Working Girls (9 page)

Yet, he hadn’t touched her. Well of course he had. He’d shagged her all night but he hadn’t hurt her. He was good in the sack, but then she’d always known that. He
hadn’t said much so far. Didn’t need to. The knife on the bedside table spoke volumes.

He stood, stretched, looked down and smiled. Lovely teeth. Gorgeous face. Looked even better with long hair. No wonder he charged his own tarts.

She wished he’d loosen the belts though: the leather was cutting into her skin. Maybe she could get him to take her to the loo again. Bet he slipped something in that Coke. It was getting
dark; must be half-four, five-ish. Pissing down, she could hear it on the window.

“Now. What are we gonna do with you?”

Funny really; his voice was quite nice. Take the gag off me, dickhead.

“I’m gonna take this off in a minute. If you start anything, it goes back. Right?” She tried a nod but it hurt. He raised her head, started untying the knots.

The scarf had been Shell’s. Lifted it at Debenham’s. Then they’d wandered over to the smellies. Spraying stuff everywhere; having a right laugh. Stuck-up cows behind the
counter hadn’t liked that. Shell had taken a fancy to the Ralph Lauren. Smell was still there.

“You remind me of her, know that?”

She opened her mouth, didn’t know what to say.

“Not looks. Not that. Just something…” He turned away, clenching his fists. “Shit. I don’t know.”

What was his game? It was a bit late for the sorry card. She still didn’t know what to say. One word out of place and she’d be talking through gaps in her teeth. She darted a few
glances round the room. Didn’t stint himself. Not Charlie. Everything brand new. Leather sofas at one end. Thick cream carpet. Mirrors everywhere. Caught her looking.

“Having a good nose?” He turned. Christ. She wished he’d put something on. “Won’t do you any good. You’ll not be coming back.”

Shit. She was going the same way as Shell. “How d’you mean, Charlie?” He laughed. Must have been the tremor in her voice. Her knees’d be playing
My Way,
if he
hadn’t splayed her legs.

“I’m not happy, Victoria. You’ve been a very naughty girl. And what happens to naughty girls?”

She closed her eyes. Not that. Please. Not that. Last year, a girl had fleeced Charlie. She’d kept a few quid back; just the once. He said it was the same as putting her hand in the till.
She only had one hand now. Everyone said he’d taken a hacksaw to her.

She opened her eyes. He was just standing there, smiling. She watched as he sauntered over to a mirror on the far wall; slid it back to reveal a vast array of suits and shirts. He ran a finger
along a line of shoulder pads, stopped halfway along.

“Black for mourning isn’t it, Victoria?”

She shrugged.

“I didn’t hear you Victoria?”

“Yes, Charlie.” She’d say black was white, if that’s what he wanted. He hummed to himself as he dressed slowly, admiring himself in the mirror. She stiffened as he
wandered back, sat on the edge of the bed.

“Now, listen carefully, Victoria, while I tell you exactly what’s going to happen.”

“I’m sorry. Can you say that again?”

Byford had the phone in one hand and a bottle of Glenmorangie in the other. It was traditional. Sunday evening. Single malt. He’d stick at one tonight. Just in case. Tradition too for the
boys to ring. They were punctilious about that, especially since their mother’s death. Even now, he sometimes took out two glasses. He’d taken the call in the kitchen, expecting Richard
or Chris. Richard, probably. It was just after seven.

It was neither. “I said, it ill behoves one of your officers to behave in a manner more suited to that of a schoolchild.”

Byford poured. How the hell did the old dragon get hold of his number? Maybe he’d make it a double after all.

“Were you there, Mrs Sharpe? Did you witness the incident?” He could imagine the woman pursing her lips, tutting.

“No. I did not. But I have every faith in my staff, Superintendent. If Henry Brand says your Sergeant was making jokes and pulling faces, then she most certainly was.”

Byford was pulling a few of his own. He’d already heard Bev’s account of the Henry Brand interview. Okay, so she hadn’t mentioned any wisecracks or messing around but
she’d spelt out Michelle’s accusations of assault. She’d brought him up to speed just before the evening briefing. Of all the statements she or anyone else had taken that day, it
was the most interesting. And the most promising.

“As much as anything, Mr Brand made it quite clear that the timing was most inconvenient. Mrs Brand suffers with her nerves, you know. Surely it could have waited until tomorrow when
we’ll all be at school?”

Byford was still at the stage when every time he closed his eyes, he saw Michelle’s face. He was unmoved by considerations of convenience.

“I shall be making a point of seeing you both. I want to know, for instance, why you, madam, didn’t see fit to mention the allegations Michelle was making against Henry Brand in the
weeks before her murder. And why – in the light of those claims – a proper inquiry wasn’t held.”

He was waiting for another tirade but all he could hear was the sound of his fingers drumming on the table.

Eventually she spoke. Her voice was calm and had ice in it. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting nothing. I only found out about this a couple of hours ago.”

“There was nothing to find out.”

Byford ignored the remark. “I’ll see you first. And bring the notes I assume you made during your conversations with Michelle. After that, you’ll be able to send Henry Brand
in. I want to talk to him personally.”

He resisted the temptation to slam down the phone, replying in kind to her stiffly polite, “Good evening, Superintendent.”

He took a sip of Scotch, slowly running it over his teeth, under his tongue.

So Brand had been telling tales out of school. And Elizabeth Sharpe had come gunning. And he thought it was only kids who snitched.

The sitting room had a chill in the air despite Margaret’s warm reds and browns. He placed his glass on the mantelshelf. The coal was ersatz but the heat was real enough; so was the twinge
in his back when he straightened. He still missed her. Not surprising: empty house, early night.

He wondered what time Bev and the others would clock off. He could have joined them but Powell was more than capable. The curtains needed drawing. He strolled across, put hands to glass, peered
out and grimaced. He doubted anyone would be making waves on Thread Street, tonight. Plenty of puddles. It was still tipping down out there: big cats and Dobermans.

8

The fuzzy red lettering had run in the rain. The word TART, painted on placards three feet high, now looked more like an exhortation to break wind. The message had been strung
up on every lamp-post in Thread Street. If Bev hadn’t been dying for a pee, she’d have been in stitches.

Ozzie yawned, glanced at his watch. “What was it you said about a damp squib?”

“That, DC Khan, would be a megablast compared with this little lot.”

This little lot was seven pillars of the community listing over a glowing brazier at the top end of the road. Half a dozen others were parading around with hoisted banners proclaiming what had
read CUTS and TARTS but, after an hour’s relentless downpour, could get them arrested. They’d given up chanting when an elderly man at number 30 had thrown a bucket of something from an
upstairs window. Ronnie Leigh’s threat of Armageddon wasn’t holding up.

“How much longer we giving it?” Ozzie asked.

“Chucking out time, Powell said.” It was just after nine.

“Good of him.”

She laughed, started the engine. “We’ll do another turn.”

Most of the uniforms had already been stood down. A pair were still in position at either end of the street, a couple of others were stationed near the school and patrol cars were in easy call.
Bev wouldn’t like to be in Ronnie’s counterfeit Nikes when Byford nicked him.

“Should have seen it coming, when you think about it.” She flicked the wipers on, checked the mirror and pulled out.

“How d’you mean?”

“The girls aren’t stupid. Why come out on a night like this? Specially with that for a welcoming committee.” She flashed them a bright smile as she sailed past.

The brazier bunch looked glum but determined. As far as she could tell there was only one woman; they’d exchanged a few words earlier. The rest she didn’t know from Adam: a couple of
anoraks in their twenties; an elderly bloke with either a dog collar or a white polo and three middle aged men with sodden shalwars clinging to skinny calves, sharing an umbrella covered in huge
sunflowers.

The woman had a plastic carrier from KwikSave over her blue rinse. Bev had every confidence it was a cheap means of protection rather than a measure of desperation. Indeed Blue Rinse gave every
indication of relishing every moment. She was wielding a clipboard, conscientiously taking down every car number in sight. Bev had already urged the removal of one registration: an unmarked police
motor being driven by DI Powell.

She turned right into the High Street. Lil’s kiosk had been battened down for the night. Bev made a mental note to have a word with her. Not a lot escaped the old darling. She glanced
along the row of shops. The Taj Mahal was having a good night: windows steamed up, outer door open, eau de Balti drifting out. Further down, outside Lloyds, a woman was using the hole in the wall,
a friend keeping watch for mug-and-runs. A wino was sheltering in the offie doorway. A ghetto blaster on wheels whizzed past doing forty-five and God knows how many decibels.

“Ever regretted it?” she asked.

“What?”

“Not going in for something quiet. Y’know, regular hours. No nights. No weekends. Bosses who don’t bugger off for a swift half.”

“My old man wanted me in the family business.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s a taxidermist.”

She laughed, wished she was. She could put a bit of work his way. “Taxi driver more like.”

The lights were on red. She tapped fingers on the wheel. Far as she recalled, Khan senior had a burgeoning chain of small-ish shops; the sort that make Eight to Lates look indolent. Which
reminded her; she hadn’t been to Tesco. Again. Ho-hum. The lights changed and she turned right into Hogarth Road, running parallel now with Thread Street. The houses were big; redbrick,
mostly bedsits, the odd sign advertising acupuncture, chiropractic and the like. It was quieter here. Not much traffic. A couple of dogs taking out owners.

“Do you get fed up with it, Sarge?”

She was set to trot out some flip remark, but Ozzie’s voice had an edge she hadn’t heard him use before. She glanced over. He was peering through rain trails on his window.
“Sure. We deal with the crap. Treated like it too most of the time.” She sensed his eyes on her now. “I’m not gonna come out with a load of bollocks, Oz. The old
‘it’s a tough job but someone’s gotta do it’ line. It’s a bastard and you’ve really got to want to do it. You’ve got to wake up every day and want to get
out and do it more than anything else you can think of.”

“You do that?”

“Sure I do.” She smiled. “Sad git, aren’t I?”

“You’re not. But there’s no shortage.”

She paused, picking her words carefully. He wouldn’t be saying any of this if a) she was a bloke and b) Highgate’s hard men hadn’t been giving him a bad time. On the other
hand, if it was true what they say about heat and kitchens, the police canteen was a blast furnace.

“Look, Ozzie. You just have to get on with it. I do. All day. Every day. Don’t let them get to you.”

They were subtler now; had to be. Even so, that sticks-and-stones stuff was bullshit. She could imagine the names Ozzie had to contend with. A pretty boy with a law degree and a mother from
Lahore.

“Yeah. You’re right.”

So why did he sound as though she wasn’t?

A second later, it didn’t matter.

She was turning into Nelson Drive, another quiet, tree-lined road that would lead them back to Thread Street. The lamp-post halfway down on the left? There was something wrong. She narrowed her
eyes, cropping everything else from the picture.

“Holy Mother. What have they done?”

A rope, nylon cord, whatever, had been strung over the top of the metal. A girl, head lolling awkwardly across her chest, arms hanging limply at her sides, was gently swaying. Her skirt had been
hiked up, or was obscenely short. Long, stick-thin legs dangled, but even with four-inch platforms her feet were never going to reach the ground.

Val was slipping a foot into a fluffy pink mule. The shade clashed with the chiffon nightdress slipping off a well-rounded shoulder but in a room with a twenty-watt bulb
– what the hell? Banjo wouldn’t notice. And if he did, he wouldn’t care. What with the rain and a patch full of pillocks, she’d been in the market for an early night –
until Banjo phoned.

“Eh, Val. What’s going on? There’s more fuzz in Thread Street than on a pound of peaches.”

She’d laughed out loud, told him he could call round. More men had been in Big Val’s knickers than through her front door, but Banjo Hay was an exception. More of a mate really; they
always had a good laugh. She even closed her eyes during the biz. Not many punters you can afford to do that with. Shame in a way, cause Banjo was one of the few worth looking at.

She yawned, stretching both arms over her head. Best put your face on, girl. There was a well-worn tallboy against the wall. She’d picked it up for a fiver at Kev’s junk shop.
He’d chucked in a three-sided mirror as well. She peered in, pulled a face. Blimey. One was bad enough. After the full works and a dab of dodgy Chanel, she was ready for anything.

She pulled on a wrap and went downstairs to wait. Not even Banjo was allowed further than the front room. She looked round, fancied a joint, had to make do with a Marlboro. Banjo’d have
some wacky baccy. Should have asked him to bring a few cans as well; the girls had drunk the place dry. She shoved a few toy pigs to the wall and lay on the bed. The kids would be well pissed off
with the aggro in Thread Street; a bunch of do-gooders was no good for trade. She took a deep drag and closed her eyes. Maybe it was no bad thing. Least till the cops caught Shell’s
killer.