by Karina Evans
“Arch, you ok?”
“Fuck off, Iz, leave us alone, would you?”
“Fine. I tell you what, you need to be a little kinder to me, don’t you? Or I’ll tell Mum and Dad about whatever shit it is you’re putting in that crappy body of yours.”
“Go ahead. Just fucking leave me alone.”
That was the last time Archie ever slammed a door. The last time Isobel got to threaten him. It was Archie’s very last night alive — he died with a tourniquet wrapped around his upper arm and a syringe-full of heroin coursing through his veins.
Archie’s death heralded a new start for the Hester family, not in keeping with a traditional new start in which a group of people find a shared and noble cause, perhaps raising money for charity, walking miles on blistered feet with sponsorship forms and well-wishes in their backpacks. Not that kind of new start. This was a new start under a cloud that would never shift; heavy with potential that would never rain down on his family: a lost education, a lost graduation, a lost career, a lost wife or husband, lost children, a lost mid-life crisis, a lost retirement, a lost old-age death. The Hester family would find it hard to scrape themselves off the floor, to absorb this loss and in fact, the loss became them, absorbed by them, fracturing them and the generations that followed them: Uncle Archie, forever a boy, never a man.
Elizabeth Hester, Archie and Isobel’s mum, tried to forget Archie. She stumbled over the, ‘How many children do you have?’ question for the rest of her life, mostly settling on ‘just the one.’ Occasionally, usually after dulling her pain with a drink, she would bravely tell people that her son died, but she never drank quite enough to tell them how.
James Hester became louder with his grief, often heard shouting, “For God’s sake, Liz, heavens above, just say his name just say his goddam name,” and yet — although she flinched and turned back to whatever it was she was concentrating on, usually peeling potatoes or staring at a book she had held but been incapable of comprehending every day since Archie had died — she would whisper, “Archie Jack Hester,” and that would appease James for a while, before the cycle began again. In between times, they would hold hands, squeezing tightly until their knuckles turned white, and you could sense that the delicate woven strand that held them together, although wavering in the breeze, was as strong as steel.
They prosecuted nobody for Archie’s death; ranks in Shorestone closed, friends grieving in silence. The silence stifled Isobel and she found it hard to breathe in the house she shared with her parents and the ghost of her brother. His room was bare — no shrine here, not in the Hester home. Archie had been erased, his belongings stuffed into bags and dropped off to charity shops. Family photos were boxed up and put in the attic, the hatch gently creaking closed as James, broken but not beaten, put what remained of his son in hiding while Elizabeth peeled potatoes; they ate a lot of potatoes in the year after Archie’s death. One photo remained, perhaps overlooked, perhaps deliberately. Archie in red and blue swimming shorts, toes buried deep in sand, squinting against the bright sun of a high summer’s day, bucket in one hand, spade in the other. Archie, aged four, just twelve years before he died. That photo became an incarnation of Archie, tender fingers stroking the dust from it upon passing it in the hallway, but it was never picked up, never held.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Where does he keep the drugs, Fleur, do you know?” Isobel asked, to which Fleur shrugged, clamming up like she had when they had questioned her earlier.
“In his office, under the carpet tile,” April responded quickly, as though she wanted to get the words out before she changed her mind. “Fleur and I followed him through from the day centre one afternoon without him knowing — he props open the security door so he can get in and out easily, so we followed him, hoping to find where he stashes cash. He pulled up a carpet tile and under it is a loose floorboard and so, yeah, that’s where his stash is.”
“Did he see you?”
A look of fear crossed April’s face as she looked over Isobel’s head, and Isobel realised Damon must have walked back through the door.
“Well, if you won’t talk you’re no use to us, you may as well go back to the centre.” Isobel snapped at the two women, who looked at her gratefully as Damon headed towards them.
Damon sauntered cockily over to where Isobel and Dominic stood with April and Fleur. “No use to you then? God, they’re pretty pointless, these girls. Just kidding.” Damon squeezed April’s shoulder, and she smiled automatically, as though conditioned to appear pleased at Damon’s banter and over-friendliness. “All I can do is apologise for them, Isobel and DI White. I do hope we haven’t wasted too much of your precious time.”
“DS Hester,” Isobel replied. “And no, you haven’t.”
Isobel and Dominic walked back to Dominic’s car for a chat out of earshot of Damon.
“We’ll need a court warrant unless we take him in, Isobel.”
“I know. Have we got enough to nick him?”
“The replaced carpet tile, the information from April and Fleur; that should be enough. He doesn’t know they’re giving us info, so we could always take them in to get a statement, if they’ll give one?”
“I don’t think that’s the safest way of doing this. We have nothing at all to connect him to the murders, but we know he is supplying the sex workers with drugs. If we take them in, he will know straight away — we can’t get them out without asking his permission. The court warrant will take forever and we don’t have time on our side — we need something quickly so we can take him to the cells and get a Section 18 search.”
“You’re right. What do you suggest?”
“No idea. Let me think.”
Back at the office, Isobel sat at the desk and stared at the investigation board in front of her. She saw no harm in throwing Damon Harker’s name in there and typed his information into the custody system. He came up at the top of the search results; cautioned five years ago for possession of cannabis. Isobel sent the file to the printer and was standing, waiting for it to print, when Dominic walked over, offering a fresh cup of coffee.
“I don’t want that shit you drink,” she said, shuddering. “I’m a filter girl, you know.”
“Fine,” he replied, mock-offended. “But don’t blame me when you’re asleep at your desk in half an hour.” Isobel took the coffee from his hand and nodded her thanks.
“Damon got a caution a few years back for possession. Just a small amount of cannabis.” Isobel told Dominic. “I’m assuming he declared this at his interview for the position at the shelter and that they saw it as the perfect opportunity to show that they were on board with the rehabilitation of offenders? I mean, you can’t run a social enterprise and discriminate, can you?”
“They’re vulnerable people, though. I don’t think the Government would force the shelter to sign up to an initiative that may put users at risk?”
“No, but it’s a pretty small deal, all things considered. And until he’s acting like an utter cock, he’s actually quite charming. He probably won them over in his inter—”
“It shows previous for drugs, though,” Dominic interrupted. “Maybe that’s enough to bring him in. I’ll speak to the chief.”
“Damon Harker, I’m arresting you for the supply of a Class A drug. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if we had just caught the faceless Shorestone Killer?” Dominic whispered, as they watched the police car drive away, with Damon sitting resignedly in the back.
“You know we haven’t,” Isobel responded. “But we may have just nabbed a damn good clue.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
2004
“Hair isn’t just blonde or brown, you know,” Isobel said, pointing at five-year-old Scarlett’s drawing. “Look at my hair. It has streaks in, like highlights, from the sun. C
an you draw hair with streaks in?”
“There’s no need to be so critical,” Elizabeth said later, while they sat at the table watching Scarlett trying to perfect the colouring of naturally streaked hair. “She’s a kid and she shouldn’t be told how to express herself.”
Isobel yawned. “I’m giving her permission to be creative. Not everything in life is as flat and obvious as you make out.”
“Tired?”
“Yes, I’ve been up all night filling in application forms for jobs. Hamhill isn’t the best for opportunities.”
“Come back to Shorestone, then. They want bar staff in the Trader, and the corner shop needs someone to cover the late shift. You could spend time with Scarlett, too?” Scarlett lifted her head at the mention of her name and Isobel studied the inquisitive little face that looked up at her.
“I don’t think I can.”
“Take her out for the day. You’ll soon want her in your life — she’s such a wonderful kid.”
Isobel held Scarlett’s hand awkwardly as they crossed the road towards the arcades. “You’re my mum, aren’t you?” Scarlett questioned shyly. Isobel nodded. “So, why don’t we live together? Ella has a mum and they live together and so does Scottie’s mum and Lou-Lou’s mum. Marley’s dad doesn’t live with them but that’s because his mum and dad split up.” Scarlett pondered for a moment. “Did you split up with me?”
“Let’s go to the arcade, shall we?” Isobel responded, forcing a brightness she didn’t feel.
“Will you get back together with me again?” Scarlett asked through a mouthful of candy floss. “I think you’re pretty and I want you to live in the house with me and Nana and Grandpa.”
Isobel felt weak at the thought of being trapped again in a town with so many memories. “One day you can come and live with me, kid. But I can’t live here, I’m sorry.”
Scarlett’s face crumpled, and she moved the candy floss away from her mouth, not noticing as it fell off the stick onto the pavement. “I feel sad now,” she said through tears. “I thought I was getting my mummy back.”
Isobel squeezed Scarlett’s hand a little tighter and walked her back to her mum and dad’s house, opening the porch door and guiding Scarlett in. She kneeled down in front of the little girl. “I’ll be back, I will. I will come back to you. Please wait for me.” Isobel rang the doorbell and walked back down the driveway to her car, driving off when she saw her mum open the door to welcome Scarlett back in. Tears blurred her vision as she drove back to Hamhill, to face the truth that she wasn’t yet strong enough to be Scarlett’s mum.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“This interview is being tape recorded and may be given in evidence if your case is brought to trial. We are in interview room four at Shorestone Police Station. The date is the sixteenth of July 2020 and the time by my watch is fifteen twenty-four. I am Detective Sergeant Isobel Hester from the Major Crime Team in Hamhill. The other police officer present is Detective Inspector Dominic White. Please state your full name and date of birth.”
“Damon Harker, 30th June 1987”
“You are entitled to free and independent legal advice, either in person or over the telephone —”
“Don’t need it.”
“That right continues throughout this interview, so please let us know if you would like to exercise your right to free and independent legal —”
“I told you, I don’t need it.”
“Do you agree that there are no other persons present?”
“Yes.”
“Damon, do you understand why we have arrested you?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean that I understand why you have picked on me in particular. And I’m assuming that you base this arrest on zero evidence on account of me having done absolutely nothing illegal.”
“You’ll have your chance to explain in a minute, Damon.”
“Ok.”
“Damon, we have witnesses who state you have been supplying drugs. We would like to hear your side of this.”
“I absolutely have not.”
“How do you explain two independent sources naming you as their supplier?”
“I can’t. Maybe they hold a grudge.”
“Excuse me, there’s an officer at the door. For the benefit of the tape, DC Heather Fraser has just walked into the interview room with an exhibit from the Section 18 search carried out at Damon Harker’s place of work at midday today. For the tape, I am showing Damon exhibit number IH/4. Damon, do you know what this is?”
“I could take a guess. But I want to speak to my brief.”
“Interview resumed at fifteen forty-seven hours. Damon, would it help if I told you we found exhibit IH/4 under a loose floorboard in your office at your place of work — the Shorestone Night Shelter and Day Centre in Longley Road, Shorestone?”
“Yes, however, I still wouldn’t know how it got there.”
“Can you tell me what it is, Damon?”
“I guess it’s drugs.”
“Who else has access to that office, Damon?”
“Every other manager on the rota, plus other members of staff can get in and out.”
“With keys?”
“No, until recently, we were leaving the security lock on the latch, meaning that anybody could get in and out.”
“Why?”
“It seemed easier than faffing about with a code each time you need to grab some paperwork. It changed recently as we had a security breach.”
“What type of breach?”
“A key for a locked drawer that contained sensitive information went missing from its secure place.”
“Ok, and can you identify this substance for me, Damon?”
“It’s Brown, I would guess.”
“Please explain to me what you mean by ‘brown’”
“Heroin.”
“Do you use drugs, Damon?”
“No.”
“Then why was this hidden under a tile in your office?”
“I don’t know. About thirty different people could have put there it. Are you going to arrest them all?”
“Probably not, Damon. As far as I am aware, you are the only person named by two witnesses, one of whom could tell us where to find the drugs that you supplied her with. How do you explain that?”
“A few girls have a grudge because I wouldn’t buy services from them. So, maybe that’s why.”
“Services? Please explain.”
“Sex. They sell sex.”
“Which girls in particular hold a grudge?”
“April and Fleur, for sure. And a couple of others; I don’t know their names. But it goes with the territory of working in a place like the shelter — the girls come along, expecting an easy ride… excuse the pun… then they get pissed off when we refuse to play ball.”
“To clarify — you are talking about April Stanley and Fleur McEwan?”
“If you say so, I’m not sure of their surnames.”
“For the benefit of the tape, I am showing Damon exhibit IH/3 — a timetable rota of staff at the shelter, and exhibit IH/1 — a printed database of service users. Page 5 of exhibit IH/1 shows service users Fleur McEwan and April Stanley as volunteering their names to the shelter on fourteen separate occasions over the past six months. On twelve of those occasions, Damon Harker was on shift when they arrived, or on shift when they signed out. Damon, how can you not recall the names of your service users when they are such regular users of the shelter? It is your business to know who is under your care, yes?”
“Yes, I am duty-bound to be aware of who is at the shelter, but that doesn’t mean that I know their surnames.”
“To your knowledge, have Fleur McEwan and April Stanley approached any other members of the shelter or day centre and offered them sex for money?”
“I don’t know, but I expect so. I can’t imagine I’m the only one.”
“For the benefit of the tape, I’m showing Damon Harker exhibit IH/2, which is a database containing all card swipes betw
een the two sides of the building. Damon, what time does the duty manager open the night shelter side of the Shorestone Night Shelter and Day Centre building?”
“6 pm.”
“And do you work solely at the shelter, or do you also carry out duties in the day centre?”
“I carry out duties in the day centre, but only when on the day shift rota.”
“And what times are your shifts?”
“Either 6 pm to 2 am, 10 pm to 6 am, or 6 am to midday.”
“And how many people work these shifts?”
“Two or three.”
“Would there be any reason for a manager to come into work at, say, 3 pm?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“Then why has your keycard been used to access the day centre twelve times during the times of 1 pm to 4 pm on days on which Fleur McEwan and April Stanley were staying at the shelter?”
“No idea. Maybe someone took my swipe?”
“Is that likely?”
“No comment.”
“Ok. Moving on. Have you ever taken Fleur McEwan and April Stanley from the day centre into your office when there was nobody else on duty in the night shelter?”
“No. Why would I do that?”
“On twelve separate occasions, your swipe has been used to access the day centre. On those twelve occasions, witnesses state that Fleur McEwan and April Stanley went into your office with you, and that you gave them drugs in return for sex.”
“They what?”
“Besides this, we have also cross-referenced your service user database with the staff rotas and checked the afternoon door access on the dates on which Violet Taylor and Ruby Dixon used the shelter and day centre. They were also regular users and our records show that on the occasions on which Violet Taylor and Ruby Dixon used the day centre, you accessed the door between the centres in the afternoon. Was this to lure them to your office as you did with Fleur McEwan and April Stanley?”
