Читать книгу Damaged Goods - Helen Black, Black Helen Cecelia - Страница 12

CHAPTER FIVE

Friday, 11 September

Lilly arrived at The Bushes at 10 a.m. with the sun already soaring high and clear. After the discomfort of the previous day she’d dressed in a T-shirt, but when she got out of the car she rubbed her arms as the chill of the shadows greeted her.

Her plan was to find out what her client knew. Although the law made it clear that the child’s welfare was paramount, Lilly wasn’t about to abet a serial killer. Some straight talking was called for. She checked herself. Kelsey, of course, couldn’t talk.

In Lilly’s bag were a paper and pen. Not great, but it would have to do.

Lilly looked down at the photograph. It was a police mugshot taken a year before Grace’s death, when she was picked up in a sweep of the red-light district. The mother of four had been twenty-nine when she died but looked nearer to forty. Her face was thin with eyes buried deep in their sockets, her skin pulled taut over her cheekbones. She had spots and wrinkles, the remarkable combination a result of long-term abuse, both physical and emotional. Her name was Grace, but never had a person been so misnamed.

Lilly wondered whether the poor soul had ever been truly happy.

She thought of the photograph taken by the sea, of the picture pinned to the fridge. It didn’t need a detective to realise the only thing of any worth in Grace’s life had been her family.

She pushed the photo towards Kelsey, who sat in silence at the other side of her bed, a notepad and pen beside her. All Lilly’s harsh thoughts subsided. This was a child, and a traumatised one at that.

‘Tell me about your mum.’

Kelsey shrugged and began to pick the scabs around her mouth, lifting the edges with the nail of her little finger.

‘Okay, tell me about your sisters. Were you close? Did you fight?’ Lilly asked.

Kelsey couldn’t smile because of the scabs but a light danced in her eyes. It was the first Lilly had ever seen there and it answered both questions.

‘Big families are like that. My brothers used to beat me up every afternoon so they could watch their programmes on the telly,’ said Lilly, who was an only child.

Kelsey’s nod was emphatic.

‘I bet you used to let the little ones get their own way in the end.’

Again, the twinkle in her eyes was fleeting but it was there.

‘Did you have to help out a lot?’

Kelsey put out her hand and rocked it to and fro.

‘I suppose everyone had to chip in?’

The girl nodded.

Now for the hard one. ‘Someone killed your mum, Kelsey, and the police think it was you.’ Lilly swallowed. ‘Did you kill her?’

Kelsey shook her head very slowly. Lilly watched intently for any sign of deceit.

‘So who did?’

Kelsey looked down and went back to the scabs.

‘How about a punter, did they ever come to the flat?’ Lilly asked.

The girl held up her hand and seesawed it again. Sometimes.

‘Were they ever strangers?’

Kelsey frowned and shook her head vigorously.

‘So the only punters allowed at the flat were regulars – and the others, where did she service them?’

Kelsey picked up the pen and scribbled the word message.

‘Message?’ Lilly shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

Kelsey put down her pen and stroked her arms and legs.

‘You mean massage! Your mum saw clients at a massage parlour,’ said Lilly.

Kelsey nodded.

‘Do you know which one?’

Kelsey spread her arms wide.

‘Lots of different ones.’

Lilly wasn’t surprised. Working girls often spread themselves thinly.

‘Now tell me about Max,’ said Lilly. ‘Was he your mum’s pimp?’

A single but firm shake of the head. A definite no.

‘What then? A friend?’

Kelsey shrugged.

God, this was hard going, but Lilly tried not to show it.

‘How did they meet?’

Lilly was shocked when Kelsey pointed to the floor and to the walls.

‘Here! Grace knew Max when he lived here?’

Kelsey nodded.

‘Did she visit him here?’

Kelsey looked puzzled and shook her head.

Lilly tried to grasp where she’d gone wrong. ‘Not here. Your mum didn’t visit Max here.’

Kelsey knitted her brow. She was adamant. Grace had not visited Max in The Bushes. She picked up the photograph of her dead mother and pointed to the bed.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Lilly. ‘Write it down for me.’

When Kelsey finished scribbling Lilly almost shouted out.

Mum was in care as well.

Grace had lived here too. She and Max went back years and had stayed in touch all that time. Could this be the close relationship Dr Cheney had described?

‘Was he ever violent to your mum?’

Kelsey nodded then shook her head. Her eyes were bright with tears as if the truth were unfathomable.

Lilly wanted to shake Kelsey. Couldn’t the kid see how important this was? But one glance at Kelsey told Lilly she didn’t see that at all. She had lost her mum and everything else was of no consequence.

Lilly leaned over and gently moved Kelsey’s hand from her mouth, which had started to bleed.

‘I am truly sorry about your mum. It must be the worst thing that has ever happened to you.’

Kelsey held Lilly’s gaze then picked up the notebook again.

The worst thing was when we got split up.

Charlene scrambled through the contents of her rucksack to locate her phone. Another text had come through, the fourth in so many days. When she had received the first she thought he was taking the piss but she had been wrong, he meant what he was saying. She reread all four and glowed. Apart from him, no one had ever said she was special.

Max parked his car across from the market. He wound down his window and waited for the girl to arrive.

He’d sent numerous texts but it wasn’t a prearranged meeting. Most of the kids from The Bushes headed down here at lunchtime to mooch around the stalls and eat chips from white polystyrene trays.

He and Grace had done it themselves, laughing hysterically, arms linked, sharing their food if they were skint, which they were more often than not. If Gracie’s dad had had any luck on the horses he’d send her some cash and she’d treat them both to a battered sausage and chips. Since Grace could never manage more than a few mouthfuls before handing on her tray, Max would end up with a lunch fit for a sumo wrestler.

‘You’ve got hollow legs,’ she’d tease, trying to pinch the skin around his ribs.

Max had often wondered why Grace didn’t live with her dad, since he obviously loved his daughter enough to share his good fortune, even if he was a bit handy with his fists.

‘It’s better this way, for him and me,’ she’d say. ‘And I couldn’t leave you on your lonesome, could I?’

Max dragged himself from his memories and ordered himself not to think about her. Grace was dead. Grace was gone. And anyway, the bitch had betrayed him, just like everyone else.

He turned his thoughts to Charlene. If she turned up he’d grab her while he had the chance, if not he’d try again tomorrow. It was a total pain but he couldn’t risk meeting her at the unit. Not with Kelsey there. He didn’t think he could face her, not now.

Several residents got off the bus and made straight for Big Lynne’s burger van. Most looked over at Max and admired his gleaming BMW. He’d have been just the same at their age, impressed by the bling of a luxury car, not noticing it was nine years old and worth about a grand.

He watched them larking around throwing chips at each other. Charlene wasn’t with them. Maybe she hadn’t come. He waited until they’d finished their lunch and set off to the arcades.

He’d been hanging about for nearly an hour and was itching for a toot. He was about to give it up and head back to the estate to score when he saw her. She was on her own, as usual, fingering a rack of cheap trousers, the sort that hung too low on the hips. Crap like that would cost a fiver at the most so he got out of his car and approached, intending to buy them for her.

Unaware that she was being watched by Max or anyone else, the girl slipped the trousers into her bag. As she turned to leave, the burly stallholder, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, caught her by the arm and a scuffle ensued.

Charlene struggled to get away and clawed at the man until her false nails began to snap off one by one, sounding like popcorn in a hot pan. She screamed that she was being attacked, but the stallholder clung on, his cigarette in place, one eye closed against the plume of smoke. A crowd began to gather, amused by the spectacle, glad for a reason to put down their shopping bags on such a warm day. They pointed and tittered; even Big Lynne put down her spatula and leaned her not inconsiderable girth over her greasy counter to see what the fuss was about. She gave a fleshy thumbs-up to her fellow market worker who seemed to have the situation under control until the girl gave her captor a swift kick in the groin.

‘Ooh,’ cried the audience as one.

In an effort to protect himself the stallholder let go of the girl’s arm and she instantly fled, unchallenged by the shoppers until another man caught her around the waist.

‘Jack Mc-fucking-Nally,’ she shouted.

‘Charlene Clarke,’ he answered.

At the sight of the policeman Max cursed and slunk back to his car.

Hermione stirs her coffee but doesn’t drink it. She already feels giddy with power and caffeine might send her over the edge.

When central office had suggested she request a meeting with the Chief Superintendent she had not shared their confidence that he would have any interest in hearing her views, but less than twenty-four hours later here they are in his office. The inner sanctum.

She wishes she had someone to tell, to share in the excitement. She is forty-six and doesn’t have a friend. She has never had a friend. Colleagues yes, associates plenty, acquaintances by the truckload, but no special friend.

Even at boarding school, forced to spend twenty-four hours a day with the same set of girls, she didn’t forge any firm bonds. She wasn’t bullied nor deliberately excluded, just overlooked. In the dorm the other pupils would share her tuck and copy her prep, but she was never invited to birthday teas or slumber parties. During the school holidays the others often visited one another but Hermione was never asked. She supposes she should have done the inviting, but home was always fraught, with her father’s ceaseless moans about money and her mother’s demands that he get a better job.

Hermione recalls one summer when her mother had told every guest passing through that her daughter had been all-round winner at sports day with a special commendation for gymnastics. When the vicar had implored the singularly un-athletic Hermione to strut her stuff she’d been forced to perform a ludicrously cack-handed cartwheel.

‘Actually,’ said her mother to the embarrassed assembly, ‘Hermione has sprained her wrist, but she’s too polite to say.’

For the remainder of August her mother had suggested Hermione might like to sport a bandage.

Hermione sighs. She would have loved to share today’s good fortune with her mother. Still, she has William.

The policeman smiles politely. ‘You’ve been somewhat critical of the police in recent days, Mrs Barrows, and I’m wondering where you’re going with it and whether you’ve considered how damaging your comments could prove.’

She gives him credit for his efforts to backfoot her, but William had predicted this tactic and warned against any platitudes on her part. ‘Stay on the offensive, darling.’

‘My comments reflect the views of my constituents, the people you and I serve. Your failure to act upon those views is damaging the police, not my rhetoric,’ she says.

He steeples his fingers and taps his nose. She simply waits, her smile sanguine. She has outwitted more complex characters than him before. She has kept her cool in situations more difficult than this.

‘Does central office know you intend to pursue this issue?’ he asks.

‘Of course. But you already know that,’ she answers.

He feigns innocence. ‘How could I?’

Time for them both to lay their cards on the table.

‘Your press office called mine this morning. If I was skiing off-piste they would have whipped me back in line and we wouldn’t be having this meeting. Since I have party backing you are obliged to take me seriously.’

‘What’s your next move?’ he asks.

‘Interviews with the press in the next hour,’ she replies. ‘Tell me you intend to investigate the girl and what I say will be more palatable.’

‘She’s not fit to be interviewed at present,’ he says.

‘Then we’ve nothing to discuss.’ She stands up and smooths her jacket from collar to hem. When she reaches the door, she turns. ‘This is a huge mistake.’

When he is sure she has left he picks up his phone.

‘Get me Jack McNally.’

Miriam did something she hated and shut the door to her office. A closed door meant she was off limits, too busy to speak, and when people had no one to speak to bad things happened.

‘Did she do it?’ she said.

Lilly shrugged. ‘She says not.’

‘Do you believe her?’

‘What the hell do I know, Miriam, I’m not a shrink.’

Miriam watched her friend and colleague run her fingers through her hair. She knew how seriously Lilly took her job and could see how tortured she was feeling. She also knew from the fatigue etched around Lilly’s eyes that old memories, and bad ones at that, were forcing their way into this mess.

‘Go home and get some rest.’

Why bother saying it when she knew Lilly couldn’t do that. Despite what her friend thought Miriam had kept a copy of Kelsey’s letter and was bound by no professional rules on disclosure. She could hand it over to Jack and put Lilly out of her misery. Let the authorities decide what should happen to Kelsey. It seemed such a sensible course of action, and yet she would never do it.

Miriam had her own set of rules that she had adhered to since the death of her son, and they had kept her going so far. To break them now would be a betrayal, not only to Kelsey but to the life that Miriam had created. People admired her unerring commitment to the children in her care, but she was not self-deluded and accepted that without it she would be just another grieving mother, and she was not strong enough to face that prospect. She felt for Lilly, but Miriam had her own ghosts to keep at bay. By protecting vulnerable children she protected herself. What did shrinks call it? Transference? Repression?

She put her hand over Lilly’s and was thinking about what to say when the door opened and Jack poked his head in.

‘Is this a hot girl moment or can anyone join in?’

The tension was broken and Miriam was glad to see Lilly laugh.

‘What can I do for you, Jack?’ asked Miriam.

He pulled Charlene into view. ‘I caught this one on the rob.’

The girl pulled at her dirty boob tube. ‘I didn’t do nothing.’

‘Those trousers just fell into your bag, I suppose,’ he said.

‘It’s a fit-up.’ Charlene pointed a stubby finger in his face. ‘You planted them on me.’

Jack pushed her hand away. ‘You watch too many films.’

‘Go to the television room, Charlene, I’ll speak to you in a moment,’ Miriam said.

Charlene bristled with indignation, but sloped off all the same.

Miriam was glad to be on well-trodden ground. It felt firm beneath her feet. ‘What happened, Jack?’

‘She tried to steal a pair of trousers from the market. Got caught,’ he replied.

‘Damn. The stupid girl’s still on a caution from last time.’

Jack waved his hand. ‘Don’t worry, I squared it with the stallholder. He’s not pressing charges.’

‘You’re a saint, McNally,’ said Miriam.

He glanced at Lilly. ‘Not everyone thinks so.’

Miriam caught the look that passed between them but couldn’t decode it. ‘Let’s read her the riot act.’

Charlene was alone in the television room, the other children not yet back from the market.

‘You lot wanna see this,’ she laughed.

On the television was their MP, Hermione Barrows, her face contorted into something she no doubt called sincerity.

‘From your comments it would seem you believe Grace Brand’s daughter was responsible for her death,’ said the Look East reporter.

‘I am not party to the evidence in this case and have no idea whether there is anything to substantiate that. It isn’t my job to say who is innocent and who is guilty. However, it is my job to speak out if I believe the police are not investigating fully.’

Hermione paused and looked directly into the camera. ‘If the police have reason to believe that Grace Brand’s daughter was involved then she should be arrested and charged. If she is guilty then she should be punished. It is time to stop making excuses and make the streets of Britain safer for everyone.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Lilly, and walked out.

Jack and Miriam watched the programme to the end. Spurred by the MP’s comments, the great and the good came out of the woodwork to lend their support, and a spokeswoman for the regional constabulary confirmed that the murder was still very much the subject of an investigation. Finally, the reporter reminded the viewers of other murders committed by children, including Mary Bell and the killers of young Jamie Bulger.

When she heard the sound of the others arriving, Charlene sprinted off to spread the word.

‘It doesn’t look good,’ said Miriam.

‘No,’ answered Jack with a sniff.

‘Lilly’s going to take a lot of heat.’

Jack shrugged.

‘What’s with you two?’ Miriam asked.

‘Dunno.’

Miriam patted his shoulder. ‘You’ve crossed swords before.’

Finally she noticed Jack’s hangdog eyes and the teenage pout. How had she missed it? Had she been afraid of intimacy for so long that she had failed to detect the sexual tension between Lilly and Jack?

‘She won’t even talk to me,’ said Jack.

‘You’re on different sides of the fence right now,’ said Miriam.

Jack shook his head. ‘It shouldn’t be like this. We’ve always worked together.’

Miriam bit her lip. Apart from a couple of uninspiring and guilt-inducing flings, Lilly had been on her own since the divorce. Jack was just the sort of honest and decent man she’d want for her friend, so why wasn’t she happy for her? Why instead did Miriam want to turn this situation to her advantage? She could dress it up as commitment to her cause, but she accepted that calling it manipulation was closer to the mark.

‘Lilly doesn’t believe Kelsey killed her mother. Maybe you should take her seriously and look into this Max thing. He and Grace had a history you know.’

‘Does Lilly have any evidence about this? Has Kelsey said anything?’ asked Jack.

‘That’s a matter for Lilly and her client, Jack, you know that, but maybe he’s the one you’re looking for,’ Miriam answered.

Jack got up to leave. ‘I can’t chase maybes.’

Miriam nodded, but could see she’d steered him in the right direction. Lilly was his Achilles heel and she had just touched the spot.

Jack left the unit and got into his car. Miriam had a point. Recalling Kelsey’s tiny frame, bent over so he couldn’t see her eyes, wasn’t it more likely that Max had murdered Grace? He was a pimp, a user, a lowlife. Checking him out made perfect sense; at the very least he could find out where he was on the night in question. And it would surely cheer Lilly up. Not that that would be a priority in the murder case, more a happy by-product.

‘You, Jack McNally,’ said Becca, ‘can make anything right in your own mind.’

Becca was Jack’s last serious girlfriend. His only serious girlfriend, if truth be told, although he’d had a few short-lived flings. She had imparted this piece of wisdom whenever he blamed hangovers on bad pints and dodgy curries. And she’d repeated it, more vociferously, when he told her she was better off without him on the morning he’d left Belfast for good.

He pulled out his mobile to tell Lilly of his plan when he noticed he’d had a message. He was shocked to hear the voice of the Chief Superintendent in person.

* * *

The drive from The Bushes to Sam’s school took less than twenty minutes, but Ring Farm and Manor Park existed in parallel universes. Within five miles Lilly had left behind the grey tombs of the sink estates and arrived in the countryside. She avoided Harpenden and took the winding lanes through the villages which danced round it.

She always felt Harpenden and Ring Farm were both soulless in their own way, but the villages were alive. Cottages and houses jumbled around a post office, a newsagent and a couple of pubs. Each dwelling was incongruous and bubbled with its own personality.

Not for Lilly an estate of any variety, even those where every home had five bedrooms and a double garage.

Lilly’s mother had hated uniformity. When the council had painted every door on the estate brown she had got up an hour early and sprayed it silver before heading off for work.

‘The joy of life is its twists and turns,’ her mother had always said, and Lilly couldn’t agree more.

As she neared the school, the trees that flanked each side of the lane stretched over to meet, their branches entwined like limbs. Only dappled light fell through the canopy. Lilly enjoyed the calm of this living tunnel before she pulled into the school gates.

She parked and then stood in the bright sunshine and waved at Sam. He giggled and chatted with a friend as he made his way towards her.

‘Can Toby come to tea?’ he asked.

Oh God. Lilly had hoped to throw a pizza in the oven and let Sam eat in front of Star Wars while she got on with some research.

‘I’ll ask his mum,’ she said.

She wandered over to the shiny 4X4, where Penny was feeding apple segments to her other children.

‘Sam wondered if Toby could come to tea.’

Penny pushed her hair behind tiny ears.

‘I’m sure it’s too little notice for you,’ said Lilly.

‘Not at all. I’m sure he’d love it. I was just wondering what day it was,’ said Penny.

Lilly was puzzled. ‘It’s Friday.’

‘I mean is it a ballet, tennis or piano day,’ said Penny with a musical laugh.

Lilly held strong views on the middle-class obsession with extracurricular activities. ‘Ah,’ she said.

‘But it’s not. So by all means take him with you.’

Lilly got Toby safely belted into the car. He looked disconcerted by the muddy seats and the debris in the footwells.

‘Are you hungry?’ asked Lilly.

‘We usually have some fruit on the way home,’ the boy whispered.

Sam brandished two bags of Hula Hoops. ‘We always eat these.’

A smile broke across Toby’s face like a wave. ‘Awesome.’

The boys wolfed down their tea and headed off to play football in the garden. Lilly could hear their laughter through the open door as she logged onto the internet. If she were to help Kelsey she would have to give the police something on Max. Something concrete. Jack had confirmed he was a pimp and a pornographer and Lilly wondered if there would be anything about him on the net.

She entered ‘Max Harding’ and ‘sex’ into the search engine. Nothing exact came up, but the nearest hit was a site called ‘Maximum Hard On’. She checked the boys were still outside and entered the site.

The pixels began to coagulate to reveal a voluptuous blonde sucking a green lollipop. She gave a wave of welcome. Lilly waved back and travelled through the site. Further in, it became more explicit, but there was nothing to link it with her suspect. In any event it was both pedestrian and legal, bog-standard fucking and sucking.

‘Hello there.’

Lilly looked up and was shocked to see Luella next to her desk, looking over her shoulder at the large breasts that filled the screen.

‘You left your key in the door,’ said Luella.

Lilly had been so horrified to see her she hadn’t given a thought to how she had got in.

‘Penny’s stuck at the doctor’s with the baby so I said I’d collect Toby,’ Luella told her.

Lilly looked from Luella to her computer. The blonde was now on all fours, lollipop still in place, while another woman inserted an unfeasibly large dildo into her arse.

Lilly scrabbled to exit the site. ‘Research.’

Luella’s terse smile said it all.

* * *

William Barrows felt his sap rising. The girl – his girl, as he was already thinking of her – was taking over. He imagined how she would feel and how she would smell. He could concentrate on nothing else, and it was painfully exquisite.

Then the black man had left a message. The idiot had ‘experienced some difficulties’ so the meeting with the girl was postponed.

It infuriated Barrows that he was reliant upon such an imbecile, but he had no choice. It was too dangerous to do the grooming himself. He had done it in the past and enjoyed the process, but he no longer had the access or the patience and sought instead only the thrill of action.

He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the iron tang of blood. These days, if he encountered any impediment to his ultimate satisfaction he was no longer able to steer himself to a safer path, but instead felt overcome with rage. A rage he needed to satiate.

When the woman answered the door her smell almost knocked him off balance. The foul stench of a thousand fucks and used condoms, drowning in perfume. Oddly, the woman used the old-fashioned kind that came in a glass bottle, which his grandmother had called ‘scent’. Violets and sugar. Barrows gagged.

‘Put it in the usual place, darling,’ she said, and pointed to the dusty bedside table covered in bangles, rings and a snakes’ nest of cheap gold chains.

He opened the heart-shaped box, inlaid with small white shells, and placed eighty pounds inside. The woman was leaning against a chair to remove her baggy leggings, the legs beneath as flabby and shapeless as the trousers. She saw that he was watching, grinned, and ran a hand over her vast backside, as white and pitted as the surface of the moon.

The contents of Barrows’ stomach, a goat’s cheese and vine-ripened-tomato salad, rose in his throat at the thought of even touching this monster.

He inhaled deeply, fingered the damp cloth in his pocket, and reminded himself that he had not come for sex.