Working Girls (40 page)

Bev snorted. “He’s an arse. I can believe anything. Why did he kill her? Why not just rough her up?”

“He was after Charlie as well.”

Bev nearly choked. “What?”

“Bell hated Charlie almost as much as he hated Brand. He reckoned they were both buggering him about.”

She groaned at the awful pun.

“Yeah, okay. Bad choice.” Oz waved away a puff of smoke. “Fact is, Bell had been multi-skilling. He’d turned into Charlie’s regular blue-eyed bully-boy. It gave him
a fix on Charlie’s dealings: massage parlours, illicit videos, blackmail. Bell reckoned he was in line for promotion. Junior partner at least. But Hawes wasn’t coming to the
wicket.”

If Oz said anything about maidens over, she’d bop him.

“Bell killed Michelle to protect his source of hard-earned cash,” Oz said. “But he’d make sure Charlie went down for it. He had it all planned. He was biding his time,
waiting for the right moment. Shell’s argument in the street with Brand brought it to a head. Lil wasn’t the only witness. Bell saw it too. It was Shell’s death sentence and
– if Bell’s plans had panned out – Charlie’s life sentence.”

Bev nodded, mentally ticking Bell’s duff pointers. The scrunchy with Charlie’s hair. Michelle’s blood in Charlie’s motor. The wig to copy Charlie’s look, and
conceal a shaven scalp. Bell had been doing his worst to point the police in the wrong direction – and she had obligingly followed the signs.

She saw a few more then, not erected by Bell. A dodgy bike-chain soaking in Annie Flinn’s sink. Tiny particles of fibre contaminated with oil. Dark stains on Bell’s jeans. She shook
her head. Jack Crane hadn’t seen a jogger. He’d bumped into Steve Bell fleeing the scene of Michelle’s murder. Bell with long dark hair. Like Charlie.

From Bell’s point of view, she supposed it had a sick twisted logic. But why Louella? Where did a girl like Louella fit in? She asked Oz . There was a pause before he replied.

“It had nothing to do with her dad being a cop. She took a shortcut. Bell was hanging round the park. He needed another victim. He had evidence to plant. Heat to turn. Hawes to
burn.”

Bev closed her eyes; still saw Louella; saw all the girls.

Oz leaned back, folded his arms. “As for the rest of it, Bell’s buck-passing so fast you can’t see his hands move. He’s laying everything at Charlie’s door. The
attack on Cass. The death threats. Your postcard.”

“Regular Postman Pat.” Bev sniffed.

“And Freddie Florist. Hawes was behind all that, according to Bell.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

He looked at Bev. “Yeah, well, Hawes hasn’t opened his mouth yet.”

“What about the attack on Jules?”

Oz hesitated. Either he didn’t know or he didn’t want to tell.

“Come on, Oz. Give.”

“Bell’s admitted to it. He’d been following you. Saw you talking to her.”

She closed his eyes; saw another stick.

“It’s not down to you, Bev.” Oz reached out a hand but stopped just short of touching her.

“But why risk it?” Bev’s puzzlement made her voice tight. “Surely he’d have known it would destroy everything he’d done to frame Charlie. Hawes was in custody
at the time. By attacking her, Bell was letting the scumbag off the hook.”

Oz shook his head. “Ah, there’s the irony. Bell isn’t the sharpest knife in the box…”

She winced but didn’t interrupt.

“… He didn’t realise that we had enough to hold Charlie. He thought Hawes was back out on the streets. Said he needed one last push to convince us that Charlie was the
killer.”

Bev groaned as the implication sank in. “Convince
me,
you mean!”

Oz tried to smile reassuringly, but she could see the pain.

“If you ask me, it’s all bollocks,” he insisted. “I think he’d lost it by then. Bell just didn’t care. He was getting off on it. Couldn’t control
himself. Listening to him in there, Sarge, he was enjoying it all. Bragging, showing off, know what I mean?”

“No. Thank God.” She shivered at the thought. “Did he say anything about the night outside my place?”

“Oh, that was a co-production. Charlie’s idea, but Bell was only too willing to oblige. He was on a nice little earner for that. £500. You were lucky.”

She widened her eyes. “I was?”

“Yeah. Charlie only wanted you scared. If Bell’d taken you out Charlie would have broken his neck.”

“Shame he didn– ” She saw Oz’s face. “Yeah. Right. Okay.”

“Anyway, when Bell’s not buck-passing, he’s snivelling. Blaming everyone but himself. To hear him talk, he’s as much a victim as the girls.”

“Go on.”

“You name it, he’s had it: abuse, violence, neglect, bullying.”

“Suing everyone in sight, is he?”

“No.” Oz said. “Just you. Joke,” he added, a tad tardily to Bev’s way of thinking.

“Frankly, my dear,” she drawled through a yawn. “I don’t give a damn.”

Oz rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me. ‘Tomorrow is another day’.”

Another day. She smiled. She liked the sound of that.

37

The Fighting Cocks was throbbing, for want of a better verb. Big Val swayed like a tipsy queen, her lilac Bet Lynch a tower of quivering candy-floss. Bev smiled ruefully. The
big woman had more hair-pieces than Madame Tussaud’s; shame they hadn’t rung a bell earlier. Bell, it turned out, had quite a collection himself. They’d found the dreadlocks
behind a false wall at Annie Flinn’s place. Bev tried not to think about it; this was supposed to be a party.

Cassie was missing the fun, and Jules’s hand-me-down grapes weren’t much compensation. Still, Jules and the rest of the girls were out in force, come to that, so was the force. Even
the guv had said he’d try to pop in for a swift half. To Bev’s way of thinking, if he didn’t show he still hadn’t forgiven her for nearly getting herself killed.

Frankie hadn’t. She’d gone apeshit. Looking at her now, it was hard to believe such profanities had passed such lips. She was on the floor, sheathed in slinky black, belting out
Search For The Hero.

Bev’s mouth twitched. Val was already exploring. Her fingers were tracing lines along Ozzie’s thigh. Politely, he kept removing them but back they’d creep. Bit like Bev’s
thoughts. She shoved them aside and laughed perhaps a touch too loudly.

She glanced round the table. It wasn’t exactly tarts and vicars, but who needed dog collars at a knees-up? She downed the rest of her Grouse.

“Get you another, Sarge?”

It was more plea than request. She looked at Ozzie, spotted Val’s latest digital foray, winked and said ambiguously: “I’ll give you a hand.”

It was a parting-of-the-waves job to get to the bar. Once there, Ozzie propped it up and looked back appreciatively. “Your mate, Frankie. She’s got a cracking voice.”

Bev nodded. “Crystal. Twenty paces.”

He cocked his head in the direction of their table. “What about the Spice Girls? Same again?”

She glanced over. Jules was regaling Patty and Smithy with a blow-by-blow account of her big scene in the park, heavily bandaged hands adding weight to the drama. Jo and Chloë were taking
the piss, aping every move.

She nodded, smiling. “And Oz,” she added mischievously, “don’t forget Val’s pork scratchings.”

He swallowed hard, wiped his top lip with a paisley handkerchief. “Shame Vince isn’t here. Get on like a house on fire, him and Val.”

“Hot, isn’t she?” Bev murmured.

He shoved a couple of drinks across the bar. It was the only answer she was getting.

“Cheers, Oz.” Val relieved him of the tray, then patted the bench at her side. “Been keeping it warm for you, chuck.”

Bev grinned. Last time she’d seen him so flushed was at Marlene’s place. Mind, the lights had gone out at Marlene’s. They’d been pulling plugs all over the city. All
those massage parlours and covert film studios. All part of Charlie Hawes’s 21st Century Fucks. They’d seized enough movies to keep Blockbusters going for years; not that Blockbusters
would be in the market for them. Charlie had other clients, of course. Customers he had by the short and curlies. Big time. Talk about a money spinner. Come into my parlour.

“Penny for them, Bev?” She turned to see whose hand was on her shoulder. The woman looked even more stunning without the white coat.

“Believe me, doc, you don’t want to know.” She glanced round, motioned to a chair. “Grab a pew. Glad you could make it.”

“How you doing?” It was more than small talk. The woman’s gaze was on Bev’s neck, and it wasn’t admiring the scarf.

Bev flapped a dismissive hand, tried not to flinch. “Flesh wound, mate. Just a little prick.”

Val had obviously caught the tail end. “Had a few of them in my time, kid.”

Doctor Thorne drew up a seat and plonked a bottle of Bolly on the table. “That’s for later.”

The wild applause was a bit OTT, then Bev realised Frankie had finished the song. The whistles and catcalls were for the opening bars of
Money’s Too Tight To Mention.

Jules drawled, “Tell me about it.”

“Glad to see you’re feeling yourself,” Bev said.

“All I will be feeling with this lot.” The beer-stained bandages looked worse for wear. Bev reckoned the girl was secretly proud of them.

“Where’s your boss, then?” The doc’s question was casually posed but it didn’t fool Bev. She’d love to see him walk through the door herself.

“The night is young.” She smiled to hide a sadness that wasn’t just down to Byford’s absence. Shell and Louella would never be coming back, and there was another missing
face. Vicki was still refusing all Bev’s calls. She mouthed a toast to absent friends and drained her glass, made a mental note to switch to mineral water. When it boiled down to it,
Vick’s attitude was the same as Val’s. “You’re a great bird, Bev, but you’re still a cop.”

It partly explained why Val hadn’t played straight. She’d been a damn sight more scared of Charlie than she had of the Bill. She’d lied through her bridgework for Hawes: the
death threats; the Brighton line; Vicki’s baby. Christ, she’d even minded the kid one night. Charlie might be banged up, but Bev still hadn’t persuaded the big woman to give
evidence against him. Mind, she was working on it.

“Cheer up, chuck. It might never happen.”

Bev lifted her glance from the bottom of her glass. What if it already had?

“My round, I think.” The doc was on her feet. “Bev?”

“Large Grouse. Cheers.” The mental abstinence note was lost in a stack of others. Taking work home was one thing, bringing it here was something else. Again she tried switching off
but it was still ticking over.

She glanced at her watch. 10.20. The guv was cutting it fine. He’d come down a notch during the day, from seething to steaming. He’d let her sit in on a couple of interviews, and
take a look at the tapes. Talk about frightening the horses. She could see she’d been well out of order, going off on her own. On the other hand, the buried treasure equalled a closing case.
Make that cases. It would be months before they got to court and God knew how many worms would crawl out of the woodwork before then. Ferguson the Confessor had crept back to his hole. His fifteen
minutes of fame had been forced on him. Charlie had propelled him into the spotlight with a lethal combination of threats and promises. Hawes had been playing for time. Ferguson would get done for
wasting it.

As for Powell, he had a little of it on his hands. The DI had been sent home, pending an internal inquiry. Word was, that while interviewing Ferguson he’d mentioned the tenners in Michelle
Lucas’s shoe. Short of divine inspiration, it was just about the only explanation for Ferguson knowing. Powell denied it, of course. Bev didn’t know what to think. The man was a
plonker, but she didn’t have him down as a bent plonker. It was possible – however unprofessional – that he’d let it slip accidentally. She glanced at Oz, recalled the night
in her place and Henry Brand’s tape in her player. Anyone could make a mistake.

Brand certainly had. They were still working on the charges he’d face. Enid Brand’s overdose was one they might have to drop. Brand still insisted it was self-inflicted. Bev had
doubts. Fact was, the woman was worth more dead than alive. A tempting prospect for a man with a faulty cashflow.

It all looked puny compared with Bell’s charge account. Bev wrapped the scarf gently round her neck and resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. Ridiculous. The sleaze ball was behind
bars. Mind, he’d been on her back long enough. It was Bell who’d been in New Street that day. She hated to think how he long he’d been trailing her. Paid off for him though. Not
only had she led him to the spoils, she’d even dug the bloody things up for him. Still. Bell would be going down: two counts of murder and the attempted murder of a police officer.

“’allo, ’allo, ’allo. Evenin’ all!” Vince Hanlon’s bulk was blocking the light. “Room for a little ’un?” he asked.

“Brought one wiv yer?” Jules countered.

“Sit here, Sarge,” Ozzie offered with alacrity. “I’ll give the doc a hand.”

Bev grinned as she caught what sounded like “Hello, big boy” from Val. She glanced round. She’d never seen the place so full. Frankie was on good form.

“You givin’ up the day job then, Bev?” The question was from Jules, but all the girls were smirking.

“Be a shame,” said Patty. “Now we’ve shown you the string.”

“Ropes, Patty, ropes,” they chorused.

“Have to ask the boss ’bout that,” Bev said.

“That’d be a first.”

She glanced up; Byford was at her shoulder.

“Ask the boss about what?”

Bev jumped to her feet. “Guv. Sit down. What you having?”

“It’s on its way.” He nodded as Ozzie and the doc made their way back with a couple of trays.

“Not sure you’d make it,” Bev said.

“Press got wind of the story. I’ve been doing interviews.”

“You gonna be on the telly?” asked Jo.

“Maybe.” He smiled, then looked at Bev. “Makes a change from the rack.”

“Cheers.” She lifted her glass. The Grouse was working its magic. She relaxed for the first time in ages; sat back, watched her mates, listened to the music. Frankie finished with
Holding Back The Years.
The song always had the same effect on Bev.