Authors: Helen Black
The new super-sleek, super-decisive Jack McNally turned on his heels and headed back to the cottage. He was going to tell his woman exactly how he felt. He’d tried before and ended up chatting about her work. Not this time.
He chuckled to himself. ‘Get you, alpha male.’
When he rounded the corner to Appleyard Lane he saw the lights were on in the cottage and a figure was outside. It was Lilly, her hair still wild, a dressing gown wrapped around her. She was poking about in her car.
‘You’re up early,’ he said.
She didn’t speak but her eyes were as wide as an owl’s.
‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said.
Then he looked from Lilly to the car and saw that it wasn’t his presence that had frightened her. The windscreen was smashed, glass spewed over the dashboard.
‘Not more bloody kids,’ he said.
She pulled her gown around her and handed him the brick that had wrecked her car. It was wrapped in a single piece of white paper.
Jack placed a chipped blue mug of tea in front of Lilly.
‘You have to report this,’ he said.
She nodded lightly. ‘I will.’
Jack eyed her with suspicion. ‘I mean it.’
‘So do I.’
She drank the tea and reread the letter.
A child has been murdered and the community must stick together.
The terrible people who committed this crime must be punished and those that side with them have no place here and will be forced to leave.
You have been warned.
‘It mentions the community. Do you think it might be someone in the village?’
Lilly tried to keep her voice even but the thought of it made her feel sick. She was on pretty good terms with all her neighbours, wasn’t she? Except, of course, the woman at Crab Tree Farm. Lilly had run over her cat.
‘Could be,’ said Jack. ‘And if we get a couple of coppers over here, taking statements and poking around, that should put the fear of God into them. Or maybe it’s referring to Manor Park.’
‘That can’t be right,’ she said.
‘Wasn’t that woman at the service banging on about everyone being in this together?’
Lilly shuddered. The morning was brisk, but it was the memory of Luella glowering at her that made her cold.
‘I don’t think anyone at school would do something like this,’ she said.
Jack didn’t reply—but she could see he wasn’t convinced.
Lilly got up and stretched. ‘I have to go to court later. The judge wants to see me.’
At first she thought Jack was going to argue, that he’d say she was in shock and should spend the day at home. Instead he rinsed her cup. ‘Take my car.’
‘You’ll make someone a very good wife,’ she said.
He continued to face the sink. ‘How about a husband?’
He held his breath, waiting for her reply. The silence roared between them. When he could stand it no more, he turned to face her.
The room was empty.
* * *
Snow White crept out of bed and checked her laptop.
Time to Take Action
Blood River at 4.30
Mission completed.
Caz is singing in the bath. Her tuneless rendition of the Scouse anthem ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ carries into every room of the Peckham Project.
‘God help us,’ laughs Jean. ‘She’ll never make the
X Factor
.’
She hauls an enormous pumpkin onto the work surface and rummages in the cutlery drawer for a sharp knife.
Luke helps himself to a frosted-yellow glass and fills it with milk. He doesn’t feel rude any more. All the kids that come here help themselves to whatever’s in the fridge and stay as long as they like. They chat to Jean if they want to, or ignore her if they prefer. Sometimes she helps them with forms or reads letters out to them.
‘You know those men the other day?’ says Luke.
Jean stops what she’s doing. ‘Are they outside?’
Luke shakes his head.
‘Good,’ says Jean.
‘Who are they?’ asks Luke.
‘Didn’t you ask Caz?’
‘She said they were pimps.’ She’d also called them ‘low cunt-scum’, but Luke doesn’t pass this on.
‘To be honest, they can’t even call themselves pimps,’ says Jean. ‘They’re more like jailers.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jean stabs the top of the squat vegetable, drags the blade in a rough circle, then levers off a fat disc of orange flesh.
‘They smuggle girls into this country and force them to work as prostitutes,’ she says, still engrossed in her work.
‘Like slaves?’
‘Yes, love, like slaves.’
Luke is speechless. He’d done all about the abolition of slavery at school—how it had led to a civil war in America. He’d got an A* for his end-of-year project.
‘What were they doing here?’ he asks.
‘Occasionally one of the girls escapes, and it’s been known for them to make their way here.’
‘Why?’
‘I make it known they’re welcome,’ says Jean. ‘And I also make it known I won’t tell the authorities.’
‘Don’t they just want to go home?’ asks Luke.
‘They’d just get picked up again,’ she says and gouges out three more holes. ‘Boomerang straight back to square one.’
Luke is appalled. ‘That’s absolutely terrible.’
‘You’re a lovely boy, Luke,’ she says. ‘And one day, when you’re ready to tell me what you’re doing here, I’ll help in any way I can.’
‘I can’t talk about it,’ says Luke.
Jean nods and pulls out one of those small candles his mum insists on calling a tea-light.
‘You know where I am if you change your mind.’
He drains the last of his milk and washes out his glass. The others don’t bother, but Luke feels it’s only fair to Jean.
‘There is something you could do for me,’ he says.
‘Go on.’
‘Explain to me how I could get somewhere to live.’
He feels daft even saying it. No doubt Jean has heard the same thing ten times that morning. It never ceases to amaze Luke how often rough sleepers talk about ‘getting a place’. No cider-fuelled gathering is complete without a boisterous discussion of who is just about to get the keys to a flat, how said person will decorate the flat and how the entire homeless population will be welcome.
‘Do you have your name down on the housing list?’ asks Jean.
Luke knows all about housing lists. Teardrop Tony has had his name down on one for six years. He pops down to see his housing officer at least twice a week, he says she’s ‘sound’ and always lends him a few ciggies, but he’s still number four hundred and two. Luke might be retired before his number comes up. Anyway, he can’t go through the official channels or he’ll be caught for sure.
‘What about a private place?’ he says.
‘Most landlords want proof of earnings, references and what-have-you.’
‘But not all?’
‘There are always those who’ll do it under the counter.’ She fixes him with a stare. ‘But I wouldn’t have anything to do with them if I were you.’
Luke nods, but he’s already wondering how he can get his hands on a deposit.
She reaches in her bag for her lighter, puts the flame to the candle and places it in the bottom of the pumpkin. The ragged gashes glow. ‘What do you think?’ asks Jean.
Luke looks at the ugly face she has carved out, his brows knitted in quandary.
‘I know it’s not perfect,’ she laughs. ‘But it’s just a bit of fun.’
‘I thought you were, you know, making soup,’ says Luke.
Jean throws back her head and hoots in amusement. ‘It’s a Hallowe’en lantern, you wally.’
Luke is so startled he falls backwards, groping for the chair. When he finally feels the plastic under him he puts his head between his knees to stop the room swimming.
‘You alright, love?’ Jean is crouched at his side.
Luke pushes the heels of his hands in his eye sockets.
‘I didn’t realise,’ he says. ‘How didn’t I realise it was Hallowe’en?’
Jean pats his hand in understanding. ‘When you live this life, Luke, you lose your sense of time.’
He knows she’s right. It’s always been a big deal in the past, trick or treating until his mum said he’d got too old, then parties with Tom and the rest. Cocktails full of red cochineal and the odd slug of vodka sneaked in for good measure.
This year he’d missed it altogether, simply hadn’t noticed.
‘Come back later, have a bit of fun,’ says Jean. ‘You need to remind yourself what normal people do.’
What I need, thinks Luke, is that deposit.
‘It’s my fault, yes?’
Anna’s voice was low but deliberate.
Lilly crunched the gears as she tried to park Jack’s unfamiliar car.
‘Not at all,’ she said.
‘They don’t want you to take my case, so they do this.’ Anna stretched out her arms to encompass the car and the whole mess with it.
‘Maybe that’s true, but that doesn’t make it your fault,’ said Lilly.
Anna cocked her head to one side, her face a blank.
Lilly mounted the kerb with the back wheel and sighed.
‘There are some people—not many, thank God—who don’t like what you are and why you’ve come to this country. They don’t want me to help you so they’re trying to bully me.’
Lilly didn’t feel the need to point out that ‘they’ might not be some anonymous group of strangers but someone far closer to home.
Jack’s rear sensor began to beep. Lilly looked in her mirror at the car behind. She was nowhere near it, for God’s sake.
‘What they don’t know is that one thing I cannot stand, and I mean truly detest, is being told what to do.’
The beeping became more insistent, like a drill in Lilly’s brain. She furiously pressed buttons on the dash to override the noise until at last the car fell quiet.
Lilly smiled in triumph and reversed. ‘Silence is golden.’
The next sound was metal scraping metal.
Lilly looked from Jack’s car to the gleaming Porsche 911 and back again. The bodywork of the two cars had melded like kissing cousins. ‘Maybe no one will notice.’
She turned at the sound of laughter, a familiar throaty chuckle. Jez was standing with Kerry, admiring her handiwork.
‘Stirling Moss strikes again,’ he said.
‘You always were hilarious,’ said Lilly, and tried to straighten the licence plate.
PB 21.
Private registration.
Jez slid his hand along the car’s silver flank as though along a silky thigh. ‘At least it’s just a pile of old junk.’
Lilly groaned.
‘Not the owner’s pride and joy,’ he said.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘How much do these things cost?’
Jez shrugged. ‘Sixty, seventy grand.’
‘For a car?’ Lilly was incredulous. ‘Who the hell can afford that?’
Jez threw his head back and laughed. Even Kerry let out a tiny miaow of a giggle. Lilly looked again at the license plate and sighed. PB. His Honour Judge Patrick Banks. Great.
Little Markham was a small place. The sort where everyone knew everyone else and everyone’s business was common knowledge. It reminded Alexia of the village in Oxfordshire where her father owned a farmhouse. She had spent much of her school holidays rattling around the lanes on her bike, unchecked by the succession of au pairs who failed to teach her any French.
She entered the newsagent’s and fingered the rack of greeting cards, all golf clubs and flowery verses. She could feel the gaze of the man behind the counter working up from her toes to the curves of her bottom.
‘You’re not from round here,’ he said.
Alexia looked up as if surprised to be noticed, and flashed a smile. ‘Visiting a friend.’
‘Anyone I might know?’
Alexia licked her lips. ‘I doubt it. Someone I went to law school with years ago.’
‘A solicitor?’
‘Her name’s Lilly,’ said Alexia.
‘Oh, yes, I know Lilly,’ he said. ‘She pops in almost every day to stock up on chocolate.’
‘She always did like her sweeties.’
‘Well, I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.’ He leaned across a pile of
Daily Mails.
‘Now I’m not one to gossip, but she’s been having a bit of trouble.’
‘Oh, dear,’ Alexia gasped. ‘I do hope she’s all right.’
The man tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it when you get there.’
‘I’ll do whatever I can to help,’ said Alexia. ‘Which reminds me. It’s been so long since my last visit, I wonder if you can point me in the right direction to her house.’
The room was supposed to be the informal chambers of the presiding judge, but to Lilly it felt no more relaxing than a library. Papers stood in neat piles, files proud in alphabetical order. The judge sat on the opposite side of his desk, hands clasped, as he glared at Lilly.
‘I must say, young lady, that in all my years on the bench I have never come across anything like this.’
Lilly bit her tongue. She hated being patronised but thought it might be better to let him get it off his chest.
‘I cannot understand how this happened.’
‘Well, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. I wasn’t used to it, you see,’ said Lilly.
The judge shook his head. ‘That, of course, is the crux of the matter. Lack of experience has brought you to this point, and I’m not sure it would be right of me to let you continue.’
Bloody hell, was he threatening to take away her driving licence? Could he even do that?
He leaned towards her, his eyes flashing. ‘People’s lives are at stake, young lady’
Oh, please. Lilly knew a lot of men had a thing about their cars, but wasn’t he over-egging the pudding?
‘I think, Your Honour, that if you look closely you’ll see that very little damage has been done. A minor incident, you might call it.’
The judge’s mouth opened and closed like a fish in a bucket. ‘Young lady, a life has been ruined.’
Something in Lilly snapped. This idiot had taken a dislike to her from the start, and now he was making some huge drama over a prang to his car.
‘With all due respect, Your Honour, I think you’re getting this entirely out of proportion. I’ve been driving for twenty years, and I’ll admit I’ve had my share of accidents.’
Jez coughed.
‘Okay,’ said Lilly. ‘Maybe more than average, but no one has ever been hurt. Except the boy I knocked off his moped—but I’d only just passed my test and it
was
dark.’
The judge was aghast.
‘To be honest, it was partly his fault because he was far too close to the white lines,’ Lilly continued. ‘But I accept that he broke his arm and that must have been inconvenient, because you can’t drive a moped when your arm’s in a sling, can you? So, hands up, that was my doing, but it wasn’t serious and his life wasn’t ruined or anything.’
‘Young lady…’
Lilly was desperate. She couldn’t afford a ban, not living in a village where there were only two buses a day.
‘The rest of the time it’s just been cars that I’ve hit.’ She was gabbling now. ‘And lampposts. And I once knocked down a fence.’
The judge’s face was scarlet. ‘Young lady!’
‘And I promise I will pay for all the damage.’
The judge slammed his fists down on the desk. ‘Young lady, could you kindly tell me what any of this has to do with the subject of your client’s bail?’
‘Bail?’
‘Indeed.’
‘We’re not talking about your Porsche then?’ she said.
‘The judge fixed Lilly with a steely eye. And why would we be discussing my car?’
‘Ah.’
She could only imagine the look on Jez’s face.
‘Well?’ said the judge.
Lilly took a deep breath. ‘I tapped your car. Nothing major, you understand.’
The judge seemed to be holding his breath.
‘But, as you said, Your Honour, we’re here to talk about life and death stuff, not tiny matters of car accidents.’
The judge clamped his jaw shut. Lilly could see the muscles on his mandibles working up and down. He still hadn’t taken a breath. She knew she was making matters worse but couldn’t stop herself. ‘So, what was it you wanted to know about Anna’s bail, Your Honour?’
‘I wanted to know how on earth we got to the point…’ The judge narrowed his eyes. ‘Tell me there’s not too much damage.’
Lilly made a small gap between her thumb and forefinger.
He winced. ‘How on earth we got to the point where the defendant is living with you.’
‘Oh, that?’
‘Yes, that.’
‘It was the only way, Your Honour,’ said Lilly.
‘The only way to do what?’
‘Keep her out of jail,’ said Lilly. ‘The magistrate would only give her bail with twenty-four-hour supervision.’
‘So you volunteered.’
Lilly nodded.
The judge sighed; the morning was clearly taking its toll. ‘The problem is, young lady, you can’t do it, can you?’
‘I admit it’s unusual,’ said Lilly. ‘But there’s no law against it.’
The judge put his head in his hands. ‘We are at crossed purposes again. And, before we spend another hour having two different conversations, let me make myself abundantly clear. I am not saying you have breached any rule by agreeing to supervise the defendant. I am simply saying it cannot be done as a matter of practicality.’
Lilly stuck out her bottom lip. ‘We’ve managed so far.’
‘If that is the case, perhaps you would be good enough to explain exactly where she is now.’