Working Girls Read online

  First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Flambard Press

  www.flambardpress.co.uk

  This edition published by Crème de la Crime Books in 2004

  Crème de la Crime Ltd, PO Box 445, Abingdon, Oxon OX13 6YQ

  Copyright © 2004 Maureen Carter

  The moral right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typesetting by Yvette Warren

  Cover design by Yvette Warren

  Front cover photography by A. Inden. Zefa Visual Media,

  www.zefa.co.uk

  Printed and bound in England by Biddles Ltd,

  www.biddles.co.uk

  ISBN 0-9547634-0-8

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

  www.cremedelacrime.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Maureen Carter has worked extensively in both print and broadcast journalism. She worked on newspapers and commercial radio before joining BBC TV News and Current Affairs.

  As well as being a reporter, Maureen co-presented BBC’s flagship Newsnight programme and went on to become one of the first women news producers outside London when she edited

  Midlands Today.

  She is now a freelance writer and narrator. Her work has been short-listed in the Crime Writers’ Association’s New Writing Competition. She is currently working on further DS Bev Morriss novels.

  Maureen lives in Birmingham and is married with one daughter, Sophie, who could be a useful contact in future – she’s going to university to read criminology!

  Author’s note

  My thanks go to members of Wolverhampton’s Vice Squad who helped with much of the research. Since then, part of the squad has been renamed and is now known as Child Protection.

  For friendship and faith, I thank: Edwina van Boolen, Christine Green, Frances Lally, Suzanne Lee, Corby Young and Peter Shannon.

  For his unfailing encouragement and expertise, I thank my editor, Iain Pattison. And for that wonderful phone call, my thanks to Lynne Patrick.

  To Sophie

  PROLOGUE

  The one streetlight that had been working had just gone out.

  “You and me both,” Shell muttered, words lost in a wide-mouthed yawn. She hadn’t had a punter for two hours and it was so cold she couldn’t feel her toes. Four creased and grimy tenners were lining the soles of her shoes. It was all she had to hide for opening her legs to two blokes she didn’t want to see again, let alone screw. She couldn’t go back with a puny £40. Her feet wouldn’t touch. Charlie had told her he wanted a monkey by Sunday, and he wasn’t someone you dared cross.

  A flash motor turned the corner, cruised towards her. She was no good with car names but even Shell knew a BMW when she saw one. For a second she panicked, then told herself not to be stupid. They weren’t all pimpmobiles; loads of normal blokes drove Beemers. The car was almost at the kerb now. She took a calming breath, then another. She’d have this last john, then knock it on the head for the night. She licked her lips, hoped they weren’t blue.

  Her white ankle-length coat was unbuttoned, her fists thrust deep in the pockets. She pulled it open even further as she approached the car. Long, blonde hair fell across her face as she leaned forward to look inside. The practised smile froze on her face. It couldn’t be? Why hadn’t she listened to Vicki?

  “Get in.” It wasn’t a request.

  Shell put a hand to her heart, scared its pounding would crack a rib. Her glance was everywhere but on the driver. She was looking for an exit; knowing there was no way out. Flight or fight?

  Either way she was fucked.

  She sighed, opened the door, sliding across the seat. It was warm inside and apart from her body’s odour, she smelt rich leather and classy aftershave. They drove in a silence she didn’t dare break. They moved away from the back streets now, heading for the ring road, joining other traffic. There was a tall tower – all steel and glass – to Shell’s left. On top was a read-out in neon red. It flickered every few seconds, flashing through time, temperature, date. Shell followed it with her eyes: 20.19; 4ºC. She had to crane her neck: 13.

  “It’s Friday, innit?”

  He responded without looking. “So?”

  “Unlucky for some, innit?” she whispered.

  1

  “Michelle Lucas. Fifteen. Throat wounds. Dead nine hours. Approx.”

  Detective Sergeant Beverley Morriss couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice so she was saying as little as possible. She watched her boss, Bill Byford, check his watch, aware that her body language more than compensated for the verbal shortcomings. Her arms were clamped round her body, a Doc Martened foot tapping the rock-hard earth, her normally fluent features fixed in a stony stare.

  It was a little after 8.30am. She’d arrived twenty minutes earlier, alerted by the school caretaker who’d found the body. He was now under sedation. Michelle Lucas had been left to bleed to death, on the edge of a scummy pool, on one of the coldest nights of the year. It was yet another image that Bev would have to learn to live with.

  “You all right, Bev?”

  “What do you think?” She turned her face to Byford. In itself, the question wasn’t insolent. Its delivery was definitely borderline, and judging by the look the Detective Superintendent was returning, she might have just overstepped the mark. It wouldn’t do to get on the man’s wrong side. Supportive senior officers were like snowmen in the desert. She gave a half-smile to break the ice, and cracked it further with a full apology. “That was out of order. Sorry, guv.”

  She was relieved to see a softening of his features but it didn’t alter the harsh reality of the violence before them.

  “Fifteen, you say?”

  Bev heard the doubt in Byford’s voice. She wasn’t surprised. The victim appeared older. The long blonde hair, the on-the-pull clothes barely concealing the womanly curves. Bev’s initial estimate had been late teens, early twenties, even.

  “Some kids grow up fast, sir.”

  She watched as he edged closer. They were in a dip and the body, screened by shrubs, wouldn’t have been visible from the footpath. She flinched
as she saw Byford recoil. She didn’t blame him. Any decent man would. The girl’s long legs were splayed and stained. The tacky, crotchless knickers, more shocking than her near-nakedness. There was dried blood and excrement on the inside of her thighs: the stink of human waste, in every sense. Bev averted her eyes, not out of embarrassment or disgust but in respect for the girl’s shattered dignity.

  “Animals,” she hissed.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  Aware he was still watching, she tried focusing on routine procedure rather than what appeared to be random savagery. She turned the pages of her notebook, but the tremor in her hands did little to calm her thoughts.

  “Come on, Bev, what is it?”

  She glanced at this big man who always had an eye for the small detail. But how could she tell Byford what was wrong when she could hardly explain it to herself? All she knew was that in eight years on the force, nothing had hit her so hard as the senseless obscenity of this young girl’s death. And she’d seen worse, far worse. She’d cracked sick gags at murder scenes along with the rest of them. It was a defence mechanism, essential for survival, but it was more than that. It was part of the culture: fit in or fuck off.

  Bev had no intention of looking weak. “No prob, guv,” she answered softly.

  She knew his nod of acknowledgement was as convincing as her words of assurance but they were all she had at the moment. She broke eye contact, glanced down at the notes of her brief interview with the caretaker. Byford resumed his scrutiny of the scene.

  She waited in silence, knowing he wouldn’t want to talk until he’d absorbed the details, the camera in his brain snapping a series of pin-sharp stills. She’d worked with him for nearly three years, was familiar with his ways, followed most of them. He was fifty-two, but she reckoned he’d only started to look it in the last eighteen months or so. The black hair was greying but there was still plenty of it. Bit more of him too, she realised. She hadn’t noticed the slight paunch before. Mind, at six feet two he was hardly Michelin man. Even if she could see his face, it wouldn’t tell her what he was thinking. She wondered anyway. His kids were grown up, but he was still a father.

  “Parents?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. If he was into clairvoyancy, she’d soon be out of a job. As to Michelle’s lineage, the words Bev had in mind were four-lettered and not the kind you’d use in front of granny. She gave a snort instead: a Morriss special.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Do go on.”

  She noted the sarcasm. Not like Byford, that; he must be picking up bad habits.

  “Mother and Father of the Year award?” she asked. “Missed it by a whisker.”

  She consulted her notes again. “According to the caretaker – a bloke called Jack Goddard – Michelle was in care. She was taken in when she was about twelve.” She paused, recalling the tears on Goddard’s leathery cheeks. “He didn’t recognise her at first.”

  “Hardly surprising,” said Byford.

  She glanced round at the sound of a car door being slammed. She hoped it was the scene-of-crime boys, or they’d be getting it in the neck from Byford. Even more than that, she hoped it wasn’t Mike Powell.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “Michelle was in Year Ten. Goddard says she was a nice kid. Had a heart of gold. Do anything for anyone.”

  She was pretty good at interpreting Byford’s eyebrows; at the moment they were in his hair-line.

  “There must be hundreds of kids at the school. How come he knows so much about Michelle Lucas?”

  “Everyone knows Michelle,” said Bev. “She was the original Home Alone kid. Only her ma didn’t just take off on holiday, she took off, period. The story goes that Mrs Lucas’s boyfriend was playing mummies and daddies with Michelle. The mother blamed the girl and buggered off with the bloke. Michelle’s been in children’s homes ever since. Goddard says it was all anyone round here talked about for ages. He reckons – considering everything – she was doing okay. He couldn’t believe it when he found her lying here.”

  There was no doubt. Bev looked at the body again. The girl’s flesh was as unnaturally white as the fake-leather coat. The red slash across her neck was a grotesque parody of her scarlet-painted lips. The only other colour was in the eyes. They were the deepest blue Bev had ever seen. She so wanted to close them for her. Like she wished she could slip the kid’s shoe back on. It was lying to the left of the body; presumably, it had fallen off in a struggle. It looked cheap and shiny, the badly scuffed heel ridiculously high.

  “And I bet she loved them,” whispered Bev.

  “Say something?” Byford asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, let’s get back to Goddard. What was he doing over here?”

  “This bit of the park belongs to the school.” Bev nodded over Byford’s shoulder. “You can just make out the building through the trees.” She paused, though there wasn’t a lot to see from this distance. “Anyway, some old boy left this area round the pool to Thread Street in his will. The school uses it as a nature centre. Teachers bring the younger kids over to look at the wild flowers, the pond life. Goddard comes here regularly. Safety checks mostly. You know the kind of thing: broken glass, used condoms, rusty syringes.”

  “Very rustic.”

  She gave a token smile. “Anyway, it’s private land. You’re supposed to be a key holder. Doesn’t stop people getting in though. The railings aren’t that high. Youths mostly. The odd wino. Whatever. They slip in, down a few beers, shoot up, sleep it off.”

  “How many legitimate key holders?”

  “I’ll get a list off the trustees. But as long as you live in the area and can afford £120 a year…”

  She waited while he looked round. The park wasn’t large and in the middle of February it certainly wasn’t lush, but it didn’t take much imagination to realise that in a few months it would be stunning.

  “I had no idea the place existed,” Byford said.

  It was well concealed, lying between Thread Street comprehensive at one end, and a row of high street shops at the other. Its sides were bordered by private properties, neither as imposing nor as expensive as they had been twenty years back. The park was all that remained of a once vast estate, owned by the once mighty Bogart family. It was a rural throwback, a stone’s throw from the inner city.

  “No reason you should,” said Bev. “I only know ’cause my dad used to come here for the fishing. I got dragged along to bait the hooks. All those tins of maggots, I can see them now.”

  She grinned at his obvious unease until she realised it probably had nothing to with the dubious delights of her childhood pursuits.

  “It begs a question though, Bev. Just how many people do know about it?”

  The query went unanswered.

  “Wotcha. Sorry. Couldn’t find the bloody place,” an approaching voice boomed.

  “Shit,” Bev muttered. It was supposed to be sotto voce but it wasn’t sotto enough. She smiled a ‘sorry’ at Byford. Not that the expletive was directed at him. It was aimed at the tall, well-dressed blond currently inching his way gingerly down the slope to join them. Bev hid a smirk as DI Powell checked the heels of his expensive Italian shoes.

  She knew it was a cliché: young female cop on shite terms with sexist, senior male officer. She knew it. Only trouble was, Mike Powell lived and breathed it.

  “Morning, Mike,” Byford greeted him. “Trouble with the motor?”

  Bev wondered if he was taking the piss. Powell’s time-keeping was as dodgy as a sundial’s in the dark but it could have been a dig at the DI’s elderly Alfa Romeo.

  “No way!” Powell said. “She goes like a dream.”

  “Wet, no doubt,” murmured Bev.

  He ignored her; nothing new there. “No. I got held up by the SOCO boys. They’ll be here any time. They’re just unloading. They weren’t sure how to get here, till I put them right.”

  “That was good of you,” Bev smiled, “seeing how you co
uldn’t find it yourself.” She knew it was childish, but he was a self-serving prat. The whole station was aware of their loathe-bait relationship. It had intensified after last year’s board when he’d been made up to inspector. Even a few of the blokes reckoned Bev had been robbed.

  “I used my initiative. You should try it some time, Morriss.”

  “Surprised you know where it is.” The words were lost as she turned her head, making a mental note to get more nicotine patches. In Bev’s book, the man should carry a health warning.

  “There they are, guv.” Three white-suited figures emerged from a clump of winter-spindly trees. What with the suits, the protective masks and the steel cases, it was like an X-files shoot.

  “It’ll be worth checking taxi firms, Bev.”

  Byford was at it again: mind-reading. Not really. She knew it was a pretty obvious route. They’d have to question anyone who was out and about at the relevant times. Mind, they had to narrow those down. That’s where Harry Gough would come in: another player who was making a late entrance.

  Byford’s mobile rang and she wandered over to have a few words with the crime scene lads. It was small talk mostly, while they prepared police tape, loaded cameras, lined up the gear. Gathering forensics was a painfully slow business, and Bev’s sense of urgency was in overdrive. She made her way back as soon as she spotted Byford tightening the belt on his trench coat. It was a sure sign of his imminent departure.

  “I’m going up to the school to have a shufti, Bev.”

  “Okay, guv.” She didn’t blame him. It was freezing out here.

  “Obviously, the priority now is to find out what Michelle was doing in the park, and who she was with. We need to know who saw what; when; where. You both know what’s needed.”

  Bev wasn’t so sure; Powell was concentrating on his shoes, probably wondering if he’d ever get the stains out.

  “You hang on here, Mike. Anything they turn up,” Byford nodded at the SOCOs, “I want to know about it. And make sure Goughie gets a move on with this one. Bev…” He paused, as if considering, “You can use your initiative.”