Working Girls by Maureen Carter

but the impact was forcing her forward and she lost her balance. Her glass clearing had not been entirely successful. Her brain was trying to work out the site of the
worst pain given the conflicting but equally pressing messages from both sources. It was no time for cerebral exercise; this was up close and physical. She was face down and pinned down; his knees
were clamped at her sides, pressing on her arms. Something brushed across her eyes. It felt soft; might have been a scarf. Whatever it was, it was now tightly tied. Come on, Morriss, think: you
can’t move, you can’t see. Maybe you can talk your way out of this.
    “Why don’t we —“
    “Shut the fuck up.”
    Chatting was out, then. What was he doing? What did he want? Was he the guy who’d been quizzing Sid? Was he linked to the Lucas inquiry? There had to be a connection, didn’t there?
Otherwise it was too much of a coincidence. And Bev didn’t do coincidence.
    On the other hand, it was mugsville round these parts. Anyone walking alone, after dark, was seen as a mobile cash dispenser. It was bad news for the crime figures but it had never bothered Bev
personally. Self-defence was second nature. This was hurting her pride almost as much as her spine.
    “Look —”
    She stiffened. Everything had changed. He had a blade. The metal was cold and hard against her neck. As her fear rocketed, so did her anger. She’d always loathed being pushed around,
couldn’t abide bullies and the thought that the mad bugger squatting on her back could possibly be Michelle Lucas’s killer acted as a spur. The only problem was that she couldn’t
move an eyebrow let alone a muscle.
    “What do —?”
    “Fuckin shut it, bitch.”
    Whatever he was up to, he’d have to get a move on. The place was quiet on a Sunday night, but it wasn’t ghost town. Someone could pass by any time.
    The knife was the sticking point; made her think twice about trying a swift kick or a fast buck. Several unidentified flying objects hit the ground not far from her head. A few others she
recognised: loose change, a box of matches. The smell gave it away. It even permeated the scents clinging to the blindfold. Leather and mints meant only one thing: he’d up-ended her
shoulder-bag. The blade was now pressing – no, resting – against her cheek. He hadn’t cut her; not yet.
    “Follow me, you’re dead.”
    In a flash, the pressure on both face and back was gone; so had her attacker. She shot up, immediately regretted it. It hurt, badly. She snatched at the blindfold. What was the expression? Clean
away. She didn’t even catch a pair of fleeing heels.
    Call it in, Bev. Come on, girl. Get a grip. On what? The phone had gone. Her purse had gone. She’d only just held on to her bladder.
    She started collecting the rest of her possessions. Her hands were shaking. She slowly got to her feet. Her legs were shaking. She took stock. Her whole body was bloody shaking. So, this was
shock. Deep breaths, Bev, come on. She had to get home; concentrate, focus, get down the details.
    Her head spun, stomach churning. The thought of food made her want to throw up. Which was lucky. Sid’s finest had all but disappeared. The fish had landed at the bottom of the stairs and
the local wild life was out in force. A brindled dog with a touch of mange was amiably sharing the spoils with a scrawny, boss-eyed black tom. Three eyes locked on to hers. It was a low-life Lady and the Tramp.
    It was strangely funny, but she wasn’t laughing. And the tears burning her cheek had nothing to do with the lost supper.

 
    9
    “Good weekend, Beverley?”
    Bev looked up sheepishly from a plate that held the better part of a small farm. She hadn’t expected anyone else to be in so early; hadn’t expected PC Sumitra Ghosh at all. Mouth
full, she nodded and flapped a hand at the chair opposite.
    Sumitra sat, eyes wide, mouth open. “What happened to The Diet? The Running? The New Woman?”
    Bev swallowed a fork