Working Girls (17 page)

“They’re not getting under your feet, I hope.” The twenty-four-hour police guard was being split between three PCs. It sounded heady stuff but in reality it meant sitting round
for hours at a time with nothing to do.

The doctor shook her head. “You’d hardly know they were here.”

Bev scanned the empty corridor. “You can say that again.”

“Don’t worry, she’ll be in with Cassie. The woman officer often sits by the bed for a while. The men tend to stay outside more.”

Bev nodded. It figured. Alison Granger was in her forties, had teenage daughters of her own.

The doctor paused at the entrance to the unit. “One thing I meant to mention – a huge bouquet of white lilies arrived this morning for Cassie.”

Bev suddenly shivered. “Can I see the card?”

“I’ll get one of the nurses to chase it. I’m just going to get out of this coat, grab my bits and pieces. You only want a few minutes, yes?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. She’s at the end, on the right.”

Bev crept in, strangely cowed by the life-or-death battles being waged in the still silence. She tried not to think, but it was bringing it all back. The daily, sometimes twice daily, visits to
her dad. She and her mum sitting either side of the bed as the invisible cancer carved deadly inroads. The three of them talking about anything but: banal chit-chat about ready-pasted wallpaper or
West Bromwich Albion. As a good little Catholic girl, and with the unshakeable faith of a twelve-year-old, she knew he’d get better. Even now, the anger and unfairness could reduce her to
tears.

She nodded at an intense-looking blonde woman stationed behind a console in the middle of the room. Her eyes were scanning a bank of monitors, and judging by the look on her face, Bev reckoned
that viewing vital signs was a lot more demanding than watching
This Is Your Life.
She moved on, aware that her presence had barely been registered.

Bev was wrong about the silence. There was a constant low-level hum from countless hi-tech machines fulfilling functions that failing organs could no longer perform. Human sounds were what was
missing. All eight beds were occupied but there was no noise, no movement, nothing. She thought of dust sheets and still lives, wondered why she was creeping around on tiptoe. Bev smiled.
“All quiet?”

She watched as Alison pushed a hand through a mousy fringe, surprised to see grey roots along the hairline.

“As the gra —” She stopped herself. “As the proverbial.”

Bev put a finger to her lips. “I get the picture.”

Alison lowered her voice. “I’d rather you get the bastard who did that.” She was pointing behind her. “Know what, Bev?”

She shook her head, had a feeling she was about to find out.

“Hanging’s too good for some people.”

The woman was halfway to the door, trying to hide tears that Bev had already spotted. She covered the short distance to Cassie’s bedside.

It was the first time she’d laid eyes on the girl. Her head was swathed in bandages and she was on a ventilator with a drip in the back of each bony wrist. A stiff white sheet was covering
most of her body but just about every visible part was badly bruised. The damage to the girl’s face was obvious; God alone knew what was going on in her head.

She moved closer, gently stroked Cassie’s hand. She was what? Fifteen, almost sixteen.

She’d been in care for two years and on the game for eighteen months. In care! Some bloody care. Children’s homes were cash-and-carries to the likes of Charlie Hawes. All a pimp had
to do was flash a few wads and a show of affection and a vulnerable kid like Cassie was carted off to vice-land.

Bev had seen it time and again. A cycle of abuse. Broken home, parental abuse, children’s home, pimp abuse. Not at first, of course. Pimps weren’t stupid. They made the girl feel
good: bought her a few clothes, bits of jewellery, talked about love. By the time she realised she was destined for red lights not bright lights, it was too late. She’d be hooked on booze,
drugs or – more often than not – the bloke himself. They genuinely loved the bastards. And when it was eventually beaten out of them, they were trapped: shit-scared and totally
dependent.

Bev could count on the fingers of one hand how many girls she knew who’d stood up in court to give evidence that would send a pimp down. There was a gentle tap on her shoulder.

“You okay?” It was Doctor Thorne.

Bev rubbed her eyes with finger and thumb. “Fine. Bit tired.”

The doctor looked but said nothing.

“Thanks for arranging this.” Bev glanced at her watch. “I’d best get off now.” She paused. “Will she..?”

Dr Thorne shook her head. “I don’t know. There’s been no real change since she was admitted.”

They were in the corridor when the doctor spoke again. “I checked, but there was no name.”

Bev looked puzzled.

“The flowers?” Dr Thorne prompted. “You wanted to see the card?”

“Right.”

“The nurse remembered it well. She threw the card away, but it said: Cassie. My Girl. Forever.”

Bev frowned. “Why did she throw it away?”

“She thought they’d made a mistake at the florists’s. It was black-edged. They’re for mourning. She didn’t want Cassie to be upset. When she comes round.”

Bev nodded, comforted the word ‘if’ hadn’t been used. She made a mental note to check flower shops. “Talking of coming round – d’you know anything about an
Enid Brand? Brought in this afternoon with an overdose?”

They started the walk to reception. “Yeah. A&E gets first crack at anything like that. She should be okay. She swallowed a stack of paracetamol but we almost certainly got to her in
time.”

“Did you come across her old man by any chance?”

“Certainly did. If I was married to him, I’d swallow acid.” She put a hand to her mouth. “Forget I said that. Very unprofessional.”

Bev smiled. “Go on.”

“The man was impossible. A walking ego. Making demands. Insulting everyone. I threatened to call security if he didn’t back off.” She paused, stunned at herself. “What am
I saying? I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“It’s my charm.”

“It’s your cheek.”

They’d reached the front desk by now and Bev watched as Dr Thorne casually applied a perfect coat of lipstick. She was well impressed. Without a mirror, Bev ended up looking like a refugee
from Chipperfield’s or as if she’d been smacked in the mouth.

“Why’d you ask?”

“What?” Bev was still trying to work out the secret.

“The Brands?”

“Oh. Right. Need to ask them a few questions, that’s all.”

“She should be out tomorrow. She’s only in for observation. The old man was walking across the car park when I came down to meet you.”

“Out the back?”

“Yes. There’s a bird’s-eye view from the staircase.”

“Interesting.” She smiled but didn’t elaborate. Doctor Thorne wasn’t to know that Henry Brand was supposedly glued to his wife’s side or that he’d arrived at
the hospital in the back of an ambulance. “Anyway, enjoy your fettucine or whatever.”

“Fear not. After a carafe or three of Chianti – I’d enjoy a wet flannel.” She half-turned, looked back. “Fancy joining me?”

It was the best offer she’d had all year: not-so-fast food; a cheeky little vino; the start of what could be a good friendship. Work encroached enough as it was and she wasn’t even
on shift. “I’d really like to. But…”

“No worries. Some other time.” The voice was brisk and Bev was already regretting the refusal as she watched the doctor stride towards the double doors. The woman was strikingly
attractive, held down a top job and probably earned mega-bucks. And the invitation was as close to admitting she was lonely as she was ever likely to go.

Bev sighed, put Doctor Thorne on her mental back-burner and headed for the security guard. Five minutes after that she was on her way to see Annie Flinn.

15

The woman looked as if she’d had an argument with a food blender.

“Mrs Flinn?” Bev was unsure; there was a hint of Vicki round the eyes, but not in the hostility.

“What do you want?”

Nice to see you too. “I’m Bev Morriss. Detective Sergeant Morriss. West Midlands police.”

“I’m very happy for you. Now sod off.”

She’d have slammed the door if Bev’s foot hadn’t got in first.

“I have a message from your daughter.”

There was a barely perceptible pause in the flow of bile but it didn’t last long. “Which one?”

It was half eight. It was brass monkeys. Tesco was closed. “Okay, missus. Up yours. I’m out of here.”

The woman reached out an arm, milk-white and twig-thin. “Hold on. There’s no call for that.”

She looked closer. Annie Flinn’s eyes were more than bloodshot; the whites were pinks and leaking like rusty taps. They looked sore, or Bev’s words had stung more than she’d
intended. The woman sniffed and ran the back of her hand under her nose. “You comin’ in or what?” It wasn’t an apology but it was close.

The kitchen was at the end of a narrow hall. There was no bulb and Bev almost tripped over an empty cardboard box taking up half the floor. Annie already had a hand on the kettle.

“Tea?”

Bev took a quick glance round and crossed her fingers. “No, ta. Never touch the stuff. Prick me, I’d bleed Nescaff.”

The woman reached for a jar of instant. “No skin off my nose. All tastes the same to me. Milk? Sugar?”

Bev’s smile was as weak as she knew the coffee was going to be. “As it comes.” There were no chairs; she leaned against the least filthy wall.

“What happened to your face, Mrs Flinn?”

Annie reached a hand to her cheek but it was way too late for concealment. “Thought you’d come to talk about our Vicki.”

“That’s right.”

The woman grabbed a dubious-looking dishcloth and started swatting the draining board. Bev asked again, keeping her voice gentle. Annie replied without turning round. “Oven cleaner. Me own
fault. Should have read the instructions. Talk about Mr Muscle.”

Bev was dying to talk to Mr Muscle: the muscleman who’d split Annie’s lip and put a shed-load of work her dentist’s way. She went on instinct with the next question.
“This Mr Muscle wouldn’t go by the name of Charlie Hawes, would he?”

For a split second Annie Flinn froze, then spun round, eyes blazing. Bev kicked herself for not having waited till the woman was facing her.

“Are you deaf? It was an accident. Got the stuff all over my hands, then rubbed my face.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Balled fists were whisked under her armpits. “Nothing to see. I had gloves on.”

“Right.” She sauntered over to the cooker, gingerly opened the oven door; there was enough grease for an oil spill. She looked at Annie, said nothing. The woman was lying, but was
she lying about Charlie Hawes?

Annie jerked a spoon round a couple of mugs then chucked it in the sink where it joined a bike chain soaking in six inches of black water.

“D’you want this or what?” Her hand was shaking and hot liquid sloshed over the sides on to a formica top.

The woman was on a knife-edge; Bev pushed. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t know any Charlies. Right?”

But she hadn’t forgotten it. Her body language was tighter than a shoal of clams. If Bev didn’t change tack, she’d get nowhere.

“How many daughters you got then, Mrs Flinn?”

“What is this? Family Fortunes?”

Bev shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

They swallowed a few sips in synch. Bev took a closer look round to take her mind off the taste. It occurred to her that Charlie Hawes had probably been here in the last few hours, standing
where she was now, drinking from the self-same mug. She took another mouthful: maybe not. By rights, the man should have left tangible signs. She chided herself for the thought. What was she
expecting? Cloven hoof marks and a whiff of brimstone?

The silence was broken by a wail from above. Annie stiffened but her voice was calm. “That’s the bab. It’s time for her feed.”

Bev smiled. “That’d be Lucie, would it?”

The aggression was back. “What do you know about Lucie?”

What?
not
how?
And why the look? “Vicki mentioned her.”

Bev’s smile was infectious but Annie’s was shortlived. She dropped it, then jammed hands in jean pockets. “Best say what you come for. She’ll just get worse till I sort
her.”

“Bring her down. I’d like to see her.”

The woman shook her head. “She’ll not get back to sleep if I get her up.”

Bev handed the mug back, grateful for the early out. “Right. I’ll leave you to it then. Just wanted to let you know Vicki’s in Brighton. Staying with a friend. She
doesn’t want you to worry.”

“Yeah. She sent a postcard.”

“What?”

“Told you. I got a card.”

The baby sounded as if she hadn’t touched food for a month. Other noises followed: a creaking bed spring, a slamming door, footsteps across the ceiling.

Annie was edging out of the kitchen. “Thanks for comin’.”

“Hold on. When did you get this card?”

“Can’t remember. Saturday, was it?”

“I dropped her outside here on Friday night, Mrs Flinn.”

“Yeah. That’s right. It come this morning. Anyway. She’s okay.”

Bev stood her ground. “So what did it say? Wish you were here?” Her smile wasn’t returned.

“I haven’t got time for this now.” The woman was increasingly agitated, her eyes willing Bev to leave.

“I’ll just take a quick look then I’ll get out of your way.” Bev held a hand out.

“What?” She looked as if she’d been hit.

“The card. I’d like to see it.”

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t know where the soddin’ thing is.” The woman ran a hand through her hair.

Bev slowly fastened the buttons on her coat. Had Vicki really been in touch? Or was Annie lying? Or am I just pissed off at not being on the mailing-list? She tried reading the woman’s
face but she was on a different page. “I need to speak to Vicki urgently, Mrs Flinn. If she gets in touch again, I want to know about it. Get an address, a number, or tell her to call
me.”

The woman was listening, but not to Bev. She was concentrating on the footsteps coming down the stairs. Her voice was louder than necessary.