Here you have A Proper Charlie - again. So sorry for those who've already read it. I've followed the reviews I've had before and made changes. I am hoping that this is the final draft - I'm sure you'll tell me if it isn't! :)Don't hold back your criticism (I don't mind "picky"!), and I thank you in advance for reading it.

* means italics.


ONE


*Charlie loves Andy. Andy loves Charlie. Charlie has an exciting job working for a daily newspaper. The newspaper is called London Core. Charlie’s life is exciting and fulfilled. Charlie tells lies.*
Charlie Wallis sat at her desk writing nonsense. Around her, the hubbub of her colleagues planning the office party presented odd snatches of conversation.
‘… damned if I’m going as Scary Spice…’

‘… Fenny’s looking. Head down, pretend to work…’
‘… damned if I’m going as Scary Spice…’

Charlie sighed, and doodled a stick man with a sad face. Telephones rang, some were answered while others trilled relentlessly. A woman ran past, shrieking, ‘I’ve Jordan Price on line two for you, Faye.’ Charlie stopped paperwork from her pending tray floating in the excited woman’s wake, and watched as Faye received this apparently thrilling news.

London Core, even though termed a “rag” by others in the trade, pulled in a decent amount of readers – no wonder the Middleton Group wanted to buy it. Had bought it, Charlie corrected unhappily.
The Middleton Group was renowned for swallowing up newspapers like Core, changing the dynamics of the workforce, creating redundancies and relocating staff.

Management hadn’t mentioned redundancies, but rumours had been rife. And because of that, the workers had been organising a party to either celebrate or commiserate with those who may be chucked by the wayside.

She stopped doodling for a moment to add, *Charlie loves her job*, to her nonsense writing. But her job doesn’t love Charlie, she continued in an ineligible scrawl. She doodled another sad face, added tears and after a moment’s hesitation, jug ears.

The party was to be a pop-star fancy dress. Charlie planned to go as Ginger Spice, alongside colleagues who were going as the rest of the Spice Girls. She sighed again, and fingered a strand of her red hair. How could she enjoy herself at the party knowing her job was on the line and her boyfriend was about to dump her? This time last week, she mused, she had it all: a boyfriend who loved her, and a secure job.

She’d been seeing Andy Chambers for seven months; seven months and two days to be exact, and she’d been certain he was going to ask her to marry him. He’d mentioned settling down on several occasions, admittedly they might have been made in a jest, but still, why plant the seed if you don’t want it sown, as a foster carer used to say.

Charlie had spent her childhood in a children’s home. She’d have loved a family of her own, but it was never to be. It was on the top of her list of future achievements. Second was keeping a job. Third, having her ears pinned back when she won the lottery. All to be crossed out simultaneously, she thought dolefully.

Andy wasn’t going to ask her to marry him. She’d brought it up last month and practically had to resuscitate him.

‘I’m like a bird,’ he had said. ‘A wild bird that can never be tamed.’

She’d repeated the conversation to Melvin, her best friend, who’d said if Andy was a bird, he’d be a turkey. It hadn’t helped. And ever since then, Andy had been distant towards her, and she knew the signs, even if she pretended not to. The cancelled dates, long trips away… they all signalled one thing and that was she was soon-to-be single – and jobless as well.

‘You dozy mare!’ shrieked Faye, and Charlie looked up ready with a retort but for a change the insult hadn’t been hurled at her. The deliverer of “Jordan Price on line two” was Sarah, red-faced and in direct line of Faye’s attack. Charlie watched with interest, glad that for once, she was in the clear.

‘That!’ Faye boomed. ‘Wasn’t Big Tits Jordan, it was Jordan Price the catalogue model – a bloody fella. How the hell did you make that mistake? I need Jordan – Katie Price – the one with the big knockers, you moron. Jesus, Sarah, have you been drinking from the same cup as Charlie today?’

Cheeky bugger! She’d been quietly sitting here all morning; purposely not talking, or working for that matter, and keeping out of everyone’s way and she’d still received a sarky comment from queen bitch.

Melvin, sitting at the desk in front of her, turned with a grin. ‘Faye’s on the ball today,’ he said, and laughed.

‘Not from where I’m sitting,’ said Charlie.

Mel flicked off imaginary fluff from his T-shirt, which bore the slogan: *I’m knot a real blonde, I’m Knot*, and fixed her with a concerned gaze. ‘You know, you’ve been causing a draught down the back of my neck for the last hour. I thought if I ignored you you’d cheer up.’

‘Thanks,’ she said dryly.

Melvin pouted in an attempt to imitate her gloomy face. ‘You’re really down, aren’t you? Come on, tell your uncle Melly, what’s the matter.’

‘I’m going to be unemployed and single, which means I won’t be able to pay my rent and I’m going to end up an old spinster like my neighbour, Mavis. Oh God, I’ll have to buy a budgie. I hate budgies.’

‘You’re not going to be unemployed,’ he said with a groan, as if he’d heard this particular discussion before – and he had. ‘Fenny’s assured us our jobs are safe.’

Mr Fenton was their managing editor, and called “Fenny”, although never to his face.

‘And Mavis is a widow not a spinster. You’re worrying needlessly, so stop it. You’re not paid enough.’

‘It’s last in, first out. And I haven’t exactly made a brilliant impression, have I? Fenny hates me,’ she added, remembering on her first morning the way his bulky frame appeared out of nowhere after she’d shredded what turned out to be important documents. He’d stood over her, his chins wobbling around his neck, beads of sweat on his upper lip as his comb-over hung limply down one side of his face. Charlie stifled a giggle at the memory. She sobered. Ever since then her relationship with him had been a non-starter. It was sad really.

‘Never mind him, he hates everyone,’ Melvin said. ‘So, what’s Andy done now?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Don’t tell me, you’ve seen the light and chucked him for a homeless drunk in a shop doorway, stinking of piss?’

Melvin didn’t like Andy and never bothered to hide it. He was fed up of the “chances” Charlie had repeatedly given him in the past. And while he thought she was treated like shite, she thought Andy was a romantic drifter; spontaneous and exciting.

‘He’s going to chuck me any day now. It’s like I’m waiting for the noose to tighten. God, I hate my life.’ She lowered her forehead to rest on her doodlings. ‘It always goes wrong,’ she muttered.

‘Baby doll,’ Melvin said. She could hear him wheel across the space separating their desks. ‘The man’s a prize prat, he doesn’t deserve you. But you are not going to lose your job. No one is, babe.’

She looked up; the report was sticking to her forehead. ‘But it’s Fenny’s choice, not yours.’

Melvin yanked off the paper. He was grinning. ‘It’s Mr Middleton’s, actually, our new boss, so whether Fenny hates you or not, is irrelevant.’

At that moment, Faye thudded past their desks, storming up the aisle and shouting to the air, ‘I told you, I’m Baby Spice. And that’s final! Those who mix up a man with Katie Price don’t deserve first pickings.’

Charlie and Melvin watched as Sarah followed, answering back in a singsong voice, ‘I’m Baby Spice, da, de, da, I’m Baby Spice.’

If Faye was queen bitch, then Sarah was princess bitch. Charlie and Melvin often had to duck behind their desks as the insults hurled from one to the other. Still, it made the day tick along nicely.

Melvin raised his eyebrows at Charlie, who pulled a face in return. ‘This party is causing more problems than it’s worth,’ he said.

‘I can’t see why they’re arranging it, anyway. It’ll be like a kick in the teeth for those who’ve lost their jobs.’
‘Please not again,’ he groaned.

‘OK THEN!’ Faye announced loudly. ‘We’ll ask Melvin,’ she said, causing Melvin to groan even louder. Charlie giggled.

‘Oh, Mel…’ Faye began, as she sauntered over. She pouted and pushed out her more than ample chest as she shamelessly flirted. Sarah, glancing down at her flat chest, stood normally. ‘You know our predicament and we value your opinion,’ Faye went on. ‘We both want to be Baby to this pop stars do, so Mel, as a superior member of staff you get to choose.’

‘Lucky me,’ he said, as Charlie snorted behind him. Melvin Giles was senior copy editor and it had been mainly down to him that Charlie was an employee of London Core.

Faye chilled her with a glare, and Charlie pretended to sort through her pending tray whilst listening.

Faye cleared her throat and said, ‘Right, now which one is Baby?’

‘Sarah,’ he said.
Charlie clamped a hand over her mouth to hold back her laughter over the look on Faye’s face.
Faye glared at him, her hands on her hips. ‘And your reason?’
‘You’re black.’

Faye stroked the back of her neck, then placed her hands back on her hips. ‘Forget the obvious,’ she said.

‘As a superior member of staff,’ he said, quoting her and dismissing her simultaneously, ‘discuss this at lunchtime, eh? Charlie,’ he said, turning back towards her again, ‘meeting at the vending machine, pronto.’
Charlie tugged her forelock. ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’

At the machine, Melvin ordered two coffees. It served tea instead, but as they were lucky to receive anything at all from the temperamental machine, they didn’t complain.

‘As I was saying, everyone needs an office clerk and you make a great one, doll,’ he said. ‘Anyway, Fenny reckons the Mid Group will keep all staff on. It’ll still be London Core, and you and me will still have jobs. Look on the bright side, doll, we might even get a promotion.’

‘There is no bright side, Melly. Not with me. Just as I head up the tunnel towards the light, a door is slammed shut. Always has done, always will.’

Melvin bit back a smile, and Charlie punched him on the arm.

‘Good luck never lasts, Mel, you know that,’ she continued. ‘And I’ve had too much of that lately.’ She raised a hand and began to count off her fingers. ‘Us,’ she indicated herself and Melvin, ‘Andy, and then a job with Core. I even passed my driving test and got a little car! Mel, the luck simply can’t last.’
‘You’re talking alien again,’ he said.

She sighed. ‘So why weren’t we told about this take-over earlier? I mean, as from next week some guy called Donald Middleton will be our boss. Sir Donald Middleton, in fact. Will I have to curtsy? Or is that just royalty?’ She chewed on her lip.

‘That’s royalty, doll.’ He smiled down at her affectionately. ‘I don’t recommend you try it. Old Middleton might think you’re taking the piss.’

She pouted, but already felt better. Melvin always did that to her; made her feel wanted and worthwhile.

‘As long as I have you,’ she said. ‘We’ll always be bessy mates, won’t we?’
‘Always. Want to shake on it?’

She held out her baby finger and Melvin locked her finger with his, and solemnly they shook. A custom they had kept up from years ago.
‘Feeling better now?’
Charlie nodded.

‘Good. So, how’s your Spice Girl dress?’ he asked having bidded (from or on?) Ebay on her behalf.
She grinned. ‘I think I should’ve upped my bid on the size 12. The one I got isn’t very generous with its measurements.’

He wagged a finger. ‘That’s no excuse for putting on weight, Charlie.’
‘I haven’t!’

He laughed. ‘So, who’s going as Posh?’

‘Juliet.’ They both looked across as Juliet stood to retrieve a mound of paperwork from a shelf above her desk. Her shirt sleeves fell back to reveal many tattoos. She plonked the paperwork on her desk and the motion caused her family-pack of cheesy puffs to fall to the floor. She swore, snatched them up and filled her mouth.

‘Good choice. Who’s Sporty?’

‘Nobody. Nobody wants to dress down in sports gear,’ Charlie said on a sigh. ‘We’re going to be the Spice Girls Minus One. I’ve always thought Mel C was too good to be in the group, anyway.’

Melvin suddenly enveloped her in a bear hug. He was Charlie’s best friend/brother/father figure all rolled into one tall, skinny frame. And with cropped blond hair, several ear piercings and black eye-lined eyes he was as gay as a Maypole.

Charlie hugged him back. He smelled of Hugo Boss.

‘Whatever life throws at you, babe, I’m here now,’ he said into her hair. ‘You know what I’m talking about don’t you?’

Charlie nodded the best she could while her head was held fast against his chest. Melvin was talking about her past. The past when they’d lost contact and she’d almost fallen into the world of drugs; “almost” being the word he couldn’t quite believe, and she hadn’t blamed him – she’d been a mess.



TWO


Nicole dabbed her eyes and gave a last, shuddering sob. Her dramatised whimpering was loud in the hushed church. People in front turned their heads and Ben Middleton flushed as though the eyes were on him instead of his sobbing girlfriend.

‘God’s sake…’ muttered Camilla his sister, on the other side of him, but her hand crept into his as their mother’s coffin was carried down the aisle to the tune of *Over the Rainbow.*

It was an emotional moment, and Ben was almost tempted to snatch Nicole’s handkerchief for himself. He stared straight ahead, not trusting himself to look at his younger sister. He was afraid of what he’d see. Pain and grief he’d understand, but he’d see confusion and bewilderment too and he just didn’t know how to handle that.

He looked at the back of his father’s head, sitting in front next to his elderly in-laws. Donald Middleton was staring straight ahead. Ben wondered when, or if, his father would respond to his grief. He didn’t seem affected by the procession at all. The congregation was in silence as pallbearers lowered the coffin onto a raised platform and Eva Cassidy’s voice faded away.

Grace Middleton had been diagnosed with cancer in March. She’d kept the lump she’d found in her breast to herself, and by the time she approached a doctor, the cancer had long since spread to the lymph node in her armpit and had started to attack her liver. Despite treatment her prognosis wasn’t good. In August the cancer was in her bones and by September she was dead.

She had been fifty-eight.

Reverend Church walked slowly forward, his robes billowing, a Bible clutched to his chest and his head lowered. The congregation lowered theirs.

‘He’s aptly named,’ Ben whispered.

Camilla couldn’t raise a smile, and as Ben finally risked a glance at her, he saw tears being squeezed from between her tightly closed eyes. His hand hardened around her fingers even more.

‘Oh Ben, this is s-so hard,’ wailed Nicole, and pushed her arm through his. She lay her blonde head against his shoulder. ‘You’re so brave,’ she added looking across him and pointedly at Camilla.
Camilla rewarded her with a scornful glance.

Reverend Church cleared his throat and raised his head.
‘Oh, here I g-go,’ said Nicole pulling out her handkerchief again. ‘S-sorry,’ she said as she began to cry. ‘Oh, poor G-Grace.’ She leaned forward and lightly touched Donald’s shoulder. ‘Poor Donny,’ she said.
Ben winced at his father’s shortened name, but the man didn’t turn and bark at her as he normally may have done. He must be more moved than Ben realised.

Ben looked up as Reverend Church began to talk about his mother, but his mind took him back when Grace let loose a mammoth secret as she lay dying.

She had mumbled and prayed for forgiveness over an affair she’d had. And spoke of the “glorious summer of 1987” as if she was reliving the event in her thoughts. Her mind, confused and dulled with drugs, revealed that Camilla was not Donald Middleton’s true daughter.

Only Grace had never realised that Ben and Camilla were sitting at the end of her bed.

‘Sorry Don, sorry… but you knew, didn’t you?’ Grace muttered. Her words were surprisingly clear, and her pale face was tense as if determined to make herself heard. ‘Knew th-that Camilla wasn’t… wasn’t yours. I’m sorry. Camilla is Peter’s daughter. Thought I loved him… but I was wrong… wanted to tell you before… before… sorry…’

Ben stiffened on the edge of the bed; he didn’t dare look at Camilla. She sat in the old rocking chair reading Heat magazine, and Ben could see her rapidly whitening knuckles as the magazine crumbled in her hands.

‘She thinks you’re dad,’ she said at last, and Ben finally looked at her. Her face was shockingly pale, and her eyes sparkled.
‘Cam –’ he began.

But Camilla rose, and went over to the dying woman and took her paper-thin hand lying on top of the pink duvet. ‘What was that, Mum?’

Ben stood from the bed, and looked down at mother and daughter. ‘She said, “Dad wasn’t your real father”,’ he offered.

Camilla’s blue eyes snapped up at him. ‘I did hear,’ she said.
Grace’s eyes were closed, but she smiled as she heard Ben’s voice. ‘I’m sorry, Donald. Love Cammy for me…’

‘“Camilla is Peter’s daughter”,’ Ben quoted, frowning deeply. ‘Who is Peter?’
‘My God!’ said Camilla, her hands flying to her cover her mouth. She looked upset, and Ben’s only ability to deal with this highly emotional situation was to analyse it so he could fix it.

‘The only “Peter” I know is Peter Fielding but he died before you were born, so he –’
‘Ben!’

Ben stopped, and stared at her stupidly. ‘What?’

Camilla knelt beside her mother’s bed, and stroked the woman’s hair. ‘Mum,’ she said. ‘Who’s Peter? Who’s…’ her voice wobbled, and Ben’s heart cracked at her distress. ‘Who’s my father?’

Grace’s eyes remained tightly closed, her face serene but pale. Her breath was shallow and the end was very nearly upon her.
‘She can’t have meant what she said, Cam,’ Ben said trying, as always, to ease the situation.
Camilla stood. ‘It explains everything.’

‘It explains nothing,’ Ben said. ‘Please keep your voice down. Mum…’ he made a motion with his head towards the thin form of his beloved parent. ‘She may hear.’

But Camilla was too wounded by the colossal secret her mother had revealed. It all made sense now; her blonde hair, whereas the rest of the family was dark; and her detached relationship with Donald. Ben was helpless to watch the calculations chase one another across her face before she raced from the room to seek out Donald Middleton, the man who she once believed was her father.

Ben didn’t follow; he’d rather not listen to another of their arguments. His father and only sister were the most volatile people he knew. It may turn out that biologically they weren’t father and daughter but somehow they were the same temperament.

Ben sat in the rocking chair, watching his mother’s face. She looked peaceful. Was she in pain? The nurse had assured him she wasn’t.

‘Autumn is almost upon us, Mother,’ he said. ‘The garden is littered with leaves already.’
Grace remained passive; her eyelids closed.

Footsteps sounded outside the bedroom, and then voices in the corridor. The voices were angry – Camilla and his father. Camilla was sounding distraught. Donald, Ben could imagine, was wearing his usual face of disdain and not one of reassurance, as he should.

But what had Camilla expected? Donald had never been demonstrative in love towards his children – the opposite was true in fact. He called it character building.

Accusations, blame and an entire childhood of resentment rained upon Donald as Camilla screamed at him. Ben sat in the rocking chair, gripping the arms, unable to move.

‘Now I know why I didn’t fit in!’ Camilla yelled. ‘I wasn’t yours! I was the product of another man!’ The laugh that followed was hollow. ‘Shame mum didn’t leave you for him, and take me with her.’

‘A shame indeed, it would’ve solved a whole lot of heartache!’ Donald bellowed back, and Ben winced.
Ben slipped from the chair, and on his knees at his mother’s side, he pressed his lips to her cold temple. It felt like marble. ‘Don’t listen, mum,’ Ben whispered, closing his eyes. He held his lips against her forehead as if to shield her from the onslaught that was going on outside.

The argument continued while he sat over her; her breaths becoming further and further apart. She died as Camilla and Donald yelled.

Ben sobbed whilst the argument raged and as he listened, helplessness set in. He hated confrontation, always had done. It had been a tortuous six months while his mother battled with her illness, and with Camilla’s parentage suddenly under speculation, Ben felt overwhelmed.

And now, five days on they were burying Grace, together with the rest of her secrets of 1987.

He looked at his father again. His back was rigid. His father hadn’t taken his wife’s death well; or had it been the disclosure of his once-thought-daughter’s parentage? He’d collapsed after Ben had broken the news that Grace had died. Ben and Camilla thought he’d had a heart attack and called 999, but once at the hospital it turned out to be angina.

Since then, Camilla had been silent and withdrawn, but it shouldn’t have been a surprise. She’d lost both her mother and her father all in the same hour.

People’s heads lowered as Reverend Church read a prayer.
‘Do you think he knew all this time?’ whispered Camilla. ‘You know, about the, er, affair?’
She had noticed his seemingly inactive state too.

‘I don’t know,’ he whispered back. ‘But if he didn’t, finding out like that must’ve been one hell of a shock.’
‘It was a shock for me too, Ben,’ she said.

He wanted to explain that what he meant was that their argument might not have been the cause of his angina attack because he knew she was still beating herself up about that. The shock of finding that your daughter wasn’t really yours, would be a big enough blow for any heart condition. But while he hesitated, Camilla said,

‘At least Miss Piggy has stopped making that stupid noise.’ Nicole’s tears had quietened to small snuffles. ‘What do you see in her?’

He was surprised by her question. It wasn’t one he had thought about to be honest. His father had arranged their first introduction, and Nicole had slipped into his life as if she’d been around forever – like a scar. They had been seeing one another for a year, and whereas Nicole saw their relationship as potential marriage, Ben saw it as keeping his father off his back.

Donald wanted Ben to settle down and take-over the business affairs. And as Ben showed little interest in dating – his head always behind a telescope or inside a book, Donald saw it in his duty to find his son girlfriends, and had found him Nicole. And Ben, being Ben, had only not questioned it, but accepted it.

‘You let Dad pick your girlfriends just like you let him run your life,’ she continued. ‘He’ll destroy you like he destroyed Mum.’

Ben didn’t answer. She was needling him for a reaction but she wasn’t going to get one. She was hitting out. It was understandable. Even so, her words didn’t rest easy on him.
‘Not now, Cam,’ Ben begged her. ‘It’s mum’s funeral.’

‘Please stand for hymn number five hundred and thirty-five; Oh the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus,’ said Reverend Church, and Camilla fell silent as everybody rose and began turning pages in their books.
‘Oh, I think I shall swoon,’ said Nicole. She fanned herself with her hymn book. ‘Ben, darling, help me?’

As Ben turned to place an arm around her waist, Camilla swore beneath her breath and ran from the church. Ben made to go after her, but was halted by two sharp, hushed, words from his father,
‘Leave her!’

Ben looked around; Donald was glaring at him. Ben looked back at his disappearing sister, feeling torn.
‘She’s upset, Dad,’ Ben began, but his father had already turned around and began to sing in a loud voice.

Nicole began to sing too. Louder than everyone in the church, louder even than Reverend Church and that was no mean feat. The Reverend had thrown back his head, his robed arms flailing, and was singing with full enthusiasm.

Ben nibbled on his lower lip. Should he go after his sister? He looked around at the congregation until his gaze fell on the back of his father’s head again. The old man was looking straight ahead and singing with clarity.

Nicole was singing as though Simon Cowell was on a judging panel, and Ben began to edge away, hoping nobody would notice.

Outside, there was no sign of Camilla amongst the gravestones or trees. He jogged down the gravelled path towards the gates and car park. She’d refused to come in the funeral car, and had instead used hers. And now Ben knew why – her car passed him at a crawl.

Her window rolled down. ‘Grow some balls, Ben,’ she said, and then she was gone. Her car disappearing out of the car park as Ben looked on.



THREE

Charlie sat at her desk submitting stationery orders. Ordering the stationery, arranging interviews and filing were her main tasks alongside fielding insults between Faye and Sarah.

What she needed was an idea, she mused to herself. An idea for a story, and to write it herself! That’d surely boost her chances for being kept on? Charlie beamed as she thought, and tapped a pen against her head as her mind thought up, then dismissed, ideas for her “story”.
‘What’re you grinning at?’ asked Faye passing her desk.

Charlie didn’t answer; she hadn’t heard. A snake of an idea had slithered into her mind and seemed determined to crawl away before she could grab hold of it.

‘Oh, flipping ‘eck, Charlie’s thinking!’ shrieked Faye to anyone who was listening.
Melvin swung around, telephone clamped to his ear. ‘Thinking?’ he asked.

‘Huh?’ Charlie clicked back to the present, and noticed people looking at her.
Melvin laughed at her puzzled face. ‘You were miles away, doll.’

Charlie’s brain finally caught up with what Faye had said, and she turned to haughtily glare at the woman who was ordering a tea, whilst checking her hair in the metal surround of the vending machine.
‘I was thinking of a story, actually,’ she said. ‘And it was good!’

Faye looked over, and smirked. ‘You know, thinking and good, aren’t always in the same room as you, Charlie. Are you sure you just didn’t mistake wind for thinking?’

Melvin burst into laughter, and Charlie tried to look indignant. ‘Oh, shurrup,’ she said, ‘and bring me a coffee.’

Faye brought her a coffee still laughing at her own joke. Charlie sipped it, and tried to get her “idea” back, but it had well and truly vanished into the dark recesses of her mind.

‘Mel!’ Mr Fenton shouted around his office door later in the afternoon. He waved Melvin over.
‘This is it,’ Charlie worried. ‘Our P45’s.’

‘Gloomy knickers,’ Melvin said as he passed.

Charlie watched him enter the office, and through the window she could see him and Fenny talking. Melvin didn’t look upset. In fact…

Melvin dashed out of the office and back to his desk looking excited. He searched for something in his drawer.
‘What’s up?’ Charlie hissed.

‘Can’t talk now. Busy, busy, busy,’ he said as he rummaged. ‘But the two recent murders have been linked together.’
‘What murders?’ asked Charlie, throwing a pen lid at the back of Faye’s head to gain her attention as Melvin scurried away excitedly.

Faye spun round. ‘Stop frigging throwing things! Oh, I’ve the platforms you wanted to borrow for Saturday.’ She made a motion beneath her desk. ‘I’ve checked them over and there isn’t a mark, and I want them back in the same condition, right?’

‘OK,’ said Charlie holding up her hands in mock surrender. ‘I’ll treat them like they are my own.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ She pulled out the pen lid from her hair and threw it back. It landed on Charlie’s desk. She picked it up and placed it back on her pen.

‘So what about these murders?’

‘Oh, keep up, Charlie! The prozzie murders,’ she said in irritation, and when Charlie just looked blankly at her, she sighed. ‘Have you always been stupid?’
Charlie grinned. ‘No, today is a special occasion.’

Faye controlled a smile as if afraid it might make her look approachable. She cleared her throat. ‘The murders of the two prostitutes are looking like they are linked.’

Working girls had been in the media’s attention due to two prostitutes disappearing four months ago, only for their bodies to turn up, one after the other, at some disused warehouse on a trading estate. And now their bodies had been found, the police were claiming they may have another “Jack the Ripper” style murderer.

‘How are the murders linked?’ Charlie asked.
‘Tell me again why McDonald’s didn’t recruit you? Under qualified?’ Faye said, throwing her a look that was full of irritability before she swivelled back around on her chair.
‘Oh, you’re so funny, Faye. A bit like Hitler.’

Melvin came back looking flushed. ‘Busy, busy, busy,’ he said. ‘We’ve got ourselves a new headline.’ He put his phone on speaker-phone and keyed in a number whilst simultaneously typing furiously on his computer.

‘We’ve a Jack the Ripper copycat. And we’re going to be the first to leak it. That’ll impress Sir Don, won’t it?’

‘Prostitute murders!’ Charlie was all round eyes.

‘That’s right, babe,’ said Melvin. ‘And we’ve the main lead. Ah, Pete…’ he said to the telephone as he continued to type on the keyboard.

‘Oh, my.’ Charlie sat back in her chair as the snake slithered into her brain again. ‘A prostitute story.’

Charlie turned off Old Kent Road in her battered blue Fiesta as she headed home to Walworth. Ideas and thoughts were flashing on and off in her head so fast she almost missed her turning.

As soon as Melvin had informed the office that they were the first newspaper to leak the story, Charlie felt she had to be involved, and more importantly felt this is what she needed to impress the new bosses. She may only be the office clerk, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t investigate the murders.

Everyone was talking about it, it had maximum TV coverage – wouldn’t it be fantastic if she got an exclusive all by herself?

How she was going to achieve that was another matter.

She turned into the tenant’s only car park. She’d been lucky to secure herself a council flat with easy commute to the office, especially one that was more or less in her price range.

In her one-bedroom flat, she kicked off her shoes, and went barefoot into the small kitchen. The flat had no dining room, just a sitting room with miss-matched furniture, a bedroom and a tiny bathroom. She placed her handbag on the kitchen table and flicked on the kettle.

Her intercom buzzed.
‘Hi, Lottie.’

It was Andy, her boyfriend. She buzzed him up, happy for the surprise visit, and when he entered a couple of minutes later she threw her arms around him and kissed him soundly.
‘Missed you,’ she said, and he struggled in her embrace.

‘Careful Lots,’ he said, smoothing his clothes. ‘You’ll crease the shirt.’

She pulled away and looked him over. ‘Hmm, you look nice. Oh, crikey, should we be going out tonight?’
‘Not “we”, darlin’,’ he said in his cockney drawl which had attracted him to her from the beginning. He’d exaggerated his accent to impress her, trying to hide his Brummie intonation, but she’d never noticed until Melvin mentioned he “spoke funny”.

‘I’ve got a deal on. I’m going to make us lots of dough, darlin’. Paul’s coming over to discuss it, like. Could you make yourself scarce, hun?’

‘Scarce? I’ve only just got in from work, Andy. I’m tired and I haven’t had anything to eat yet.’ She didn’t add she wanted time to broaden her “idea”.

Andy pouted like a little boy. He put his hands on her hips and brought her forward. Forehead to forehead, he said, ‘This deal is the difference to us buying our own place, know what I mean?’

‘Our own place?’ she breathed, her heart flip-flopping in her chest. ‘Oh, Andy! I thought… I thought you… oh, never mind!’ She moved forward to kiss him, but he broke contact.

‘And that’s why, hun, I need this place to myself tonight. The deal’s worth a bit, know what I mean?’ He winked. Andy was in-between jobs – and had been for several years. Instead he ducked and dived (his words), thinking up scams for easy money. Nothing illegal, he was always quick to assure Charlie, although he could never meet her eyes and she was too much in love to question him.
‘Why can’t I stay in? I’ll not say a word, just sit and watch telly or something.’ But he was shaking his head, and stepping away as she spoke.

‘Can’t be done, Lots.’

‘OK,’ she said, and he broke into a smile. ‘How long will you be?’

‘Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Three at the most.’

She must’ve looked hesitant, because Andy pouted and wheedled, ‘You’ve promised now.’

‘Seeing as it’s you,’ she said and headed back into the kitchen to retrieve her handbag. ‘Phone me when it’s safe to come home, OK? And Andy?’

He pulled out his mobile as he looked at her. ‘What?’

‘Three hours tops.’
‘Sure,’ he said, his attention dropping to his mobile as his thumb moved over the keypad.
Charlie put on her shoes, and picked up her jacket. ‘I’ll be at Mel’s,’ she said.

‘We’re on!’ Andy was saying into his phone, and Charlie doubted she was heard.

Back in her car she headed to Melvin’s house he shared with Dean across Walworth, but at a roundabout she suddenly had a change of heart. Turning right she headed towards Soho, and the red-light district.

She parked up outside a closed estate agents and sat in her car observing the prostitutes. She could see the women walking up and down, or standing beneath the light of lamp posts. Some stood in groups chatting, while others performed crude dance acts on the pavement. None seemed bothered by the fact a murderer was seemingly on the loose. Often a car stopped and when it did, Charlie was surprised to see the punters were mainly over the first flush of youth.

She pulled her note pad out of her bag, keeping an eye out for traffic wardens as she was illegally parked, and made notes how the prostitutes acted and dressed. They weren’t as she imagined. Many were dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and she only saw one in the clichéd fishnet stockings and mini skirt.

Tomorrow night, she promised, she’d come back properly armed with recording equipment and get some interviews. The idea seemed perfect. She would get a fly on the wall view of working women surviving in an already hostile world.

She mentally hugged herself. She was brilliant!

She checked her watch. It was nearly nine p.m. Surely Andy would have finished by now? Her stomach thought her throat had been cut. She checked her mobile, but nobody had called. She texted Andy, not wishing to phone and disturb his important “deal”.

She laughed when she remembered how desolate she had felt this morning. What a difference a few hours make! And to think Andy was going cold on her. He wanted them to have their own place. How cool was that!

Replacing her phone, the smell of deep fried something filled her nostrils. A few doors up, people were standing in the open doorway to a fish and chip shop. The smell of chips, sprinkled in salt and vinegar made her mouth fill with saliva. She checked her purse. She had a five-pound note, then looked to the fuel gauge on the dash. It was almost in the red.

‘Oh well, it’s the bus tomorrow, then,’ she said, and climbed out.

It was after eleven when she pulled up outside her flat. She secured the wheel with its steering lock, and climbed out. She looked up to her flat window. Hers was the seventh floor, and all the lights were blazing.

She rubbed her eyes. She was tired, and all she wanted to do was have a long soak and fall into bed. She could always crash at Melvin’s, she supposed, if Andy hadn’t finished sorting out his “deal”.

Charlie went inside. Crude graffiti lined the upper walls in the foyer while dirt edged the lower. Charlie pressed the button for the lift, and a low hum of machinery told her the lift was juddering towards her.