Working Girls (37 page)

“Good-looking sort of chap. Very dark. Very fit. Long hair. Had it tied back.”

Gotcha! “This man, Mr Crane, would you recognise him again?”

“Yes. I rather think I would.”

34

Charlie was lying back, hands behind his head, stirred and shortly to be shaken. Bev carried the image with her as she took the stairs, two at a time, to the governor’s
office, whistling
Who’s Sorry Now?
between her teeth.

For the moment, she could barely contain her excitement. She’d missed the briefing yet again but hell, so what? She’d got filling in of her own to do. She’d bring the guv up to
speed, get the go-ahead for an ID parade then send a car for Jack Crane. Should only take a couple of hours. By then, Mr Asbestos Hawes would be toast. She was so keen, she forgot to knock.

“Where the hell have you been?” He was half in, or out, of his coat.

“Sorry, guv, I didn’t want to pull you out of the briefing.”

“There wasn’t one.” Definitely in. “Something’s come up.”

She frowned. “Right.” Where was he going?’

“I want you with me.”

“Well, actually, guv, there’s a few points…”

He glanced at his watch. “You’ve got two minutes.”

What was his problem? “I’ve been to see this bloke, he was in Thread Street the night Michelle was killed and it looks like he can finger Charlie Hawes.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yeah. He’s a runner, see, and…”

She was babbling and Byford wasn’t really listening, he was collecting papers, putting them into a file. Her initial excitement was giving way to irritation. “So you see, we need an
ID parade. This bloke can get here any time. Thought I’d send a car just after lunch.”

“Not sure how useful that would be, Sergeant.”

“Christ, sir. The man’s painted a bloody portrait of Charlie Hawes. What more do you want?”

“The killer.”

“I’m sorry?” She wasn’t; she was seething.

“I don’t believe Charlie Hawes killed anyone.”

“You’re not still thinking Ferguson?”

“I know it’s not Ferguson.”

His certainty didn’t even register. “Thank God for that. Let’s concentrate on Charlie.”

“You’re not listening, are you?”

She was listening, just not believing.

He took car keys from his pocket. “Just for once, will you concentrate on something else? Forget Charlie Hawes.”

“Forget! How am I supp –?”

Byford was already opening the door. “Because Charlie Hawes is in custody, Sergeant. So, answer me this; how come another girl’s been knifed?”

A tip-off from the General: a teenage prostitute with throat wounds. That’s all they had. The drive to Casualty passed in a blur. Pictures of the girls were
kaleidoscoping in Bev’s head; next the image would be a fruit machine with the kids’ faces: Jules, Patty, Smithy, Vick. She glanced at the guv now and again but he didn’t like
talking and driving. By the time they arrived at the hospital, she could have done with a bed herself.

He held the door back. “You all right, Bev?”

She nodded. At least he’d dropped the Sergeant bit. The A & E Obergruppenführer was being arsey, but Bev spotted a familiar face heading their way. “Christ, doc, don’t
you ever go home? You do more hours than me.”

Doctor Thorne sighed. “Tell me about it.”

Bev introduced Byford, who’d already clocked the woman’s name badge and by the smile on his face a few other things as well.

“Superintendent?” The doctor arched an eyebrow. “You’ll be on your best behaviour, then, Bev?”

She inclined her head. “As ever.”

The doctor glanced at her watch. “You should be able to see her in a bit.”

“Who is it, doc?” Bev asked. “They didn’t say.”

She led them to a bench, stood while they sat. “She won’t give her name.”

“She’s conscious then?” Byford asked.

“Very much so. The attack happened last night. She got herself to a friend’s house and the friend brought her in.”

“This friend?” Bev asked. “A woman? Quite a bit older? Big hair?”

“That’s right. You know her?”

“I reckon.” So much for sisterly solidarity. Val could at least have given her a bell.

“Brought her here in a cab about an hour ago, said she had to get back. The girl’s lost a lot of blood but she’ll be okay. Her hands are in a state. She put up a hell of a
fight. Been giving us a hard time as well.”

That figures, thought Bev. “What’s she said about the attack?”

Dr Thorne sighed. “As little as possible. Tried to make out it was an accident.” She glanced from Bev to Byford and back. “She doesn’t want the police involved. But given
what’s happened…”

“Thanks,” Bev said. “Appreciate it. When can we see her?”

“Ain’t there no tasty docs round here?” The voice had lost little of its cheek. Bev located its source behind the screens of a cubicle, mouthed a silent prayer of thanks.
Gratitude, it appeared, was the last thing on the patient’s mind. “How come I get landed with an old slapper like you?”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll stitch that as well.”

Bev’s lips twitched. Couldn’t have put it better herself. No point mollycoddling a kid like Jules. That’s what she’d told herself last night, driving away from Thread
Street; but she’d been haunted by the memory of a pair of skinny legs in the driving mirror. She got to her feet, had to put out a hand to steady herself.

Dr Thorne turned all professional. “What is it, Bev? Are you okay?”

“Blood rush. I’ll be fine.” Relief rush more like, God knew what her stress levels had been up to on the way in, added to which she’d done a run and skipped
breakfast.

The doctor was clearly concerned. “You look tired. Take it easy. Yes?”

Bev gazed at the woman’s face: the eyes had dark circles under them, and not so much bags as a set of luggage. “I will if you will.”

She inclined her head. “Touché.”

“Okay if I pop my head round?” Bev asked.

“If you don’t mind bitemarks.”

Bev considered for a second. “Her bark’s worse.”

Byford stood, fastening his coat. “If you know this girl, it’s probably best I leave you to it, Bev.”

“Scared you off, has she, Superintendent?” Dr Thorne winked. Bev’s eyes widened. Byford just grinned.

“Shaking in my boots, Doctor Thorne.”

“Nasty,” she smiled. “I could probably give you something for that.”

Gooseberry or what? The woman was actually flirting!

“I may take you up on that.” The guv was at it now! “Something wrong, Sergeant?” Bev wiped whatever expression was on her face. “Good. I’ll be off then. Let
me know what’s happening.”

“Seems like a nice man.” The doctor watched as Byford saluted before disappearing round a corner. “Married, is he?”

“Yeah. Six kids. Wife’s an invalid.”

“You’re joking.”

“Had you going, though, didn’t I?”

She laughed. “Come on. I’ll see if she’s ready for a visit.”

“Ready or not, she’s getting one.”

Bev had to stop herself racing across the cubicle and giving the poor kid a cuddle. Frail and lonely on a massive trolley, both hands swathed in bandages, she looked like a boxer waiting for a
pair of gloves. Sixty-odd stitches across fingers and hands and superficial wounds on her neck; the medicos wanted to keep her in. They had a battle on their plate but despite all the fighting
talk, the sheet had more colour than the girl’s face and her dark eyes were brimming with tears.

Perching on the edge of the trolley, Bev said: “I’d have bought you some grapes. But they might have been sour.”

The girl turned her head as far as the dressing allowed. “Too clever for me, that.”

“Jules,” Bev asked softly, “why didn’t you phone me? Or get Val to put in a call? I thought we were getting on okay, you and me. I’d have brought you in, got it
sorted.”

“Sorted!” She glared. “You couldn’t sort post.” Bev’s own words were thrown back; Jules even did the voice. “‘Can’t say much at the mo,
love, but I reckon it’ll all be over soon.’ Over? I’ll say it was over. All effin’ over me.” She turned her head again. “Fat lot of good you were.”

Bev didn’t argue. “Tell me what happened, Jules.”

She was still staring at the wall. “I only wanted a packet of fags. I’d have had a lift in your poncey motor but I hadn’t got any dosh. Needed a punter. Just the one would have
done.”

Bev swallowed hard, closed her eyes. What a price for a pack of twenty. Health warning needed an update. “I’d have given you a few quid. You only had to ask.”

She turned her head back. “Yeah.”

This time Bev looked away, studied her nails. “I’m sorry, Jules.” Sorry you’re on the game, sorry your life’s shit, sorry I let you down.

“No worries.”

Bev counted them, ran out of fingers. And toes.

“The bloke who attacked you. Punter, was he?”

“Nah. Johnny Depp. Wants me in his next film.”

Bev clenched her fist. “I know you’re hurting. And I know you’re scared. And I know you don’t have a lot of time for me at the mo – ”

“Correction: no time, any moment.”

The barb stung worse than a slap in the face. Bev hit back. “Blame me if it makes you feel any better, kid. But it isn’t going to find the bastard who did this to you.”

She watched as Jules lifted a hand gingerly to her eyes and gently rubbed. The bandage came away with black streaks from her kohl. She kept her eyes down and her voice flat, picking and pulling
loose ends from the frayed edge. “Got took short, see. Desperate for a pee, so I go into the park. There I am squattin’, next thing there’s a blade at my throat. Thank God I
didn’t have no knickers on. I put me hands up like this,” Bev nodded, “then I shoot up and I catch his chin with me head. Reckon it saved me. He loses his footin’ so I kick
him in the balls and do a runner. Didn’t even hurt till I got to Val’s. Then it stung like shit.”

“You did good, Jules.”

“Yeah?”

“You bet,” she smiled. “This bloke. What’s he look like, then?”

She shrugged. “It was pitch black out there and he come from behind.” She was still fiddling with bits of thread. “Anyway, I was scared shitless.”

Disappointment vied with despair. “What about a voice? Did he say anything?”

“Not a word.”

“Had you been aware of anyone around? Anyone watching?”

“Come on, Bev, you were on the patch. It was turkey town on Christmas night.”

Bev nodded. But it wasn’t. Jules’s attacker had been there, hiding in the shadows.

Watching, waiting, biding his time. Had he seen Bev as well, seen her talking to Jules?

“You look knackered, kid. How about I let you get some shuteye?”

Jules looked up, the fear back. “You gonna be around?” She disguised it quickly with something more casual. “Case I remember somefin, like.”

“I’ve got a few things to…” She baulked at the word
sort.
“… see to, but I’ll do an Arnie.”

“You what?”

“I’ll be back.”

Jules’s face dropped.

“Don’t worry.” Bev made to pat her hand, thought better of it, ran a finger along her cheek. “No one’s going to get to you in here. Safer than a stainless steel
condom, this place.”

It could have been a smile, more likely a grimace. Bev tousled the girl’s hair. “I meant what I said. You did really well, kid.” Bev frowned: it matched the new expression on
the girl’s face. “What is it, Jules?”

“Hair.” She looked at Bev. “He must have had long hair.”

“You said you didn’t see him.”

“I didn’t. All I saw was the knife. But somethin’ brushed against the side of my face. Tickled a bit. Not that I was laughin’ at the time. Shittin’ meself, more
like.” She looked at Bev seeking confirmation. “It must have been, he had long hair? There was a smell an’ all. Could have been shampoo. Not too sure.”

Bev was almost afraid to ask. “Jules? The clothes you were wearing last night?”

“They’re at Val’s.” She lifted a hand to an O-shaped mouth. “I told her to get rid of them. The stink was makin’ me heave. Apart from the blood an
that,” she looked down at the covers, “I was sick as a dog.” Bev waited. “I was scared, Bev. Real scared.”

“You’re okay, now, kid.” She leaned across and kissed the girl’s forehead. “Get some zeds in. I’ll get someone round to Val’s place, see what’s
what.” She’d already got a little list for Ozzie; one more job wouldn’t hurt.

The girl lifted her hands. “Know what really pisses me off about this?”

Bev turned her mouth down. “You’ll never play the piano again?”

Jules rolled her eyes. “Daft sod.”

“Give us a clue.”

“Think about it.” Bev watched, bemused, as Jules made a cack-handed attempt at a bit of hand relief. “Tools of the trade, ain’t they? It’ll be ages before I’m
up to speed.”

There was no answer to that. Bev smiled, slowly shook her head. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Yeah.” Jules grinned. “And don’t forget the soddin’ grapes.”

The hospital caff had left Bev longing for a Greasy Spoon; greasy anything, in fact. She’d bolted down a bowl of All-Bran and prunes and come away more ravenous than
virtuous. Fast food to keep her going. The notion was amusing but she’d have preferred black pudding and baked beans. She’d been tucked away in a corner with the mobile clamped to her
ear for much of the meal, an increasingly tetchy Oz at the other end. She’d considered her few requests well reasonable until he’d asked if he should stick a broom up his backside and
give the floor a good going over at the same time. It was her absentminded agreement that had really rattled his cage. Still, he’d acceded. Had no choice. Not when she’d used the C-word
in every sentence. As in Constable.

Now she was sitting at Cassie’s bedside; had been for an hour or so. She’d swapped places for a while with Alison who was doing a stint with Jules. Bev was beginning to feel like the
lady with the lamp. She just wished it would shed a bit more light on the case. It was like Jules’s bandage: all loose ends and unravelling threads. It got her thinking cobwebs and Charlie
Hawes, a malevolent spider enticing unwary flies parlourwards. Except this spider was still banged up. It didn’t make sense.

She jumped a mile at a tap on her shoulder. “Not nodding off, are we, Sarge?”