Scarred for Life (15 page)

‘You don’t have to do that. It’s your house – it’s only one night.’

Jessica led Bex down the stairs into the kitchen, where Adam was standing at the sink. His hair was messier than usual at the back, blown all ways by the wind on his walk from the bus stop to the house. He didn’t look around. ‘Christ, Jess, how much did you bloody eat?’ He turned to see the two women standing in the doorway. ‘Oh, er, sorry, I didn’t realise . . . I’m Adam.’

He stretched out a hand for Bex to shake but ended up holding it there uncomfortably as Bex almost hid behind Jessica.

‘Look at the state of you,’ Jessica said breezily, ‘she doesn’t want to shake your hand – you bloody stink. Go and have a shower and then maybe she’ll go within three feet of you.’

She caught Adam’s eye, telling him without words to let it pass. He sniffed his own armpits, grinned and apologised with a smile.

He really was good.

After pecking Jessica on the cheek, he was away, running up the stairs like a child on Christmas morning.

‘He seems nice,’ Bex said, emerging from behind Jessica.

‘He is. There are a lot of wankers out there but he’s all right. I don’t hang around with dickheads. Well, except the ones at work.’

‘I shouldn’t have been rude to him.’

‘It’s fine – if we’re really lucky, he might cook for us when he’s had a shower. That’s if you’re hungry yet.’

Bex grinned again.

In the living room, she asked where she was allowed to sit but Jessica said she could have her pick. She opted against the sofa (Jessica’s), instead choosing the recliner (Adam’s). Jessica even showed her where the catch was to make the seat slide backwards and footrest pop out. Suddenly, Bex’s dimples and grin were fixed.

‘It’s really nice in here,’ Bex said.

‘We were in a fire. A lot of our stuff was lost, so we had to replace it all. Almost everything is new – or newish. It’s nice but it takes more than that to make it a home.’ Jessica stood and crossed to the shelf underneath the television, picking up a pair of silver candlesticks. ‘Look at these – they belonged to Adam’s grandmother and survived the fire. We keep them on display to remind us that all this stuff might look nice but, ultimately, it only takes one stray match, one burst pipe, and it’s all gone. For whatever reason, these survived the fire – and so did Adam and I.’

Bex nodded, understanding.

Jessica persuaded Adam to make them tea by whispering in his ear that she’d do something for him that she hadn’t done in months. He then spent ten minutes telling them over lasagne and homemade chips exactly who the ThunderCats were because Bex had never heard of them. Jessica had listened to it all before and spent the entire lecture thinking he was inadvertently doing his best to talk himself out of partaking in that particular act after all. Somehow, after all that, Bex still managed to eat her way through a bagel (Adam’s) and, thankfully, a yoghurt (Adam’s).

The three of them spent the rest of the evening in front of the television watching a soap that Jessica
definitely
wasn’t secretly into and
definitely
didn’t know anything about, a documentary about animals, a quiz show and the news. Bex didn’t say a word throughout, she simply watched, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around herself. Once or twice, Jessica caught her eye and they exchanged a half-smile. There were so many questions she should ask – the girl was a stranger – and yet this wasn’t the time.

Jessica was resting on Adam’s shoulder feeling tired, when she felt her head being jarred and realised she had drifted off. ‘Jess,’ Adam whispered.

‘Uhnf, sorry.’ Jessica sat herself up, blinking, trying to wake up.

‘Bex is asleep.’ Jessica glanced across to the recliner where Bex had curled herself up like a cat and was wedged into the seat. ‘Shall I wake her?’ he added.

Jessica grabbed his arm as he started to move. ‘Not you. Go to bed and I’ll see you there.’ She kissed him on the forehead and waited until his footsteps finished clumping on the stairs, then she gently stroked Bex’s hair away from her face. The girl awoke with a jolt, a hand flashing out and grabbing Jessica’s wrist roughly.

‘Ow,’ Jessica said, grimacing.

Bex took a second to release her, eyes half-open. ‘Sorry, I thought . . .’

‘It’s bedtime.’

Bex uncurled herself, stretching her legs and stifling a yawn. ‘I can’t believe I fell asleep here.’

‘It’s comfy.’

‘I know but I’m usually so careful. You’ve got to be when—’

‘I get it.’

‘Are you going to be here in the morning?’

‘It depends what time you wake up.’ Jessica stood and crossed towards the shelf where the candlesticks were. She picked up a monkey ornament and turned it upside down, emptying a key into her hand. She gave it to Bex. ‘If you only want to stay one night, that’s up to you – but please don’t sleep on the streets again. That room is yours as long as you want it. Eat what you want, have a shower when you want. Adam and I have jobs so we won’t be here all the time but you’re a sensible girl – I know you are. If you know how to use a washer, then you can sort your clothes out. If not, there’s a basket in our bedroom. Just drop your things in there.’

Bex stared at the key in her palm for a couple of seconds before squeezing it into her pocket. ‘What do you want from me?’

Jessica shrugged, not having an answer.

They said goodnight at the top of the stairs and went their separate ways, Jessica sliding under the covers next to Adam and then fighting for what she claimed was her share of them – roughly two-thirds, according to him.

‘What’s her real name?’ Adam whispered, cradling an arm around her.

‘I don’t know; I assume Rebecca.’

‘Who is she?’

Jessica pushed herself up until she was sitting, messing the covers up again. ‘I know I shouldn’t just invite people here – it’s your house too – but . . .’

‘I trust you.’

‘. . . when we were at Piccadilly last week and you were busy moaning, I had my purse nicked.’

‘I remember.’

‘I wasn’t exactly honest with you. I was hoping to be robbed and left a note for the pickpocket.’

‘That was her?’

‘Yes – she’s homeless and that’s all she had to live on. Everyone assumes this kind of crime is done by gangs but the type of people they use would usually stand out in a train station. I figured it was somebody else doing it for a reason. I suppose I—’

‘You wanted to help.’

‘I guess.’

‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

‘No.’

Adam snorted and reached out to pull Jessica towards him again. Together they slid back down underneath the covers. ‘How old is she?’

‘She says seventeen – I don’t know.’

‘Is there someone you should call – social services or someone?’

‘If I do that, she’ll run. She’s not technically a child anyway.’

‘What do you want to happen?’

Jessica breathed deeply, cradling her head into his chest. ‘I really don’t know . . . sometimes it’s just nice not to be a bitch for a day.’

17

Jessica was awoken by Manchester’s usual soundtrack: it was pissing down. The rain clattered against the glass of their bedroom window, thundering off the roof, the pavement, driveway, car, everything – a melody that might as well be trademarked by the north-west of England. Adam’s sister, Georgia, had moved up from the south not too long ago. After a month, she’d asked Jessica if the weather was always this bad. That was during a particularly mild spell. If God truly had attempted to wipe humans from the face of the earth after giving Noah a cheeky tip-off, then it was as if he was still trying with Manchester.

Through the slit in between the door and the frame of their spare room, Jessica could see Bex folded up like origami on top of the covers, breathing deeply. Thank goodness she hadn’t been out in this overnight. Jessica was interrupted, jumping when Adam delicately touched the base of her back.

‘How is she?’ he whispered.

‘Sleeping.’

‘Good.’

Downstairs, they went about their business slightly more quietly than they did usually. Jessica clicked the toaster on and then checked the news on her phone.

First the BBC: some bollocks about London, as if everyone in the UK lived there; an article about the weather, because looking out of the window didn’t suffice; a yawn-fest about why people are living for longer. Is this what she paid a licence fee for?

The
Guardian
: something about politics; more about politics; something about America; more about America; a celebrity banging on about some cause. Boring.

The
Daily Mail
: a girl barely eighteen with her top off; an overweight woman berated for being too fat; someone else having the piss taken for being too thin; a photo of a monkey – isn’t that cute?; the royal family leeching their way around some colony Britain had once owned, grinning as the locals wondered who they were; something about why women hate themselves. Probably because they’re constantly having people point out that they’re too fat or thin, or having long-lens photographs of themselves without a top on being printed. Too depressing for this time of the morning.

The
Manchester Morning Herald
: oh shite.

Jessica sat in the supermarket cafe sipping orange juice and thinking about how soulless the place was. The clientele was a mixture of pensioners picking up their four-quid full-English breakfasts and single mums catching a quiet cappuccino before the chaos of their day kicked in again. The staff bustled between the tables, cleaning up and taking orders in their uncomfortable-looking uniforms. It wasn’t the people themselves Jessica found depressing, it was the fact that nobody really wanted to be there.

Or perhaps she was simply in a bad mood.

Garry Ashford slid into the seat across the table from her and plopped a copy of the
Manchester Morning Herald
in between them. ‘You buying?’ he asked.

‘You probably earn more than me.’

He grinned. ‘Shall we have an argument about whether journalists or police officers are paid the worst?’

Jessica stood and gave him an awkward half-hug. Were they mates? People who knew each other? Enemies? To a degree they were all three. She was a detective inspector, he was the
Herald
’s news editor. They shouldn’t really know, or like, each other – but they frequently seemed to be inexorably drawn to each other. If she was ever pinned down and waterboarded, Jessica might even admit that she liked him. Sort of.

‘Every time I see you, you’ve got different hair,’ Jessica said. On the last occasion she’d seen him, he’d been unshaven and his hair had grown scraggily to his ears. Now it was short again, sensible. He was even dressed quite smartly in a suit that almost fitted him, not the retro cords he usually wore. ‘Oh, I get it,’ Jessica added. ‘Mrs Ashford’s been on your case, hasn’t she? The wedding’s coming up and she doesn’t want you looking as scruffy as you usually do. Sensible woman; she’s growing on me.’

‘It was my choice actually – and as I keep telling you, she’s not
Mrs
Ashford. Well, not yet.’ He paused, before adding: ‘Come on then, let’s have it.’

‘What?’

‘The usual cracks – something about her having cataracts or a mental disorder because that’s the only reason she would be interested in me.’

‘Pfft, as if I’d still be recycling all the same jokes. Who do you think you’re talking to?’

Garry raised his eyebrows and nodded at the newspaper between them. ‘I know who I’m talking to.’

‘Fine – but I hope you appreciate this one, I spent the entire car journey here thinking of it.’

‘Let’s hear it then.’

‘You told me before you’ve invited over a hundred people to the wedding, but how are you going to fit them all into the venue?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if you’ve got her chained in the basement, there can’t be much room . . .’

Garry rolled his eyes. ‘Your jokes are getting worse – and I use the word “jokes” loosely.’ He paused to pick through the menu and then went to the counter to order himself a sausage sandwich.

When he sat again, he opened out the paper, showing the large ‘AUTUMN HAZE’ headline.

‘You do know it’s winter, don’t you?’ Jessica said, pointing at it.

‘November’s one of those months – a bit of autumn, a bit of winter. Besides, I think the “haze” word is the more important one.’

Jessica had read it on her phone before asking Garry out for breakfast. The article was chapter and verse on Holden Wyatt – how he had initiated the new members, the things he’d admitted to in the interview with her, insinuations that the death of Damon Potter could be linked to hell week, as could the hypothermia case from the previous year.

‘You said you had new information,’ Garry added.

‘You could say that . . .’

‘Oh . . . you’ve not brought me here to try to bollock me again, have you? It’s a solid story.’

‘You must know it’s going to prejudice his trial?’

‘The lawyers said it was fine – he’s not been charged yet.’

Initially, Jessica had thought Holden would be in court this morning, charged with the assaults. Cole had even told her as much – but the decision had been made by someone to keep him in custody and continue questioning him about Damon’s death, then they could talk to the CPS about what to charge him with. Jessica was out of the loop either way.

‘Oh, well, that’s all right then,’ Jessica shot back. ‘A prick in a suit signs it off and some lad ends up going down for something he’s not done.’

‘Are you saying he didn’t take part in any of those initiation rituals?’

Jessica didn’t have time to reply before the waitress came over with Garry’s sandwich. He squeezed three packets’ worth of brown sauce – good choice – onto it and took a bite.

‘I’m going to tell you something here I shouldn’t,’ Jessica said, watching him eat. ‘Everything you’ve printed is true.’

Garry’s eyes widened – he hadn’t expected that. ‘Are you praising something we did?’ he asked.

‘Let’s not go that far. My point isn’t that any of it is wrong; it’s that people are going to put two and two together and get five. Yes, he admitted to those initiations – although I’m not confirming that on the record – but that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with Damon’s death. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t – that’s what we’re going to spend our time trying to figure out. You’ve put the two side by side and made it look like they’re connected – he’s not been charged with the assaults yet, let alone anything else.’