by Deborah Bee
I don’t have my toilet bag because, guess what, that’s also in one of my bags by my front door, so my teeth are warm and furry. I hate that. I stare in the mirror and give up. If Prince Charming gives me a second glance today, he’s gonna get a full-on coronary. Call the paramedics, someone.
My phone buzzes.
‘Sue, if you’re not calling me to say you’re picking up my bags . . .’
‘I’m not,’ she says. She’s on hands-free so it sounds like she’s calling from the bottom of a toilet.
‘If you’re not calling to tell me that Terry has been found dead . . .’
‘Not that either,’ she says. ‘I need a favour.’
‘I’m not sure what pills you’re on, Sue, but whatever, I’ll have some.’
‘What?’ she goes.
‘The best I got here favour-wise is a stained mattress, or a cup of builder’s tea in a mug that’s never seen hide nor hair of a Finish Quantum Max tablet.’
‘I’m serious,’ she says. ‘Oh, fuck off!’ she shouts. ‘Sorry!’ she says to me. ‘Some wanker trying to tell me I’m in the wrong lane. I’m a police officer, you little shit,’ she yells.
‘Favours only granted here if you bring me my bags,’ I say. ‘They’re right by my front door.’
‘Can I do that later? I’m on my way to you now.’
‘Yeah, fine. What’s the favour? Nothing to do with Terry, then?’
‘See you in five,’ she says and clicks her phone off, so I nearly bust my bloomin’ eardrum. She always does that, Sue, rings me when she’s five minutes away. She thinks that’s normal.
In the kitchen, a toddler with a nappy half round his knees is trailing around his bottle, holding it by the teat, spilling mini jets of milk onto the lino.
‘You all right there?’ I say. He stares up at me, blinking, big brown eyes, big brown mop of curls, turquoise and white pyjamas, flowery.
‘I’m not a girl,’ he goes, staring at his grubby little brown fingers and poking at the flowers on his tummy.
‘Boys can like flowers too,’ I say, smiling.
‘I like trains,’ he says and smiles. Then he frowns for a bit, concentrating hard. ‘And I like chewy sweets.’ He’s smiling again.
‘I like trains and chewy sweets – and I like flowers,’ I go.
‘You is a girl, then,’ he says and pitter-patters off down the corridor, his bare feet slapping on the lino. It’s warm here, for dirty little bare feet.
I stick the kettle on and examine the mug selection for the least-stained offender. Sue’ll have something to say, I’ll bet you.
There’s a buzz at the front door and from the kitchen I can look down the corridor and see the black-and-white uniforms standing in the lobby, chatting away to the receptionist behind the glass. There’s someone wrapped in one of the silver space blankets, the kind they gave Coco. They have them on Holby City when there’s been an accident and someone is in shock or something. Don’t look as though they’d keep you warm at all, just a bit of foil.
There’s this Indian lady who was in the kitchen, in a blue sari that looks as if it belongs somewhere else – the sari I mean – somewhere more exotic than this place, and she darts into the laundry room then closes the door to just a crack and presses her eye against it. That’s how all newbies are, don’t believe they are safe, don’t trust their own shadow, some of them, and maybe they never will. She’s not done anything wrong, she just thinks she must have, that’s how it is.
It’s the girl from the police station. She’s got trainers on now, and a navy fleece over her dressing gown. Her hair is tucked into the neck of her top as though she put it on in a hurry. Mrs H is shaking her by the hand – more welcoming to her than she was to an oldie like me, I can tell you. Next to Mrs H the girl looks even smaller, tiny bird, keeps touching her face, hiding her mouth behind her fingers.
‘All of our flats are two-bedroom, so you’ll be sharing. But you’ll have your privacy too,’ I hear her say.
The girl just stares back, wide-eyed, barely registering, let alone understanding.
Sue’s there, craning her neck, looking for something and she eventually clocks me down the end of the corridor and I hold up the mug and she shakes her head and holds up her five fingers, then mouths the words, ‘See you in a sec, OK?’
I nod and keep on making my tea.
*
‘It’s quite hard getting anything out of her,’ says Sue, curling her lip up at the stains on the Frozen mug. Clare’s on the guided tour with Mrs H.
‘Don’t you go judging that mug, should’ve seen it before I got to it,’ I say.
‘I mean, I know it’s perfectly normal not to trust anyone after an ordeal like hers. Has this got sugar in?’
‘Here,’ I say, passing her the sugar cubes in a box that looks like it’s pre-World War Two. ‘So, you want me to talk to her, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Well, not obviously. But if she says anything, that might help. You know. We don’t even know his real name – the name she gave us doesn’t check out.’
‘What d’ya mean, it doesn’t check out?’
‘There’s no one registered under that name. We’re contacting Interpol.’ She’s sipping at her tea like it’s maybe poisoned or something.
‘Well, I don’t know why she’d tell me if she don’t want to tell you. I’d’ve thought she wanted him caught.’
‘It’s not what she says, necessarily – it’s how she behaves. But she’s not stupid. There’s something odd about her, about her story. Something I can’t put my finger on. You’re her room-mate! Gain her trust.’
‘Room-mate! You’re kidding, right?’
‘Hey, roomie!’ She laughs.
‘Fuck off, you’re not kidding, are you?’
She laughs again and takes another slurp of tea.
‘I’m paid for this, being an informer, am I?’ I say.
‘I’ll pay you in custard creams. Or digestives. Something to mop up this shit tea.’
‘You can get my bags, that’s what you can do.’
‘Give us your keys, then. I’ll get Chapman over there later. Listen,’ she says, putting her cup by the sink, as I pull the keys out of my pocket and hand them over, ‘I don’t think you should tell her that we know each other.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Call it police instinct,’ she goes, winking.
‘What if she recognises me from the station?’
‘She won’t because she won’t remember. She could barely stand up . . .’
‘It’ll be a bit of a bugger if she does.’
‘She won’t. I’ll speak to Mrs Henry.’
‘Blimey, do you have to call her Mrs Henry and all? It’s like sodding boarding school, this.’
‘I’ll phone you,’ she says.
‘Bags!’ I shout after her.
*
It’s nearly lunchtime and the women’s refuge kitchen starts filling up with women; they shuffle as if they’re in a daze, like you’d expect patients in a mental home. They look down at their feet; they do everything slowly, quietly, like they don’t want to risk upsetting anyone.
‘’Scuse me,’ and ‘Sorry,’ and ‘Could I just . . .?’ Whispers between sounds of glass and china chinking on metal.
I need someone to do a shop for me so I look for Mrs H. She’s standing by the noticeboard, pinning up a sign about cleaning rotas, because apparently everyone gets to have a go at mopping the floors, sterilising the work surfaces, hoovering out the social areas. Great.
‘Do you think anyone will be going to the shops any time soon?’ I say. ‘I’m still on a bit of a lockdown.’
‘Put your name down here,’ she says, pointing to a different sign, without looking at me, trying to push a drawing pin in. ‘It’s a favour exchange,’ she goes.
The sign is that important it’s been laminated.
‘SWAP-A-SKILL’ has been written in wavy writing using one of those shite clip-art programmes
they get on computers. Pink smiley faces all over, flowers with smiley faces, watering cans with smiley faces, even the bloomin’ sun has a smiley face.
‘Write your name and room number in the first column,’ says Mrs H, putting all her weight behind the dry old thumbnail, ‘what you need – i.e., food shopping – in the second column, then your skills in the final column.’ She leans back and the drawing pin plops to the floor.
‘Skills?’ I say. ‘What skills?’
‘Aren’t you a teacher?’
‘No, absolutely not. I work for the AQA. The board of examiners. Freelance. Part-time. Consultant, they call it these days.’
‘But you used to be a teacher, it says in your notes . . .’
‘GCSE science students – what fifteen years ago.’
She looks surprised, Mrs H does.
‘You don’t seem the type,’ she says.
Bloody cheek.
‘Have you never met a common scientist?’
She returns to the pinboard.
‘I was quite good at school. Top in all the sciences. But then I met boys. I went back to school, after, you know, everything. And got my teaching degree. But it was a brief career,’ I say. ‘The profession of AQA external examiners is over-run with teachers who have quickly realised they fundamentally can’t stand sodding children. I’m going to be fairly useless when it comes to skill swapping I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says, turning and looking at me up and down. ‘What about mending clothes? Knitting . . . can you knit? Always looking for knitters.’
Seriously. I’m forty-one years old. Do I look like a granny? Hand me a sodding shotgun.
‘I can knit,’ says a girl, leaning against the wall in reception, examining the ends of her long blonde hair. She’s got one of those enormous dirty knitted hats on that only really suit Rastas, which pretty girls wear sometimes, because the hats are so ugly they make them look even prettier.
‘My gran taught me,’ she says, to no one in particular, still staring at her hair. ‘I used to sit by her feet and watch her. By the fire. And she’d help me when I did it wrong.’
‘What can you knit, Kitty dear?’ says Mrs H.
‘I knitted a square once. Is that a word, knitted? Or is it knut?’ she says, suddenly more interested, looking up at Mrs H.
‘Knitted is the word,’ says Mrs H, leaning over to pick up the drawing pin.
‘I can’t knit,’ I say to Mrs H.
‘Well, read to children then,’ she says, matter-of-factly.
‘The C word!’ I say.
‘You read, don’t you?’ she says.
‘Doesn’t mean I read to children.’
‘Do you want any shopping or not?’
‘I would go myself . . .’
‘You can’t go yourself, now can you? Detective Sergeant Clarke explained everything to me.’ And she nods and I nod, just once, and we understand each other.
The girl is watching.
‘Listen,’ says Mrs H, ‘there’s a load of charity stuff needs washing in the laundry room. It’s the stuff in the yellow bags. I was going to do it but you make a start on that and I’ll get your shopping myself. Leave a list on front reception. Five minutes. Nothing too heavy.’
I dig around in the bottom of my bag to get a pen and a bit of paper and I sit down opposite the girl, Kitty.
‘Don’t bother getting a load of stuff. It all gets nicked,’ she says, still examining her hair, like she’s looking for split ends. ‘Sarah Murray ate my Cadbury’s Creme Egg yesterday. She’s the fat one with no neck and dark hair – looks like that big one out of the Addams Family. The bloke, not the woman. Big shoulders. Stupid shiny high heels, short skirt, no tights.’
Kitty is one of those girls who spells trouble. That’s the thing with being judgmental – you just can’t help yourself, right? There’s me thinking she’s being a bit mean, really, and that the poor neckless Sarah Murray probably can’t even afford tights, or her own Cadbury’s Creme Egg for that matter, and then I’m thinking, at the exact same time, that Kitty is far too young to be in a women’s refuge and surely there were worthier women in more desperate circumstances, and I don’t even know anything about her, other than she can’t really knit, not properly, even though she says she can, and that she likes to eat Cadbury’s Creme Eggs when she’s got one. There’s something not right about that girl.
I go up to my room to get my purse.
Clare is curled up in the arm of the sofa, under her dressing gown, still totally reeking of paraffin.
‘Who are you?’ she goes.
‘I’m Sally, your room-mate,’ I say, sticking out my hand for her to shake. ‘Well, not exactly room-mate. We share the flat. That’s your room and that’s mine,’ I say, pointing. ‘We share the living room and the bathroom.’
She nods and looks out of the window and ignores my hand.
‘I’m getting some shopping. You want anything? Hula hoops? Snickers? Five sugar-coated jam doughnuts.’
‘No,’ she says.
‘How about I get some anyway?’ I say. ‘In case you change your mind.’
She shrugs.
‘See you later,’ I say, turning on my heel, with the cash for Mrs H.
‘Have I met you somewhere?’ she goes, still looking out the window.
‘Nah, don’t think so,’ I say. ‘But I guess we are going to get to know each other.’
‘I’m temporary,’ she says.
I don’t know about that, I think.
Eighteen
DS Clarke
DS Clarke is looking for PC Halsall’s original Oval Road site-visit report to see if a car was mentioned, and it wasn’t. At the back of the station, the gated windows look out on the car park and DS Clarke can see DC Walker chatting to PC Halsall; she wonders first at their relaxed familiarity and, second, at their distinct lack of urgency.
She watches PC Halsall pull a face at DC Walker when she looks at her phone and sees who the call is coming from.
‘Sarge,’ she says.
‘Quit blabbering to Walker and get in here, Livvy, before I decide to write your appraisal early.’
Something is bothering DS Clarke about her latest victim. Just when she is convinced by the veracity of Clare’s ordeal, something pops up to undermine it. For someone who’s been locked up in a laundry room, on and off, for the best part of two years, she’s a bit too sassy, she thinks. And then she thinks that maybe it’s a generational thing as Livvy walks through the door.
‘PC Halsall!’ she says. ‘Are we running some kind of youth camp?’
A gamut of emotions pass one by one over PC Halsall’s face, from confusion to understanding, innocence to stammering embarrassment.
DS Clarke feels a prick of embarrassment herself.
‘Can I just ask, was the car belonging to the alleged perpetrator still outside the property?’
‘Um. Wait. Oh yes! It was! A silver Lexus.’
‘But not in the report?’
‘No, sarge.’
‘And that didn’t lead you to believe that, perhaps, Mr James was home?’
‘No.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘Well, he could’ve taken the bus.’
‘He could’ve taken the bus?’
‘Yeah. The 24 goes practically to the front door of the Royal Free. What is it, four stops?’
Shame, thought DS Clarke, that her policing education doesn’t match her knowledge of the London bus network.
‘I don’t believe Gareth was at the hospital,’ DS Clarke says to herself. Actually, she says it out loud. She does that sometimes. ‘She’s either lying, she’s telling the truth or she’s seeing things.’
‘Sarge?’
‘Dismissed, PC Halsall,’ says DS Clarke, having forgotten she was there.
In DS Clarke’s experience, in most cases like this, the perpetrator most often disappears off the face of the earth, only resurfacing when they think the police have got bored
of looking.
The CCTV report is due early evening. It takes that long with so many cameras, but early reports suggest that he wasn’t there.
Not there.
‘So just where are you Gareth?’ she thinks aloud to no one in particular.
Her email pings.
Dr Ridley’s police medical report is through.
Bruising consistent with abuse including to the thighs, abdomen, buttocks, cheeks & neck.
Bruising consistent with trauma including to the knees and shins.
Superficial cuts and grazes.
Malnourished.
Ingestion of hazardous liquids – not confirmed.
Thermal & chemical burns – confirmed.
May have a propensity to self-harm.
DS Clarke snaps her laptop shut.
Experts piss her off.
But Ridley really pisses her off.
What good is a report, she fumes to herself, that starts ‘bruising consistent with abuse’ then finishes with ‘propensity to self-harm’.
DS Clarke picks up her phone and dials.
‘So you’ve confirmed the thermal and chemical burns?’ she barks down the phone at Ridley.
‘Hi, Sue, and how are you?’
‘Bruising, trauma, cuts and grazes?’
‘Yes, you’ve got my report, then.’
‘So, you are confirming abuse?’
‘I’m confirming abuse as best I can,’ says Ridley. ‘The facts speak for themselves – but I wasn’t there. Still, it’s hard to fake that kind of abuse.’
‘And then you say she self-harms,’ says DS Clarke, still barking.
‘I didn’t say she had self-harmed,’ says Dr Ridley, offended.
‘Well, it looks like it says that to me.’
‘I said she may have a propensity to self-harm.’
‘When I last looked, propensity meant “a natural tendency to behave in a certain way”.’
‘She may have developed a habit of self-harming.’
‘ “Develop” and “have” mean different things. Very different things.’
‘Well, if she didn’t have it before, she’ll have it now. I think you might be splitting hairs, DS Clarke.’
‘I think you might be generalising, Dr Ridley.’
