Working Girls Read Online Free PDF

everyone back at
Highgate by say, 10.45.”
    “What about the press?” the DI asked. “The Star’s been sniffing round and I’ve had the radio people on the phone.”
    “Best place for them,” Byford said. “I’ll have to talk them eventually. But not now. The priority’s getting the team up to speed. And finding everything we can on
Michelle. The mother and that boyfriend of hers will have to be tracked down. And one of us is going to have to go over to Fair Oaks. Michelle was there longer than any of the other places. Even
so, they’ll all have to be checked. We’ll get to as many of the teachers as we can before Monday. They’ll be able to tell us who her friends are. Strikes me, it’s the kids
who’ll be able to tell us more than anyone.”
    “Do you want me back at Highgate as well?” Bev hoped he’d say no. She was keen to get to the girls.
    The phone rang. He lifted a finger. “Byford.” The conversation lasted less than a minute.
    “That was Vince. He’s got a young woman called Victoria Flinn at the front desk. She wants to know if we’ve got a friend of hers locked up. A friend called Michelle
Lucas.”
    Bev slung her bag over her shoulder. “On my way.”
    Vince Hanlon’s avuncular appearance was deceptive. In reality the desk sergeant was like a drill at the dentist’s: indispensable and just as sharp. There were only
three stripes on his arm but, as Bev was well aware, a wealth of experience nestled in the rolls of flab under his belt.
    So said, the sight that greeted her when she emerged from the revolving doors at Highgate nick was as arresting as catching Hannibal Lecter in a vegan restaurant. Big Vince had deserted his
customary lair of the front desk for less familiar territory. He had his arm round a skinny girl, young enough to be his great-niece, who looked as streetwise as an A–Z.
    He waved a hand at the floor. “The lass slipped. It shook her up a bit.”
    Bev glanced at the lass’s footwear. Lucky: she could have broken her neck. The girl hadn’t looked round, hadn’t moved away; if anything she’d snuggled even closer to
Vince. Her proximity to his paunch was having visible effects. Bev’s lips twitched as he pulled a huge white handkerchief from a trouser pocket, mopping sweat from his corrugated brow. His
eyes darted round like a drowning man’s in search of a life jacket. “Thank God you’re here.”
    At last, the girl glanced round, curious to see what Vince’s saviour looked like. Saint Bev was in her late twenties, five foot six, nine stone, with chin-length hair the colour of
Guinness and a face that her mother called beautiful. She bestowed what she hoped was a suitably beatific smile, but the girl pulled a face and a few seconds later was floundering again in a mound
of flesh that could have been Vince’s chest or abdomen; there was no perceptible demarcation. It was a wind-up. The girl was enjoying this.
    Vince wasn’t. He tried to put a little distance between them but she was clinging like cotton-wool to Velcro. Bev was in no hurry to tear her away: break the news and break her heart.
    The game soon lost its appeal. The girl looked up and smiled. “Feel a bit better now.” She moved away and ran a hand over her rear. “Mind, me bum hurts.”
    “Bev here’ll look after you,” he said.
    “Rather talk to you, Vince.”
    Vince? Bev shot him a look. He was having a hot flush. Another time, it would have been funny. She sighed. The girl was still studiously ignoring her, so Bev moved nearer the desk and skimmed
through the notes Vince had made before his temporary foray into community relations. She found what she was looking for and turned to face the girl. “Victoria?” She waited for an
acknowledgment. It didn’t arrive. “I’m DS Morriss. Bev Morriss. Come on, love. Let’s get a cup of tea.”
    Bev took a step back as the girl swirled round, eyes flashing. “I’m not your love. And I don’t want a soddin’ cup of