18
Bev’s VDU looked like a promo drive for Post-its. She sat down, blew out her cheeks; it’d be quicker to work out who hadn’t left a message.
The Brum Beat recording and transcript were ready for collection; good. Security at the City General had lined up last night’s CCTV tape; great. Sumitra’s boss had okayed Bev having a shufti through the files; brill. Things were looking up. She despatched a rider, jotted DOMS on her desk pad, returned to the notes still littering the screen.
A nutter had responded to the witness appeal; apparently the Nelson Drive dummy was a Mrs Cherie Blair. The informant a Mr George Bush. It was filed in the bin; more missives peeled off. She made a sucking noise through her teeth as she scanned her screen. The loony call had clearly prompted further entries in Vince’s limerick competition. She’d forgotten about that, but if the feeble efforts in front of her were anything to go by she should walk it.
She despatched them in Bush’s direction and was still smiling when she took the last Post-it. The smile dropped. Dawn Lucas rang. Not urgent. Calling again.
Not urgent? Not urgent? Who the… No name, time, date, not even an initial. It had to have been taken by some bozo on nights. She glanced at her watch. Just after 8.30. The shift change was well past. The bin took the brunt of her fury.
She was on her hands and knees, retrieving litter, when Powell popped his head round the door.
“A humble curtsey’ll do, Morriss.”
“I’m not in the mood. Right?”
He leaned in the jamb, arms and ankles crossed. “Neither’s the governor. Wondered why you hadn’t graced us with your presence at the briefing.”
“Shit!”
“Precisely. Up to your neck.”
She rose to her feet, brushing specks off her skirt. “I’ll have a word.”
“He’s buggered off. Got a call from Henry Brand. Man’s ready to talk but only the boss is good enough. You weren’t around, so he grabbed Khan. Probably thinks the lad needs a lesson from an old pro.”
She curled her lip.
“By the way, Morriss, when are you making your début?”
It had always been an act. She could see that now. How else could she have opened her thighs to a load of wankers? It was a good little earner, of course. Cash in hand as well as cocks. But it wasn’t the real Vicki Flinn out there. It was obvious now she’d had time to think about it. She’d closed her eyes and sent a stand-in. No one had even come close.
’Course that was BC – Before Charlie. Under Charlie Hawes’s malevolent wing, she was out on her own, playing for more than a fistful of fivers. AD wasn’t something she dwelt on.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. If there’d been a carpet, her pacing would have worn a trail. She’d bunked off loads of times, in her head: gone bopping down Broad Street with the girls; had a drink or two in the Jug; polished off a few Big Macs. Had to do something or she’d crack.
She kept going back to the first time, the very first punter. Saw herself tottering out the front door in Annie’s huge heels; red strappy little numbers, they were. She got a leathering for that, later. A Friday, it was. Good Friday. Not last year, the year before. Just hit fifteen; same age as Shell. She’d needed a few bob for the flicks. It was a damn sight easier than a paper round. Anyway, Annie had turned more tricks than the Magic Circle – it was no big deal.
But it was.
Hanging round street corners, trying to look cool, when any minute she thought she’d throw up or shit herself. Locking eyes with some bloke, having a split second to work out whether he was straight or a sicko. Touching up his wallet before his dick, but feeling nothing.
Easier said than done.
She’d soaked for hours, thought she’d never get out of the bath. Couldn’t get rid of the stink: sweat and booze and greasy cooking. Swore she’d never do it again. Five weeks later, she needed a pair of boots. Like everything, it got easier. Easy come, easy dough. Big joke, wannit? Regular stand-up comedian, she was.
She sighed, wrapped thin arms round her body. Hadn’t had a bundle of laughs of late. There’d been five blokes last night. All pushing sixty. Where was Charlie getting the buggers? Must have added a senior citizen’s shag-scam to his other rackets. And what else had he planned for her? She shuddered at the possibilities.
He kept his cards close, but she’d heard the odd whisper out on the landing: one-sided calls on a mobile. She’d listened intently, memorising bits and pieces. Never knew when that sort of info’d come in handy. There were gonna be changes when she got out of this place… if she could get out of this place. A proper job for one thing; police snout, maybe.
“You decent?”
She recognised the voice. It was man-planet’s idea of a joke. Question was: had Pluto got it in him to be her straight man?