17
As good nights’ sleep go, Bev’s had been a bummer. The 7am alarm ring was almost a relief. She dragged herself out of bed, drifted into the kitchen and went through tea and toast-making manoeuvres.
Her stomach’s movements were probably down to eating too late and drinking too much, but Ozzie’s news wasn’t helping. She felt sick just thinking about him ferreting around in Henry Brand’s house; couldn’t believe he’d actually lifted the tape. As for the guv’s reaction if he found out? She didn’t want to go there. Ozzie’s offer to do her a balti one night was nothing short of buttering-up. On which thought, she plumped for dry toast.
Six bites in she hiked a corner of the blind. The sky was gun-metal grey, again.
Shame. Might have gone for a run had it been perkier. She smiled. “Yeah. And frogs might play cricket.”
Fact was, since Frankie’s ankle sprain, she’d lost impetus. Pounding pavements, even dodging dog turds in the park, was tedious without her mate’s running commentary. Frankie was tall and dark; half-Italian and full of dolce vita. Bev hadn’t set eyes on her in a week, hadn’t even put in a call since Michelle’s murder. Mental note: ring Frankie. Mental note two: blitz Tesco. Mental note three: catch killer.
“Just like that!” The Tommy Cooper impersonation was not her best. She headed for the shower, wondered why she bothered with the radio when cascading water drowned every sound. Towelling between her toes, she realised why. There was a phone-in on Brum Beat’s breakfast show. She perched on the edge of the bath, concentrating. Jerry Springer was Jeremy Paxman compared with this twaddle. Birmingham’s very own Garth Savage was in full fight, supplementing a grating nasal whinge with an obligatory transatlantic twang.
“The oldest profession? Is it time for retirement? In the wake of the tragic killing of one young girl, this morning we probe prostitution. And I make no apologies. Night or day, women are openly selling sex on the streets of our fair city. Is it a private service or a public nuisance? Is it time for the red light district to get the red card?”
Who wrote this stuff? If it wasn’t so serious, she’d be laughing. She shook her head, moved to the radiator where knickers and bra were warming. Mr Savage was in danger of overheating, his delivery growing more demented.
“We thought long and hard before going ahead with this controversial debate but in the final analysis we came down on the side of public interest. Already people are taking to the streets in large numbers to air their side of the argument. CUTS campaigners… have they got a point? I want to know what you think.”
Bev thought he’d be looking at an incitement charge if he didn’t curb it.
“With me is one of the leaders of that campaign who, at this moment in time, would prefer to remain anonymous. We’ll call him Kenny. My name’s Garth Savage. We’re waiting for your call. On the line now we have Wayne.”
“’lo, Garth.” Troglodyte Man. Garth did his unctuous best to inject life.
“Wayne. What’s your take on this?”
“You what?”
“Never mind. What do you want to say, Wayne?”
“Them birds are great. If you’re short of readies, there’s one –”
“Thanks for the call, Wayne. Who do we have on line two?”
“My name’s Vera. Vera Woods. I’ve lived in Thread Street all my life. Born there, I was. It’s a disgrace. You can’t go out your own front door these days.”
“And what do you want done about it, Vera?”
“Castration.”
“What?”
“Castrate the buggers. I blame the men. Some of the tarts are nice girls. Pick me pension up for me they do, get me a bit of shopping in.”
“Thank you Vera. Kenny, if I can turn to you? What is the aim of the CUTS campaign?”
“Exactly what it says. We want to clean up our streets. Reclaim them for decent folk. We want respectable women to be able to go out without being hassled by kerb crawlers. We don’t want our kids coming across used condoms and dirty syringes on their way home from school…”
“Sounds like a tall order, Kenny. How are you going to achieve all this?”
“Peaceful protest, Garth. It’s time for ordinary people to stand up and be counted. As of now, we’re intensifying our presence on the streets. The silent majority has found its voice.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Predictable tripe.
“And let’s face it, Garth, if the women had the sense they were born with, they’d get out while they still could, wouldn’t they?”
“What do you mean by that, Kenny?”
Yes. What do you mean? Bev’s hand stilled, as she lifted brush to hair.
“One of the girls is dead. Seems to me, there’s a message in there somewhere.”
“Not sure what you’re saying, Kenny.”
“I’m not going to spell it out. I will say this though: we won’t rest until the streets are free of sex and vermin. We’re looking for a big turn out in Thread Street tonight. If any of your listeners want to…”
Bev was out of the room and on the phone before he’d finished the sentence.
“I’m getting a transcript, guv, but they won’t give me the bloke’s real name.” Bev was sitting on the stairs, phone glued to her ear. It was still red hot from the conversation before with a snooty bint purporting to be Garth Savage’s producer. Tamsin Winner, M A in stonewalling, had taken condescension to new heights.
Bev had nearly sunk to a slanging match but contented herself with a sotto voce: shit for brains and an audible “Thank you so much.”
She’d counted to ten and taken several deep breaths before ringing Byford. The guv was a Radio Four man and had listened in silence as she’d talked him through the phone-in and her subsequent attempts to reach ‘Kenny’.
“We should have sent someone round. Collared him on the way out of the studios.”
The criticism was unspoken but she heard it anyway, tried keeping her voice level.
“I thought of that. There was no point. He never set foot in the place. The producer says it’s normal practice. They always give the impression the main players are in the studio. The listeners like it. It’s good for figures. This joker was on the end of a line somewhere.”
“They’ll have a number, then?”
She’d already asked. “They claim he called them. And even if they had it, they wouldn’t give it out. Some crap about protecting sources.” She snorted. “Protecting arses, more like.”
He wasn’t amused. “Get a recording as well as the transcript. There might be something in the voice. See you at work.”
“Sir.” She was talking to the dialling tone. “And thank you too.”
Not a happy Byford this morning then. Perhaps she’d caught him mid-shave. She wasn’t sure why she’d called him at home anyway. Maybe it was a subconscious bid for Brownie points. Trying to earn a few credits in case the Ozzie-induced crap hit the air conditioning. “Yes, sir, you’ve got me bang to rights but I’m a fair cop really.”
She shook her head, rose to her feet. The Brand tape business was the first serious step out of line in her career. She didn’t intend taking any more.