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
“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
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