Working Girls (18 page)

“I’ve asked you to go.”

A man appeared in the doorway, holding a screaming baby under his arm.

“Yeah. Sod off. Now.”

Annie made to take the child but he pushed her aside, headed straight for Bev.

She shouted over Lucie’s screams. “She’s a cop. CID.”

He was a hand’s span from Bev’s face. “I don’t care if she’s CIA. You’ve been told to fuck off. Twice. You deaf or stupid?”

Bev didn’t flinch despite the olfactory onslaught of second-hand halitosis and the baby’s stinking nappy.

“Hello, Steve.”

It was a lucky guess, based on Vicki’s toy-boy tag. The man invading her space oozed sex and was twenty if he was a day. He took a step back, but was still too close. “What you been
saying?”

He wasn’t addressing Bev but she answered anyway. “Mrs Flinn’s said nothing.”

He narrowed piercing blue eyes, pupils like pinheads. “Lying slag.”

He held the baby at arm’s length; there were puncture marks from his wrists to the inside of the elbow. “You’re supposed to keep this quiet. I won’t tell you
again.”

Annie took the child, held her close, cooed soothing sounds.

He swaggered to the fridge, pulled the tab on a can of Red Stripe, swigged half the contents. He enjoyed an audience. He had a neat body, set off by a tight white T-shirt and black combats. He
was a looker, despite the shaven head and dark stubble. Bev yawned. She’d seen it all before. Cocky little geezers who keep their brain cell in their Calvin Kleins. Think they’re real
hard cause they only hit on soft targets. Give this bloke a few years and he’d be banged up or burnt out. He turned, can halfway to mouth. “You still here?”

“I’m going. But I’ll be back.”

He burped beer fumes across the kitchen. “Don’t bust a gut.”

She strolled over, studied the piercings around his ear. “It’s not guts I bust.”

He smirked but was first to drop his gaze. Bev turned slowly and walked across to Annie. “If you want to talk to me, at any time, you’ll get me at Highgate nick.”

“She don’t talk to the filth.”

“Talks to you, doesn’t she?” She spoke without turning.

“You wanna watch your lip.”

This time she turned her head. “I’ve been watching Mrs Flinn’s, as it happens. And I don’t like the look of it.”

“I can’t help it if the clumsy cow —”

Annie shrieked. “Steve. Enough. She’s going. Aren’t you?”

“Walks into a door, Annie?” Bev’s voice was low but insistent. “Is that what he was going to say?”

The woman shook her head. The movement disturbed Lucie who’d cried herself into a fitful sleep. The baby turned, fixing Bev with large, blue eyes. A tiny sob escaped on the deepest of
sighs. Bev stroked a finger along the curve of a soft, warm cheek. Poor little love. It wasn’t so long since Vicki had been like this. She handed Annie a card.

“Don’t forget, Mrs Flinn, if you hear from Vicki, tell her I need to talk. Call me any time. If there’s anything else – anything at all – I’ll be on this
number. If not for yourself, think of Lucie.”

Blotting it out was the only way. Vicki covered her eyes with the tips of her fingers, as if it would help, knowing it didn’t. The tears, warm at first, cooled as they
ran down her cheeks, were cold by the time they reached the insides of her wrists. She was hunched on the edge of the bed, bony elbows sticking into her knees, listening out for the next tosser. It
wouldn’t be long before she lost count. Thirteen so far. Wham. Bam. Up yours ma’am. Christ. They’d be getting discounts next; buy one, get one free. Charlie wasn’t in this
for the cash, this was about control. She’d seen it in some mag at the clap clinic; control freaks they were called, blokes like Charlie. Too effin’ right they were. Forcing her to open
her legs to his mates made him look well hard. No one messes with Charlie Hawes. That was the message. Great way to ram it home. None of his other girls’d be in any doubt. She was the one
with the questions: who knew where she was? Was anyone looking for her? And how the hell did she get out?

She uncurled her legs, balled her fists and started pacing. She couldn’t even have a pee without a minder breathing down her neck. Pluto, the man planet, took turn and turn about with a
little sleazeball, acne on legs and more meat on a toothpick. First time she’d clocked him, she’d mistaken his squint for a glass eye. Talk about cold; he was a threat to shipping. No.
If either of them was her passport out of this black hole, it wouldn’t be The Spot. If she’d worked it out right, Pluto would be on again in the morning. She’d have another go
then. Sweet talk him? By the time she’d finished, he’d have honey trickling out of his arse.

She halted where she imagined the window had been. A real drag, it being bricked over. Not that she’d jump. This was a top floor flat and she wouldn’t get far with a limp. She just
wanted a glimpse of the sky, a butcher’s at normal people going about everyday biz. Her norm now was the bed, the bog and a quick bath between johns.

She wandered over to the door. Locked. Natch. At least when the Bill banged her up, it was only for a night. She wondered again about Bev Morriss, their hours together, searching for Cassie. If
it hadn’t got back to Charlie, she wouldn’t be in this mess. She’d stopped blaming Bev; she’d only been doing her job. Vicki hoped she was doing it now and was searching for
her.

There were footsteps on the stairs. She drifted back to the bed, wiped the dampness from her cheeks with the heel of her hand. She’d have used the sheet, but she knew where it had
been.

16

The twin hollows in the squashy velvet were a dead giveaway: it was the comfiest seat in the house and Bev was a gnat’s eyelash from taking it. The sage-green and gold
piping didn’t sit easy among the Ikea minimalism, but the chair was an Emmy Morriss hand-me-down and Bev had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Her own mouth was watering,
thanks to the Easy Spice takeaway and
Interview with a Vampire –
her favourite movie of all time. She’d taped it off the telly and watched it at least once a month. She balanced
and braced; Chicken Madras and Pinot Noir were on the tray, Brad Pitt and blood donor on the screen, posterior a nano-second from soft furnishing when some inconsiderate sod rang the bell.

She couldn’t stop the groan; regretted its ear-shattering volume; feigning death or even deep sleep was no longer an option.

“Okay, okay. This had better be good.” She parked her dinner on top of the telly and paused the vid.

A quick glance at the clock confirmed a growing suspicion. There was only one person who’d come knocking, uninvited, at this time of night.

“Mavis!” The bellow was an advance warning. “If you’re on the scrounge, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

The woman had borrowed so much sugar, she could open a sweet shop. It was a ruse, all she wanted was a goss. “It’s late and I’m knackered.” Bev tightened her mouth,
narrowed her eyes and snatched at the door. “What the — ?”

Ozzie lifted a hand in defence. “Sorry, Sarge, I didn’t… Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

She saw his eyes take in her Black Watch jimmies and Garfield slippers. Bit of a couture shock after the blue suits and Doc Martens. She ran a hand through her hair: nerves rather than
necessity. “I was just…”

“Yeah. I can see. Look, no worries. I’ll catch you later.”

“No. It’s okay.” It wasn’t every night Ozzie Khan came calling. It wasn’t any night, come to think of it. She held the door open. “Grab a pew. I’ll just
slip into…”

“Something less comfortable?”

She heard a girlish giggle, realised it was her own, turned it into a cough. Oriental aromas pervaded the sitting room, reminder of an unconsumed feast. She gave the tray a lingering look,
hoping he’d catch on fast.

“Don’t bother on my account, Sarge. Shame to let it get cold. Anyway, I’m used to seeing women with no clothes on.”

There was a wide grin on his face till he clocked the look on hers. He tripped in the rush to explain. “Not women… I didn’t… just my sisters.”

Her look was now a glare. He tried again. “Forever slopping about the place in their nighties. Mum’s always on at them.”

She was intrigued, filing facts: Ozzie lived at home, then, surrounded by women. “How many sisters you got, Oz?”

“Three.” His face softened. “Youngest’s sixteen. Oldest’s twenty-two.”

“So you’re Big Brother?” She didn’t wait for a reply, but mulled it over in the kitchen, where she grabbed an extra plate and fork. He was kneeling down, browsing through
a stack of videos when she came back. She retrieved the tray and took the weight off her feet.

“Gonna get stuck in?”

He looked up, puzzled, then saw what was on offer.

“You have it, Sarge. I’ve eaten.”

“It’s great, this. Chicken Madras. Have a bite of my naan if you play your cards right.”

He shook his head. “It’s a bit coals to Newcastle.”

Quick shrug. “Suit yourself.”

He took a closer look. “Do you really like that stuff?”

She paused, fork halfway to mouth. “No. Horrible. Can’t stand it.” Sarcasm dripped with the sauce.

“Come on, Sarge, it’s vile. Now if we’re talking my Madras…”

She laid the fork down; savoured the words. “Your Madras?”

He gave an ostentatious sniff. “Legendary, mate.”

She looked at him, looked at the tray. Wondered what the hell they were doing, in her place, ten at night, sounding like a couple of foodies? He surely hadn’t come to swap recipes?
“Let’s do Delia another other time, Oz.” She waved a hand at the settee. “What’s it all about?”

He sat, legs crossed, and stroked his chin, presumably recalling the reason for his visit.

She nibbled naan while he arranged thoughts.

“Are you watching that?”

She glanced at the screen; Mr Pitt up to his neck – well, someone’s neck – in gore. “I was.”

He took a tape from his coat pocket. “I want you to have a look at this.” It wasn’t a holiday video. His voice told her that.

“There’s no need to see it all.”

She watched, curious, as he headed for the VCR and inserted the tape. It was unlabelled, or more accurately, there was nothing on the label. He certainly hadn’t called in at Blockbusters.
But he had cued it. He sat cross-legged on the shagpile and hit play.

Spielberg it wasn’t. Hand-held, ill-focused and grainy it was. She sipped wine as the camera panned along a brick wall to a naked body. The figure was face down and spread-eagled on a
mattress. She leaned further forward. The lads on vice were always seizing crap like this, then it was standing room only in the viewing suite at Highgate. She’d seen it all before; bare bum
on bed was pretty tame. She only got queasy when foreign bodies or German shepherds were sniffing round.

Then the camera zoomed in.

There were marks across the buttocks. Red ribbons, were they? Laces? A couple more appeared. The body arced in mute protest, but was restrained by leather straps tethering wrists and ankles to
the iron bedstead. She put the glass down. Whoever had the whip was just out of shot; all she could see were macabre tendrils, flashing in and out of frame as they made contact with flesh. Another
pan. Whip handler. Shot from the waist down revealing a pasty paunch, bowed legs and a stiffy the size of a lighthouse.

Ozzie pressed pause.

She swallowed the last of the wine.

“You never see the guy’s face. When he’s finished with the whip, he has sex then it fades to black.”

Sex? Not the term she’d use. Rape. Sodomy. Assault. She didn’t speak. She was trying to pin down a niggle at the back of her mind.

“God knows who she is. Or what state she’s in,” Oz said.

Bev laid the tray on the floor and hunched forward on the chair. “Rewind it, Oz. Back to where we came in.”

Wide shot, side-on: wall, bed, body, slim, pale skin, shiny dark bob.

“Freeze it on the arc.” She sensed his eyes on her but she was staring at the screen.

He missed it a couple of times, had to rewind, slow forward, rewind, before hitting the spot. The image was flickering but not enough to obscure what they’d almost missed.

“That’s not a girl, Oz.”

She watched as he peered at the screen, slowly shaking his head. “I must have seen it half a dozen times…”

Bev sat back, reached for a cigarette, remembered yet again she’d given up. “Where’d you get it?”

He turned to face her, kneeling now. “That’s why I wanted to see you.”

She narrowed her eyes, hadn’t a clue what was coming. “Go on.”

He opened his mouth, searching for words, eyes anywhere but on Bev. “This afternoon?” he said. “You went back to the nick with the governor? Left me at the Brand place, to get
rid of the press?”

“Yes?” She was trying to keep track of his Adam’s apple.

“I went round the back. Just to check the place was secure?”

Her mind was racing. “And?”

“The door was on the latch.”

“And?”

“I went in; found the tape upstairs.”

Bloody, buggery bollocks. No wonder he’d been rambling on about Chicken Madras. Anything was more palatable than this. Her mind was racing, repercussions as well as questions darting like
silverfish. The sixty-four thousand dollar big one was: how old was the boy on the bed? For only one dollar less: what the hell was Ozzie playing at?

“You found it?” She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer. The tape was proof of only one thing: that he’d broken every rule in the book. Entering and pocketing property was
stealing. And even if it turned out to be evidence, it was inadmissible evidence. Instead of landing Brand in the dock, it would drop Ozzie in the shit. And as it was currently parked in her
player, she’d be floundering in it as well.

“I was looking for the loo.”

“Course you were.” She rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, Khan. You can try that line on the governor but don’t bullshit me.”

“I did take a leak.”

“You can say that again.” She wandered over to a wall cupboard, took down a bottle of Leapfrog. She poured two shots, vaguely aware even while doing it that he didn’t touch
alcohol. The sharper thinking was focused elsewhere.