Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

  “Is everything ok?” I ask. “You were expecting Sophia again today? I rang about it last night.”

  “I know. I haven’t forgotten. I’m just a bit worried that Margie hasn’t turned up.”

  I look at my watch, though I’ve just checked the time.

  “It’s early yet. She may be running a bit late.”

  “She’s never late. She’s always here by eight, often before then. I usually give her breakfast. I don’t want to call her home number. She doesn’t like me to, because of her mother.”

  “Doesn’t her mother know she works here?”

  “Technically she does. But she’s off her face most of the time. I think that’s why Margie doesn’t like me calling there. She’s embarrassed by it.”

  “Does she have a mobile?”

  “Yes. I bought it for her when she started taking the pre-school children to their classes, in case she needed help when she was out with them. I’ve tried calling it, but I think she’s switched it off. You’d better come in, anyway,” she adds, noticing for the first time that I’m struggling to cope with Sophia, who is squirming expertly and is quite heavy now, and her bag of spare clothes. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thanks, but a glass of water would be great. I’ve had a thudding headache ever since I got up. I think I need to take some paracetamol.”

  We’re inside the house now. I sit Sophia on the rug with Thomas, who starts to bring her bricks to play with. A thought strikes me.

  “Are there other children coming today?”

  “Yes, two. A baby and a pre-school boy.”

  “Does that mean you won’t have enough staff, if Margie doesn’t turn up?”

  She gives me a curious look. Too late, I realise that I’ve fallen foul of policeman’s wife syndrome again.

  “You don’t need to concern yourself about that. There’s always back-ups I can call on.”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t criticising you. You’re doing me a big favour by having Sophia today. I wasn’t expecting to work, as you know. It’s just that you look so worried.”

  “I’m worried about Margie. It’s not like her not to come. She’s never missed a day before. And I know she’d have told me if she was ill. I hope that lush of a mother of hers hasn’t hurt her in some way.”

  I think with a pang of my own conversation with Margie the night before. Was her request to work for us a more direct plea for help than I’d realised?

  I see Mrs Sims is scrutinising my face and try to smile.

  “You think something might have happened to her, too, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know Margie. I only met her yesterday. I’m sure your opinion that she’s reliable is correct, but there are any number of explanations for her failure to show up than that she’s come to harm. She may be helping her mother with something, for example.”

  Mrs Sims looks unconvinced, and so unhappy that I almost tell her about Margie’s visit. I stop myself because it would be a betrayal of Margie’s trust, and might spoil Mrs Sims’ good opinion of her if I tell all the details.

  “What do you think I should do? Should I call the police?”

  “It’s far too early to think of that at the moment. If Margie hasn’t either turned up or got in touch by the time I come back this evening, I’ll help you contact the police then. They’ll want to know if we’ve talked to the parents and under normal circumstances I’d recommend that you do this first. Given what you’ve told me about them, though, it’s probably best to leave that up to the police, as well. But I honestly don’t think it will come to that. There’ll be a simple explanation, I’m sure there will.”

  I put my hand on Mrs Sims’ arm. She’s clearly sceptical, but she seems to rally.

  “Yes, well, I’m grateful to you and I mustn’t keep you waiting. Just let me fetch your glass of water, and then you can get off.”

  I’m first to arrive at the office. Janey’s still away and the traffic control rooms are dark and silent. I let myself in with my key, dump my coat and bag, and go to the galley-like kitchen to retrieve mugs from the dishwasher. I set them out on a tray, together with the biscuits I bought for Juliet yesterday which she didn’t want to eat. I’m a bit apprehensive about meeting the social services woman. I’m not quite sure what to expect.

  I’ve put the tray down on Janey’s desk when the phone rings, making me jump. I hesitate for a moment before answering it. It’s taking me a while to get used to taking professional calls again.

  “Hi, Katrin, it’s Andy. Carstairs, that is. How are things? Glad to be back?”

  “Hello, Andy. It’s nice to hear your voice again. Yes, great to be back.”

  “Sophia settling in with the childminder ok?”

  I’m surprised that Andy is asking this. Is he implying some sort of criticism? I’ve always marked him down as a traditionalist, but I didn’t think he’d be the mother’s-place-is-in-the-home type. Or remotely interested in small children, for that matter.

  “Yes,” I say cautiously. “Why?”

  “No reason, just asking,” he says, a little awkwardly. “I’m glad you’re back, anyway. Thanks for doing those land registry checks for me. Any idea when they’ll be ready?”

  “I e-mailed you some preliminary stuff last night. There are a few other checks that I can do, but I need to get in touch with the registry direct for that. I can’t make any promises, but if they take their usual sort of time to turn the request round, it should be early next week.”

  “Magic! Sorry not to have found the e-mail yet. You’re as efficient as ever, and one step ahead of me, as usual.”

  I laugh, but I’m suspicious. It’s not like Andy to bandy around the compliments.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere!” I say good-humouredly. “Is that all, or do you want something else?”

  “No, that’s it. But now you mention it, can you tell me when DI Yates will be back? As he’s probably told you, he and Superintendent Thornton are thinking of creating a DS post, and there are one or two things I’d like to ask him about it.”

  “I didn’t know about the post. And as far as being able to tell you when Tim’s coming home goes, your guess is as good as mine.” I realise how curt and brittle I sound even before I’ve finished speaking. “I’m sorry, Andy,” I add. “You know how infuriatingly vague Tim can be about his arrangements. No need for me to take it out on you, though.”

  “Not to worry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’d better get on now. Thanks again.”

  I hold my forehead in my hands. I mustn’t let my problems with Tim sour my professional relationships. Superintendent Thornton will be the first to pick up on it. I know he was dubious about letting us both work for the same police force at first, and just because he relented it doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind again.

  Five minutes after I boot up my computer, the phone rings more. I’m even more reluctant to answer it this time. I hope that it’s not Andy again, embarrassing me with a more profuse apology.

  “Katrin? Are you ok?” It’s Juliet.

  “Yes, of course I am. Why do you ask?”

  “You seemed to take a long time to answer the phone, that’s all. I was worried that you’d had difficulties with the childminder.”

  “No, everything’s fine there. I’m glad you’ve called, though. Can you tell me a bit more about this woman from social services? I don’t even know her name yet and she could turn up at any time.”

  “That’s why I called. I think she’ll arrive about 10.30, as she’s going on to Boston afterwards. Her name’s Fiona Vickers.”

  “Mrs Vickers?”

  Juliet laughs. “Definitely a Ms, I’d say. I don’t know too much about her myself, but I do know that she’s in charge of the women in danger unit at Peterborough Social Services. She doesn’t deal with just forced marriages. Battered wives and se
xually abused minors are part of her remit, too.”

  “The whole spectrum of female abuse, in fact?”

  “You could say that. She’s quite tough, I believe. She goes out with the squad cars sometimes when they’ve been called to domestics, gives abusive men a piece of her mind. She’s a bit of an evangelist.”

  “Sounds as if she may have been a victim herself in the past.”

  “I’ve no idea. My understanding is that she’s perfectly capable of fighting fire with fire. Not the victim type, really. That’s as much as I’ve found out, except to warn you that you might find her a bit . . . well . . . coarse.”

  “Fine by me. It goes with the territory, I suppose.”

  “Yes. Well, good luck with her. Let me know how you get on. And thanks again for doing this; I’ve got a hunch that it’s really going to help us to push forward with the Verma case.”

  “Thanks. I shall be delighted if I can help. Great to be working at a proper job again. Talking of which, I hope you’re going to apply for the new DS post?”

  “I didn’t know you knew about that. Did Tim tell you?”

  “No, it was . . .” I hesitate.

  Juliet laughs. “No need to answer. In that case it must have been one of the two other possible internal candidates. Best if I don’t know which.”

  I’m puzzled, until I remember Ricky MacFadyen as well as Andy. Ricky’s always struck me as a bit of a nonentity, but that may be the type they’re looking for, for all I know.

  “Ok, I won’t tell you,” I say, matching her own light tone.

  After Juliet’s rung off, I bring up Peterborough Social Services in my web browser and search the site for Fiona Vickers. There’s a short potted biography of her: as well as providing a formidable list of the diplomas and awards that she’s achieved, it says that she began her career working in London, where she helped to set up a refuge for battered wives and another, more specialised, facility for girls wishing to escape forced marriages. There’s a postage-stamp-sized mugshot that doesn’t reveal very much. She has a broad face with fleshy features and thick, dark hair which she wears loose and long.

  I spend the next forty minutes drafting an e-mail to the land registry. While I’m working, I hear some of the traffic control team and their receptionist arrive. It would help if we could share her. She’d have to be based on our floor, though, and they might not like that. Still, it may be something Janey and I can suggest when we’ve been here for a while. It’s true that we’re likely to have fewer visitors than they are.

  I’ve just sent the e-mail when the doorbell rings. I listen for the intercom, but it doesn’t buzz. That means it’s my visitor, not one of theirs.

  A tall, bulky woman is standing on the top step. She’s dressed in a heavy black jacket with lime green fluorescent panels and dark trousers. Her long dark hair is windswept and she wears no make-up. I smile and hold out my hand.

  “Ms Vickers?”

  “Hi,” she replies. She doesn’t take my hand. “Can I come in? I’m busting for a pee.” Her voice isn’t cultured, but it’s not rough, either. She has a strong Lincolnshire accent.

  “Yes, of course. The toilet’s to your left, down the corridor. My office is to the right. I’ll wait for you there.”

  I switch on the kettle while I’m waiting for her. When she appears, she’s in the process of divesting herself of the jacket. She flings it on to Janey’s chair.

  “Too bloody hot in that. Is that a cuppa you’re making? I could do with one. I’ve been out since midnight.”

  “You mean you haven’t been to bed?”

  She laughs. “Don’t look so surprised! I did get a couple of hours on my office sofa before I left, as a matter of fact. It was one of my nights for doing a police patrol.”

  “Oh, yes. Juliet – DC Armstrong – did say that you went to ‘domestics’ sometimes. I hope it wasn’t anything too harrowing.”

  She looks at me curiously.

  “It wasn’t an incident. Just one of my regular nights out with a patrol car, trying to keep any young girls safe if they’re out on the streets.”

  “Girls that you know, you mean? Ones that you’ve met through your work?”

  “Sometimes. But often the ones who’ve got on to our radar are the lucky ones. It’s the ones who fall through the cracks that are most at risk. They’re often cared-for children, though it makes me sad to have to say it.”

  “From children’s homes, you mean?”

  “Yes. There are a couple in our area. It’s not always the home’s fault. These girls are damaged and they can be very sly. And desperately vulnerable. Too willing to believe that anyone who takes an interest in them, perhaps gives them presents, is doing it because they like them. And when a bloke’s involved, too willing to believe that he’s in love with them until it’s too late.”

  I think of Margie and wonder if I should ask Fiona Vickers for advice. I decide against it: Margie isn’t the sort of girl that she’s talking about. She hasn’t gone off the rails: rather the reverse, in fact. She wants to go places despite the fact that her family has stalled. I don’t see her as the type who wants to rely on a boyfriend.

  I pass Fiona Vickers her tea. She plonks down heavily on Janey’s chair, sitting on her own coat, and gulps the tea noisily, dunking the biscuit that she’s also accepted. She’s wearing a red plaid man’s casual shirt that has seen better days.

  “I’m in awe of your work, Ms Vickers. It must take real dedication to do what you do.”

  She shrugs. “Someone has to do it. And call me Fi, for God’s sake. Everyone else does.” She looks at her watch. “We’ve got just over an hour if I’m to be in Boston by 12.30. Is that long enough?”

  “I think so. I’m in your hands, really. I’m not sure where to start.”

  She laughs, revealing uneven, discoloured teeth.

  “Well, let’s start with what I think it’s about, shall we? Your DC Armstrong told me that you’re looking into a suspected forced marriage killing. That you’d like to get some idea of what the girls are like who get pushed into forced marriages and perhaps build a profile of the types of people who do the pushing? Profile’s the word you use, isn’t it?”

  “That’s it in a nutshell. Profile is a word that we use, though I sometimes think it sounds a bit too cut and dried. I’d like to get a grasp of the kind of mind that thinks honour killings are a good idea. And I’d very much like to speak to some of the girls that have escaped from them, if you are able to introduce me. I promise not to scare them.”

  “Ok.” She looks at me for a long minute. “I’m liking most of what you say. You’re right, there isn’t a single ‘profile’, but there are types. From what I’ve seen, the most typical is the shit-house sadist elder brother, who hides under his religion to persuade his parents to let him bully and terrify his sister or worse. There’s no religion that officially allows this kind of behaviour, though often people in authority, such as clerics, are involved. But there’s one thing you and I need to get straight: we never talk about ‘honour killings’, all right? There’s no such thing.” Her voice has risen shrilly and she’s glaring at me now.

  “Of course. It’s just a figure of speech . . .”

  “One that needs knocking on the head. End of story.”

  “All right. I understand. Do you think you will be able to arrange for me to meet some of these girls?”

  “Yes, but I’ll want to be there, too. I’m sure you mean it when you say you don’t want to scare them, but I won’t give you the opportunity. And you won’t find out their real names.”

  “I assure you that the police . . .”

  She looks at me mockingly.

  “Will guarantee them protection?” she asks fiercely. “How much do you think that’s worth, practically speaking?”

  Chapter 28

  Tim trudged wearily out of Surbi
ton station and up the short steep hill to Ewell Road. The euphoria he’d experienced when escaping from Patti’s hotel had deserted him, and he now felt tired, grubby and depressed. Even if his plan to circumnavigate Derry’s prying questions was successful, he knew that he should anticipate at least two sticky altercations before the day was over, one with Katrin and one with Freya.

  He rounded the corner into Ewell Road and almost collided with a woman hurrying towards him.

  “Tim!” Few women could imbue a single short syllable with such complexity of meaning. She made the word sound simultaneously anguished, accusing and outraged.

  Christ, he thought to himself, it’s bloody Freya. Freya had taken a couple of steps backwards and was scrutinising him intently. Best to get the first word in. He managed a weak smile.

  “Hello, Freya. A bit later than usual, aren’t you? I thought you’d be at work by now.”

  Freya’s crystal laugh rang out, pure and cold as ice.

  “You mean you hoped I would be, don’t you, Tim? As a matter of fact, the reason I’m late is that I’ve been frantically trying to find out your whereabouts. I’ve only given up now because I’ve got an important meeting later this morning.”

  They were standing in the middle of the pavement. Late commuters and early shoppers were staring as they went by, some having to step into the road to pass. Tim saw a woman with a double buggy approaching and drew Freya nearer in to the wall.

  “Look, Freya, I’m sorry,” Tim muttered, keeping his voice low. “I can explain what happened, but not in a few minutes, and I’d prefer not to have to stand talking here. Is there somewhere we can get a coffee?”

  “I’ve told you, I’ve got a meeting. I need to go. You can tell me this evening, Tim. I shall be all ears. Where are you going now?”