by Sarah Hilary
‘Next floor,’ Ron said, still climbing.
No one came up or down the stairs as they climbed. No sign of life from the flats, just the occasional scrabble of sound from a TV. How many residents were home? How many had jobs to go to? The statistics for this part of London were depressing. Joe Eaton and Calum Marsh had been passing through in their nice cars to better lives elsewhere. Until this happened.
Emma Tarvin lived on the seventh floor.
Marnie paused on the walkway to look out to where the mobile unit was setting up. The kids were back, kicking at the wheelie bin, bumping it across the concrete wasteland between the flats and the main road. Further back, the building site at Battersea Power Station lay wide open like a wound. Places of exile …
The words came unwilled into her head. She’d paid to have them inked on her left hip when she was eighteen, fancying herself a clever rebel. She read the words on her skin whenever she dressed and undressed. Ed Belloc had read them too, the first person she’d trusted to do that. And Stephen Keele had read them, as a teenager in the house where she’d grown up. Her foster-brother. Her parents’ killer. Places of exile was the reason he’d given for what he did, as if the words had incited him to murder. As if her skin had been an instruction, or a plea.
A thud from below. The kids had succeeded in felling the wheelie bin. It lay on its side, spilling its guts of litter. Marnie blinked. Refocused.
The girl who might be May Beswick had been headed this way last night. The seventh floor had a clear view of the crash site, and Emma Tarvin was a watcher. Had she seen something?
Ron was at the door of number 746. ‘Open up, love. You know me. Sick of the sight of me, probably. But we need your help.’
‘Badges.’ Mrs Tarvin’s voice was sharp. Her front door was reinforced with metal sheeting, full of footprints where kids had kicked. Brown stains around the lock and letter box, fire damage at the foot of the door, spreading the entire length of her flat. She was living under siege.
Ron held his ID to the viewer in the door. ‘Come on, I’m dying for a cuppa.’
‘Who’s with you?’ Her eye at the peephole, sharp like her voice.
‘My boss, Detective Inspector Rome. She wants to meet you. I told her you’d like to give her a piece of your mind.’
Open Sesame.
7
‘About bloody time. Thought I’d be long dead before you lot got your act together. Burnt to a crisp in my bed most likely.’ Emma Tarvin was a big woman, her broad shoulders making the mean hall look meaner, in a purple dress and tan tights, salt-and-pepper hair cropped close to a square face with indoor skin, no make-up, red threads everywhere. Brown eyes, hard as pellets, fixed on Marnie’s face before shifting to Noah. ‘Who’s the pin-up?’
Ron said, ‘This is DS Jake. He makes a mean cuppa.’
‘You can make the tea. The pin-up,’ giving Noah a smile tough enough to take the skin off his face, ‘can come with me.’ She jerked her head at Marnie. ‘You too.’
Noah and Marnie followed her into the sitting room, a box painted the colour of jaundice. Sooty streaks up the walls and around the window filling the south-facing wall. Net curtains that looked like they’d been tie-dyed in strong tea, an aggressively nylon carpet, furniture straight out of the Festival of Britain, everything Formicaed to within an inch of its life. It reminded Noah of his gran’s flat, down to the antimacassars and sunburst mirror. The only things missing were family photos. His gran’s place was full of photos of him and Sol. Emma was seventy-six. Either she didn’t have any grandchildren, or she kept their photos in another room. No ornaments, not even a vase of flowers. Bookcases, mostly filled with video cassettes and DVDs. Widescreen television. Desk by the window, covered in magazines and papers. More like a student’s flat than a pensioner’s home. It smelt like a student’s flat, male and stale.
‘You can sit here.’ Emma settled herself on the sofa, nodding at Noah to join her.
He did as he was told, Marnie taking one of the two armchairs opposite. Ron came back from the kitchen with four mugs of tea on a battered tin tray.
‘Who’s paying for those?’ A snort. ‘I’m Tarvin, not bloody Tetley.’
‘I’ll bring a box of tea bags next time.’ Ron sat in the other armchair. ‘And biscuits, if you like.’
‘If she lets you,’ jerking her head at Marnie. ‘Doesn’t look like she eats biscuits. Me, I’m partial to a chocolate finger.’ Another skin-stripping smile for Noah. ‘Sorry about the fuss with the door, but I get all sorts trying to get in here. Old dear downstairs left hers open for Social Services, can you believe that? Cleaned her out, of course. Round here, if it’s not nailed shut it’s as good as gone.’ She reached for a mug of tea. ‘So you want to hear about my arsonists. Finally taking it seriously after thirteen fires. Unless you’re going to give me a lecture like the last lot they sent round. “Arson is a cry for help.” Too much bloody crying round here. No one gets heard. I don’t. Can’t remember the last time I slept through the night. When they’re not setting fires, they’re making threats, nicking all sorts. Kick and run, isn’t that what you lot call it? What we used to call burglary. Or shouting all hours. I don’t bother going to bed now. Sit up and watch for them.’ She nodded at the window, chewing on her lip. ‘They’re less frightening when you can see them.’
‘And you keep notes,’ Marnie said.
Noah followed her gaze, seeing the notepad on the table next to the window, half tucked under a copy of the Radio Times. He hadn’t noticed it until now.
Emma reappraised Marnie. ‘I’m thorough. Someone round here’s got to be.’
‘Go on, please. You were saying you sit up and watch for them.’
‘Every night. They’re bold as bloody brass. The girls are the worst of it.’
‘Natalie Filton and Abigail Gull. Those were the names you gave to DS Carling.’ Marnie drank a mouthful of tea. ‘Are there any others?’
‘Plenty, but those two are the ringleaders.’ A pause, then, ‘You’re young to be his boss.’ She jerked her chin towards Ron. Looked at Noah. ‘Positive discrimination, is it?’ She had the jaw of a middleweight boxer. Noah could see bristles on her chin.
‘Thirteen fires. In how many months?’ Marnie matched her tone to the other woman’s, as if they were trading blows.
It was the right tactic for Emma. Noah caught the appreciative gleam in the woman’s eye. ‘Less than a year. Not that it’s ever been flaming Frensham round here.’
‘Frensham?’ Ron echoed.
‘The quietest village in England. Or one of them. Do you know Frensham, Mrs Tarvin?’
‘Only from the telly.’ Sucking at her tea, holding the mug in a hand twice as big as one of Marnie’s and wider than Noah’s. She wore a wedding band under an engagement ring knuckled with stones too dull to be diamonds.
‘You told DS Carling you believe the same girls are responsible for all thirteen fires.’
‘They are. Just because you lot failed to find any evidence.’
‘Did you see them starting the fires?’
‘Of course I didn’t. They’re not stupid, just little savages. I’ve had them threatening me, throwing stones, shoving stuff through my letter box. I wrote it all down, gave it to him.’
Ron said, ‘We’ve spoken with the girls, and their mums. No dads around to speak with.’
Emma snorted. ‘Course not. Pair of bastards, both of them.’
‘What were they threatening?’ Noah asked.
‘To report me to the police for spying on them. Yes, I thought you’d like that. The kids rule this estate and they’re a bunch of bloody savages.’ She looked Noah up and down. ‘You’re lucky you don’t live round here. They hate blacks, even the good-looking ones. Mrs Singh, next floor down? Her boy’s in hospital after they decided he was a jihadist. I’m sticking my neck out standing up to them and I’m doing it with no bloody help from anyone. You lot won’t touch anything with brown people, and you’re scared of little girls after S
avile and the rest of the perverts. Scared to do your job, so people like me end up doing it for you. At my age. Sitting up all night keeping watch.’ Her hand trembled, catching the light in its fake diamonds. She stilled it, clicking at her teeth with her tongue. She was older than Noah’s gran and she looked it, just at this minute. Repeated arson attempts, and she was a long way from the ground floor. What was it like waking up to the smell of smoke coming in under the front door, knowing there was no way out?
‘Were you sitting up last night?’ Marnie asked.
‘Every bloody night. And most of the day, too.’
‘And you make a note of anything out of the ordinary?’
‘No, love.’ Dripping with sarcasm. ‘Because round here ordinary is setting fires and battering Muslim boys. As I’ve explained.’
‘Can we take a look?’ Marnie nodded at the notepad.
A shrug. ‘Please yourself.’
Marnie got to her feet and so did Noah, glad of the excuse to escape the clutches of the sofa. The carpet by the window was worn. How many hours each day did she stand here looking out? Keeping watch on the girls who kept her prisoner. Girls younger than May Beswick. Girls who saw an irascible old-age pensioner as an easy target for their bravado, or boredom. Noah had grown up around gangs like that. Kids who strutted their way through adolescence, fretting their fear into something else, big enough and loud enough to be mistaken for courage. Sol still ran with some of the gangs they’d known back then.
Rescuing the notepad from under the Radio Times, he and Marnie stood looking through its pages while Ron made small talk with Emma. Her handwriting was cramped but legible. In emphatic blue ballpoint she’d written dates, times and incidents. Most of the incidents concerned the girls whose names she’d given to Ron: NF and AG smoking. AG kicking cans. NF littering. Page after page of it, occasionally enlivened by reports of verbal abuse, or a punch-up involving other kids, bravado between gangs: AG pushing UBF up against the wall, hands on her throat. That had happened more than once in the last fortnight.
‘Who’s UBF?’ Noah asked.
‘Unknown black female,’ Emma said.
‘So UWF is unknown white female?’ Marnie touched her thumb to last night’s report.
‘It’s not rocket science, love.’ Rolling her eyes at Ron, who grinned back at her.
‘The unknown white female you saw last night. Can you describe her?’
‘What’s it say there?’
Marnie read from the notepad: ‘“UWF. New. Trouble?” You’ve put a question mark at the end, and you’ve underlined “New”.’
‘Her. I remember. Prossy, probably.’
‘Prostitute,’ Ron interpreted. ‘Why’d you think that?’
‘Way she was dressed, or wasn’t. Flashing her knockers, and that’s not all.’ Nursing her mug in her big hands. ‘Proper mess, she was. Red hair all over the shop, staggering about. Drunk, I suppose. Not seen her before.’
‘She was alone?’
‘When I saw her, yes.’
‘Which direction was she coming from?’
‘Off York Road.’
‘Did you see where she went?’
‘What’s she done?’ Looking at the three of them in turn. ‘If she’s trouble, I’ve a right to know.’
‘You thought she was trouble last night,’ Marnie said. ‘It’s written down here.’
‘The last thing this dump needs is more people like that. We’re not Knightsbridge, love. The whores round here don’t shop in Harrods and drip with diamonds. Most of them are doing it to pay for drugs. They leave used rubbers in the corridor, and God knows what else. So yes. I saw her, I saw trouble. From the look on your faces, I was right too. What’s she done?’
‘You heard the crash last night?’ Ron said. ‘That was her walking out in front of a car.’
Marnie’s teeth tapped together. ‘DS Carling, would you like to do the washing-up?’
Emma chuckled. ‘You’re for it now, Loose Lips.’
Ron collected the mugs in silence.
‘Did you see where the girl went?’ Marnie asked.
‘She was coming this way, but when they get near the entrance I lose them. Angle’s wrong.’
‘So she was coming into the flats?’
‘Maybe. She doesn’t live here, not that I’ve seen. And I’ve seen them all, one time or another.’
‘Did you notice anything else about her?’
‘Just that she was drunk, and half-dressed. She’ll fit right in round here.’
Noah checked the angle of the view from the window. He calculated the girl had been eight feet from the main entrance when Emma lost sight of her. Almost certainly coming into the block.
Marnie was at his side, also looking, but not down at the dead space under the window. Across to where the kids had kicked the wheelie bin on to its side, spilling its contents on to the concrete. She’d seen something; her attention was fixed on the bin. Noah could only see crushed boxes, the broken ribs of an old shelving unit, flashes of white from empty carrier bags.
‘Would you recognise this girl,’ Marnie asked Emma, ‘if you saw her again?’
‘Oh yes. I’ve got a memory for faces.’ A stony smile for Noah. ‘You don’t need to be a pin-up for me to remember you.’
‘Re-brief the team,’ Marnie said, when they were back in the open air.
‘You think she’s here?’ Ron asked. ‘In one of the flats?’
‘I know she’s changed her clothes.’ Marnie walked towards the wheelie bin. She was pulling on crime-scene gloves. ‘Unless that’s a coincidence.’ She pointed.
In the spill of litter from the capsized bin was a white shirt. Noah had mistaken it for a carrier bag.
Marnie extracted it from the wreckage of the shelving unit, shaking it loose from plastic bottles, crisp packets and pizza boxes.
A man’s shirt.
Stained on the inside with what looked like blood.
8
Aimee
Someone was knocking at the door. Downstairs, the front door. Someone out there, trying to get in.
I sat up in bed, listening until my ears ached. Nothing. I was going crazy. No one ever came; why would they? On the streets you think the next person will notice you, the next one will help, but you’re kidding yourself. No one ever helps, no one ever comes. Except Harm.
‘I’m pregnant.’ May held her head up when she said it, as if he couldn’t touch her now. As if pregnant made a difference. She had a little sister she loved more than anything, and she’d always wanted a baby. I’d hoped I’d meet her sister one day. But right that minute all I could see was him, the way he buried her with his stare.
‘Go to your room.’
After all his lectures, his rules …
I’m pregnant.
What had she done?
May’s room was directly under mine. She shared it with Ashleigh and with the plastic water barrels, crates of toilet rolls, cleaning products, batteries. Self-sufficiency, Harm said, survival. Everything was right there. No need to worry ever again about being cold or wet or hungry. No need to leave, ever. We were all we needed, Harm said, and I’d thought we were safe.
Go to your room.
No one was knocking at the door. Even if they were, Harm would get rid of them; securing the perimeter wasn’t something you did once and then forgot about. You had to stay on your guard, on your toes, frosty and alert.
I’m pregnant.
I saw his face, when he sent us to our rooms. He looked in pain. As if there was a storm inside his head and he heard it crying, like a baby. May’s baby. Standing by the blacked-out window, his fingers touching the glass, and it was like I could see inside him, hot and red. He hurt. I thought …
We were like pain to him. Pushing our noise through the walls, needing to be held, having to be fed. If he was a woman, he’d be leaking, his whole body pulled by the pain, unable to resist. But he was a man and so he held the pain at bay, hoping it would settle, fearing what would ha
ppen if it didn’t. Christie and Ashleigh and May …
All of us within reaching distance, grabbing distance.
Standing by the window, kissing the ends of his fingers to taste the grey of the glass.
It made me ache with fear.
When May said, ‘I’m pregnant,’ before I could stop myself, just for a second, I’d thought:
You’re dead.
9
At the station, OCU Commander Welland said, ‘Traffic called. They want their crime scene back. Something about a bloodstained shirt in a skip?’
‘It was in a wheelie bin.’
‘Well, it’s got their knickers in a twist. They want to know why our major incident team is investigating their skid marks.’ Welland eyed Marnie and Noah. His face had a toehold on his temper, his brow heavy. ‘They’ve got a point. Even if this turns fatal, it’s Traffic’s.’
‘We’re looking for the girl from the crash,’ Marnie said. ‘We think she’s at risk of harm.’
‘Because of the bloodstained shirt? Where’re you up to with it?’
‘Fran Lennox has the shirt. We’re searching the estate where we found it. This girl’s not the first teenager to go missing in that part of London in the last twelve weeks. She might even be May Beswick. If there’s the slightest chance of that …’
Welland gave a slow nod. ‘This is the Garrett estate. DS Carling’s favourite vacation spot, the arsonist’s Algarve. But someone was sober enough to see this girl last night?’
‘Emma Tarvin,’ Noah said. ‘She confirmed what Joe Eaton told us about the girl looking like she’s in trouble, probably traumatised.’
