by Tania Carver
‘Now, would this safe place ever be a street corner?’
‘No. We’d still aim for a café, somewhere like that. If everywhere’s closed, then somewhere well lit. People about. Street corners are usually too conspicuous.’
Imani nodded. She wanted to drink her tea but didn’t want to lose the momentum of the conversation. ‘And then it’s the same – a volunteer driver goes to get them, or a taxi.’
Claire nodded.
‘And the driver would be a woman?’
‘Yes.’
Imani frowned. ‘Could the call be intercepted?’
Claire shrugged. ‘I… don’t know. I would have said not, but… in theory anything can be intercepted, can’t it? Look at all those celebrities with their hacked phones.’ She looked right at Imani, a half-smile playing on her lips. ‘And I’m sure you lot have done enough of it.’
Imani laughed. ‘Believe me, you have no idea the red tape you have to go through to set up an intercept or a wire tap. And then you run the risk of it not being admissible in court. Not worth the hassle, usually.’
Claire smiled, drank her tea. Imani closed her notebook. ‘Thanks, Claire, I really appreciate it.’
Claire looked surprised. ‘That’s it?’
‘Just about. Could you give me the name and contact details for the volunteer who would have taken Janine Gillen’s call? And the driver she would have called?’
‘Sure.’
She went to her desk, looked through some records on her computer screen, printed out a sheet of A4. ‘Here you go.’
Imani thanked her, made to leave. As she reached the door, Claire put a hand on her sleeve, stopped her.
‘Please,’ she said, and there was something in her eyes, something that went beyond professional interest and looked like real hurt, ‘please tell me. When you catch him, please let me know.’
Imani gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I will,’ she said.
She turned and left the refuge, feeling Claire Lingard’s troubled gaze on her back all the way to the car.
48
Roy Adderley opened the door of his house, pushed it closed behind him. The noise made him jump. Reminded him of the cell he had until recently been locked up in. He imagined all doors would carry the echo of that one for a very long time.
It felt like he had just got it out of his system from the last time. Back in his old, godless, violent life. Following his release then, he thought it would never go away, the clanging behind him as a door slammed shut, any door, anywhere, but he had gradually overcome it. With God’s help, of course. Or so he told himself.
He walked into the living room, reliving the last few days over and over in his mind. Like a film he couldn’t get up and walk out of because he hoped against hope that every time he saw it, it would have a different ending. A better ending.
A temporary moment of madness. Police bail. Own recognisance. The terms he was allowed home on. He closed his eyes, breathed in, out. Tried to forget.
‘Roy? Is that you?’
A short, fat silhouette came down the darkened hall towards him. Something in Roy Adderley’s heart sank. Trudi was here. On seeing him, she ran towards him, jewellery rattling cheaply against her flesh. She flung her arms round him, pulled him close to her.
Adderley’s first instinct was to push her away, and he put his hands on her, ready to do that. But he managed to stop himself. Unable to respond in any way, he just stood there, allowed her to hug him.
‘God, I’ve been so worried about you…’
Her voice all cranking and screeching. He flinched at the sound of it. Noting his unresponsiveness, she pushed her body closer in to his. He could smell her sweat mixed in with her perfume, feel her hot, wet skin pressed up against him.
What had he ever seen in her? Why was he even with her? This ugly whale of a woman, with her fake blonde hair, fake nails, fake tan, fake everything. Even faking her orgasms, probably, just so she could move in with him. Find somewhere stable to live. He knew her type. The Bible was full of them. Jezebel. He knew a better name for her.
Whore.
She pulled away from him, let her eyes rove all over his face. She looked concerned. Or scared. He couldn’t tell which.
‘What have they done to you? Oh Roy, you look terrible…’
Then she was hugging him again, stroking his face, and he felt like he wanted to throw up.
He’d had enough. He pulled himself away from her, walked into the living room, looked round.
‘Where’s Carly?’
‘Social workers came for her. They wanted to take her away. She’s at her grandma’s for now. They won’t let her come back here and they want to see you. Oh Roy, what are we going to do?’
Roy closed his eyes once more. Now this. No Carly. He opened his eyes, looked around. The room was different. Different things in it, different smells. Perfume. Sweat. Stale air. Trudi’s smells. Trudi’s things. A trashy magazine on the arm of the sofa. A coffee mug leaving a ring on the glass-topped table. An open packet of cigarettes, an empty Coke can acting as an ashtray.
He turned to her. ‘What have I said about smoking in the house?’
She stared at him, dumbstruck, like he had just said something that needed translating.
‘Mm? What have I said?’
She looked quickly at the offending cigarette packet, back to him. ‘I… Sorry, Roy, I was worried about you. I’ve only had a couple. Didn’t think you’d mind.’
Adderley felt anger rising within him once more. Like a huge red tidal wave, building and building, looking for a shore to crash down on.
‘Well, I do mind,’ he said, voice calm and controlled. ‘If I didn’t mind, I’d say you could smoke in here all the time, wouldn’t I?’ The last few words rising in volume, his control slipping.
She backed away from him, hurt and confusion on her face. ‘I’m sorry, Roy, I was worried about you…’
He looked at her once more. Properly looked at her. Short, fat, ugly. How could he ever have let her into his bed? Ever allowed her to tempt him into sex? That was what she had done. Tempted him away from his wife, who wasn’t perfect but he was working on her, training her. And then look what happened. And what did he have to show for it? Nothing. Just this painted whore.
‘They’re going to lock me up,’ he said, moving slowly towards her. ‘Put me on trial and lock me up again…’
‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ said Trudi, now with no idea what was going on but not liking it. Not knowing who this stranger was in front of her. She reached out to him once more. ‘Come on, come and sit down with me. I’ll —’
‘Get your filthy hands off me.’ The words hissed at her. ‘Whore.’
She just stayed where she was, too scared to move.
‘I was weak,’ he said. ‘I should have resisted. God told me to. And I didn’t listen. If I’d only listened to him, then none of this would have happened, would it?’
Moving towards her all the time.
He pointed a rigid finger at her. ‘You. Your fault. All of it.’
‘Me? Wh-what have I done? What have I ever done except be there for you, Roy?’
‘Shut up.’ He looked round, saw the Bible on the shelf. The one that Gemma had tried her best to tear up. God’s word was stronger than that. He took it down.
Trudi kept backing away, inching towards the dining table, talking all the while. ‘Remember when you used to come and confide in me, tell me that Gemma wasn’t being a good wife to you? Remember?’
‘Shut up…’
‘You did, Roy. You talked to me all the time about her. About what she was doing wrong. And you remember what I said, Roy? Do you? Course you do, you must do.’
‘Shut up…’
‘I said I wouldn’t be like that. I’d make you happy. That’s what I said. And I did, Roy, didn’t I? You told me I did…’
‘Shut up…’
He swung the Bible hard at the side of her head. The force of the blow spun he
r round. She landed face down on the dining table, hitting it with a thud, the impact breaking her nose, sending blood pooling.
She moaned, tried to get up.
Adderley hit her again. Then he dropped the Bible on the table beside her, picked her head up by the hair.
‘Whore,’ he said, smashing her face into the table once more. ‘Jezebel.’ And another smash. ‘This is all your fault, all yours…’
Smashing away, screaming at her all the time.
‘They’re going to put me away again… again…’
She died long before he stopped.
Adderley stared down at her lifeless, pulped body, and as the angry red wave broke and dissipated, leaving him suddenly exhausted, he finally realised what he had done.
49
Phil wasn’t going to answer the phone. Probably just a sales call. Or one of his colleagues asking how he was. Saying they were all behind him. That he didn’t deserve what had happened. Well, he did. He’d thought about it and had come to the conclusion that this was exactly what should have happened to him.
And then another thought: Marina.
He picked up the phone. ‘Yeah?’
‘Phil Brennan?’
The voice was familiar, but not too familiar. Heavy, Brummie. Words spoken through a lifetime of booze and fags.
‘Yes?’ Getting impatient now.
‘Hugh Ellison. Digbeth. DS Ellison.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Phil carried the phone over to the sofa that Esme had previously been sitting on. He had showered since she had left, forcing his body under the hot water, standing there until it ran cold. Then dressing in whatever was to hand. A Neil Young and Crazy Horse T-shirt, old jeans. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Just heard about what happened.’
‘Right.’ Should have let it ring, he thought.
‘I went in there, the incident room. Just to see if there was anything I could do. Help, you know.’
‘Right…’
Phil was becoming slightly confused now. Why was Ellison telling him this?
‘They weren’t very friendly, I must say.’
‘Well, DS Ellison, I don’t know what to say. I’m not in charge any more…’
‘They’ve got your missus back working for them.’
Phil’s stomach flipped. And again.
‘Right,’ he said, mouth suddenly dry. ‘I see.’
‘Just giving you the heads-up.’
Phil felt that ache, that yawning chasm opening up inside him once again. That sense of vast emptiness. The feeling that he wanted to be anywhere else but where he was at that precise point in time and space. That there was somewhere else – someone else – that would fill that void for him. He knew what it was. Work. Marina. And now to make everything worse, Marina had taken his place at work. It felt like an almost physical blow.
‘Why…’ He struggled to find his voice. ‘Why are telling me this?’
‘Like I said, just letting you know.’ Ellison sighed. ‘Sounds like the women have taken over on this one. That black lass, Oliver? She’s in charge, I hear.’
‘Imani’s the CIO?’ Phil was genuinely surprised. But pleased, too. She was going places. ‘Well, if it has to be someone…’
‘I’d have gone for your oppo, Sperring. But they don’t want a bloke. It’s political correctness gone mad, that’s what it is. There’ll be no place for the likes of you and me in this job soon. And they didn’t want me anywhere near it. They made that quite clear.’
Phil’s head was reeling. ‘But… I still don’t understand. What’s it got to do with you?’
‘My case first, wasn’t it? Taken away by the glory boys. Or girls, rather.’
The last thing Phil wanted to hear was some bitter old has-been copper whose career had stalled for whatever reason sounding off to him. Not today. Not when he felt like he did. ‘Well, thanks for the call.’
‘They’ve stopped looking at Adderley.’
‘What?’
‘New focus, and all that. Talking to the marriage guidance bloke. Looking at the refuge. Not what we would do.’
Phil wasn’t sure who he was talking about. That just made him realise, guiltily, how closely he had become fixated on Adderley. It was like he was hearing about a totally different investigation. ‘Right,’ he said.
‘That’s the way it’s going now,’ said Ellison.
Probably needed it, thought Phil. After the blind alley I led everyone down.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘nothing to do with me. And nothing to do with you. Not any more.’
‘Yeah, well. Just wanted to let you know about your missus.’
Phil hung up. He’d heard enough. Ellison’s call had left him angry.
And, he reluctantly admitted to himself, more alone, more bereft, than ever.
50
‘Can I come in this time?’
‘If you behave yourself. And be quiet.’
Imani and Patel had rolled up outside the address they had been given by Claire Lingard. West Bromwich Library. The building was old, late nineteenth century or early twentieth, all ornate red brick and curling stone. It looked like it had been built by philanthropists, belonging to a time when reading was considered a valued part of social improvement. It was shabby-looking, soot-blackened, but still stood out in a street of charity shops, kebab houses and closed-up store fronts.
Patel looked at her, smiled. ‘This is going to be a bust, you know. Tenner says she never got the call.’
‘You and your bets,’ said Imani, returning the smile. ‘Of course it is. Or at least we think so. But here’s one for you. How’s he doing this?’
‘Well,’ said Patel, stretching back in his seat, puffing out his chest, ‘I do know about electronics and stuff.’
‘You’re a bloke. Of course you do.’
He smiled, puzzled. ‘I never know whether you’re bigging me up or putting me down.’
‘And that’s just the way it should be. Go on.’
‘Well, I had a mate who used to work on details like that. Said it was really easy to hack a phone. Divert calls, listen in. All of that. Had another mate who used to be a journalist. Started off on a national tabloid. A Sunday one. Said one of the first things he was shown was how to hack a phone. Common practice.’
‘We know that.’
‘So maybe this guy could be a journalist.’
Imani shrugged. ‘Keeping an open mind.’ She took the keys from the ignition. ‘Come on.’
They entered the library, walked up to the desk, showed their warrant cards, introduced themselves. ‘We’re looking for Sophie Shah. Can you tell us where we can find her, please?’
The woman behind the counter looked nervous.
‘It’s nothing serious,’ said Patel, with what he hoped was his most charming, winning smile. ‘We just need to talk to her about something.’
That seemed to reassure the woman slightly. ‘I’ll go and see if I can find her.’ She went off to do so.
Imani and Patel looked around. The building was even more impressive from the inside, all porcelain tiling and curved arches, high ornate ceilings, large double doors of glass and wood. The shelves were more modern; the space dwarfed them, made them seem slightly out of place.
‘Should have shelves going to the ceiling,’ said Imani. ‘That’s what this place needs. Ladders against them for the librarians to scoot along on.’
Patel nodded, not really interested.
A woman walked towards them. Small, neat, either light-skinned Asian or dark-skinned Caucasian. Her face was blank, unreadable. ‘I’m Sophie Shah. Claire Lingard said you’d be coming. Didn’t expect you this quickly.’
She led them to the staff room, depressingly like every other staff room, and sat down on a sofa that might have been on its last legs but wasn’t giving up without a fight. She perched on the edge, palms together, knees together. She didn’t offer them any refreshment.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘You work as
a volunteer for Safe Haven, is that correct?’
She nodded. ‘When I can.’
‘And you sometimes pick up women who need to be taken there?’
Another curt nod. ‘I do.’
Imani nodded herself. Sophie Shah had a hard carapace, she thought. She must have been through something to make her that way. And the fact that she volunteered at the refuge was a massive clue as to what that might have been.
‘Were you working on Tuesday night this week?’
‘I was on call.’
‘And did you receive a call from the refuge?’ Patel this time.
She looked at him, gave her answer. ‘No.’
‘Nothing at all?’ he asked.
‘I said no.’ Slight tetchiness in her voice.
Patel continued. ‘It’s just that someone called the refuge that night, needing to go there urgently. And you didn’t get the call?’
‘No.’ Irritation threatening to spill over into anger now.
Patel went on. ‘Would they have called anyone else?’
‘No, I was on call that night. And I didn’t hear from them.’
Patel sat back, sighed. Sophie Shah caught the movement. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be any more help.’ She sounded anything but.
‘Okay then,’ said Imani. ‘If you think of anything else, please let us know.’
They stood up. Sophie Shah did likewise.
‘We can see ourselves out,’ said Imani, heading towards the door.
In the corridor, Patel turned to her, shook his head. ‘Bit of a man-hater, that one,’ he said.
‘Detective Patel.’
They turned. Sophie Shah was standing in the hallway behind them. Neither of them had heard her leave the room.
‘I know it’s none of my business what you think of me, but yes. When men treat me the way they have in the past, I do hate them.’
Patel frowned. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I understand that. But not all men…’
She laughed. ‘Not all men. There’s a hashtag on Twitter, Detective Patel. You know what that is?’
‘What, Twitter? Yeah, course.’
‘Right. Well, I know this isn’t a scientific test, but there you go. Not All Men, it’s called. It’s where men – and women – report non-sexist activity. Fine. Good. There’s also one called Everyday Sexism, where women report their daily harassment. By men who don’t even realise how horrible they’re being most of the time. Guess which one is used the most?’
