5
SCHOOLGIRL HOOKER
SLAIN IN PARK
“Slain?” Cassie Swain’s vocabulary was as slender as her grasp of car maintenance. She pointed at the headline, repeating the mystery word. Her aggrieved tone implied suspicion of a universal conspiracy aimed at highlighting her academic shortcomings. “What the frig’s that?”
“It’s old fashioned for dead, innit.”
The not entirely accurate enlightenment was handed down by Cyanide Lil who flogged fags and papers from a grimy kiosk on a corner of the High Street. Cassie stopped by most days for ten Embassy and a packet of Polos. Still fully to master any of the three Rs, Cassie rarely bothered with the newspapers. But this evening’s late edition of the Star had attracted a second glance and was about to receive her undivided attention.
Lil had a School Certificate mouldering away somewhere at home and was well-equipped to help Cassie with the finer points in smaller print. The intellectual high ground was not a position she often occupied. Lil was making the most of it. She lit an untipped Players, screwed up her eyes against the smoke and cleared her throat.
Cassie was staring at the old woman’s greasy grey hair and the long deep lines on her nicotine-coloured face. Rumour had it, she’d seen off three husbands and not one through natural causes.
“You lissnin’ or what?” Lil snapped.
“Sorry. I was miles away.”
“You’ll wish you were in a minnit.”
Cassie concentrated as Lil read Matt Snow’s deep-purple prose. Her face paled as her kohl-rimmed eyes widened. She seemed to Lil like a panda having a panic attack.
Shell Lucas done in, in the park. Cassie couldn’t believe it. Christ, she wished she’d never come back now. She’d been earning a few bob in Wolverhampton. An Away-Day the girls called it. Have-It-Away-Day, Cass reckoned. She’d done a punter on the way there, three pulls on the patch and a blowie on the train back. Ninety quid, easy. More to the point, it had kept her away from Charlie Hawes. Unlike Shell. Poor cow.
“Bloody hell, Lil.” Cassie was recalling Charlie’s fingers round his belt that morning. She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth.
Lil’s eyes narrowed as she took another drag. A column of ash fell across Michelle’s smiling face; she’d made the front page but only a single column, head and shoulders.
“If you know anything, girl – get yourself down the cop shop.”
Bile was burning the back of Cassie’s throat; she feared she might faint or throw up. “Me? Why the f*ck should I know anythin’?”
“You and her were at Fair Oaks. I’ve seen the pair of you together often enough.”
Shit. Cassie hadn’t thought of that. She wasn’t going back tonight. The Bill’d be all over the place.
“I know nothin’, right?”
“It ain’t me you have to worry about, kid.”
“You what?”
“It’s the bobbies you’re going to have on your back.”
Cassie was wrestling with a couple of scenarios: answering questions from the police, then answering to Mad Charlie Hawes.
The call wasn’t even close.
“Straight up. I’d tell you if I knew, Bevvie.”
Bev weighed the fragile rapport she’d gradually been forging with Vicki Flinn over the day, against the heavy-duty panic whenever their conversation touched on Michelle’s pimp. On balance, Bev believed the girl: she’d said she hadn’t a clue where the man lived. It was a pisser but at least they had a name now; however unlikely. It had taken ages and there’d been the inevitable crossed-lines and incredulity over the whole whores/Hawes biz, but Vicki was adamant it was for real. Bev gave her the benefit of the doubt on the basis that only a dummy would make up the dubious moniker ‘Hawes’ for a pimp. And whatever else Vicki Flinn might be, Bev was pretty sure the girl was no air-head.
The name had been run through the usual checks and come out clean. Still, it was a start, and more than Bev had ever managed when she was with the vice squad. The two most crucial lessons she’d learned then were: 99.9 per cent of women on the game are run by pimps and, all 100 per cent are more afraid of a pimp than the police and punters put together.
Vicki was that rare commodity: a solo player. She was still shit-scared.
“I’ve never known where Mad Charlie’s house is, see. No one does. Except the girls he s groomin’.”
Grooming. Bev shook her head. An improved appearance was the last thing a girl with a pimp was likely to get. “How many’s he got?”
Vicki shrugged. “Dunno. He ain’t exactly in Yellow Pages.”
Bev speared a puny grey prawn covered in pink gunge. They were in the canteen again. They’d spent the last six hours either talking in interview three or sampling the carbohydrate kicks on the sixth floor. Bev had hidden a smile as Vicki licked her lips and headed for the toad in the hole. A few square meals was a small price to pay for the wealth of information the girl was coming out with.
Bev had passed on everything relevant as soon as it emerged: confirmation of Michelle’s background and information on her recent history. Byford was well-pleased but Bev was still working on the big one: the whereabouts of Charlie Hawes. “So you’ve no idea where this bloke’s place is?”
Vicki shook her head.
Bev watched as she dunked a sausage in a lake of brown sauce.
“Where you staying tonight, Vick?”
The fork stilled for just a second. “Dunno. Don’t fancy the squat somehow. Not yet anyway.”
Neither would Bev. “Friend with a floor?”
She screwed her nose. “Nah. Might see if me ma’ll let me kip down for a bit.”
“Your ma?” Bev’s jaw hit the lino. “You told me your ma was dead.”
“Yeah. Well.” At least she had the grace to look sheepish. “I didn’t know you then, Bevvie.”
“With you,” Bev feigned enlightenment. “You only tell porkies to pigs you don’t know.”
Vicki laughed. “Porkies. Pigs. Good, that.”
Bev made a face. Vicki got the drift. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Anyway the old lady’s gaff’s a no-no if her toy boy’s around.”
“Toy boy?”
“Steve.”
Bev waited for more but Vicki was chasing the last piece of batter round her plate. “It’s still your home, Vick.”
“Yeah. Let’s just say two’s company where that pair’s concerned. Except for the baby, of course.”
“Baby?”
“Lucie. She’s a right little doll. Come as a right shock, though. I thought the old lady was past all that nappy changing lark.”
“How old’s your ma, Vick?”
The girl turned her mouth down. “Thirty-two, three? Something like that.”
“Well ancient.” Bev sniffed.
“You got kids, Bevvie?”
She shook her head. She had the maternal instincts of a Sumo wrestler. “I still can’t see why you can’t go round, Vick.”
“Got chucked out on my arse, didn’t I? She caught him givin’ me the eye. Next thing – I’m out on my elbow.”
Bev kept up with the anatomical references but they still didn’t make sense. “I don’t get it. You get slung out. And he’s still there?” Shit. Didn’t anyone have a proper home these days? A mum and dad; meat and two veg? Bev’s parents hadn’t been perfect but they had been there. Okay, so the old man had been down at the pub as well, but he didn’t come back all rat-arsed and flying fists. Her mum was still cut up and he’d been dead five years. The chances of them showing her the door were bigger than winning the Lottery – twice. Bev had left home years ago, and Emmy Morriss was still peeved.
“What happens if this bloke’s there, then?”
Vicki was removing all traces of sauce with the last of her bread and butter. “Somethin’ll turn up.”
Bev was toying with the idea of the spare room at her place. She knew all about keeping a professional distance but maybe that was the problem. Everyone Vicki had ever known kept a distance. Maybe she should mention it to Mave? Mave’d had the odd PG in the past. Very odd, come to think of it. Anyway, crossing bridges and all that. She’d wait and see. “Want a lift?”
Vicki grinned. “Gonna put the flashers on and do the old naa-naas?”
“You’ve been watching too much telly.” She scraped the chair back. “You comin’, or what.”
Vicki looked up and slowly crossed her legs. “Nah. It’s just the way I’m sitting.”
Bev shook her head, gave a wry smile. The kid had lost her home but was clinging to a sort of sense of humour; there was a grin from ear to multiple-pierced ear. The girl’s beam gave way to a sudden frown.
“What is it, Vick?”
“I don’t know where Charlie hangs out.” She tapped the side of her nose. “But I know a girl who does.” Vicki rose, tugged at the skirt clinging to her thighs. “First we have to find her. Then we get her to talk.”
Vicki’s eyes shone; her excitement was catching. A girl groomed by Mad Charlie would have a sack load of goodies. Bev was hoping that Charlie’s Girl was one of life’s sharers.
“In a word, guv: diddlysquat.” Bev puffed out her cheeks. It was late. She was knackered. Her high hopes of tracking down Vicki’s mate had been dashed. Not even a companiable nightcap – half a finger of Famous Grouse – in the boss’s office was compensation. She’d hit every dive in town and drawn blank after blank. “As Vicki put it, guv: the bird has flown.” ‘F*cked off,’ was what Vicki had actually said. Bev was giving edited highlights; Byford could be iffy about bad language.
“Done a runner more like,” he said.
She took a sip of scotch, not sure she liked where he was going “How do you mean?”
“You know as well as me, Bev, these girls don’t want to talk to cops at the best of times.” She waited as he reached down to retrieve a copy of the local rag from an overflowing bin. “This is hardly that.”
It was the Star’s final edition. Michelle Lucas’s image was splashed across five columns, complete with coffee stains and tea leaves. Bev shook her head: the girl’s murder was already yesterday’s news. She took it from him, skimmed through Matt Snow’s so-called exclusive. She shook her head again and gave a suitable snort. The only thing he hadn’t made up was the girl’s name, and even that was misspelt. “My God,” she said. “What happened to all that stuff about not speaking ill of the dead?”
Byford wasn’t speaking at all. She glanced up: he was leaning back, eyes closed. She yawned, laid the paper to one side. It had been a long day. And night. And the prospect was more of the same. There was already a mountain range of paper work: statements from the dead girl’s teachers, friends, staff at the home. Then there were the door-to-doors, the crank calls and the usual string of confessions from the local nutters. Two Jack the Rippers had left blood-stained letters at the front desk.
She looked at Byford again; had he dropped off? She cleared her throat, stage whisper style.
“I’m resting my eyes,” he murmured.
She smiled; he was as knackered as her. He’d been leaving the building as she arrived but had seemed keen to turn round and hear how the evening had panned out. Perhaps, like her, he didn’t always fancy going back to an empty house.
She downed the scotch and was debating whether to slip out when he got to his feet.
“Come on, Bev. You look shattered. Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll walk you to that arrangement of corroded metal you call your car.”
She held the door, waiting while he logged off and extinguished lights. “Dunno about shut-eye,” she said. “I certainly had my eyes opened tonight.”
“I’m intrigued. Go on.”
The walk to the car park was accompanied by a lively account of Bev’s venture into the city’s low-life night life. Vicki had been an invaluable, not to say voluble guide. Despite the disappointment, they’d had a few laughs; more than that, Bev reckoned they’d got on really well. The girl had a wicked sense of humour and a tongue like a needle; it was sharp and had Bev in stitches. She was talking Byford through the best bits but he wasn’t exactly rolling in the aisle. “What’s up, guv?”
“Nothing. Carry on.”
“Anyway, Vick says…”
“Vick seems to have had a lot to say tonight.”
There was a hint of something in his voice; the emphasis he put on the girl’s name. Bev couldn’t pin it down and the glance at his face didn’t help. “Problem with that?”
“You make it sound like a girls’ night out, Bev.” There was no mistaking the disapproval this time.
She took a deep breath, told herself to chill. “That’s not fair and it isn’t true.” She added a reluctant “Sir.”
“She’s an informant and a potential witness, not a mate. There’s a professional distance to keep.”
She was furious. He had no right. She wasn’t some bloody rookie. Then thoughts of futons and spare rooms flashed in her head. Okay, maybe he had a point. It didn’t lessen her anger; made it worse. Now she was cross with herself as well as him.
His face softened. “It’s a gentle reminder, Bev, that’s all.”
They were almost at her MG. An inept spray job with insufficient black paint had added a certain je ne sais quoi to the original shade of chicken-crap sallow. The Midget looked like a malformed hornet, but she’d christened it Trigger in an optimistic attempt to inject horsepower. She unlocked the door, aware Byford was still by her side. Maybe he regretted the earlier stuff.
“I’d like to meet the girl, Bev. You’ve given her quite a buildup.” He smiled.
Bev nodded. It was an apology of sorts but she was still smarting. He was still hovering. “Come on, Bev. I have faith in you. You know that.”
She relented. He was a good bloke and he had her interests at heart. She smiled. “Ta, guv. I reckon I know how to handle her. Trust me on this.”
“Sure. I think she could be crucial to the inquiry, as well, Bev. She was very close to young Michelle. When are you interviewing her again?”
“Tomorrow, hopefully.”
“Hopefully?”
She heard what he was not saying: that ‘hope’ wasn’t enough. But a definite meet had been difficult to set up. She’d dropped Vicki round the corner from her ma’s but it was no guarantee she’d spend the night there. “She’s almost NFA, guv. She said she’d get to Highgate as soon as she could. If there’s a problem, she’ll give me a bell.”
“You gave her your number? Your home number?” He was more surprised by that than by Vicki’s no fixed abode status.
Bev crossed her fingers; hated porkies. “Nah. Here. Front desk’ll get a message to me.” She watched him open his mouth to remonstrate, then presumably changed his mind. In Bev’s mind was an image of Vicki, tottering on her wedgies down an unlit street to a house she could no longer call her home. Bev felt she’d let the girl down, should have stuck up for her in the face of Byford’s criticism. She knew it was irrational but tried to redress the balance anyway.
“She’s a nice girl, boss. She’s had a rough time. Been through a lot of shit.”
“Think of Michelle. Another nice girl. Dead. Covered in it. Be careful, Bev. That’s all I’m saying.”
The words rang in her head all the way home.