by Tania Carver
‘I know this is difficult for you, Donna, but if you could cooperate with me, it would be a great help.’
Donna said nothing.
‘Where was Faith last night, Donna?’
Rose watched the battle being fought on Donna’s face. Talk or not talk. Go against years of conditioning, of not helping the police, in order to help her friend. She didn’t let it show, but she quite enjoyed seeing it.
‘Please, Donna. I know you haven’t had good experiences with the police in the past—’
‘You know that, do you?’
‘Yes. I know that. I’ve read your record. And I’ve read Faith’s too. But this isn’t about that. This is about finding out what she was doing in Wakes Colne last night.’
Silence from Donna. Rose waited.
‘Tell me,’ Donna said eventually, her voice weary. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘She was killed early this morning. She ran out of a clump of trees on to the road. By the viaduct. She was hit by a car. She died almost instantly.’ She thought it best not to mention the second car.
Donna’s eyes glazed over. She blinked. Hard. Her lower lip trembled. Her breathing changed.
Here it comes, thought Rose.
But it didn’t. Donna took control of herself, looked up. Shields down, composure regained. Still blinking, but clearly willing the tears not to fall.
A tiny part of Rose admired her for it.
‘What was she running from?’ Donna’s next words.
Rose’s grudging admiration for the woman increased slightly. Whatever else she was – and a glance round the living room showed that – she was bright.
‘Well that’s what I hoped you might be able to help me with.’
Donna said nothing, retreated into silence.
Rose leaned forward, nearly toppled off the edge of the sofa. Hid her irritation. ‘Come on, Donna. Just tell me. Was she out working? Seeing punters? Scoring? What?’
At the mention of scoring, Donna gave Rose a fierce deathray stare. ‘She wasn’t an addict.’ Her voice rising, a growl at the edges.
Course she wasn’t, darling, thought Rose. ‘I’m not saying she was, Donna. I’m just asking you where she went last night.’
‘She was getting help, that’s what she was doin’. She wasn’t a junkie.’
‘Getting help? Last night?’
Donna paused. ‘No. Not last night. She was goin’ to get help. St Quinlan’s Trust. Down there. Had a place booked.’
Rose felt a tiny victory inside. She had caught Donna in a lie. She tried not to rub it in. ‘So she did have a problem with drugs?’
‘No.’ Another pause from Donna. ‘She has a kid. She was usin’. Just a bit, on an’ off. Wanted to get clean, properly clean, for him.’
Rose nodded. ‘Right. And where is this child now?’
Donna nodded towards the stairs.
Silence fell once more.
‘So,’ said Rose. ‘Last night. Where was Faith? Not at St Quinlan’s, I take it?’
Donna shook her head. ‘She went out. One last time, she said. I told her not to bother. But no. One last time. Just to make a bit. Tide her over. Till she got clean an’ could get a job.’ Donna’s head dropped, her shoulders slumped. ‘One last time … ’
Rose waited while Donna composed herself. She felt nothing positive for the woman before her. She didn’t see her as someone who had lost a friend. She felt no sympathy. Rose had a strict definition of right and wrong. If a woman sold her body – for whatever reason – that was disgusting. If she willingly offered herself up to the kind of man who did what he did with her, then she had no one to blame but herself for what happened. And Rose felt nothing for that woman but anger.
Then she thought of her ex-lover, DCI Ben Fenwick. She hadn’t found him particularly attractive, but she’d still slept with him. Willingly offered herself up to him. But that was different, she told herself. She had something to gain from that.
She shook the thought from her head. It only made her feel more angry.
Donna was getting a grip on herself. It took longer this time, was more of an effort. But she managed it. Thinking she might not make such a good recovery next time, Rose hurried her questioning along.
‘So do you have any idea who she could have seen last night?’
Donna shook her head.
‘Did she have regulars? Did she say anything about seeing one of them?’
‘No. Nothin’ like that. Just said she was goin’ out. Makin’ a bit of money.’
‘And what did you do last night?’
Donna sat immediately upright. ‘None of your fuckin’ business.’
I’ll bet, thought Rose. ‘What about boyfriends? Pimps? Anyone like that?’
Something passed across Donna’s eyes. Too quick for Rose to read it. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘There was an ex. Used to turn her out sometimes. Make her go out to work. He was the one got her on the pipe, know what I mean?’
Rose felt that familiar burn inside. She was on to something. ‘Got a name?’
‘Daryl. Daryl Kent.’
‘And where can I find him?’
‘What, now? The Shakespeare. He’s always there. Playin’ pool.’
‘Right.’ She stood up. Glad to have a focus for her anger. ‘I’m sorry, Donna. Did Faith have any family?’
Donna shook her head, kept her eyes averted. ‘She had me. I’m all she’s got. An’ Ben.’ Voice small, cracked.
‘Family Liaison’ll be in touch soon.’
Donna shrugged: whatever.
‘I’m … sorry.’ The word dredged reluctantly from her.
Donna said nothing. Crossed to the door, opened it.
Rose left.
Out on the street, she gulped in what passed for clean air off Barrack Street then set off walking to meet Daryl Kent. The big car was still parked opposite. She ignored it.
Just glad to get away from the place.
22
The man behind the desk was nervous, Mickey thought. But he doubted it was because the police were there to see him. More to do with his firm losing money.
‘Look,’ Colin Byers said, sitting back, ‘it’s awful and all that, but I don’t see what I can do for you. I mean, we were just contracted for the demolition.’
‘But you can tell us who contracted you.’
Mickey Philips sat opposite the desk. George Byers Demolition was the first place on his list. It was a one-storey brick building on Magdalen Street in New Town. Low and open-plan, it sat between a car dealership and a fireplace and door reclaimer. It had a cracked concrete forecourt with lorries and vans on it, and the building itself was just like Mickey had expected. Office-surplus furniture, tabloids lying round, a calendar with a semi-naked girl on it. No finesse. Stripped to the bones.
Colin Byers looked like the product of his environment. The son of the owner of the company, as he had explained, and now running it since his father’s retirement, he was a heavy-set middle-aged man, thinning on top, wearing metalframed glasses and a maroon polo shirt with the company logo on it.
He sighed, scratched his ear. ‘Look, Detective Sergeant, all I can give you is the name of the buildin’ firm. We’re subcontractors. You’d be better off contactin’ the Land Registry.’
‘I have,’ said Mickey, strictly speaking telling a lie. He hadn’t contacted them; Milhouse had done it for him. ‘All they could tell me was that the property is registered to a holding company in London. We’re looking into that now. In the meantime, Mr Byers, I’d just like a little help. I appreciate you’ve got your job to do, but so do I. The sooner you talk to me, the sooner I’ll be off.’
‘Yeah. And I’m out of pocket now because of this.’ Byers sighed. Put his hands behind his head, smoothed down what remained of his hair. Came to a decision. ‘I know this one, as it happens. Took it myself. Lyalls. The builders. Wanted a couple of semi-derelict properties dismantled down East Hill. Area cleared for a new housin’ development. Easy job, really. Might
be a bit of asbestos removal, uprooting some trees, landscapin’, nothing worse than that. And now this.’
Mickey made a note of the building company’s name.
‘So now we can’t work there, can we?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘How long you gonna be, then?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mickey. The area’s going to be thoroughly searched. Could be days. Could be weeks.’
The expression on Byers’ face told Mickey what he thought of that.
‘Thanks for your time,’ Mickey said, and let himself out.
Outside he checked his pad, looking for directions. The day had turned colder, chilly autumn notes carried on the wind.
He turned right, going back to where he had parked the car. Magdalen Street was the main stretch of road linking New Town to the town centre. He walked past tattooists, Afro-Caribbean hair stylists and corner shops. Most of the people on the street paid him no mind, although a few gave him sharp, furtive looks then dodged out of his way. He recognised a few faces. Knew he had dealt with them on a professional basis.
He walked to where Magdalen Street turned into Barrack Street. The area became more run-down, the buildings less well-kept, the shops dirtier. He was standing at the lights, about to cross and head down Brook Street to find his car, when he spotted someone he knew.
Rose Martin, walking along the street opposite.
His first instinct was to turn round, walk as far away from her as possible. He hadn’t known her long, but the impression she had made on him wasn’t a good one. However, he couldn’t. Because she was looking straight at him. He would have to talk to her.
She crossed the road, approached him. Smiled.
‘Hello, Mickey. Long time no see.’
‘Didn’t know you lived round here, Rose.’
She gave a small, stifled laugh. ‘Me? Live round here? You’re joking, aren’t you? No. I’m working.’
‘Oh good,’ he said, relieved that she was no longer with the police. ‘What as?’
She frowned, gave him a quizzical look. ‘As a police officer. What else would I be doing?’
Mickey was lost for words. He knew what she had gone through, how she had been put on long-term sick. Everyone knew it. And most people never expected her to return.
‘That surprised you, didn’t it?’
‘Well, yeah … What happened?’
‘Glass brought me back.’
‘You’re not working on … ’
A dark cloud passed over her features. ‘No. Oh God, no. No, it’s a road accident. Well, we think it’s an accident. Dead woman.’ She gestured back the way she had come. ‘Lived down there. Prossie.’
‘Right.’
They stood there looking at each other. Nothing more to say.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d better get on. Nice to see you, Mickey. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other soon.’
God, he hoped not. ‘Yeah. Sure, Rose.’
She was turning to go, stopped. ‘Oh, and it’s Detective Inspector now. I’ve been promoted. Bye.’
She smiled, turned and walked away.
Mickey was left standing there, absorbing that last piece of information. The pedestrian crossing sounded. He just stared at it, unmoving.
‘Detective Inspector … Jesus Christ … ’
23
‘So how is he?’
Marina walked up to the tape at the bottom of East Hill, phone clamped to her ear. She heard Anni’s voice.
‘Asleep again. Didn’t stay awake much after you went. He’s exhausted.’
‘Did he say anything more?’
‘Nothing. I’m still here, but if he’s not moving, I might leave a uniform to look after him, or get someone from, I don’t know, Family Liaison? I’m at a bit of a loss.’
‘He needs a psychologist.’
‘Yeah, well he had one. Very briefly. But she had to go.’
Marina smiled. ‘We’ll talk later.’
She pocketed the phone, held up her ID, ducked under the tape.
She felt the eyes of the crowd on the bridge watching her as she did so. Knew that media crews would be in there too. They would all be wondering who she was, what she was doing there. She felt like a celeb on a red carpet. It gave her quite a thrill. Probably more than she would have liked in light of what she was there for.
Of course the media crews might know who she was, she thought. A couple of high-profile cases would do that.
She looked round, scanning the area for Phil. Didn’t see him. There was an air of quiet urgency about the place. The white tent was up and blue-suited CSIs were going about their work with a calm, concentrated commitment. Uniforms were there too. She spotted Adrian Wren, waved at him, moved over to ask where Phil was. Before she could do so, another figure detached himself from a conversation with two uniforms and turned to her.
‘Marina. Good to see you.’ Brian Glass was smiling, holding out his arms as if welcoming her to his party. He looked round, then back to her. ‘I’m afraid Phil’s busy at the moment. Was it him you were looking for?’
When Glass had first arrived at Southway, Marina had done her best to like him. But he hadn’t made it easy. He was the kind of copper she hated working with. The kind that was all business. There was a strand of officer, she had reasoned, and unfortunately it was a dominant one in the force, that had a little more of their personality surgically removed with each higher rank they made. And Glass was no exception. There was no spark, no inner life to the man that she could detect. She had told Phil that Glass reminded her of a supporting CTU character in an episode of 24; there to wear a suit and give orders but have no discernible characteristics beyond that.
Still, he had made encouraging noises about her work and the job of the psychologist in the police force in general. At least to her face. In times of budget cuts, plenty of higher-ups thought a psychologist was not a necessity but a luxury. That anything she offered could be outsourced, bought in when needed at a fraction of the cost. Irrespective of the results she achieved, the standard of the work she did. So she was polite to him, but wary. It seemed like a healthy way to proceed.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I was looking for Phil.’
‘Can I pass on a message?’
He was making her feel like she was being troublesome, the interfering wife bringing her husband’s forgotten packed lunch to work for him. Not, she thought, because he was belittling her on purpose, but just because he was innately sexist that way.
‘I’ll wait,’ she said. ‘He wants me to look at the crime scene with him. See if I can help him with leads.’
‘Good, good. Fine. All offers of help gratefully received.’ He brought his brows together in a thoughtful manner. ‘What’s happening with the boy? The one from the cellar?’
‘Anni’s with him now. He came round. I talked to him but didn’t get much. He kept asking for his mother.’
‘His mother?’
She nodded. ‘As far as I could tell. But wherever he’s been, he’s been there a while. He can barely speak. Hardly communicate. There’s a lot of damage there. A hell of a lot. It’s going to be a while before we can get anything coherent from him.’
He nodded. ‘Right. Good. Good work, Marina.’
She said nothing.
‘Keep at it.’ A smile. Marina imagined he thought it was the kind Churchill must have given to rally the troops.
‘I will,’ she said. He made to walk away. She stopped him. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m glad I caught you. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’
He looked at her quizzically. Waited.
‘Rose Martin.’
His attitude changed, his voice guarded. ‘What about her?’
‘You’ve returned her to work. I don’t think she’s ready.’
He straightened up. Expression closed. ‘In your opinion.’
‘In my professional opinion as her psychologist, yes. She’s still exhibiting signs of stress, of trauma
. She’s not emotionally ready to handle the demands of her job. At least not back on the front line.’
‘Well, thank you for your comments, Marina,’ he said, nodding. ‘You know I value your input greatly. I’m sure you’ll put them all in your report. I’ll read them then.’
Marina felt her face redden, her hands shake. She controlled her anger, kept talking. ‘With all due respect, Brian, you’ve put her back on front-line duty and I hear you’ve promoted her too.’
He held his hands up as if in surrender. ‘That wasn’t my doing, I’m afraid. The ball was in motion before I got here.’ He looked at her, and she detected sincerity in his gaze. Or a good facsimile of it. His voice dropped. ‘Look, Marina. Sometimes I have to make decisions that are unpopular, or that people who don’t have full access to the facts may find … contentious. Rose Martin is a fine officer. In my opinion’ – he highlighted the words, as if he had spoken in italics – ‘she is fit to return to work. The case she is working is fairly routine. I’m sure she’ll be fine. And with budget cuts, we need all the bodies we can get.’
He smiled, as if that was the final word.
‘Fine. Well I just wanted you to know that I have officially voiced concerns, that’s all.’
‘Noted.’ He smiled. ‘That’s what we pay you for.’
Any further conversation was abruptly halted. Phil Brennan was walking towards them.
‘Ah,’ said Glass. ‘Here he is. I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.’ He walked away.
‘Tit,’ Marina said. Then felt guilty. He wasn’t that bad. There had been worse DCIs.
Forgetting Glass, she turned, smiling, to face Phil. Her heart still rose when she saw him. Even here, even like this. Or perhaps even more so. After all, they had met during a case, so it seemed like a natural habitat to them. Working together. Just like old times. It felt right.
And sometimes she just couldn’t believe her luck that she had him.
