Dead Silent (31 page)

‘Would we want them as witnesses, these prostitutes?’ Thomas said.

Laura raised her eyebrows. ‘In a murder case, you take any witness you’ve got, and prostitutes tend to be good ones.’ When Thomas looked confused, Laura explained. ‘The courtroom doesn’t frighten them. If the defence barrister is a
woman, any attempt to browbeat them makes the lawyer look like a bully picking on someone who’s had fewer life chances. The jurors start to see them as people, not just prostitutes, so they get an easy ride from the female barristers, just to keep them from losing the jury.’

‘And the male barristers?’

‘The street girls just treat them with contempt. Remember that they’ve usually spent years grubbing around in the front passenger seats of other people’s cars, and so the pompous arsehole in the wig is just another pervert to them, upstanding one minute, panting dirty the next. No, there’s nothing wrong with people like that as witnesses, because they’ll tell their stories in blunt and simple terms, and juries like that.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘I thought I knew about stuff,’ he said, ‘but there’s so much more to all this.’

‘You’ll pick it up, don’t worry.’

‘So, what do you think?’ Thomas asked.

‘It’s a sad case,’ Laura replied. ‘Beyond that, I have no idea.’

‘But she was a prostitute,’ Thomas said. ‘She was always going to be a magnet for weirdos, and then one day, boom, she meets the biggest one of all.’

Laura looked at Thomas and saw his naivety and prejudice.

‘So we write it off, do we, just a bad day at the office?’ she said, her eyes wide, questioning. ‘You’ll meet some lowlifes doing this job, but never stop seeing them as people. That’s not a popular view, but it will save you, if you remember it.’

Thomas blushed an apology. ‘What do you mean, save me?’

‘Police marriages fail,’ Laura said, ‘but you can forget all that crap about the bad hours. We’re not the only job with shift patterns. No, it’s because too many coppers stop being human and become rigid in how they see people, where
everything is either right or wrong, and only one side is acceptable, so life becomes one big judgement. That’s why marriages fail, because not everyone can be perfect, no one can do the right thing all the time—and who wants to live their lives being judged?’ Laura shook her head. ‘Not me.’

‘What’s that got to do with a dead prostitute?’

‘Because you’re judging her, that’s why, and if you do that you won’t catch her killer, because you won’t care enough.’ She pointed towards the crime scene. ‘Someone’s daughter died on that patch of concrete. Remember that.’

Thomas looked down and said eventually, ‘I’m sorry.’

Laura sighed as she looked at him, saw how young he was. ‘Don’t be sorry,’ she said. ‘Just remember it.’

Laura looked back to the murder scene. She didn’t like this, the hanging around, her legs too warm in uncomfortable black trousers and her shirt sticking to her back, the jangle of her equipment belt acting as a soundtrack to her day. She had seen the excitement in the station that morning as she had crossed the atrium, new murders always brought it, the canteen buzzing with chatter at the sight of the out-of-town detectives in their crisp pastel shirts and bright ties.

Laura knew that she should be feeling better about the day, the memory of Rachel’s slump into drunkenness bringing the crinkle of a smile to her lips, but her lack of involvement was hurting her. She couldn’t understand why she had to do less of the work she was best at—detecting serious crimes—in order to move higher in the ranks. Instead, Laura was having to mentor blushing young constables and wander the streets of Blackley, waiting to be approached. She wanted to be a part of the investigation, and that’s why she was frustrated.

But then she saw something out of the corner of her eye, just a hint that someone wanted to speak to her.

There was a young woman on the other side of the road in a dirty old tracksuit, her cheeks flushed and bloated by booze, her stomach drooping over her waistband. She was edgy—Laura had seen that look before, as if the woman wanted to catch Laura’s attention but didn’t want to be seen to be talking to the police. She kept on turning towards Laura, her arms folded across her chest, glancing around.

Laura nodded towards her and then said to Thomas, ‘Keep an eye on her.’

As I drove over to Frankie’s house, I thought back to the meeting with Mike Dobson. I knew I had spooked him. Whether something went in a story, true or not, often depended on whether someone could afford to challenge it. Headlines sell papers, not the retractions and apologies tucked away on the inside pages. On the other hand, having an affair didn’t make him guilty of murder, so I had decided to leave him for now and see if Frankie had been released by the police.

As I parked the car and walked towards the house, I could hear banging and shouting, like someone breaking furniture, and there was a noise like high-pitched screaming.

I ran for the front door and saw that it was ajar. The noise stopped as I drew near. I knocked hard but there was no answer. I pushed at the door and it opened slowly, creaking, the only sound in the house.

‘Frankie?’ I shouted.

No response.

I stepped into the hall, again screwing up my nose at the smell. I glanced into the front room, at the bags piled high against the wall, but there was no one else there. So where had the shrieks come from?

I backed out of the room and looked up the stairs.

‘Frankie?’ I shouted again, but still nothing.

The first step creaked as I stepped onto it, and the sound seemed loud in the hallway. I looked upwards. It was dark, and I thought about turning back, but I already knew what I would do: I would go after the story.

I began to walk upwards, stepping slowly, listening out for any quick movements. There was nothing, just the noise of my shoes on the carpet and the occasional groan of the stairs beneath my feet. When I turned onto the landing and saw the next set of stairs ahead, I wondered how far I should go up. There was no one downstairs and so if Frankie appeared now, I could still make an escape if things turned nasty.

I began to walk slowly along the landing. The light from the open door at the front of the house faded, and I started to see movement in the shadows, just shades of black shifting in the half-light. Something was wrong. I could sense it in my shallow breaths and the clamminess of my hands, leaving sweat marks on the landing rail.

I walked past the door to Frankie’s mother’s room, and again I saw the pink glow coming from underneath, the immaculate memorial to the most important woman in his life. The door was closed.

I had reached the bottom of the second flight of stairs, and was about to step onto them, when I heard something.

I turned around quickly, trying to pin down the source of the noise. It was a low mutter, like someone talking to themselves. It wasn’t coming from the top floor.

I moved along the landing, trying to work out the source of the murmurs, my feet soft on the carpet, my hearing keen. I had taken just two steps before I reached the door to Frankie’s mother’s room again. I listened intently. The noises were coming from the room.

I turned the door handle slowly and gave the door a light push. As it swung open, it bathed the gloom of the landing in soft pink light. As I looked in, I gasped.

The room had been trashed. The pictures on the dresser had been thrown onto the floor and there were glass fragments where the frames had broken. The sheets had been ripped from the bed and were strewn on the floor. The framed pictures on the wall were askew, the glass shattered in the frames, and old clothes had been scattered around the room.

And right in the middle of it all sat Frankie, his arms wrapped round a photograph frame. He was looking at the floor, and I could see tears streaming down his face.

‘Frankie, what’s wrong?’ I said. ‘Who did this?’

He looked up slowly, and as he saw me he glowered.

‘What do you want?’ he shouted.

‘I wanted to make sure you were all right,’ I said.

‘You took my pictures,’ he said, and he sounded angry, the words snapping at me.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and then I nodded. ‘Yes, I did. I’m sorry.’ I knelt down so that my gaze was level with his. ‘I meant to bring them back. I was only borrowing them.’ I looked around the room. ‘Tell me, Frankie, who did this?’

Frankie shook his head, and then I saw where the skin had been scraped from his knuckles.

‘You
did it?’ I said, surprised.

Frankie looked down and then got slowly to his feet. He looked around the room. The picture he was holding tumbled slowly from his grasp and hit the floor. I could see the blood on his hand, the small slashes where he had caught his skin on the broken picture frames. He didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he began to turn around, his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide, taking in the damage to the room, his special place.

‘They’re coming back,’ he whispered to himself, tears running down his cheeks again.

I reached out and put my hand on his arm. ‘Who’s coming back?’

He shook his head. ‘She was right. I shouldn’t have spoken to you.’

‘Frankie, stop this. Who do you mean?’

He shook his head, and then he looked at me, his gaze direct now, his face betraying his anger. ‘Go now!’

‘Tell me first,’ I said, backing towards the door.

He kept on coming towards me. ‘Out. Please go.’

I held out my hands, to appease him. ‘Just speak to me.’

He shook his head again, but more wildly this time, his anger replaced by distress. ‘They’re coming again.’

Laura’s instinct was right—the young woman who had been watching them before was more than just curious. After an hour of loitering and then walking away before coming back to the same spot, she eventually made her way across the road to where Laura was standing. She glanced around as she walked, her arms folded, a cigarette squeezed between her fingers, her nails dirty and brown.

‘Did she suffer much?’ she began, her voice hesitant.

‘Who?’ Laura asked, checking to see whether she was being more than merely ghoulish.

‘Hazel,’ she said. ‘I knew her.’

‘She was a street girl,’ Laura said, watching her carefully. ‘How about you?’

The woman looked away and took a pull on her cigarette. ‘Sometimes,’ she said.

Laura smiled and wished that she could convince her that she had no need to be ashamed, that just because Laura didn’t sell her body meant that there were no desperate circumstances in which she wouldn’t consider it.

‘Were you working last night?’ Laura asked.

The woman looked back at Laura and chewed on her index finger. The smoke trails from her cigarette made Laura
instinctively want to step back, but she had to stay close, not give the woman the chance to walk away.

‘This is just between me and you, right? I mean, if they find out I was working, they’ll take my kids off me. I had to leave them in, but I had no money. If this doesn’t stay secret, I’m not talking.’

‘I can’t promise that,’ Laura said. ‘But if we don’t catch him, you might be next, and your kids might end up without a mother. Which would be worse?’

The woman’s face hardened as she thought this over, and then she took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I was working,’ she said. ‘I saw her go off with someone.’

‘Who?’

The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t know his name, but he drives round here a lot and sometimes takes Hazel. He must have had something for her.’

‘What did he look like?’ Laura asked, her hand going to her radio, so that she could call it in straight away.

‘Like they all do,’ she said. ‘A bit ashamed, making out like they ended up here by accident, but really hungry too, desperate for anything.’

‘Age?’

‘Fifties.’

‘White, black, Asian?’

‘White, going bald up top, a bit fat around the face.’

‘Car?’

‘Merc, gold.’

Laura flashed a look at Thomas; he had heard the description and was just about to blurt something out when Laura gave him a small shake of the head. No name, not yet.

‘Would you recognise him again?’ Laura asked.

The woman shrugged and then nodded. ‘Yeah, I reckon so.’

Laura pulled her radio towards her mouth and pressed the call button.

Mike Dobson couldn’t concentrate on the sale. The reporter’s visit was too fresh in his mind. It had been his secret for more than twenty-two years. Why now, so soon after the cop’s visit? Things were starting to pull together, and the panic clawed at him.

He looked at the old woman. She had called him to her house, some free quote promotion they were running, but he knew she had stopped listening. Or maybe he had stopped talking? He had been there for thirty minutes, tried some of the tricks on autopilot—the charm, the fake discount that took it to the real price—but his mind kept on drifting. He heard a bang, a fist on wood, and he thought someone else must have entered the room. He looked around. There was no one there. The old woman was ignoring him now, watching the television that had been playing constantly in the corner of the room.

She was flicking through the channels, then she hit the local news, and settled in her chair.

Mike had started to load his bag with his samples when he heard Blackley mentioned. He looked up and saw a scene that he recognised, a scrap of concrete punctured by grass in the shadow of the old viaduct. Blue and white crime scene tape was stretched across the pavement, and two police officers
stood nearby, on guard. There was a shot of a young woman putting some flowers by a lamp post, the blooms bright and incongruous against the drab concrete and brick.

His stomach took a roll. He had been there the night before. He looked down at his hands and saw the sample of plastic guttering quiver in his hand. His tongue felt large and dry in his mouth.

Then her photograph came up on the screen. It was the girl from the night before. She looked happy in the photograph, which must have been taken before the drugs had scarred her, but he recognised her all the same.