Scarred for Life (22 page)

Bex pulled the blanket tighter under her chin, leaving one bony arm sticking out, clutching her mug. ‘I used to think she was ill because there were needles everywhere. She’d say they were because she was feeling poorly but you don’t know any differently when you’re a kid. If I ever asked about my dad, she’d get furious, saying he was no good and that I shouldn’t worry about him. Then I’d have all these “uncles”. There was always someone there.’

She paused, then added: ‘When you’re a kid, you think normal is what’s in front of you.’

So young, so wise.

‘How long have you been on the streets?’

‘I don’t really know – a couple of years, maybe? When I was a kid I really enjoyed school but there was never any pressure from home to do well and when I got a bit older I started hanging around with the wrong people. We’d bunk off, smoke in the park, see if we could get some booze. No one said anything, so we just kept doing it. Then Mum started seeing this bloke named Stu. By then, I pretty much knew what was going on with the needles and so on but it was normal. I was still sleeping at home and this one night I woke up and he was just
there
at the bottom of my bed, watching.’

Jessica gurgled a noise of revulsion, not knowing what to say.

‘He didn’t say anything but he was . . . well, you can guess.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘And how old are you now?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I started screaming at him, telling him to get away.’

‘Did he?’

‘He turned around and walked out of my room as if nothing was wrong but I’d woken up my mum by shouting. She came stumbling in from her room, screaming back – wanting to know why I’d woken her up. I was telling her what Stu was doing at the bottom of my bed but she shrugged and asked what the problem was.’

Jessica couldn’t stop herself: ‘No . . .’

Bex took another biscuit and crunched into it. ‘I spent the rest of the night sleeping up against the door and then the next day I packed all the clothes I had into a bag and left. I knew the parks pretty well and there was usually an unlocked toilet or a pagoda somewhere. During the summer, it’s not too bad . . . well, it’s not great but it’s not the worst. But then it was winter.’

‘What did you do?’

‘You get into the hostel where you can. Sometimes the woman on the desk lets you in but other times, when they have a bunch of people in, you have to pay. When you need eight quid a day for a roof, you become pretty good at figuring out the types of people who are a bit careless with their wallets.’

‘You did that for two years?’

Bex finished the biscuit and put her mug on the floor, curling herself up entirely under the blanket and edging closer to Jessica. She seemed more childlike than ever. ‘More or less. There are always blokes saying they’ll do this or that to help you but it’s pretty easy to figure out what they actually want.’

Jessica felt the need to defend Adam. ‘Not everyone’s like that.’

‘Maybe . . .’

‘Why did you decide to come here?’

Bex yawned widely. ‘I don’t know – why did you invite me?’

The yawn was infectious and Jessica found herself trying, and failing, to stifle one herself. ‘I don’t know . . . instinct.’

Bex indicated the sofa and Jessica’s sleeping arrangement: ‘Are you and Adam going to be okay?’

‘Yes; it’s just the job.’

‘Are you going to have to choose between being a police officer, Adam, and children?’

Jessica couldn’t look her in the eye. ‘Not yet.’

26

Jessica and DC Archie Davey spent the morning trapped in what would have looked to outsiders like an elaborate yawning competition. Jessica didn’t want to spend time in her office in case DCI Cole came looking for her, so, instead, they holed up in the back corner of the canteen – somewhere neither he, nor anyone with intestinal problems or taste buds, would go anywhere near. Archie complained that the job was taking a toll on his social life but Jessica could do little other than laugh and yawn. ‘Get used to that,’ she advised.

Hamish had been kept in overnight while his story was checked out. The first-hand sighting at the massage parlour was as much of an alibi as they were going to get and there wasn’t much desire to haul all the girls in for interview. Sandra had likely been right about one thing – off-duty officers
would
be known faces at some of those establishments, and in a model of mutually assured destruction conducted through the media, the police would come off worse if they caused too many problems.

For the most part, the massage parlours weren’t the problem anyway – the girls who worked there knew what they were doing and the blokes who lumbered in on the way home from work knew what they were paying for. Sandra knew that too: if she and her girls didn’t create a problem, then they wouldn’t get one, even if the books might struggle to hold up to the closest scrutiny. It was the people-smuggling that GMP’s Serious Crime Division was desperate to get a handle on – mainly of Eastern European girls – but if they were going to close that down, then leaving a safe alternative was probably for the best too. It was on the borderline of legality but it served most people’s interests to leave it be. Well, unless you lived next door to one – and then you were screwed either way. Literally, if that was your thing.

That left Jessica with a problem, because if Hamish wasn’t driving his cab in the area Cassie and Grace had disappeared from, then who was? He insisted it had been left on his driveway while he’d gone for a walk to Sandra’s. He’d spent two hours – and a hefty chunk of change, no doubt – at the parlour and then headed home. Because of the shift Arianna worked, Sandra had practically been able to give them a clocking-in and -out time for Hamish’s appearances, ruling him out of killing either woman. He said that his cab was exactly where he’d left it when he got home and that, although he hadn’t checked in the evenings, the keys were still on the table where he’d left them by the next morning.

That left them with two options:

1) Someone had broken into Hamish’s house, stolen his keys, stolen the cab, picked up both women, beaten, killed, cut up and dumped them – all without making a mess in the vehicle, then returned the taxi and keys unnoticed, possibly simultaneously inventing a time machine; or

2) Somebody had cloned his number plate.

Option one was unlikely; option two left them trying to track down all the black cabs in the city, close to the city and possibly any others that had been bought second-hand and stored in a garage for what could have been years. For now, as the full list of anyone with a licensed Hackney cab within a fifty-mile radius was put together, they could do little else other than hope their number plate recognition system flagged up that particular plate in a place where it wasn’t Hamish going about his daily business.

After deciding there was nowhere in the station she could get away with catching half an hour’s sleep, Jessica found Rowlands on the main floor.

‘Any luck with that symbol?’ she asked.

Dave started typing on his keyboard and then pointed to the screen.

‘Why are you showing me rugby players’ thighs?’ Jessica asked, peering closely at the screen. ‘I’m not complaining – I just didn’t realise this was what you spent your days looking at.’

‘This is the Wales rugby team,’ Dave replied.

‘That guy looks like he sleeps in a ditch,’ Jessica said, pointing at one of the hairier players.

‘I thought you might be more interested in the badge.’

Dave zoomed in on one of the players’ jerseys until the image appeared of three feathers arching in a similar pattern to the one on the corner of Jessica’s envelope.

Jessica stared closely at the screen but shook her head. ‘That’s not it.’

‘I know. When you first showed me it, I thought it reminded me of something but I was wrong – it was only this. This is the Prince of Wales’ crest – it’s close but not the same.’

‘If the Prince of Wales is stalking me, he can sod right off.’

Before Jessica could start to list the ways the royal family annoyed her, her phone rang with an unregistered number. She quickly thanked Dave and hurried towards the corner, phone at her ear.

‘If this is double glazing, then I’m not interested.’

There was a confused male voice at the other end: ‘Huh?’

‘I said . . . forget it. Hello.’

‘Jess?’

‘Yes, who’s calling?’

‘It’s Garry. Can we meet – usual place as soon as you can?’

Jessica checked her watch: ten past eleven. Early lunch it was.

For the third day in a row, Jessica surveyed the scene of the supermarket cafe. Pensioners: yep. Single parents: yep. Bored-looking assistants: yep. Half-asleep copper and journalist who looked like he’d had a near-death experience huddled around a table looking sorry for themselves: yep.

Jessica had gone for three espressos, with a Danish and vanilla slice on the side. Added to the chocolate biscuits at three in the morning, this was a new high for sugar intake before midday. As she returned to the table, Garry groaned, closing his eyes and turning to stare out of the window.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Jessica asked.

‘I can’t even look at food this morning.’

Jessica dangled the pecan Danish in front of his face. ‘Sure you don’t want a bite?’

‘Bleugh. I knew I shouldn’t have come out this early.’

‘Did Mrs Ashford keep you up with her arthritis?’

Garry turned back to Jessica, almost focusing on her but not quite. ‘One day, you’re going to meet her and then you’re going to have to take all this back.’

Jessica downed the first espresso and took a bite of the cake. ‘Whatever – why are we here for a third day running? The staff are going to think we’re having an affair. That might be something that raises you in their eyes but what about my reputation? They’re going to think I’m having a breakdown.’

‘I was on the lash last night.’

‘You called me here to tell me that?’

Garry shook his head but his bottom lip was hanging limply and his eyes were slits. ‘I’m too old for this. I remember being at uni and we’d go out through the night, sleep for two hours and then roll up to lectures as if nothing was wrong. Now I can barely get through the afternoon without needing a kip.’

‘You’re younger than me!’

‘Ugh. Anyway, I went out with the editor last night. Like I said, he’s been brought in from down south and doesn’t really know anyone. Everyone’s been saying for months that someone should make friends with him – actually go out with him, find out what he’s all about – that kind of thing.’

‘So the pair of you were out and about in town, being turned down by numerous women – then what happened?’

Garry didn’t even have the good grace to smile. ‘It wasn’t like that. I didn’t want to risk being out with the boss, so we went to this dive out Eccles way.’

‘Bloody hell, what were you thinking?’

‘Evidently I
wasn’t
thinking. I’ve been in some rough places when I was a student in Liverpool but they were nothing. The barmaid had a baby in one arm and was pulling pints with the other, there was a fight on the other side of the bar, and I’m pretty sure the stain on the carpet by my feet was blood, not red wine.’

Jessica nodded in agreement. ‘It’s not really a red wine kind of area. Why did you go there?’

‘For you! You had me thinking there was something going on and I knew the only way I’d be able to get the editor talking was if I got him laryxed. I didn’t want to be seen dead with him in the city centre and if I was going to be buying drinks all night, then it had to be somewhere cheap – so we had a quick half down this side street off Deansgate, where I didn’t think anyone would notice, then we got a bus.’

‘Aww, and you got hammered just for me? You’re so sweet.’

‘Anyway, for every pint of cheap lager I had, I was ordering him a pint of this local ale that’s about eight per cent. After three drinks, he could barely say his own name. Mind you, I wasn’t much better – I can’t remember the last time I was on the beer.’

‘Were you at least sober enough to ask him who phoned and asked him to change the front page?’

‘I’m getting to that.’

Garry paused to wipe strands of sweat-drenched hair away from his forehead.

Jessica downed her second espresso. ‘You really don’t look well.’

‘Moonlighting as a doctor, are we?’

‘I’ve had the odd alcoholic beverage in my time.’

Garry downed the rest of a glass of water – the only thing he’d attempted to eat or drink – and then rubbed his eyes. When he spoke again, his tone was lower, more serious. ‘This is a big thing for me.’

‘What is?’

‘I’ve never broken a source. It’s one of the biggest things in this job, like a doctor or a lawyer with their confidentiality – you have to keep your sources.’

‘Anything you tell me will stay between us.’

‘Promise?’

‘Of course.’

‘The person who called to talk about our front page is the same person who leaked the initial story about Holden Wyatt to our reporter. I asked what was talked about but the editor said there were no threats, just that he was told we’d get a lot more cooperation on all sorts of fronts if we could do a favour.’

‘Do you do many favours?’

Garry shrugged. ‘More than you might think – usually it involves PR companies who ask if we can be nice about something in return for access to a celebrity or two. Sometimes the council tries to get a bit smart. It shouldn’t really happen but it’s hard to stop. You and me have had
agreements
in the past, haven’t we?’

That was one way to put it.

‘Who made the call?’

Garry reached across and touched Jessica’s third and final espresso. ‘Can I have this?’

‘Go for it.’

Garry drank the coffee in one go and breathed out deeply. ‘I need to know you’re going to look after me if it comes down to it – I’m getting married; I’ve got a life.’

‘You can trust me.’

Garry gulped and then finally said the name. ‘It was Graham Pomeroy.’

Jessica paused, breathing through her nose, repeating the name in her mind. ‘. . . As in
Assistant Chief Constable
Graham Pomeroy?’