Working Girls (24 page)

Bev made a mental note. The girl would have to be chased up in the morning. She ran through the list again; looked as if there was only one no-show.

“What about Jo? She coming or what?” Val asked.

“It’s her ma’s bingo night,” Jules drawled. “She’s doing a spot of baby sittin’.”

“’Bout bloody time.”

Bev lifted an eyebrow at the venom in Val’s voice.

“It’s Jo’s kid, innit?” Val said. “She expects her ma to do everythin’. Selfish little cow. I wouldn’t trust her with a pair of gerbils.”

“How old’s Jo?” Bev asked.

“Fifteen. Had the kid a coupla years back.”

Bev turned her mouth down; at thirteen, the only thing she’d delivered was a newspaper.

“What about the father?”

“God knows. Jo don’t.” Val shook her head. “She ain’t the first and she sure won’t be the last.”

Bev wanted to ask more but Jules dismissed the subject with a flap of her hand. “Yeah yeah. Borin’.’” She looked at Bev. “Come on. We’ve wasted enough time.
Sooner we get this over with, sooner we can get down to the vid.”

“Yeah. What d’you get, ma?” Patty asked.

Val kept a straight face. “The Sound of Music.”

Smithy jabbed a fist in the air and shouted. “Yo!”

The big woman shook her head. “Soft sod. Nah. I got the new Bruce Willis. We can have a group drool.”

“Yuk,” Patty spat. “He’s a right old wrinklie.”

“You lot quite finished?” Jules lit a spliff, stared at Bev. “The lady’s waitin’.”

Bev took a deep breath, dived in. “I don’t know how much Val’s said, but the idea’s dead simple really.”

“Patty’ll appreciate that,” Jules muttered.

Bev ignored the interruption. “I need to get out on the patch. Michelle’s killer’s still out there, and he’s almost certainly the same nut who’s put Cassie on life
support. I’ll be straight with you, girls: the leads we’re following are getting us nowhere.”

“Nothin new there, then.” Jules’s contempt came wreathed in smoke.

“Precisely,” Bev hit back. “That’s why we’ve got to try something different.”

“So how’s you gettin’ tarted up and hangin’ round street corners gonna do any good?”

Jules was asking all the questions, but it was plain to Bev everyone was hanging on the answers. She looked at each girl in turn, wanting them all to be clear about the significance of what she
was about to say.

“There’s no reason to suppose the killings have stopped.” She lifted a hand to quell a chorus of protest. “I’m not saying there’s another Ripper on the loose,
but until we find a motive, until we have a better idea what’s going on – then the risk is there. If –” she stressed the word – “
if
this guy’s
targeting prostitutes, the closer I work with you the better. Apart from anything else I’ll be keeping an eye out for you.”

Again, the only noise was a muffled chanting from Thread Street. Each girl was working on her own thoughts.

“You say in’ it’s a mad punter?” Jules was trying hard to sound as if she didn’t care.

Bev shook her head. “I’ve told you – we just don’t know.”

Val nodded towards the door. “What about that lot out there? Not exactly fans of ours, are they?”

“Fuckin’ hypocrites,” Chloë hissed.

“Fuckin’ what?” asked Patty.

“Never mind, Pats,” Jules reached across and dropped ash in an empty can. “Ma’s got a point though. What you doin’ about rent-a-mob?”

“All we can.” Known members of the campaign had been traced and interviewed and tonight’s protest was being recorded on stills and video. But Bev couldn’t see the killer
posing for happy snaps. “Same with the death threats. You name it, forensic have done it. We’re still no nearer.”

“What death –?” Patty reached for the pack of Marlboro Val was thrusting at her. “Ta, ma.”

“What were you saying, Pats?” The girl was lighting up. Bev waited, but whatever it was it had gone. The blank look was accompanied by a vague, “You what?”

“Pats is pleased to get anything in the post.” Jules sneered. “Me? I use ’em to wipe me arse. We all do, don’t we, girls?” The crude mime that went with the
graphic language had most of them bent double. “The wankers who send ’em are all shit-for-brains.”

Bev cleared her throat; the lavatory humour wasn’t going anywhere. “One angle we haven’t mentioned.” She paused, wary of snakes and baskets. “What about the
pimps?”

“What about ’em?” Jules asked.

“You tell me.”

“Don’t know any, do we, girls?”

It was a lie. Bev knew it. They knew it. She reeled off half a dozen names; big players in the vice market. “We’ve questioned all of them over the last few days. They’re keen
to help. Shell’s death’s bad for business they reckon.”

“There y’are then,” said Jules. “What more do you want?” The cocky smirk lasted just two words.

“Charlie Hawes.”

The chanting from the street sounded louder in the silence of the room. Bev looked round but none of the girls met her gaze. “Hawes as in Mad Charlie. Mad Charlie as in Michelle’s
pimp.”

“Thought you were tryin’ to help us?” Patty said plaintively.

“I am, Patty. I am. I don’t want any of you to end up like Shell.”

Val lit another Marlboro and spoke through the smoke. “I can’t see it’ll do any harm. I think we should give it a whirl.”

Bev looked at the big woman; was that a deliberate change of subject, or what?

If it was, Jules caught on quickly. “How’s it gonna work?”

Bev hesitated. She wanted to pursue the Hawes line but didn’t want to alienate Val further, or the girls at all. She ran through how she’d join them on the streets, as and when she
could; that it’d be a case of keeping her eyes and ears open. There was a half-hearted joke about legs but Bev ignored it. When she wasn’t around, Bev said, she wanted them to keep tabs
on the punters; take registrations; jot down descriptions; look out for anything or anyone in the slightest way suspect. She’d organize personal alarms and ask about extra police patrols.

She caught a few glances being exchanged, then Jules answered for them all. “You’re on.”

Bev smiled, circled her can at the girls. “Cheers.”

Val hoisted hers. “Bottoms up.”

Jules hadn’t taken her eyes off Bev. “Up yours, an’ all.”

Bev joined the general mirth but with a lot less force.

“Seriously, cop-lady,” asked Jules. “What you gonna do when you get a punter?”

The girls were all ears. Bev went for breezy. “No worries. I’ll know how to handle it.”

“I bet you will,” Jules grinned.

“’ere, if she’s turning tricks…” All eyes turned to Patty. “We oughta get a cut. It’s our patch, innit?”

Bev shook her head; what could you say? Looking on the bright side, the subsequent piss-taking of Patty, took everyone’s mind off Jules’s poser about punters. Bev had it all worked
out; she just wasn’t ready to share.

“Okay, you lot.” Val broke up the action. “We’ve done the biz. Let’s get down to the important stuff.” Pizza the Action was doing some sort of promo deal. Val
took orders and wandered through to the kitchen, mobile phone in hand.

“What’s it like bein’ a cop, then?” Patty asked.

“Why?” Jules laughed. “You gonna sign up?”

“Sign on, more like,” said Chloë.

Patty scooped a handful of pigs and aimed at the girls’ bean-bag. Jules and Chloë dived to the carpet, giggling and screaming.

“Wass goin’ on in there?” Val shouted. “I can’t hear myself speak.”

Jules wagged a finger at Patty. “You’re in big trouble now, girl. Better pick ’em up or she’ll have you.”

Patty wagged two fingers. “Sod off.”

Bev knelt and started gathering the animals.

“Very attached to her piggies is our Val,” Jules said. “She’s given ’em names and everythin’. She can tell you where she got ’em, and when. Loves
’em, she does. They’re like kids to her.”

Bev returned them reverently to the bed. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jules clutching her sides.

“What’s so funny?”

“You should see your face.”

“They mean a lot to her,” Bev protested. Child substitute had briefly crossed her mind.

“They sure do.” Jules pointed. “That one’s Kev. He was a DC in Leeds. That’s Frank, he’s a sergeant now, moved to Wolverhampton last year. That’s Joey,
he was an inspector in Digbeth but he’s some big cheese at Lloyd House these days.”

Patty picked up a pig with one eye and no tail. “This bugger had me an’ all. Billy Nelson’s his name.”

Bev knew her dental work was on display but this made notches on the bedpost look pretty tame. “What are you saying? That when Val –” she searched for a suitable verb –
“services a cop, she gets a pig?”

It was Jules’s turn to look nonplussed, then she beamed. “No, you daft sod. They’re not punters. They’re collars. She buys one every time she gets fined. Well, she used
to. She can’t afford it no more.”

“Can’t afford what?” Val breezed in with a roll of kitchen towel and a bottle of ketchup, which she handed straight to Patty.

“Ta, ma. You remembered.”

Val curled her lip. “Tomato sauce on pizza? How could I forget?”

Bev smiled, beginning to relax. The girls were good company. It made her think again about Vicki. Maybe she’d over-reacted. Why shouldn’t the girl be in Brighton? Val had probably
just been on edge, what with the girls coming round and the protest and everything. She yawned, sank back into the bean-bag, stretched her legs. It hadn’t been a bad night’s work. An
understanding had been reached, and though there was nothing new to go on she’d be well placed in the days ahead.

“How long’s the pizza gonna be?” Smithy asked.

“’Bout eight inches,” Jules smirked.

“You should be so lucky.” Val accompanied her quip with a slack-lipped pout of panto-dame dimensions. It sparked a session of note-swapping on well-hung punters. There were one or
two well-known men in town that Bev would never look in the face again. The girls were rolling around in hysterics on the carpet. Bev was the only one to hear the door. The others had bought the
booze so she grabbed her bag and crept out. The laughter was infectious and Bev was grinning from ear to ear when she pulled the door open. The pizza delivery bloke bore a striking resemblance to
Ozzie. It only took a second to work out why.

“Oz, what are you doing here?” She registered how the street light was simultaneously shining and casting shadows in the rain on his face. She noted how the girls’ laughter had
reached a new peak, knew instinctively the timing was all wrong.

“You’re wanted, Sarge. We’ve got another body.”

23

The fastest way back was on foot. Thread Street had been cordoned off anyway, because of the protest. They ran through stinging rain, Ozzie ahead, Bev close by, coat
mis-buttoned, dress clinging to her thighs. Terraced houses and parked cars flashed past peripherally as every step took them closer. The only sound was the slap of soles on wet pavement. Bev had a
host of questions, breath for just one. “Any ID?”

“Not yet.”

One name was beating in her head, keeping time with her pounding footsteps. How could she have been so stupid? If Vicki Flinn was in Brighton, Bev was The Queen. She’d been sold a line,
and bought it wholesale.

As they rounded the corner the crowd, mostly silent now, turned to stare. Bev slowed up and scanned faces as she made for the park’s iron gates. People were congregated in small groups,
sharing umbrellas; others were clustered along the railings, sheltering under the sparse overhang of trees. Anti-whore placards lay in the gutter, others were propped between the metal spikes.
Strange, she thought, how no one was claiming ownership now – or authorship. She nodded at a uniform, one of many, circulating with notebooks and questions.

There was a ripple of excitement as several people pointed up the road. Bev turned and recognised a blonde off the local TV news. The girl must have flashed something to get past the police
tapes. She was stumbling towards the action as fast as four-inch heels allowed. A camera crew was right behind, the first of many, once the news really broke. Bev tightened her mouth. The media
were going to love this. Enough cops around to police a state funeral and still there’d been another murder. The crowd was already loving it. The drongos were wetting their knickers at the
thought of getting on the box. In her mind, all Bev could see was a body. She shook her head. “Let’s get on with it.”

Ozzie held the gate open. “Watch your footing. It’ll be slippy.” He handed her a torch. “The governor said you’d know where to head.” She frowned, then
recalled that Ozzie hadn’t actually visited the scene. She led them down a path through the trees to Bogart’s pool. She was shivering, didn’t know whether it was down to the cold,
or shock, or something else. Bare branches overhead provided little protection from the rain; naked roots were a hazard underfoot.

“Shit!”

“You okay?” Oz asked.

I’m alive, aren’t I? She said nothing; realised she was too angry to speak. They were close now. She could see torch beams playing through tree trunks, raindrops dancing in the
flares. She gasped as a wider tableau suddenly appeared. She should have realised immediately that the police floodlighting had kicked in, but she was jumpy, on edge. It took time to get used to
the glare; she used it for steadying breaths, aware there were worse sights ahead. Everything was bathed in shades of black and white and silver. It reminded her of a Hitchcock movie. She realised
simultaneously, that the impression had been reinforced because she’d glimpsed the silhouette of a man standing near the water. It was Byford’s; maybe she’d tell him, one day. Now
was not the time for small talk. She looked again, his head was down, hands deep in his pockets. There must have been others around – the crew that had rigged the lighting for instance
– but he appeared a forlorn and lonely figure. It was as she moved further in, and he turned at the sound, that she saw the body. She froze for several seconds then forced herself to
continue, focusing exclusively on the girl.

She was young: early to mid teens; long limbs. The bobbed hair appeared black. The face couldn’t be seen from this angle. Bev was ninety per cent sure she knew whose it was. She
concentrated on breath control and continued the visual examination. The girl’s arms were flung out as if she’d fallen, although there were no obvious injuries. She was wearing a short
denim jacket and a denim skirt that was now round her waist. Bev itched to pull it down, straighten it, restore a little dignity. Given the greater degradation to come, the act would have been
pointless, except in putting off the inevitable question. Byford voiced it anyway. “Do you know her?”