Working Girls (8 page)

Bev held out ID. “I’m Detective Sergeant Morriss. This is DC Khan. We need to speak to you about Michelle Lucas.”

He glanced at the card then back to Oz. “This isn’t very convenient. Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’ll be on school premises from 7.30 onwards.” Ozzie didn’t
move a muscle. Bev waited till the unspoken message finally got through. When she had the man’s undivided attention, she made a point of looking down. He had the
Sunday Times
business
supplement in his left hand, the index finger keeping his place.

“Sorry it’s inconvenient, Mr Brand. I’m afraid it can’t wait at all, let alone another day.”

A sigh was followed by a resigned shake of the head. “You’d better come in.”

As they filed through, she stuck out her tongue. It was childish but what the hell? She glanced back at Ozzie with a conspiratorial grin. He was looking straight ahead – into a huge,
gilt-framed mirror on the far wall. She licked her lips a few times hoping to pass off the tongue business as a nervous habit. She looked round the hall: oak-panelling, stained-glass windows, a
couple of ancient settles. Judging by the smells there’d been serious housework going on and not far away serious coffee was on the go. It soon became clear they were to go no further. Brand
was dashing round closing doors. He came to a halt in front of Bev, arms folded, newspaper still in place. “My wife. She’s unwell. I don’t want her disturbed.”

Bev’s sympathy was in short supply. “What can you tell us about Michelle?”

“That you haven’t already learned? I doubt very much whether I can add anything at all.”

She took out a notebook, gave her pencil an ostentatious lick. “Go on then.”

“What?”

“Have a go.”

He took off his glasses, scratched his head. “Michelle Lucas was fifteen years old. An average student. Certainly not stupid. Had she shown more inclination, she might have achieved a GCSE
or two. I did not anticipate that she would be applying for Oxbridge.”

Supercilious git. “What did you anticipate, Mr Brand?”

“The question is meaningless. You should attempt to be more precise.”

“Go and stand in the corner, shall I?” She smiled, hoping for a latent sense of humour.

“Is that meant to be funny?”

She took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is this: from what you know of Michelle, what sort of girl was she? Did she have any problems, ever ask for advice? Is there anything
you can tell us about her or her friends, that might help us find who killed her?”

“There are at least four questions there. Do you have an order of preference?”

Bev tapped a foot: never a good sign. “I prefer interviewees to help.”

He sighed again. “Michelle Lucas was a typical by-product of a broken home and abusive parents.”

By-product? Sounded like industrial waste.

“She had no respect for authority, lacked any sort of discipline. She was an insolent and attention-seeking adolescent.”

Bev glanced at Ozzie. This went against all the reports back so far. Most people had drawn a picture of a pleasant girl, eager to please and seemingly undamaged by a less than promising early
childhood.

“Attention-seeking?”

“Short skirts, tight blouses, loud mouthed.”

“Typical teenager then?”

“She was a trouble-maker.” He was scratching his head again, obviously ill at ease.

“In what way?”

“She just was.” For a man who valued precision, the reply was woollier than a herd of sheep.

Bev made a note and looked up. “Was there trouble at school?”

“The girl’s dead. What’s the point..?”

“That is the point.”

She watched him weighing up what to say. “Look. You’ll probably find out sooner or later… There were allegations…

“Allegations?”

“Michelle Lucas made certain accusations against a number of members of staff.” He halted as if what he’d said was sufficient. The silence suggested otherwise. “It was
absolute nonsense of course. And I wasn’t the only one.”

“Michelle accused you?”

“As I’ve already made clear – she constantly sought attention. It was me, me, me all the time with Miss Lucas.”

“What was the nature of the allegations?”

“She claimed I tried to touch her.”

“And did you?”

He widened his eyes, sharpened his voice. “That is a highly offensive remark, young woman.”

“No more offensive than a schoolgirl being assaulted.”

“Are you suggesting..?”

“I’m suggesting nothing. What did the inquiry find?”

“What inquiry? There was no inquiry. There was nothing to inquire into unless you count the delusions of an hysterical teenager.”

“When were these allegations made?”

He waved a hand. “Sometime last month, I think. She went to the head. Mrs Sharpe.”

“And?”

“Elizabeth soon had the truth out of her. Cock and bull from start to finish. I only mention it to prove my point about Michelle’s propensity for the spotlight.”

Bev nodded. “And the others? You said you weren’t the only one she made accusations against.”

“She never mentioned names. Well, she couldn’t, could she?”

“She mentioned yours.”

He pursed thin lips. “Look. I’ve done my best to help. If there’s nothing else…” His body language was screaming at them to go. Bev considered: there was obviously
a lot more, but maybe not yet. She looked at Ozzie. He shook his head. She smiled. “That’s all. Mr Brand. For the moment.”

Ozzie was talking through a mouthful of tuna baguette. Bev was licking sugar off her fingers. Two cups of cappuccino were cooling on the dashboard. Esso’s finest and a parking space just
off the forecourt.

“Pompous git,” she said. “Why do jerks like Brand go in for teaching?”

He brushed a couple of crumbs on to the floor. “To buy a house like that for one thing.”

“Reckon?” She paused. “I wonder. I think we’ll have a closer look at Henry Brand. And not just the size of his wallet.”

“That stuff about Michelle?”

She nodded. “He was up-front but he had to be. Like he said…we were bound to find out. He thought he was being smart.”

Oz wiped his lips with a napkin from Bev’s doughnut. “I suppose it’s possible. She might have made up a story just to drop him in it.”

“Anything’s possible, Ozzie. It’s possible Mike Powell will buy a round of drinks in the club one night.”

He grinned. She liked working with this bloke, he laughed at her jokes. What’s more it meant she saw very little of Powell these days, in or out of the bar. She took a sip of coffee.
“I just don’t see why Brand was so keen to shitbag the girl. Speaking ill of the dead, and all that.”

She warmed her hands on the cup, swirled the liquid round, watching the patterns, thinking her thoughts. Why had he been such a bastard? He clearly hadn’t wanted them in the house. He
could barely look at Bev. And he hadn’t shown the slightest sign of sorrow or regret at the waste of Michelle Lucas’s young life. Then again – who had? Apart from the caretaker
who’d found Michelle’s body, the only tears Bev had seen shed were Vicki’s. The only decent lead had come from Vicki. The only promise of help, Vicki. Bev crumpled the empty cup
in the palm of her hand. And where the hell was Vicki Flinn now?

7

Across the city, the girls were gathering in Big Val’s place: end terrace, back street, front room. The weekend’s events had forced a camaraderie of sorts on women
who normally wouldn’t give each other the time of day. Out on the patch, they circled round like big cats staking territory. Now they were sitting round sharing six-packs, trying to look
cool. Except Val.

Val was the oldest, admitted to forty; the meet had been her idea. She’d put the word out: only the kids at this stage. Six had shown – just one face missing.

Big Val had moved down from Leeds in the late seventies. She’d worked the streets longer than the Royal Mail. She was pinning a mass of unruly red hair into a beehive. “I’ll
tell you something for nothing. If we don’t look out for each other, no bugger else will.”

She was perched on a bed shared with a herd of stuffed pigs. Any size, any shade; if it had trotters and a curly tail, she went for it. Apart from a lumpy bean-bag, there was nowhere else to
sit, so the girls were lying on the floor propped on an elbow or two. It was a wet Sunday, half past two, nothing else on.

Jo leaned across and took a cigarette from one of several packs lying open on an ash-grey carpet, the colour as much accident as design. The fifteen-year-old had given up but might as well have
been on twenty a day given the blue haze hovering overhead. She was nearly six feet in her wedgies. “Come on, Val. It’s not Ripper country, is it?”

“One kid dead. Another on life support. It’s not Disneyland either.”

A painfully thin girl called Jules took a swig from a can of Red Stripe. The purple in her hair matched a massive bruise on one of her arms. “If I’d wanted a row, I’d have
stayed at home.” The fingers clutching the can had more rings than a Samuel’s window. “What we gonna do about it? That’s what you got us round for, innit? Or are you just
trying to scare us shitless?”

Val was beginning to wonder. Maybe she’d over-reacted. The kids weren’t fazed. Shell’s murder hadn’t touched them, nor Cassie’s beating. Then again, they
hadn’t been on the game long; it was still a bit of a giggle. Apart from the odd swinging fist and flying fuck, they were virtually unmarked if not untouched. Not Val. There was an old scar
the width of her belly: and it sure wasn’t down to a dodgy appendix. She was lucky. Her best mate had lost an eye to the same crazy. She looked round, shook her head. These kids were more
scared of their pimps than the perverts. They still believed they’d make a fortune, buy a cottage in the country and live happily ever. Yeah. And frogs still turn into princes. Jesus H. The
pigs were the only things in the house she didn’t owe money on.

“I know!” A girl who looked about twelve shot a hand in the air.

Jo looked over, sniggered. “S’not fuckin’ school, Kylie.”

“You’re so funny, ain’t you?” Kylie’s mother had been a hooker. Only part-time. She went out when the gas or electricity came in. Known as Bill, she was, till she
keeled over one night in front of a bus. Dead drunk. Then just dead. “Anyway, listen.” Kylie was beaming, “We can work in pairs, can’t we? Go out together, like.”

Val sniffed; they’d tried that in Chapeltown. “Sure. Charge double then can’t you?”

“Y’know what I mean,” Kylie whinged.

“What happens when you’re doin’ the business, Kyle? Your mate gonna stand round hummin’
Strangers in the Night?”
Val countered.

“Keep an eye out, can’t she?”’

Val said nothing; it didn’t work like that.

“I reckon we should stick to our regulars. Better the dick y’know…” Marj was seriously large: dress size twenty; same as her age. She was also the best looking woman in
the room and had the most punters.

“Could be right,” Val agreed. “Least till we know the way the wind’s blowin’.”

“All right for you lot. Blokes only come to me once.” Patty was stoned out of her head so often, she barely recognised her own reflection.

“Wonder why?” asked Jo.

“Fuck off.”

“Cut it out.” Val slung a pig at Jo: day-glo pink with one eye missing. Jo caught it with one hand. “That’s a point. What’s the filth doin’ about it?
Where’s the bleedin’ Bill when you need ’em?”

“Had one at my place.”

The others looked round. Smithy had spoken her first words. They called her The Librarian. Always had her nose in a book. Even on the beat: had her own street lamp so she could read in the dark.
Should have had shares in Mills and Boon.

“Go on then.”

“What?” She was pushing huge red-framed glasses back into place.

“What they want? What’d they say?”

“Asked if I’d seen anythin’. Friday. When Shell bought it,” she sniffed. “Course I flippin’ hadn’t.”

“Tasty, were they?” Marj was licking glossy magenta lips; the shade looked great against her dark skin. “There’s a couple of crackers down at Highgate.”

“Sod off. There was only one. Some bird. Thought she was from the Social, first off.”

That rang a distant bell. “All in blue? Dark hair? Mouthie?” asked Val.

“Spot on.” Smithy yawned. She’d been up all night with Barbara Cartland. “Know her?”

Val nodded; the beehive sagged. “Bev Morriss. I know her a bit. She’s all right.”

“She wants to watch herself.” A girl with hair as short as it gets rose to her Doc Martens. The fuzz on her skull was like a dusting of icing sugar. The thick black eyebrows could
have been applied with a trowel. There was menace in the voice – unusual for Chloë.

“Why’s that, then?” Val prompted.

“Goin’ round askin’ stupid questions.”

“Her job, innit?”

“It’s her job to nick Shell’s killer. Not to go round getting’ up Charlie Hawes’s nostrils.”

Just hearing the guy’s name was enough. The girls sat up, listened, let Val do the talking.

“What you goin’ on about, Chloë?”

“They’re after Mad Charlie, ain’t they?”

Everyone knew Charlie’s way. He kept a lower profile than the invisible man. As far as cops were concerned, he didn’t exist, let alone have a name.

“How’d they get on to him?” This was bad news.

Chloë folded her arms, glared at Val. “Your pal Bev? She had a little helper durin’ her night on the town. Pointed her in all the right directions. Know what I mean?”

Val put a hand to her mouth. This was very bad news. “Cassie?”

“Don’t be stupid. She was gettin’ her face re-arranged.”

“Who then..?”

Chloë looked at each girl in turn, then back at Val.

“You tell me, ma. Who’s missin’?”

Vicki would have agreed. Was keen to agree. Would have gone out of her way to agree. Except she couldn’t move and couldn’t see: Charlie’s back was in the way. He was kneeling
on the bed, staring at the front of the
Star.
The Sunday papers were strewn all over the floor but Shell’s picture had only made the local rag. Charlie had been in the same position
for ages; she was wondering how much his tan had cost. Where’d he been to get an all-over job? And where the hell had he put her clothes? They weren’t within eyeshot and she had no way
of extending that. Couldn’t lift a finger, let alone her head.