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 pussy-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
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 pussy-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
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