by Sarah Hilary
From the walkway, Noah could see the kids congregated below, their shadows stretching as the day shrank to darkness. Four miles away, Westminster throbbed with callous heat and light. The derelict block was floodlit, possibly as a precaution against trespassing. Had Lisa watched Ollie in a group like the one below? Close enough to keep an eye on him if she’d felt the need to do that. Hard to imagine how she couldn’t, after what’d happened eleven years ago.
Carole had been attacked not far from here. Walking home alone, a route she took when work kept her late. Like Lisa, she worked shifts, minimum wage, unpredictable hours. Rawling was in hospital drinking through a straw when Carole was attacked. If Ollie and one of his friends were responsible for these assaults then they’d decided not to start with the woman who’d taught Ollie about violence, given him a fixation with punishment and captivity. Cupboards, car boots, cages.
Marnie knocked on the blue door. When there was no answer, she stripped off her glove and knocked again, louder this time. No sound from inside the flat, her knuckles raising an echo that said it was empty. Then the grating of a key in a lock from the flat next door.
An elderly Sikh in grey flannels and an Aran jumper nodded a welcome. ‘She’s not home. You’re the police?’ Looking at Noah then Marnie, nodding at their badges. ‘It’s good you’ve come. I’m concerned about her, and the boy.’ He held his door wide, inviting them inside.
They followed, into the living room that adjoined Lisa’s hallway. A bright little box of a room, smelling of roses and radiators.
‘You will want my name. Himmat Singh. Sit, please.’ He settled in a high-backed armchair facing the sofa, red slippers on his feet. ‘I last saw Lisa three days ago. The boy? A fortnight or more. Lisa works long hours, often all night. It isn’t unusual for two days to go by when I do not see her, but three?’ He shook his head. His face was long and lined, his eyes bright and brown. ‘Now I am worried. She is very quiet, like a mouse, a good neighbour. But even when I do not see her, I hear her. These flats . . . You hear everything.’ He spoke softly, in a voice that wouldn’t have sounded out of place on Radio 4; received pronunciation, a voice from another generation.
At his elbow, a low table held a lamp and a paperback book. Lord of the Flies. A silk tapestry hung on a slim brass pole, its picture of a Sikh priest reading the Granth. One wall was crowded with photos of Himmat and his family. As a young man in uniform about to go to war; with children and grandchildren on his knee. An orange tufted rug warmed the floor. All the furniture was old, but had the patina of pieces well chosen and loved. Noah hadn’t expected to feel so comfortable anywhere on the Jonas estate, but Mr Singh had succeeded in shutting out every last trace of the bitter chill, transforming this municipal box into a real home.
‘Three days she hasn’t been here. I wonder, is she looking for the boy? He has been gone two weeks or more.’ He cupped the side of his face with one hand. ‘I am not a nosy neighbour, just concerned. The boy and I were friends once. I miss him. And I worry, for her.’
‘Do you have a key?’ Marnie asked.
‘Yes.’ He touched his hand to his trouser pocket. ‘I haven’t used it. I heard her go out three nights ago. She hasn’t come home. The boy is too loud to be home without me knowing it.’ He smiled, but his eyes were sad. ‘Clumsy, and loud. He never used to be that way. He would sit where you are sitting and ask for stories of the war, the desert where I fought. He was a quiet boy. They all grow up clumsy for a time. But Oliver has stayed that way. And angry now, also.’
‘Why is he angry,’ Noah asked, ‘do you know?’
‘At that age, living here? Who needs a reason?’ But he shook his head, as if he didn’t understand Ollie’s anger. Lisa hadn’t told him, about Carole and the cage.
‘We heard he’s friends with some of the younger boys. Have you seen them recently?’
‘Yes, when I am shopping. I try not to be in the shops when they are out of school.’ Touching the tips of his fingers to the white turban he wore. ‘On Monday, I see them smoking.’ He mimed vaping. ‘The little silver pipes.’
‘But Ollie wasn’t with them?’
‘Not in a long while. I would see him on a Friday, by the swings. Not so long ago I would get a nod. But even that has become too much trouble. He has his new friends, new rules . . .’ His eyes moved to the door and lit with a smile. ‘Ah! Now she comes. Say hello to our visitors.’
A cat walked across to where Himmat was sitting, offering her chin to be rubbed. Long-haired, about seven years old, her face white on one side and tabby on the other. ‘This is Bess. She isn’t as snooty as she seems, just a little wary of strangers.’
‘Ollie’s new friends,’ Noah said. ‘New rules. Do you mean a gang?’
Himmat nodded. ‘So many of them have gone that way. Last summer, two stabbings.’ Putting his fingers in a prayer shape. The cat leaned into him, making a low chirping noise. ‘That is what I fear for the boy. His mother fears it too.’
‘Have you talked with her about Ollie?’
‘Often, but not lately. She is busy with work, trying to pay bills. She lost one of her jobs, and there are fines from the school because of truancy; always something to be paid. She works nights as well as days. I cook for her and Oliver, it’s all I can do. She lets me make meals for the freezer. She’s proud, won’t ask for help, prefers to give it. She wants always to do something in return, so I invent little jobs. She mended a shelf in my bathroom that needed a ladder. Even when the boy and I were friends, she did not like to take advantage. But she knew he was safe here.’
He leaned forward a little, his eyes bright with concern. ‘You will hear bad things about him, if you ask questions around here. An angry boy, a violent boy. Angry at the whole world. But this is only recently. Less than a year ago he would sit where you are sitting, asking me questions.’ He knuckled the cat’s head. ‘Bess liked him, and she chooses her allies very carefully. He is a sweet boy, under all the showing off. They must all show off now. Oliver, he carries the weight of the world with him, I have seen it. But a good boy, underneath it all. Remember that. Too few of them will ask questions but he was curious, always after answers. Of course he grew bored as he grew up. All stories are boring, at that age.’ He smoothed a hand to his cheek. ‘Even ones about war.’
‘I think we should borrow your key.’ Marnie stood up. ‘And take a look next door.’
The cat turned its head, staring her up and down.
‘You will tell me?’ Himmat dug the key from his trouser pocket and held it out. ‘When you find her and the boy, you will tell me?’
Bess moved from Himmat’s feet to Marnie’s, purring up at her.
She took the key and crouched to touch the cat’s head, as if for luck. ‘Yes.’
Lisa’s flat was the same size as Himmat’s but felt bigger because it was empty. Not just of people, of things, all the little touches that make a house a home. Leaves and litter had blown in from the walkway and been left to straggle the length of the hall. A row of pegs hung with coats, several pairs of shoes kicked off just inside the door; women’s shoes, except for one oversized pair of muddied trainers. The sitting room had a black leather sofa, scuffed all over, and a TV on a plastic stand. Damage to the wall showed where a much larger TV had once been bracketed. Shoved down behind the sofa was a duvet and a pillow. Ollie’s bed, when he was home? DVDs in a metal rack in one corner. Carpet stained by what looked like spilled cups of coffee, or cans. A grey T-shirt on the radiator, its hem as stiff as cardboard. Unlike next door, the cold had been allowed to creep inside the Tomlinsons’ flat. The curtains, pretending to be velvet, were drawn across the window but light fell through in wet-looking patches.
Noah followed Marnie to the kitchen which smelt of un-emptied bins and long-ago-burnt toast. The kettle stood with its lid propped open. Half-empty jars of jam, Marmite, peanut butter. Boxes of kids’ cereal, frosted flakes, chocolate coatings. A loaf of bread was going green by the side of the toaster. The pedal bin wa
s overflowing. At its side, a black plastic liner lumpy with rubbish, a neat knot tied in its neck. Noah opened the fridge, recoiling from the stink of rancid milk. He put his hand inside. Like Marnie, he was wearing crime scene gloves. ‘Fridge’s dead. Try the lights?’
She flicked the switch by the door. Nothing happened.
‘The electricity’s been cut off.’ Noah shut the fridge. ‘One bill too many?’
Zoe had said Ollie’s mum kept the fridge full.
Lisa was a coper, a tiger mum.
Where was she?
In the room at the back of the flat: a double bed and a cheap metal clothes rail.
Marnie crouched to look under the bed before straightening.
‘Himmat said three days.’ Noah watched her checking the clothes on the rail. ‘It feels longer since anyone was in here.’
‘Could be explained by the shift working. Maybe.’
They moved to the bathroom where the shower unit was scaly and the toilet lid was missing, a scum of grey on the surface of the water. A plastic bucket filled with half-empty bottles of shampoo and shower gel stood inside the unit. Water was coming from the shower head in a steady trickle, splashing up from the dimpled plastic floor. A pair of toothbrushes at the side of the sink, their bristles splayed with use. The sink was stained with paste and traces of dried blood, the kind you might spit out if you had bleeding gums.
‘Where are they?’ Noah looked at the blood, feeling a snag of fear. ‘You don’t think—’
‘We need to call a team in here,’ Marnie said. ‘Something’s not right.’
She turned back to the kitchen where she removed her coat, hanging it on the door. Removed her suit jacket too, rolling up the sleeves of her jumper and shirt as she walked to where the pedal bin was leaking its sour smell of fish and rotting fruit. She put it to one side, concentrating on the bag of rubbish placed next to the bin, its neck knotted tight.
‘How did Carole end up living half an hour from here?’ She worked at the knot patiently, not tearing the bag. ‘Someone should have joined the dots between her and Ollie. She should never have been allowed to settle so close.’
‘You’re thinking he saw her, on the street? Recognised her—?’
‘I’m thinking out loud.’ She untied the final knot in the bin liner. ‘Ollie was four years old when he last saw her. She’s changed. New hair colour, new address . . .’
She opened the neck of the bag.
Noah had expected an extra dose of olfactory overload, but the contents didn’t smell.
‘What’s in there?’ He crossed to Marnie’s side.
She held the bag’s neck wide so that he could see what she was looking at.
Torn newspapers. Some with clippings cut out. Magazines, of the kind Ron had suspected the Strattons of dumping – porn, but men not women.
Something heavy was weighting the bottom of the bag, making it knock against the side of the pedal bin as Marnie lifted the liner.
She reached in. Moved the magazines and papers to one side.
Ticking, at the very bottom of the bag.
The heavy weight was a baseball bat.
Ticking against it—
A disposable lighter.
24
Finn knew this face. He knew it. Not Brady— A big nose like Dad’s. Like Finn’s would be one day.
Big nose and purple eyes. Smoker’s breath, yellow. Not Brady. Brady was wine and fat red pasta. Grapes tossed up into his open mouth. Bad, bad teeth.
This face was cigarettes, and threats.
A hoodie, like Finn’s.
He wasn’t that much older than Finn.
Always hanging around Jonas House.
Living there, like the Crasmere Boys.
Oh, he was—
Ollie.
The face belonged to Ollie.
That was when Finn started screaming.
25
It was late and she was bone-tired, but Marnie wasn’t ready to go home. With Noah, she’d filed the paperwork from Lisa and Ollie’s flat, meticulously, because while the task lasted she wasn’t required to think about what came next.
After dropping Noah at his place, she drove a short distance and parked up. Locking the car and standing by its side, defeated for a moment by the thought of how quickly its locks would freeze. Then she turned and walked away. Wanting to move, if only to keep warm. The cold crowded in, chilling her face and the slim margin between her sleeves and gloves. Was this punishment? Six years ago, she’d slept on the station floor, believing she deserved the ache in her bones. ‘Go back to your cell,’ Stephen had said. As if she was as much a prisoner as he was.
Ed’s was her safe place. Warm, quiet, a world of comfort in its cluttered rooms. Why then was she denying herself what she needed so badly?
‘Do you?’ a voice niggled in her head. ‘Is that really what you need?’
She drew a breath of freezing air – knives in her lungs – turning towards the river.
Walking is the repeated act of saving yourself from falling. Where had she read that? In one of the books Lexie, her therapist, gifted to her six years ago. Moving forward was momentum, you just had to keep doing it. She could smell the river suspended ahead, London on all sides pulsing with sound, car horns and tyres. Music coming from the west, voices from the east. It was quiet at Ed’s. No, more than that. It was silent. Ed hated talking about Stephen. Hated Stephen—
Not only for what he’d done six years ago. For what he was still doing. Baiting Marnie, bringing her back to him, again and again, making her stick her hand in that fire of guilt and loss.
‘They’d never have fostered me if it wasn’t for you.’
Nothing Stephen had said was any worse than the voices inside her own head.
But hearing him say them—
‘They would be alive right now if you weren’t such a fuck-up as a daughter. And as a detective.’
Hearing him say the words was much worse. She could never repeat them to Ed.
‘You had six years to see what was under your nose. I was in that house for six years. But maybe you saw, and you just didn’t give a shit. You’d got away and that’s all that mattered.’
She needed to let it go, move on. Not that Ed would ever use platitudes like that, but she had to accept she’d never have the answers she wanted. Stephen wasn’t a child any longer. She wanted to talk to Ed about how it felt to look into Stephen’s eyes and see fear for the first time. And how it felt to know that he was right when he said she hadn’t asked enough questions, about him. Back when it mattered, when it might have made a difference. Was that why he hated her so much? Because she should’ve dug at the truth of what’d happened to him? As a detective, as a daughter. It hurt, to go digging. When Harry Kennedy made her go inside that house and later, when he brought the shoebox to her office, she’d been furious with him. But he was just doing his job, the way she’d failed to do hers.
‘Never stop asking questions,’ Welland had told her on their first day together. ‘A detective who doesn’t ask questions is less use than a waterproof teabag.’
Stephen was scared. Barely twenty years old in an adult prison with an appalling reputation for brutality. He was the victim now, not her. He’d spit out his own tongue before asking for her help, as a sister or a detective. But he was vulnerable, in there. Could she ignore that? Could she explain to Ed why this wasn’t about shoving her hand back into Stephen’s fire? This tangled mess of regret and guilt and this – need for redemption, for the pair of them. She couldn’t just let it go. Could she?
‘It’s too late,’ the voice niggled. ‘You saw him. It’s too late.’
However it got there, the violence was inside Stephen. And that meant he shouldn’t be let out of prison, not now, probably not ever.
Street lights yellowed the pavement’s frost, setting its glaze to the black patches which would conspire against the morning’s commuters. Right around her, London wrapped its soundtrack. She didn’t want silence; perhaps
she never would. This wasn’t punishment, it was – change. A shift in her, like ice breaking free from a rock to move upstream.
She’d reached the Thames. It shifted delicately, persistently. Centuries ago it’d frozen solid in winters much worse than this. Solid enough for fires, and to walk from one side to the other.
Stripping off a glove, she touched the iron bar which ran along the wall separating the embankment from the water. The iron was a different kind of cold to the air. Blunter, softer. She wrapped her fingers around it, letting the bar burn into the palm of her hand. There are degrees of pain, just like degrees of cold. It was easy to forget that.
A barge sounded its horn, the noise rippling out across the water in rings. Hot breath rose from its funnel, from the funnel of every boat down there. Her breath was clinging to her lips like smoke. For a second, she ached for a cigarette, her skin clenched with nostalgia for the wild girl who’d grabbed at life with both hands, punching and shaking to try and make sense of it—
Car horns barked behind her.
She should go home. Even if she couldn’t talk to Ed, she could sleep. There was work to do tomorrow. There was always work to do.
Her hand gripped at the bar a moment longer before she pulled away, seeing the heated imprint of her palm shrink slowly as the cold took back custody of the iron.
It was nearly 9 p.m. by the time she reached Ed’s place. She was forced to park a street away; a short walk but she felt every step of it, thinking of Carole and Kyle and the contents of the bin liner found at Ollie’s flat.
