by Karina Evans
Ten minutes later he exited the office; this time flanked by the two uniformed officers, who marched him back down the corridor. They allowed him to pick up belongings from his locker, before escorting him to his car.
“You watch yourself, you perv,” one of the officers hissed as he opened his car door. “You’re one pair of frillies away from becoming a sex offender.”
He’d shuddered at the very thought back then, but looking back on this prediction twenty years later, realised that this shiny new officer, whose name he still remembered, had been spot on. Well done, Dominic White.
Isobel walked into the night cafe, half expecting Heather to not bother turning up, but she was already there, sitting at the table closest to the door. Isobel nodded at her and walked to the back of the cafe where the counter was situated. The night cafe had a roaring trade, situated across from the police, fire and ambulance stations, all professions that involved working night shifts, and therefore meals at unusual times. Aggie, the owner, knew pretty much everyone who worked at the three stations, and officers often gave her their work rotas, so she could buy in and make their favourite dishes. She had worked 7 pm to 7 am for the best part of twenty years and, although she was heading towards 65, had no plans to retire. Isobel and Aggie had never met before, and the older lady gave her an inquisitive glance as she stood at the counter.
“It’s ok, Ags: she’s with me,” called Heather, and Aggie nodded with a smile. “What can I get you, love?”
Isobel cringed at the familiarity but swallowed it down, ordering a jacket potato and salad, taking a wooden spoon with the number 6 scrawled on it with a marker pen, before walking over to the table at which Heather had positioned herself. Heather’s hands were clasped together on top of the table, and Isobel noticed her knuckles were white.
“No need to be tense.” Isobel said. Heather unclenched her hands and studied them, unable to raise her head to look at Isobel.
Heather spoke, continuing to stare at her hands. “This is a mistake — I’m not really sure why I came.”
“Because we need to work on a case together, Heather. We can’t work together if you keep sniping at me.”
“Do you blame me?”
“For what? Sniping? Yes, of course I do. What is your problem?”
“You, of course. That day we met. That’s my problem.”
“What are you talking about? What happened?”
It’s funny how something that changes the course of one person’s life can have such little effect on another, Heather thought as she finally looked up and examined Isobel’s perplexed expression. As fas as Heather was concerned, that night had shaped her life, changed her destiny. A man had abused her: coerced into doing something she really didn’t want to do, backed up by a girl who should have had her back, who should have told her to leave, who should have held her hand, like girlfriends in a movie, running far away together, far from danger, before becoming survivors; their lives defined by their strength, their courage: their thriving sisterhood. But instead, Heather had withered, finishing school with awful grades, never speaking of what happened that day. Of the day she didn’t say yes, the day a man raped her in front of another girl. Her lack of direction had dismayed her parents, but they didn’t ask what was wrong, instead putting Heather’s despair down to moodiness and teenage temperament. It took time, but Heather realised that what had happened wasn’t her fault — she had said no, she had asked him not to, but still he continued. She applied for a job as a police officer to work in the domestic violence unit, helping women survive abuse in their own homes. It was only when she met Dominic at her first placement in CID that she put on hold her plans to move to a different department, having enjoyed the time she was spending with the older sergeant.
“The day we met, we went back to the guy’s flat, and he raped me while you sat in a chair smoking a cigarette. That’s what happened.”
“I don’t remember that —”
“You were drunk. You were going to have sex with him but were too drunk. You offered me up instead, and I didn’t want to. I didn’t. And so he raped me.” It embarrassed Heather to discover that she was crying, tears falling uninhibited — tears that should have fallen years ago.
“Heather —”
“You called me Disco — do you remember that?”
“Yes, I do, but I don’t remember a guy. What was his name?”
“Loz.”
“Loz? Not Loz from the square? Fuck, ok. I remember him, I remember Loz. He died about twenty years ago?”
“Yes, he hung himself. About six months after he raped me. I don’t know if that’s why he killed himself, or if he raped young girls all the time. I didn’t get to ask him.”
Isobel fell silent as she considered how much blame to take on for what had happened to Heather. “I was young and messed up, Heather. I owe you an apology for not helping you, but I am not the person who raped you; you can’t hold me accountable for that.”
“You told me to go first.”
“I don’t remember it, but Heather, I did not rape you. I am sorry for not helping you; truly I am. But I did not rape you.”
Isobel’s confident words swam around Heather’s head, snaking into each other, forming a stream of something incoherent and meaningless. Heather again dropped her head, trying to form some sense out of what was happening. She had expected — and hoped — that Isobel would take some blame for the attack, allowing Heather to have the closure that was denied when Loz had died. Eventually, she sat up straight and looked Isobel in the eye.
“Thank you for your apology; I appreciate it. I feel we need to move on and catch a killer.”
“Too right we do,” Isobel replied, looking down at her meal. Heather stared at the top of Isobel’s perfect head with its perfect hair and again swore that one day she would get her revenge.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“What do you think about this garden guy then, Hester?” Dominic asked.
“I’m unsure at the moment. I doubt he had anything to do with it.”
“But Millicent is so keen for us not to talk to him — that makes me need to talk to him all the more.”
“You’re probably wasting your time, but why not go do a knock?”
“You coming?”
“Yep. I’m driving.”
Dominic climbed into the passenger seat of Isobel’s sport’s car, just as Isobel’s phone rang.
“Fuck,” she said, pressing a button and holding the phone between her ear and shoulder as she climbed in the car.
“Hey, Bradley,”
“Hey, long time no hear,” he said “How’s it going?”
“Not bad, I’ve just got the info on the case.” Isobel paused. “Erm… I might disappear for a bit, Bradley — I’ve got a few bits to work on here and I’m not sure how this fits with… us, you know?”
“Right. What does that mean? Could you be more precise? Are we done?”
“I’ll call you in a couple of days. Don’t give me a hard time.”
The phone line went dead, and Isobel turned to Dominic.
“Don’t say a fucking word. It’s none of your business.”
They drove in silence to Market Street, speaking only to discuss which houses they would knock at.
“There are really only four worth trying,” Isobel pointed out. “Judging by the location of Millicent’s attack, the guy in the garden would only have heard her whispered call for help if he had been really close. So, it’s likely one of these four.” Isobel pointed to four houses on the map. “You take Market Street and I’ll take the other side. Meet you back at the car.”
An old lady answered the door at the first house Isobel tried.
“Hi, who do you live with?” Isobel asked.
“You look like police. What are you doing here?”
“There was a serious attack in the alleyway a few days ago, which someone close by witnessed. I am here to find that person, so, please answer me. Who do you live with?”
“Wednesday,”
“In that case, she’s in the clear. She was away at work — she works nights, you see. Cleaning offices in town, wasn’t back till at least 6.30 am.”
Isobel opened her mouth to thank the lady, but the door had already slammed closed. She stepped over the low fence between the two houses and knocked on the door of the second house, sighing with frustration when she heard footsteps, but nobody came to the door. She bent down to look through the letterbox, coming eye-to-eye with a little kid. “Kid, are your parents there?” Isobel asked.
“Dad is, but he said not to answer. He’s playing hide and seek, wanna find him?”
“Why is he hiding?”
“cos there’s a warrant.”
“Right. I would like to speak to him, please.”
“Ok. Dad! There’s a lady here, and she wants to talk about your warrant!”
Isobel punched out a quick text to Dominic, GOT HIM MEET YOU AT CAR, and phoned through to PNC to get information about the outstanding warrant. Callum Duggan tenanted the house, along with a female by the name of Marissa Frazer. Callum was wanted for an aggravated burglary and had a long list of convictions. He was likely to be jailed for this latest offence, something he would have been painfully aware of when he decided to skip bail.
Isobel had just hung up the call when Callum appeared at the door. He looked dishevelled, as though he had crawled out from under a low table.
“May I come in?” Isobel said.
“Aren’t you going to nick me?”
“Not yet. Your warrant is the last of my worries. I need to talk to you about the girl you helped in the alley on Wednesday.”
“How is she?”
“She’s ok, she’ll survive. You saved her life.”
“I did what anyone would do.”
“Not everyone; someone tried to kill her.”
Callum stood back from the door and waved Isobel inside. She was familiar with the houses in this area, having spent a lot of time in them as a teen. They were mostly housing association, although some had sold privately and then rented out for higher rates than their housing association counterparts. Universal Credit paid the rent for most of the privately tenanted houses, with tenants working mostly cash-in-hand to top up the rent. Cash-in-hand work was exactly the type of work that Callum did: burglary, shoplifting, robbery and theft were all on his list of convictions.
“Why are you here, Callum? Surely this is the first place the police will look for you?”
“I came to see the kid,” Callum looked fondly over at his daughter, who appeared to be about five years old.
“Shouldn’t she be at school?”
“I wanted to see her, you see. Had a feeling I’d get caught soon, so I figured a day off school didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.” Callum shrugged as though it was a fait accompli. “She’s a great kid, love her bones, I’m just saying goodbye.”
“Ok, here’s the deal. I trust you will hand yourself in tonight, giving you some time to spend with your daughter, on the condition that you give me everything you have about the attack on Millicent.”
“Deal.”
“Let’s go then. Did you know of, or had you ever met Millicent prior to seeing her in the alleyway?”
“Only in passing — she used to work the alley but we haven’t ever spoken. She disappeared a couple of years ago; word was that she’d met someone and given up the game. Good on her, I thought.”
“Ok, can you tell me why she wouldn’t give me your details?”
“I asked her not to,” he replied. “I feel guilty; she was lying there, basically dying, and all I could think about was my warrant catching up on me.”
“She stuck to her word though, so you must have made quite an impression.”
“I just called the police and ambulance, that’s all. Nothing really.”
“Did you see anyone else at the scene? Did you hear anyone leave the scene?”
“I saw a shadow of someone and heard running, but it was down the other end of the alley. I couldn’t see much.”
“Tell me what you saw. Was he carrying anything? A bag?”
“He was running fast, carrying something that was kind off flapping — maybe a piece of paper, but smaller. And more pliable. Like a silicone mat, the type my kid uses when she’s making pastry with my Ma.”
“That’s interesting. Great, Callum, thank you. Have a great day with your kid, I’ll expect you around 7 pm.”
“You got it, officer.”
At 8 pm, Isobel entered the custody area of the police station via the holding cell, where officers took detainees after arrest. The holding cell was a long, thin room, separated from the car park by a door with a key code and swipe card security. The custody sergeants usually had their CCTV cameras trained on the holding cell, allowing them to prepare their computer software for the booking-in process when a prisoner arrived. Isobel knew from experience that many of the older sergeants, who used custody as an easy way to while away the few years prior to retirement, dreaded the sound of the holding cell door opening as it meant they would have to take their feet off the desk and deal with the detainees who had left them so disenchanted at this stage of their careers.
She knocked on the door of the custody suite, showing her ID through the small reinforced pane of glass in the door that separated the custody suite from the holding cell. She could see the custody sergeant, a male in his late 50s, reach over to press a button that would allow her access — the suite hadn’t yet upgraded the lock to accept a swipe card and officers often complained about waiting in the holding cell as the sergeant finished his cup of tea. Isobel fully expected the duty sergeant to be led by his ennui and was pleasantly surprised when he greeted her enthusiastically.
“Hi, I’m Sergeant Robbins, and you are…?”
“DS Hester, Major Crime Team.”
“What can I do you for?” Sergeant Robbins asked, chuckling at his own wordplay.
“I just wanted to check that you had a Callum Duggan hand himself in today?”
“Ah yes, Callum. Yep, he handed himself in at 7 pm.”
“Perfect. That’s all I needed to know. Thank you.”
Isobel turned to leave the custody suite.
“Oh, DS Hester, hang on a minute.” Sergeant Robbins got up from his swivel chair. “I’m assuming you’re here to investigate the murders of Ruby Dixon and Violet Taylor? I just wondered if you had an update?”
“How did you know them?”
“Regulars — they were no trouble. Just came in, asked for a blanket, a lasagne, a visit from the nurse and some meds, and bedded down for the night.”
“Did you ever chat with them, get any idea of who they were hanging around with?”
“Not chatting as such. We weren’t that friendly. I just liked to look after them, you know. They’ve had it tough the last few years and I reckon they were both on the game. Poor kids.”
“What made you think they were sex workers?”
“Oh, I dunno. A hunch, I guess. The type of drugs they were using, the clothes they were wearing. Officers always picked them up in the same place… it all seemed to add up.”
“Did you raise any welfare issues, offer any help? Did they access any services?”
“I gave them piles of leaflets that they probably tore up and threw in the bin. I think they both stayed at the shelter a few nights over the winter months.”
“Right, ok. If you think of anything, let me know.”
“Will do. Good to meet you.”
Isobel left the custody suite and drove the five miles to the shelter Sergent Robbins had mentioned. It was the only shelter in the town and was often oversubscribed, with m
any vulnerable, homeless people instead having to sleep on benches or huddle down in the 1930’s shelters that lined the seafront. Locals would sigh and tut, rolling their eyes at the blight on their landscape. Their beautiful sea view ruined by circumstance.
The shelter’s duty manager was Damon Harker — a cheerful-looking man in his early thirties. Isobel introduced herself and he led her in, through a corridor lined with rooms; the first of which seemed to be a storage room, packed high with bin-bags full of possessions. A stagnant smell emanated from it, and Isobel wondered if they had washing facilities here, or if it even mattered at whichever version of rock-bottom they were facing. The next room was a dorm-like set-up, packed with end-to-end metal-framed bunk beds with mismatched bedding sets. Isobel peered through the double doors as she walked past, expecting to see a buzz of activity, but the room was empty.
“They’re all next door at the day centre,” Damon explained. “We only provide services from 7 pm.”
“Ah, ok,” Isobel replied. “Could I also check out the day centre, please?”
“Sure, let’s pop there first.”
Damon walked to a heavy grey door next to the door, giving it a hefty shove with his shoulder. “Don’t know why they lock it,” he shrugged, swiping them both through. “The whole place works as one service, really. They flow between the two sides of the building,” he explained. “And it stops workers from easily accessing both sides of the building which, as I’m sure you can imagine, isn’t good in an emergency when speed could be an issue.”
“It doesn’t take long to swipe a card, does it?” Isobel responded.
“Well, no, but they don’t always work first time, and —” Damon trailed off.
“Is all door access logged on the system?”
“Somewhere, I’m sure.” Damon smiled. “We’ll have a look when we get back.”
