4
“We need the pimp, guv.”
Byford nodded, sat up straight and put his hands behind his head. Bev reckoned it must be the school environment; he normally had his feet on a desk and the chair tilted. She noticed they’d made themselves at home; there was a great smell of coffee in the room and DI Powell had what looked like biscuit crumbs round his mouth. She’d mention it later, wind him up. Maybe.
She’d just brought them up to speed on finding the stash of cash in Michelle Lucas’s shoe, and, right now, the priority was finding out what sort of a scumbag had put a fifteen-year-old girl on the game.
“Any bright ideas?” Byford asked.
Bev sighed; plenty of dark thoughts. All the way from the park, she’d been thinking about her time on vice, and the difficulties in getting to the average pimp.
Locating the coffee maker was a cinch by comparison. She made her way over and poured, still lost in thought. Every day she’d go in and see the fixed smiles of a bunch of slimeballs who made life hell for girls like Michelle. Grainy photographs of six suspected pimps had been pinned to a wall of the squad’s cramped quarters. It was the closest they’d come to nailing the bastards.
In every case, the pimp had been fingered by one of his women, and in all but one instance, those same women had subsequently withdrawn their statements and refused to give evidence. Bev could hardly blame them. The initial desire to turn a man in quickly turned into terror of the consequences. It was one thing for a woman to be beaten, burned and buggered; it was something else when her family, even her kids, were threatened. And prison didn’t stop the bastards. They had lackeys on the outside more than willing to lend a hand, or a boot, or a baseball bat.
It was no wonder they were all smiling in the snatch-shots, Bev thought. They believed – unlike their girls – that they were untouchable.
She took a sip of coffee, aware that Byford was waiting for input. She sipped again; it was good. Two shots of caffeine and she could still only come up with one thought. “If it’s okay with you, guv, I’d like to talk to the girls. I’ll probably get the bum’s rush but it’s got to be our best chance.” It was a weak link but it was the only one they had.
“Go on,” Byford prompted.
“There’s a group of them. They work a patch near the park. It’s causing a lot of grief cause it’s so close to the school. The people who live round there are well narked. They’ve been trying to get the girls moved on for ages.”
“Moved one on, haven’t they?” Powell held out his empty mug to Bev. “Two sugars, love.”
“Pot’s there, sweetie,” she said automatically. “I don’t know if it was Michelle’s beat. I’ve never seen her there, but it’s got to be the first place we try.”
Byford nodded. “Sounds good, Bev. Get out there, soon as you like.”
She’d have to chase a few addresses first. It was a bit early for the girls to show their faces. They’d be sleeping it off. She stifled a yawn; must be thought association.
“Late night, Morriss?”
“Early shout, Inspector.”
“Come on you pair,” Byford said. “Save the energy. You’ll need it. There’s going to be plenty of late nights for everyone until we get this cleared up.”
Bev swigged the last of her coffee and looked round for her shoulder-bag. It was a vast depository of junk with the odd essential item thrown in, and she was always promising herself she’d sort it. “I’m off then. I’ll catch you later.”
“I’ll walk out with you.” Byford got to his feet. “See what else you can get here then get back for the briefing,” he told Powell. “I want everyone back at Highgate by say, 10.45.”
“What about the press?” the DI asked. “The Star’s been sniffing round and I’ve had the radio people on the phone.”
“Best place for them,” Byford said. “I’ll have to talk them eventually. But not now. The priority’s getting the team up to speed. And finding everything we can on Michelle. The mother and that boyfriend of hers will have to be tracked down. And one of us is going to have to go over to Fair Oaks. Michelle was there longer than any of the other places. Even so, they’ll all have to be checked. We’ll get to as many of the teachers as we can before Monday. They’ll be able to tell us who her friends are. Strikes me, it’s the kids who’ll be able to tell us more than anyone.”
“Do you want me back at Highgate as well?” Bev hoped he’d say no. She was keen to get to the girls.
The phone rang. He lifted a finger. “Byford.” The conversation lasted less than a minute.
“That was Vince. He’s got a young woman called Victoria Flinn at the front desk. She wants to know if we’ve got a friend of hers locked up. A friend called Michelle Lucas.”
Bev slung her bag over her shoulder. “On my way.”
Vince Hanlon’s avuncular appearance was deceptive. In reality the desk sergeant was like a drill at the dentist’s: indispensable and just as sharp. There were only three stripes on his arm but, as Bev was well aware, a wealth of experience nestled in the rolls of flab under his belt.
So said, the sight that greeted her when she emerged from the revolving doors at Highgate nick was as arresting as catching Hannibal Lecter in a vegan restaurant. Big Vince had deserted his customary lair of the front desk for less familiar territory. He had his arm round a skinny girl, young enough to be his great-niece, who looked as streetwise as an A–Z.
He waved a hand at the floor. “The lass slipped. It shook her up a bit.”
Bev glanced at the lass’s footwear. Lucky: she could have broken her neck. The girl hadn’t looked round, hadn’t moved away; if anything she’d snuggled even closer to Vince. Her proximity to his paunch was having visible effects. Bev’s lips twitched as he pulled a huge white handkerchief from a trouser pocket, mopping sweat from his corrugated brow. His eyes darted round like a drowning man’s in search of a life jacket. “Thank God you’re here.”
At last, the girl glanced round, curious to see what Vince’s saviour looked like. Saint Bev was in her late twenties, five foot six, nine stone, with chin-length hair the colour of Guinness and a face that her mother called beautiful. She bestowed what she hoped was a suitably beatific smile, but the girl pulled a face and a few seconds later was floundering again in a mound of flesh that could have been Vince’s chest or abdomen; there was no perceptible demarcation. It was a wind-up. The girl was enjoying this.
Vince wasn’t. He tried to put a little distance between them but she was clinging like cotton-wool to Velcro. Bev was in no hurry to tear her away: break the news and break her heart.
The game soon lost its appeal. The girl looked up and smiled. “Feel a bit better now.” She moved away and ran a hand over her rear. “Mind, me bum hurts.”
“Bev here’ll look after you,” he said.
“Rather talk to you, Vince.”
Vince? Bev shot him a look. He was having a hot flush. Another time, it would have been funny. She sighed. The girl was still studiously ignoring her, so Bev moved nearer the desk and skimmed through the notes Vince had made before his temporary foray into community relations. She found what she was looking for and turned to face the girl. “Victoria?” She waited for an acknowledgment. It didn’t arrive. “I’m DS Morriss. Bev Morriss. Come on, love. Let’s get a cup of tea.”
Bev took a step back as the girl swirled round, eyes flashing. “I’m not your love. And I don’t want a soddin’ cup of tea.”
Good start, thought Bev.
The girl pointed a finger with a badly-bitten nail. “I’m not talking to no one in this place. I’ve come to pick up Shell.” She looked at Vince. “When can I see her?”
Vince shrugged, nodded towards Bev. She jerked her head, signalling the girl to follow her. “We need to talk.”
Something in Bev’s voice pre-empted another verbal attack. Vicki stared, nodded, said: “Okay.”
“We’ll be in number three, Vince.”
“Hey! I ain’t done nuffin’.”
Bev smiled reassurance, at the same time registering the fact that Miss Flinn clearly knew her way around Highgate nick. “I know that, Victoria. But we need somewhere private.”
The girl nodded again, gave what Bev suspected was a smile. Bev had to stifle a grin as the girl reached up to plant a kiss on Vince’s cheek. “Ta, Vinnie. And I will have that cup of char. Four sugars. And a couple of Hob Nobs.”
Bev noted the relief on Vince’s face. He was back on an even keel. Tea was no problem. Sympathy for a sexy slip of a girl floundering in his arms and playing havoc with his equilibrium was something else.
Bev had reckoned on a bit of ranting and raving, a few screams maybe. But not this. Vicki was silent, still, as motionless as her best mate in the morgue. Perched on the edge of the desk, Bev watched a solitary tear slide past the girl’s nose and drop from the bottom of her chin. It was the only discernible movement. She was seventeen, going on seven. A kid who wanted to go home to mum. That’s if she had a mum – or a home. Bev would give her right arm to know what was going on behind those huge blue eyes.
“When did you last see Michelle, love?”
Vicki was staring into space. Had she heard? Was she in shock?
“D’you want a doctor, Vicki?” Bev stroked the bony shoulder. “Is there anyone I can call?”
Another tear. Another damp trail.
Bev knelt in front of Vicki, took her hands. They were cold and could be cleaner. She cupped them in the warmth of her own. No reaction. Bev might have been invisible. She rose, gently helped the girl to her feet. They were much the same height. It was probably the only thing they had in common. Bev searched her face, looking for answers to a million questions. It was blank. A plain cover for the hurt and pain Bev knew were there. She drew her close and stroked her hair, spoke the only words she could think of. “I’m so sorry, Vicki. So very sorry.”
It was like the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers. The girl circled her arms round Bev’s waist and cried like a baby. “Why Shell? Why little Shell? She was only a kid.”
The words came between shuddering breaths and pitiful sobs. Bev held her tightly, waiting until she was calmer.
“That’s what we have to find out, Vicki. Then we can nick the bastard who did it. Get him behind bars where he belongs. But we’re going to need your help.”
Bev held her breath. It could go either way. Asking a girl to grass on a pimp was tantamount to putting her neck on the block. Bev counted silently to ten, then twenty. She hit twenty-nine before Vicki pulled away. Bev saw the fear in the girl’s eyes, and she saw the grief, and she saw something else: fury.
“You’ve got it.” Vicki brushed away a tear with the heel of her hand. “And then you can throw away the f*cking key.”
“Call for you, guv. Some git with a shoulder on his chip.”
DC Darren Newman? Sounding tetchy? Rare as a clockwork CD was that. Byford snatched up his extension, wondering who’d managed to wind up the famously phlegmatic Dazza. “Superintendent Byford.”
“Listen up. And listen good. You’ve had enough warnings.”
Byford ran a finger along his eyebrow. He didn’t know the voice but the drift was all too familiar. “Who is this?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. Just hear this.” That wouldn’t be difficult. A megaphone was quieter, even without the loud Birmingham accent. “The tarts. In Thread Street. They’ve got to go. We’ve had enough. And if you lot don’t do something, we will.”
“I don’t think that would be advisable, Mr..?”
“We don’t want advice. We want action. We’ve been asking long enough. You’d soon do something if you lived round here. Cars crawling, engines revving, doors slamming; all hours of the day and night. You wouldn’t like it if your wife was insulted every time she went to the shops. Decent women can’t step outside their own door. Kids are coming home from school with used condoms. Slags are wrapped round every lamp-post. I’m telling you, copper. It’s got to stop.”
Byford glanced at a note Dazza had just put in front of him; the caller must have given young Newman an ear-bashing as well. He mouthed an ‘okay’ and continued, “Tell me, Mr… are you speaking on behalf of some sort of organization?”
Dazza had simply written the word: CUTS? It rang an immediate bell with Byford. It was the group Bev had mentioned. Now he came to think of it, there’d been a few stories in the local rag. According to the Star, Clean Up The Streets was cutting-edge community action. Forget Neighbourhood Watch – this was full-scale surveillance.
The group had first hit the front page just before Christmas. It was mainly composed of dissenters from the residents’ association, plus a few die-hard rent-a-gobs and a handful of bored youths with nothing better to do. The Star had carried an interview with the campaign co-ordinator and, later, covered a protest rally in the park. The uniforms had been keeping tabs. The verdict, after a couple of months, ran along the lines of mouth and trousers, bark and bite. Perhaps, Byford thought, it had cut teeth.
“We want our streets back, Mr Superintendent. And we’ll be out in force every night until we get them.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a promise.” He paused. “They’re vermin, spreading filth and disease. They need putting down. The sooner the better.”
Byford relaxed his fist before he damaged his circulation. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Michelle’s bruised and bloody body. It was fortunate that Big Mouth was on the end of a phone. Fortuitous or foresighted? Bad timing or excellent?
Byford wished he could see the creep’s face. Could the man already know what he was about to tell him?
“You’ll be seeing a good deal of police activity over the next few days.”
“Oh yeah?” The voice was giving nothing away.
“There was an incident in the park this morning.”
Byford listened for a pause; tried not to read too much into it.
“Good. Best news I’ve had all week. Told you didn’t I? Get rid of all the little scrubbers. One down – one less to go.”
Byford was alert to every nuance in the man’s voice. Was it too casual? Too forced? It was certainly too quiet; the Superintendent was listening to the pips. Byford put the phone down deep in thought. Mouthie had a lot to answer for. First: how did he know there’d been a murder? And second: how did he know the victim was a prostitute?
“Chance of an early collar, Mr B?”
The throwaway line was a Matt Snow special: heavily baited.
Byford raised his eyes to the ceiling and held out an imaginary piece of string. The gesture was wilfully misinterpreted as Snow played to the press gallery. “Obviously not, lads. Must be the one that got away.”
A few reporters sniggered. The quip wasn’t one of Snow’s best but as the Crime Correspondent of the Evening Star, he was the biggest fish in this particular pool.
Byford looked round the room, acutely aware of the poor turnout. None of the nationals had shown and network TV hadn’t sent. He hoped they’d take pictures from regional crews and that stringers would file to the Sundays. It was five hours since Michelle’s body had been found and none of his officers had come up with a lead.
He’d called the news conference reluctantly – for once courting the media exposure that he more often shunned. He was struck by the irony. Any other time and they’d be over him like a rash, but now? It was Saturday, early afternoon and he was up against weekend cover, reduced output, shorter bulletins. The Star had the biggest circulation here; he’d have to try to keep his cool with Mr Snow.
“Can’t see anything remotely amusing in the death of a young girl, Matt.”
The reporter shrugged as though the point was debatable.
Byford conferred with a stern-faced press officer seated to his right, then turned back to the half dozen hacks who had made the effort.
“Bernie Flowers here has a photo of the girl. He’s got copies for all of you. Grab one on your way out and go as big as you can. It’s a couple of years old but it’s the best we can do.”
Not true, of course, but he baulked at releasing pictures taken after death. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The photo he was looking at now had been supplied by Elizabeth Sharpe. Michelle was in school uniform: well scrubbed face, cheeky grin and bright eyes. Words like promise, and waste, innocence and evil came to Byford’s mind. Those he spoke were more mundane.
“It’s vital we trace anyone who saw Michelle after six on Friday evening.”
Bev had established the cut-off point. She was still interviewing Vicki Flinn but had already passed on the information that the two girls had spent most of Friday together. They’d parted just after six with Michelle saying she was off to put in a few hours. It was the last known sighting.
“What was she doing in the park?”
Byford had a feeling that Matt Snow already had an idea. “That’s one thing we’ve yet to establish.”
“With anyone, was she?”
No one was fooled by Matt’s indifferent delivery. The reporter was well aware of the anti-vice campaign: he’d devoted more than enough column inches to CUTS.
Byford adopted a similar tone. “Don’t know yet.”
Snow brushed the fringe out of his eyes. He was small and wiry, had a wardrobe full of cheap brown suits. He put Byford in mind of a hyperactive shih tzu.
“Assaulted, was she?”
“We’re waiting on the post mortem.”
“Got a motive?”
“Not yet.”
“Found the knife?”
“Nice one, Matt.” The cause of death hadn’t been revealed.
Snow winked. “Worth a try.”
Byford’s studied silence indicated the attempt’s failure. The reporter held out his hands, body language which Byford read as, “Give us a break, man, I’m only doing my job.” He didn’t much care for Snow’s verbal version, conveyed with an affected matiness neither man had ever felt.
“Aw, come on, Mr B. We ain’t gonna win any awards with this little lot: girl dead; witnesses sought. Not much to go on, is it?”
Byford shook his head. “I’m staggered that even you, Mr Snow, regard a brutal murder as a mere career move.”
“Brutal?” The animation was unmistakable. “Can I quote you on that?”
Byford pursed his lips. “Quote me on that, and I’ll bloody kill you.”
The hacks laughed. Bernie cracked his face. Even Byford had to stifle the ghost of a smile, despite the fact that, just for a second or two, he’d meant every word.