Читать книгу Damaged Goods - Helen Black, Black Helen Cecelia - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

Wednesday, 9 September

It was the same as always. The girl covered her ears to drown out the noise. Life on site was never quiet. Sure, she shared a caravan with her ma, da and four baby brothers, so a moment’s peace was a rare thing indeed, but this was different. The screaming and cursing into the darkness was unbearable.

She squeezed her eyes shut and turned in her bunk, her hand brushing the smooth stone of the wall. She flinched from the cold of it. The hardness of it. The suffocating density of it.

Rochene had been born in a caravan, had lived in one all her life, and until two weeks ago she had never before spent the night in a building.

When Lilly woke she too was touching the wall beside her bed. She shook the dream from her head and tried to get back to sleep. It always stopped in the same place, as if willing Lilly to play out the rest.

Not tonight. Lilly simply couldn’t bear it.

Instead she threw off the sheets to the intolerable heat of the night and went downstairs to raid the fridge.

* * *

Lilly was in a rush. She needed to be at Ring Farm in twenty minutes. Given that she hadn’t yet finished the school drop-off she was becoming increasingly agitated. She threw Sam’s wellies into his boot locker and wondered why he needed them when it hadn’t rained a drop for five weeks.

She stuffed a cap into his kitbag. ‘That’s not a regulation hat, is it?’

Sam responded with a sideways smile. ‘It is for the England squad.’

She kissed his head. ‘Smart arse.’

‘That’s a bad word,’ he chided, wagging a finger.

Lilly laughed and ushered him into his classroom.

Then, on the verge of escape, she heard the nasal tones of one of the other mothers.

‘What are you doing tomorrow, Lilly?’

She turned and saw the perfect smile of Penny Van Huysan. Was the woman having an affair with her dentist?

‘The other mums are meeting for coffee,’ Penny continued.

Had she not been so exhausted from her sleepless night, Lilly would have thought on her feet. Work, chiropodist, smear test. Anything.

‘I think I’m free.’

Oh God, coffee with the Manor Park mums. Dante’s third circle of hell.

Lilly parked outside the Spar. Although it was a good walk to where she needed to be, the shop was busy and her car stood less chance of being stolen. The Clayhill Estate was one of the roughest in Ring Farm, awash with addicts and dealers. The crime rates were high and the employment figures low. Grace Brand had lived there with her kids for fourteen years.

Lilly wrinkled her nose at the smell of urine in the stairwell and made her way up to the third floor. The lights were smashed and the gloom coupled with the stench made a depressing cocktail.

A woman answered the door instantly. She was in her mid-seventies, sporting a frizzy perm and a scowl.

Lilly held out her hand. ‘Mrs Mitchell? I’m Lilly Valentine. Sorry I’m late.’

The old woman smoothed down her house coat with arthritic fingers and frowned, no doubt offended by a younger generation who managed their lives so inexcusably badly that they couldn’t make important appointments on time.

Lilly let her hand drop and followed Mrs Mitchell through the hallway to a stuffy sitting room with shelves full of china animals dressed in Victorian clothes. A tabby cat smiled out from the brim of her blue bonnet, the ribbons held in place by two paws.

Despite the weather every window was closed, and a man sat in the corner, a blanket over his knees, staring into space. A cuckoo clock sounded from another room and the man’s lips began to move gently and soundlessly.

Mrs Mitchell gave her husband a contemptuous nod. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s away with the fairies.’

The old man didn’t look over but continued his silent monologue.

Lilly plumped for a no-nonsense approach and dived straight in. ‘Can I ask you about Monday night, Mrs Mitchell?’

‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it,’ the old woman snapped.

Lilly remained polite. ‘I’ve seen the statement you gave to the police and you say you saw Kelsey Brand going into their flat on the night Grace was killed.’

Mrs Mitchell sniffed. ‘That’s right, I saw her twice.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Lilly.

Mrs Mitchell flashed an angry look. ‘Of course I’m sure. The first time was around eight o’clock. I know that cos EastEnders had just started. The second time was about half an hour later.’

Lilly kept her smile glued in place. ‘Maybe it wasn’t Kelsey.’

Mrs Mitchell tightened her moue until she reminded Lilly of the pickled walnuts her nan had always loved. ‘I may be old but I’m not daft. I know what I saw.’

Lilly cocked her head to one side and tried a different tack. ‘Maybe you weren’t paying much attention, maybe you were busy.’

The old lady shot a withering look at her husband. ‘Doing what?’

A witness who was a prisoner in her own home. Great.

‘Did you know Grace?’ asked Lilly.

‘Didn’t want to.’

Lilly kept her tone light. ‘How about Kelsey?’

‘She used to go to the shops for me when she was little. Skinny thing, well, they all were,’ said Mrs Mitchell, almost pleasantly, then, as if remembering herself, she added, ‘Of course the change started coming back short so I didn’t ask no more.’

It was plain to Lilly that this witness had no intention of describing the Brands with anything less than poison. Their tragic end had clearly failed to temper her views.

‘Did many people visit the flat?’

‘Not since the social took her kids. Before that it was like Piccadilly bleeding Circus, men arriving at all times of the day and night. Clients, I suppose you’d call them. And more girls.’

‘You mean prostitutes,’ said Lilly.

Mrs Mitchell sniffed in disgust. ‘Vile, the lot of them. Came for drugs, I suppose.’

Lilly was surprised. ‘Was Grace selling drugs?’

‘Not her, the darkie that was there all the time. Max, he calls himself.’

‘A boyfriend?’ asked Lilly.

Mrs Mitchell shrugged. ‘I’ve heard him say he’s an entre-whatsit.’

‘Entrepreneur,’ Lilly suggested.

‘I know what he is,’ Mrs Mitchell replied. She leaned in closer to make her point. ‘This used to be a decent place to live before that lot moved in.’

Lilly gladly closed the door to number 62. The pungent smell in the walkway was an open meadow compared to the bitter hole behind her. She passed along to number 58, the Brands’ flat, and paused at the police tape. She peered into the kitchen window and saw the room inside was modestly furnished but clean and tidy.

‘Can I help you, Miss?’

Lilly could feel Jack standing behind her, close enough for her to smell the ancient leather of his jacket. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said.

He gave a small chuckle. ‘I suppose you want to go in.’

It wasn’t a question and he was already unlocking the door.

Inside, the flat had the same layout as number 62, but Grace’s home seemed much less claustrophobic. The hall was painted in a soft pastel shade and cotton curtains let in plenty of light. The carpet was worn but neat, unusual for a junkie.

Although Grace had sent the girls’ belongings with them into care, the place remained full of evidence of their existence. A painting of a fairy was tacked to the fridge, her wand held aloft like a glittery spear. There were photographs of all four girls fixed to the walls with Blu-Tack, their edges curling inwards, the images, like the family, imploding. The shelf by the sink was empty apart from a lone spider plant, gently dying in the fierce sunlight, its pot incongruously colourful and inscribed with the words ‘World’s best Mum’.

Lilly rubbed the dry leaves between her thumb and forefinger, feeling the papery disintegration. ‘Whoever did this must have had a reason.’

Jack gave Lilly a charming smile. ‘Yeah. Her ma abandoned her and she got stuck in a children’s home.’

Lilly smiled back. ‘Have you considered that maybe she didn’t do it?’

‘Have you considered that maybe she did?’

Lilly didn’t answer, instead she peered down the hall, her gaze following the trail of dark stains from the kitchen to the bedroom door.

‘Is that where it happened?’ she asked.

‘She received the head wounds in here then got dragged down there.’

They skirted the walls as they passed along the hall and entered the room where Grace had been mutilated.

Lilly took in the scene, her breath shallow. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, perhaps in deference to the deceased or perhaps they had been like that all along. Whatever the reason, the room was cast in a grey light and the noise of the world beyond was muffled.

Apart from the bed the only other stick of furniture was a single white wardrobe. Lilly opened the door and fingered the sparse contents. A few T-shirts and flimsy shirts small enough to fit Sam. A pair of black jeans, faded at the knee, and a plastic mini skirt. Lilly felt so solemn she made the sign of the cross, a meaningless affectation from her childhood, like saluting magpies.

She didn’t want to but she knew she couldn’t avoid looking at the bed. The sheets and mattress had been removed for forensic examination but Grace’s blood had soaked right down to the base.

Without thinking, Lilly put her hand out to touch the black shape, using the same instinct that a wet-paint sign will arouse.

‘Tell me about a face round here called Max,’ she said.

Jack gently pushed her hand away before she made contact. ‘If we’re talking about the same person, he’s hardly a face. Max Hardy, drug dealer, pimp, purveyor of porno films. Low-level stuff.’

‘Had any dealings with him?’ asked Lilly.

Jack shrugged. ‘Loads. I’ve known him since his time at The Bushes.’

Lilly widened her eyes. ‘The res unit?’

He applied a gentle pressure to the small of her back and eased her towards the door. ‘In those days it was called The Bushberry Home for Disturbed Children.’

Lilly paused to let this information sink in, before allowing Jack to manoeuvre her out of the house entirely.

‘I can’t believe you knew him back then,’ she said.

‘I can’t believe I’ve been doing this job for so bloody long,’ he said. ‘Twenty years and change.’

‘And every day a joy.’

‘A life sentence would have been shorter. What an eejit, eh?’

‘A saint more like.’ Lilly patted his arm. ‘Anyway, this Max sounds like a nasty piece of work.’

Jack couldn’t and didn’t argue.

‘Let’s assume Grace worked for him and that he controls his girls in the usual way,’ Lilly continued.

Jack closed the door and fixed a fresh piece of police tape around the frame. ‘Fist and needle.’

‘Exactly. So what if one of his girls gets clean, how can he make sure she keeps working for him?’ asked Lilly.

‘His charming repartee.’

Lilly worked through her thoughts to their logical conclusion. ‘When that doesn’t work he resorts to what he knows best.’

‘He’s no previous for violence,’ said Jack.

Lilly gave a dismissive wave. ‘No one’s ever reported him.’

She wondered if this could be the lead she was looking for. She needed to get Jack interested and get him to do some digging. And do some herself.

‘Is this why you asked me to meet you here?’ asked Jack.

‘Naturally. Did you have something else in mind?’

‘Maybe a drink?’

She eyed his cheeky grin. ‘Are you inviting me on a date?’

‘I thought asking for a shag might seem a bit forward.’

William Barrows watched his wife reapply her makeup in readiness for her meeting. The process fascinated and appalled him in equal measure. He often wondered why she bothered to wear any since it made her look neither younger nor prettier, which was presumably her aim. It seemed to him that, as with any old building, the façade remained more or less the same after a paint job and any cement used to cover cracks was too obvious to fool anyone. If anything it drew attention to the flaws. He longed to dig his fingers into her cheeks and peel the painted flesh from the bone.

Sometimes he entertained himself by playing games with her and suggested a little more rouge or a darker shade of lipstick. It amused him that she was so ready to leave the house like a geisha girl. But today was for a different kind of game entirely.

‘I read in the local rag that one of your constituents was murdered, darling,’ he said.

Hermione continued to apply dark pencil around her eyelid. ‘Mmm.’

‘You don’t seem very interested.’

She turned to her husband, pencil still poised. ‘She was a drug addict living on the Clayhill Estate. I don’t think anyone is interested.’

The estates in the Ring Farm area of Luton had the lowest voter turnout in her constituency, so Hermione Barrows, MP for Luton West, like her predecessors, expended little energy courting the support of their residents. She went back to her reflection.

‘You could push the issue, make it gather some speed,’ Barrows said.

‘Why would I?’

He felt his impatience begin to rise. ‘To raise your profile, darling.’

She snapped her head around. He had her attention now.

‘Like you say, no one’s interested, so anyone making some noise will have a clear field.’

Barrows watched her hungry smile emerge. She needed recognition and publicity as much as he needed the hobby. Well, almost.

‘What angle could I use?’ she asked.

He pretended to think about it. ‘I hear the police think her daughter did it, but they’re not pursuing it. Probably worried what the papers will make of it all.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

He sighed at her incomprehension. She rarely grasped anything quickly and he often had to repeat and explain things as if she were retarded.

‘Social services and the police should have done something about this family years ago. They sat back and let a heroin-addicted prostitute keep vulnerable children. Can you imagine the life they’ve had?’

Hermione nodded, but Barrows knew it was well beyond her wit to empathise with anyone who didn’t drive a BMW.

He pressed on. ‘Those children will be damaged beyond repair. I should imagine the eldest was driven to killing her mother in sheer desperation.’

‘So what’s the point of pursuing it? What’s in it for …’ Hermione stopped short.

Barrows prepared to deliver the clincher. ‘Whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, the child is dangerous, she shouldn’t be allowed to wander the streets.’ He paused for emphasis. ‘The voters in Luton are already terrified of the young people from the estates and they’ll be very glad that someone is taking it seriously.’

He saw ambition light her face. ‘Tough on crime. Yes, they love that,’ she said.

‘And when the press turn on social services you’ll be right in the middle of it,’ he added. ‘Everyone will want to know your opinion on the matter.’

Hermione looked faintly puzzled and Barrows berated himself for over-egging the pudding. He need not have worried.

‘You really should go into politics, darling, you’re even better at it than I am,’ she said with a self-deprecating giggle.

Of course I am. It’s hardly rocket science. Any fool can be a politician. But I don’t need the spotlight to validate myself. My longing is for something else. Something less complex.

After much negotiation with Lilly as to how late was too late on a school night, Sam was finally asleep.

Lilly made a vast bowlful of pasta, doused it in olive oil infused with chilli, poured a generous glass of wine and settled down to do some work.

She spread her case papers across the kitchen table and took a mouthful of food, savouring the spicy zing of the oil as it touched her tongue. If not Kelsey, then who had killed Grace? Could it have been Max, the man Mrs Mitchell had identified as a drug dealer? It seemed more likely than a child, even Jack had admitted that. She knew from experience that the police would keep pursuing Kelsey until they had another suspect. She just had to make Jack see that Max was the one who murdered Grace.

Lilly smiled to herself at the thought of him. They’d enjoyed their drink together, even if Lilly had spent most of the time haranguing him about this case.

‘Do you ever let up?’ he’d said.

‘Not often,’ Lilly replied. ‘Anyhow, I bet you take your work home with you.’

‘Only the handcuffs,’ he said.

They’d laughed a lot, like they always did, finding humour in the darkest places.

‘Name your all-time worst witness,’ he’d asked.

‘The man who was so pissed he fell asleep.’

Jack threw his head back in glee.

‘I thought at one point the old sod was dead … Or how about the bloke who barricaded himself in his flat with the kids,’ she said. ‘And the armed police had to break down the door.’

Jack snorted on his beer. ‘And when you asked him if the children had been frightened by the helicopters, he said no, they thought it was better than the telly.’

It was easy with Jack. Easier than Lilly could remember with anyone else since David had left, and Lilly found herself wishing she could spend more time with him. Something had changed. Maybe it was Jack, maybe it was Lilly, or maybe the time was just right, but she knew that she wanted to be more than friends.

If he felt the same then she ought to do something about it. But how was she to gauge his feelings on the matter?

‘If you haven’t got a crystal ball, better ask the question,’ her mother had always said, but Lilly hadn’t inherited her bottle – or her years in the south had worn it away.

‘They’re all soft down there,’ her dad used to say.

Trust him. The silly sod had never been further than Skegness.

She took a gulp of wine and looked at some photographs of the Brand family. They had been taken by a social worker on a trip to the beach only weeks before Grace put the girls in care. The trip was funded by Sunny Days, a charity set up to help children like these escape the estates, if only for a day.

None of the girls had ever seen the sea before, and one photograph showed them playing in the waves with excitement and abandon.

Lilly thought of her own early holidays in a caravan on the east coast. Sometimes they took Nan, who snored like a drill and the whole tin can would rattle. In the distance the fog horn at Robin Hood’s Bay would sound and the donkeys in the next field would start braying for their food around five. Dad would throw open the door, the pee bucket swinging from his arm. ‘There’s nothing like a rest at the seaside.’

Lilly laughed and picked up the next picture. All four girls with their mother, sitting on a wall, eating ice cream. Kelsey, Gemma, Sophie and Scarlet. Peas in a pod. The same mousy hair covering most of their faces, the same tight mouths revealing chipped teeth. Grace at the end, squinting into the sun.

Kelsey seemed different in the picture, somehow lighter than she was now. Lilly wouldn’t have described her face as happy but the despair wasn’t there.

Lilly chased the last strand of spaghetti around her plate and picked up a housing transfer refusal. She placed it on top of the others and counted them. Five. In the past year Grace had made five applications to the council to move and had kept all five letters of refusal.

There was even a letter from Grace’s MP thanking her for attending the surgery but apologising that she was unable to help as Grace had rent arrears, and it was local authority policy not to move anyone until all rent payments were up-to-date.

Lilly was puzzled. Junkies rarely pursued anything so persistently, except their drug of choice. To make and actually keep an appointment with an MP was unheard of.

Chocolate called. Lilly opened the fridge and fingered the small mountain of Kit-Kats, Snickers, Picnics and other bars she kept, as though it were pornography, on the top shelf.

David had found her love affair with such confectionery downmarket. He described it as ‘cheap chocolate’ and encouraged her towards the dark, Belgian or Swiss varieties. Lilly had pointed out that Roald Dahl had shared her passion and he was a genius. And anyway, she couldn’t care less about the percentage of cocoa solids, she’d always been crap at maths.

Now David was gone she could do what she liked. Apparently Cara didn’t eat chocolate at all, it played havoc with her chakras.

Lilly took a bar and read the list of ingredients. Sugar, hydrogenated fat, emulsifier and salt. ‘Delicious,’ she said, and turned her mind once again to the housing applications.

Had Grace been trying to escape from her life of drugs and prostitution or was she trying to escape from Max? She’d suggested the latter proposition to Jack and hoped he could nudge the powers-that-be away from Kelsey towards Max.

The main obstacle, of course, was Mrs Mitchell. She may be poisonous but Lilly doubted she would have made the whole thing up, which meant Kelsey was undoubtedly at the flats the night Grace was killed. She swallowed the remaining chocolate whole and dialled Miriam’s number.

‘Kelsey was there the night her mother was killed.’

‘You’re sure?’ Miriam asked.

Lilly thumbed the police statement, leaving brown smudges that she tried to scrape away with her nail. ‘She was seen by one of the neighbours.’

‘That doesn’t mean she killed Grace,’ said Miriam.

‘No, but it does mean she might have seen who did,’ Lilly replied.

‘You know what else it means.’

Lilly did. She closed her eyes and pictured a fourteen-year- old watching while her mother’s dead body was cut to ribbons.

She arranged to meet Miriam the following evening and went back to the case papers. The idea of Kelsey as a witness to the murder was horrible, but better than the alternative. Maybe when Kelsey was less traumatised she’d be able to help the police, and with some therapy there might still be some hope of a foster placement for her. Somewhere she could feel safe and rebuild her life. Things didn’t have to turn out badly.

Feeling positive, Lilly placed the papers back into their file one by one. Suddenly her eyes widened and she gasped at the remaining document on the table. The handwriting was poor and the grammar worse but there was no mistaking what it was. Lilly was reading a letter written by Kelsey to her mother, threatening to cut her into pieces.