally with Shell, she was. Girl called Vicki.”

“Vicki Flinn?” Bev frowned: Vick had done a runner?

“Yeah. She give me a bell last night.”

“Where from?”

Val closed her eyes. “Hold on. It’s on the tip of me tongue. Somethin’ with a B.” Eyes wide and finger in the air, it finally emerged. “Bognor. No. Wait a min.
Brighton. That’s it. Brighton.”

“Big place, Brighton. Did she say where she’s staying? Who she’s with?”

“Nah. Cheeky little cow. Only rings cause she wants me to tell her ma she’s all right. I says, ‘Who’d you think I am? Your social worker?’ I mean, it’s a
couple a buses to Annie Flinn’s place and I hardly know the woman.”

“Want me to go?”

“Nah. I’ll get round to it. Don’t bother.”

“I’ll nip round this evening. Best she knows. She’ll be worried if she doesn’t hear.”

Val snorted. “Worried? About Vicki? Pigs’ll fly jumbos. I’ll go at the weekend. Put her out of her misery.”

“No!” It came out sharper than she’d intended. “Really, Val. I’d like a word with her anyway.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Got the address?” May as well get it from Val. Bev could have dropped Vicki anywhere the other night. The girl had lied about her mother’s death. There was no guarantee
she’d been on the level about where her mother lived.

“Got a pen?” Val ripped a corner off the newspaper, scribbled a few lines and passed it across.

Good. Bev looked back at the big woman. “If you get any more of these letters, hang on to them. And tell the girls the same. The more we have, the more there is to go on. I’ll be
straight with you, Val. At the mo, there’s not a whole bunch we can do. The nutters who go in for this kind of thing are sick but they aren’t stupid. They know not to leave
fingerprints, not to lick envelopes. We’ve more or less got to catch them red-handed. Or hope they cock up. Big time.”

“Reckon it’s the bastard who killed Shell?”

Bev hunched her shoulders, held out her hands. The gesture was eloquent enough. “What time are the girls coming round, then, Val?”

“Eight, half eight?”

Bev pushed her chair back and got to her feet. “Great.”

“Thank your stars then.”

“You what?”

Val shoved
The Sun
across the desk, pointed out a horoscope.

Bev leaned over and read aloud. “Do not be afraid to let new people into your life. With your instincts at their most reliable, you would do well to trust them. Remember, a little friction
is not always a bad thing.”

Val was nodding sagely; knew all about friction, did Val. Bev grinned; didn’t know it was yesterday’s paper, though, did she?

14

Byford was on the phone when Bev popped her head round his door. He beckoned and she took a seat, waiting as patiently as she could for him to finish. She’d been doing
some calculations and if the Lucas case was a bank account, they were in deep red shit. After her chat with Val, she’d checked their deposits with both incident rooms. Getting on for four
hundred statements had been taken; twice as many doors knocked; visits were ongoing to massage parlours, adult cinemas and dodgy vid shops. In the eighty hours since they’d gathered round
Michelle’s body in the park, there was next to nothing in credit. Apart from Lil, no one had had a sniff, and Charlie Hawes made the Scarlet Pimpernel look like the ubiquitous bad penny. It
was time to speed things up.

Byford replaced the receiver. “There’ve been a couple of sightings of a BMW on the cruise, Friday night, about the right time.” He nodded at the phone. “I’m sending
Kent and Newman, see if they can flesh it out.”

Gazza and Dazza. They’d love that. Three-day-old sightings of a motor.

“Anything on the reg?” she asked.

“What reg?” He shook his head. “No. We’ve got two different partials from two different sources. They’re both iffy, anyway.”

“Nothing on Charlie at Swansea?”

Byford rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”

“Not so much as a push-bike.” It figured; a man whose business was so shady it was subterranean was hardly likely to leave a paper trail. Charlie’d know as well as her, that as
long as the DVLA had an address, he could register his motors in any name he liked. It was illegal, but it wasn’t exactly up there with pimping, murder or the odd spot of mayhem.

Sending Gaz and Daz out was all a bit drowning men and clutching straws. She was about to grab at one herself. She studied the guv’s face. It was difficult to gauge how he’d
react.

“What would you say to me doing a bit of moonlighting?”

“What?” His eyebrows were heading for his hairline.

“With the girls.”

“What!”

“Look, guv, we’re getting nowhere, we’re talking to blind Trappists. We’re not even close.”

She gave him edited highlights of her interview with Val, including the news about Vicki. It had pissed Bev off, the thought that the girl had done a bunk without so much as a goodbye. She
noticed he didn’t say much; probably didn’t want to rub it in.

“Thing is, guv, if I can get the girls’ trust, go out on the streets, it could give us the break. I’m bound to pick something up. Might even flush Charlie Hawes out of his
sewer. At the very least they need a minder.”

“No. No. Absolutely no.” The table bang was superfluous. The message was loud, clear and too quick.

“Is that an ‘I’ll think about it’?” The voice had an edge he was meant to catch. She wasn’t talking off the top of her head; she’d given it a lot of
thought. She wasn’t some kid who watched too much telly and – as he well knew – she’d passed every self defence course going.

“Is this down to Sunday? Look, guv, I was jumped from behind. There was nothing I – or anyone – could’ve done about it. This’d be different. Apart from anything
else, I’d be prepared.”

“Prepared for what? Round two? For Christ’s sake, Bev, the man had a knife. It wasn’t for carving your initials in a tree.”

She held her arms out. “Look, I’m fine. I made too much of it. No one’s even mentioned it.” That was a porkie but needs must. “Come on, guv, at least say
you’ll consider it?”

“What’s to consider? Apart from anything else, you can’t possibly expect me to agree to one of my detectives getting tarted up and hanging round street corners?”

She appeared to give it some thought. “Well… maybe not Mike Powell or Oz Khan.” She smiled; he didn’t.

“Not funny, Sergeant.”

“Come on, guv. Think of it as a fact-finding mission. I’m not talking turning tricks.”

“I should bloody well hope not.”

She couldn’t recall the last time she’d heard him swear. She leaned closer.

“If I can’t win the girls over, it’s a non-starter anyway. But it’s got to be worth a try. Won’t you even have a think?”

She was asking a lot, but the stakes were high. One girl dead, another under armed guard in hospital , and Vicki Flinn holed-up in Brighton. The phone rang, pre-empting Byford’s
answer.

She watched as the colour drained from his face, tried to read upside down the notes he was making. The phone back in place, he laid the pen on top of the paper and looked up slowly. “I
can’t give you official backing.”

“But?”

He rose, walked to the window, perched on the sill. “Apart from any risk to yourself – there’s a host of pitfalls. We’re talking entrapment, inadmissible evidence,
endangering witnesses. Never mind the egg on faces all round if it fails or gets thrown out of court.”

Sound arguments but there was still something about his voice. It was almost as though he was thinking aloud. She waited a few seconds then gave a gentle prompt.

“But..?”

He seemed reluctant to meet her gaze; he was reluctant. “That was Harry Gough on the phone. She’d been cut. I’m not referring to the neck wound.”

Bev closed her eyes; there’d been no other knife marks on Michelle’s body. She took a deep breath, afraid of what was coming.

“Internal injuries. Serrated blade. Knife. Hacksaw. Something like that. Post mortem. Thank God.”

Eyes still closed; image still there. Come on, Bev, blank it out, concentrate on the killer. She looked down at her hands. The right palm was warm and sticky. Her nails had opened up the
cuts.

“Was she raped?”

“She’d had sex.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She was a prostitute, Bev. She’d had intercourse several times. It’s impossible to say whether the killer raped her. She was too badly damaged.”

She closed her eyes again, spoke softly through teeth clenched tightly. “I want this bastard.”

Byford spun round. ‘No, Sergeant. We’ll get him. This is police business, not personal. Get that straight. If you’re not clear on that score, there’s no way you’re
going out there.”

She watched as he moved back to his desk, sat down.

“I can do it? You’re letting me go?”

He rested chin on hands for a few seconds. “I can’t sanction it officially. You know that, Bev. I’m talking blind eyes, unpaid overtime. And…” He paused. “If
the shit hits the fan, you’re on your own. At the same time, you tell me everything. Every time you go out, I want to know where you are, where you’re going, who you’re with, what
you’re doing.”

“You sure about the last bit?”

“Shut up before I change my mind. I’ll have a word with Mike Powell, maybe mention it to a couple of the others but the less people who know the better. Okay?”

It was the best she’d get and more than she’d hoped. Better than taking leave and going out on a limb which was what she’d intended.

“I’ll be at Val Masters’s place tomorrow. Eightish. Drinking. Smoking. Watching porn.’

She kept a straight face. So did he.

“Be able to keep an eye on the protest as well then, won’t you?”

“What?”

He lifted a hand. “Joke! Don’t panic. We’ll look after that, you stick to the girls.”

“Like glue. Y’know, according to Val, the first threat arrived about Christmas.”

“Same time the CUTS lot started up. I had realised.”

She got to her feet. “Thought so. Just keeping you on your toes.” She smiled, headed for the door.

“And, Bev,” Byford said, “make sure you stay on yours.”

“Ho, ho.” Pause, pause. “Sir.”

Bev was about to swap insults with Mike Powell, whom she’d bumped into on the wide, stone staircase of the City General.

He gave her arm a supposedly playful punch. “It’ll give the lads a good laugh. They’ll all be wanting a look at your charge sheet.”

“How long you been working on that, then?”

The grin vanished. “Trouble with you, Morriss. No sense of humour.”

Apart from finding Powell as amusing as a war zone, she wasn’t in the mood for laughter.

She was on the way to see Cassie Swain;
see
was all she’d be doing. She’d phoned ahead. The girl was still unconscious. Bev would have been hard pushed to explain the visit,
apart from a vague feeling that Cassie and the girls was what the case was all about. And, sadly, it was too late to do anything to help Michelle. “I take it the governor’s had a
word?”

“Just.” He gestured at the hospital. “I’ve been called off, thank God. Back first thing.”

“Get anything out of Brand?”

“Sod all. He won’t leave the wife’s bedside. They won’t let me near him.”

She watched as he pulled on a glove. “Must be off his head,” Powell said.

His train of thought was never easy to follow. “Brand?”

“No, dummy. Byford.” Now she knew where it was going. “What’s it going to achieve, Morriss? Apart from you making a bit on the side?”

“Jealous?”

“Incredulous.” There was real venom in his voice. Bev reckoned it was down to the boil festering on the side of his neck. “The margin for cock-ups beggars belief.”

Not bad. But he wasn’t punning. “Good to know I have your support on this one. Sir.”

“You don’t. I wouldn’t let you loose in a convent. God knows how you managed to swing it with Byford.”

“He’s always had a soft spot for a pretty face.”

Judging by his four-letter snort, irony wasn’t Powell’s forte. Bev hoisted her shoulder-bag higher. “By the way. If the guv’s had a word, he’ll also have told you
to keep it quiet. So if I hear any smut going round the station about my charge list – you can bet your ass, I’ll put your name under deposits.” She smiled sweetly. “Night.
Sir.”

Monday evening. Half seven. The General was fairly quiet. Bev waved her ID at reception, nodded at the security guard and headed for IC. Hated hospitals, always had. Post mortems were a doddle
compared with visiting the sick. Enervating heat and nauseating smells didn’t help, but it was more than that.

“Sergeant Morriss.” A smiling Dr Thorne was coming down the stairs, still managing to look like something off the cover of
Vogue.
Me, thought Bev, I’m more of a
Beano
babe.

“How’s it going, doc?”

“It’s gone.” She grinned, glancing at her watch. “I’ve been off duty for precisely one hundred and thirty-three seconds. I’m off home to change then I’m
going for an Italian.”

“We’re talking food here, aren’t we?’ Bet the damn woman could eat like a pig without gaining a gram. Was there no end to the injustice?

“I’ve no energy for anything else.”

“It’s Bev, by the way.”

“Bev?”

“Bev Morriss.”

The doctor held out a hand. “Ursula. But my friends call me Lal.”

“I didn’t realise you shouldn’t be here,” Bev said. “You should have mentioned it on the phone.”

She shrugged. “No problem. I’m glad you wanted to come.”

That was a bit of a turn-up given her attitude last time. Bev’s eyes widened. “Cassie hasn’t come round, has she?”

“’Fraid not.” She propped open a heavy fire door with her backside, then they were on the corridor leading to the unit. “Sounds stupid, I know. It’s just kind of
nice to think someone cares.”

“No one’s been to see her?”

She turned her mouth down. “Flying visit from her social worker. Your officers pop their head round the door from time to time. That’s about it.”