Working Girls (5 page)

The words came between shuddering breaths and pitiful sobs. Bev held her tightly, waiting until she was calmer.

“That’s what we have to find out, Vicki. Then we can nick the bastard who did it. Get him behind bars where he belongs. But we’re going to need your help.”

Bev held her breath. It could go either way. Asking a girl to grass on a pimp was tantamount to putting her neck on the block. Bev counted silently to ten, then twenty. She hit twenty-nine
before Vicki pulled away. Bev saw the fear in the girl’s eyes, and she saw the grief, and she saw something else: fury.

“You’ve got it.” Vicki brushed away a tear with the heel of her hand. “And then you can throw away the fucking key.”

“Call for you, guv. Some git with a shoulder on his chip.”

DC Darren Newman? Sounding tetchy? Rare as a clockwork CD was that. Byford snatched up his extension, wondering who’d managed to wind up the famously phlegmatic Dazza.
“Superintendent Byford.”

“Listen up. And listen good. You’ve had enough warnings.”

Byford ran a finger along his eyebrow. He didn’t know the voice but the drift was all too familiar. “Who is this?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. Just hear this.” That wouldn’t be difficult. A megaphone was quieter, even without the loud Birmingham accent. “The tarts. In Thread
Street. They’ve got to go. We’ve had enough. And if you lot don’t do something, we will.”

“I don’t think that would be advisable, Mr..?”

“We don’t want advice. We want action. We’ve been asking long enough. You’d soon do something if you lived round here. Cars crawling, engines revving, doors slamming; all
hours of the day and night. You wouldn’t like it if your wife was insulted every time she went to the shops. Decent women can’t step outside their own door. Kids are coming home from
school with used condoms. Slags are wrapped round every lamp-post. I’m telling you, copper. It’s got to stop.”

Byford glanced at a note Dazza had just put in front of him; the caller must have given young Newman an ear-bashing as well. He mouthed an ‘okay’ and continued, “Tell me,
Mr… are you speaking on behalf of some sort of organization?”

Dazza had simply written the word: CUTS? It rang an immediate bell with Byford. It was the group Bev had mentioned. Now he came to think of it, there’d been a few stories in the local rag.
According to the
Star,
Clean Up The Streets was cutting-edge community action. Forget Neighbourhood Watch – this was full-scale surveillance.

The group had first hit the front page just before Christmas. It was mainly composed of dissenters from the residents’ association, plus a few die-hard rent-a-gobs and a handful of bored
youths with nothing better to do. The
Star
had carried an interview with the campaign co-ordinator and, later, covered a protest rally in the park. The uniforms had been keeping tabs. The
verdict, after a couple of months, ran along the lines of mouth and trousers, bark and bite. Perhaps, Byford thought, it had cut teeth.

“We want our streets back, Mr Superintendent. And we’ll be out in force every night until we get them.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise.” He paused. “They’re vermin, spreading filth and disease. They need putting down. The sooner the better.”

Byford relaxed his fist before he damaged his circulation. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Michelle’s bruised and bloody body. It was fortunate that Big Mouth was on the end of a
phone. Fortuitous or foresighted? Bad timing or excellent?

Byford wished he could see the creep’s face. Could the man already know what he was about to tell him?

“You’ll be seeing a good deal of police activity over the next few days.”

“Oh yeah?” The voice was giving nothing away.

“There was an incident in the park this morning.”

Byford listened for a pause; tried not to read too much into it.

“Good. Best news I’ve had all week. Told you didn’t I? Get rid of all the little scrubbers. One down – one less to go.”

Byford was alert to every nuance in the man’s voice. Was it too casual? Too forced? It was certainly too quiet; the Superintendent was listening to the pips. Byford put the phone down deep
in thought. Mouthie had a lot to answer for. First: how did he know there’d been a murder? And second: how did he know the victim was a prostitute?

The throwaway line was a Matt Snow special: heavily baited.

Byford raised his eyes to the ceiling and held out an imaginary piece of string. The gesture was wilfully misinterpreted as Snow played to the press gallery. “Obviously not, lads. Must be
the one that got away.”

A few reporters sniggered. The quip wasn’t one of Snow’s best but as the Crime Correspondent of the
Evening Star,
he was the biggest fish in this particular pool.

Byford looked round the room, acutely aware of the poor turnout. None of the nationals had shown and network TV hadn’t sent. He hoped they’d take pictures from regional crews and
that stringers would file to the Sundays. It was five hours since Michelle’s body had been found and none of his officers had come up with a lead.

He’d called the news conference reluctantly – for once courting the media exposure that he more often shunned. He was struck by the irony. Any other time and they’d be over him
like a rash, but now? It was Saturday, early afternoon and he was up against weekend cover, reduced output, shorter bulletins. The
Star
had the biggest circulation here; he’d have to
try to keep his cool with Mr Snow.

“Can’t see anything remotely amusing in the death of a young girl, Matt.”

The reporter shrugged as though the point was debatable.

Byford conferred with a stern-faced press officer seated to his right, then turned back to the half dozen hacks who had made the effort.

“Bernie Flowers here has a photo of the girl. He’s got copies for all of you. Grab one on your way out and go as big as you can. It’s a couple of years old but it’s the
best we can do.”

Not true, of course, but he baulked at releasing pictures taken after death. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The photo he was looking at now had been supplied by Elizabeth Sharpe.
Michelle was in school uniform: well scrubbed face, cheeky grin and bright eyes. Words like promise, and waste, innocence and evil came to Byford’s mind. Those he spoke were more mundane.

“It’s vital we trace anyone who saw Michelle after six on Friday evening.”

Bev had established the cut-off point. She was still interviewing Vicki Flinn but had already passed on the information that the two girls had spent most of Friday together. They’d parted
just after six with Michelle saying she was off to put in a few hours. It was the last known sighting.

“What was she doing in the park?”

Byford had a feeling that Matt Snow already had an idea. “That’s one thing we’ve yet to establish.”

“With anyone, was she?”

No one was fooled by Matt’s indifferent delivery. The reporter was well aware of the anti-vice campaign: he’d devoted more than enough column inches to CUTS.

Byford adopted a similar tone. “Don’t know yet.”

Snow brushed the fringe out of his eyes. He was small and wiry, had a wardrobe full of cheap brown suits. He put Byford in mind of a hyperactive shih tzu.

“Assaulted, was she?”

“We’re waiting on the post mortem.”

“Got a motive?”

“Not yet.”

“Found the knife?”

“Nice one, Matt.” The cause of death hadn’t been revealed.

Snow winked. “Worth a try.”

Byford’s studied silence indicated the attempt’s failure. The reporter held out his hands, body language which Byford read as, “Give us a break, man, I’m only doing my
job.” He didn’t much care for Snow’s verbal version, conveyed with an affected matiness neither man had ever felt.

“Aw, come on, Mr B. We ain’t gonna win any awards with this little lot: girl dead; witnesses sought. Not much to go on, is it?”

Byford shook his head. “I’m staggered that even you, Mr Snow, regard a brutal murder as a mere career move.”

“Brutal?” The animation was unmistakable. “Can I quote you on that?”

Byford pursed his lips. “Quote me on that, and I’ll bloody kill you.”

The hacks laughed. Bernie cracked his face. Even Byford had to stifle the ghost of a smile, despite the fact that, just for a second or two, he’d meant every word.

5

SCHOOLGIRL HOOKER
SLAIN IN PARK

“Slain?” Cassie Swain’s vocabulary was as slender as her grasp of car maintenance. She pointed at the headline, repeating the mystery word. Her aggrieved tone implied suspicion
of a universal conspiracy aimed at highlighting her academic shortcomings. “What the frig’s that?”

“It’s old fashioned for dead, innit.”

The not entirely accurate enlightenment was handed down by Cyanide Lil who flogged fags and papers from a grimy kiosk on a corner of the High Street. Cassie stopped by most days for ten Embassy
and a packet of Polos. Still fully to master any of the three Rs, Cassie rarely bothered with the newspapers. But this evening’s late edition of the
Star
had attracted a second glance
and was about to receive her undivided attention.

Lil had a School Certificate mouldering away somewhere at home and was well-equipped to help Cassie with the finer points in smaller print. The intellectual high ground was not a position she
often occupied. Lil was making the most of it. She lit an untipped Players, screwed up her eyes against the smoke and cleared her throat.

Cassie was staring at the old woman’s greasy grey hair and the long deep lines on her nicotine-coloured face. Rumour had it, she’d seen off three husbands and not one through natural
causes.

“You lissnin’ or what?” Lil snapped.

“Sorry. I was miles away.”

“You’ll wish you were in a minnit.”

Cassie concentrated as Lil read Matt Snow’s deep-purple prose. Her face paled as her kohl-rimmed eyes widened. She seemed to Lil like a panda having a panic attack.

Shell Lucas done in, in the park. Cassie couldn’t believe it. Christ, she wished she’d never come back now. She’d been earning a few bob in Wolverhampton. An Away-Day the girls
called it. Have-It-Away-Day, Cass reckoned. She’d done a punter on the way there, three pulls on the patch and a blowie on the train back. Ninety quid, easy. More to the point, it had kept
her away from Charlie Hawes. Unlike Shell. Poor cow.

“Bloody hell, Lil.” Cassie was recalling Charlie’s fingers round his belt that morning. She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth.

Lil’s eyes narrowed as she took another drag. A column of ash fell across Michelle’s smiling face; she’d made the front page but only a single column, head and shoulders.

“If you know anything, girl – get yourself down the cop shop.”

Bile was burning the back of Cassie’s throat; she feared she might faint or throw up. “Me? Why the fuck should I know anythin’?”

“You and her were at Fair Oaks. I’ve seen the pair of you together often enough.”

Shit. Cassie hadn’t thought of that. She wasn’t going back tonight. The Bill’d be all over the place.

“I know nothin’, right?”

“It ain’t me you have to worry about, kid.”

“You what?”

“It’s the bobbies you’re going to have on your back.”

Cassie was wrestling with a couple of scenarios: answering questions from the police, then answering to Mad Charlie Hawes.

The call wasn’t even close.

Bev weighed the fragile rapport she’d gradually been forging with Vicki Flinn over the day, against the heavy-duty panic whenever their conversation touched on Michelle’s pimp. On
balance, Bev believed the girl: she’d said she hadn’t a clue where the man lived. It was a pisser but at least they had a name now; however unlikely. It had taken ages and there’d
been the inevitable crossed-lines and incredulity over the whole whores/Hawes biz, but Vicki was adamant it was for real. Bev gave her the benefit of the doubt on the basis that only a dummy would
make up the dubious moniker ‘Hawes’ for a pimp. And whatever else Vicki Flinn might be, Bev was pretty sure the girl was no air-head.

The name had been run through the usual checks and come out clean. Still, it was a start, and more than Bev had ever managed when she was with the vice squad. The two most crucial lessons
she’d learned then were: 99.9 per cent of women on the game are run by pimps and, all 100 per cent are more afraid of a pimp than the police and punters put together.

Vicki was that rare commodity: a solo player. She was still shit-scared.

“I’ve never known where Mad Charlie’s house is, see. No one does. Except the girls he s groomin’.”

Grooming. Bev shook her head. An improved appearance was the last thing a girl with a pimp was likely to get. “How many’s he got?”

Vicki shrugged. “Dunno. He ain’t exactly in Yellow Pages.”

Bev speared a puny grey prawn covered in pink gunge. They were in the canteen again. They’d spent the last six hours either talking in interview three or sampling the carbohydrate kicks on
the sixth floor. Bev had hidden a smile as Vicki licked her lips and headed for the toad in the hole. A few square meals was a small price to pay for the wealth of information the girl was coming
out with.

Bev had passed on everything relevant as soon as it emerged: confirmation of Michelle’s background and information on her recent history. Byford was well-pleased but Bev was still working
on the big one: the whereabouts of Charlie Hawes. “So you’ve no idea where this bloke’s place is?”

Vicki shook her head.

Bev watched as she dunked a sausage in a lake of brown sauce.

“Where you staying tonight, Vick?”

The fork stilled for just a second. “Dunno. Don’t fancy the squat somehow. Not yet anyway.”

Neither would Bev. “Friend with a floor?”

She screwed her nose. “Nah. Might see if me ma’ll let me kip down for a bit.”

“Your ma?” Bev’s jaw hit the lino. “You told me your ma was dead.”

“Yeah. Well.” At least she had the grace to look sheepish. “I didn’t know you then, Bevvie.”