22
“What a night!”
Bev was dripping all over Big Val’s doormat. Puddles were forming at her feet, rivulets trickling down her neck.
“Still tippin it down?”
Bev widened her eyes. “Nah. I always look like this.” Val, on the other hand, looked different. What was it?
“You comin or what?”
“Yeah. Cheers.” Val pressed against the wall as Bev slipped through sideways. The woman wasn’t called Big for nothing.
“First on the left, chuck.”
Bev ran a hand through sodden hair. “It’s foul out there. You’d think everyone’d be tucked up by the fireside, but Thread Street’s buzzing. Must be a hundred or more on the protest already.” She’d left the MG outside, but done a quick recce on foot. Ozzie had been keeping a low profile with Mike Powell. The guv’s was even lower; she hadn’t spotted him at all. The uniforms were all over the place. Noisy but not nasty was the general verdict.
Val yawned. “Tell me about it. I’ve been on all day. Have to make hay while the sun shines.”
Make something, thought Bev. “It’s the hair!” She pointed. “What’ve you done?”
Val’s red beehive had been supplanted by an unruly haystack.
“This?” She lifted a hand. “It’s me Lily Savage. I’ve got a mate in the rug trade. Ever need sortin’ you know where to come.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Ditch the coat. Take the weight off your pins. I’m gonna put me face on. Shove that lot on the floor.” Her arm gave a wide sweep of the room. Bev peered round; the subdued lighting was crying out for a torch. Where exactly was she meant to sit? As far as she could see, there were no chairs. She eventually made out a bed, covered by a tartan throwover and what looked like several herds of stuffed pigs. She moved closer. There was a huge mountain of fluffy porkers, and barely room to perch a buttock. God knew what made her look up, but there was a matching tableau in the massive mirror above the bed. She grinned: pigs could fly, then.
She decided not to join the farmyard action and gravitated towards the fake log fire. There was another mirror on the wall. She pulled a face and smoothed a few damp tendrils into place; looked down and pulled another. The dress wasn’t right. She’d scoured her wardrobe but it didn’t do police tart. She’d changed her mind – and gear – several times, eventually plumping for an above-the-knee, little aubergine number in crushed velvet. Compared with Val’s jade silk kimono – it didn’t work. Still, at least it wasn’t blue and no one would ask her to read the meter.
Val had left the door open, and judging by the smell of dope was having a crafty drag. What was the nasal equivalent of a blind eye? The girls could get as stoned as a rockery as far as Bev was concerned.
“Wanna drink, chuck?” Val was still in make-up but the forty-a-day voice was loud and clear.
Bev dithered, then plunged. “Sure. What you got?”
“Red Stripe, Red Stripe or Red Stripe.”
She grinned and shouted back. “Cuppa char, then. Not!”
She glanced at her watch. Twenty past eight. Where were the girls? Cold feet? Toe-nail cutting?
“’ere y’are.”
Bev turned, expecting to take ownership of a can of lager, but Val had a bean-bag in each hand.
“Chuck one over there, Bev. There’s a couple more next door. Whether we’re gonna need ’em or not…” She shrugged and floated out on a wave of Lou Lou and Imperial Leather.
Bev bagged a bag and watched as her dress rapidly turned from above-the-knee to below-the-knickers. Thank God she’d eschewed Frankie’s basque for M&S briefs. She grabbed the hem and gave a few tugs. It was one thing to enter into the spirit of the occasion but a girl had to draw the line somewhere.
Val returned, cans in hands. “Cheers, chuck.”
Bev had a couple of sips, regretted not bringing a bottle of wine or Scotch. “What time did you tell the others, Val?” The casual tone was supposed to conceal her growing concern.
Val shoved the pigs over and flopped across the bed, back against the wall. “Eight.”
There was an uneasy silence. It was beginning to feel like one of those parties where no one turns up.
Val lit a Marlboro. “They know the score, Bev. It’s down to them whether they play ball.”
Bev watched as she picked a fleck of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. The big woman obviously had something on her mind as well. Bev waited, hoping she’d share.
“I have to say Bev, none of them was delirious at the prospect of meeting you, but only Marj told me to f*ck off.” She paused. “Actually, she told me to tell you to f*ck off.”
“Marj?” Bev matched the name with a face; came up with black. “She hates cops.” The words ‘white’ and ‘woman’ went unspoken but both knew they were there. She looked round for an easier topic while she grappled with harder thoughts. “What’s with the pigs?”
It was quite a collection, sixty-plus. Everything from a two-inch piglet to a two-foot porker, Barbie pink through pillar-box red and every lurid shade in between.
Val opened her mouth then appeared to change her mind, settled for a wide grin and a vague: “Dunno, really. Just sort of grew, like.”
“Nice.” It sounded pathetic even to Bev’s ears. She took another drink, wondered what she was doing, discussing cuddly toys with a middle-aged prostitute when a stone’s throw away her mates were trying to keep order on the streets. She cocked her head on one side. The crowd was beginning to chant and though the words were inaudible the message was pretty clear: tarts were not flavour of the month.
“Don’t worry about that lot, Bev. It won’t stop the others. Not if they want to come.”
She nodded. But did they?
She took another swig. “Hey, Val, you heard any more from Vicki?” She was making conversation; nothing more.
The hand with the cigarette halted, half-way to Val’s mouth. Bev asked herself why? And why was Val suddenly spouting on like there was no tomorrow?
“Nah. She must still be down south. Lucky cow. I wouldn’t say no to a few days in Brighton.” She winked as she took a drag on her fag. “Could do with a bit of sea air. I love all that stuff, don’t you? A bit of a paddle; a few sticks of rock; fish and chips on the front. They always taste better outside, somehow, don’t they? You goin’ somewhere nice this year, Bev?”
Bev tried not to narrow her eyes. One mention of Vicki, and the woman was babbling like a swollen brook. “Dunno. I haven’t thought about it, yet.”
She studied the big woman’s face; stayed silent, hoping it would force the talk. While Val made a great play of sorting out the pigs, Bev flicked through her mental file on Vicki. Was she missing something, apart from the girl herself? She waited a while longer, but Val’s flow of words had apparently dried up.
“Val?” She wasn’t even sure why she was asking; it was just another niggling doubt among all the unknowns and half-truths that seemed to make up the Lucas inquiry. “You did get a call from Vicki, didn’t you, love?”
“You calling me a liar?”
The response was fast, but it wasn’t an answer. But why would Val lie? And why were Bev’s bullshit antennae suddenly twitching? She was on dangerous ground; she stepped lightly. “’Course not, love, but anyone can make a mistake.”
She watched as Val ground the butt into a glass ashtray. The woman was either working on a reply or ignoring the remark. After twenty seconds or so of silence Bev added softly.“It’s just that if we’re wrong about Vicki, the error could be fatal.”
“I got a call. Right?” The big woman turned her face to Bev; it had ‘final answer’ all over it.
“Sure.” If she pushed further, she’d likely be shown the door. She put a question mark over Brighton and lifted her can. “Absent friends.”
Val nodded. “Absent friends.”
Another uneasy silence was broken by a tap on the window.
Val hauled herself off the bed. “That’ll be Patty. She’s got a thing about knocking on doors. She got chucked through one once. I won’t be a tick.” Judging by the smile and her manner, Val wasn’t going to dwell on the Vicki thing. Neither was Bev; it was time for action.
She tried standing; wondered if anyone had ever come up with a dignified way of getting out of a bean-bag. Given the expanse of thighs she was showing and the gap in between, she decided not. A final push and she was on her feet, so how come she still felt like a sitting duck? She smoothed her skirt, sweaty palms leaving damp smudges. She swallowed, took a few deep breaths. Most of these girls, she’d be seeing for the first time. She felt like some bimbo on Blind Date.
There were a few giggles and shushes then Val returned with not one girl but two. “Bev. This here’s Patty. This is Smithy.”
Bev ran through a mental list drawn up by Val: Smithy the librarian; Patty the smackhead. Apart from their temporary resemblance to drowned rats, it checked out. Smithy’s pale face was swamped by huge red-framed specs. Patty’s looked as if it should be; poor girl blinked a lot and appeared to have trouble focusing.
Bev smiled, bit back some inane drivel about the weather and held out a hand. “Good to see you.”
Smithy growled, “Wotcha,” and made straight for the bed. Patty didn’t appear to notice. “Gorra smoke, Val?”
Val chucked the pack and a box of matches but it was too much for the girl’s spatial skills. Bev retrieved both from the floor and handed them over.
“Ta.” She studied Bev’s face. “I ain’t seen you before. Eh, Val, she new round ’ere?”
Bev looked at Val, who rolled her eyes and tapped the side of her head. “Sit down, Pats.”
Bev sighed; bright girl, then. She glanced at Smithy who had her nose in a book with a pink cover. Talk about hope over experience.
“Jules’ll be here in a min. And Chlo?.” Smithy imparted the information without looking up. “They’re doing the offie run.”
“We had a whip round,” Val explained.
Bev was working on a quip along the lines of “Lucky you.” It was never cracked owing to a hammering on the front door, backed up by a quasi-police rap through the letterbox.
“Spread your legs and kiss the floor. Officer Dibble’s at the door.”
Bev’s eyebrows were up to her hairline, till she caught sight of Val’s downturned mouth. She watched as the big woman strolled towards the door muttering something about bloody comedians.
“Come on, ma, it’s pissin’ down out here.”
Bev heard the door open, feet being stamped and a rustle of coats being hung up; all interspersed by banter and belly laughs. Two girls eventually swanned in, wearing hats fashioned out of plastic carriers from Oddbins. They’d already made a dent in the Lambrusco and were passing the bottle round like a microphone. The skinny one put Bev in mind of Vicki until she whipped off her hat, revealing hair the same shade as Bev’s dress.
“That was for you, cop. Make you feel at home. Know what I mean?”
Bev had an idea. The girl moved closer. “Wanna drink?” The offer was friendly but the distance between Bev’s face and the bottle was a touch too intimate. Purple Locks didn’t wait for an answer. “We bin watchin’ The Bill. Do a lot of door-smashin’, don’t they? You into all that?”
Bev stared, stood her ground, bit back several retorts including a novel technique for recycling glass.
“Jules.” The caution was from Val and accompanied by a shake of the head. The others were silent, watching.
The girl burped and stood back, if not down. “What you doin’ ’ere, anyway? A slinky frock and a bit of slap don’ mean nothin’. Still Miss Piggy, ain’t you?”
Great start, thought Bev. Real sisterhood stuff. If she didn’t play this right, she’d lost them. She took a few sips of lager, kept her voice casual. “When was the last time you saw Michelle Lucas?”
Wrong-footed, the girl hesitated. The room was silent as the others waited, each aware of the muffled sounds of the crowd a couple of streets away. Jules was kicking her feet, staring at the floor.
“Can’t remember.”
“Try hard, Jules. Try very hard. Hang on to that image. Remember Shell when she was alive; having a laugh, a good time. Me?” Bev paused, aware everyone was looking. “Me? I saw her two days ago, on a slab, in the morgue. And you know what? I wish to God I hadn’t. I can’t get rid of it: the sight; the stink; the f*ckin’ waste.”
Bev stared; it was clear the others would take their cue from Jules. Talk about hearing a pin drop. The girl held Bev’s gaze, then turned to Val.
“What you standin’ round for, ma? She needs a glass.”
Bev nodded. Smithy went back to her book and Patty used Val’s absence to sneak another fag. The dumpy girl who’d arrived with Jules approached Bev.
“Met before, ain’t we?”
The girl’s shaven head and dark brows didn’t ring any bells.
“Remind me.”
“Chlo? Davenport. You ran me in a coupla years back.” Bev ran it through her memory; couldn’t place the girl.
“Put on a bit of meat since then, I have. And I had hair down to my bum.”
Bev pointed, recognition finally dawning. “Blondie!” It was coming back to her. The girl was unusual in that she came from an apparently loving home, had both parents on the scene and wanted for nothing, yet she repeatedly absconded and went on the game. The father particularly was beside himself with grief. Turned out he was jealous. He’d been abusing her for ten years. Chlo? reckoned she’d been giving it away so long, she might as well make a few bob. It had taken Bev hours and hours of gentle coaxing to get the story. Chlo?’s old man died in a car crash two weeks before his court date.
“Why the..?” Bev made chopping motions with her fingers.
Chlo? shrugged her shoulders. “Just grew out of it.”
She’d be sixteen now. Sixteen or seventeen. What was it her father called her? Angel. My little angel. Bev smiled. “It suits you, Chlo?.”
“Here y’are, girls. Come and get it.”
Val placed a tray in the middle of the floor. Cans, bottles, a couple of glasses and a few mugs. She delved into the pockets of her kimono and pulled out packets of dry roasted nuts and Bombay mix. A packet of prawn cocktail crisps had been nestling in the region of her boobs; this she slung at Smithy.
“She likes the colour,” Val mouthed at Bev.
“What’s this?” Patty was trickling the mix through her fingers.
“Told you before, girl. It’s to eat.” Val lowered her voice and looked at Bev. “Caught her tryin’ to smoke it once.”
The girls grabbed a drink each. Chlo? and Jules shared a bean-bag, Bev took the other and looked round. The turn-out was better than nothing but it was a bit disappointing. Part of her had been hoping that the girl she’d spotted in town at lunchtime would put in an appearance. She’d had no joy tracing her through the school.
Smithy finally put the book away. Her glasses had slipped and she pushed them up with a finger. “Oh, yeah. Kylie’s not comin’.”
“Why’s that?” Jules asked. “Too much homework?”
Bev waited for the laughter to subside. “Who’s Kylie?”
“Kylie O’Reilly.”
“You winding me up?”
“No. It’s Kylie O’Reilly. Really.”
There was a lot of giggling going on until Val intervened. “Don’t be so bloody daft.” She looked at Bev. “Straight up. It’s her name. She’s a nice kid. She was at Fair Oaks but she’s on a trial foster now. Hasn’t stopped her waggin’ though. She’s prob’ly been grounded.”
Bev made a mental note. The girl would have to be chased up in the morning. She ran through the list again; looked as if there was only one no-show.
“What about Jo? She coming or what?” Val asked.
“It’s her ma’s bingo night,” Jules drawled. “She’s doing a spot of baby sittin’.”
“’Bout bloody time.”
Bev lifted an eyebrow at the venom in Val’s voice.
“It’s Jo’s kid, innit?” Val said. “She expects her ma to do everythin’. Selfish little cow. I wouldn’t trust her with a pair of gerbils.”
“How old’s Jo?” Bev asked.
“Fifteen. Had the kid a coupla years back.”
Bev turned her mouth down; at thirteen, the only thing she’d delivered was a newspaper.
“What about the father?”
“God knows. Jo don’t.” Val shook her head. “She ain’t the first and she sure won’t be the last.”
Bev wanted to ask more but Jules dismissed the subject with a flap of her hand. “Yeah yeah. Borin’.’” She looked at Bev. “Come on. We’ve wasted enough time. Sooner we get this over with, sooner we can get down to the vid.”
“Yeah. What d’you get, ma?” Patty asked.
Val kept a straight face. “The Sound of Music.”
Smithy jabbed a fist in the air and shouted. “Yo!”
The big woman shook her head. “Soft sod. Nah. I got the new Bruce Willis. We can have a group drool.”
“Yuk,” Patty spat. “He’s a right old wrinklie.”
“You lot quite finished?” Jules lit a spliff, stared at Bev. “The lady’s waitin’.”
Bev took a deep breath, dived in. “I don’t know how much Val’s said, but the idea’s dead simple really.”
“Patty’ll appreciate that,” Jules muttered.
Bev ignored the interruption. “I need to get out on the patch. Michelle’s killer’s still out there, and he’s almost certainly the same nut who’s put Cassie on life support. I’ll be straight with you, girls: the leads we’re following are getting us nowhere.”
“Nothin new there, then.” Jules’s contempt came wreathed in smoke.
“Precisely,” Bev hit back. “That’s why we’ve got to try something different.”
“So how’s you gettin’ tarted up and hangin’ round street corners gonna do any good?”
Jules was asking all the questions, but it was plain to Bev everyone was hanging on the answers. She looked at each girl in turn, wanting them all to be clear about the significance of what she was about to say.
“There’s no reason to suppose the killings have stopped.” She lifted a hand to quell a chorus of protest. “I’m not saying there’s another Ripper on the loose, but until we find a motive, until we have a better idea what’s going on – then the risk is there. If –” she stressed the word – “if this guy’s targeting prostitutes, the closer I work with you the better. Apart from anything else I’ll be keeping an eye out for you.”
Again, the only noise was a muffled chanting from Thread Street. Each girl was working on her own thoughts.
“You say in’ it’s a mad punter?” Jules was trying hard to sound as if she didn’t care.
Bev shook her head. “I’ve told you – we just don’t know.”
Val nodded towards the door. “What about that lot out there? Not exactly fans of ours, are they?”
“F*ckin’ hypocrites,” Chlo? hissed.
“F*ckin’ what?” asked Patty.
“Never mind, Pats,” Jules reached across and dropped ash in an empty can. “Ma’s got a point though. What you doin’ about rent-a-mob?”
“All we can.” Known members of the campaign had been traced and interviewed and tonight’s protest was being recorded on stills and video. But Bev couldn’t see the killer posing for happy snaps. “Same with the death threats. You name it, forensic have done it. We’re still no nearer.”
“What death –?” Patty reached for the pack of Marlboro Val was thrusting at her. “Ta, ma.”
“What were you saying, Pats?” The girl was lighting up. Bev waited, but whatever it was it had gone. The blank look was accompanied by a vague, “You what?”
“Pats is pleased to get anything in the post.” Jules sneered. “Me? I use ’em to wipe me arse. We all do, don’t we, girls?” The crude mime that went with the graphic language had most of them bent double. “The wankers who send ’em are all shit-for-brains.”
Bev cleared her throat; the lavatory humour wasn’t going anywhere. “One angle we haven’t mentioned.” She paused, wary of snakes and baskets. “What about the pimps?”
“What about ’em?” Jules asked.
“You tell me.”
“Don’t know any, do we, girls?”
It was a lie. Bev knew it. They knew it. She reeled off half a dozen names; big players in the vice market. “We’ve questioned all of them over the last few days. They’re keen to help. Shell’s death’s bad for business they reckon.”
“There y’are then,” said Jules. “What more do you want?” The cocky smirk lasted just two words.
“Charlie Hawes.”
The chanting from the street sounded louder in the silence of the room. Bev looked round but none of the girls met her gaze. “Hawes as in Mad Charlie. Mad Charlie as in Michelle’s pimp.”
“Thought you were tryin’ to help us?” Patty said plaintively.
“I am, Patty. I am. I don’t want any of you to end up like Shell.”
Val lit another Marlboro and spoke through the smoke. “I can’t see it’ll do any harm. I think we should give it a whirl.”
Bev looked at the big woman; was that a deliberate change of subject, or what?
If it was, Jules caught on quickly. “How’s it gonna work?”
Bev hesitated. She wanted to pursue the Hawes line but didn’t want to alienate Val further, or the girls at all. She ran through how she’d join them on the streets, as and when she could; that it’d be a case of keeping her eyes and ears open. There was a half-hearted joke about legs but Bev ignored it. When she wasn’t around, Bev said, she wanted them to keep tabs on the punters; take registrations; jot down descriptions; look out for anything or anyone in the slightest way suspect. She’d organize personal alarms and ask about extra police patrols.
She caught a few glances being exchanged, then Jules answered for them all. “You’re on.”
Bev smiled, circled her can at the girls. “Cheers.”
Val hoisted hers. “Bottoms up.”
Jules hadn’t taken her eyes off Bev. “Up yours, an’ all.”
Bev joined the general mirth but with a lot less force.
“Seriously, cop-lady,” asked Jules. “What you gonna do when you get a punter?”
The girls were all ears. Bev went for breezy. “No worries. I’ll know how to handle it.”
“I bet you will,” Jules grinned.
“’ere, if she’s turning tricks…” All eyes turned to Patty. “We oughta get a cut. It’s our patch, innit?”
Bev shook her head; what could you say? Looking on the bright side, the subsequent piss-taking of Patty, took everyone’s mind off Jules’s poser about punters. Bev had it all worked out; she just wasn’t ready to share.
“Okay, you lot.” Val broke up the action. “We’ve done the biz. Let’s get down to the important stuff.” Pizza the Action was doing some sort of promo deal. Val took orders and wandered through to the kitchen, mobile phone in hand.
“What’s it like bein’ a cop, then?” Patty asked.
“Why?” Jules laughed. “You gonna sign up?”
“Sign on, more like,” said Chlo?.
Patty scooped a handful of pigs and aimed at the girls’ bean-bag. Jules and Chlo? dived to the carpet, giggling and screaming.
“Wass goin’ on in there?” Val shouted. “I can’t hear myself speak.”
Jules wagged a finger at Patty. “You’re in big trouble now, girl. Better pick ’em up or she’ll have you.”
Patty wagged two fingers. “Sod off.”
Bev knelt and started gathering the animals.
“Very attached to her piggies is our Val,” Jules said. “She’s given ’em names and everythin’. She can tell you where she got ’em, and when. Loves ’em, she does. They’re like kids to her.”
Bev returned them reverently to the bed. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jules clutching her sides.
“What’s so funny?”
“You should see your face.”
“They mean a lot to her,” Bev protested. Child substitute had briefly crossed her mind.
“They sure do.” Jules pointed. “That one’s Kev. He was a DC in Leeds. That’s Frank, he’s a sergeant now, moved to Wolverhampton last year. That’s Joey, he was an inspector in Digbeth but he’s some big cheese at Lloyd House these days.”
Patty picked up a pig with one eye and no tail. “This bugger had me an’ all. Billy Nelson’s his name.”
Bev knew her dental work was on display but this made notches on the bedpost look pretty tame. “What are you saying? That when Val –” she searched for a suitable verb – “services a cop, she gets a pig?”
It was Jules’s turn to look nonplussed, then she beamed. “No, you daft sod. They’re not punters. They’re collars. She buys one every time she gets fined. Well, she used to. She can’t afford it no more.”
“Can’t afford what?” Val breezed in with a roll of kitchen towel and a bottle of ketchup, which she handed straight to Patty.
“Ta, ma. You remembered.”
Val curled her lip. “Tomato sauce on pizza? How could I forget?”
Bev smiled, beginning to relax. The girls were good company. It made her think again about Vicki. Maybe she’d over-reacted. Why shouldn’t the girl be in Brighton? Val had probably just been on edge, what with the girls coming round and the protest and everything. She yawned, sank back into the bean-bag, stretched her legs. It hadn’t been a bad night’s work. An understanding had been reached, and though there was nothing new to go on she’d be well placed in the days ahead.
“How long’s the pizza gonna be?” Smithy asked.
“’Bout eight inches,” Jules smirked.
“You should be so lucky.” Val accompanied her quip with a slack-lipped pout of panto-dame dimensions. It sparked a session of note-swapping on well-hung punters. There were one or two well-known men in town that Bev would never look in the face again. The girls were rolling around in hysterics on the carpet. Bev was the only one to hear the door. The others had bought the booze so she grabbed her bag and crept out. The laughter was infectious and Bev was grinning from ear to ear when she pulled the door open. The pizza delivery bloke bore a striking resemblance to Ozzie. It only took a second to work out why.
“Oz, what are you doing here?” She registered how the street light was simultaneously shining and casting shadows in the rain on his face. She noted how the girls’ laughter had reached a new peak, knew instinctively the timing was all wrong.
“You’re wanted, Sarge. We’ve got another body.”