Working Girls (3 page)

She nodded. “Any thoughts on the weapon?”

“Sharp, that’s for sure. Look at that wound.”

Bev had seen enough. “Doc Jordan reckoned about nine hours?”

“Gone already, has he?” Gough asked.

Paul Jordan was on the GP call-out list. A new boy, or he wouldn’t have left the scene without having a word with Goughie.

“Yeah. Emergency call,” Bev white-lied.

“I’ll not argue with him. Not yet anyway.” Gough rose, removing the gloves. “I’ll do the biz this afternoon.”

She watched Gough climb the slope; she’d miss the old boy when he retired.

“I’m going up to the school, Morriss. Have a word with the guv.”

Powell was easier to read than a primer. “Okay,” she said. “‘I’ll hang round a while. See what they turn up.”

As well as the SOCOs, a team of officers and dog handlers was scouring the park for any trace of Michelle Lucas’s last movements. They’d be bagging butt ends and bus tickets, spent
matches and crumpled packets; every scrap of humanity and sign of life, to try to unearth a pointer to the girl’s death.

Bev walked away from the body, noticed again the scuffed shoe. She thought of glass slippers and fairy stories and sighed. Michelle was no Cinderella and any prospect of living happily ever
after had been written off in the first chapter.

She frowned, went down on one knee, something had caught her eye. She glanced round for a twig, used it to prop up the shoe then peered closer. Lining the sole was a stash of cash. Ten-pound
notes. Dirty money. Bev shook her head. Finding this particular piece of evidence gave her no pleasure. Out with the vice, kerb trawling, it was the first place they looked. It was the oldest trick
in the book of the oldest profession. And it cleared up any remaining doubt that young Michelle Lucas was a fully paid-up member.

2

“Any of you lot seen Shell?”

Five pairs of young eyes reluctantly left their appreciation of Orlando Bloom’s glistening pectorals and glanced towards the door.

“’ere, Vicki. Come and get a load of this.” The invitation was issued by a skinny girl with bright red hair and a nose stud. But Vicki Flinn had laid eyes – and other
body parts – on more naked flesh than Stud and the other kids had wolfed down TV dinners. She was unmoved by
heat’s
latest centrefold, spread as he was across a corner table at
the Copper Kettle caff.

“I’m in a rush, Rose. Any idea where she is?” Vicki asked.

Maybe the nasal attachment gave the girl an authority denied the others, but Rose was clearly their mouthpiece. “We ain’t seen her for ages. She ain’t been in school all week.
You ’ang round with ’er more than us, anyroad.”

Vicki frowned. It was true. She was a couple of years older than Shell. Been on the game that much longer. Shell was the only one who’d shown any interest. Rose and her cronies got what
they wanted from shoplifting, not dropping their knickers. Kids who lived at home and had family – such as it was – didn’t want to know. Shell was different. She and Vicki had big
plans. They were going to work the streets together, get some readies, then leg it. They’d get out of Birmingham, start a business some place: hairdressing maybe, or a sandwich bar. First
she’d got to get Shell away from Mad Charlie.

“You sure she ain’t been in?” It was nearly 10am. They were supposed to have met outside the Odeon at nine, go to Mac’s for a bite to eat, then pick up a few bits and
pieces in town. Rose’s attention was elsewhere; one of her badly-bitten nails was tracing a line round Orlando’s navel. “Rose! Are you listenin’?”

“I’ve told you once,” she glared. “You wannit in writin’ or sumfink?”

Given the girl’s patchy school attendance, Vicki reckoned that was well optimistic. She stood in the middle of the floor, chewing her bottom lip, working out the next move. Her red leather
skirt was only slightly longer than the leopard print blouson she’d nicked off the market. There was a ladder running up the inside of one black stocking.

“You want somethin’?”

Vicki turned. The question came from a huge woman with a washed-out face behind a none-too-clean counter. Her hair looked like a mauve meringue. A nylon cap was perched on top, but it was only a
gesture towards public health regulations. Any beneficial effect was largely negated by the smouldering cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth. Vicki curled her lip.

“You’re jokin’, ain’t you?”

The woman plonked sausage-shaped fingers on the mounds of fat floundering around the vague location of her hips. “I ain’t Benny ’ill.” Vicki watched the cigarette keep
time with the woman’s mouth, apart from odd flecks of ash that were floating towards the Eccles cakes. “And if you ain’t buyin’ you can bugger off. I don’t want your
sort in ’ere.” She extracted the dog-end and ground it underfoot. “And get a move on or I’ll call the Old Bill.”

Vicki knew that after a quick once-over, the woman had jumped to several fast conclusions. She dragged a hand through her Gothic crop and tugged the hem of her skirt. Her stick-thin legs were
none too steady atop pink plastic wedgies. The place wasn’t crowded and it wasn’t the Ritz but she felt a blush creeping up her neck and over her face. The miserable cow. There was no
need to talk to her like that. She felt like giving her a mouthful and throwing a cup of cold tea in her ugly mush. Still, the old bag had given her an idea. In the girls’ line of business,
cops were an occupational hazard: she reckoned her mate had been nicked. It’d be a first for young Shell. She smiled picturing the girl cooling her heels in a police cell down at Highgate
nick. She’d better get herself down there, find out when they were letting Shell out. The overnight accommodation might well have been at Her Majesty’s pleasure, but it sure as hell
wouldn’t have done a lot for Ms Lucas’s.

3

Thread Street Comprehensive had seen better days. Then again, mused Byford, hadn’t we all?

The Superintendent was on an impromptu walkabout. He was searching for signs to the head’s study and at the same time, taking in pointers to the state of the school. Five out of ten, could
do better, was his initial verdict. Its paintwork was having a mid-life crisis; ubiquitous, grey vinyl flooring was stained and skid-marked; discarded sweet wrappers lurking in corners, keeping the
dustballs company. Byford was taking mental notes and trying not to make assumptions. He still hadn’t tracked down the study. He was beginning to think it was a deliberate ploy to keep the
little dears at bay; either that or the little dears had been playing silly beggars with the signposts.

There was no point in following his nose; everywhere he went was the same strange smell. It was difficult to pin down but encompassed cheesy socks and stale curry.

“Can I help you?” A cut-glass voice that evoked Home Counties’ home comforts had no difficulty carrying the length of the corridor.

Byford turned. A tall woman, late thirties, not unattractive, was standing in a doorway. She was wearing a well-cut, dark blue trouser suit but there was nothing masculine about her. He wondered
how long she’d been watching him.

He retraced his steps. “Detective Superintendent William Byford. I’m…”

She glanced at her watch. The movement was meant to be noticed. “Yes. I’ve been expecting you. I’m Elizabeth Sharpe. Headteacher. Will this take long?”

He bit back his first response. He might regret it later. “Hope not. Let’s make a start, shall we?”

“Follow me.” She spoke without smiling. He trailed behind, feeling like a recalcitrant schoolboy. Again, he noticed her height. He was six-two and she wasn’t much shorter. She
was big-boned but not fat: not yet. There was a faintly regal air about her. She was walking at a sedate pace with her head held high and her shoulders back. He could imagine her waving from the
back of a Bentley Perhaps it came in handy when dealing with hundreds of truculent kids.

She reached her study, held the door open to let him pass. No sweaty footwear or bearded vindaloo here. It was more furniture polish and air freshener.

She gestured him to a chair and talked as she walked across her own spotless floor. “It’s quite beyond me. Absolutely unbelievable. Michelle Lucas. Dead.” She didn’t
actually utter, “And on school grounds,” but the words hung in the air. “You’re sure there’s no mistake?”

How many times had he heard that? “Quite.”

Her eyes were a pale-blue and her gaze hadn’t left his since he’d sat down. Byford wasn’t a fan of unremitting eye contact. He put it in the same league as an overfirm
handshake.

“Thank God it’s Saturday,” she said.

His face must have betrayed his reaction and she lifted a hand to quell a protest he hadn’t voiced. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… well, at least the
children are at home. By Monday perhaps…”

He watched as she returned an errant strand of chestnut-coloured hair to an otherwise obedient bun. His first impression was wrong, he realised now. She was older.

“We’ll need a room,” he said.

“A room?”

He might just as well have been asking for a handbag. Byford nodded. “Just for a few days. The main incident unit will be at headquarters but we’re going to need something nearer the
scene.”

“But surely…” She put a hand over her mouth. He noticed that the red nail polish was chipped and make-up was caught in the creases around her eyes. At this distance, it was
highlighting the defects she hoped to hide.

He tried an encouraging smile. “We may get an early break. But it’s not something we can bank on. We have procedures and we have to implement them as soon as we can.”

“Yes.” She didn’t sound convinced.

“A girl’s been murdered, Mrs Sharpe. We have to find out who did it.”

“Of course. It’s just that the whole thing is so distressing. We have exams coming up. An OFSTED next term. The children will be…”

Byford was picturing Michelle’s body. “One of those children has been murdered.”

Her mouth tightened slightly. He thought she was about to argue but she said nothing.

“What can you tell me about Michelle Lucas?”

She walked to the sash window behind her desk, stood with her back to it and casually ran a finger along its dust-free ledge.

“What have you learned already?”

He shook his head. “That’s not important. I’m interested in what you can tell me. I need to know everything about her. Who her friends are. Where she went. What she
did.”

“Surely you don’t think someone here..?”

“I don’t think anything at the moment, Mrs Sharpe. All I know is that a girl is dead and whoever killed her is still out there.”

Her eyes widened. “My God.”

He looked at his watch. The gesture wasn’t lost. She returned to the chair, sat back with legs crossed, hands in lap. “Michelle was a lovely girl. Especially when you
consider… Well, her life’s not been easy.”

He bit back a remark about her death.

“Are you aware she was in care, Superintendent? She’d been at Fair Oaks Children’s Home for about two years. Michelle was abandoned by her mother. There were rumours of abuse.
Violence.”

“Rumours?”

“Nothing ever got to court.” She looked at her nails. “And… Michelle…”

“Michelle?”

She forced a smile. “Let’s just say there were times when she had a vivid imagination.”

Byford scratched his left eyebrow. It was a warning – to anyone who could read the sign.

Elizabeth Sharpe leaned foward, rested her elbows on the desk. “Michelle liked to be the centre of attention, Superintendent. It happens a lot with children from broken homes. They need to
be noticed. They want everyone to like them. Sometimes they make things up… I suppose it’s compensation for what they’ve lost.”

Spare me psycho-crap, thought Byford. “And Michelle…”

The silence was uneasy. He had no intention of breaking it.

“Michelle could be very caring. Very helpful.”

“But?”

She shrugged. “Mostly when there was something in it for her.”

Sounded like every teenager Byford knew. “For instance?”

“Oh, little things. Offering to tidy up after class to get out of a detention. Carrying a teacher’s bag to her car – so as to get a lift into town. That sort of
thing.”

His withering expression suggested it was hardly major league.

She pursed her lips and upped the ante. “She smoked in school. And several times, my staff suspected she’d been drinking.”

“What about drugs?”’

“Not in school. But… she took rather a lot of unauthorised absences.”

Byford nodded. Bunking off they called it in his day. It was time to get on. “I’d like a list of her teachers and how they can be contacted. If you can think of any pupils she was
particularly close to – put their names on it as well.”

“I’ve already made a start.” She handed over a file. He wondered why he wasn’t impressed with her efficiency. “You’ll need to speak to her Head of Year, Henry
Brand. He works very closely with the children in his care and he’s been on the staff here for many years.”

“Right. Thanks. I’ll keep you informed.”

She smiled for the first time. “Actually if you don’t think you’ll need me…”

He waited. Was the woman incapable of finishing a sentence? “It’s just that when your man called at my home this morning, I was actually on my way out…”

He nodded but said nothing.

“It was no problem, of course. I don’t live far. I have to pass school to get to the course anyway.”

“Course?” He had visions of lecture halls and seminars.

“Golf. Woodley Manor. There’s a tournament on today.”

He was shocked, wondered if he had the right, had to stop himself bridling. “Don’t let me keep you, Mrs Sharpe. If we need you, we can always catch up with you on the
green.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Inspector.”

He ignored the deliberate demotion. “In a murder inquiry, anything might be necessary, Mrs Sharpe.”

He remained silent, again wanting her to break it, wondering how she would. She sighed. “Michelle will be missed. She was very popular here. A lovely girl…”

Not for the first time, Byford thought that what Elizabeth Sharpe didn’t say was more interesting.