Someone Else's Skin: (DI Marnie Rome)

by Hilary, Sarah

  ‘You’d do that for her?’ he asked. ‘Leave the refuge?’

  Simone raised her chin at him. The defiance transformed her, gave rosy hearts to her mahogany cheeks. At some point, her nose had been broken, but she was still beautiful. ‘She needs me.’ She looked him over. ‘You have someone, don’t you, who would go back for you?’ She nodded at the window, as if she was pointing out a wild animal enclosure, a place no sane person would stray. ‘Back out there. You have someone.’

  Yes, he had someone.

  ‘DI Rome will be back soon. From the hospital. I’ll ask her if you can visit Hope.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Simone nodded. ‘She had to do it.’ Her big eyes came back to his face. ‘There wasn’t any choice.’

  ‘How did she get the knife?’ He spoke as quietly as he could, knowing the ambulance crew had said it was too soon to start asking questions about the stabbing. ‘Simone? How did she get the knife?’

  ‘It was a test, to see if she dared . . .’ Simone’s voice dropped to a hot whisper. She rubbed her hands at her forearms, hidden by the sleeves of her sweatshirt. ‘She told me things he’d done . . . Things you wouldn’t want to believe. He must have thought he had broken her. That she wouldn’t dare . . . He didn’t think she’d dare . . . He thought he’d broken her in a thousand pieces, but sometimes . . . when you are broken . . .’

  She drew her hands from her sleeves, knitting her fingers into a fist. ‘You mend hard.’

  13

  The rain had stopped, street lights sitting in flooded puddles in the road. It was dark enough now to remove the cap – I ♥ London – as long as he kept low in the car seat.

  He’d thought when it got dark that it’d be easy to see what was going on inside the refuge, but they’d pinned some thick stuff over the windows and all he could make out were shadows moving in the rooms at the front.

  He couldn’t stay much longer, not today. Things to do and he’d promised he wouldn’t be late. This was his life now: always making promises, most of them to other people, but some to himself. Like this one, here and now.

  Waiting for his chance, with her.

  He chewed at his left index finger until he tasted blood. In the mean spill of light from the street, the hand was ugly, clawed like an old man’s arthritic paw. He balled it to a fist, pictured smashing it into her . . .

  It calmed him down.

  The anger was like a new baby; sometimes you had to let it bawl itself out. When he was calmer, he put the finger back in his mouth and sucked at the blood.

  He’d missed something, when he was avoiding the police cars, waiting for the sirens to shut up. After the ambulance took the big bloke away. It flicked across his mind: Who was that? What happened to him? But he didn’t really care. It didn’t matter.

  What mattered was the unmarked Mondeo.

  When he’d driven back round to the front of the refuge, that was when he saw . . .

  The Mondeo had moved. It was parked in a different spot, facing the other way. Same car; he’d checked the registration.

  What if they got to her before you could?

  While he was skulking around the corner, the Mondeo had gone and come back. What if he’d missed her, if the police got to her first? Just for a second, relief had squirmed in the pit of his belly, before he made himself remember what she’d done and why he couldn’t let it alone; the promise he’d made to himself.

  The police were still here, which meant she was still here. She wouldn’t dare leave the refuge alone, he was sure of that. She knew he was coming.

  He’d had fun writing the warning note.

  You fucking evil bitch your dead.

  Gripping the pen in his left hand – in what was left of his left hand – pretending to be some arsehole who couldn’t spell, in case she decided to show the note to someone. He knew she’d know who’d written it.

  He hoped she was afraid. He hoped she was shitting herself with fear.

  She deserved it. For what she’d done.

  She deserved everything he’d promised himself she’d get.

  You think your safe. Think again.

  14

  From everything Marnie had said about Ed Belloc, Noah had pictured a big bear of a man, cuddly and capable. Asexual.

  Ed, when he came, was five foot ten. Slim and soaked, rain running down his face, making a skullcap of his dark hair. He shook himself like a dog on the doorstep of the refuge, lifting a hand in greeting at the blurred lens of the CCTV.

  Noah buzzed him into the building, fetching a towel from the nearest bathroom.

  ‘Thanks.’ Belloc scrubbed the towel at his head, offering his free hand. ‘Ed. You must be DS Jake.’ His hand was thin and chilled.

  ‘Noah. Can I fix you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’ Ed mopped the back of his neck. ‘Where’s Rome?’

  ‘She’s just got back from the hospital. She’s in the dayroom.’

  Rome? The familiarity surprised him, but Ed had known Marnie for years, at least five years that Noah knew of. He was younger than Noah had expected. Thirty-ish, with the soft-focus look of a student midway through his finals. Dressed like a student, in decimated cords and a blue shirt with a fraying collar which rain had soaked to navy. His hair was drying into bedhead brown curls and he had brown eyes, cute in a through-a-hedge-backwards way. Noah preferred something edgier, but he admired the way Belloc was working the look. Ed was the least threatening man he’d seen in a long time.

  Marnie was waiting in the doorway to the dayroom, her face softening to a smile when she saw Ed. ‘Thanks for coming. How was court?’

  ‘Stuffy.’ He finished drying himself with the towel. ‘Good to get into the fresh air.’

  She straightened his wet collar. ‘Looks like you swam here . . .’

  ‘So what’s been going on?’ Ed’s eyes went over her shoulder, to the dayroom where the women were sitting. ‘You said an incident. That can’t be good.’

  Marnie walked Ed and Noah towards the office. ‘One of the women stuck a knife in her husband. We walked into the middle of it. It was lucky Noah was with me. He saved the husband’s life.’

  The office was a short, windowless room. Three of its four walls were partitions, drawing noise from elsewhere in the refuge. Little of the desk was visible under a litter of stained mugs, empty sweet wrappers and gossip magazines, celebrity cleavage shining from their covers.

  ‘Who did the stabbing?’ Ed asked.

  Marnie moved a copy of Heat magazine out of the way, so that she could perch on the edge of the desk. ‘Hope Proctor.’

  ‘Not a name I know. How long’s she been here?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘My last visit was a month ago.’ Ed looked apologetic.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about security here,’ Marnie said. ‘From the look of it, Hope’s husband walked in, armed, no one to stop him.’

  Ed was silent for a beat. Then he said, ‘He brought a knife in here?’

  ‘No one challenged him.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Ten, this morning. The door was on the latch. Is that usual, in places like this?’

  ‘Nothing’s usual, in places like this.’ Ed towelled his neck again. ‘I’d love to tell you trained professionals are in charge twenty-four-seven, but it’s just not practical in most places. There should have been trained staff on duty. The door should have been secure. There are panic buttons and they should be working. We shouldn’t have to rely on volunteers because resources are so stretched . . .’ He scratched a hand through his hair. ‘Where’s Hope now?’

  ‘In the hospital. Sedated.’ Marnie glanced at Noah. ‘DC Abby Pike’s with her.’

  ‘How bad is she?’

  ‘She’s bad.’ Marnie touched the side of her neck. ‘Shaken, ashamed. In denial. Nine years of abuse, a lot of it sexual. It was difficult, talking with her. She resented the questions . . .’

  Noah reache
d a hand for the wall, feeling sick. This was the man whose life he’d helped to save? A rapist and a torturer?

  ‘She’s blaming herself,’ Marnie said, ‘even so. She says Leo had the knife for her protection, can you believe that?’

  ‘That and a whole lot worse,’ Ed said. ‘About resenting the questions . . . It’s nothing personal. Keeping secrets is empowering, even if you’re the one getting hurt. Counterintuitive, I know, but I’ll bet she felt stronger before she told you anything . . .’ A frown pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Who else was here when it happened?’

  ‘Simone Bissell. Mab Thule. Tessa Stebbins and Shelley Coates. Ayana. And the supervisor, Jeanette Conway.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he breathed, looking shaken. ‘They all saw it? The stabbing? Mab and Simone and the others?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ed had spent the day in court, Noah remembered. No wonder he looked whipped.

  ‘Ayana helped Noah with the first aid,’ Marnie said. ‘She was a star. The others . . . seemed calm, at the time.’

  ‘I can imagine. So . . . where’re you up to with witness statements?’

  ‘The witness statements can wait a while. We wanted to make this place feel safe again first, before we asked too many questions.’

  Ed nodded, looking relieved. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘Tell me about the set-up here,’ Marnie said. ‘Resources are stretched?’

  ‘Not just here.’ Ed propped himself on the edge of the desk, crossing his feet at the ankle. He was wearing odd socks, one brown, the other blue. ‘Right across the board. Funding cuts really hurt us. I hate to say it, but domestic violence victims are easy targets. They don’t complain and they don’t have the power to lobby. That makes them invisible.’

  ‘You said you hadn’t met Hope. She wasn’t in our database either. I’m wondering how she got a place here.’

  ‘She probably called the domestic violence helpline and got a referral that way. Is she local, do you know?’

  ‘Very local. From Finchley. Is that usual?’

  ‘Sometimes. Depends how anxious she was about her husband tracing her.’ Ed scratched his knee. ‘Did she say how that happened? The tracing, I mean.’

  ‘She called him.’

  ‘Ah.’ He didn’t look surprised, just sad. ‘It happens.’

  ‘The knife,’ Marnie said. ‘Simone and the others are calling it self-defence. I suppose that makes most sense to them.’

  ‘Knives . . . are scary.’

  Marnie glanced at the wall calendar, then away. Ed was watching her with a tender vigilance that made Noah wonder how close they really were. He played Belloc’s statement back in his head, the careful space he had placed around the words: Knives are scary.

  ‘Simone is more vocal than the others, convinced Leo got what he deserved, but it was self-defence. Panic.’ Marnie said it as if she was testing the theory for soundness.

  ‘Simone . . .’ Ed hesitated. ‘Has more reason than most to be scared of knives.’

  Marnie quizzed him with a look, but he shook his head. ‘It’s not my story to tell, but . . . Go easy on her. Simone. She’s not as strong as she looks.’

  ‘She wants to see Hope,’ Noah said. ‘At the hospital.’

  Ed looked surprised. ‘Simone said that?’

  ‘They’re close,’ Marnie said. ‘She’s been protective of Hope since we got here.’

  ‘And she’s ready to leave the refuge?’ Ed thumbed a streak of rain from his cheek. ‘D’you mind if I come with you?’

  ‘To the hospital? I was going to ask if you’d stay here . . .’

  ‘If that’s where you need me, but I’d like to speak with Simone first, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Of course. Hope’s sedated, in any case. I’m hoping they’ll have a bed for her over the weekend. She’s booked for a CT scan; from a couple of things Simone said, we should probably check for worse damage than they’ve found so far.’

  Marnie straightened up, moving towards the door. ‘I know it’s getting late, and you’re tired. I don’t expect you to stay long.’

  Ed said simply, ‘I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.’

  ‘Thanks. Noah . . . you should go home. There’s no need for all of us to be here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Go have a social life. I’ll call you when there’s news.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I won’t be around tomorrow, unless something happens at the hospital.’

  ‘Okay.’ Tomorrow was Saturday; Noah hadn’t expected to see her. Unless, as she said, something happened at the hospital.

  ‘Plans for the weekend?’ Ed asked, after Noah had left the refuge.

  Marnie went to the window, drawing back the corner of the heavy curtain. The sky had dried to scars and neon light; it never really got dark in London.

  ‘I’m visiting Stephen.’ She let the curtain fall back into place, turning to face Ed.

  He ducked his head, fumbling for something in his pocket, conjuring the awkward ghost of his adolescence. ‘How’s that working out?’

  ‘Not great, if I’m honest.’ She kept her voice light. ‘If it were up to him, he wouldn’t see me. But his solicitor says it’ll look good, going forward.’

  ‘It’s a long drive.’ Ed’s hair was in his eyes. ‘If you want company . . .’

  ‘You don’t want to spend your weekend like that.’

  ‘True. I could watch Buffy reruns and try to beat my personal best for cramming Kettle Chips.’

  She smiled at him. ‘All right, now I have to take you. Seven o’clock start, though.’

  She thought this would put him off, but he nodded. ‘I’ll be ready.’

  ‘About Simone . . . I know you said you couldn’t tell me, but Lowell . . .’ The threatening letter was folded in her pocket. ‘Is he part of the story?’

  He was surprised. ‘She told you?’

  ‘Hope told me. She said Lowell threatened Simone.’

  Ed’s eyes clouded. ‘Recently?’

  Marnie took the letter from her pocket and unfolded it, handing it across to Ed, who read the scrawled words in silence.

  ‘No date.’ He handed the letter back.

  ‘No date,’ she agreed. ‘Does it sound like Lowell to you?’

  ‘From what she told me? No. But I haven’t seen his writing.’

  ‘Where is Lowell?’ she asked. ‘In London?’

  ‘Yes. The last I heard . . . Yes.’

  ‘So if he’s traced Simone to the refuge . . . Do we need to move her?’

  ‘If he has.’ Ed paused. ‘She didn’t tell me about the letter.’

  ‘Should she have done? As a condition of her place in the refuge, or to keep you in the picture?’

  ‘No. No, there’s no requirement for that. Just . . . I thought she trusted me.’ He smiled a bit. ‘My ego. Sorry.’

  He didn’t have any ego. Or if he did, she’d seen no evidence of it. ‘Speak with Simone. I’ll make sure someone’s here with the women over the weekend. At least we know the place is secure again.’ Her Friday night all sorted out. No space for second thoughts about tomorrow’s trip.

  ‘I’ll pick you up,’ she told Ed. ‘Tomorrow at seven.’

  ‘I’ll be ready.’

  15

  By 8 p.m., King’s Cross was shaping up to sleazy, on the safe side of its rush hour for sex, drugs and dodgy music. Outside, the club was a blaze of blue neon. Inside, it was packed with people, none of whom was Dan Noys.

  Dan had texted to say he was running late. Noah ordered a shot of vodka, to get a head start on the night. He needed to forget about his day. The refuge, all those lives twisted out of shape by hate and fear. The mirror behind the bar gave back a slice of his face, faceted by glass. He swallowed the vodka and turned to look around the club.

  Music thumped from a sound system, inviting couples to dance. Two men were circling with the rhythm, hands on each other’s hips. Away from the dance floor, other couples were drinking or chatting, groping or kissing. Noah s
tarted to relax; this was his version of daytime television: the definition of normal . . .

  A warm hand touched his shoulder.

  ‘You’ve pulled . . .’ Dan kissed his neck.

  Noah reached up, curling his palm to the shape of Dan’s face, holding him to the kiss until he was done conveying relief, gratitude and raw need.

  ‘Vodka?’ Dan poked at Noah’s empty glass. He was wearing his oldest jeans and a white T-shirt, with Red Chili climbing shoes. ‘We’re drinking tequila.’

  They took the shots to a dark corner, where Dan leaned Noah up against a pillar and revived the kiss, urgently, as if his day had also been something he wanted to forget. He spent his week managing artists and their egos. Some nights he came home more knackered than Noah.

  ‘Thank fuck,’ Dan said hazily, ‘for Friday.’

  He came up for air eventually, going to fetch another round from the bar. After which, there was licking salt off each other’s necks and sucking lime from each other’s lips, until Noah’s mouth started to buzz and sting.

  ‘You guys want something stronger?’

  Noah glanced up, seeing a stranger. Plaid shirt, eyebrow ring, right hand in the back pocket of his jeans.

  Noah shook his head. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You sure?’ Plaid Shirt showed his palm, sweaty. Pills in a plastic bag.

  Dan flashed a warning with his eyes. ‘We’re sure.’

  Plaid strolled away.

  ‘Good job your boss wasn’t here to see that,’ Dan said.

  Noah rolled his neck, sticky from the lime.

  ‘Reckon she’s out on the razz?’ Dan sucked the zest from his thumb. ‘DI Rome.’

  Noah didn’t answer. He didn’t know how Marnie spent her Friday nights, or her weekends. None of his business.

  ‘Unless she’s happily married . . .’ Dan mused. ‘Maybe she’s got an ex. She looks the type. She’s a ball-breaker, DI Rome.’

  ‘I’m switching to Pepsi, you want one?’ Noah moved away in the direction of the bar, not wanting a conversation – the usual conversation – about work.