28
The lawyer looked more like the pimp. That was Bev’s initial impression. She was observing through reception’s one-way mirror and guessed, rightly, that the older bloke was a brief. Charlie had come prepared: quite the little boy scout. They were waiting stiff-backed near the front desk, standing out like designer gear on a market stall. Rumpole’s broken nose was floundering in a sea of acne scars and his hairline hadn’t so much receded as done a runner. Alongside him was the elusive Mr Hawes.
Bev cast a long, lingering look. They’d been trying to flush him out for days and there he was. She stared, trying to match up the Armani-clad man in front of her with the glimpsed figure in New Street. Had it been him?
She half expected Hawes to sport a pair of horns or have ‘mad git’ stamped across his forehead. But no. Vicki was right. He was well fit. Mind, a tan like that would work wonders for an anaemic anorexic. Not that he was skinny; he had the profile and proportions of some Greek statue; she just hoped he’d have a damn sight more to say. She used her fingers as a comb, checked her skirt wasn’t stuck up her knickers and went to find out. Vince was embroiled in paperwork; the Telegraph crossword, probably. She let him get on with it.
“Mr Hawes?” Both men turned: the only reaction. “I’m Detective Sergeant Morriss.” There were no smiles or social niceties on either side.
Charlie nodded, then gestured at his sidekick. “This is Max Viner. My legal representative.”
She tilted her head quizzically: as good a way as any of asking why he thought one was needed.
“Mr Hawes is here because it has come to his attention that the police are anxious to speak with him in connection with the recent tragic deaths of two young women.”
Despite the lawyerspeak, and a face like an over-cooked pizza, he could do voiceovers for silk. Bet he gave good phone. Best place for him, as far as Bev was concerned. “Yeah. You could say that. Let’s go and have a little chat, shall we?”
Viner wagged a short stubby finger. “Before we go anywhere, let me make it quite clear that my client is here in order to help the police with their inquiries. It is also his intention to illustrate his innocence of any allegation or involvement in either of these shocking crimes. And –” a final ferocious wag – “in order to prevent any further harassment by members of the West Midlands police force.”
The voice had coarsened as the volume increased. Vince lifted his gaze from four down.
“Everything okay, Bev?”
“Never better.” She smiled broadly. Viner could shove it. Whatever crap he spouted, Hawes was in it up to his neck. The man was either an arrogant fool or believed himself fireproof. They’d soon find out.
Byford was waiting in Interview One. Not a place in which to spend much time. Stale smoke and sweat hung round, despite a daily swabbing with a dose of Jeyes. A grey metal desk matched the grey walls and floor. A tinfoil ashtray was the only accoutrement.
He looked up but stayed seated as she ran through the introductions. She could tell by a tightening of the guv’s mouth, that Viner was as welcome as a sweet-toothed wasp. A lawyer in the equation played hell with their strategy: Byford was going to take the lead but encourage Hawes to do the talking; give him enough rope, etcetera. Bev would sit quietly, smile disarmingly and trip him the second he cocked up. Seemed like a good idea at the time.
Charlie flourished a virginal handkerchief and wiped a chair before sitting. Viner stayed on his feet while opening a slim attaché case and taking out several sheets of typed A4.
“My client has prepared a written statement, detailing his whereabouts and activities from the day of the first murder to –” he glanced at a chunky gold wristwatch – “a little over an hour ago. No doubt you will want to check everything. Indeed, my client is anxious that you should do so. You’ll see that there are names, addresses and telephone numbers of colleagues, acquaintances and friends who will verify Mr Hawes’s presence and vouch for his good behaviour at all relevant times. I can personally guarantee the integrity of most of these people.”
Bev had no doubt he could. She had no doubt the story would check out in every detail and that every one of the characters would lie through their dental-work to save Charlie’s flawless skin.
Byford accepted a copy and tossed it on the desk. “Perhaps I could ask why your client has gone to so much effort to put his case across?”
Viner was making great play of smoothing his tie. “It’s not so much putting the case across, Superintendent, as setting the record straight.”
Byford inclined his head.
“We have heard on excellent authority that your police officers have been paying visits to various establishments across the city asking questions which can only cast doubt on Mr Hawes’s good name and reputation.”
“What reputation?” The question slipped through Bev’s credibility gap.
Viner glanced disparagingly, concentrated on Byford. “My client is a respected businessman. He has no criminal record and has never had dealings with the police.”
Bev noticed a thin line of moisture above the lawyer’s rubbery lips, dreaded to think what was oozing from his armpits. She glanced at Charlie, realised he’d been looking at her. He still was. More than that, he was studying her, appraising her, probably marking her out of ten. Knowing she was watching, he continued the appraisal. She crossed her legs, managed to stop herself folding her arms. He’d be expert in body language; she refused to talk it. He looked her in the eyes and flicked his tongue along his top lip; the movement so fleeting, she might have imagined it. But not the smile. His mouth was creased at the corners, as he looked down at his smooth hands with their perfect pink nails. She forced herself not to shift in the seat.
“My client is concerned that erroneously pursuing him will have a detrimental effect on the inquiry. Mr Hawes is anxious that you do not waste further time.” He allowed himself a tight smile. “Particularly after reading press reports of your progress so far.”
“That’s decent of him,” Byford said, leaning back, hands crossed behind his head.
“And what exactly is your client’s line of business?” The question was directed at the brief but Bev was looking at Charlie.
“Though it has no relevance to your investigation, Mr Hawes is a freelance leisure consultant. His services are used by several of our leading citizens.”
“That posh for pimp is it, Charlie?” Bev was hoping for a reaction. “Was Michelle Lucas one of your services, Charlie?”
A flustered Viner darted a glance at Hawes. “My client is here at his own volition. I see no — ”
Hawes silenced the lawyer with a single raised finger. “That’s all right, Mr Viner. Sergeant Morriss has every right to ask her tacky little questions.”
He smiled as if at a naughty child, then turned to Byford. “As far as I can recall, I never even met the girl. As for my business dealings, you’re welcome to go through my books, look round my premises. My vehicles are at your disposal should you wish to carry out forensic tests. My home is available for you to search, should you think it necessary. Like you, Superintendent, I want these dreadful crimes solved.” He glanced at Bev. “And I want her off my back.”
Viner gave a discreet cough, started collecting his belongings. “I hope this little meeting has been useful, Mr Byford. I’m sure we all want this investigation brought to a successful and speedy conclusion.” He laid his case on the desk. “There is one other small matter…”
Bev exchanged glances with Byford. The brief was doing casual, very carefully. Her crapometer was off the scale.
“My client is concerned that your diligence in pursuing him might be down to deliberately misleading information.”
Bev snorted. And you’re on which planet?
“Let me make myself clear. We are concerned that a business rival, indeed someone who may bear ill-feeling towards Mr Hawes, may be misdirecting the course of your inquiry in order to incriminate my client.”
The penny plunged. “Stitch him up?” Bev asked. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Viner held out fleshy hands. “Who can say? It’s a point to bear in mind. The corollary would be, of course, that if someone is trying to implicate Char… my client… then it begs the question: why?” He paused, then supplied the answer. “Are they, for instance, eager to shift the blame from themselves?”
So that was Hawes’s little game. Play the innocent and drop some unsuspecting sod in the excrement. She almost admired the cheek.
Both men stood. Her eyes widened. There was cheek, but this was taking the piss. They thought they could just swan out. Charlie gave an ostentatious bow in Bev’s direction. She spotted a flash of white flesh at the nape of his neck; his expensive tan had sold him well short.
“Going somewhere, gentlemen?” Good on you, guv. Byford wasn’t in the habit of being dismissed. “You haven’t finished your tea yet.”
Bev blinked. What was he playing at? Even Viner had lost his air of insouciance. He sounded almost as bewildered as he looked. “What tea? There isn’t any.”
“No,” Byford agreed. “But there will be. Answering questions is thirsty work. And by the time your client’s finished, he’ll be parched. Won’t you, Mr Hawes?”
Bev almost missed the flash of anger across Charlie’s face. The smile that followed was more lingering, and probably just as lethal. “It’s a funny thing, Mr Byford, I never touch the stuff. It’s the caffeine, you know. Bad for the health.”
“Not the only thing, is it, Charlie?” She expected to be ignored; she was.
Hawes sat, pointed at the empty chair and nodded at his brief. Viner took his cue and lowered himself into the seat. “I really don’t see what further —”
“Michelle Lucas, Mr Hawes. What can you tell me about her?” Byford was holding a pen, looking expectantly.
Hawes held out empty palms.
“Cassie Swain, Mr Hawes. What can you tell me about her?”
They were still empty.
“How many girls are you grooming, Mr Hawes?”
“I don’t do hair, Mr Byford.”
“Do a lot of make-up, though, don’t you, Charlie?” Bev couldn’t even fake a smile. She lifted his statement. “How much of this little lot is fantasy?”
“Shut the — ”
“My client has nothing further to add.” Viner put a restraining hand on Charlie’s arm.
“Everything you need is in there, including Mr Hawes’s home address and business premises. There are also several telephone numbers where he can be contacted again.” He added doubtfully, “Should the need arise.”
Bev glanced at the guv. He was furious. “Sergeant, get that tea sorted.”
“My pleasure, guv.” It was anything but. She was just beginning to needle Charlie; more prodding might reveal him as the little prick he was.
Byford held up the man’s statement. “We’ll need this checked, Sergeant. Give it to DC Newman.”
“No prob.”
It obviously was for the brief. “How much long —”
Byford looked at Viner. “As long as it takes.”
Charlie was leaning back in the chair, a gentle smile on his lips. Bev sauntered past, dropped a casual, “How’s Vicki, Charlie?”
“Fine.”
Gotcha! She spun round. Apart from profanities, it was the only spontaneous remark he’d uttered during the entire charade. Her broad smirk was short-lived.
“At least as far as I know.”
She wanted to wipe the yawn off his face. “And how far’s that, Charlie?”
He was casually picking sleep out of the corner of an eye. “I vaguely recall the name. She came to me for a job once.”
Lying bastard. “As what?”
“Part-time scrubber.” He smiled. “I had an opening for a cleaner.”
“Oh yeah.”
“I couldn’t take her on, of course.”
“Why’s that?”
“Didn’t like the look of her.” He was eyeing Bev again; bopping him would be a joy.
“Too old for you, Charlie? Schoolgirls are more your line, aren’t they?”
“My client –” Viner was on his feet.
“Shut it, Max. Sit down.”
“So when did you last see her?”
“Months ago.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“You’re lying.”
“Prove it, bint.”
Bev smiled. The veneer of civility was cracking. Viner tried for damage-limitation in the shape of distraction. “Are you arresting my client, Mr Byford?”
“No.”
“In that case —”
“…not yet.”
Charlie was tapping his fingers on the table. It was the only sound. Bev glanced at each man in turn. They all knew that until there was evidence, Charlie could walk whenever he wanted. Viner stated the obvious. “Unless you’re arresting Mr Hawes, he is free to leave. I remind you, Superintendent, that my client is here to further your inquiries, not as a target for hostility and offensive comment.”
“Chill, Max. Let them run their little checks. I’m in no hurry. Make sure you’re recording it all for the case, though.”
Bev glanced at the brief. He clearly wasn’t up to speed. “Case?”
Charlie outlined it, slowly. “Police harassment. Defamation. Perverting the course of justice.”
She snorted. That was rich. That was rolling in it. Byford obviously agreed.
“Tell DC Newman to start with Mr Hawes’s car, Bev.”
“Cars, Superintendent. I have several. For business, of course.”
“Of course,” Byford murmured.
Bev opened the door, but she didn’t want to leave; didn’t want to stop pushing the bastard about Vicki. But she knew she had to play it clever. She couldn’t reveal she’d heard from the girl. If Charlie did have her holed up, there was still a chance he didn’t know about the message. Finding out could be bad news: the worst. Bev glanced back to find Hawes’s gaze on her legs. “Eh, Charlie, I hear Vicki’s gone to Brighton. Know anything about that, do you?”
He re-ran the empty palms routine. “Search me.” Her eyes narrowed, as his blank look turned into a fake frown. The voice was mock-concern. “That can’t be right. She’s a friend of yours. She’d have sent you a card.” There was menace in the pause; she felt it even more when he spoke again. “Surely you’d have heard from her by now? Beverley?”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Ozzie. “Slow down, Sarge. That was a red light.”
Bev glared at him.
“D’you want me to drive?” he asked.
She tightened her grip on the wheel, left her foot where it was. “Do I look as if I want you to drive?”
“You look gutted to me.”
Ozzie had borne the brunt of Bev’s anti-Hawes tirade. The guv had eventually assigned half a dozen officers to crack the man’s alibi. Checks so far suggested that only a Trident sub would be more watertight.
She hit the horn, till a two-mile-a-fortnight banger pulled over to let them pass. “He’s fireproof, bombproof and bloody waterproof.”
“Have you ever thought he might not have done it?”
Never. Not once. And it was too late to start now. “He’s as guilty as sin. He’s just never been caught.”
She heard a sigh, was aware he’d turned to look through the window. Not that he’d see much. It was beans-on-toast-in front-of-the-telly time where Annie Flinn lived; more Neighbours than Neighbourhood Watch. The Robin Hood estate was all single mothers and double buggies. Family values were Australian and about as remote. Ozzie was doing her a favour tagging along.
“Sorry, Oz. But if we don’t come up with something rock hard, he’s gonna get away with it. He’s got witnesses sewn up like patchwork. How the hell does he do it?”
“Threats, I suppose,” he answered, but the voice had little interest.
“Yes, but what with? It’s not just the girls. He’s got all sorts of people backing him up. Councillors, a vicar, a couple of footballers. They’re queuing to throw him a line.”
“What road’s this woman’s place on?”
“Sherwood Street.”
“You just passed it.”
“Shit.”
She jammed the anchors on and a woman cyclist very nearly went into the back bumper. Bev mouthed an apology but the woman gave her the finger and a mouthful.
Ozzie’s face was set in disapproval. He waited till she was halfway through a three-point turn. “You’re letting the bloke get to you.”
It was lucky she had to keep her hands on the wheel. “What are you saying? Exactly?”
He scratched his head, regretted saying anything. “Look. I can see you’re upset…”
“You don’t see anything. He’s not getting to me. He’s getting to them. His girls. His goons. A sudden shedload of character witnesses. The man thinks he can walk on water.”
They were outside Annie’s pebble-dash semi. Bev turned to face him. “The thing is –”
“Sarge.” He tapped his watch. “It’s nearly six. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with. I’ve got something on tonight.”
She said nothing, released the seat belt, got out, knew her face would be flushed. He’d as good as told her to shut it. Was he right, did he have a point? Byford had as good as told her she was fixated on Hawes; now this. Coming from Ozzie, it was somehow more of a slight.
“Sorry, Sarge, it’s just – ” He had to lengthen his stride.
“Forget it.”
Annie must have seen the car pull up; she was leaning against the door, arms folded across her scrawny chest. “I was just on me way out.”
“Nice one, Annie.” Bev lifted a foot. “Now try this. It’s got bells on.”
“I’m goin’– ”
“It’s February, it’s brass monkeys and you’re wearing slippers and a T-shirt.”
“Smart arse.”
Bev smiled, bowed her head. “Got a few questions for you, Annie.”
“Know it all anyroad, don’t you?”
“Gonna ask us in then?” Bev said. The woman seemed to notice Ozzie for the first time. “This is DC Khan. He’s with me.” As superfluous remarks go, it was a cracker.
Annie clearly liked what she saw. “Lucky you.”
“Much as I’d like to stand here engaged in intellectual banter, we’ve got work to do.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not a good time.”
“It’s never a good time, Annie…”
The rest of the exchange was lost in a bellow from within. “You gonna stand there gassin’ all night, woman? Shut the bloody door.”
Annie hunched her shoulders in mute apology. Bev took it as an invitation and slipped past. “Quite right too. It’s Arctic out here.”
The narrow hall was more of an obstacle than ever; a clothes-horse and a bike had joined the general clutter since Bev’s last visit. In the gloom, a shin made contact with a pedal and the subsequent trip sent her flying into a load of boxer shorts and babygros. “Remind me to fix you up with a couple of light bulbs, Annie.”
“She don’t need nothin’ from you, cop.” The Boy Wonder, all mouth and muscles, had come to the kitchen door.
“Evening, Steve. Dash of milk and two sugars for me.” He moved aside, incredulous not chivalrous. “Close your mouth, son. I can see your tonsils.”
He was so intent on Bev he hadn’t noticed Ozzie. Then he did. “’ere.” He grabbed Ozzie’s arm. “We don’t want your sort in ’ere.”
“My sort?” Ozzie asked softly, barely above a whisper. “Now, what exactly do we mean by that?”
Bev was watching like a hawk. Steve Bell’s brain wasn’t on the same planet as his brawn. If he was going to lash out, it wouldn’t be verbally. Can’t be right all the time.
“Coons. Coloureds.” He sniffed loudly. “Specially Pakicops.”
A tap dripped in the silence. No one moved, then Ozzie looked down at the man’s hand, black fingernails still clutching the sleeve of his jacket. He didn’t speak, but slowly lifted his glance to Steve Bell’s face. Bev felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. There was a glint in Ozzie’s eyes she’d never seen before. She didn’t like it. Neither did Bell. He released his grip and strutted back to the table and a half-eaten meal.
Annie was in the doorway, wringing her hands. “Let him have his tea in peace, we can talk out here.”
Bev pulled out a chair. “Let’s not.” She nodded to Oz; they both sat. “I’m sure Steve’ll be only too happy to help.”
A mouth full of sausage and chips prevented a reply, but judging by the scowl her confidence was misplaced. “Had any more postcards recently?” Bev asked casually.
Annie strode to the sink, filled the kettle. “If that’s all you’re here for, you’ve had a wasted journey.”
“That’s okay. I enjoy the stimulating company.” Aiming for casual, she continued, “Anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear Vicki’s fine.” She waited while Annie absorbed that little snippet then threw out something for her to chew on. “Got it from the horse’s mouth so to speak: Charlie Hawes told me.” The woman’s face gave nothing away. Steve’s fork was more forthcoming. Bev was sure it had momentarily stopped shovelling food. “Heard of him, have you, Steve?”
He took a swig of lager, swilled it and swallowed before executing a slow shake of the head.
“Shit!” Annie’s hands were trembling, which could explain the half a ton of sugar she’d spilled on a surface that already had enough stains for a poor man’s Jackson Pollock. Clumsy or calculated? Bev was undecided.
Lover Boy had no doubt. “Clumsy cow.”
“Shut it,” Ozzie snapped. Bev couldn’t have put it better herself. If looks could kill, they’d both be fertiliser. She went to Annie, took the cloth and started clearing the mess. Annie sank into the empty chair, stroking her cheek, which was still red and presumably painful. “I know Vick’s fine. I told you that. I don’t need no one comin’ round here tellin’ me what I already know.”
“Charlie tell you, did he, Annie?”
“I don’t know any Charlies. How many times I got to tell you?”
“Bright idea of his. Getting you to tell me she was in Brighton.”
“For f*ck’s sake. She sent me a soddin’ card.”
Bev draped the cloth over a tap, looked through the window. Annie wasn’t going to budge. She’d lie through her gums to protect herself from Hawes. Going by the state of her face, who could blame her? But who was protecting Vicki? Bev sighed; she was going to keep quiet about the phone call. Telling Annie wouldn’t do any good and it could do a bunch of harm.
It was dark outside. Bev could see the tableau behind her reflected in the curtainless window. Steve was mopping up egg yolk with a slice of Mother’s Pride. Ozzie was looking on in disbelief if not disgust. Annie had her head in her hands. Bev puzzled, whirled it round in her mind. Something was different but she couldn’t place it. She turned round, it was time to get the show on the road. “Tell me about Michelle.”
Annie looked up. “Who?”
“Michelle Lucas.”
Steve let out a loud burp. “That bird in the paper, you soft cow.”
“Oh yeah. The one that got murdered. On the game or somethin’.”
“That’s right. Tell me about her.”
“Look, what is this?” Annie folded her arms. “I seen it in the paper same as everyone else.”
“You sure about that? You sure there isn’t anything I ought to know?”
She was talking to them both but all she could see of Bell was the back of his head. He’d had it shaved again; it was all pink, like a baby’s bum with nappy rash. Did he really think it made him look hard? Or was he getting that from page three of The Sun which was now covering his empty plate.
“I seen it in the Star,” Annie said. “End of story.”
“I don’t think so.” Bev reached into an inside pocket. “Anyway, this story’s got pictures.” She covered the bimbo’s boobs with the photograph: Vicki and Michelle. “Now think again, Annie. What is it you’re not sharing with me?”
Bev gave the woman credit for thinking on her feet. “That don’t prove nothin’. Vicki’s got loads of mates. Don’t mean I know ’em. She never brings nobody back here.”
She also awarded Annie marks for major porkies. “That’s not true, though, is it? Vicki didn’t have to bring her back here. Michelle was living here when that was taken.”
“You’re mad, you are. I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
Bad move. Hyperbole.
“How about that then, Annie? Ever seen that before?” She was pointing to the tree and she didn’t wait for an answer. “Only every time you look out of the bloody kitchen window.”
“Shove those in, Oz.”
Ozzie curled his lip, lifted a pound of Lincolnshire pork sausages and dropped them in Bev’s trolley. They joined half a dozen deep-pan pizzas, a mega pack of frozen chips and enough burgers to stock a chest freezer.
“Your food’s not fast. It’s supersonic,” he said.
She shrugged. “Unlike some, I don’t have a doting mother and a million adoring sisters catering to my every whim.”
“I do my share,” he protested.
“Yeah, well, I do it all. And when I get home late, the last thing I want is to go prancing round in a pinny, rustling up a bit of haute cuisine.”
“Please yourself.”
She took a Black Forest gateau from the freezer cabinet and gave him a sweet smile. “I do.”
He shook his head. “You’ll get fat.”
“Not me, mate. Run it off, I do. I’m like a streak of lightning in the mornings. People stare in awe as I flash past all of a blur.”
He wasn’t impressed. Not surprising really. It didn’t convince her. Tomorrow’s run would be her first for weeks. Even now she was half hoping Frankie would cry off.
“Told you this’d be a good time to come, didn’t I?” She reached across for a family pack of Neapolitan.
“There’s never a good time for Tesco.”
He was wrong there, even a couple of check-outs were empty. She made for the nearest.
“Yeah, well, my bread bin thinks I’ve emigrated. Still, it was good of you to keep me company. You’re off out tonight, aren’t you?” She was fishing but he wasn’t biting.
He nodded, started unloading. “We hadn’t finished, had we?”
She was puzzled for a moment, then remembered. “Ah! The Annie Flinn book of fairy tales.”
“Our Annie wouldn’t have it, would she? Not till you caught her out.” He gestured for her to explain. “It was pitch black when we got there. How did you know there was a tree out back?”
She winked. “Lucky guess. Worked, though, didn’t it?” Faced with the irrefutable, Annie had no option but to come clean. Michelle had stayed with them for about three months. It had slipped her mind, she claimed. The girl was hardly ever there, always out or in her room. And anyway, it was ages ago. Couldn’t remember why she left; some business over a bloke. Good riddance to bad rubbish as far as Annie was concerned. As for the figure in the background, looked more like a dab of grease to her.
Ozzie gave a low whistle. “You’ve got a nerve.”
“Yeah. Not sure how far it takes us, though.”
“Well, we now know truth is a difficult concept for Annie and that animal.” Ozzie was holding the sausages: somewhat apt in the thought-association stakes.
“Bell was out of order. I thought you were gonna land one on him.”
Ozzie sniffed. “Water off a duck’s back, that in-your-face stuff.”
He opened his mouth to go on, then thought better of it. She prompted. “As opposed to?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
As opposed to the racist literature in your locker, Paki-gags in the canteen, shit through the letterbox and faceless taunts on the phone. A cocky little thug like Bell wasn’t the only sick git in need of treatment. Still, a few tests might help. “Run a check on him in the morning, Oz.”
It was near freezing outside. She looked up. The sky was like black velvet with a sprinkling of silver glitter. No tea-cosy effect tonight; it was going to be pretty parky.
“I’ll get a bus if you don’t mind, Sarge. I’m running a bit late.”
“Sure you don’t want a lift?”
“No, my sister’s just up the road from here. I’m babysitting.” He flung a Blues scarf over his shoulder. “You got anything on?”
She was joining the girls soon, so long johns and a thermal vest if she had any sense. The guv had wanted her to knock it on the head. He couldn’t see any mileage in it now they had Charlie – if not in custody – at least on tap. Bev had stood firm; this was about the girls now. If they had the goods on Charlie – she’d be doing her best to get them to share. More than that. She’d told them she’d keep an eye on them and she would. She smiled picturing Jules and Patty and the others. “Same as you, really, Oz. Spot of babyminding.”