8
The fuzzy red lettering had run in the rain. The word TART, painted on placards three feet high, now looked more like an exhortation to break wind. The message had been strung up on every lamp-post in Thread Street. If Bev hadn’t been dying for a pee, she’d have been in stitches.
Ozzie yawned, glanced at his watch. “What was it you said about a damp squib?”
“That, DC Khan, would be a megablast compared with this little lot.”
This little lot was seven pillars of the community listing over a glowing brazier at the top end of the road. Half a dozen others were parading around with hoisted banners proclaiming what had read CUTS and TARTS but, after an hour’s relentless downpour, could get them arrested. They’d given up chanting when an elderly man at number 30 had thrown a bucket of something from an upstairs window. Ronnie Leigh’s threat of Armageddon wasn’t holding up.
“How much longer we giving it?” Ozzie asked.
“Chucking out time, Powell said.” It was just after nine.
“Good of him.”
She laughed, started the engine. “We’ll do another turn.”
Most of the uniforms had already been stood down. A pair were still in position at either end of the street, a couple of others were stationed near the school and patrol cars were in easy call. Bev wouldn’t like to be in Ronnie’s counterfeit Nikes when Byford nicked him.
“Should have seen it coming, when you think about it.” She flicked the wipers on, checked the mirror and pulled out.
“How d’you mean?”
“The girls aren’t stupid. Why come out on a night like this? Specially with that for a welcoming committee.” She flashed them a bright smile as she sailed past.
The brazier bunch looked glum but determined. As far as she could tell there was only one woman; they’d exchanged a few words earlier. The rest she didn’t know from Adam: a couple of anoraks in their twenties; an elderly bloke with either a dog collar or a white polo and three middle aged men with sodden shalwars clinging to skinny calves, sharing an umbrella covered in huge sunflowers.
The woman had a plastic carrier from KwikSave over her blue rinse. Bev had every confidence it was a cheap means of protection rather than a measure of desperation. Indeed Blue Rinse gave every indication of relishing every moment. She was wielding a clipboard, conscientiously taking down every car number in sight. Bev had already urged the removal of one registration: an unmarked police motor being driven by DI Powell.
She turned right into the High Street. Lil’s kiosk had been battened down for the night. Bev made a mental note to have a word with her. Not a lot escaped the old darling. She glanced along the row of shops. The Taj Mahal was having a good night: windows steamed up, outer door open, eau de Balti drifting out. Further down, outside Lloyds, a woman was using the hole in the wall, a friend keeping watch for mug-and-runs. A wino was sheltering in the offie doorway. A ghetto blaster on wheels whizzed past doing forty-five and God knows how many decibels.
“Ever regretted it?” she asked.
“What?”
“Not going in for something quiet. Y’know, regular hours. No nights. No weekends. Bosses who don’t bugger off for a swift half.”
“My old man wanted me in the family business.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s a taxidermist.”
She laughed, wished she was. She could put a bit of work his way. “Taxi driver more like.”
The lights were on red. She tapped fingers on the wheel. Far as she recalled, Khan senior had a burgeoning chain of small-ish shops; the sort that make Eight to Lates look indolent. Which reminded her; she hadn’t been to Tesco. Again. Ho-hum. The lights changed and she turned right into Hogarth Road, running parallel now with Thread Street. The houses were big; redbrick, mostly bedsits, the odd sign advertising acupuncture, chiropractic and the like. It was quieter here. Not much traffic. A couple of dogs taking out owners.
“Do you get fed up with it, Sarge?”
She was set to trot out some flip remark, but Ozzie’s voice had an edge she hadn’t heard him use before. She glanced over. He was peering through rain trails on his window. “Sure. We deal with the crap. Treated like it too most of the time.” She sensed his eyes on her now. “I’m not gonna come out with a load of bollocks, Oz. The old ‘it’s a tough job but someone’s gotta do it’ line. It’s a bastard and you’ve really got to want to do it. You’ve got to wake up every day and want to get out and do it more than anything else you can think of.”
“You do that?”
“Sure I do.” She smiled. “Sad git, aren’t I?”
“You’re not. But there’s no shortage.”
She paused, picking her words carefully. He wouldn’t be saying any of this if a) she was a bloke and b) Highgate’s hard men hadn’t been giving him a bad time. On the other hand, if it was true what they say about heat and kitchens, the police canteen was a blast furnace.
“Look, Ozzie. You just have to get on with it. I do. All day. Every day. Don’t let them get to you.”
They were subtler now; had to be. Even so, that sticks-and-stones stuff was bullshit. She could imagine the names Ozzie had to contend with. A pretty boy with a law degree and a mother from Lahore.
“Yeah. You’re right.”
So why did he sound as though she wasn’t?
A second later, it didn’t matter.
She was turning into Nelson Drive, another quiet, tree-lined road that would lead them back to Thread Street. The lamp-post halfway down on the left? There was something wrong. She narrowed her eyes, cropping everything else from the picture.
“Holy Mother. What have they done?”
A rope, nylon cord, whatever, had been strung over the top of the metal. A girl, head lolling awkwardly across her chest, arms hanging limply at her sides, was gently swaying. Her skirt had been hiked up, or was obscenely short. Long, stick-thin legs dangled, but even with four-inch platforms her feet were never going to reach the ground.
Val was slipping a foot into a fluffy pink mule. The shade clashed with the chiffon nightdress slipping off a well-rounded shoulder but in a room with a twenty-watt bulb – what the hell? Banjo wouldn’t notice. And if he did, he wouldn’t care. What with the rain and a patch full of pillocks, she’d been in the market for an early night – until Banjo phoned.
“Eh, Val. What’s going on? There’s more fuzz in Thread Street than on a pound of peaches.”
She’d laughed out loud, told him he could call round. More men had been in Big Val’s knickers than through her front door, but Banjo Hay was an exception. More of a mate really; they always had a good laugh. She even closed her eyes during the biz. Not many punters you can afford to do that with. Shame in a way, cause Banjo was one of the few worth looking at.
She yawned, stretching both arms over her head. Best put your face on, girl. There was a well-worn tallboy against the wall. She’d picked it up for a fiver at Kev’s junk shop. He’d chucked in a three-sided mirror as well. She peered in, pulled a face. Blimey. One was bad enough. After the full works and a dab of dodgy Chanel, she was ready for anything.
She pulled on a wrap and went downstairs to wait. Not even Banjo was allowed further than the front room. She looked round, fancied a joint, had to make do with a Marlboro. Banjo’d have some wacky baccy. Should have asked him to bring a few cans as well; the girls had drunk the place dry. She shoved a few toy pigs to the wall and lay on the bed. The kids would be well pissed off with the aggro in Thread Street; a bunch of do-gooders was no good for trade. She took a deep drag and closed her eyes. Maybe it was no bad thing. Least till the cops caught Shell’s killer.
There was a tap on the window. She smiled: set your watch by Banjo. She hauled herself up, threw the butt into the empty fireplace, ran her tongue along her teeth then licked her lips. She was smiling when she opened the door. She’d have put it on the chain if she hadn’t been expecting Banjo. Talk about stables and bolting horses.
“What do you want?”
“Valerie, Valerie. That’s no way to talk to an old friend.”
“None of your friends reach old age, do they?”
“Let’s talk about that inside.”
“Let’s not.”
“It’s not a request, Valerie.”
The kick was fast and would probably leave a dent in the door. She didn’t see it coming; the edge of the wood caught her on the side of the face. Charlie Hawes was in the room before she was off the floor.
He strolled round, hands in the pockets of an expensive-looking black coat. “Banjo sends his apologies. Got held up by a couple of mates. My mates.”
I bet he did, she thought. “What do you want, Charlie?”
“Me? I just want a quiet life. You know that, Valerie.”
“Join a monastery.”
He walked towards her slowly. She tensed when he lifted a hand but all he did was stroke a finger gently down her cheek.
“I’d put something on that if I were you. You’ll have a nasty bruise if you don’t look out.”
“What do you want, Charlie?”
“Sit down.”
“I’m okay.”
“Sit down.”
She perched on the bed.
“Michelle’s murder is not good news.”
Val looked down at her hands, clasped them tightly to stop the tremor.
He sat next to her, put an arm round her shoulder. “It’s giving me a lot of grief. Know what I mean?”
“Yes, Charlie.”
“See, the police want to talk to me and I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. It’s not good for business. You can see that, can’t you, Valerie?”
“Yes, Charlie.”
“So I want your help.”
“Me?”
“You.” He tightened the grip. “There’s a cop sniffing round. Asking questions. Too many questions.”
“I don’t talk to cops. You know that, Charlie.”
He took his arm away, turned her face towards his. “Thing is, lady, I want you to talk to this one. I want you to supply a few answers.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“That’s right. I’m going to fill you in.”
She bit her lip.
“You cold, Valerie?”
“No. I’m okay.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m okay.”
He stood, strolled over to the fireplace. “This cop. She’s at Highgate. CID. Name’s Morriss. I want you to get in touch.” He smiled. “Woman to woman, tart to tart. Put her right on a few things.”
“Come on, Charlie, she ain’t gonna listen to me.”
He waved a hand. “Oh, I think so. See, a little bird told me you and Beverley go back a long way.”
“Shouldn’t listen to little birds. She’s pulled me in a few times, that’s all.”
“You’re not hearing me, are you? It’s not negotiable. And if that little bird’s been telling lies – I’ll just have to wring its neck, won’t I?”
His voice was steady but Val’s heart was racing. She had a feeling the little bird might go by the name of Vicki Flinn.
“What do you want me to do?”
“That’s better, Valerie. Much better.”
Spelling it out didn’t take long. She listened in silence, nodding now and again.
“Hope it’s all clear. Don’t want you f*cking up, do we?”
She shook her head. He smiled. “Any questions before I leave, Valerie?”
She had to ask, needed to know, kept her voice casual. “Haven’t seen Shell’s mate, Vicki, for ages. Any ideas, Charlie?”
He laughed, walked to the bed, patted her head, Labrador style. “Don’t you worry, Auntie Valerie. I’m taking good care of young Victoria. Matter of fact, she’s hanging around outside now – waiting for her Uncle Charles.”
Ozzie released the belts before Bev hit the brakes. Blood was whooshing in her ears and her scalp was doing its hedgehog impersonation.
She flung open the door, gulped cold air. Ozzie’s heels rang in the silence. She knew she had to get up, had to join him, had to take control. She just needed a second.
He reached the body, looked back. “Don’t bother, Sarge.”
It was too late: she was already bent double, gazing into the gutter. She didn’t hear him walk back but turned her head when he tapped her shoulder. He was holding something in his hand. “Nutters, or what?”
She swore as her eyes focused. The visual clarity did nothing for her vocabulary.
“Arseholes.”
“Sarge, it’s a joke. A sick joke. That’s all.”
The short black wig was askew now, obscuring the eyes but revealing a fibreglass skull. The head must have worked loose from the neck as the rest of the dummy swung in the breeze.
“Sarge, you all right?”
Her cheeks were moist, glistening. She dashed at them with the heel of her hand. “Get the bloody thing down. Now.”
It was easier demanded than done. She stood at his side, arms folded, barking orders while he lowered the cord and mock cadaver. The clothing was barely damp, obviously hadn’t been there more than a few minutes. She scanned the street; there were no house lights on nearby and no one was about. She’d get the local radios to put out a witness appeal. Someone must have seen something. A car was approaching. She’d been watching as it turned in from Thread Street.
“Come on,” she said. “We’d best get back. I’ll give you a hand.”
He grinned. “I’ll give you the head.”
“Balls!” It wasn’t an anatomical admonition; she’d just clocked the driver of the car. Her heart hit her DMs. Powell, Mike bloody Powell. It did not look good. The Rover slewed across the pavement, doors gaping. Her and Ozzie man-handling a headless, half-naked, female form.
Powell sauntered over, smirking. “Look Morriss, whatever you pair get up to in private’s fine by me, but not in the street and not on police time.”
“Ha, ha.” She paused. He waited. “Sir.”
“What’s going on, then?”
How could she tell Powell when she had little idea herself? At best, it was a vicious wind-up. At worst, a graphic warning. Either way, the bloody thing had been dressed like Vicki Flinn. She outlined the barest of bones and watched as he stroked his chin – in most people an indication of thought.
“So your little friend’s a two-faced tart?”
She shook her head, genuinely bemused. “Sorry?”
“Been stringing you along, hasn’t she?” Stringing? Was the man serious? “Making out she’s a mate when all the while she’s laughing up her sleeve.” He was glaring at her now, jabbing the air between them. “Let me tell you something, Morriss. She was never going to take you to Mad Charlie. Pound to a penny she’s one of Hawes’s whores.”
She sighed. Charlie jokes had been banned from day one and, more to the point, what was Powell going on about? “How do you work that lot out?”
“Stands to reason. He doesn’t want you poking your nose in. He’s saying back off, big time. They’ll have staged this charming little tableau between them, be laughing themselves stupid.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t shake your head at me, girl.”
“Even if Hawes is behind it – and there’s nothing pointing that way – you can’t possibly know the girl’s in on it as well.”
“She’s a treacle. She’ll do as she’s told.”
“Precisely. He could be holding her…”
“Oh, I’ll bet he’s doing that.”
“…against her will.”
“Little slag should be done for wasting police time.”
Ozzie cleared his throat. “I think, perhaps, we should be getting back to Thread Street. Sir.”
Bev had forgotten Ozzie was there; Powell probably hadn’t even noticed.
“Don’t bother, laddie. Ronnie Leigh got his wires crossed. Thought I knew where I might find him. And there he was. Down the Royal Oak. The big one’s not tonight. It’s Tuesday. Everyone else has buggered off and I suggest you pair do the same.”
Bev watched him leave then had to transform two fingers into a mock salute as he did a sudden about-turn. “By the way, Morriss. I was on the blower with Byford earlier. He wants a word with you. First thing. His office.” He shook his head, tutting loudly. “Shove something hard down my knickers if I were you.”
It was the lure of mushy peas that did it. That, and the hunger-making exertion of grappling with an over-sized Barbie back at the nick. She shook her head, glanced in the driving mirror and gave a wry smile. The sight of Bev Morriss giving a fireman’s lift to a dubious-looking dummy had inspired the wits of Highgate to a new low. Whatever. She’d been heading for home with nothing more than a mug of Horlicks in mind when the culinary vision struck. A mere street away and it was now accompanied by haddock and chips. She was wavering but the tempting smells drifting from Your Plaice or Mine tipped the balance.
“Hello stranger. Thought you’d turned Vulcan.”
She smiled. “Don’t you mean vegan? Wotcha, Sid. How goes it?”
He lifted a sizzling basket. “Swimmingly.”
She rolled her eyes. Nothing changed. Sid Gounaris ran the best chippie in town but threw in the worst jokes. It was just round the corner from Bev’s but she hadn’t been near the place since the New Year and her week on a health farm.
“Y’all right, bab? You lookin’ a bit peaky.”
Dear Sid. He peppered the thickest Greek accent this side of Athens with the occasional dash of Brummie. Everyone was ‘bab’ – even the blokes. As for ‘peaky’ – she was sylph, not sick. Six kilos she’d lost since Christmas. On the other hand, coming across a Vicki Flinn look-alike dangling from a lamp-post probably wasn’t conducive to a healthy glow.
“Top of the world, Sid.”
“Usual?”
“Twist my arm.”
Sid’s arms were covered in curly black hair. At his temples there was a dusting of grey.
“Funny you comin’ in tonight.”
She sneaked a chip. “Oh?”
“Yeah, had some bloke in earlier askin’ ’bout you.”
She waved a hand furiously in front of her mouth, blowing hard. Sid looked up from salt scattering and grinned. “Serves you right.”
The chip was still too hot to swallow but Sid was a dab hand at working out the garbled utterances of the impatient.
“Said he was friend of a friend.”
“And what did you say?”
“Said, yeah, and I’m Jamie Oliver. C’mon, bab, this bloke’s got dreadlocks down to his elbows and you can smell the jazz woodbines a mile away.”
She grabbed another chip before he wrapped them, blew on it before taking a bite.
“What time was this, Sid?”
“I’d not long opened. ’bout seven?”
“What did he want? Exactly?”
“Says he had a message. He knew you lived round here but he’d lost the number or something. I said it was news to me.”
“Ta, Sid.” She was delving into her shoulder-bag, coming across the odd kitchen sink and fluffy Polo. She only had a tenner. She’d try to get to a cashpoint on her way into work.
He handed her the packet, voice becoming suddenly serious. “Look out for yourself, bab. There’s a load of crazies out there.”
By the time, she was parking, her only concern was whether Sid’s finest would still be piping hot after she’d buttered bread and opened chilled Frascati.
No one was into stupid risks, but the day the bogeyman lurked in every bush was the day to hang up the ID. The guy in Sid’s – given the two-bit description – could have been anyone. She locked up, looked round.
The car park was a piece of open ground at the back of the maisonettes. Apart from residents, it was used by drivers nipping into the shops. At 10.30 on a Sunday night, it was almost deserted. She frowned. The light by the staircase was out. Again. The local yobs used it for target practice.
Yes. She could see it now. There was broken glass on the concrete. Bloody nuisance, and nasty, given the number of little kids who played round the stairs. All those scabby knees and Germolene. She kicked away the worst of it; gave herself a pat on the back. The sudden, sharp, sickening whack to the small of her back was down to someone else.
She tried swirling round, but the impact was forcing her forward and she lost her balance. Her glass clearing had not been entirely successful. Her brain was trying to work out the site of the worst pain given the conflicting but equally pressing messages from both sources. It was no time for cerebral exercise; this was up close and physical. She was face down and pinned down; his knees were clamped at her sides, pressing on her arms. Something brushed across her eyes. It felt soft; might have been a scarf. Whatever it was, it was now tightly tied. Come on, Morriss, think: you can’t move, you can’t see. Maybe you can talk your way out of this.
“Why don’t we —“
“Shut the f*ck up.”
Chatting was out, then. What was he doing? What did he want? Was he the guy who’d been quizzing Sid? Was he linked to the Lucas inquiry? There had to be a connection, didn’t there? Otherwise it was too much of a coincidence. And Bev didn’t do coincidence.
On the other hand, it was mugsville round these parts. Anyone walking alone, after dark, was seen as a mobile cash dispenser. It was bad news for the crime figures but it had never bothered Bev personally. Self-defence was second nature. This was hurting her pride almost as much as her spine.
“Look —”
She stiffened. Everything had changed. He had a blade. The metal was cold and hard against her neck. As her fear rocketed, so did her anger. She’d always loathed being pushed around, couldn’t abide bullies and the thought that the mad bugger squatting on her back could possibly be Michelle Lucas’s killer acted as a spur. The only problem was that she couldn’t move an eyebrow let alone a muscle.
“What do —?”
“F*ckin shut it, bitch.”
Whatever he was up to, he’d have to get a move on. The place was quiet on a Sunday night, but it wasn’t ghost town. Someone could pass by any time.
The knife was the sticking point; made her think twice about trying a swift kick or a fast buck. Several unidentified flying objects hit the ground not far from her head. A few others she recognised: loose change, a box of matches. The smell gave it away. It even permeated the scents clinging to the blindfold. Leather and mints meant only one thing: he’d up-ended her shoulder-bag. The blade was now pressing – no, resting – against her cheek. He hadn’t cut her; not yet.
“Follow me, you’re dead.”
In a flash, the pressure on both face and back was gone; so had her attacker. She shot up, immediately regretted it. It hurt, badly. She snatched at the blindfold. What was the expression? Clean away. She didn’t even catch a pair of fleeing heels.
Call it in, Bev. Come on, girl. Get a grip. On what? The phone had gone. Her purse had gone. She’d only just held on to her bladder.
She started collecting the rest of her possessions. Her hands were shaking. She slowly got to her feet. Her legs were shaking. She took stock. Her whole body was bloody shaking. So, this was shock. Deep breaths, Bev, come on. She had to get home; concentrate, focus, get down the details.
Her head spun, stomach churning. The thought of food made her want to throw up. Which was lucky. Sid’s finest had all but disappeared. The fish had landed at the bottom of the stairs and the local wild life was out in force. A brindled dog with a touch of mange was amiably sharing the spoils with a scrawny, boss-eyed black tom. Three eyes locked on to hers. It was a low-life Lady and the Tramp.
It was strangely funny, but she wasn’t laughing. And the tears burning her cheek had nothing to do with the lost supper.