Scarred for Life (34 page)

‘. . . the council’s head of planning, Declan Grainger, 49, said: “This is a momentous day for the city of Manchester . . .”’

The article had been written nine months ago, which meant the council’s head of planning and the person to whom he’d awarded a ten-million-plus contract were the same age. So was the owner of a golf club whose car had followed her. So was Assistant Chief Constable Graham Pomeroy.

Hmm.

Jessica kept reading. There were a lot of boring details about the number of houses that would be built and the new roads that would be needed, something from the Housing Secretary, a quote from the chamber of commerce – and then the line that made Jessica’s eyes nearly pop out of her head:

‘. . . Mr Bunce, who has worked on projects across the region, said this development would have a special meaning for him because it would involve converting the site of his old school. He said: “St Flora’s is where I spent my formative years . . .”’

Hmm.

Not wanting to use her computer just in case, Jessica took out her phone and searched for St Flora. There was a bit about being the patron saint of the abandoned, that she was born in France, lived in Jerusalem, and that she was a virgin. Jessica wondered how many other people through history would have that as part of their epitaph. Was it really something to gloat about? She knew a few kids at her old school who could likely claim that all these years later, but it was unlikely to be through choice.

Jessica kept digging and found out that ‘Flora’ was originally a Latin word, relating to the Roman goddess of flowers. Those pesky Italians had a god and goddess for everything, though that didn’t particularly help until she began searching for other translations of the word ‘flower’.

Blomst
,
virág
,
fiore
,
gėlė
,
kwiat
,
cvet
,
flor
, something . . . Japanese. Jessica even checked the Welsh translation:
blodeuyn
– as if anyone pretended it was a real language.

And then she saw the French word:
fleur
. For a reason she didn’t know, Jessica clicked on the image search. There were a dozen images of flowers and then the one that was on the corner of the envelope put through her door.

The fleur-de-lis was a symbol that had three prongs; one curled to the left, one went straight up, one curled to the right. At the bottom was a small loop holding the strands together, making it look like some sort of sheaf.

As Archie might say: bingo.

41

Jessica continued staring at the logo. It was no wonder it seemed vaguely familiar to Dave – it was apparently a team badge for an American football team, originally coming from the French royal family. She knew nothing about either of those things and assumed he had seen it on the jerseys of the glorified rugby players, as opposed to having an in-depth knowledge of the French aristocracy.

Knowing that doing her job with the minimum of fuss was the best way to not be noticed, Jessica put through the paperwork relating to Kylie’s attack on Michael. Despite what she’d told Michael, the CPS would likely prosecute anyway – they had the medical evidence and a pair of statements, so witness or no witness there was little chance they were going to lose the case. Start flashing around photographs to a jury or magistrate of Michael’s hairy arse with a fork impaled in it and you were going to ensure two things:

1) Laughter, definitely in private, perhaps in public.

2) Sympathy for the victim and a conviction.

Everyone could empathise with that type of injury because everyone knew what sitting down entailed. Kylie had been bailed to appear back at the station later in the afternoon where she’d be told her fate.

For now, Jessica had at least ninety minutes to kill. She hurried out of the side door of the station in an effort to avoid Fat Pat knowing where she was, and then looped around to the front gate, onto Stockport Road, walking across the street and into Ali’s News.

Jessica whipped her identification out of her pocket and handed it to the young Asian man behind the counter. ‘Do you have a phone?’

He examined the card, turning it upside down and over, before handing it back. ‘You wanna buy a mobile?’

‘No – have you got a payphone?’

‘No one has payphones nowadays, lady. What year do you think it is?’

‘Do you have a phone at all in the back?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I use that?’

The lad scratched his head uncertainly. ‘The manager’s told me not to use it.’

‘Yes, but I’m not you.’

‘Don’t you have a mobile?’

‘Out of battery. It’s an emergency.’

‘Er, I don’t know, lady . . .’

Jessica took a five-pound note out of her pocket. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

He looked at the cash, then Jessica, then the cash again before snatching it. ‘Cheers, I was only expecting a quid.’

He lifted the counter for Jessica to duck underneath and then led her into a back room packed with boxes of chocolate bars, crisps and fizzy drinks. When she had been eight, this was her dream. It pretty much still was.

The young man pointed at a light brown phone attached the wall. ‘You have to dial nine first.’

When she was alone, Jessica fished out her mobile, found Garry Ashford’s number, and then pressed it into the phone on the wall.

‘Hello.’

‘Garry, it’s Jess.’

‘What happened to your number?’

‘I’m being careful – listen, I’ve got some names for you. Have you got a pen?’

‘We meet one time when I don’t have a pen and you spend the rest of eternity banging on about it.’

Jessica smiled. ‘All right, fine: Graham Pomeroy, Freddy Bunce, Logan Walkden and Declan Grainger. Can you see if you’ve got anything in your archive connecting them to a school named St Flora’s?’

‘Our archive’s awful.’

‘I know, I’ve seen it, remember – but you’ll still have more chance than me. You might be able to find something online but I’ve been struggling.’

‘I’ll see what I can do but I am actually busy.’

‘We all are. Just one thing – if you need to call me, don’t go direct. Figure something else out.’

‘Are you going to tell me why?’

‘Not yet – trust me, if you spot a link, you’ll see it yourself.’

Jessica hung up, thought about nicking a bar of chocolate, reminded herself how old she was – and what job she did – then headed back into the main part of the shop.

The young man had a set of earbuds in and was merrily drumming away on the counter top until he spotted her. ‘All sorted?’

‘Yep.’

At that moment, Jessica’s mobile sprang to life. She delved into her pocket, removing it with an apologetic look of fake confusion. ‘Sorry, it must have had some charge after all.’

The call was from a local number she didn’t know and Jessica answered it as she headed through the door back out onto the dank, grey street.

It was a woman’s voice: ‘Hello, is that Ms, er, Jessica Daniels?’

‘Daniel. No “s”. Loads of people get it wrong.’

‘Right – and you’re a police officer?’

‘Allegedly.’

‘Right, it’s just that I work at City Magistrates’ Court and there’s someone here who’s given us your name and number.’

42

Jessica took a CID car from the station and headed across the city to the magistrates’ court at the back of Deansgate. The person who had called didn’t seem to know too many details, simply that Jessica’s name had been mentioned in court and that the members of the bench had requested her presence if it was at all convenient.

If an officer was due to give evidence, it would be worked into their rota – often a half-day, no less. If your case was up first, you could get in, read from your notebook, try not to sound like too much of a prat, and then sit at the back of court hoping the thieving/abusive/stupid criminal you’d nicked actually got done for it. If you were
really
lucky, you’d get a quick turnaround and then you were left with a couple of hours to slowly make your way back to the station via the nearest all-day breakfast place. If you weren’t so blessed, your case would be on last and you’d spend six hours sitting in a court foyer twiddling your thumbs while being eyed by a parade of scroats waiting for their moment of justice.

Jessica hadn’t been notified of any court dates, but the reason soon became apparent as she entered the foyer and showed her identification. The usher led Jessica along a corridor.

He seemed particularly giddy: ‘To be honest, none of us thought you were a real person.’

‘Sorry?’

‘We all thought it was a ploy to keep herself out of protective custody. You see it all the time.’

‘I’m sorry; I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Oh, right, well I suppose we’re here now anyway.’

The usher indicated a wood-panelled door in front of them, knocking twice before opening it for Jessica. As he retreated, she stood in the doorway looking at the two people sitting at a table. One was clearly a duty solicitor: smartish suit that wasn’t as expensive as anything the defence lawyers wore, slightly crooked tie, gently scuffed shoes.

The other was Bex.

She was hugging her knees into herself, backpack on the floor next to her, dark hair scraped away from her face into a ponytail. ‘Hello,’ Bex said quietly, not quite meeting Jessica’s eye.

The previous evening, Bex had been arrested in the city centre after trying to pick the wrong pocket. The former head of inner-city policing for London’s Met police was in town to visit his daughter at university and Bex had been caught trying to lift his wallet on the street outside Victoria Station. He frogmarched her to a nearby police officer on duty at the Manchester Arena, gave his statement, and then carried on his business.

Miraculously, Bex had no criminal record. The youth court magistrates were happy to release her with little more than a slap on the wrist – except that she was unable to provide an address of where she could stay. After speculating that they would send her to what amounted to a children’s home for her own good, Bex had coughed up Jessica’s details.

And so it was that Jessica was called into the court to say that she would be only too happy to give Bex a roof to sleep under. Given her position within the force, they hadn’t thought twice before releasing the teenager.

The journey back to Jessica’s house was a quiet affair. The only thing Jessica said was that she wouldn’t allow the knife into her house. Bex said she’d ditched it while the policeman who’d arrested her was looking the other way – which was probably sensible given that she would have received a proper sentence had that been discovered in her bag.

Inside the house Jessica took Bex up to the spare bedroom. The girl dropped her bag on the floor and lay on the bed. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

Jessica thought about being angry, asking where she’d been and lecturing her on how close she’d come to being locked up – but it wasn’t the time. ‘It’s fine,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry for bringing up the missing candlesticks.’

‘I didn’t take them.’

‘I know. I knew that then – we found them.’

‘Where?’

‘In the bins outside.’

‘Why were they there?’

‘We don’t know.’

Bex pushed herself up on the bed until she was sitting. She was wearing three or four layers of clothing but still seemed tiny. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do I – there’s been something going on. Someone went through our rubbish and graffitied my car. We think they might have broken in and gone through our things. We don’t know.’

‘What did they write on your car?’

It might not have been most people’s first question, but it would have been Jessica’s and she quite liked the fact it was Bex’s too.

‘It said that I was a bitch. Don’t worry, Adam’s already said it – at least it proves it was someone who knows me.’

Jessica forced a smile but it felt rawer now.

‘I don’t think you’re a bitch.’

Jessica shrugged and smiled wearily – what else could she do? ‘Thanks.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘No – sometimes when you do this job, you piss off certain people.’

Bex took off the outermost top and dropped it on the bed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have to apologise – it wasn’t you.’

‘Not for that. I didn’t want to steal from that guy but it’s been so cold – there was all that fog last night and I thought it’d be safer in the hostel, only I didn’t have eight quid.’

‘You don’t have to explain.’

‘You’d been so nice to me and I know you were only asking about your things because you had to. I shouldn’t have gone, I was just—’

‘I get it – people don’t like being accused of things they haven’t done. I see it every day.’

‘You don’t have to let me stay, I just didn’t want—’

Jessica stretched across to the dressing table and opened the top drawer, taking out the front-door key Bex had thrown at her and lobbing it – gently – in the girl’s direction. ‘I’ve got to go back to work but we’ll talk later. I need you to promise me something.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t leave the house – I don’t want you running away and—‘

‘I won’t.’

Jessica hadn’t planned it but there was suddenly an urge she hadn’t felt before. She sat on the bed and opened her arms, motioning Bex towards her. The teenager bit her bottom lip for a moment but then made her decision, leaning forward and hugging her back.

Before Jessica knew what was happening, it was too late: the weeks of mistrust, suspicion and paranoia came pouring out in a flood of tears. Bex pressed her bony arms into Jessica’s back, clinging tight and perhaps understanding that Jessica needed her as much as she needed Jessica.

43

Jessica didn’t have long to pull herself together before she had to head back to the station. Quite what had come over her in the bedroom with Bex, she didn’t know – but then there was a lot she hadn’t understood about the past couple of weeks.

To show how far her status had slipped, it turned out that apparently no one had noticed she’d even left. Jessica checked in with the CPS and then went to wait in reception for Kylie, ready to give her the bad news that her fork of doom was going to see her heading to court on a section thirty-nine assault charge. The only consolation was that she’d likely get off with a minor fine or a supervision order – but she was still going to be in the papers as the girl who shoved a fork up her boyfriend’s arse.