Working Girls (33 page)

“Creatures of habit, Bev. We all are. You should know that.” Frankie slowed the pace. They were approaching the park and needed to cross the road.

“Sure we all have routines. But…”

The train of thought was lost as she waited while Frankie negotiated the narrow iron gate. The vast open space of Highbury Park was nothing like its gloomy dense equivalent at the back of Thread
Street but Bev still found herself fighting flashbacks. Good job Frankie was alongside.

“Wolfie was a bit tardy this morning, anyway, Bevvie.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we were late leaving your place. And you changed the subject brilliantly. You still haven’t told me what was going on. Who exactly is Milk Tray man? And has he got a mate I
can have?”

God forbid, thought Bev. “He didn’t exactly leave a calling card, Frankie.”

“Mave must have known him, surely?”

“Mystic Mave? ’Fraid not.”

They ran past one of the park’s regulars, an elderly woman with an adolescent Dalmatian. Bev was relieved to see the dog was on a lead. It had taken quite a shine to her in the past.

“This secret admirer of yours, then, Bev, what was he up to in your pad?”

She banished the new-look ID to the back of her mind. “Mave said he was dropping off flowers.”

“Cool. Last man who gave me flowers was my dad. And that was only ’cause I was in hospital.”

Hospital. The General. Waxen white lilies. And Cassie Swain. Bev pulled up sharp.

“What’s up, my friend?” Frankie asked. “You got a stitch?”

Bev reached for a pat or four of butter and flashed Ozzie a smile. “I’m starving.”

“I can see that.”

She mentioned the run, then touched on the break-in. She kept it light but Ozzie’s face dropped. “Jeez, Sarge, you should get the locks changed. Pronto.”

She slammed her forehead with a palm. “Coo! Wish I’d thought of that.” She rolled her eyes. “Course I’m getting them changed. There’s a bloke sorting it
now.”

He ran a finger along his jawline. “Any idea who it could have been?”

Byford had asked the same question twenty minutes earlier. She’d had to mention Hawes, of course, but she’d held back and hedged. If the guv thought Hawes was going after her,
he’d put the kibosh on the undercover stuff. Anyway, as Bev saw it, the closer Hawes got, the easier he was to collar. She gave Ozzie a similarly potted version as they shuffled along the
counter, then changed tack. “Is that all you’re having?”

He looked from his slice of toast and marmite to Bev’s heaving plate. “I’m okay. Anyway, if I change my mind, there’s enough there for two.”

She drew herself up to her full height. “This is fuel, Ozzie. The body’s a temple.”

“Way you eat, it’s a listed building.”

“All right, our Bev?” Doreen on cash desk interrupted, saving Ozzie’s life. Her eyes, like sultanas in a Peshawar naan, peered at Bev. “You look a bit peaky.” She
totted up sausages, eggs, tomatoes, beans and double fried slice. “Still, nowt wrong with your appetite, is there?”

Bev thought this a bit thick coming from a woman who wore skirts you could camp in.

“’ave you done your limerick yet?” Doreen asked.

Bev pocketed the change, shaking her head. She’d forgotten Vince’s venture into the literary world.

Doreen ploughed on. “They’ve got to be in by tomorrow. ’e’s got a stack already.”

“What’s the prize?” Ozzie asked.

Doreen tapped the side of her nose. “It’s a secret.”

“Knowing Vince, it’ll be edible.” Bev looked round, then made for a table by the window. She nodded at Gary Kent, who was just leaving.

“If I were the boss,” she told Ozzie, “I’d make him take time off. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in a month.”

He shrugged. “Coming in is his way of coping. I suppose the routine’s important to him just now.”

“Talking ’bout routine, have you run a check on Steve Bell yet?”

“First thing. Should hear back any time.”

She nodded. They ate in silence. Bev ran through a mental list of things to do. She’d already checked with the General. There’d been no visitors for Cassie, or further floral
tributes. Highest priority now was Lucie. Last night’s conviction had not lessened. She glanced at Ozzie, who was stifling a yawn. “How was the babysitting?”

“Apart from being up half the night, it was brilliant.” His eyes crinkled into a warm smile. “I’m now not only Number One Uncle but also the world’s greatest living
authority on Thomas the Tank Engine.”

“I’m well impressed,” she said. He was glowing with pride, you could hear it in the voice. She’d bet he was brilliant with kids. There weren’t many blokes
who’d show you that side of their character. She was trying to remember the last time someone had gone all gooey on her over a baby. She narrowed her eyes. Oh, shit.

“You all right, Sarge?” Oz’s face was creased in concern.

She raked her fingers through her hair. “I should have seen it before.”

“Seen what? What are you on about?”

She was still thinking it through. “How could I have been so blind?”

The chair tipped as she sprang to her feet. “Cover my back. I can’t make the briefing.”

“Where are you going?” Oz asked.

“To get some answers.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Bev leaned against the door jamb. “Just that every time I show my face round here, you’re on your way out. Thought you might have a little device that tells you when I’m
coming.”

Bev watched the emotions flicker across Annie Flinn’s face; her voice had none.

“Thought you were the cab.”

“Yes. I bet you did.” This time the woman’s departure was more than wishful thinking. Annie Flinn was wearing full slap and a half-decent coat. Bev had little interest in what
was on her back but a lot on what was in her hand. “What’s with the suitcase, Annie?”

“I’m getting away for a few days.”

Bev shook her head slowly. “No, you’re not. Not till you’ve answered a few questions.”

The woman tried closing the door but a size seven DM was in the way. Bev followed through with a firm hand on the peeling paintwork. They were so close she could smell lemon shampoo and see
where Annie had missed a bit with the make-up.

“I’ll give you a lift,” she offered. “When we’ve had a little chat.”

“I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Fine by me. I’ll do the talking.” She pushed the door further open. “After you.”

Annie shrugged her shoulders, trailed down the hall. The narrow passageway was just as gloomy but at least it wasn’t full of junk. Bev’s soles stuck on the grimy brown lino but a bit
of oil was preferable to another whack on the shin. “Where you off to, then, Annie?”

The woman dumped the suitcase on the kitchen table, then walked to the sink. Bev hated talking to people’s backs. Not that this one was saying anything. “Come on, Annie. Where are
you going?”

A tap dripped and the fridge hummed. There was a stale emptiness about the place: old smoke and ancient cooking smells. She tried a new topic. “Where’s Lucie?”

Annie’s hand shook as she filled a glass from the tap and lifted it to her mouth. Bev waited till she finished drinking, then waited some more. It eventually became clear that an answer
wasn’t imminent. The woman had her hands on the edge of the sink and was staring through the window. Bev took a deep breath. “Okay, then. Where’s lover boy?”

Not a murmur, not a movement. So that was the game. Keep your trap shut so you don’t fall into one. Bev would have preferred a slanging match; silence was infinitely harder to play with.
She let it hang for a while, then moved closer and laid a hand on Annie’s bony shoulder. “Where’s Lucie?”

Annie shook it off irritably, turned away.

“I know the truth, Annie.” Well, a bit of it.

The woman took a crumpled pack of Silk Cut from her pocket, lit one from a gas ring, then resumed her place by the window. Bev tightened her mouth; there was more to all the stonewalling than
just being arsey But Annie’s face had already unwittingly confirmed Bev’s suspicions. She’d seen it in the woman’s eyes; or rather she hadn’t. The likeness between
Annie and Lucie was missing. Maybe it was there in diluted form but it wasn’t the real thing. Not the mirror image that Bev had finally seen. Not the same dark blue eyes. Not the same wide
smile. Oz’s unbridled delight had prompted the memory of a girl. A girl who’d lied about her mother. And a girl who’d lied about her daughter.

“She’s Vicki’s, isn’t she?”

She didn’t need Annie’s confirmation. The picture had developed on the drive over. A prostitute getting pregnant? It was an occupational hazard. Look at Jo. Look at Dawn Lucas. Look
at the effing statistics.

Annie flicked ash into the sink. Bev had to fight the urge to spin her round, force her to talk. “It’s why she’s gone AWOL, isn’t it? She’ll do anything to protect
her baby. Where is she, Annie? Who’s she with?”

The woman blew a column of smoke rings, watched them drift upwards. Bev unclenched her fists, brought down the volume. “Charlie’s got her holed-up, hasn’t he? Has he got Lucie
as well? I can just about see how you’d stand by and abandon Vicki. Big girl now, isn’t she? Made her bed and all that. But a baby? What sort of a woman are you?”

Annie spun round, eyes glaring. “You know sod all. Why don’t you just fuck off and leave us alone?”

“I’ll leave when I have answers.”

“Me sister’s lookin’ after the bab. I’m not well. I need a break.”

Bev lifted her arms, played an imaginary violin.

“It’s your bloody fault,” Annie screamed. “Police harassment, that’s what this is. You’re turning me into a nervous wreck.”

“Where are you going?”

Annie closed her eyes gave a deep sigh but at least she answered. “Blackpool. Long weekend.” She doused the butt end, threw it in the direction of the bin. “Not that it’s
any of your business.”

There was a hammering at the front door. Bev could almost feel the woman’s relief.

“That’ll be the cab.”

“Send it away. I’ll take you to the station. When we’ve finished.”

She was back within seconds, which was time enough. The suitcase was no longer on the table. Most of its contents were sprawled across the floor. Annie froze, silhouetted in the doorframe. Bev
was kneeling, holding up baby clothes and a soft, pink blanket. “Clumsy cow, aren’t I?”

The woman lifted a hand to her gaunt features.

“Can’t say I think much of your holiday gear, love.”

Annie’s eyes were unnaturally bright. “You’ve no right…”

“Save it!” Bev rose to her feet. “Where were you taking it?”

“Oxfam.”

The callousness was like a red rag. “Why not try looking out for your own kid, Annie?”

“That’s exactly what I am doing. Now why don’t you just bugger off? I don’t have to tell you nothing.”

Short of thumbscrews or a rack, she was right. A copper’s instinct wasn’t evidence, and proof of any crime was nonexistent. Bev shook her head in disbelief. “How do you look at
yourself in the mirror, Annie?”

Just for a second, it looked as if the woman was about to crack. Bev was so focused she barely heard the mobile. She swore under her breath as Annie turned away, then snatched the phone to her
ear and barked a peremptory, “What?”

Byford was on the other end. Recognising the voice was no problem. The difficulty was taking in what he was saying. “I want you back. Now. We’ve got a confession. Both
murders.”

31

Highgate nick was buzzing with news of a result, the corridors full of high-fives and wide grins. Bev kept her head down, mind open, and made straight for Interview Three. A
plod with bulging hair and big biceps was hovering at the door.

“Can’t let you in, Sarge. The governor wants him to sweat.”

She nodded. “Shove over, Andy. I just want a peep.” Jack the Ripper could have been in there, it still wouldn’t convince her they had the right man.

Couldn’t be, could it? It wasn’t Charlie Hawes.

She had to stretch to reach the eye hole. A thin bloke in his forties was perched on the edge of a metal chair. His knees were clamped, fingers cradled in his lap. He looked like a backroom
bean-counter: a tad pompous but essentially anonymous. She took in the Burton’s suit, the matching shiny grey shoes, the heavy eyebrows, the thin lips and the flecks of grey in the slicked
black hair. She almost missed the tiny cross dangling from his left ear. Once spotted, she couldn’t take her eyes off it. It was like a silverfish, darting and quivering. There was either a
draught in the room or man at Burton’s had the wind up him.

“He been charged?” Bev’s nose was still on the door.

“Nah. He just walked in off the street. The governor was in with him earlier for an hour or so. Him and DI Powell. Didn’t say a dicky bird to me. I’m just here to keep an
eye.”

“Can’t see you having a problem.” She turned to face him. “If he’s the killer, I’m the Virgin Mary.”

Byford’s unwavering stare was adding to Bev’s unease. She was standing on the other side of his desk, shuffling her feet. She’d popped her head round the door, fully expecting
that by now, Prime Suspect would be Prime Plonker and Byford would be banging on about eliminating yet another moron from the inquiry. It happened all the time. Every big case, every witness
appeal, every
Crimewatch
reconstruction, the loonies came out like a rash and were generally let off with a slapped wrist. That was the usual scenario, only this time Byford had summoned
her, was using a different script. This time the story appeared to stand up. The man’s background was being checked and though the guv wasn’t cracking open the Moët, there was a
sparkle in his eyes. Bev’s only conviction was that they were in danger of being distracted by a futile diversion. She wanted nothing to slow the inquiry.