Scarred for Life (6 page)

Archie rolled his shoulders forward and snorted quietly.

‘A little . . .’ Holden replied, trying not to look at either of them.

‘And there’s a university crest underneath the logo with oars on it out the front as well . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘It’d be a shame if you lost all of that because someone had been careless with the records. That doesn’t seem the type of thing that a well-run place like this would risk happening . . .’

‘I did say there was a membership secretary, perhaps he’d have a better idea—’

Jessica pointed towards the door in the far corner. ‘How about you go into that office back there and do whatever it is you have to do in order to get me what I need. There might be data protection laws but then there’s also telling porkies to an officer.’ She turned back to Archie. ‘What is it we call it again?’

‘Being a knob head?’

‘Obstructing a police officer.’

Jessica gave him her best glare and Holden shook his head slightly, scarpering in the direction of the office.

‘He’s a lying little rich kid, isn’t he?’ Archie said when they were alone.

‘Not so little.’

‘Whatever – we should do him for something anyway.’

‘Nah, I’d rather he was out here shitting himself. If need be, we’ll keep an eye on him. He’ll be off talking to all his chums later on, getting their stories straight. I want them all nervous; that’s when one of them will say something stupid.’

‘You think he was involved?’

Jessica blew out through her clenched teeth. ‘Dunno. Even if it was some sort of drinking accident, why would he leave the body in the bin out the back? Dumping it in the river would be better – it might’ve been dragged down stream and ended up in the canal. He might be a slippery little shite but he’s not stupid. I still don’t think he’s telling us everything.’

Peering up at the walls, Jessica took in the rest of the surroundings. There was a large upturned boat hanging from the ceiling that was snared to the walls, as well as half-a-dozen crossed oars.

‘What do you know about initiations?’ Jessica asked quietly.

‘When I was playing footy as a kid, they made us do a lap of the field before we could start. Do you think they’ve got the new recruits giving them handjobs in the shower or something?’

Jessica shrugged. ‘It was the way he said they always hold this function at this time of year, after the new recruits have decided they want to commit. It’s odd having a party in November – why wouldn’t they do it at Christmas instead? They’d still have the same number of members. “Committed” was a very odd choice of word. Plus people keep saying they thought Damon was looking forward to something – perhaps it was becoming a full member here.’

‘Posh twats beating up other posh twats . . .’

Jessica replied sternly. ‘Someone’s died.’

Archie sighed, letting her know it was just a front. ‘Aye, I know. I was only arsing around.’ He breathed in deeply through his nose. ‘What shall we do?’

‘When we’re done with him, how about you look through his membership lists and make a few phone calls? See if you can find a pissed-off former member. If they have been hazing people, there must be someone who’ll blab.’

Before she could say anything else, Holden hurried out from the office on the far side of the room carrying a handful of papers. He gave them to Jessica and then stood tall, refusing to meet either of their eyes. ‘If that’s everything, I’ve got things to do.’

‘For now,’ Jessica replied. ‘But the next time we have a word, it’ll be under caution at the station. That way, if you try to lie again, we’ll have it on tape. I don’t like people looking me in the eye and feeding me a pile of shite.’

His expression didn’t change. ‘Fine, I’ll bring a solicitor too.’

‘You do that – see you soon.’

Jessica slowed as she walked, allowing her footsteps to echo around the deserted building. Archie followed suit until they were outside, where drizzle had replaced the earlier mildness.

‘Do you think we’ll see him again?’ Archie asked.

‘Definitely.’

‘What are you doing later?’

The question took Jessica so much by surprise that she answered without thinking: ‘I’ve got someone to meet tonight, then I’m off for the weekend.’

7

Jessica sat alone in the late-night greasy spoon drumming her fingers on the sticky once-white table. Fry-ups for breakfast were one thing but she was definitely getting too old to be eating this late, let alone putting away something this unhealthy. She had deliberately chosen a cafe just off the Northern Quarter, easily within walking distance of anywhere in the city centre. It was a place in which Friday-evening drunks and after-dark regulars would sit in silence and pile through solidified fat on a plate before or after sloshing down some ale from around the corner.

This really was living the dream.

She peered at the clock over the door, where a brown film of grime covered the vaguely transparent face. Nine o’clock on the dot – another evening away from Adam, another evening of doing things vaguely related to work. Each time he’d smile and nod, saying he understood and that he wanted to watch something geeky on television anyway. Either that, or he’d go to his sister’s flat and they’d sit and chat about whatever it was they talked about when Jessica wasn’t there. Probably her, or was that being paranoid?

One minute past nine: the person she was hoping for wasn’t coming.

Jessica should’ve known it. She’d tried to be clever but, as ever, she was being too smart for her own good. Who wanted to spend Friday night in a place like this? She should’ve been at home, wrapped up in a blanket watching reality television in what she and Adam both pretended was an ironic way, even though they each secretly enjoyed it. Actually, she should’ve been out on the town, drink in hand, enjoying herself: she wasn’t that old, for God’s sake. Thirty . . . something. Definitely not the big four-oh.

Ugh.

Two minutes past nine.

Jessica wiped the remaining streak of egg yolk from her plate with her finger and held it in her mouth. Why had Archie asked what she was doing that night? Was he asking her out? Or trying to be a mate? They didn’t really know each other but there was undoubtedly a spark there, like when you’re on a train or a plane, or stuck in a waiting room somewhere and something funny happens that you’re not sure anyone else has noticed. You exchange a knowing look with a stranger, a mere flicker of the eyes or a slightly raised eyebrow, and suddenly you know exactly what they’re thinking. For the tiniest of split seconds, you have a window into their soul and it feels fabulous. You might never see them again, never know their name, perhaps not even speak, but just for a moment you understand what being human is all about. She had that with Archie. They worked on the same wavelength and yet she’d gone from being the apprentice kept on a leash to being the handler allowing the new recruit to do his thing. She’d gone from being Darth Vader to Emperor Palpatine, she’d . . . hang on a minute, was that from
Star Wars
? Bloody hell, it was.
Star Wars
! Christ, going out with Adam and hanging around with Dave Rowlands had rubbed off on her so badly, she now knew the names of people in geeky sci-fi films. This was a new low.

Three minutes past nine.

The depressed-looking man behind the counter of the cafe leant forward onto his elbows and yawned, peering up at the relic of a television perched precariously on a mount above Jessica’s head. In the days of flatscreens, 3D, digital, plasma, LCD and who knew what else, this was a square box out of the dark ages. Either that or the 1970s, one or the other. There was a socket high on the wall, with the yellowing grungy plug practically welded into position. Jessica doubted it had been moved since the day it had been installed. It was on silent and there was a boxing match on. Jessica peered up at the clock again.

Four minutes past nine.

The time on her phone said the same. How long should she wait? She’d said nine, yet she didn’t know what the other person’s time-keeping might be like, let alone if they were coming at all. Five past nine? Ten past?

Jangle, jangle.

Jessica looked up to see a rake of a girl push her way through the door, a stringy mess of tangled black hair whipped backwards by the breeze as she peered from side to side, taking in the surroundings. She couldn’t have been any older than seventeen at the most. Her face was thin, her skin almost white; her eyes skimmed across the two men sitting at the back of the dining area before settling on Jessica. When their eyes met, Jessica gave a gentle nod, knowing this was the girl.

The young woman stepped quickly and soundlessly across the cafe, moving like a trained ballet dancer on the tips of her toes but without the grace. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans that seemed loose, betraying the stick-like legs underneath, with a padding of tops and a thin-looking dark fleece covering her upper half. On her hands she had half-fingered gloves with a hole in the left palm. Through her nose there was a small silver ring.

Jessica tried to hold her stare but the girl clearly wasn’t comfortable, looking everywhere except directly at her, before sliding into the chair opposite. Without a word, she reached into her pocket and tugged out a small leather purse, plopping it on the table between them.

‘I suppose you want this back,’ she said, staring at the table.

Her tone made her sound even younger than she looked, even though it had an edge.

Jessica picked the purse up and opened it, unfolding the note she had left inside before going to Piccadilly Station the night before.

‘Thanks for stealing my purse. Sorry there’s no money in here but if you’d like a free meal and twenty quid, then come to Rav’s Cafe in the Northern Quarter at 9 p.m. tomorrow.’

‘What would you like to eat?’ Jessica asked.

The girl glanced at the menu on the wall over the top of the counter. ‘You police or something?’

‘Let’s say “something”. What do you want, or shall I get you the all-dayer?’

For a moment there was no reply. Jessica could hear the young woman breathing in, wondering what she should do. Eventually, the answer came: ‘That sounds good.’

Jessica picked up her plate and empty mug, returning it to the counter and asking the bored man if he could sort out a second all-day breakfast, a rack of toast, and two mugs of tea. She gave him a tenner, told him to keep the change and then sat back down opposite the girl.

‘What’s your name?’ Jessica asked.

The girl still wouldn’t look up. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘If I’m going to buy someone tea, it’s nice to know what to call them.’

‘I only came for my twenty quid.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘You’re Old Bill, aren’t you?’

‘I think “Old” is a bit harsh. I’m still in my thirties.’ The girl didn’t laugh. ‘All right,’ Jessica added. ‘I’m police but it’s just me on my own: no big flashing lights parade, no army of clowns in uniform with truncheons – they’re all over by the Printworks waiting for Tiger Tiger to kick out later. It’s like a bloody zoo down there on a Friday night.’

Not even a smile. ‘Am I in trouble?’ the girl whispered.

This time it was Jessica’s turn to pause. ‘No.’

There was a moment of silence punctured by the scraping of forks on plates from the two men at the back. In the kitchen, there was a sudden sizzle, making the girl jump. Her eyes darted from side to side as her chair slid back.

‘It’s just a pan,’ Jessica said.

The girl righted herself, picking at the hole in her glove. ‘Bex.’

‘Is that short for Rebecca?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Fair enough, Bex. Nice to meet you. I’m Jessica.’

Jessica held out her hand for Bex to shake but the young woman simply stared at it, unmoving. Jessica put her palms back into her lap. More silence.

‘How old are you?’ Jessica asked softly.

‘Old enough.’

‘Do you have somewhere to live? Parents?’

Jessica already knew the answer, even though it didn’t come. She sat listening to the plates being scraped behind her and the various clatters from the kitchen.

Fourteen minutes past nine.

The man from behind the counter sloped across to the table and plonked a plate in front of Bex loaded with three rashers of fat-laden bacon, two sausages, fried bread, two fried eggs with orange juicy-looking yolks, two slices of crusty black pudding, a mound of chopped tomatoes and a large dollop of baked beans.

Not bad for three pounds fifty.

Bex didn’t hang around, grabbing the bottle of brown sauce, giving everything a liberal coating, and then diving in with her fork. Slop, slop, crunch, squish, swallow, mmmm . . . and then it was on to the toast.

Jessica cradled her tea, watching the waif of a girl demolish the meal in under five minutes and then use the final slice of toast to wipe every last drop of sauce and egg yolk from the plate.

‘Do you want anything else?’ Jessica asked.

Bex’s eyes flickered hungrily towards the menu. ‘You some sort of do-gooder?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘You’re not a lezzer, are you?’

‘No.’

The door jangled again, three men stumbling through, bouncing off each other drunkenly before collapsing into a booth three tables away from the one Jessica and Bex were sitting at. The biggest one – a fat bloke wearing a T-shirt two sizes too small – shouted that they wanted three all-dayers ‘chop chop’ and then collapsed into a fit of laughter along with his boorish mates.

Jessica turned back to Bex, who had shrunken into herself, knees up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs.

The fat man caught Jessica’s eye. ‘All right, love?’

‘Oi, dickhead, shut up, yeah?’

He smiled and nudged the friend next to him. ‘Steady on, darling, what is it, your time of the month or something?’

Jessica pulled her identification out of her pocket, striding across the floor and thrusting it under his nose. ‘Fancy repeating that down the station on a D and D charge? If not, then pipe down and shut your pair of monkeys up too.’ She jabbed a finger at the other two men and then returned to her seat. Behind, the other two men had stopped scraping at their plates and hurried towards the exit. The man behind the counter said nothing.