Working Girls (31 page)

Bev recalled the grimy tenners stashed in Michelle’s shoe: definitely nothing good about that night. “Don’t you ever get scared?”

“Don’t you ever shut up?”

She lifted her hands. “I’m curious, that’s all.”

Neither spoke for a while. Jules perked up when a Range Rover turned into the road but it cruised past. Bev noted the number anyway. A scruffy Jack Russell cross trotted along the pavement and
christened the nearest lamp post before disappearing through the park railings. “Busy here, isn’t it?” she mused.

“What you expect after the demos? Bloody do-gooders.” Jules sniffed. “Ain’t done me no naffin’ good.”

The protests had been suspended till the weekend but it looked as if the punters had been scared off anyway. So had Patty and co. Apart from Big Val, who was doing a bit of business, Jules was
the only girl on the street.

“That geezer who picked up Val? Regular, is he?”

Jules nodded. “Yeah. Calls himself Sonny. He rings her up so’s she knows to wear her Cher gear. She has to stand by that gatepost in her fuck-me shoes and a couple a bin liners:
white.”

Bev frowned. Jules shrugged. Silence reigned.

“I was scared once.” There was something in the girl’s voice that made Bev turn. Take away the slap and the silly hair, and Jules was just a skinny kid; sixteen at most. She
should be at home watching the box, playing CDs or down the youth club having a giggle. “Not the first time.” Jules was staring straight ahead. “With the first one, I was so
pissed, he could have had two heads. He was all right as it happens. Hands me the cash and says, ‘You shouldn’t be doing this, love.’ Give me a bit extra, so I’d go
home.”

“And did you?”

“I did actually. Then I needed the readies for somethin’ else. Carn even remember what, now.”

“Couldn’t you have asked your mum?”

She threw her head back, laughed out loud. “You’re kiddin’, ain’t you? It was ’er idea in the first place.”

A tracksuited jogger ran down the pavement on the other side of the road. They watched till he turned the corner. “Mad or what?” Bev asked. It was so cold, frosted net curtains had
formed on a couple of parked cars.

“He’s harmless. Never gives you any grief. Not like most o’ the miserable sods round ’ere. Spit at you, some of ’em.” She jammed her hands in her coat
pockets. “I always think the geezer what cut me was mad. You know. Mental.”

“Yeah?”

“Only young, he was. Mind, I reckon they’re the worst. They get what they’re after then don’t want to put their hand in their pocket. Always get the money first, Bev.
Best tip I ever had.”

“Right.” She nodded sagely before remembering she was here to keep an eye on the girls not boost her bank balance.

“Yeah. This nutter had a blade. Cut me tits he did, then dumped me down some poxy country lane. Me own fault. Shouldn’t have got in the car. ’Nother tip: never get in a motor
with a strange john.”

Bev felt she should be making notes in case there were questions later.

The girl pulled a pack of Embassy from her pocket, lit one and took a deep drag. Bev was relieved not to have been offered.

“In them days, I never looked a punter in the face. You have to, though. You can always tell by the eyes. It’s true what they say. You get a sixth sense. And watch out for the good
lookin’ geezers. Cocky sods. Reckon they’re doin’ you a favour.” She stifled a giggle. “There’s one bloke so full of himself he reckons Patty ought to pay
’im. Says she owes ’im a fortune.”

“What about when you leave school?”

“What? You mean…” She put on a posh voice that didn’t quite fit. “When you gonna get a proper job?” She sniffed loudly. “Everyone asks that.”

“Okay. When are you?”

She jabbed the air with her cigarette. “Listen, darlin’. My sister, Mand. She’s eighteen. She works in an ’airdressers five days a week. Brings home fifty-five quid. I
make twice that in an hour – and I ain’t on me feet all day.”

The attraction was obvious: city streets paved with punters’ gold. The hidden costs seemed a high price for the easy money.

The girl missed nothing. “It’s all right for you, innit?” She took another drag, let the smoke drift down her nostrils. “Bet you’ve got A-levels comin’ out
your arse. Bet you’re a real daddy’s girl. And I bet your ma ain’t on the game.”

The thought of Emmy Morriss playing anything more strenuous than a game of Scrabble almost brought on a coughing fit. But the poor little poor girl act was bollocks. It was as unattractive as it
was unconvincing and needed knocking on the head. “Do me a favour, Jules. You’ll be telling me next you live in a cardboard box in the middle of the road.”

Jules tossed her head back with a furious “Fuck you.”

“Well, come on.” Bev was extricating the thermos. “Loads of kids have it tough; doesn’t mean they all turn tricks.”

Jules’s flush almost matched her hair colour and her eyes flashed as she stamped an ankle-booted foot. “Yeah, well. Let’s just say I… I…” She struggled to
find the right words, then flung them out defiantly. “Let’s just say I like it!” She raked her fingers through her hair. “And that’s another thing all you nosy cows
want to know: what’s the sex like? Well, I’ll tell you. The only diff between me havin’ a quick shag and you havin’ it off on a one-night stand is I get paid for
it.”

Bev said nothing: what could she say? She poured tea into the flask top, lifted it to her lips. She could have mentioned AIDS, unwanted kids, broken bones, but it was nothing the girl
hadn’t heard a million times before.

Jules took a final drag and flicked the cigarette over the road. “Birds like you’ll never understand.”

They both watched as the red end glowed then faded into the dark. Bev tried not to think of Shell’s young life snuffed out too soon. She sighed. “You’re selling yourself short,
love.”

“Oh yeah?” Jules grabbed the cup and gave a filthy laugh. “How do you know?”

Bev smiled, shook her head, then sprang back as Jules spat out the tea.

“What the ’ell’s this muck?”

“Earl Grey.”

“You forgot the soddin’ milk. It’s like gnat’s piss.”

“It’s not –” Bev got no further. She watched, open-mouthed, as Jules’s hand shot down her knickers. A hip flask had never been so aptly named. The girl took a slug,
wiped her mouth with her fingers. “Val give it me. Bit of Dutch courage.” She lifted it to her lips again, winked at Bev. Shame you’re on duty.”

Bev snatched it away. “Shame you’re under age.”

“What for?”

They burst out laughing.

“Glad someone’s happy in their work.” They turned at the sound of Val’s voice. She’d ditched the bin liners but still sported a Cher wig, and was tottering gingerly
towards them on a pair of red stilettoes that put new meaning into hell for leather. Bev looked down smugly; thank God pumps had made a comeback.

“Me soddin’ feet are killin’ me.” The big woman relieved Bev of the Scotch. “I wouldn’t care but I have to sing
I Got You Babe
these days before he can
get it up.”

Jules sniffed. “Tell him to sod off.”

“You’re jokin’.” Val fanned a fistful of notes. “I’m all right till the weekend now.”

“Did you get anything out of him?” Bev asked.

Val’s eyebrows met in the middle. “Oh! I see what you mean. Nah. He never had owt to do with Shell. He keeps away from the kids. Prefers his women with a few miles on the
clock.”

“Old bangers, you mean?” Jules asked, all innocence.

“Cheeky cow.”

Bev joined the laughter and tried to keep it going, even though she’d just spotted something that wasn’t funny. She looked again, screwing up her eyes. It could have been a trick of
the light; except there was no light. There was something, someone, in the park. She kept her voice casual; alerting Jules and Val would be tantamount to putting it on Tannoy. “I’m just
going to take a turn down the road. Stay together while I’m gone, right?”

“What’s up, Bev? Need a pee?” Jules grinned.

“Something like that.”

“Should’ve brought a bottle, chuck. You never get caught short, that way.”

“She’s got a flask, Val. Mind, I reckon it’s full already.”

Bev shoved the thermos back in her waistband and headed down the road. She’d recced the boundary earlier and as far as she could tell there was no gap. Soon as she was out of sight,
she’d be going over the top. And given the height of the railings and the length of her skirt that was exactly what she’d be doing. Needs must when the devil blah-de-blah.

It wasn’t the most elegant of sights: good job there was no one around. The landing was a tad more graceful. She stood and waited for a few seconds, listening; just listening. The muffled
hum of traffic from the High Street was a constant, but apart from her own breathing, that was about it. Her eyes were used to the gloom now, and she scanned her surroundings. She was heading for a
massive oak off to the left. It was her marker for whatever it was she’d seen. It had only been a blip on the edge of her vision, but it shouldn’t have been there. The park was in
near-darkness – and trees don’t move.

An owl hooted overhead and she jumped. The need for back-up flashed through her mind, but only amid a jumble of thoughts. Uppermost was a picture of herself, Charlie Hawes and a pair of cuffs.
She shook her head; stupid and not true. There was no point calling in a load of plods till she’d got a better handle on what was going on. Anyway, it was just as likely to be the
neighbourhood flasher or a saddo gawping at Jules and Val. What’s more, approaching from behind would give her the element of surprise. If it began to look iffy, she’d keep back,
maintain surveillance and summon the troops.

She was inching forward, senses on full alert, when she heard it. A rustle. Ground level. Not far. She gently eased the flask out. Another scurrying. Even closer. She pressed herself against a
tree: moss, slimy under her fingers. She strained her ears till she could hear her own pulse. It was there again. She widened her eyes. Shit a masonry block. It was a huge great rat. It was two
sodding rats.

The hiss she emitted was loud enough for the rodents to think catfood, but not so loud as to alarm the two-legged variety.

She moved on slowly, soundlessly. The oak was in spitting distance. She waited, watched, listened. There was no movement; no sound. Then she saw it. A card. Pinned to the tree like a mini wanted
poster. She held back, silently counted to sixty. She tightened her grasp on the flask, edged forward, looked closer. He must have been doing this when she’d glimpsed him from the street. She
didn’t need to take it down; it was easy to read. She didn’t recognise the handwriting and there was no name, but she’d have staked her life on knowing who it was from. She read
it again:
Wish you were here.
It was a postcard from Brighton.

Her heart hammered, palms damp despite the cold. She had to get back to the girls, but first she needed a minute to calm down. She took a deep breath, gave it thought. It was
Hawes. It had to be. The bastard had been watching her, goading her. There’d be no prints, nothing to nail him, but this was a follow-up to his crack that afternoon in Interview One. It was a
threat, and it wasn’t even veiled. She gritted her teeth; a habit she thought she’d lost. They’d had to let the shit go, of course. His statement checked out.

She looked round carefully. Without knowing why, she was certain he’d gone. Equally sure the girls were safe. She’d been the target tonight, and she’d walked straight into his
sights. It was a game of cat-and-mouse and she’d just played Jerry.

She glanced at the card again. She’d bag it later, maybe send a SOCO in the morning, but Hawes would be water-walking till hell froze over.

She sighed; best get back. Flask in knickers, she retraced her steps. The climb was easier this time round; she had a leg-up from a handy tree. As she rounded the bend, she spotted the
girls.

Sweet Jesus. They weren’t alone.

For a second, she thought it was Hawes, but this man was big; way too big. Oh, my God. Hawes had sent a heavy. She cursed her stupidity. She’d been duped by the side-show in the park. She
broke into a run; saw him lift his arm. What the —?

Hold on. Val was doing the same. Now Jules. Bev slowed, tried to catch her breath. It was a round of high-fives.

“There you are. Where you been?” Jules asked.

“You all right, chuck? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

The heavy breathing prevented more than a slim smile and a gasped, “Never better, Val.”

Now she was nearer, it was obvious the bloke wasn’t Charlie Hawes. Christ, he was black for one thing.

“That’s good.” Val handed her the hip flask anyway.

Bev took the booze without thinking. “Why’s that?”

“This gentleman here is asking for you.”

The flask halted halfway to her lips. Bev studied him a little closer. “Really? What can I do for you, Mr..?”

Val nudged Bev’s elbow. “It’s more a question of what you can do for him, Bev.”

The big woman’s wink was superfluous. Bev swigged deep. She just stopped herself stammering, “Come again?” opted instead for, “How d’you mean?”

The man’s broad smile would have lit a black hole, but he wasn’t so hot on the verbals.

Jules was. “He wants a shag,” she explained.

“Yeah, he clocked you just before you went walkies,” Val said. “He liked the look of your ass, so he hung on.”

Bev had another swig. “How nice.”

“’Ow much you charge, little lady?”

Little lady? She’d have had another drink but she was driving. She reckoned the aggro in the park had gone to her head ’cause she surely wasn’t thinking on her feet.
“Well, actually, Mr… er…”

“I’m a bit short on cash, right now. I was wonderin’ whether American Express..?”

The man was so incredibly polite, Bev almost agreed. Almost. She narrowed her eyes.

Jules had her head down and was clutching her sides. Val had her legs crossed in the fight to keep her face straight. The face lost. Bev watched as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Jules was
doubled up now. “I’m wettin’ me knickers here. And it’s your soddin’ fault.”