Good Girl Gone Bad Page 6

  By then, a Mick Drake had arrived on the scene and, upon going into the back garden, had spotted a hose. He’d turned the spigot and jetted water onto the bonfire while Fred continued to dash in and out with bowls.

  Delia Robson had called the ambulance and police, then had waited on the pavement outside Mrs Smithson’s house to direct them where to go.

  All this Kane had gleaned from the statements, and he set his team the task of sifting through them all again to see if there were any inconsistencies. He turned to Richard, who sat in his chair with his head back and eyes closed, a snore trumpeting out of him, jolting him awake.

  “Keeping you up, are we?” Kane asked, going over to sit on the edge of his desk. “Late night, was it?”

  Richard blinked, bleary-eyed, and stared as though he had no idea who Kane was.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Kane said quietly. “Do you need some time off?”

  “No,” Richard said, scooting his chair forward and waking his monitor up with the shake of the mouse. “I’m good.”

  If you say so. “Well, I’d ask you to come with me to have another crack at Pickins, but the state you’re in, I don’t—”

  The faint ringing of his office phone shut him up, and he strode in there, hoping it was Charlotte, then gave himself a stern talking to for even entertaining that.

  He lifted the phone out of the dock. “DI Barnett.” Held his breath. It was her, wasn’t it, not knowing what to say now he’d picked up?

  “Vic Atkins on the front desk, sir.”

  Fucking hell.

  “Yep?” Kane squatted to clear up the mess he’d made, the toe of his shoe obscuring one of the wet splotches that hadn’t even soaked into the carpet yet.

  “You’re needed down at the warehouses round the back of Clarks, sir.”

  Had a drug addict camping out there taken some dodgy gear? Kane’s spirits lifted, macabre as that was. If that was what had gone down, and the user could identify Pickins as his supplier… It couldn’t be that easy, could it? Pickins employed runners, no way he’d get his own hands dirty—except with oil, that was.

  “For what, Vic?” he asked.

  “There’s a body there, sir. Young sex worker, late twenties. Suffocated apparently. Got a bit of a broken nose.”

  How can a nose be a ‘bit’ broken?

  “Go on.”

  “Gilbert’s there now. Found by that homeless fella, the one who always walks round town with a shopping trolley. Can’t think of his bloody name.”

  “Old Bill, funny enough. Beats me why that didn’t stick in your head, considering what you do for a living.” Kane righted the bin and stood.

  “That’s the fella. Anyway, the poor bloke had a funny turn. He’s down at Horley General now in case you need to speak to him.”

  “Right. I’ll go to the scene first. Tarra.” He ended the call then jabbed speed dial one for the chief. “Uh, it’s me, Kane, sir. There’s been another murder.”

  “Christ Almighty. Okie dokie, keep me in the loop when you get the chance. With last night’s as well, you’ll be swamped, so just a couple of minutes for an update will do. Say tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yes, sir. Catch you then.”

  He hung up, chucked the phone on the desk. It skidded to a halt against a stack of mail. Feeling defeated, he went in search of Richard, envying the chief for being able to stay in his office all day.

  Richard stood in front of the water cooler, seemingly mesmerised by the trickle going into the white plastic cup.

  “Come on,” Kane said. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Richard jumped, and water poured over the rim of the cup and into the grate below.

  Kane flicked the stream off and frowned. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “What’s on the agenda?” Richard asked, his change of subject, yet again, pissing Kane off something chronic.

  “Murder of a sex worker,” Kane said.

  “Aww, fuck’s sake. You know how much I hate prossers.” His moustache wavered from the breath he huffed out.

  “Hate them or not, they exist, and we have a job to do. Have you never wondered why they have to sell sex? That life might have kicked them in the damn teeth so they had no choice but to turn to the oldest profession in the book? Or because drugs, sold by people like Pickins, forced them to make money—and lots of it—fast? You have no idea what those women have been through, so keep your opinions to yourself and get your arse into gear.”

  Or I’m telling the chief you’re a waste of sodding space and should be put out to pasture.

  Kane stalked off, the sound of Richard shuffling behind him, huffing and puffing, setting his teeth on edge. In the car park at the rear of the station, Kane waited in his Fiat for Richard to catch up, dreading the moment the man sat beside him and stunk out the enclosed space.

  Richard got in, not bothering with his seat belt, and Kane drove off, his mind switching between two people: Mrs Smithson and the sex worker.

  Then another female.

  Charlotte.

  Damn it.

  TEN

  Charlotte wandered around for the umpteenth time, bored out of her skull and, oddly, wishing she was at home. At least she knew where everything was in her own place. There was nothing like your personal space, was there, and even though she’d longed to get away from it, now she wasn’t there, it called to her, a mournful cry inside her to come back, to use the Dyson on the beautiful carpets, the Mr Sheen on the dining room table, her buffing it with a pink microfibre cloth.

  She set about cleaning Kane’s house instead of imagining doing hers. Although obsessively tidy, the rooms had too much dust on the surfaces—all right, only a slight layer, but she could still see it, so it had to go. She spent a good hour using elbow grease to bring everything up sparkling, but by nine-thirty she was finished and bored.

  In her room, she switched her phone on, dreading having messages waiting from Jez, but only one from Henry sat there, the first line visible in the oblong text box. She clicked it.

  POST HAS ARRIVED. BANK STATEMENT BY THE LOOKS OF IT, AND ONE FROM YOUR MUM.

  She sent a reply.

  OKAY, CAN I NIP OVER IN ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES?

  Might be better if he thought she was still at home.

  YES, THAT’S FINE. SEE YOU THEN. I’LL GET THE KETTLE ON.

  She rang for a taxi—one of the few numbers in her contact list approved by Jez—while slipping on her boots, then went downstairs with her handbag—shit, my bra’s still in it—and found a spare set of keys on a hook on the inside of one of the kitchen cupboards. She’d noticed them last night when Kane had taken the cups out to make their tea. Checking the keys one by one in the front door, pleased that a dull, gold Yale fitted, she slid the bunch into her bag then went out to wait at the kerb for the cab.

  She thought about Kane telling her to stay indoors, but getting a letter from her mum seemed more important than keeping safe somehow. Stupid, but she couldn’t help herself.

  The taxi arrived within a minute, and in no time she was in her old street, nervous on the pavement in case Jez hadn’t been collared for the blood and scratches last night after all and he’d see her. Head down, she scuttled along, stomach in knots, her heart beating so hard her chest ached. At Henry’s, she looked over at the home she’d shared with Jez, expecting him to be standing between the lions again, but he wasn’t there.

  She pushed the gate inwards and rushed to press Henry’s bell. Its ding-dong echoed, and then his shape appeared behind the misted glass, and he opened the door, all smiles. His moustache swept up at the ends, a furry banana, hair yellowing on the tips and coming through grey near the roots. An almost spent roll-up hung on his bottom lip, smoke writhing upwards and into one of his eyes, and he squinted. Head to toe in black, he was, his usual preference—jumper, jeans, socks—his dark eyes showing his kindness and honesty.

  “Come on, come on,” he said, moving back so she could step in.

  She
went into the living room as if she lived there, comfortable in his house the same as always, and sat in her usual spot on the brown sofa. She took her boots off then tucked her feet up, placed one of the pale pink cushions against the arm of the sofa, and propped her elbow on it.

  Henry stood in the doorway. “What about Mrs Smithson, eh? Fuck me. Give me two seconds, and I’ll bring the coffee in. We can talk about it, then you can tell me what you’ve been up to, all right?”

  She smiled, and he disappeared, coming back a minute or so later with a tray bearing two cups, a plate of chocolate Hobnob biscuits, and her letters. He placed it on the coffee table, and she reached forward to scoop up her mail.

  “Thanks, you know how much I appreciate you doing this for me.” She opened her bag just a little and eased the letters through the centimetre gap, conscious Henry might spot her cerise bra. Bag on the floor in front of her, she reached for her coffee. He always put it in a cup he’d bought especially for her, pink, KEEP CALM, I’M A PRINCESS written on the side in white with a crown at the top. ‘A queen to Jez and a princess to me, love!’ She cradled it in her hands. Maybe she’d have a biscuit in a bit. Kane had left her bacon and sausages this morning, so she wasn’t peckish yet.

  “You’re more than welcome, love, you know that.” He sat in one of the chairs of the three-piece suite, placing a messy scribble of tobacco on a Rizla, rolling it into a fag then licking the gum to secure it. “Bloody bad business going on round here, eh?” He tilted his head towards the window. “Can’t say I’ll miss her bonfires, though.”

  “They were a bit much, weren’t they? Still, I’ll miss seeing her standing by her gate. I’m sure she did that because she was lonely. You know, she waited until someone came along so she could have a natter. Can’t have been nice for her if she felt alone most of the time.”

  “No, but you get on with it, don’t you,” he said. “Take me, for instance. On my own at fifty-nine—not any age, is it, fifty-nine—waiting for the right girl to notice me, but I manage. If I had a wife—not that I want one, mind—maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, but you know I prefer living by myself, although a girlfriend would be all right staying over sometimes.” He chuckled. Roll-up parked between his lips, he lit it with a match, inhaled, then blew out a blue-grey tornado-like funnel of smoke.

  Charlotte didn’t mind. She was used to Jez smoking his Superkings, and besides, Henry’s brand of tobacco didn’t smell the same. It was sweet. A chill rippled down her spine at the thought of Jez, and she pushed him to the back of her mind. Hopefully he was in the nick by now, where he couldn’t do anything except piss off the police. Still, it was bloody horrible being in this street so soon after she’d got out of it.

  I won’t stay long. I need to get out of here as soon as possible without it seeming off to Henry.

  “I saw your Jez being carted off in a cop car last night after you left with some bloke in a suit,” he said. “What was that all about, eh?”

  So much for not thinking about that bastard. “Oh, he was being awkward about his whereabouts last night,” she lied. “So they took him down the station to get a statement out of him.”

  “Where did you go, though?” He sucked on his fag. Smoke billowed with each word, “Who did you go off with?”

  What do I say now? “I was out, you know, getting some milk, so it looked like I might have killed Mrs—”

  “Killed, you say? What do you mean killed?” He coughed, the smoke most probably getting caught in his throat.

  Charlotte knew how he must feel. She’d been just as staggered by the fact Mrs Smithson had been murdered. She was too conscious by half that she’d let the cat out of the bag and didn’t know what the hell to say to patch up the mess she’d made. “Oh, well, I assume she was killed, otherwise, why would they take us down to the station? I had to go down as well, see. They kept asking where I was, over and over, like they didn’t believe I’d just nipped out to the shop. They said they’ll be checking the CCTV there, but that’s all right, they’ll see me on it and know I was telling the truth.”

  “But what about the suitcase?” he asked.

  “The suitcase?”

  “Yes, that plain-clothed copper put one in the boot.”

  “Oh, for some reason, he wanted the clothes I’d had on last night when I went to the shop. I didn’t have a carrier bag or anything so I shoved them in a suitcase.”

  The trouble with lies was, you ended up digging a deeper hole for yourself the longer the tale went on. She should have just gone with the account Kane had concocted, but it was too late now. She’d said what she’d said, and she didn’t think she ought to change her story in case Henry viewed her in a different light and didn’t want to be her friend anymore. She’d grown fond of him, enough to want to still pop here, or maybe meet him at a coffee shop sometime in the future—if she stuck around this town, that was.

  “So you were only just let out then, were you? This morning?” he asked, jabbing his fag into an ashtray then picking up his drink.

  “Yes, thought I’d come to see you first before I go home.” That didn’t sound plausible. If she loved Jez, she’d want to go straight home to see if he was back yet, and she hadn’t. But at least this way she could find out if he was in their house now.

  “I see.” Henry sipped his coffee. “Haven’t seen him arrive, and trust me, I’d know. I’ve been standing at the window all morning. Wanted to keep abreast of what’s happening. The police are still there, in her garden. Saw them bring her out on a stretcher first thing. Better than watching Coronation Street, know what I mean?”

  She didn’t find that funny. “Yes, it’s been a strange few hours.” Hadn’t it just. This time yesterday morning, she’d been sick to death of being caged up indoors, and her rebellious plan to go out had been born while she’d scoured the oven on her hands and knees. She’d realised she was a drudge, constantly doing housework to pass the time, or cooking elaborate meals Jez wouldn’t even eat because he wasn’t home much. A Cinderella, her glass slipper well and truly in the past, gathering dust in a forgotten corner, her knight in shining armour an illusion, something she’d wanted to see him as, something he’d not turned out to be.

  “So Jez didn’t mind you going out for milk, then?” he asked and swept up a Hobnob. Some crumbs fell off it onto his top. “Unusual, that is. Times past, you’ve told me he can’t abide you leaving the house unless it’s to come and see me.”

  “Yes, well, he doesn’t like not having milk for his coffee in the mornings, so rather than have him bite my head off or whatever, I thought it best to go. I ended up not buying it anyway. Heard people talking about the trouble in the street.”

  “That was quick,” he said. “News travelling on the grapevine, I mean. Shop’s only a minute or two down there.” He curved his thumb and jabbed it towards the window. “So was Mrs Smithson’s door open when you went past like I heard it was?”

  She blushed at the canny way he had of sniffing out inconsistencies. It was true, the shop was only a couple of streets away, so Mrs Smithson would have already been dead when I’d walked on my fictitious journey for the news to reach the shop that quickly. Bloody hell… “I didn’t notice whether it was open or not.”

  “Well, it most likely would have been by then if people were gassing about it at the till. And you’d have seen people in the street, surely.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I got mixed up. I’m tired from being at the police station all night.”

  “Bit odd that they kept you overnight, isn’t it?” He chomped on his biscuit.

  It crunched like Jez’s gherkins.

  His questions were getting on her nerves—she’d never felt this way when he’d probed in the past. But in the past, she hadn’t lied to him, and she acknowledged she was more annoyed at herself for bullshitting him than anything else.

  “It is what it is,” she said and grabbed a biscuit, taking small bites, thinking she’d better leave once she’d finished it, put some dista
nce between them if he was in an inquisitive mood. She felt for him. Being alone most of the time, it stood to reason he’d chat the hind legs off a donkey whenever anyone dropped by for a visit. She’d been just as bad, nattering away to him on her previous visits, telling him too much. Things Jez wouldn’t approve of if he found out she’d blabbed.

  “I’ve made you uncomfortable, love,” Henry said, biscuit eaten while she’d been thinking. “I didn’t mean any harm. Sometimes I forget and turn into a bit of a detective. All those crime shows I watch, I suppose, giving me ideas. Silly bastard, me.”

  He smiled, and not for the first time, she saw him not as his age, but a good-looking older man who must have turned a few heads when he’d been younger. He was almost a silver fox now, and it was a shame his smoking had turned his moustache mustard. She imagined what he’d look like without it.

  Nice.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m used to you after all these years.”

  “It’s been a while that we’ve known each other, hasn’t it? I must say, you’re looking nice today. More like you’re old self.”

  “Hmm. I got stuck in a rut. Thought I’d best dig myself out of it. I’m thirty-odd, not sixty.”

  “Hey, less of the age bashing. I’m coming up to sixty, don’t forget.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it. If it wasn’t for you going grey”—she gave him a cheeky grin—“I’d say you were much younger.”

  “Good job I know you mean well. You can go off people, you know.”

  She laughed, thankful they were back to normal again, him not asking uncomfortable questions and her not having to lie. She finished her biscuit, downed her coffee, then popped her boots on while he rolled another ciggie. “I’d better go. Can I borrow your loo?”

  “Can’t you wait until you get home or something?” he asked.

  Damn. “Um…no.” She winked. “I’m bursting.”

  “Go on, off you go.”

  She left the room, using the small loo beside the front door, washed her hands, then returned to the living room to collect her bag. “I’ll be off now.”