31
Highgate nick was buzzing with news of a result, the corridors full of high-fives and wide grins. Bev kept her head down, mind open, and made straight for Interview Three. A plod with bulging hair and big biceps was hovering at the door.
“Can’t let you in, Sarge. The governor wants him to sweat.”
She nodded. “Shove over, Andy. I just want a peep.” Jack the Ripper could have been in there, it still wouldn’t convince her they had the right man.
Couldn’t be, could it? It wasn’t Charlie Hawes.
She had to stretch to reach the eye hole. A thin bloke in his forties was perched on the edge of a metal chair. His knees were clamped, fingers cradled in his lap. He looked like a backroom bean-counter: a tad pompous but essentially anonymous. She took in the Burton’s suit, the matching shiny grey shoes, the heavy eyebrows, the thin lips and the flecks of grey in the slicked black hair. She almost missed the tiny cross dangling from his left ear. Once spotted, she couldn’t take her eyes off it. It was like a silverfish, darting and quivering. There was either a draught in the room or man at Burton’s had the wind up him.
“He been charged?” Bev’s nose was still on the door.
“Nah. He just walked in off the street. The governor was in with him earlier for an hour or so. Him and DI Powell. Didn’t say a dicky bird to me. I’m just here to keep an eye.”
“Can’t see you having a problem.” She turned to face him. “If he’s the killer, I’m the Virgin Mary.”
“He’s a time-waster, guv. Got to be.”
Byford’s unwavering stare was adding to Bev’s unease. She was standing on the other side of his desk, shuffling her feet. She’d popped her head round the door, fully expecting that by now, Prime Suspect would be Prime Plonker and Byford would be banging on about eliminating yet another moron from the inquiry. It happened all the time. Every big case, every witness appeal, every Crimewatch reconstruction, the loonies came out like a rash and were generally let off with a slapped wrist. That was the usual scenario, only this time Byford had summoned her, was using a different script. This time the story appeared to stand up. The man’s background was being checked and though the guv wasn’t cracking open the Mo?t, there was a sparkle in his eyes. Bev’s only conviction was that they were in danger of being distracted by a futile diversion. She wanted nothing to slow the inquiry.
“Have you spoken to him?” Byford asked, knowing she hadn’t.
“No,” she admitted, “but — ”
“But nothing. Sit down.” He took a tape from a drawer. “Keep still. And listen.”
Given the tone, it was not the time to argue. “This is what he’s told us so far.”
She watched as he put the tape in the machine and pressed play. A soft voice, accentless and without inflexion, began to describe the final moments of Michelle Lucas’s life. He told them where he’d picked her up, described her clothes and her wounds.
Bev could hear the whoosh of her heartbeat in her ears. She was straining to pick up a nuance, waiting to pounce on the slightest slip. She was trying to marry the narrative with the nerd downstairs. It was too pat, too prepped. It wasn’t possible. Was it?
“He could have got it from the papers, guv.” She hated the hint of pleading in her voice.
“Keep quiet!” he thundered, face flushed. “Concentrate on the voice.”
She screwed up her face, listened less to the words, more to the way they were spoken. There was something familiar. When had she heard it before? Byford was watching, way ahead. It felt like a test but her mind was a blank.
He hit the pause button. “Kenny. Remember him?”
Of course. The nutter on the radio. The studio interview; all that rabble rousing. “And that proves what?”
“On its own, very little.”
Obviously more to come. “So?”
“You recognised the voice. Eventually.” He took a sip of coffee; he hadn’t offered her a cup. “Mike recognised it immediately.”
“What are you saying?”
“Kenny,” he said, as if the name it had inverted commas, “also happens to be the man who discovered Louella Kent’s body on Tuesday night. His real name is Duncan Ferguson. Mike interviewed him at the scene.”
Golden Rule Number One: suspect the victim’s nearest and dearest. Golden Rule Number Two: suspect the person who found the body. She’d always hated rules. She studied her nails. “He’ll be blaming it on voices in his head next.”
“He already is.”
The attempted nonchalance failed. Her head shot up, eyes wide. “What?”
“He says he’s acting under instructions from the devil. Voices tell him what to do. He’s scared he’ll kill again.”
She shook her head and sighed. “Classic.”
“For God’s sake, Sergeant, he wouldn’t be the first nutter to kill a hooker. It doesn’t make the girls any less dead.”
She felt the first faint stirring of doubt, wouldn’t admit it even to herself.
“Come on, guv, if you were so sure you’d have charged him by now.”
He banged the desk with his fist. “That’s enough.”
She’d seen him angrier, but never at her. He leaned across the polished wood, pointed a finger. “You can’t accept the killer isn’t Charlie Hawes, can you?”
She met his eyes, registered the deep lines and lilac shadows. The media were still giving him a hard time. She felt sorry for him. But not that sorry. “And what about you? Are you so desperate for a collar, you’ll take the first one that comes along?”
The silence lasted for ten seconds. She looked away first.
“Get out.” Only two words, but the delivery had more impact than a diatribe.
She held her hands out. “I just – ”
“Now.”
She halted at the door, hated leaving it like this. She had more time for Byford than any cop she’d ever worked with. But it didn’t mean he was always right.
“Before you go,” he said, “you need to bear two other factors in mind.”
She turned, not sure she wanted to hear.
“Ferguson goes on to describe both murder scenes in detail. There’s no way he could have picked it up from the press. A lot of it hasn’t reached the papers.” He paused, obviously wanting her to be quite clear on the point. “And he told us about the money in Michelle’s shoe.”
She pursed her lips. It could have been an inspired guess; most prostitutes hid their cash.
“And before you add anything,” Byford said, “he knows how much and which shoe. And he knows because he says he put it there.”
The shock must have shown in her face. However great the temptation, Ferguson could no longer just be written off.
Ozzie was sitting at her desk, scribbling a note. Bev plonked down a steaming cup of coffee and folded her arms. “You might be fast track but no one gets promoted that quick.”
Ozzie glanced up and grinned, saw her face and shot up smartish. She flopped into the chair, stretched her legs. “Checking it out for size were you?”
“Bit big for me, Sarge.”
He said it with a straight face, but Bev’s was poker-like. “Thanks, mate.”
“I didn’t – ”
She flapped a hand. “Forget it.”
“You all right, Sarge?”
No, she bloody wasn’t. “Fine.”
She’d done a detour via the interview room, wanted another butcher’s at Duncan Ferguson. He’d been on his knees, eyes closed, fingers steepled. Talk about God-bothering, he was certainly getting up her nose. She’d asked herself the same question over again. If Ferguson was in the frame, was Charlie Hawes still in the picture?
“Thought you’d be chuffed,” Ozzie said. “What with the case being pretty well sewn up.”
“Tacked round the edges, Oz. Tacked round the edges.”
“Not what I’ve heard.” He pulled up a seat. “Word is, DI Powell’s found a stack of stuff at Ferguson’s place.”
“Powell couldn’t find yeast in a brewery.”
“Well, he’s come up with enough for charges.”
“Murder?”
“Not yet.”
She shrugged.
“You don’t buy it, do you?”
She put her elbows on the desk and her head in her hands. “I just don’t know, Oz.” When she closed her eyes, she still saw Charlie Hawes. Was her mind sealed as well? “It just doesn’t feel right.”
“Doesn’t always come down to feelings, does it, Bev?”
There was a touch of concern in the voice. It was time to change the subject. “What’s Powell come up with?”
“Scrapbook full of cuttings. Prostitute murders going back to the Ripper. Hate mail he hadn’t got round to posting.”
So Ferguson was the arse-wipe who’d sent the girls their loo paper. She recalled Jules’s graphic demo during the meet at Val’s place. Wouldn’t do any harm to check; she made a mental note, reached for the coffee. The case against Ferguson was mounting. So how come she felt so low?
The concern was in his face now. “None of it makes Charlie Hawes a saint, Sarge. There was every reason to go after him. No one’s gonna think any the less of you.” He paused. “I certainly don’t.”
Were her feelings that obvious? “What did you want anyway, Oz?”
He pointed to a couple of print-outs on the desk. “Came through earlier. Makes interesting reading.”
“Steve Bell?”
He nodded. “Bit academic now.”
She sipped the coffee, skimmed the reports. “It’s a soddin’ crime wave, Oz. Christ, you could swim in it.”
Stephen Joseph Bell was older than he looked and even more brain-dead than he appeared. He was twenty six and he’d been in and out of youth detention for years before getting to spend time with the big boys. Probably saw it as career progression. The list was impressive: taking without consent, criminal damage, assault, wounding. She looked at Oz. “One of life’s givers, then?”
“He’s been straight for three years.”
“He’s been lucky for three years.” She threw the papers on the desk. “Losers like Bell don’t do straight.”
Ozzie was studying his fingernails. “Word is he does both.”
“Oh? Swings both ways?”
He nodded. “Someone in the incident room remembered him from way back. Reckons he boosted his pocket money down the Queensway as a rent boy. Got into it while he was still at school.”
“Let’s do a bit of digging.”
He looked questioningly. “Reckon it’s still worth it?”
“Sure do. Ferguson might have confessed, but he hasn’t been convicted. And you know what they say, Oz?” She tapped the side of her nose. “It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”
“You said it, Sarge.” He turned but she still caught the rider. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Lucky the phone rang; she was about to chuck it at his rapidly departing back.
“Thanks for the call. I got here soon as I could.” Bev was struggling to keep up. Why did doctors always walk so fast? She blamed ER. Mind, Doctor Thorne looked very fetching in a flapping white coat. She smiled; Oz’d be sorry to miss it.
“I didn’t ring till I was sure. She’s definitely coming out of it. She’s opening her eyes, trying to talk.”
They stood to one side as a muscular porter raced past with an unconscious child on a trolley. A woman – presumably the mother – was running alongside. Bev caught a glimpse of her face and prayed the future didn’t hold a similar fate for herself.
“You all right?” the doctor asked.
Bev nodded. “I take it Cassie hasn’t had any flowers since I last checked?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Just wondered.”
They’d reached Intensive Care. “You’d be better off asking one of the nurses.” Doctor Thorne smiled. “They know far more about what goes on round here than I do.” She held the door open. “I’ll catch you later.”
Alison Granger was at the bedside again. Cassie was about the same age as one of Alison’s daughters. Bev tiptoed down the ward, not that normal footsteps were likely to wake many of its occupants.
“Hi, Alison. How’s the patient?” Bev’s face fell; the patient looked as lively as a wet park bench.
“Not so bad, Sarge,” she winked. “Bit tired, if you know what I mean.” She rose and beckoned Bev towards the end of the bed. “She’s trying it on.”
“Not with you, Alison.”
“She’s as compos mentis as you and me, when she wants to be.” She leaned closer. “I’ve caught her peeping every now and again. If anyone’s around she doesn’t like the look of, she pretends to be asleep.”
Sounded reasonable to Bev. Bit like a one night-stand she’d once had. “She said anything yet?”
“About half an hour ago. Asked where she was. How long she’d been here.”
Good signs. Bev nodded. “I’ll sit with her. You grab a coffee and a bite to eat.”
The seat was still warm; Bev pushed it nearer. The bear she’d bought earlier was at Cassie’s feet. She rescued it, laid it on the pillow. She thought she caught a flicker in the girl’s eyes but might have been mistaken.
Gently, she held Cassie’s hand, willing her to respond. There was only the rise and fall of her breathing under the thin white sheet. Gradually Bev started to talk. She told her about Michelle, she told her about Vicki, she told her about the other girls and what they were trying to do. She held nothing back: she ran through her thoughts on Louella, Annie Flinn, Charlie Hawes, and the anorak who’d confessed. She kept her voice soft and confiding, as if Cassie was a good mate and as she spoke, she stroked the girl’s hand. “Thing is, Cass, what if we’ve got the wrong man? What if he’s a wally after the proverbial fifteen minutes? Anyway,” she lowered her voice even further, “you can’t tell me Charlie Hawes is Mr Clean. God, I’d like to pin something on him.”
Bev felt a slight pressure under her fingers but Cassie’s face remained a blank canvas. “I bet he did this to you, didn’t he? See, I reckon you and me, we could put him away, but I can’t do it on my own.”
Bev held her breath. Nothing. Short of a good shake, there was little more she could do. “I’m all talked out, Cass. Bore for England, me. I’ll just sit a while if that’s okay with you.” She slumped back in the chair, still clutching Cassie’s hand, and closed her eyes. She was knackered; knackered and racked off. She’d invested too many hopes. Cassie was as scared as the others; probably even more terrified. Unbidden, images sprang to Bev’s mind. Michelle naked in the mortuary, Louella dead in the park, a laughing Vicki across the table in the police canteen. As if that wasn’t enough, she recalled the little girl from the trolley, and her own father with as many drips in him as an umbrella stand.
She swallowed hard but knew it wouldn’t stem the flow. Sodding hospitals; bloody places. She sniffed loudly and dashed her cheeks with the heel of her hand, the damp tears cooling her skin. She let go of Cassie, wrapped the girl’s fingers round the bear, leaned over and pecked her forehead. “I’m off now, Cass. Ta for listening.”
She straightened and gave the girl a last glance. Her eyes widened as one of Cassie’s slowly opened.
“England?” said the girl. “You could bore for soddin’ Europe.”
Bev felt like shoving the bear in a bedpan, then she saw the girl’s smile.
“You don’t half talk a load of crap. D’you know that?”
“Give me the good stuff, then, Cass.”
The girl’s smile vanished. “I’m cream crackered, honest.”
“I’ll come back. Any time you’re ready.”
The girl looked down at the teddy bear, stroked its ear between thumb and forefinger. Bev could have kicked herself; she’d asked too much, pushed too far. She’d almost given up, was about to leave, when Cassie spoke again. Her voice was muffled but the message was clear. “I’ll think about it. Come back tomorrow.”
“If you’re tied up, I can come back.”
Bev’s eyes travelled from the fluffy pink towel turbanning Val’s hair to a man’s blue-striped shirt barely covering her boobs.
“Thursday, innit?” The big woman winked. “Don’t do bondage Thursdays. Come in, chuck.”
Bev followed Val’s swaying rump as it sashayed into the front room. Frank Sinatra was doing the rounds on an old Fidelity. Bev’s mouth twitched, but any irony in the lady being a tramp was lost on the big woman. She watched as Val swooped to retrieve a smoking ciggie from an overflowing ashtray.
“Don’t make ’em like that any more, do they?”
The player? The records? Ol’ Blue Eyes? Bev hedged her bets, uttered a noncommittal “Right.”
“Grab a pew. I’m on maintenance.”
“Maintenance?” Bev sank into a bean-bag. “You make more than me. What you doing on maintenance?”
Val rolled her eyes. “Body maintenance, you daft sod.”
Bev was thinking grease guns and MOTs but looking round it was all moisturisers and CFCs. For someone whose make-up could fit in a matchbox, it was riveting.
“I’ve waxed me legs, masked me face, shaved me armpits and I was just about to do me nails,” Val said.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“As if.”
Bev was keeping it light. There was a good chance it was going to get heavy later. “How’s Banjo?”
Val wiggled her shoulders and arched an eyebrow. “Ooh, chuck. He can pluck my strings any day. Know what I mean?”
“Pluck?”
Val’s laugh almost dislodged the turban. Bev watched as she ran a finger along a display of tiny bottles on top of the mantelpiece. Colours started at lurid and went through every shade of garish. The finger hovered between scarlet and fuchsia. Val finally plumped for fresh blood. She perched on the bed, and hoisted up a surprisingly slim, elegant foot. For a woman of such generous proportions it was a bold move, a rare sight. And not one on which Bev wished to dwell. She glanced round. “Thought you only collected pigs, Val.”
There was a toy rabbit under the table. Bev leaned across to retrieve it but turned back as Val let rip a string of expletives. The bottle was on the floor, the nail polish seeping into the carpet. “I’m still sticky,” Val said. “Grab a bit of cotton wool and get it up, will you, chuck?”
Bev soaked a pad in remover and worked out as much of the stain as she could. Frank was still crooning away in the corner. He’d just hit the bit about not dishing the dirt with the rest of the girls. Bev looked at Val and knew what he meant.
“Ta, kid. Chuck it in the bin, will you?” Bev looked round. Val smiled. “It’s out the back. Pop the kettle on while you’re at it.”
The kitchen was obviously not a place in which Val spent much time. It was tiny, with a floor like a chessboard and walls in magenta. Even Bev felt a touch of claustrophobia. There was a packet of Yorkshire tea and a bag of sugar on the side. She made for the fridge, which was bare bar a carton of milk and a slab of Cadbury’s. A quick scout round the cupboards unearthed a taste for baked beans, pickled onions and Horlicks. Could explain why Val was short on crockery.
“Do a lot of entertaining, do you?” Bev asked, placing a mug on the floor by Val’s feet.
“Yes,” she smirked. “But not in the kitchen.” She was blowing her nails dry: finger not toe, thank God. “Anyway, Bev, what you doin’ here?”
“Wanted you to have a decko at this.” She reached into an inside pocket.
“You’ll have to hold it for us, chuck. Don’t want to smudge me handiwork, do I?”
Bev held a plastic envelope in front of Val’s face. The letter inside was composed of words cut from newspapers, though Bev reckoned Ferguson had dropped an ‘L’ and inserted an ‘F.’
F*ck off slag. Go home Hooker scum
Val sniffed. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
“What do you think, Val? Is it the same as the others?”
She screwed her eyes, chewed her bottom lip. “Not sure, chuck. To be honest, if you’ve seen one – ”
“It’s important. Have another look.”
Val checked her nails then took the envelope from Bev, held it closer, squinting. “It could be.” She shrugged. “That’s the best I can do.”
Bev nodded. It was better than nothing.
“Sorry, chuck. But they’re all much of a muchness. There’s only so many ways you can tell a tart to get lost. Know what I mean?”
“Sure.” Bev took a sip of tea, wondered how long it would take Val to ask.
The big woman handed it back. “Where’d you get it, Bev?”
Was the tone a tad too cas? Bev made hers slow and deliberate. “From the bloke we’re about to charge with Michelle’s murder.” She was watching closely but had to dodge half a mouthful of tea as it shot out of Val’s mouth.
The big woman dabbed at her chin, glanced at Bev. “Sorry about that, chuck. It went the wrong way.”
Wrong way; wrong man? Bev said nothing; waited again. Sinatra was the only one saying anything. Bev took another sip. Her eyes never left Val’s face. Which was more important? What someone said, or what they didn’t? Bev was itching to find out.
“You haven’t asked who,” she said.
Val shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “You’d have told me if you wanted me to know.”
“Would I, Val? Is that what you do? Only tell people what you want them to know?”
The big woman’s mouth was like a letterbox in a post strike.
“What would you say if I told you we had Charlie in?” Okay, I lied.
“I’d say a you were a bloody miracle worker.” The sneer was genuine.
“Hallelujah,” cheered Bev. “And I’ve just performed another.”
“You what?”
Bev leaned back, hands crossed behind her head, surveying the latest. “You’ve miraculously got your memory back. Never heard of him before, had you?”
Val made an angry grab for a pack of Marlboro. “You bang on about him so much – it feels I’ve known him a lifetime.”
There was real anger in the big woman’s voice. Bev had misjudged the pace. Sod it; there was nothing to lose now. She leaned forward, dropped her voice. “He’s gonna get away with it, Val. Charlie’ll walk. How many more lives is he gonna f*ck up before someone says enough?”
“I’ve got nothin’ to say.”
“You didn’t get a phone call from Vicki, did you?”
She lit a cigarette. It wasn’t much of an answer.
“When did Vick have the kid, Val?”
“What kid?” She was lying, but her eyes weren’t. Bev saw it among the terror.
“Are you really so scared of the little shit?” she asked gently. “I really thought you were different, Val. I thought you cared.” She leaned closer. “He preys on kids. He’s a f*ckin’ monster.”
Val jabbed the air with her cigarette. “If you’re so sure he done it, get some soddin’ evidence. That’s what they pay you for, innit?”
Bev looked away. There was a truth in there that was difficult to face.
Val hadn’t finished. “I don’t do any bugger’s dirty work. An’ I’ll tell you this straight, Bev. The way you go on about him? It sounds personal.”
She’d never got out of a bean-bag so fast. She towered over Val, who’d slid down in the seat.
“It is f*ckin’ personal. Hawes has made it personal. He was in the park the other night – left me some fan mail. He’s been in my home. He’s threatening me. He’s trying to freak me out. But you know something, Val? I don’t scare easy.”
Bev was surprised to find a moistness in her eyes and put it down to rage.
There was concern in the big woman’s voice. “Leave it be, Bev. Back off.”
“I don’t do back off. Oh, and Val…” She paused. “Next time you see Charlie, tell him that from me.” She was winging it. Val knew more than she was letting on, but it was anyone’s guess how much.
“I don’t – ”
Bev flapped a hand. “Save it.”
At some point, Sinatra had segued into Luck Be A Lady. One letter out if you ask me, thought Bev. She reluctantly turned away.
“The girls’ll be out tonight,” Val said.
Bev didn’t react. So?
“You comin’, or what?”
It sounded like a spot of bridge-building. Bev was out of bricks.
“Thought you didn’t do back off.”
Bev glanced at the big woman. “Your point being?”
“Didn’t last long, did it? Just a one-night stand for you, wasn’t it? It ain’t like that for me and the girls. On the game, they call it. Well, there’s not a lot of fun in it.” She flicked ash in her empty mug. “I thought you were supposed to be lookin’ out for us out there. Got cold feet, did you?”
“Got cold everything.” Bev gave a tepid smile. She had to admit Val had a point. “Okay, I’ll try and make it.”
Val’s reply was lost in a piercing scream coming through the letterbox. “Ma! Val! Let us in.”
“Jules?” asked Bev.
Val nodded, lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Christ, if she hammers the bloody door any harder, there won’t be anything to open.”
Bev went with her, it was time to leave anyway. Jules was hidden by Val’s bulk so Bev heard rather than saw. The words tumbled out in the girl’s excitement.
“They’ve taken him in, ma! Right outside Woolie’s. I’ve just seen it. Bundled into the back of a car, he was.”
Val laid her hands on Jules’s shoulders. “Hold your horses, kid. What you goin’ on about? Who’s taken who, where?”
“The Bill. They got Charlie Hawes. And I’m bleedin’ sure they ain’t takin’ ’im home.”
The station. That’s where they’d taken Charlie Hawes.
Bev was heading back under her own steam, still fuming she hadn’t been on the Highgate welcoming committee. She was driving as fast as she could, but the school run meant traffic was at a crawl. She’d left Val’s place and got straight on the phone. Her joy at Charlie’s detention was tempered by a childish churlishness that she’d been kept in the dark it was happening. Charlie was helping inquiries, Byford had told her. He’d been cautioned, was under arrest but not charged.
They’d had a call. A Mr Angry, from Ladywood, complaining about his lock-up. There was something squatting in it. A black BMW. A black BMW that hadn’t appeared on Charlie’s helpful little list. A glaring omission as it happened, because the motor had Charlie’s name all over it. Okay, slight exaggeration. There was a phone bill made out to a Mr C Hawes. And there was more. There was evidence of a passenger. A girl with blonde hair. They had a Hawes-Lucas link, and forensics were working full pelt to see if they could pin down another with Louella Kent. The breakthrough had added impetus and focus, and every scrap of evidence from both crime scenes was getting the works.
Bev listened to the details with a growing smile, a cross between smug satisfaction and incipient excitement. Quite what it meant as far as Ferguson’s confession went, she neither knew nor for the moment cared. The spotlight was back on Charlie, and Byford wanted her in on the questioning. The only thing holding her back was a C-reg Volvo full of snotty-nosed kids pulling revolting faces out of the back window. She could do that. She did a quick Quasimodo then brought out the star turn; no kid could top a flashing blue light on the roof.
Talk about conjuring tricks. You had to give it to the guv. Bev was well impressed. In terms of the interview, she was taking a back seat. Mind, it had a great view and Byford hadn’t ruled out the odd heckle. She’d have to watch her lip a bit; the tape was running this time.
Charlie, looking even tastier than before, was in the same chair that Ferguson had occupied only a few hours earlier. Rather than tight-arsed perch, Hawes was laid-back loll; legs stretched in front, hands crossed behind his head. The pose was in line with the look: expensive ivory chinos and baggy cotton shirt open at the neck. He was either feeling the heat or showing off his tan. Given the guv’s fancy footwork, she hoped the heat.
“You can see my dilemma, can’t you, Mr Hawes?”
Charlie shrugged, not even trying to conceal a yawn.
“You were quite clear on the point when we last met.” Byford glanced down at a notebook. “‘I never even knew the girl’ is what you told us.”
Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh. “What I actually said was as far as I know. And that’s still the case. I don’t recall meeting Michelle Lucas.”
“Then how do you explain the fact that she was in your car?” Byford sounded awfully polite and reasonable. Bev would be putting the verbal boot in by now. Her glance went from Charlie to the evidence bags neatly lined up on the desk. Inside the first was a single hair which, though coiled, was blonde and very long. The tiny stain on the scrap of carpet in the second was less apparent to the naked eye. Not that it mattered, the tag was quite clear. There was more of the same at the lab. The findings in front of them were preliminary. Not so much a rush job as a rocket launch. Essential, with Ferguson still shouting his guilty mouth off. Charlie was saying nothing.
“Blood and hair. Both Michelle’s. How did they get there, Mr Hawes?”
Bev looked back at Charlie, searching in vain for a sign of unease.
“I don’t know.”
Byford smiled. “I think you’re going to have to do better than that.”
“If I knew, I’d share it with you.” Was that a wink? The oik had actually winked at her. Cocky little sod.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like us to contact Mr Viner?” Byford asked.
Charlie had already refused his solicitor. Bev reckoned he was about to change his mind.
“When I feel the need to call Max, I’ll let you know, okay?”
Bluff? Bravado? Bullshit? Bev hadn’t a clue, but anything that kept a brief at bay was fine by her.
“So let’s get back to Michelle,” Byford said.
Charlie pursed his lips, jabbed a thumb in Bev’s direction. “Can’t you send our Beverley to get coffee? I’m parched.”
“I don’t do skivvy,” she snarled.
“Sergeant.” Byford played peacemaker. “Just pop your head out.”
PACE obliged them to feed and water sleazeballs like Charlie. At least if she could collar someone in the corridor, Byford wouldn’t have to stop the interview. Andy was passing and she put in an order.
“I’m still looking for answers, Mr Hawes. At some stage Michelle Lucas was a passenger in your car.”
Come on, guv, thought Bev, stop p-ssyfooting around.
“The girl was a prostitute.” Byford’s polite tone didn’t waver. “What does that make you? Punter or pimp?”
Bev would like to have seen Charlie’s reaction, but she was still by the door.
“Confused, Mr Byford, confused.” He was doing a lot of heavy sighing, was Charlie. “I can only imagine it must have happened when the car was stolen.”
“Stolen?” How Byford kept the incredulity out of his voice Bev would never know.
“Yeah. Two, or was it three weeks back?”
“And this theft,” Byford paused, “was it reported?”
“Come on, Superintendent. As if I’d bother the police with something as trivial as a missing motor.” He lifted his shoulders, turned to include Bev in the general bonhomie. “Not when you people have far weightier matters to keep you busy.”
“This motor,” Bev asked, “how come you never mentioned it before?”
Charlie was all innocence. “Didn’t I?”
“Your little fairy story’s there, Charlie. Take a look.”
He reached eagerly for the papers he’d brought to their first interview. Bev watched incredulously as he traced every line with a finger, his lips moving to the words he was pretending to read. He looked up, shook his head. “Nope. It’s not there.” He smiled at Bev. “It must have slipped my mind.”
“What mind?” Bev asked.
He paused, deep in thought, then hunched over the table, cradled his head in his hands. There was a shudder in his next breath and another in the subsequent sigh. She glanced at the guv. My God. Was the hard man cracking?
After what seemed like hours, he sat up, hands posed in surrender. “Is it too late?”
She answered quickly, her breathing suspended. “Too late for what?”
“To report the theft of my car.”
She wondered if he practised the smile in his mirror; imagined how it would look minus a few of those perfect white teeth. Thankfully, there was a knock on the door. Bev relieved Andy of the tray, managed to resist dumping it in Charlie’s lap.
“No sugar for me. Everyone says I’m sweet enough. What do you think, Beverley?”
She gave him the finger.
“Should I describe the sergeant’s gesture for the tape, Superintendent?”
He was enjoying it. She went back to the door, out of harm’s way: his. Would nothing get under this scumbag’s skin?
“Let’s cut the crap, Charlie.” Byford changed tack and tone. It had the desired effect on Bev; no effect on Charlie. He must have played cool guy so often, he no longer recognised the heat. Byford increased it.
“This story of yours about the motor. That’s all it is, isn’t it? A story. Once upon a time…” He leaned forward. “Only this time they didn’t all live happily ever after. Michelle Lucas didn’t live at all. What happened, Charlie? You were her pimp. What went wrong? Did she get greedy? Did she want a bigger cut?”
“Not the most appropriate choice of words, Superintendent.” Charlie was scratching the back of his neck. Byford was dangerously close to wringing it. Bev had never seen the old man so close taking a pop.
“Just supposing the girl had ever worked for me.” Charlie glanced at his watch. “And that’s a very big supposition, Mr Byford. But let’s just say she did. Why on earth would I kill her? Fifteen years old? Beautiful girl like that?” He was barking, if he thought they’d fall for that. “Not that I knew her, of course.” He smiled. “I saw her picture in the papers. A pimp would have to be mad to get rid of a kid like Michelle. Talk about killing the goose.”
“Profit and loss. That’s what it comes down to, is it, Charlie?” Bev asked.
He ignored her, held out his hands. “I’m a businessman, Mr Byford. I make killings all the time. On the market or on paper. Not in real life.”
“Tell me about Louella Kent. Where does she fit into this?”
“How the hell should I know?” A touch of impatience? Good. Bev folded her arms. “Look, I’m getting bored. How much longer is this going on?”
“Till you stop faffing around and tell us the truth.”
“I did not kill Michelle. I did not kill the other girl. I’ve never even heard of her.”
He sounded genuine, but then he would. God, thought Bev, why wasn’t it like cops-on-the-box, all cut and dried in an hour?
“I may have met Michelle,” he conceded. “I meet a lot of people. But I sure as hell never came across the Kent girl.”
He must have. Whoever killed Michelle had also killed Louella. It was all or nothing. He was leaning forward, his hands on the desk as though closer proximity would add credence. Bev returned to her seat, regretting that the guv’s magic appeared to have vanished. They could do with another evidence bag of tricks.
Charlie glanced at his watch again.
“What’s up?” Bev asked. “Expecting visitors?”
He flashed a smile. “What a sense of humour! Must be great compensation when you’re such a dog.”
His veneer of charm had slipped. She tilted her head. “How kind.”
Byford cleared his throat. “I want to take you through your statement step by step. We’ve spoken to most of the people whose names you gave us. But there are one or two…”
Bev tuned out, struck by a sudden thought. She narrowed her eyes. It was wing and prayerish. She hoped it wasn’t a flight of fancy. As she saw it, Charlie Hawes was better groomed than a stable: manicured, pedicured; coiffeured. So how come his all-over tan wasn’t? How come he had a tidemark to rival Annie Flinn’s?
“When did you have your hair cut, Charlie?” she asked softly.
“What the —?”
“How long was it, Charlie?”
“Sod off — ”
“Tied it back, did you, Charlie?”
“F*ck you.”
“You first.”
She got up, stood in front of him, invaded his space. “You see, Charlie, we found a scrunchy near Louella’s body. It had lots of long dark hair in it. Long dark hair just like I bet yours used to be. And you know what? We’re going to get a match.”
For the first time, he looked unsure. “Can’t be. I’ve never been near the girl.”
“That’s what you said about Michelle.”
“I’m being framed here.”
“Said that before too.” She smiled sweetly. “Didn’t you, Charles?”
Byford gave her a nod, scraped back his chair. “I’m suspending this interview for the time being.” She barely noticed the wind-down spiel for the tape; her focus was on Charlie and his growing unease. It increased further when the guv spoke again. “You need to consider your position very seriously, Mr Hawes. I strongly recommend that when we resume you have your solicitor present.”