Someone Else's Skin: (DI Marnie Rome)

by Hilary, Sarah

  ‘You started to relax,’ Ed said. ‘Maybe. That gave the emotional adrenalin the chance it needed, to tank.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’ She finished the water and put the glass down on the floor. ‘So what d’you recommend? Please don’t say therapy.’

  ‘You don’t need therapy.’ He sat forward, so they were shoulder to shoulder. ‘You just need to cut yourself some slack. And to talk, when you can.’

  ‘Sounds easy, the way you say it. You make it easy. Thank you.’

  ‘No need,’ he said lightly.

  ‘Yes.’ She moved close enough to kiss his cheek. ‘Thanks.’

  Her phone buzzed between their bodies. She leaned away from Ed to answer it.

  ‘Yes. Noah. What’ve you got?’

  ‘Calvin Roofers took on cheap labour for the job in Finchley. Two of the men were Asian. The names they gave turned out to be Bollywood actors, and the addresses don’t exist. According to Calvin Johns, both men were desperate to work at the refuge and agreed to be paid less than the others for the privilege. He was surprised, because his usual workforce is Polish. These two called up after the work started, but he took them on because of the cost saving.’

  ‘They hustled the job,’ Marnie said, ‘in other words.’

  ‘That’s how it sounds. They asked Johns for the job on Friday, after we’d been to the refuge.’ Noah sounded sick to the stomach. ‘They were Ayana’s brothers, I’m sure of it. And they followed us there . . .’

  ‘The uniform who tried their house earlier . . .’

  ‘They tried twice. The second time they got Mrs Mirza. Ayana’s mother. She said the family hasn’t seen or heard from Ayana since she left home. We’d need a warrant to be sure Ayana was inside the house. If she is . . . Can’t Ed get her out of there?’

  ‘Not unless she’s prepared to inform on them. Then she could go into Witness Protection and we could change her National Insurance number, her name . . .’

  ‘What did Tessa have to say?’ Noah asked.

  ‘Not much. Just that she believed Mab’s story about the men taking Ayana through the roof. She’s scared stiff of Shelley. Ed had to promise to find a new place for her before she’d admit to having seen Clark on the premises. Which he was, whenever he could afford to buy Jeanette Conway’s silence.’ Jeanette had said: And that’s not all I seen. Marnie had expected her to spell it out. When she didn’t, she’d guessed the woman was taking backhanders to keep quiet.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Noah said, ‘is why Shelley didn’t just leave the refuge, if she wanted to be back with him.’

  ‘Tessa says Shelley prefers it this way. At the refuge, Clark knows the parameters, Shelley feels in control . . . Apparently, it’s a turn-on sleeping together there. The way Jeanette described the place . . . you’d think it was a bunny farm for bullies and predators. She denies taking money from anyone other than Clark, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she let others into the refuge. It’d explain how the roofers got inside, all the way to Ayana’s room without an alarm being raised.’

  ‘Ed’s sacked her, right?’

  ‘He’s seeing to it. Not his job, but yes. She’s going to have scorch marks by the time he’s through with her.’ She stood up from Ed’s sofa. ‘We need to talk Tim Welland out of wringing our necks when he hears we’ve temporarily lost our witness.’

  ‘What about Hope and Simone? That car that was outside the refuge, and the hospital.’

  ‘Henry Stuke.’ Marnie hadn’t forgotten the man’s name. ‘Speak with Ron Carling about Stuke, and the rest of the CCTV. I can’t believe one Prius is all we’ve got to show for those hours of footage.’ She dusted her lapels briskly. ‘Too bad Leo Proctor isn’t dead, then this would be a murder investigation and we’d get proper resources . . .’

  44

  ‘Detectives . . .’ Commander Tim Welland’s voice was like gravel in treacle. In hot treacle, thanks to the temperature in his office. ‘As I understand it, you started out with seven women and now you’re down to four. I thought this was a refuge, not a sinkhole. Can someone talk me through the maths?’

  ‘Simone Bissell and Hope Proctor went missing from the North Middlesex Hospital,’ Marnie said. ‘Ayana Mirza was taken from the refuge, we believe by people acting on behalf of her brothers.’

  ‘Nasif Mirza.’

  ‘And the others. We have a witness who saw two Asian men abducting her. I think kidnap’s reasonable grounds for a warrant.’

  Welland leaned forward, with the effect of an approaching avalanche. ‘Good to see you’re capable of thinking. I wouldn’t have known it, from this shitstorm.’ He shoved back his chair and folded his arms, eyeing Noah unkindly. ‘What’s this about invisible monkeys?’

  Noah hid his surprise; he’d expected Marnie to keep that theory from Welland, whose tolerance for what he called psychobabble was sub-zero. ‘It’s a problem we have with the witnesses to the stabbing. It’s not connected to Ayana’s kidnap.’

  ‘You keep using that word, kidnap, but where’s the evidence she resisted?’

  ‘We think she was in shock . . .’

  ‘Your witness saw two men helping her through a hole in the roof – a hole in the roof, for Pete’s sake – but she didn’t hear any shouting, or screaming. Nor did she raise the alarm, which she surely would’ve done had she witnessed a kidnapping.’

  ‘Conditioned behaviour,’ Marnie said. ‘All these women have learnt to be afraid of men, to keep quiet. Their witness statements reflect their own experiences. It’s about what they expected to see.’

  ‘What about what you expected? Seems to me you’ve been hoping to conjure evidence out of thin air. Not to mention persuading one of these petrified women to stand up to her psycho of a brother.’

  ‘It’s what the CPS wanted.’ Marnie tried an encouraging smile. ‘Ayana Mirza helped DS Jake to save Leo Proctor’s life. She’s tougher than the rest.’

  ‘I see your boy wonder,’ Welland nodded at Noah, ‘and I raise you hard evidence.’

  ‘We’re trying to trace the men who signed on with Calvin Roofers, and to connect them to Nasif. We have grounds for a warrant to search the Mirzas’ house and to bring Nasif back in for questioning.’

  ‘You do, do you? Let me put you straight on that score. The CPS is warning of probable complaints arising from our harassment of the Muslim community. Our harassment of them. We have to respect their honour system right up until it kills someone.’

  ‘It’s already half blinded Ayana Mirza. And it cost Lee Hurran his life.’

  ‘Not proven. Not enough for us to go knocking on Nasif’s door again. Unless it’s to ask, politely, if he’s seen his sister.’

  Welland sank back in the chair. He lifted a hand and rubbed absently at the taut skin over his eye. ‘Tell me why Hope Proctor wasn’t under police guard. Better than that, tell me why she wasn’t under arrest.’

  ‘It wasn’t clear what’d happened. We were waiting to re-examine the witnesses, and to speak with her husband. She didn’t look like a flight risk, sir.’

  ‘So we’ve got two missing witnesses, and an absconded murder suspect. And it’s only Tuesday morning.’

  ‘Hope isn’t a murder suspect,’ Noah said quietly. ‘It was self-defence, sir.’

  Welland managed a smile; it looked like someone was mugging the lower half of his face. ‘I refer you to my earlier statement, DS Jake. Hard. Evidence.’

  ‘Her medical exam showed evidence of long-term abuse—’

  ‘She didn’t look like a flight risk,’ Marnie repeated. There was a warning to Noah in her tone, to be quiet. It stung. He sat back, biting his lip.

  ‘But she managed to take off,’ Welland said, ‘all the same. What about this Simone Bissell? What’s her story?’

  Marnie recounted the worst parts of the history Ed had told them.

  ‘Ugandan,’ Welland repeated when she’d finished, as if this was the only part of the story that mattered. ‘So I can expect more hand-wringing from t
he CPS.’ He gave Noah a hard look, as if estimating the mileage in having a black detective in his unit. ‘This Bissell girl, why d’you think she ran off with Hope Proctor?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Marnie said. ‘Perhaps because she thought we’d arrest Hope, once Leo Proctor was awake. Or because she feared Leo’s reprisals.’

  ‘Is she dangerous?’

  ‘Simone? I wouldn’t have thought so, but if she’s as damaged as Ed Belloc says . . .’

  ‘She could crack.’ Welland looked at the paperwork Marnie had submitted so far. ‘You’d better check out this Lowell Paton – the boy who abused her – see what he has to say, and ask her adoptive parents. Damage limitation.’ He pinched his long lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Back with Ayana . . . Assuming it was her brothers who took her from Finchley, how did they know where to find her?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ Marnie said steadily. She didn’t look at Noah.

  ‘You don’t think she made a phone call? A lot of them do.’

  ‘That’s what Ed Belloc says. I don’t think Ayana would’ve risked it, and neither does Ed. She’s too smart. She knew what was waiting for her back home.’

  Noah sat very still, conscious of a caustic burn in his gut. Ayana’s brothers had followed him from the police station to the refuge. He was sure of it. He’d led them right to her. Now she was gone, back to that place where they’d half blinded her. God knows what punishment they’d devise for her this time.

  Welland said, ‘You’d better get on with it.’ He nodded at Noah. ‘DI Rome, I need a further word with you.’

  ‘Coffee,’ Marnie told Noah when she came out of Welland’s office. ‘I’m buying.’

  Her expression gave away nothing of what had happened after Noah left the meeting. Not that he needed many clues; Welland had made his mood clear enough. Noah wished Marnie had let him tell Welland a few more facts about their investigation, instead of cutting him off at the knees.

  In the local coffee shop, she ordered two flat whites, both with an extra shot. ‘I’ve got an address for Lowell Paton. It’s not far. Let’s walk.’

  A three-mile run would’ve been better for both of them, but this way they could keep working. Noah sipped at the coffee, keeping pace with Marnie.

  ‘Welland’s pissed off about Hope. He’s insisting she should’ve been under police guard at the hospital. “Attempted murder”, I’m quoting here, “is still a crime in our neck of the woods, whatever hymn sheet you’re singing from, DI Rome.” That clears us for putting resources behind finding her.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him about the cupboard under the stairs? Or the medical exam.’

  She heard the edge in his voice and raised her eyebrows. ‘We didn’t have a warrant. Hard evidence needs to be iron-clad, remember?’

  You’re the one who forgot it, Noah thought, when you questioned Leo at the hospital.

  ‘What about Ayana?’ he demanded. ‘Is Welland going to let us get a warrant?’

  ‘I’ve called Ed, to see what he can do. Welland thinks Victim Support might stand a better chance with the family than us right now.’

  ‘Ed’s not the police.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed, ‘he’s not.’

  ‘So we’re delegating to him just because the CPS is neurotic.’

  ‘We’re not delegating anything, Detective.’ Her tone was a slap on the wrist. ‘We’re making proper use of the resources available to us.’

  Trying to pick a fight with Marnie Rome was like trying to dig your fingers into marble; you just ended up with an ache in your fists. ‘It’s idiotic.’

  ‘It’s politic, and it’s pragmatic. Idiotic would be running in blind, because we didn’t stop and think first.’ Another slap, this one on the face. She didn’t like him criticising Ed, that much was clear. They walked on, not speaking.

  London was still waking up, although it was close to ten o’clock. The office workers were entrenched, the school run was over. It was a dead hour of the day, before the lunchtime rush. Two passenger jets cross-hatched the sky: white lines on a whiter background. Closer at hand, a couple of sparrows practised their spring flight patterns.

  Birdsong was an eerie sound in central London. Like hearing the sea before you could see it – a reminder that Nature was behind or beneath everything, even those places where men had done their best to obliterate her.

  Noah wondered if Ayana could hear birdsong, or the sea. He wanted to think she was near a phone, or a weapon. He realised he was wishing for a crime like the one Hope Proctor had committed at the refuge.

  Marnie walked ahead of him, to drop her empty coffee cup into a litter bin. ‘Guess where Lowell Paton is living.’

  He read the distaste on her face. ‘Not in the flat where he kept Simone prisoner?’

  ‘Near enough. Home sweet home. At his dad’s expense. Maybe Ed was right and Paton senior helped his son tidy up after Simone got away. If Daddy’s home, we’d better be prepared to listen to the bullshit in stereo.’ She tidied her hair. ‘Families closing ranks . . . Makes a change from beating the crap out of each other, I suppose.’

  ‘There’re all kinds of ways you can abuse someone. It doesn’t have to be physical.’

  She shot him a look. ‘True. Do you think Ron Carling had a happy childhood?’

  Noah was on his guard against the question, wondering what she’d heard – or guessed – about the situation with him and Carling. ‘Why him?’

  ‘Because he’s a bigot and a blag artist.’ She adjusted the cuffs of her shirt. ‘And because I suspect he’s been giving you more grief than you choose to share with me.’

  ‘It’s nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘Bully for you. I still need to know if there’s a rotten apple on the team. Insofar as we are a team. He has a problem with you, doesn’t he?’ She kept her eyes ahead, making it marginally easier for him to answer.

  ‘Apparently. He’s getting over it, though.’

  ‘Because you’re good at deflecting or because he’s learning tolerance?’

  ‘A . . . bit of both.’

  ‘Is it going to be a problem, in the team?’

  ‘There’s no problem. Nothing serious, just mucking about. Macho stuff. You know.’

  ‘Not really,’ Marnie said. She came to a standstill, nodding at the phallic apartment block ahead of them. ‘Let’s see what Lowell Paton’s got to say for himself. Maybe it’ll shed some light on where Simone’s gone, or what’s going on in her head.’

  45

  Lowell Paton was twenty-three, but with his skinny frame and show-off sportswear, he could have passed for eighteen. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, inviting Noah and Marnie into the penthouse apartment at the top of the block. No more underground living for Lowell.

  Marnie had warned Noah that they weren’t to push Paton. They didn’t have a warrant, or even a formal complaint. The best they could hope for was an insight into Simone’s state of mind. Lowell was unlikely to give the information freely, but a guilty conscience was a funny thing. Sometimes it provoked the party in question into sharing more than he intended. Monsters weren’t very good at staying hidden, and Lowell Paton had been a monster to Simone Bissell. There was a flaw in this logic, however, as Noah realised after ten minutes in Paton’s apartment, with its noisy decor: twin sofas in blood-red leather, red-and-black mosaic wall segregating the kitchen from the living space. Mirrors on all sides, one framed in light bulbs; not the room of someone who wanted to avoid his own reflection. White rugs, pretending to be bleached animal skins. An AV system that looked as if it could land a jet plane, Swarovski crystals stuck like shrapnel in the sleek black corners of the console.

  Pimp my penthouse.

  Lowell Paton moved around the apartment with the easy neglect of someone who didn’t pay rent, or insurance. Noah guessed Paton senior had that covered; cosseting his son for whatever reason he’d found to excuse the indulgence. Perhaps he thought he was keeping him safe up here, away from the streets where Lo
well had strayed, albeit briefly. Noah’s heart sank when he saw the spoilt, satisfied boy this indulgence had bred. Lowell Paton didn’t have a guilty conscience. The monsters in his past, with or without his father’s help, had all been exorcised.

  In the kitchen – black rubber peppermill, polished granite trivet under an Alessi kettle – Lowell opened a fridge the size of a space shuttle, studying its contents. ‘I’ve got Coke or,’ he grinned up at them, ‘Bud.’ His face had the forward slant of a fox’s. Wide mouth, thin-lipped, drawn tight across the lower half of his jaw. Long eyes under longer brows, sandy-brown like his hair, like his eyes. His left earlobe was pierced, impaled by a broad Perspex talon. Street face, gangland, but too studied to be the real thing. And too smooth. There wasn’t a mark on him.

  ‘Nothing for us, thanks.’ Marnie fed Lowell’s smile straight back, not missing a beat. At the door, she’d shown her badge with a hint of apology, as if deferring to the privilege evidenced by the security here, the uniformed concierge, the glossy lift that delivered residents to carpeted corridors outside their front doors.

  Lowell carried a bottle of cola to the sofas, inviting Noah and Marnie to sit one side of the coffee table while he sprawled on the other. In his shiny white tracksuit on the red sofa, he resembled a maggot in an open wound.

  Noah, remembering what Ed Belloc had said about the boy’s blood kink, felt his gorge rise. Paton kicked his legs apart, angling his crotch in Marnie’s direction. Where was Mrs Paton? What brand of motherly love had resulted in this self-assured machismo? Or had there been no love, was that Lowell’s problem?

  ‘So how can I help you guys?’ Lowell Paton swung the bottle between the knuckles of his right hand. Rings on three of his fingers: gold sovereigns. Gangsta bling. The rings made good weapons, whenever Paton felt like punching someone. Not men or boys. He wouldn’t last two minutes on the street. Paton punched girls. He’d broken Simone’s nose with the hand he was using to swing the cola.