Working Girls (28 page)

“You okay?” Bev asked.

“’ot in ’ere, innit?” She shrugged off a sky-blue fleece and stretched her little sparrow legs. “Could do with a drink.”

“I could probably rustle up a cup of tea.”

Dawn curled a lip as if it had been an offer of paraquat. “Aw, go on then.”

She returned to find Dawn crashed out, lolling and snoring like a rag doll with dodgy adenoids. She moved nearer and looked closer. Dawn’s crop top had ridden up to her bra. This doll also
had heavy bruising and cigarette burns. The marks were unmistakeable when you’d seen them before. Bev stood and stared for a while then shook Dawn gently on the shoulder. The woman shot up,
saw Bev and relaxed. “Must’ve dropped off. Sorry ’bout that.” She realised where her top was and why Bev was silent. She tugged it down with both hands. “Had a nasty
fall.”

“On an ashtray?”

“That the tea? Ta. Pass us a spoon.” Subject closed. Bev sighed. If a man ever lifted a finger to her, he’d walk with a limp for the rest of his life. For all Dawn’s
hard-woman posturing, she was some bastard’s punch bag. And like so many women, she was letting the thug off the hook. Bev took a seat across the table and opened a file.

“Them the papers I gotta sign, then?” Dawn’s face was creased in an effort to read upside down.

“All in good time. I need a statement first.”

“But I don’t know nothin’.”

“Michelle was your daughter, Dawn. Tell me about her.”

Dawn Lucas’s story, in some respects, was like so many Bev had heard.

“Fell for Shell at fourteen, I did. We told her she was me sister. Only found out like when she were six or seven.”

“So Michelle was close to your mother?”

“Well, she were till me mam died. She got cancer.” Dawn closed her eyes for a second or two. “Bloody doctors. It should have been picked up on one of them smears. Forty-seven,
she was. Anyroad, our Shell came to live with me and Kev. But he didn’t have no time for kids so he buggered off. I was stuck in a poxy bedsit all day, couldn’t get a job,
couldn’t see a way out. Did a bit of street work to make ends meet. You know how it is.”

And so did Michelle, Bev thought.

“Anyroad, I met this bloke and me and Shell moved in with him. She were ten, eleven, summat like that. She were growin’ up fast. Had her own friends. Always out, always up to tricks,
know what I mean?”

Bev had a good idea. “Who were her friends? Can you give me any names?’

She pulled a face. “Never bin no good with names. Sorry. Anyway, this bloke gets offered a job up in Manchester, good money, movin’ expenses, the lot, and he asks me to
go.”

“And Michelle? Was she included in the deal?”

Dawn’s eyes flashed in anger. “I told you before. She could’ve come if she’d wanted.”

Bev said nothing, her expression asked for more.

Dawn looked away, then down at her hands. “To tell you the truth, she dint have much time for Ginger. Reckoned he was a dirty old sod.”

“And was he?”

“Nah. He were a good laugh. He were a good bit older than me. But I still miss him. Treated me okay. Know what I mean?”

Her eyes were too bright. She was on the verge of tears. Bev found herself almost feeling sorry for the woman. “Anyway. Michelle didn’t go. And as far as you were aware, she’d
arranged to stay with the family of a schoolfriend?”

“That’s right. Next thing I know she’s in care.”

Bev pushed Dawn for more details. They went over the same ground again and again but they were getting nowhere. Bev put her pen down and rubbed her face.

“That it, then?” asked Dawn. “Shall I sign the papers now?”

The woman was getting well excited over a release form and a witness statement. Bev nodded. “Yes. Sure. You’ll be wanting Michelle’s things. Then I’ll get you a
cab.”

“Hold on! What about the compensation? You said I had to sign a load of stuff. I was thinkin’ like, if it was a good bit I might stick round. There’s not much to keep me up
north. I ’aven’t got a job or nothin’. Thought, mebbe I could make a fresh start. A mate of mine down the market reckons it could be hundreds and hundreds of thousands.”

Bev looked down, already regretted talking-up the woman’s hopes. She reached into a drawer. “I’ve got the paperwork here for you, Dawn. You’ll have to fill it in and wait
and see.”

Dark eyebrows were drawn together. “What about the big payout, and the meeting on Friday?”

“I’m sorry, Dawn.” Bev pushed an application form across the desk. “They will look at your claim but it’ll be eleven grand, max. It’ll take a few
months.”

“But you said…” Her voice was like a kid’s who’d just been told there’s no Father Christmas.

Bev felt like the wicked fairy. “I’m really sorry, Dawn. I had to get you here to talk about Michelle. I shouldn’t have lied. It was wrong of me.” She’d have felt
less of a heel, if Dawn had thrown a wobbly or called her a lying cow, but the woman just sat back, resigned to yet another kick in the teeth. “Nah. It’s okay. Had a day out,
ain’t I?” Consciously or not, her bony hand was stroking her bruised flesh. She sighed, then retrieved a cheap, white bag from the floor. “I’d best be off, then.”

Bev laid her hand over Dawn’s. “I can give you a number. In Manchester. Someone to talk to. A place to go if things get really bad.”

“Women’s refuge?”

Bev nodded.

“Been there, done that.” She rubbed the dark skin under her eye. “’e always fetches me back. It’s only when ’e’s on the juice…” There was
no need to explain. “Anyroad.” She scraped the chair back. “No worries. Summat’ll turn up.”

Bev doubted that. Dawn was nearly thirty and so far, nothing even halfway decent had appeared. The woman wasn’t a monster, just another victim. “I’ve had Michelle’s bits
and pieces brought over.” Bev got to her feet. “I’ll just go and get them.”

“No.” Dawn shook her head. “I don’t want nothin’. I don’t need anythin’ to remember our Shell. I’ve got a nice picture. That’ll do
me.”

Bev froze. “What did you say?”

“I’ve got a picture. Sent it me she did. Not long after I left.”

Bev swallowed. “Got it with you?”

Michelle was on the left, long hair like blonde curtains, either side of a cheeky grin. A taller, skinny girl had an arm round her shoulders. She was as dark as Shell was fair. Bev didn’t
need to ask who it was. The photograph was a couple of years old and she hadn’t seen her for nearly a week but she’d know Vicki Flinn anywhere. Question was: who was the figure in the
background?

Byford nodded. “Worth another visit, at least.”

She sniffed; a bit of enthusiasm would be nice. The snap didn’t prove anything but it raised a few queries. Dawn had been loath to leave it but changed her mind when Bev handed over
travelling expenses and slipped the woman a few quid from her own pocket. Talk about pound of flesh – she’d then persuaded Bev to help her with the CICA application. She said
she’d lost her glasses, but Bev reckoned a pair of binoculars wouldn’t have helped much. Dawn knew her ABC but had trouble with anything after D.

Byford was still looking at the picture. “Who’s the other girl, Bev?”

“Don’t know yet.” Bev had already spent ages poring over the blurred outline mostly hidden by the trunk of a sprawling horse chestnut. Either the girl just happened to be
walking past or she was deliberately ducking out of shot. There was a lot of hair and not much else.

“I’ll get back to the Flinn place, then, shall I?”

He shrugged. “May as well.”

She reached for the print but Byford held onto it for a few seconds. “Beautiful, wasn’t she? Michelle.”

Bev glanced at his face; wistful like the voice. “You okay, guv?”

“I’ve just spent two hours watching Harry Gough carve up Gary Kent’s girl.” He glared at her. “What do you think?”

She stared back. “I think it’s the pits. It comes with the territory.”

He lifted a hand. “Sorry. It’s not your fault. Anyway…” He gave a rueful smile. “If you read the press, it’s all down to me.”

She had. Vince Hanlon always kept a
Star
on the front desk. She’d seen the latest edition. It couldn’t get any worse in the final. Not with words like police, chief, clueless,
all over the front page. “Come on, guv, they’d blame their own granny if it sold more papers.”

“Maybe.”

She watched as he rearranged bulging files and piles of clutter on his normally pristine desk. He looked tired, gaunt, and though he was dismissing her, she didn’t want to go.

“I take it Goughie didn’t have much to add?”

He pursed his lips. “Not a lot. Looks like the same MO. He reckons she was attacked from behind. There are no defence marks, but there were fibres of some sort under her fingernails.
They’re on the way to the lab.”

“Better than nothing, guv.”

“If we ever get anything to match them with.”

“When, not if.” She sounded more confident than she felt.

He dismissed the sentiment with a flap of his hand. “What have we got to go on? We’ve had a couple of sightings of a BMW. Apart from that, no one’s seen anything, heard
anything or saying anything. I’m getting flak from upstairs and flak from the press. And you know what’s worse?” He paused. “It could easily happen again.”

He was right. They had no motive; didn’t know what they were dealing with.

“The attack on Louella wasn’t sexual. She wasn’t touched,” Byford said.

“Thank God.” Gary and Louise would be spared that agony.

“But why was she killed, Bev? Was it to get at us? Is there a pattern here or was it a random attack?”

She shook her head, sighed. “What about releasing details on Charlie Hawes? You know the sort of thing. We’re anxious to trace blah-de-blah.”

He folded his arms and leaned forward. “I think you’re developing a fixation about this man, Bev. We know he’s a pimp. That’s all we know. There’s nothing to link
him to the murders.”

She opened her mouth to argue but Byford wouldn’t take kindly to a slanging match. She kept her voice level. “Hawes was grooming Michelle Lucas. He scares the shit out of the girls.
I think he could be holding Vicki Flinn against her will. At the very least, it would be useful to talk to him.”

“And where’s the photograph? Or E-fit?”

It was a valid point. Without a visual of some sort, the appeal wasn’t likely to get anywhere. All Vicki had told her was that Charlie was fit, dark and a bit of a looker. “I could
try to persuade one of the girls to work with a police artist. We might come up with a decent likeness.”

“We still haven’t got anything on him.”

She was impatient and didn’t hide it. “I think it’s worth a shot – unless you’ve got a better idea.”

He sighed meaningfully. It was an opportunity to apologise. She didn’t take it.

“What’s that?” She’d just noticed an evidence bag partially covered by a couple of files.

“Crime scenes must have left it while I was at the morgue.” He scanned the handwritten tag. “Yes. It turned up this morning, not far from the girl’s body.” He was
frowning. “What do they call these things, Bev?”

She took the bag for a closer look. Inside was a soft ball of stretchy black fabric. “Scrunchies.”

He’d never heard of them.

“For hair,” she explained. “Plaits, ponytails.”

He nodded, but his attention was now on a note he was reading.

“Anything there?” she asked.

“Scene of crimes report. Just a few edited highlights till later. Lots of prints and tracks but not much good. The place was a quagmire with all that rain. They’ve turned up the
usual stuff. That,” he pointed to the bag Bev was still holding, “was about the only thing that stood out. The hairs that were on it are at the lab.” He tossed the paper on the
desk. “No guarantee it’s hers of course. And even if it is, I can’t see where it’ll take us.” She was lost in thought; puzzled. “Something on your mind,
Bev?”

“I don’t see how it can be Louella’s. I can barely get my hair in a ponytail, and Louella’s was much shorter.”

“Doesn’t have to be Louella’s,” Byford said. “Lots of girls use the park. I’ll get on to forensic though, tell them to rush it through.”

It wasn’t much to go on. They still had to find the killer. Even then, it might be unconnected. On the other hand, it could be evidence that would help secure a conviction.

The phone rang as he was reaching for it. He grabbed a pen and scribbled on a lined pad. The call was over in seconds. “Thanks, Vince. Hang on to him. I’ll send her down.”

She pulled a face, had intended getting straight off to Annie Flinn’s.

“Best put the Flinn interview on the back burner. Chap downstairs reckons we’ve been looking for him. Says his name’s Charlie Hawes.”

28

The lawyer looked more like the pimp. That was Bev’s initial impression. She was observing through reception’s one-way mirror and guessed, rightly, that the older
bloke was a brief. Charlie had come prepared: quite the little boy scout. They were waiting stiff-backed near the front desk, standing out like designer gear on a market stall. Rumpole’s
broken nose was floundering in a sea of acne scars and his hairline hadn’t so much receded as done a runner. Alongside him was the elusive Mr Hawes.

Bev cast a long, lingering look. They’d been trying to flush him out for days and there he was. She stared, trying to match up the Armani-clad man in front of her with the glimpsed figure
in New Street. Had it been him?

She half expected Hawes to sport a pair of horns or have ‘mad git’ stamped across his forehead. But no. Vicki was right. He was well fit. Mind, a tan like that would work wonders for
an anaemic anorexic. Not that he was skinny; he had the profile and proportions of some Greek statue; she just hoped he’d have a damn sight more to say. She used her fingers as a comb,
checked her skirt wasn’t stuck up her knickers and went to find out. Vince was embroiled in paperwork; the
Telegraph
crossword, probably. She let him get on with it.