7
Across the city, the girls were gathering in Big Val’s place: end terrace, back street, front room. The weekend’s events had forced a camaraderie of sorts on women who normally wouldn’t give each other the time of day. Out on the patch, they circled round like big cats staking territory. Now they were sitting round sharing six-packs, trying to look cool. Except Val.
Val was the oldest, admitted to forty; the meet had been her idea. She’d put the word out: only the kids at this stage. Six had shown – just one face missing.
Big Val had moved down from Leeds in the late seventies. She’d worked the streets longer than the Royal Mail. She was pinning a mass of unruly red hair into a beehive. “I’ll tell you something for nothing. If we don’t look out for each other, no bugger else will.”
She was perched on a bed shared with a herd of stuffed pigs. Any size, any shade; if it had trotters and a curly tail, she went for it. Apart from a lumpy bean-bag, there was nowhere else to sit, so the girls were lying on the floor propped on an elbow or two. It was a wet Sunday, half past two, nothing else on.
Jo leaned across and took a cigarette from one of several packs lying open on an ash-grey carpet, the colour as much accident as design. The fifteen-year-old had given up but might as well have been on twenty a day given the blue haze hovering overhead. She was nearly six feet in her wedgies. “Come on, Val. It’s not Ripper country, is it?”
“One kid dead. Another on life support. It’s not Disneyland either.”
A painfully thin girl called Jules took a swig from a can of Red Stripe. The purple in her hair matched a massive bruise on one of her arms. “If I’d wanted a row, I’d have stayed at home.” The fingers clutching the can had more rings than a Samuel’s window. “What we gonna do about it? That’s what you got us round for, innit? Or are you just trying to scare us shitless?”
Val was beginning to wonder. Maybe she’d over-reacted. The kids weren’t fazed. Shell’s murder hadn’t touched them, nor Cassie’s beating. Then again, they hadn’t been on the game long; it was still a bit of a giggle. Apart from the odd swinging fist and flying f*ck, they were virtually unmarked if not untouched. Not Val. There was an old scar the width of her belly: and it sure wasn’t down to a dodgy appendix. She was lucky. Her best mate had lost an eye to the same crazy. She looked round, shook her head. These kids were more scared of their pimps than the perverts. They still believed they’d make a fortune, buy a cottage in the country and live happily ever. Yeah. And frogs still turn into princes. Jesus H. The pigs were the only things in the house she didn’t owe money on.
“I know!” A girl who looked about twelve shot a hand in the air.
Jo looked over, sniggered. “S’not f*ckin’ school, Kylie.”
“You’re so funny, ain’t you?” Kylie’s mother had been a hooker. Only part-time. She went out when the gas or electricity came in. Known as Bill, she was, till she keeled over one night in front of a bus. Dead drunk. Then just dead. “Anyway, listen.” Kylie was beaming, “We can work in pairs, can’t we? Go out together, like.”
Val sniffed; they’d tried that in Chapeltown. “Sure. Charge double then can’t you?”
“Y’know what I mean,” Kylie whinged.
“What happens when you’re doin’ the business, Kyle? Your mate gonna stand round hummin’ Strangers in the Night?” Val countered.
“Keep an eye out, can’t she?”’
Val said nothing; it didn’t work like that.
“I reckon we should stick to our regulars. Better the dick y’know…” Marj was seriously large: dress size twenty; same as her age. She was also the best looking woman in the room and had the most punters.
“Could be right,” Val agreed. “Least till we know the way the wind’s blowin’.”
“All right for you lot. Blokes only come to me once.” Patty was stoned out of her head so often, she barely recognised her own reflection.
“Wonder why?” asked Jo.
“F*ck off.”
“Cut it out.” Val slung a pig at Jo: day-glo pink with one eye missing. Jo caught it with one hand. “That’s a point. What’s the filth doin’ about it? Where’s the bleedin’ Bill when you need ’em?”
“Had one at my place.”
The others looked round. Smithy had spoken her first words. They called her The Librarian. Always had her nose in a book. Even on the beat: had her own street lamp so she could read in the dark. Should have had shares in Mills and Boon.
“Go on then.”
“What?” She was pushing huge red-framed glasses back into place.
“What they want? What’d they say?”
“Asked if I’d seen anythin’. Friday. When Shell bought it,” she sniffed. “Course I flippin’ hadn’t.”
“Tasty, were they?” Marj was licking glossy magenta lips; the shade looked great against her dark skin. “There’s a couple of crackers down at Highgate.”
“Sod off. There was only one. Some bird. Thought she was from the Social, first off.”
That rang a distant bell. “All in blue? Dark hair? Mouthie?” asked Val.
“Spot on.” Smithy yawned. She’d been up all night with Barbara Cartland. “Know her?”
Val nodded; the beehive sagged. “Bev Morriss. I know her a bit. She’s all right.”
“She wants to watch herself.” A girl with hair as short as it gets rose to her Doc Martens. The fuzz on her skull was like a dusting of icing sugar. The thick black eyebrows could have been applied with a trowel. There was menace in the voice – unusual for Chlo?.
“Why’s that, then?” Val prompted.
“Goin’ round askin’ stupid questions.”
“Her job, innit?”
“It’s her job to nick Shell’s killer. Not to go round getting’ up Charlie Hawes’s nostrils.”
Just hearing the guy’s name was enough. The girls sat up, listened, let Val do the talking.
“What you goin’ on about, Chlo??”
“They’re after Mad Charlie, ain’t they?”
Everyone knew Charlie’s way. He kept a lower profile than the invisible man. As far as cops were concerned, he didn’t exist, let alone have a name.
“How’d they get on to him?” This was bad news.
Chlo? folded her arms, glared at Val. “Your pal Bev? She had a little helper durin’ her night on the town. Pointed her in all the right directions. Know what I mean?”
Val put a hand to her mouth. This was very bad news. “Cassie?”
“Don’t be stupid. She was gettin’ her face re-arranged.”
“Who then..?”
Chlo? looked at each girl in turn, then back at Val.
“You tell me, ma. Who’s missin’?”
“Photo doesn’t do her justice, does it, Victoria? Real goer was young Michelle.”
Vicki would have agreed. Was keen to agree. Would have gone out of her way to agree. Except she couldn’t move and couldn’t see: Charlie’s back was in the way. He was kneeling on the bed, staring at the front of the Star. The Sunday papers were strewn all over the floor but Shell’s picture had only made the local rag. Charlie had been in the same position for ages; she was wondering how much his tan had cost. Where’d he been to get an all-over job? And where the hell had he put her clothes? They weren’t within eyeshot and she had no way of extending that. Couldn’t lift a finger, let alone her head.
Yet, he hadn’t touched her. Well of course he had. He’d shagged her all night but he hadn’t hurt her. He was good in the sack, but then she’d always known that. He hadn’t said much so far. Didn’t need to. The knife on the bedside table spoke volumes.
He stood, stretched, looked down and smiled. Lovely teeth. Gorgeous face. Looked even better with long hair. No wonder he charged his own tarts.
She wished he’d loosen the belts though: the leather was cutting into her skin. Maybe she could get him to take her to the loo again. Bet he slipped something in that Coke. It was getting dark; must be half-four, five-ish. Pissing down, she could hear it on the window.
“Now. What are we gonna do with you?”
Funny really; his voice was quite nice. Take the gag off me, dickhead.
“I’m gonna take this off in a minute. If you start anything, it goes back. Right?” She tried a nod but it hurt. He raised her head, started untying the knots.
The scarf had been Shell’s. Lifted it at Debenham’s. Then they’d wandered over to the smellies. Spraying stuff everywhere; having a right laugh. Stuck-up cows behind the counter hadn’t liked that. Shell had taken a fancy to the Ralph Lauren. Smell was still there.
“You remind me of her, know that?”
She opened her mouth, didn’t know what to say.
“Not looks. Not that. Just something…” He turned away, clenching his fists. “Shit. I don’t know.”
What was his game? It was a bit late for the sorry card. She still didn’t know what to say. One word out of place and she’d be talking through gaps in her teeth. She darted a few glances round the room. Didn’t stint himself. Not Charlie. Everything brand new. Leather sofas at one end. Thick cream carpet. Mirrors everywhere. Caught her looking.
“Having a good nose?” He turned. Christ. She wished he’d put something on. “Won’t do you any good. You’ll not be coming back.”
Shit. She was going the same way as Shell. “How d’you mean, Charlie?” He laughed. Must have been the tremor in her voice. Her knees’d be playing My Way, if he hadn’t splayed her legs.
“I’m not happy, Victoria. You’ve been a very naughty girl. And what happens to naughty girls?”
She closed her eyes. Not that. Please. Not that. Last year, a girl had fleeced Charlie. She’d kept a few quid back; just the once. He said it was the same as putting her hand in the till. She only had one hand now. Everyone said he’d taken a hacksaw to her.
She opened her eyes. He was just standing there, smiling. She watched as he sauntered over to a mirror on the far wall; slid it back to reveal a vast array of suits and shirts. He ran a finger along a line of shoulder pads, stopped halfway along.
“Black for mourning isn’t it, Victoria?”
She shrugged.
“I didn’t hear you Victoria?”
“Yes, Charlie.” She’d say black was white, if that’s what he wanted. He hummed to himself as he dressed slowly, admiring himself in the mirror. She stiffened as he wandered back, sat on the edge of the bed.
“Now, listen carefully, Victoria, while I tell you exactly what’s going to happen.”
“I’m sorry. Can you say that again?”
Byford had the phone in one hand and a bottle of Glenmorangie in the other. It was traditional. Sunday evening. Single malt. He’d stick at one tonight. Just in case. Tradition too for the boys to ring. They were punctilious about that, especially since their mother’s death. Even now, he sometimes took out two glasses. He’d taken the call in the kitchen, expecting Richard or Chris. Richard, probably. It was just after seven.
It was neither. “I said, it ill behoves one of your officers to behave in a manner more suited to that of a schoolchild.”
Byford poured. How the hell did the old dragon get hold of his number? Maybe he’d make it a double after all.
“Were you there, Mrs Sharpe? Did you witness the incident?” He could imagine the woman pursing her lips, tutting.
“No. I did not. But I have every faith in my staff, Superintendent. If Henry Brand says your Sergeant was making jokes and pulling faces, then she most certainly was.”
Byford was pulling a few of his own. He’d already heard Bev’s account of the Henry Brand interview. Okay, so she hadn’t mentioned any wisecracks or messing around but she’d spelt out Michelle’s accusations of assault. She’d brought him up to speed just before the evening briefing. Of all the statements she or anyone else had taken that day, it was the most interesting. And the most promising.
“As much as anything, Mr Brand made it quite clear that the timing was most inconvenient. Mrs Brand suffers with her nerves, you know. Surely it could have waited until tomorrow when we’ll all be at school?”
Byford was still at the stage when every time he closed his eyes, he saw Michelle’s face. He was unmoved by considerations of convenience.
“I shall be making a point of seeing you both. I want to know, for instance, why you, madam, didn’t see fit to mention the allegations Michelle was making against Henry Brand in the weeks before her murder. And why – in the light of those claims – a proper inquiry wasn’t held.”
He was waiting for another tirade but all he could hear was the sound of his fingers drumming on the table.
Eventually she spoke. Her voice was calm and had ice in it. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting nothing. I only found out about this a couple of hours ago.”
“There was nothing to find out.”
Byford ignored the remark. “I’ll see you first. And bring the notes I assume you made during your conversations with Michelle. After that, you’ll be able to send Henry Brand in. I want to talk to him personally.”
He resisted the temptation to slam down the phone, replying in kind to her stiffly polite, “Good evening, Superintendent.”
He took a sip of Scotch, slowly running it over his teeth, under his tongue.
So Brand had been telling tales out of school. And Elizabeth Sharpe had come gunning. And he thought it was only kids who snitched.
The sitting room had a chill in the air despite Margaret’s warm reds and browns. He placed his glass on the mantelshelf. The coal was ersatz but the heat was real enough; so was the twinge in his back when he straightened. He still missed her. Not surprising: empty house, early night.
He wondered what time Bev and the others would clock off. He could have joined them but Powell was more than capable. The curtains needed drawing. He strolled across, put hands to glass, peered out and grimaced. He doubted anyone would be making waves on Thread Street, tonight. Plenty of puddles. It was still tipping down out there: big cats and Dobermans.