Working Girls (23 page)

Val yawned. “Tell me about it. I’ve been on all day. Have to make hay while the sun shines.”

Make something, thought Bev. “It’s the hair!” She pointed. “What’ve you done?”

Val’s red beehive had been supplanted by an unruly haystack.

“This?” She lifted a hand. “It’s me Lily Savage. I’ve got a mate in the rug trade. Ever need sortin’ you know where to come.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.”

“Ditch the coat. Take the weight off your pins. I’m gonna put me face on. Shove that lot on the floor.” Her arm gave a wide sweep of the room. Bev peered round; the subdued
lighting was crying out for a torch. Where exactly was she meant to sit? As far as she could see, there were no chairs. She eventually made out a bed, covered by a tartan throwover and what looked
like several herds of stuffed pigs. She moved closer. There was a huge mountain of fluffy porkers, and barely room to perch a buttock. God knew what made her look up, but there was a matching
tableau in the massive mirror above the bed. She grinned: pigs could fly, then.

She decided not to join the farmyard action and gravitated towards the fake log fire. There was another mirror on the wall. She pulled a face and smoothed a few damp tendrils into place; looked
down and pulled another. The dress wasn’t right. She’d scoured her wardrobe but it didn’t do police tart. She’d changed her mind – and gear – several times,
eventually plumping for an above-the-knee, little aubergine number in crushed velvet. Compared with Val’s jade silk kimono – it didn’t work. Still, at least it wasn’t blue
and no one would ask her to read the meter.

Val had left the door open, and judging by the smell of dope was having a crafty drag. What was the nasal equivalent of a blind eye? The girls could get as stoned as a rockery as far as Bev was
concerned.

“Wanna drink, chuck?” Val was still in make-up but the forty-a-day voice was loud and clear.

Bev dithered, then plunged. “Sure. What you got?”

“Red Stripe, Red Stripe or Red Stripe.”

She grinned and shouted back. “Cuppa char, then. Not!”

She glanced at her watch. Twenty past eight. Where were the girls? Cold feet? Toe-nail cutting?

“’ere y’are.”

Bev turned, expecting to take ownership of a can of lager, but Val had a bean-bag in each hand.

“Chuck one over there, Bev. There’s a couple more next door. Whether we’re gonna need ’em or not…” She shrugged and floated out on a wave of Lou Lou and
Imperial Leather.

Bev bagged a bag and watched as her dress rapidly turned from above-the-knee to below-the-knickers. Thank God she’d eschewed Frankie’s basque for M&S briefs. She grabbed the hem
and gave a few tugs. It was one thing to enter into the spirit of the occasion but a girl had to draw the line somewhere.

Val returned, cans in hands. “Cheers, chuck.”

Bev had a couple of sips, regretted not bringing a bottle of wine or Scotch. “What time did you tell the others, Val?” The casual tone was supposed to conceal her growing
concern.

Val shoved the pigs over and flopped across the bed, back against the wall. “Eight.”

There was an uneasy silence. It was beginning to feel like one of those parties where no one turns up.

Val lit a Marlboro. “They know the score, Bev. It’s down to them whether they play ball.”

Bev watched as she picked a fleck of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. The big woman obviously had something on her mind as well. Bev waited, hoping she’d share.

“I have to say Bev, none of them was delirious at the prospect of meeting you, but only Marj told me to fuck off.” She paused. “Actually, she told me to tell you to fuck
off.”

“Marj?” Bev matched the name with a face; came up with black. “She hates cops.” The words ‘white’ and ‘woman’ went unspoken but both knew they
were there. She looked round for an easier topic while she grappled with harder thoughts. “What’s with the pigs?”

It was quite a collection, sixty-plus. Everything from a two-inch piglet to a two-foot porker, Barbie pink through pillar-box red and every lurid shade in between.

Val opened her mouth then appeared to change her mind, settled for a wide grin and a vague: “Dunno, really. Just sort of grew, like.”

“Nice.” It sounded pathetic even to Bev’s ears. She took another drink, wondered what she was doing, discussing cuddly toys with a middle-aged prostitute when a stone’s
throw away her mates were trying to keep order on the streets. She cocked her head on one side. The crowd was beginning to chant and though the words were inaudible the message was pretty clear:
tarts were not flavour of the month.

“Don’t worry about that lot, Bev. It won’t stop the others. Not if they want to come.”

She nodded. But did they?

She took another swig. “Hey, Val, you heard any more from Vicki?” She was making conversation; nothing more.

The hand with the cigarette halted, half-way to Val’s mouth. Bev asked herself why? And why was Val suddenly spouting on like there was no tomorrow?

“Nah. She must still be down south. Lucky cow. I wouldn’t say no to a few days in Brighton.” She winked as she took a drag on her fag. “Could do with a bit of sea air. I
love all that stuff, don’t you? A bit of a paddle; a few sticks of rock; fish and chips on the front. They always taste better outside, somehow, don’t they? You goin’ somewhere
nice this year, Bev?”

Bev tried not to narrow her eyes. One mention of Vicki, and the woman was babbling like a swollen brook. “Dunno. I haven’t thought about it, yet.”

She studied the big woman’s face; stayed silent, hoping it would force the talk. While Val made a great play of sorting out the pigs, Bev flicked through her mental file on Vicki. Was she
missing something, apart from the girl herself? She waited a while longer, but Val’s flow of words had apparently dried up.

“Val?” She wasn’t even sure why she was asking; it was just another niggling doubt among all the unknowns and half-truths that seemed to make up the Lucas inquiry. “You
did get a call from Vicki, didn’t you, love?”

“You calling me a liar?”

The response was fast, but it wasn’t an answer. But why would Val lie? And why were Bev’s bullshit antennae suddenly twitching? She was on dangerous ground; she stepped lightly.
“’Course not, love, but anyone can make a mistake.”

She watched as Val ground the butt into a glass ashtray. The woman was either working on a reply or ignoring the remark. After twenty seconds or so of silence Bev added softly.“It’s
just that if we’re wrong about Vicki, the error could be fatal.”

“I got a call. Right?” The big woman turned her face to Bev; it had ‘final answer’ all over it.

“Sure.” If she pushed further, she’d likely be shown the door. She put a question mark over Brighton and lifted her can. “Absent friends.”

Val nodded. “Absent friends.”

Another uneasy silence was broken by a tap on the window.

Val hauled herself off the bed. “That’ll be Patty. She’s got a thing about knocking on doors. She got chucked through one once. I won’t be a tick.” Judging by the
smile and her manner, Val wasn’t going to dwell on the Vicki thing. Neither was Bev; it was time for action.

She tried standing; wondered if anyone had ever come up with a dignified way of getting out of a bean-bag. Given the expanse of thighs she was showing and the gap in between, she decided not. A
final push and she was on her feet, so how come she still felt like a sitting duck? She smoothed her skirt, sweaty palms leaving damp smudges. She swallowed, took a few deep breaths. Most of these
girls, she’d be seeing for the first time. She felt like some bimbo on
Blind Date.

There were a few giggles and shushes then Val returned with not one girl but two. “Bev. This here’s Patty. This is Smithy.”

Bev ran through a mental list drawn up by Val: Smithy the librarian; Patty the smackhead. Apart from their temporary resemblance to drowned rats, it checked out. Smithy’s pale face was
swamped by huge red-framed specs. Patty’s looked as if it should be; poor girl blinked a lot and appeared to have trouble focusing.

Bev smiled, bit back some inane drivel about the weather and held out a hand. “Good to see you.”

Smithy growled, “Wotcha,” and made straight for the bed. Patty didn’t appear to notice. “Gorra smoke, Val?”

Val chucked the pack and a box of matches but it was too much for the girl’s spatial skills. Bev retrieved both from the floor and handed them over.

“Ta.” She studied Bev’s face. “I ain’t seen you before. Eh, Val, she new round ’ere?”

Bev looked at Val, who rolled her eyes and tapped the side of her head. “Sit down, Pats.”

Bev sighed; bright girl, then. She glanced at Smithy who had her nose in a book with a pink cover. Talk about hope over experience.

“Jules’ll be here in a min. And Chloë.” Smithy imparted the information without looking up. “They’re doing the offie run.”

“We had a whip round,” Val explained.

Bev was working on a quip along the lines of “Lucky you.” It was never cracked owing to a hammering on the front door, backed up by a quasi-police rap through the letterbox.

“Spread your legs and kiss the floor. Officer Dibble’s at the door.”

Bev’s eyebrows were up to her hairline, till she caught sight of Val’s downturned mouth. She watched as the big woman strolled towards the door muttering something about bloody
comedians.

“Come on, ma, it’s pissin’ down out here.”

Bev heard the door open, feet being stamped and a rustle of coats being hung up; all interspersed by banter and belly laughs. Two girls eventually swanned in, wearing hats fashioned out of
plastic carriers from Oddbins. They’d already made a dent in the Lambrusco and were passing the bottle round like a microphone. The skinny one put Bev in mind of Vicki until she whipped off
her hat, revealing hair the same shade as Bev’s dress.

“That was for you, cop. Make you feel at home. Know what I mean?”

Bev had an idea. The girl moved closer. “Wanna drink?” The offer was friendly but the distance between Bev’s face and the bottle was a touch too intimate. Purple Locks
didn’t wait for an answer. “We bin watchin’
The Bill.
Do a lot of door-smashin’, don’t they? You into all that?”

Bev stared, stood her ground, bit back several retorts including a novel technique for recycling glass.

“Jules.” The caution was from Val and accompanied by a shake of the head. The others were silent, watching.

The girl burped and stood back, if not down. “What you doin’ ’ere, anyway? A slinky frock and a bit of slap don’ mean nothin’. Still Miss Piggy, ain’t
you?”

Great start, thought Bev. Real sisterhood stuff. If she didn’t play this right, she’d lost them. She took a few sips of lager, kept her voice casual. “When was the last time
you saw Michelle Lucas?”

Wrong-footed, the girl hesitated. The room was silent as the others waited, each aware of the muffled sounds of the crowd a couple of streets away. Jules was kicking her feet, staring at the
floor.

“Can’t remember.”

“Try hard, Jules. Try very hard. Hang on to that image. Remember Shell when she was alive; having a laugh, a good time. Me?” Bev paused, aware everyone was looking. “Me? I saw
her two days ago, on a slab, in the morgue. And you know what? I wish to God I hadn’t. I can’t get rid of it: the sight; the stink; the fuckin’ waste.”

Bev stared; it was clear the others would take their cue from Jules. Talk about hearing a pin drop. The girl held Bev’s gaze, then turned to Val.

“What you standin’ round for, ma? She needs a glass.”

Bev nodded. Smithy went back to her book and Patty used Val’s absence to sneak another fag. The dumpy girl who’d arrived with Jules approached Bev.

“Met before, ain’t we?”

The girl’s shaven head and dark brows didn’t ring any bells.

“Remind me.”

“Chloë Davenport. You ran me in a coupla years back.” Bev ran it through her memory; couldn’t place the girl.

“Put on a bit of meat since then, I have. And I had hair down to my bum.”

Bev pointed, recognition finally dawning. “Blondie!” It was coming back to her. The girl was unusual in that she came from an apparently loving home, had both parents on the scene
and wanted for nothing, yet she repeatedly absconded and went on the game. The father particularly was beside himself with grief. Turned out he was jealous. He’d been abusing her for ten
years. Chloë reckoned she’d been giving it away so long, she might as well make a few bob. It had taken Bev hours and hours of gentle coaxing to get the story. Chloë’s old man
died in a car crash two weeks before his court date.

“Why the..?” Bev made chopping motions with her fingers.

Chloë shrugged her shoulders. “Just grew out of it.”

She’d be sixteen now. Sixteen or seventeen. What was it her father called her? Angel. My little angel. Bev smiled. “It suits you, Chloë.”

“Here y’are, girls. Come and get it.”

Val placed a tray in the middle of the floor. Cans, bottles, a couple of glasses and a few mugs. She delved into the pockets of her kimono and pulled out packets of dry roasted nuts and Bombay
mix. A packet of prawn cocktail crisps had been nestling in the region of her boobs; this she slung at Smithy.

“She likes the colour,” Val mouthed at Bev.

“What’s this?” Patty was trickling the mix through her fingers.

“Told you before, girl. It’s to eat.” Val lowered her voice and looked at Bev. “Caught her tryin’ to smoke it once.”

The girls grabbed a drink each. Chloë and Jules shared a bean-bag, Bev took the other and looked round. The turn-out was better than nothing but it was a bit disappointing. Part of her had
been hoping that the girl she’d spotted in town at lunchtime would put in an appearance. She’d had no joy tracing her through the school.

Smithy finally put the book away. Her glasses had slipped and she pushed them up with a finger. “Oh, yeah. Kylie’s not comin’.”

“Why’s that?” Jules asked. “Too much homework?”

Bev waited for the laughter to subside. “Who’s Kylie?”

“Kylie O’Reilly.”

“You winding me up?”

“No. It’s Kylie O’Reilly. Really.”

There was a lot of giggling going on until Val intervened. “Don’t be so bloody daft.” She looked at Bev. “Straight up. It’s her name. She’s a nice kid. She
was at Fair Oaks but she’s on a trial foster now. Hasn’t stopped her waggin’ though. She’s prob’ly been grounded.”