19
Bev’s blood pressure was hitting six figures; not unlike the sum Dawn Lucas was bandying about.
“Lost my little girl, haven’t I?”
Bev watched her knuckles turn white. It was lucky Earth Mother was on the end of a phone.
“And you’re inquiring about..?”
“Compensation. Criminal injuries. It said in the paper, she was…”
Bev’s pencil snapped. The woman was a dog turd. The Bet Lynch voice had uttered barely a syllable of sorrow, let alone regret or curiosity. On the other hand, they’d had no joy tracking her down. Bev needed to keep her sweet.
“Where are you calling from, Mrs Lucas?” She retrieved the business end of the pencil.
“Phone box.”
“Give us the number. I’ll call you straight back.”
There was silence for a few seconds; she might have been weighing up the pros and cons. “I can’t make it out. I ain’t got me glasses.”
Good excuse, if it was the truth; either way Bev was none the wiser to the woman’s whereabouts. “Glad you rang anyway, Mrs Lucas. As Michelle’s next of kin there are one or two things –”
“I’m not identifyin’ her. I just couldn’t do it.”
She’d done sod all else; why spoil the habits of a lifetime? In the absence of relatives, they’d had to call on the superintendent at the children’s home. The woman had passed out.
“It’s been done already. So it’s not strictly necessary for you to go through the procedure again.”
“Good. I’d rather remember her like she was.”
Like she was three years ago? The sentiment stank of hypocrisy. Bev kept her voice neutral; she still had to get the woman to Birmingham. “There are Michelle’s belongings, of course.”
Another pause. “Oh yeah?”
Michelle’s entire legacy, as Bev was painfully aware, was stuffed in a couple of black bin liners, currently under lock and key at the kids’ home. She didn’t think Lucas would go a bundle on a few clothes and a hairbrush. She took a deep breath, wishing she’d done a season at RADA as well as her time at police college.
“Thing is, Mrs Lucas, you’ll have to collect them. Sign for them, you know?”
“Difficult, that. Gettin’ time off and everythin’.”
Don’t put yourself out. “There’s a few bits of jewellery. A gold watch.”
“Is there any…” There was a slight hesitation.“… money?”
Bev recoiled at the avarice. “There is a bit, yes.” Four grimy tenners stashed in a shoe.
“I’ll think about it.”
Bev started doodling a fat juicy carrot. “We could discuss the compensation claim as well… if you were passing, like.”
“I hate that place. Gives me the creeps.”
Much like you give me the creeps, Bev thought. The woman had done a bunk with a bloke who’d been playing round with her daughter. “Where are you living now, Mrs Lucas?”
“Manchester.”
“Big place, that.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Small talk wasn’t on Dawn Lucas’s agenda. “What you reckon then? Is there a claim in it, or what?”
“Could well be. Thing is, Dawn – mind if I call you Dawn? – thing is: we will need to talk in person. See, when it’s a big pay-out, the bean counters have to make sure there’s no monkey business. Know what I mean?” Much as it grieved her, a claim would be considered. Bev shook her head; shame Michelle’s death hadn’t caused a bit more grief.
“How big?”
If she got anything, it’d be the standard ￡11,000. Fatal tariff, they called it; blood money, Bev called it. “Phwor. You got me there. I’d have to have more to go on, before I can give you a steer on that.”
“Fire away.”
Pass the excocet. “Sorry, love. Not on the blower. More than my job’s worth. Know what I mean?”
Silence. Bev held her breath. Could go either way. And if Lucas hung up, guess who’d get it in the neck?
A response came reluctantly, but it came. “I’ll meet you.”
I’d rather eat shit. “Good thinking.”
“I ain’t comin’ there, and I ain’t going to no cop shop neither.”
“Could be a problem, that.”
“Why?”
“The CICA boys won’t buy it. Not with big claims like this…”
The pips sounded. Bev mouthed a prayer which was answered by the clink of coins being fed into the slot.
“What were you sayin’ ’bout big claims?”
That’s my girl. “The criminal injuries lot. They’ll want it all done proper. Full interview, name on the dotted line. Have to be done here, see. Can’t dish out a load of readies in a Little Chef, can they?” There was another pause then Bev came up with the cherry on the carrot cake. “’Course, there could be a reward in it as well. I’ll be honest with you, love. We need all the help we can get. More we know about Michelle, more chance we have of catching the killer. We’ve spoken to all her mates and teachers and stuff but everyone paints a different picture. We still haven’t got a proper handle on her, know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I’d need to think about that.” You sure would. “This compensation stuff? Give it out straight away, do they?”
“All the time, Dawnie.” Seven months, if you’re lucky.
Another silence; more held breath.
“You can bring someone with you for a bit of moral support.” Bev curled her lip; propping up Lucas’s morals’d be a struggle for the Archbishop of Canterbury. “Shell’s dad perhaps?”
“Don’t talk wet. The man’s never laid eyes on her.”
Bollocks. “Must’ve got our wires crossed. We were told there was a Mr Lucas at Gorse Street with you and Michelle.”
“Was there ’ell. That was Ginger Riley.”
Yes! A name. Bev’s fist hit the air, her voice stayed level. “Perhaps Mr Riley would like to come with you?”
“Bet he’d love to. He’s been dead two year.”
Double bollocks.
“I ain’t gonna get any crap from you lot, am I?”
Unfortunately not; not without evidence. “How do you mean?”
“I know what them dozy morons round there were sayin’ ’bout me.”
Who didn’t? According to neighbours, Dawn Lucas had the maternal instincts of a cuckoo.
“Slaggin me off, sayin’ I dumped Shell.”
That wasn’t all they were saying. She listened with half an ear while scrolling through witness statements on the computer. She paused at Jack Goddard’s, the caretaker at Michelle’s school: …Lucas shacked up with some bloke known as Sicknote… blah blah… place like a branch of the social… blah blah… bruises… neglect… underage sex… Bev sighed. They’d heard the same story time and again, but street talk and hearsay wasn’t going to convict Lucas. It wouldn’t even get her in court.
Bev tuned in properly. The woman had stopped talking but only to light a baccy. “Honest to God, I begged her to come but she dint want to leave her mate. Said she was gonna stay with her. Arranged it with the girl’s mum and everythin’.”
“You did?” Bev hoped her incredulity wasn’t showing but there was no cause for concern.
“Nah. Shell done all that.”
“What was the family called?”
“Come on. It were three year ago.”
“Does the name Flinn mean anything to you? Vicki Flinn? Annie Flinn?”
“No. Never heard of ’em.” The answer was quick. Too quick? “Anyway it weren’t just that. There was her schooling. Loved Thread Street, she did. She were dead settled there.”
According to records, Michelle was as settled as a vegan in an abattoir. “Kids?” Bev said. “Who’d have ’em, eh? Always think they know best, don’t they?”
“Tell me about it. Mind, our Shell weren’t thick. Sharp as a knife, she was. Told her many a time, she’d cut herself if she weren’t careful.”
Bev closed her eyes. “Chip off the old block, eh, Dawn?”
“Will I get me expenses? Train fare. Stuff like that?”
The woman had a one-track mind. “Don’t see why not. How soon can you get here?”
“Tuesday, innit?” Bev waited as the woman worked it out. “Next Wednesday. A week tomorrow.”
“Can you make it a bit sooner?”
“What’s the rush?”
A sloth on mogadon had more urgency. “Just that the authority meets on Friday. If I had the gen by then…”
“Tomorrow. I’ll give you a bell from New Street. I’ll have a good old think ’bout things – see what I can come up with.”
“You do that, Dawn…”
The pips hadn’t gone; Lucas had hung up.
Deep in thought, Bev replaced the receiver. On the face of it, Lucas knew diddly. Point was: the end of a phone wasn’t on the face of anything. A good cop needed eye contact for all those little giveaways. She could have been lying through her teeth. Bev was under no illusions. Dawn Lucas wasn’t going to waltz in with the killer’s identity. But she was the girl’s mother. She might – conceivably – give them an insight into Michelle’s.
Either way, she had to admit it: the appalling woman intrigued her. She’d met loads of low-lifes before, but Dawn Lucas was in an under-class of her own. Sod all the psycho-crap about social deprivation and dysfunctional families; she wanted to know what made the woman tick. At the same time, it might shed light on why her fifteen-year-old daughter was lying in the mortuary.
Bev tilted her head back, tried stroking away the tension in her neck. Her eyes were closed. In the darkness, all she could see was Michelle.