6
“The bells…the bells.”
Bev staggered out of bed, completing her impromptu Quasimodo with a bleary-eyed lurch towards the alarm. The clock, a fraternal Christmas present, was blaring from behind rainbow curtains on the far side of the room. She hid it in a different place every night. The daily enforced fumble in the dark meant less chance of a return to the duvet.
She yawned, headed for the bathroom. It might be Sunday, but Bev’s gut told her it was not going to be a day of rest. She studied her face in the mirror over the basin.
“Now look, punk. Are you gonna have a good day?” She paused, did a passable Clint Eastwood: “Or are you gonna have a good day?”
The morning mantra was more Felix Barry than Dirty Harry. Felix tried hard to teach her Tai Chi. Not hard enough. The job kept getting in the way. Still, Felix was a fervent proponent of positive thought and verbal reinforcement. Bev reckoned anything was worth a try.
A pee and a shower, and it was back to the boudoir to grab a suit. Days of dithering in front of the mirror were long gone. She now wore blue. Blue. Or occasionally: blue. Picasso could have painted her wardrobe. She still hadn’t sewn the button on her skirt’s waistband and was scrabbling round for a safety pin when there was a hammering on the door.
“Hold on. I’m coming.”
It had to be Mave. Who else was going to come calling before seven on a Sunday? It was. She breezed in bearing a plate of bacon sandwiches and trailing a blend of Persil and Players.
“Get these down your neck. You can’t operate on an empty stomach.”
Bev grinned. There was enough to keep the BMA going for a fortnight. “You’re a star, Mave. Know that?”
“Milky Way, me, mate.”
Some people have neighbours; Bev had Mavis Holdsworth. Think Joan Collins on income support, out of Oxfam. Mave looked on Bev as the daughter she’d never had.
“What’s up?” Bev asked.
“Me.” Mave said as if a single syllable was sufficient.
“And?” Bev grabbed the kettle.
“I’m up when I should be in bed. It’s supposed to be my day off.” Mave was the manageress and queen of the Washwell Deluxe Laundrette and Dry Cleaners.
“And?” Bev waved Mave’s resident mug in the air – interpreted the shrug of narrow shoulders and chucked in a tea bag.
“Rita’s called in sick again, hasn’t she?” Mave worked with a woman who had more time off than a stopped watch.
“Never mind. Least it’s not far to go.”
A flight of stairs to be precise. Their maisonettes were above a row of shops that included the launderette, a dodgy vid store and a deli to die for.
Mave pointed at Bev, pointed at the bacon butties and took over the teamaking. “I wouldn’t care, but it’s not the first time.” She did care. Mavis chewed gum incessantly; her mouth was going like a piston.
Bev was munching smoked back and Sunblest. She could only nod. Besides, she didn’t want to get involved. Not that Mave seemed to notice.
“Twenty hours a week she’s s’posed to do. By arrangement with me.”
The woman was positively bristling. Nose out of joint? Or something more? It wasn’t like Mave to take a downer on anyone. Looking on the bright side and seeing the best was Mave’s style. It was the unswerving cheerfulness that had endeared her to Bev in the first place. That, plus her propensity to pick up the odd bit of gossip with the ease of an industrial hoover.
“A sickie’s a sickie. Not much you can do.” Bev said.
Mave stuck her gum on the side of her mug and took a gulp of steaming tea. “It’s one thing after another, Bev. Bruised ribs. Sprained wrist. Detached retsina.”
“Retina.”
“Same diff.”
A Greek Adonis, bearing crystal glasses on a silver tray across a golden beach, flashed before Bev’s eyes. “Not quite.”
“I mean, Bev, how many doors can one woman walk into?”
“What you saying, Mave?”
“She’s either swinging the lead,” Mave finished the tea and retrieved her Wrigley’s, “or some bastard’s swinging it at her.”
“Shit!” Bev had caught sight of the clock on the cooker. “I’ve got seven and a half minutes to get to Highgate.”
The woman’s face fell. “Sorry, Mave. Do you want me to have a word with her? Rita, isn’t it?”
Mavis sniffed. “She won’t talk. I’ve tried to get her to open up. She won’t say a word.”
“I can have a go.” Bev smiled as she shrugged into her jacket. “They don’t call me silver-tongued Morriss for nothing, y’know.”
“Pay them, do you?”
That was more like it. Bev winked. “Cheeky tart.”
“Cassie Swain’s our best bet.” Bev looked round, encouraged by a few nodding heads.
The whole team was now up to speed – a meagre two miles a fortnight, she reckoned – and a subdued Byford sat back, having just thrown the briefing open. Bev was on her feet at the front, chucking in her two penn’orth. “The girls were the same age. Went to the same school. Shared a room at Fair Oaks.”
“Not all they shared, is it?” Bev recognised the voice, forced herself not to show a reaction. Twenty bodies were crowded into the incident room and, without looking up from her notes, she’d bet eighteen pairs of eyes were now focused on Mike Powell. She’d spotted him earlier, leaning against a side wall, examining his nails.
“Not sure what you’re saying.” She tried to match his casual delivery, but her heart sank. She wasn’t in the mood. She was tempted to sit, decided to stand her ground. Everyone knew the girls were on the game but what was Powell playing?
“Both in the same line of business, weren’t they?”
Eyes were back on her now. It felt like the centre court at Wimbledon. She tried to ignore the crowd; kept her voice level. “And that makes them what? Stupid? Unreliable? Liars?”
“It makes them tarts. Lie as soon as look at you. False names. Fake addresses. That’s when they’re talking at all. When it comes to pimps – they’ve all taken a vow of silence.”
She was aware of bums shifting; of her own foot tap-tap-tapping and a trickle of sweat, cold down her back. She’d met a handful of cops who openly admitted hating whores; bragged about it; wouldn’t touch vice with a sterile barge pole. But Powell? She had zilch time for the man, but she wouldn’t have put him in that underclass. He was probably just on the bait.
“And we all know why,” she said. “They’re shit scared. If a girl opens her mouth she gets a size ten in it. That’s if she’s lucky and doesn’t wake up in Casualty.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She waited, there was clearly more to come.
“Blame it on the blokes. The toms are all little p-ssy-cats, aren’t they, Morriss?”
There were a few sniggers but the man was so dense, the double entendre was probably unwitting. Bev shook her head, aware they were waiting for a one-liner; a Morriss special, but instead of Wimbledon, this was beginning to resemble something out of Gladiators – and guess who was the Christian?
Byford was getting to his feet; thank God.
“That’s it,” he snapped. “A young girl’s been murdered. For whatever reason, she was on the game. If anyone has a problem with that, they’d better say so. Now.”
Bev glanced at Powell whose hands were spread, palms-up.
“No problem.”
“I’m glad to hear it. We’ve wasted enough time here. You all know what’s needed. The teacher interviews need finishing. The gaps on the house-to-house have to be plugged. Mike and I still have a few people from the CUTS campaign to track down. And Bev, I want you to look for Cassie Swain.”
A phone rang. He ignored it. “It’s twenty-four hours since the murder and unless anyone has any better ideas…”
“Guv.” D C Newman had his hand over the mouthpiece. “No need for a search party. Cassie Swain’s turned up. It’s the General. She’s in Intensive Care.”
“You can’t see her. And she won’t be talking. Not to anyone. Not for a long time.”
Bev’s palms tingled. She wanted to slap the smirk off the bloody woman’s face. The badge on her seriously white coat said Dr Thorne. And she was – in Bev’s side.
She and young Ozzie had been kept waiting in a room the size of a soap dish so long that Bev had gone through enough coffee to keep the Brazilian economy afloat. Oz didn’t touch the stuff. He’d only been in CID a few weeks, hadn’t had time to pick up too many bad habits. Bev was supposed to be keeping an eye on him. DC Khan was the tastiest bloke at Highgate, it was no hardship. Thorne, on the other hand, was a pain.
“Can you be more specific?” Bev’s tone was polite.
The response was not. “The girl’s jaw’s smashed. A fair number of her teeth have been knocked out. And if the swelling in her skull doesn’t go down – we’ll be lucky to save her. So. No. I can’t.”
Bev had no problem with a woman five years younger, fifteen kilos lighter, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Kate Moss. It was the doctor’s attitude that was the pisser. From the second the woman had swept in, she’d looked down. She did it so well, Bev reckoned she practised. Bev moved closer. She’d had a bad night; kept awake by vague worries she couldn’t pin down. Sleep – when it came – had been fitful and filled with gory images of Michelle and other girls she’d known. This Bright Young Thing crap she could do without.
“What’s your problem, love?” Even to her own ears, it was a threat. She felt Ozzie’s gaze on her.
Doctor Thorne had an uncertain smile on her face. “I beg your pardon?”
Bev was standing, feet apart, arms folded. “I’m not asking you to beg my pardon. I’m asking for a bit of respect.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do. I’ve been hanging round so long someone wanted to plant flowers.” She jabbed a finger in the air. “When you eventually get your act together – it’s a one-liner saying sweet FA.”
“I don’t have time for this. I’m a busy person.” She was fondling a stethoscope slung casually round her neck. Bev wasn’t impressed by the prop; she’d seen enough episodes of ER to bluff her way into medical school.
“And I’m not?” She felt Ozzie’s hand on her arm. Another time, she’d have left it there. You could file nails on his graduate cheekbones. She kept her gaze on the doctor who was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain eye contact.
“I didn’t say that.”
“That’s exactly what you’re saying. Your attitude? It sucks.”
“Sarge?”
Bev looked at Oz. He was tapping his watch. She glanced at the time. “Okay, okay. I’m out of here.” She turned to the doctor. “Let’s hope, Ms Thorne, that I get to the mad bastard out there, before some other kid gets a taste for hospital food. Not that you can eat a lot when your jaw’s wired and your teeth have gone AWOL.”
The woman ran her hands through her hair. Bev watched as it fell perfectly into place.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m dead on my feet.” The voice hadn’t got much life either. Bev examined the doctor’s face. Faint mauve smudges were just perceptible beneath the immaculate make-up under the eyes; she’d probably been on call for ages without so much as a Kit Kat.
But Bev was fresh out of compassion. “And Michelle Lucas is dead. Full stop.”
Dr Thorne looked set to argue but capitulated quietly. “Point taken.”
Bev capitalised by pushing another. “Cassie Swain? We really need to speak to her.”
The doctor shook her head. “I really don’t know. I’m concerned about the head injury. The next few hours are crucial.”
What about the hours Cassie had already lost? Beaten and kicked within an inch, then tossed onto a skip. Not hidden. Not buried. Half way down Thread Street. It was a message. A bloody message. And what if old Bert hadn’t been on the trawl? Thank God for insomniac winos. Bev shivered. She picked up her bag; they’d get nothing here. There was a clock on the wall. It had been bugging her all morning. She pointed. “That needs a new battery.”
“Don’t we all?” the doctor said.
Bev smiled. Superwoman might be human after all. She glanced at Ozzie. “We’d best be off.” They were almost through the door when the woman relented and called them back. Bloody hell, Bev realised, Thorne looked even better when she let down the barriers, stopped trying to put on her official face.
“Leave me your number. If there’s any change. Anything at all. I’ll let you know.”
“You’re on.” Bev took a card from her bag, scribbled on the back. It was only a few hours since she’d done the same for Vicki. Which reminded her… why hadn’t the girl been in touch?
“Don’t want mine as well, do you?” The voice had hope rather than conviction.
“No, DC Khan.” Bev shook her head, smiling. “She does not.”
“Let me get this clear, Mr Leigh. You saw nothing, heard nothing and if you’d seen Lord Lucan waiting for a 35 bus you’d say nothing.”
Ronnie Leigh wiped lager from rubbery lips and burped. It was 11am and this was a house call that was going no further than the front step. “Bright for a cop. Aren’t you?” His right hand transferred the excess alcohol to denims that had once been blue.
Powell moved forward but Byford put out a restraining hand.
“Perhaps we could talk about your involvement in CUTS, Mr Leigh.”
Byford had verbal and visual evidence that put Ronnie in the campaigners’ frame but Ronnie refused to be drawn; he scratched his groin with thick hairy fingers. “And perhaps we couldn’t.”
Byford sighed. “This isn’t getting us very far.”
Ronnie made to close the door. “You do your job, copper. I’ll do mine.”
Byford put a foot in the jamb. “What exactly is your line of business these days, Ronnie?” This was not small talk. He knew Ronnie’s history so well he’d pass the exam.
“I’m on the sick.”
“Nothing trivial, I hope?” Powell’s bright smile confused the man.
“Nah. Bit of back trouble.”
“Have to watch what you lift, do you, Ronnie?” Byford was at it now.
“You bein’ funny?”
“I’m being serious. Dead serious. That break-in at The Eagle? Your name’s all over it, Ronnie.” Byford was busking; he had no particular incident in mind, but the pub had seen more raids than a kid’s piggy bank. Keeping track of Ronnie’s record was difficult. Even for Ronnie.
Byford’s surmise struck gold. He watched as the man’s alcohol-induced flush drained, leaving his face whiter than his T-shirt.
“That was nothing to do with me, you bastard.”
“That’s not what my man says.” Byford looked at his watch. “Come on, Mike. Let’s get back. That warrant should be about ready.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Ronnie was rubbing his chin. Byford didn’t think the man was considering a shave. “I can’t help with the girl. I didn’t see nothin’.”
“Save it.” Byford gave a mock salute. “See you in an hour. Don’t go walkabout, Ronnie.” He stepped back as the man reached to grab his arm. Byford wasn’t overly fastidious but Ronnie’s personal hygiene left everything to be desired.
“There’s no need for that, Mr Byford. I haven’t been near The Eagle for months. Honest.”
Powell put his hand to the door. “Won’t mind us taking a look round then, will you?”
Panic crossed Ronnie’s irregular features. He clearly didn’t want them in the house and it wasn’t because he hadn’t got round to the hoovering. Byford made a mental note: The Eagle might be a non-starter but Ronnie Leigh had been up to something.
“How ’bout if I keep my ear to the ground. Let you know if I hear anything?”
Given Ronnie’s shady network, it wasn’t a bad offer.
Byford shook his head. “Not good enough.”
Ronnie’s glance darted between the two men. Byford noticed a line of sweat where the lager had been. “One thing I do know…”
Byford raised his eyebrows, waited.
“Tonight. Thread Street. There’s gonna be a show of force.” He leaned forward, dropped his voice. “And I’m not talking police force.”
“Problem?” Ozzie asked.
Bev replaced the phone. “I’ll get over it.” She sat back, tried to relax. World’s worst passenger, Bev. Ordinarily, she’d be behind the wheel but there’d been a couple of calls she needed to make. Recalling them brought back the concern. Vicki still hadn’t turned up. There’d been no word left at the desk and no message on Bev’s answerphone. What to make of it? She’d thought they were beginning to make a connection. She didn’t want to think Vicki had done a bunk. But what did she know? She wanted to believe her but Vicki could have been lying through her lip piercing. She was a free agent, wasn’t she? The outside chance that she might not be was another thing Bev didn’t want to think about. There wasn’t time.
“We stopping for a bite after this?”
She glanced at Ozzie’s profile. Talk about tasty; he was Darcy with a suntan. She found herself musing about pleasing countenances, gentle dispositions and Ozzie wading out of the nearest lake. She was miles away.
“Sarge?”
“Sorry, Oz. Things on my mind.”
“Must be good,” he said. “I’ve never seen you smile like that.”
Boy. He’d been looking at her. “Keep your eyes on the road, Constable.” Shit. Why had she said that? She sounded like a sodding driving instructor.
“Anyway, Sarge, we stopping or what?”
Yeah, tongue sandwich. Stop it, Beverley! “Best not. There’s too much to get through, Oz.”
“Fair enough.”
They drove in silence for a while. Bev was calculating whether she’d have a chance to pop home before Byford’s Thread Street briefing. There’d obviously be a plod presence but the boss wanted a few of his own people out as well.
Oz was clearly thinking along the same battle lines. “Reckon there’ll be trouble tonight?”
She shrugged. “Depends on the turnout. If the girls get wind of it and stay home, the johns won’t hang around. Could be a damp squib.” She yawned.
“Hope so. I could do with an early night.” Oz turned left into a wide, tree-lined street. “What number we after?”
“Twenty-two.” She spotted it. “Just passed it. Go to the end and turn round.”
“Posh ’ere, innit?”
She was coming to the same conclusion. The Cedars estate was the sort of place estate agents tell the truth about. Half-beamed, black and whites. Mock Tudor, real money. Some of the garages were bigger than Bev’s last bedsit. So were the cars, come to that.
She sniffed, put a pound of plums in her mouth. “Very Edge-bar-ston, dahling.”
He grinned. “Ooh, don’t.”
“What?”
“I love it when you talk clean.”
“Daft sod.” She smiled: not just a pretty face, Oz.
They pulled up. He gave a low whistle. “How much are teachers on these days?”
“Dunno. Reckon we’re in the wrong game?” She consulted a hastily scribbled note. “Anyway. This bloke’s a Head of Year. The ones kids are supposed to go to if there’s a problem.”
“Must have seen a lot of Michelle then.”
A sign told them to Beware of the Dog. She reckoned there should have been another warning callers about the bell; it played Greensleeves.
“Mr Brand? Henry Brand?”
She was looking at a small, portly man, probably mid-fifties. Half-moon glasses were perched on a high domed forehead, kept in position by ear flaps she reckoned he could land a plane with. He didn’t look at her and addressed his remarks to Ozzie. “I’m not buying anything. I’m an agnostic. And I contribute every month to a charity of my choice.” He was about to close the door.
Bev held out ID. “I’m Detective Sergeant Morriss. This is DC Khan. We need to speak to you about Michelle Lucas.”
He glanced at the card then back to Oz. “This isn’t very convenient. Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’ll be on school premises from 7.30 onwards.” Ozzie didn’t move a muscle. Bev waited till the unspoken message finally got through. When she had the man’s undivided attention, she made a point of looking down. He had the Sunday Times business supplement in his left hand, the index finger keeping his place.
“Sorry it’s inconvenient, Mr Brand. I’m afraid it can’t wait at all, let alone another day.”
A sigh was followed by a resigned shake of the head. “You’d better come in.”
As they filed through, she stuck out her tongue. It was childish but what the hell? She glanced back at Ozzie with a conspiratorial grin. He was looking straight ahead – into a huge, gilt-framed mirror on the far wall. She licked her lips a few times hoping to pass off the tongue business as a nervous habit. She looked round the hall: oak-panelling, stained-glass windows, a couple of ancient settles. Judging by the smells there’d been serious housework going on and not far away serious coffee was on the go. It soon became clear they were to go no further. Brand was dashing round closing doors. He came to a halt in front of Bev, arms folded, newspaper still in place. “My wife. She’s unwell. I don’t want her disturbed.”
Bev’s sympathy was in short supply. “What can you tell us about Michelle?”
“That you haven’t already learned? I doubt very much whether I can add anything at all.”
She took out a notebook, gave her pencil an ostentatious lick. “Go on then.”
“What?”
“Have a go.”
He took off his glasses, scratched his head. “Michelle Lucas was fifteen years old. An average student. Certainly not stupid. Had she shown more inclination, she might have achieved a GCSE or two. I did not anticipate that she would be applying for Oxbridge.”
Supercilious git. “What did you anticipate, Mr Brand?”
“The question is meaningless. You should attempt to be more precise.”
“Go and stand in the corner, shall I?” She smiled, hoping for a latent sense of humour.
“Is that meant to be funny?”
She took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is this: from what you know of Michelle, what sort of girl was she? Did she have any problems, ever ask for advice? Is there anything you can tell us about her or her friends, that might help us find who killed her?”
“There are at least four questions there. Do you have an order of preference?”
Bev tapped a foot: never a good sign. “I prefer interviewees to help.”
He sighed again. “Michelle Lucas was a typical by-product of a broken home and abusive parents.”
By-product? Sounded like industrial waste.
“She had no respect for authority, lacked any sort of discipline. She was an insolent and attention-seeking adolescent.”
Bev glanced at Ozzie. This went against all the reports back so far. Most people had drawn a picture of a pleasant girl, eager to please and seemingly undamaged by a less than promising early childhood.
“Attention-seeking?”
“Short skirts, tight blouses, loud mouthed.”
“Typical teenager then?”
“She was a trouble-maker.” He was scratching his head again, obviously ill at ease.
“In what way?”
“She just was.” For a man who valued precision, the reply was woollier than a herd of sheep.
Bev made a note and looked up. “Was there trouble at school?”
“The girl’s dead. What’s the point..?”
“That is the point.”
She watched him weighing up what to say. “Look. You’ll probably find out sooner or later… There were allegations…
“Allegations?”
“Michelle Lucas made certain accusations against a number of members of staff.” He halted as if what he’d said was sufficient. The silence suggested otherwise. “It was absolute nonsense of course. And I wasn’t the only one.”
“Michelle accused you?”
“As I’ve already made clear – she constantly sought attention. It was me, me, me all the time with Miss Lucas.”
“What was the nature of the allegations?”
“She claimed I tried to touch her.”
“And did you?”
He widened his eyes, sharpened his voice. “That is a highly offensive remark, young woman.”
“No more offensive than a schoolgirl being assaulted.”
“Are you suggesting..?”
“I’m suggesting nothing. What did the inquiry find?”
“What inquiry? There was no inquiry. There was nothing to inquire into unless you count the delusions of an hysterical teenager.”
“When were these allegations made?”
He waved a hand. “Sometime last month, I think. She went to the head. Mrs Sharpe.”
“And?”
“Elizabeth soon had the truth out of her. Cock and bull from start to finish. I only mention it to prove my point about Michelle’s propensity for the spotlight.”
Bev nodded. “And the others? You said you weren’t the only one she made accusations against.”
“She never mentioned names. Well, she couldn’t, could she?”
“She mentioned yours.”
He pursed thin lips. “Look. I’ve done my best to help. If there’s nothing else…” His body language was screaming at them to go. Bev considered: there was obviously a lot more, but maybe not yet. She looked at Ozzie. He shook his head. She smiled. “That’s all. Mr Brand. For the moment.”
“What you make of him, then?”
Ozzie was talking through a mouthful of tuna baguette. Bev was licking sugar off her fingers. Two cups of cappuccino were cooling on the dashboard. Esso’s finest and a parking space just off the forecourt.
“Pompous git,” she said. “Why do jerks like Brand go in for teaching?”
He brushed a couple of crumbs on to the floor. “To buy a house like that for one thing.”
“Reckon?” She paused. “I wonder. I think we’ll have a closer look at Henry Brand. And not just the size of his wallet.”
“That stuff about Michelle?”
She nodded. “He was up-front but he had to be. Like he said…we were bound to find out. He thought he was being smart.”
Oz wiped his lips with a napkin from Bev’s doughnut. “I suppose it’s possible. She might have made up a story just to drop him in it.”
“Anything’s possible, Ozzie. It’s possible Mike Powell will buy a round of drinks in the club one night.”
He grinned. She liked working with this bloke, he laughed at her jokes. What’s more it meant she saw very little of Powell these days, in or out of the bar. She took a sip of coffee. “I just don’t see why Brand was so keen to shitbag the girl. Speaking ill of the dead, and all that.”
She warmed her hands on the cup, swirled the liquid round, watching the patterns, thinking her thoughts. Why had he been such a bastard? He clearly hadn’t wanted them in the house. He could barely look at Bev. And he hadn’t shown the slightest sign of sorrow or regret at the waste of Michelle Lucas’s young life. Then again – who had? Apart from the caretaker who’d found Michelle’s body, the only tears Bev had seen shed were Vicki’s. The only decent lead had come from Vicki. The only promise of help, Vicki. Bev crumpled the empty cup in the palm of her hand. And where the hell was Vicki Flinn now?