by Karina Evans
Damon led Isobel down another corridor and into a day room, which contained several sofas and armchairs, two low coffee tables, and a desk. Two girls sat in the corner of the room, cross-legged on the floor like they would have done in school PE lessons when life was easier, cheaper and probably wholly less complicated.
“I’ll need to speak to those girls,” Isobel said, pointing to the far corner of the room.
“Sure, I’ll ask them if that’s ok when we’ve had our chat,” Damon replied, subtly taking control of his meeting with Isobel.
“What services do you offer here?” Isobel asked.
“The usual — multi-agency liaison — we work with the council to find housing for our users; we also refer to counselling services and advice centres if they’re needed. Which they often are,” he added. “Some can’t even spell their own names, let alone fill out a form for benefits.”
“Irrelevant,” Isobel commented, already annoyed by Damon’s attitude.
“Possibly. Shall we head back to my office?”
Damon led Isobel back through the security door, back to his office, which was the last room on the left side of the corridor. It was a small, windowless room, lit with a flickering fluorescent strip bulb. Every five seconds it would buzz and blink, causing the room to go eerily dark and then come back to life.
“Doesn’t that give you a headache?”
“The light? Ha, no. Just whack it and it’ll behave for another day or so. Just like humans. Kidding. Must get round to getting a new starter motor.”
Isobel looked around the room — there was a grubby beanbag in the corner. “Less formal than an armchair,” Damon explained. “If I need to chat to anyone, they sit in the beanbag and are more likely to engage than if I offer them an office chair.”
The floor comprised navy carpet tiles, most of which had seen better days. Cigarette burns were visible on many of them, showing they had been there for many years — the smoking ban had come into effect in 2007. One of the carpet tiles was a slightly different shade, newer than the others, a richer blue. Isobel found this odd; replacing one carpet tile seemed a futile task, considering the rest of the tiles were in such a state of disrepair.
“What happened here?” Isobel asked, gesturing towards the tile.
“No idea. I’ve always wondered about that. It pre-dates my stint here; I only started a year ago. Maybe stained or something?”
“Maybe. Let’s talk about Violet Taylor and Ruby Dixon.”
“The dead girls?”
“Yes.” Isobel retrieved a photo of each girl from her rucksack. “You know them?”
“Not familiar.”
“You sure?”
“Uncertain, but I don’t think I’ve seen them here.”
“We were told they both stayed here for a few nights over the winter. They were both young, pretty girls. You sure you didn’t see them?”
“Not so pretty now, eh?” Damon answered, adding, “I don’t mean now they’re dead, I mean, I meant… I meant before the drug they were probably quite attractive but, you know, it eats them, doesn’t it? These girls? The drugs eat them from the inside.”
“Do you have a database of names of people who have stayed here?”
“Yes, and no. They don’t have to give their names. It’s an anonymous service, so yes we have some, but whether they are the right names, I wouldn’t know.”
“Can you cross-reference the names with who was on shift that night?”
“Too complex for this little set-up, I’m afraid.”
“Ok, but if you could give me access to the database, that would be great.”
“Tell you what, I’ll print it out and ask the girls if they are happy to speak to you.”
“Perfect.”
Isobel sat in the faded, stained office chair while the printer began its job of spewing out four months’ worth of database. After a few seconds, she wheeled around to the other side of the desk and, with one eye on the door, pulled at the top drawer. It was locked. The drawer underneath it opened easily, but only contained two cans of fizzy orange, a couple of chocolate bars and a packet of cigarettes. She sat thoughtfully for a second, before feeling the underneath of the top drawer — sure enough, there was a key, stuck with masking tape. Still watching the door, Isobel unlocked and opened the top drawer, which was filled with staff files and timetables. She heard footsteps in the corridor, quickly slammed the drawer shut, locking it and sticking the key back under the drawer. She spun in the chair back to the other side of the desk, adopting a casual pose just as Damon walked back through the door.
“I tried, but they don’t want to talk,” he stated. “Sorry, but anyway, it was great to meet you, Isobel —”
“DS Hester and yes, likewise.”
Isobel Hester left the building, using the side door, which led through a small courtyard that the day centre and shelter’s users utilised as a smoking area. Isobel looked around at their faces, immediately recognising the two girls who had been sitting and chatting at the day centre.
“Excuse me,” Isobel called, heading over to the wall where they were sitting. “Could I have a really quick word?”
The girls both looked up at Isobel, their faces hardening as they caught sight of the warrant card she was holding up.
“What’s it about?”
“Murders.”
“The girls?”
“Yes, you knew them?”
“Vaguely, look we shouldn’t be talking. We know nothing, please go away.”
“At least tell me where you work from.”
The girls sighed in unison, as though they knew there was no point arguing. “Market Street,” answered one. “Now, please leave us alone.”
“Ok, but here’s my card. If you think of anything that could help me, please call.” Isobel paused. “Oh, and one last thing. What do you think of the guy who runs this place? Damon? Is he the reason you’re not meant to be talking?”
The girls said nothing, but their faces said everything. For reasons that Isobel had yet to unearth, Damon had sworn these girls to silence and, from the look of fear on both their faces, she knew she needed to find out soon why he needed them to keep quiet.
Damon Harker was now firmly on Isobel Hester’s radar and, as she drove back to the office that afternoon, she knew she would need to be clever to get the better of him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I want to talk to you about the shelter,” Isobel declared to Dominic as she walked into the office. “The manager — Damon Harker — he’s hiding something, staff rotas, mostly; can we get a warrant?”
“Because he’s hiding timetables? Not sure. Why? What are your feelings?”
“Can I get it because he is creepy?”
“Sure… creepy is good. Stabby would be better. Ok, maybe not. Give me more.”
“Ok, exceptionally creepy, lied to me, kept me from talking to two potential witnesses, dodgy carpet tiles —”
“You’ll get a warrant for inferior interior design. Seriously, tell me more.”
Isobel explained to Dominic, who nodded as she spoke. “Ok, let’s go.”
Isobel and Dominic drove to the shelter in Dominic’s car. He was a careful driver, which made Isobel’s feet twitch a little — she would much rather he’d put his blue light on the roof and hit the gas. He slowed down to stop at a quiet junction, much to Isobel’s frustration.
“Seriously, Dom. The case would have solved itself by the time you get back into gear!”
“I’m just keeping us safe, that’s all.” Dominic adopted a pompous tone. “I pride myself on my thoughtful driving.”
“Whatever, just get us there before the end of the decade.”
Damon again answered the door to the shelter, looking startled as he saw Isobel standing on the other side of it. He quickly composed himself. “There’s nothing more to say, Miss Hester,” he said pointedly.
“DS Hester,” Isobel pointed out. “And, I’ll try one more time, nicely. Please cou
ld I have access to both the staff rotas and the two girls I pointed out to you in the day centre?”
“Of course,” he said, pleasantly, holding the door open for Isobel and Dominic.
“When I asked you the last time I was here, you told me you had no staff rotas —?” Isobel said, perplexed.
“No, I said I had no way of marrying them up with the users of the facility. It’s a laborious task, and I’m a busy man.”
“No, you said you had none. I’d like to see them, please.”
Damon led them in silence to his office, where the rotas were sitting in a pile on his desk.
“It looks as though you’ve been expecting me?”
“Not at all; I was just doing admin. Funny thing though, I couldn’t find the key to my drawer at first.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” he continued. “Odd thing, really. I keep it taped to the desk drawer for safe-keeping; can’t trust these guys, you see —” he gesticulated to the corridor. “They do often wander in and out, and so that’s why I tape the key, right here, under this drawer, and that’s why I fully expected it to be here, Miss Hester. But, would you believe it, it wasn’t. No sign of it at all despite me changing the masking tape just yesterday — it loses its stickiness after being removed.” Isobel and Dominic nodded, and Damon continued. “Anyway, get to the point, Damon. So, the masking tape somehow got scrunched up, all by itself. Odd, that, isn’t it? It lost its stickiness. The key fell off, and I found it in the very drawer that was open in front of me. Right before my eyes. Took me an absolute age.” Damon laughed drily. “Anyway,” he said, brightly, “Enough of my waffling, I found it in the end.”
Dominic looked over at Isobel, who was staring at her feet.
Isobel looke dup and took the staff rota sheets Damon was holding out. “Take these and I’ll go grab the girls,” he said, walking out of the office. “Poke around; nothing to hide in here.”
“Isobel, what did you do?” Dominic hissed as soon as Damon had left the room.
“What do you mean?” Isobel replied.
“I mean, did you go snooping? You could jeopardise the entire case by breaking the rules, you know that.”
Knowing Dominic had rumbled her, Isobel again looked at her feet. “Sorry, guv,” she replied. “Won’t happen again.”
Damon returned to the office, gesturing Isobel and Dominic back out into the corridor. “Better lock the door,” he said. “Who knows who may get in there?” He locked the door, pointedly putting the key into his front shirt pocket, and led them down to the courtyard, to the two girls Isobel had tried to speak to the day before.
“April and Fleur, meet Miss Hester, Isobel, and… sorry, I didn’t catch your name—?”
“DI White. And this is my colleague, DS Hester.”
“April and Fleur, meet Isobel and DI White.”
April and Fleur watched as Damon moved to the furthest corner of the courtyard, clearly still within earshot.
“Mr Harker, please could we speak to April and Fleur alone?”
“Miss Hester, I’m remaining here for your protection. These girls are volatile.” Damon straightened himself from his position of leaning on the wall, as though to make a point.
“We need to speak to them alone,” responded Dominic
“Alright, DI White. Keep your hair on. He must keep you on your toes, Isobel… sorry, Miss Hester,” Damon chuckled and walked back through the door to the corridor.
“Do you feel safe to talk?” Dominic asked April and Fleur. April, the blonder of the two women, nodded. “Yes, we can talk,” she said.
“And you, Fleur? Do you feel safe to talk?”
“I’m not talking to anyone, least of all you lot.”
“Fleur! We spoke about this,” April replied gently. “We said we would help and maybe they could help us, you know, get some help to find us somewhere, a B&B or flat or whatever?”
“We can help, for sure,” Dominic replied. “I can get you a place at a B&B, if you need one?”
“Yeah, but for how long? And he’ll come sniffing around, won’t he? Like he always does, because we gotta pay the rent somehow, haven’t we?”
“Who?”
“Damon. We’ll stay at the B&B for a few nights, the owner will up the rent to make more money from us, so we have to work and to work we have to go to the alley, and that’s where he will pick us up, promising us drugs in return for sex and all that shit. Then we lose the B&B for soliciting, council won’t house us, we’re back at the shelter and day centre. So tell me, DI White and whatever-your-name-is. Tell me, what exactly is the fucking point?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Isobel, I have some news.”
Isobel tucked her phone between her shoulder and her ear and sighed.
“What is it, Mum?”
“It’s Scarlett. She wants to see you.”
“What? When? How?”
“We talked last night — she’s ready to listen but Iz, be gentle.”
“Yeah, sure, sure I will. Can I come after work? Say, 6 pm? I’ll bring a takeaway.”
“Ok. She’s fussy, so no veg.”
At 5 pm on the dot, Isobel left the office and headed home for a shower. It wasn’t until she got in the car, at exactly 5.35, that she realised she had forgotten all about the takeaway. She mentally planned the route in her head, deciding that the quickest and easiest solution would be to grab a pizza from the local restaurant en route to her Mum’s house.
Isobel turned into the drive at 5.57 pm, mentally congratulating herself for making it despite the potential takeaway disaster. She took three deep breaths before picking up the pizza from the seat beside her and getting out of the car. She hadn’t seen either her mum or Scarlett for years; this visit was her opportunity to mend some bridges.
“Oh, pizza,” Elizabeth said, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s just bread, tomatoes and toppings, Mum. Like a sandwich. Hello, good to see you, too.”
“Which toppings did you get? Scarlett is quite fussy, you know. I told you that.”
“Just veg — beetroot, courgette, nuts, pesto. It’s delicious —” Isobel paused. “Ah. No veg. Right. No veg.” She walked into the kitchen, opened the bin, and pushed the pizza in. “Looks like we’ll be going hungry, then. Got any bread?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
“I forgot, I was in a —”
They both turned at the sound of the footsteps on the stairs. Isobel held her breath as Scarlett walked down the hallway, stopping in the kitchen's doorway.
“Hey, little one,” Isobel whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Scarlett lifted her chin. “Hi, Mum. Long time, no see.”
Scarlett was now almost twenty-one and reminded Isobel of her brother Archie. She had the same intense brown eyes and the same high cheekbones. She wore her long hair in a bun on the top of her head, secured with a leopard print scrunchie. “You look like your uncle,” Isobel commented between mouthfuls of toast. “Doesn’t she, Mum? She’s got the look of Archie. Other than the hair and the multiple hooped earrings—” Isobel trailed off, seeing her mother tense.
“Yes, yes, she has. Now, let’s stop talking about the past, shall we? Crisps, Scarlett? They’re plain?”
“No, thanks, Nana. Where’s Grandpa?”
“He… he went to the pub with some friends. Organised ages ago, he couldn’t get out of it.” Elizabeth fiddled with her jumper sleeve.
“Mum, it’s ok. I know he doesn’t want to see me. I get it.”
“He’ll come round. You just have to give him time. He’s had it tough this year, with the skin cancer and the heart scare and redundancy and all that.”
“The what?”
“You’d know if you bothered keeping in touch,” Scarlett interjected, as Elizabeth started tidying plates away. “Grandpa’s been really ill this year — two operations, angina, then he lost his job as he took so much time off, although they said it wasn’t because of that but they quickly employed someone
else in his place.”
“Right, you’re right. I have a lot to make up for.”
“No, you don’t. You could never make up for what you’ve done. We just need to learn to accept that and move on.”
Isobel finished the crisps in silence.
Elizabeth walked out into the kitchen, pausing briefly in the doorway. “Scarlett, we discussed this. Listen to what your mum has to say — we decided you would at least do that, didn’t we?” Scarlett shrugged. “Yes, but I don’t know what I want to hear. Like, that she’s sorry she gave me away? Maybe that she’s sorry she didn’t come and see me for five years, or that when she did, she messed my head up so much that you had to ask her not to come back. Or sorry that when I was ready to see her, she didn’t fucking turn up? Maybe that.”
Isobel stood up, pushing her chair back, and strode to the other side of the table, where Scarlett was sitting. Scarlett defiantly held her gaze until Isobel crouched down next to her, at which point she looked away.
“Scarlett. Look at me.”
“I can’t. I don’t know who you are.”
“Let’s get to know each other. Please, Scarlett. Let me make up for the years we’ve lost. I miss you… we have so much to look forward to. Please, please, Scarlett?”
Scarlett turned to look at Isobel, a tear running a mascara-black track down her cheek.
“Ok. Let’s do that, but I tell you what.” Scarlett brushed the tear away with her sleeve. “If you are even one minute late to meet me, I swear to fucking god, it’s the end for us. The end, you understand?”
“Yes, I do. And, Scarlett?”
“Yes?”
“Less of the fucking swearing.”
1998
He came home that night, after getting the drugs, slamming his way through the front door and pounding up the stairs. Isobel felt his arrival and removed her headphones, unfolding herself from a seated position on her bed.
