Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

  “Mrs Pocklington? It’s DC Armstrong, South Lincs Police. I urgently need to talk to you about your daughter.”

  There were distinct sounds coming from the house now, of falling furniture, perhaps, or someone bumping carelessly into something solid. Juliet decided to walk round to the back door. She knew the back doors of these houses were protected from the weather by a short passageway, and that the occupants of some of the houses had built a gate across the entrance. Mrs Pocklington had one of these gates, though its base was rotting. Juliet hoped that it wouldn’t be locked. Its poor state meant she’d probably be able to force it, but she’d prefer not to have to try. She was relieved when she turned the handle to the gate and, slowly, it yielded.

  Beyond there was more filth. Several black sacks lay scattered in the area between the back door of the house and the adjacent wash-house, their contents spilling malodorously. All the houses had wash-houses which had originally been fitted with gas coppers. Most of the inhabitants now used them as garden sheds. A row of council refuse bins was lined up against the wash-house wall. It seemed that Mrs Pocklington didn’t have the strength or perhaps the co-ordination to carry her rubbish the extra few feet to the bins.

  Stepping over one of the split sacks, Juliet saw that the back door was ajar. She knocked on it loudly.

  “Mrs Pocklington? Police. We need to talk to you about your daughter.”

  She heard more sounds coming from inside the house. Juliet waited. It was clear that no-one would be coming to invite her in.

  Juliet hesitated. She knew she shouldn’t go into the house without asking for back-up. She doubted that Liz Pocklington would be dangerous to anyone except herself, but it probably wasn’t worth taking the chance. She stepped to one side of the door and spoke into her radio.

  “DC Armstrong,” she informed it, as quietly as possible. “I’m at 131 Chestnut Avenue. Back-up requested.”

  “Request received,” came back the crackly message almost immediately. “Back-up on its way. Do not enter the house until back-up has arrived. Repeat, do not enter.”

  “Ok. Message understood.”

  Juliet had no sooner disconnected than she was aware of a presence in front of her. A woman was standing there, holding a kitchen knife. She had greasy hair plastered all over her face and was wearing a track-suit top caked in dried vomit and a pair of knickers. Her legs and feet were bare.

  Juliet swallowed.

  “Mrs Pocklington?”

  “What’s it to you?” The woman slurred, the words running into each other. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

  “Mrs Pocklington,” Juliet said again, her voice steadier now. “Please let me have that knife. You aren’t in any trouble. I just need to talk to you about your daughter.”

  To her relief, the woman let go of the knife. It dropped on to the concrete yard with a clang.

  “I suppose the little bitch has got herself into some kind of trouble. You’d better tell me what it’s about.”

  Juliet thought about waiting for the back-up team, but she knew it was no longer an option.

  “Ok,” she said. “Can we go into the house? It’s draughty out here and you probably won’t want your neighbours listening.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the neighbours,” the woman shouted belligerently, looking round wildly through the handicap of her hair. “But come in if you want to. Liberty Hall, this is.”

  Juliet followed her into her witch’s cauldron of a kitchen.

  Chapter 38

  I’m at home with Sophia, waiting impatiently for Tim to come home too. Sophia’s eaten some salmon and rice and is now rolling around on her rug with some of her toys, working off her surplus energy before bedtime. I’ve told her that Daddy’s coming home today, but I don’t think it’s registered with her. Probably just as well: who knows when he’ll actually deign to turn up? And tomorrow he’ll almost certainly have left for the airport long before she awakes.

  She tires suddenly, as I’ve come to recognise is her way. She’ll be engrossed in her toys one minute, the next they’re too much trouble: none will do as she asks of them and she loses patience. Then the tears come. I scoop her up.

  “Bedtime,” I say. She nods vigorously. I know I must make the most of this: the time when she is happy to embrace bedtime is likely to be short.

  As I’m carrying her through to the hall, I hear a click in the lock of the front door. The handle turns, and Tim is standing there. I see another figure waiting slightly behind him.

  “Daddy!” shouts Sophia. It’s one of the few words she knows.

  “Tim?” I say.

  He rushes towards me to envelop us both in an ostentatious embrace. Normally I’d have loved this, been prepared to forgive him everything, but knowing that the other person’s hovering there makes me uneasy. I extricate Sophia and myself as soon as I can.

  “Who’s this?” I say lightly, trying to sound welcoming.

  “It’s Nancy Chappell. I think I mentioned her to you. She’s an expert on honour killings.”

  The woman steps forward, holding out her hand. I take it reluctantly.

  “Mrs Yates, it’s good to meet you. I’m sorry to put you out like this.”

  “You haven’t put me out,” I say. “It’s good to meet you, too.” I try to mean it, thinking that the woman will be gone in a few moments. Then I look at Tim. I see that he’s squirming inwardly. This can only mean that he’s let me in for more than I know about. I don’t need to say anything: he starts talking immediately, though without meeting my eye.

  “The thing is, Katrin, Nancy doesn’t have anywhere to stay tonight. I thought we could book her into that boarding house we use when people need to stay over for training, but they can’t take her tonight. The White Hart’s booked up, too.”

  “So you thought you’d bring her here?”

  “If you don’t mind. The spare room’s made up, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t want to make extra work for you, Mrs Yates,” the woman pipes up. Now she’s moved into the hall, I see that she’s a punk. I could kill Tim. I could actually kill both of them. She doesn’t want to make extra work! This would have been my only chance to spend an evening with Tim since last weekend, and tomorrow he’ll leave for India. Of course I fucking mind, I’m going to say. When I open my mouth, it seems to process the wrong words.

  “I suppose that’s ok,” I say. “Welcome to Spalding. I’m sorry the circumstances aren’t different.” I turn to Tim. “I don’t know what you’re planning for supper? I doubt if I can cater for three.”

  Tim’s jaw drops. It’s as if he’s never thought about the fact that guests need providing with food. I enjoy his discomfort for a moment, until the resourceful little policewoman suddenly speaks again.

  “We can get a takeaway. I’m sure DI Yates can charge it to expenses. It’s the least the force can do.”

  Tim looks even more alarmed. I’m assaulted by a sense of how ridiculous this all is and have to try hard not to smile. Tim and I both know that Superintendent Thornton’s unlikely to sign off a claim for a takeaway under any but the direst circumstances. I don’t think that offering a policewoman from another force shelter for the night will qualify.

  “Great,” I say. “Which do you prefer, Indian or Italian? How about Indian, to get Tim in the mood?”

  Nancy Chappell pulls a face.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like Italian. Indian never seems very aufentic outside London.”

  “Oh, doesn’t it?” I can’t help the tinge of sarcasm that creeps into my voice. “Italian it is, then. Or I suppose we could each choose either. Tim, what would you like?”

  “Oh . . . either. Anything. Italian’s fine.”

  “I’ll find some menus while you give Sophia her bath.”

  I thrust Sophia at him. He takes her meekly and plods off, carryi
ng her. She’s triumphant and waves her arms, looking up ecstatically into Tim’s face. I glance at Nancy Chappell again and am smitten with guilt. She’s red with embarrassment. I put my hand on her arm.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It is good to meet you. Truly. It’s just that Tim can be infuriating with his last-minute arrangements and total disregard for anyone else’s plans.”

  She smiles bravely.

  “’E’s just like my boss. I’m sure ’e means well.”

  “I suppose you’re right: he probably does. Who’s your boss, by the way?”

  “DI ’acker.”

  I grit my teeth again.

  Chapter 39

  She didn’t feel comfortable walking along the street with him. There was a familiarity about the way he took her arm – more than that, a kind of possessiveness – that upset her. More than once during the five minutes after they’d left the café, she’d thought about running away from him, turning and diving into the crowds and escaping. He was limping quite badly and she knew he wouldn’t be able to catch up with her. She gave him a sidelong look. He noticed it immediately: it was weird the way his attention was focused on her, the way he fixed her with his swollen eye. It had begun to look quite horrible. His hands were grazed, too. How had he managed that by ‘having an argument with a plate glass door’?

  While she was still drinking her cappuccino he’d asked for her name, and on an impulse she’d given him a false one. ‘Marisa’, she’d said. ‘Marisa Price.’ She’d read somewhere that it was easier to keep up pretences with a false name if you retained your own initials. “What’s your name?” she’d added.

  “It’s really of no consequence, as you won’t be seeing me after today, but since you ask, it’s Pedro.”

  “Really? Isn’t that a Spanish name?”

  “I’ve got exotic blood, my dear,” he’d drawled. “Appearances can be deceptive.”

  “Are you all right?” he was asking now. “Not feeling faint, are you?” He tightened his grip on her elbow. “We’ll be at the bus stop soon. I would have hailed a cab, but the price from here would have been extortionate. We can get one nearer our destination if the next bus takes a long time.”

  “How far are we going?”

  “Oh, it’s quite a way, but I think you’ll find it’s worth it. Yes, yes, I’m sure of that.” He nodded vigorously.

  She wasn’t convinced. His cultivated voice was the only reassuring thing about him. She looked across the road at the crowds gathered on the pavement. The traffic lights were just changing. If she sprinted across now, before the waiting cars and vans roared into gear, he’d be unable to follow. She glanced at him again. He was regarding her oddly, as if he could read her thoughts.

  She didn’t make the break and the moment passed. She reflected that she had no options other than what he’d offered. He’d promised her somewhere to live and a job. If she spurned his kindness, there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t fall into worse hands. The prospect of spending the night on the street terrified her.

  “Ah, excellent,” he said. “I can see a bus approaching. It’s a bit hemmed in by traffic at the moment. We’ll get to the stop comfortably before it arrives.”

  She adjusted her rucksack – it was biting into her shoulders and he’d made no attempt to help her carry her belongings – releasing her arm from his grasp as she did so.

  “Comfortable now?” he said. He grabbed her again. This time the intent was unmistakeable: he was keeping hold of her rather than guarding her. She gave a false, uneasy little laugh.

  “You don’t need to hang on to me all the time. I won’t get lost.”

  “Oh, I do hope not, my dear,” he said, pushing his damaged face alarmingly close to her own. “But we don’t want to take any chances, do we?”

  The bus was just edging into its halting-place as they drew level with it. The doors opened and he shoved her inside.

  “Go and find a seat, my darling, while I pay the fares.”

  He swept her forward into the seating area, first giving her a little push, then waving his arms.

  “Go on, dear, before it fills up.”

  She did as he bid her and looked back to see him touching a card to a yellow reader. There was no way of finding out where they were going.

  She found a seat near the back, two steps up on the raised platform over the wheel arch. Taking off the rucksack, she slid into the window seat and put the sack on the seat beside her to save it for him. She peered through the grime at the street she’d just left. People were hurrying past, none taking notice of her. She thought of banging on the window, or running to the front of the bus and jumping off before it started again, but she shrank from making a spectacle of herself. She wouldn’t be taken seriously: she knew that. The old man would probably concoct a story about her having been ‘released into the community’, or some such thing. She looked at her fellow passengers, wondering if there was someone she could confide in in the few seconds she had available. Two stout black women sat side by side, bulging shopping bags planted between wide-apart legs. They were deep in a rowdy conversation. There was an elderly man who looked more disreputable than ‘Pedro’ by some margin; a sulky-faced girl absorbed in her iPad, trying to ignore the infant that sat on her lap; a bunch of workmen who’d elected to stand so that they could talk to each other, even though some seats were still free; and a gaggle of schoolboys. None of them looked likely to sympathise with her.

  He was walking towards her now, trying to be brisk despite his damaged leg. He turned on his avuncular smile, passing the rucksack to her as he took his seat.

  “Penny for them,” he said.

  “I was thinking maybe I’ve been a bit impulsive,” she said. “If I go back and tell my Dad how I feel, perhaps he’ll help me to go to university this year. I need to tell him where I am, anyway. I wouldn’t want him to worry about me.”

  He let out a strange sound, a cross between a whinny and a snort of contempt. His face had darkened.

  “Oh, really . . .” he began, in a high fast falsetto. The woman with the iPad glanced across at him curiously. He saw her and immediately changed tack.

  “Marisa, my dear,” he said, emphasising the name loudly, “your soft heart does you credit, but I can assure you that you’re mistaken. Quite mistaken. If he’d cared about you he’d have done something for you before now. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll stick with the plans you’ve made. You’ll do better that way.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. But I still want to speak to him. I could call him now, on my mobile.”

  “A crowded bus is hardly a good place to have what will probably be a difficult conversation, is it, my dear? Do be sensible. Of course you must talk to him, when we’ve reached somewhere a little more private.”

  The woman with the iPad returned to her scrolling.

  Suddenly he was pinching her arm, grinding it into the back of the seat. She felt warm breath: his mouth was close to her ear.

  “Listen, sweetheart, stop drawing attention to yourself. Do you understand? I’ll tell you who you can call and when. Now just sit back and shut up, if you know what’s good for you.”

  His breath was sour and metallic. It filled her with revulsion. She twisted her face away and stared out of the grimy bus window. Tears sprang to her eyes but she didn’t brush them away because she didn’t want him to see them.

  Chapter 40

  Liz Pocklington tripped on an empty carton that was lying on her kitchen floor and stumbled. She fell against the lintel of the door that led to the next room.

  Juliet bent over her.

  “Are you all right?” she said. “You’ve given your head quite a crack.”

  “No more than I’m used to.” She stood up unsteadily and flicked on the light. Juliet saw how skinny she was. Her shoulder-length hair was dirty blonde, matted in places and thinning at the crown.
She smelt of unwashed clothes and something worse: vomit, probably.

  “You’d best go through,” she said. She continued to enunciate every word carefully, obviously trying not to slur it. It was a battle she was losing.

  “I’ll follow you. Are you sure you’re quite all right?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” Liz Pocklington laughed crazily, as if she’d said something witty. She pushed open the door she’d fallen against and reached round her arm to turn on the light in that room as well, entering it afterwards. Juliet thought it an odd sequence of actions, but the woman was drunk, after all.

  The room they were in was tidy, if a little grubby. The surfaces were free of dust, the magazines neatly piled on the coffee table. Someone had tried to impose some order on it recently, even if the curtains were in need of a wash and dark spillages had blotched the carpet. It contained two mock leather armchairs that had aged without grace. There was a television in one corner. A dining-table stood before the window, covered with an old-fashioned ‘day cloth’ similar to the ones she remembered in her grandmother’s house during her childhood.

  “Take a seat.” Liz Pocklington gestured grandly at one of the chairs. “Margie’s cleaned up. She’s a good little worker.”

  Juliet sat on the edge of one of the chairs.

  “Would you like some tea?” said Liz, her voice a parody of the perfect hostess’s.

  “No, thanks. You mentioned Margie. Where is she?”

  “I s’pose she’s at school. Or – no. Wait a minute. She’s left school, hasn’t she? She’s probably with that Sims cow.”

  “She isn’t at Mrs Sims’. Mrs Sims has reported her missing, said she didn’t turn up for work today, which she says is unlike her. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

  “Not a clue.” The reply was delivered in a sing-song staccato. “I haven’t got a bloody clue!” Liz Pocklington looked up at the ceiling for inspiration.