Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

  Juliet stood up slowly and helped herself to a plastic cup of water from the water dispenser. She walked down the short corridor from the ward to the waiting area and peered cautiously round the wall. Giash was alone, seated in the waiting area surrounded by empty banquettes. He looked tired but much more alert than Juliet felt. He grinned at her encouragingly.

  “Where’s Mr Pocklington?”

  “He went home around 3 am. Says he’ll be back. That’s why I’m still here. I told Verity to try to get a few hours’ sleep. She called a taxi to take her home.”

  “Good. Do you know when he’s coming back?”

  “He wants us to call him when she wakes up. He’s left his mobile number.”

  “She doesn’t have to speak to him, but we do. We need to ask him the same questions we ask her, even if Margie was living with her mother.”

  “Yes, I know. Do you want me to call him? He’s probably getting up by now, if he intends to go to work.”

  “No. We’ll wait until she’s awake first. Unless she wants to see him, we’ll question him at the station. If they discharge her, she can come to the station, too, but we can make sure they don’t meet.”

  “OK. Do you think there’s any chance of getting a cup of tea here?”

  “I doubt if the café’s open yet, but there’s probably a nurses’ canteen. The day shift should be coming in any minute. You could ask one of them.”

  The duty doctor appeared from the same direction that Juliet had come.

  “DC Armstrong? Could I have a word?”

  “Of course.”

  Juliet followed him into a small ante-room.

  “Mrs Pocklington’s beginning to stir now. She’ll probably be properly awake in half an hour or so. I think we should keep her in for observation, at least until this afternoon. I’m going off duty now and I’ll pass care of her to a colleague, but here’s my card if you need to get in touch.”

  “Thank you. Is it all right to ask her some questions when she comes round?”

  “It should be safe enough, but you may not get much sense out of her. She’ll have a thumping headache.”

  “But it’s ok to try?”

  “Certainly.”

  Juliet returned to the waiting area in time to see Giash being presented with a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits by a pretty nurse aged about twenty. The nurse had disappeared through the swing doors before Juliet could attract her attention.

  “I see you’re exercising your charm, as usual. You could have got one for me.” Giash looked sheepish. “She’s got to stay here for the time being,” Juliet continued. “So if you wouldn’t mind calling Gerald Pocklington and asking him to go to the station, I’ll get someone there to interview him. I’m going to have to stay here.”

  “Sure thing. Who should I tell him to ask for?”

  “Good question.” Juliet frowned. She knew that Andy and Ricky were going to be out somewhere together that morning – something to do with the land dispute that Andy was dealing with. In any case, she didn’t want to hand over part of the investigation to either of them at the moment: it would put her chances of the job in even more jeopardy than accepting Nancy Chappell’s help. Tim would be on his way to India. That left Superintendent Thornton, but as everyone knew he hated what he called ‘upwards delegation’, besides which he had no detailed knowledge of the case and would be much less likely to listen to a briefing from Juliet than . . . a possible if unpalatable solution came to her. It would be the least of several evils.

  Juliet sighed. “Tell him to ask for DC Chappell. I’ll try to call her now. It would help if I could speak to her before Lady Jane in there wakes up, but knowing my luck her phone will be switched off.”

  Chapter 50

  Margie awoke from a heavy sleep. For one innocent moment she thought she was in her bed at home, before reality kicked in and she remembered she was being held captive in the ‘private hotel’. Panic seized her, but she knew she must keep calm. Her head was pounding so much she couldn’t think properly. She tried to recall what had happened after Moura had made her take the shower.

  She knew she’d refused the sandwich that had been brought to her the previous evening and drunk only the water from the stoppered bottle on the bedside table, but sleep had come to her so suddenly and she felt so strange now that she was convinced it had been spiked. What had happened before that? She’d explored the room, sifted through the contents of the wardrobe. It had contained no day clothes, only a tawdry black dress that was slit to the waist on either side and several sets of tarty underwear. There were also suspender belts, some pairs of old-fashioned seamed nylons and pointed-toed black patent shoes with spiky heels. Quickly she’d slammed shut the wardrobe door, both outraged and afraid. If she’d ever believed she was going to be employed as one of the downstairs receptionists, she abandoned that thought now. She grimaced bleakly, shocked that she could have been so naïve.

  She vaguely remembered drinking the water and then collapsing on to the bed, but not climbing into it. She looked across to where the water bottle had been standing and saw that it was no longer there. As if pushing her brain through a mirage, she dimly recollected that last night she’d put on the red silk dressing-gown which she’d found hanging on the door, the only garment she’d been provided with that could cover her, but saw that now it was draped neatly over the end of the bed. The quilt was tucked around her, but when she flung it off she noticed that she was dressed in the shiny purple and black camisole and tiny knickers that she’d found in the wardrobe. They’d disgusted her then and she could hardly believe she was wearing them. She must have reasoned that it would be better to sleep in them than naked. She looked down at the knickers and saw that the crotch was askew. There was some dried white substance and small specks of blood on the sheet; and a red mark on her thigh. Suddenly the soreness hit her.

  She couldn’t control the panic now. She leapt from the bed and ran to the door, shaking the handle to try to force it open. She hammered on it until her knuckles could stand the pain no longer, when she fell, sobbing, to the floor. She lay there for several minutes, her tears and mucus soaking into the carpet, its pile prickling her cheek, until the sound of a key rattling in the lock made her sit up.

  Moura entered swiftly and silently, bearing a tray set out with a small china teapot and cup and saucer. She fastened the door behind her and locked it, deftly moving to the table to put down the tray. Before Margie could turn to face her, Moura had cracked her smartly across the back of the head with the flat of her hand.

  “Any more of that, Madam, and you’ll wonder what hit you! I warned you not to make a noise. This is your one chance, so we’d better have no repeats. And count yourself lucky that I can’t afford to mark your face. Some patrons don’t mind a few bruises, but yours is a bit more refined.”

  Margie was weeping quietly now. She shied away from Moura, who promptly moved forward so that she was still standing over her. That searing pain shot through her crotch again.

  “Now, calm yourself. I want to speak to you about today’s work.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to work. I want to go. Please just let me go. I won’t say a word to anyone.” Even to herself she sounded childish and effete.

  “Ha!” said Moura. “You made your decision when you agreed to come here with Peter.”

  “Who’s Peter? I thought his name was Pedro.”

  “He may have told you that. He has more than one name. It doesn’t matter to you what he’s called, in any case: you won’t be seeing him again. I’m going to leave you now to drink that tea. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I expect to find you quiet and showered by then. You can put on the dressing-gown. I’ll show you what to wear when I come back.”

  “I don’t want the tea. How do I know what you’ve put in it?”

  “Ha!” said Moura again. “You don’t think anyone’s g
oing to make you dopey in the morning, do you? You’ve got work to do. Now I suggest you drink the tea, because you won’t get anything else. It was a bad move not to eat your supper last night. You’ll have to earn your next meal.”

  “Earn it? How?”

  “No more questions. Just do as I say. And use the bath stuff and wear the perfume.”

  Moura turned around nimbly despite her bulk and left the room, locking the door quickly behind her. Margie picked herself up slowly and sat on the side of the bed. She poured a cup of tea and sipped it. When she felt a little stronger, she removed the camisole top and knickers and dropped them to the floor. As she did so, she thought she heard a slight movement on the other side of the door in the stud wall, but it lasted only a moment and she could have been mistaken. She stepped into the shower and scrubbed at her body ferociously, but still felt defiled and dirty when she emerged. Cowed into obedience, she applied the musky lotion and perfume she’d been given and wrapped herself in the fluffy towel which had been neatly folded on the towel rail, before crossing the room barefoot to the bed. Kicking the soiled underwear to one side, she slid out of the towel and donned the dressing-gown. As she did so she heard the noise again, louder this time. It was as if someone were gasping for air. She took the few steps to the internal door and scrutinised it. Like the rest of the woodwork in the room, it was ornately decorated, which must have been why she hadn’t noticed it before. A small round spy-hole had been set into one of the gilded panels.

  “Fuck off!” she shouted at it. “Whoever you are, fuck off, you filthy pervert!”

  There was no reply. Once again she was enveloped in perfect silence.

  Chapter 51

  Nancy Chappell’s suspicions about Tim hang like a dead weight at the back of my mind. I’m miserable and it slows me down. Dropping off Sophia at Mrs Sims’ takes longer than on the previous days, because she wants to know about what’s being done to find Margie. I tell her that I know very little about the police investigation, but she obviously doesn’t believe me. She’s upset about Margie and I feel sorry for her. There’s someone else helping her today, a woman in her twenties who tries to take Sophia from me. Sophia shrinks away from her. The little boy called Thomas is subdued, too. Either they have already both come to love Margie, or they sense that something is wrong.

  Eventually I manage to get away. I’m a bit late reaching the office, but I’m not expecting Fiona Vickers to turn up with her two protégées until around 10.00 am. As I let myself into the building, I see the light’s on in the office. It’s strange, as I’m sure I didn’t switch it on at all yesterday. I open the office door cautiously, ready to shout to the traffic team if there’s an intruder, and find Janey sitting at her desk staring into her computer. Her posture is oddly hunched. She looks diminished, somehow.

  “Hello! This is a surprise. I thought you weren’t coming back until next week.”

  “I wasn’t. Things didn’t go according to plan,” she says tautly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Well, something’s happened, but I just don’t want to talk about it. No point in wasting a day’s holiday now that I’ve come home again.”

  “I won’t ask, then.” I look at my watch. “I’m afraid I have some visitors coming here soon.”

  “I can wait in Reception upstairs if I’m in the way,” she says huffily.

  “Of course you’re not in the way. It’s lovely to see you. I was thinking more that they might disturb you.”

  “Sorry, Katrin, I’m not myself, as you can see. I’m not doing anything except checking my e-mails, and I don’t need to concentrate very hard to do that. Besides, we’re both going to have to get used to working with each other’s visitors around. There’s no proper interview room here. I did point it out when they were redesigning the building.”

  “I’m sure we’ll cope.”

  “Who are the visitors? Anyone I know?”

  “Not sure if you know Fiona Vickers? She works with women at risk in Peterborough.”

  “Yes, I do know her,” Janey says slowly. “Who else is coming?”

  “Two of the women she’s been helping. I’m trying to find out more about forced and arranged marriages and so-called honour killings.”

  “Hefty subjects! Nothing like pitching yourself straight in when you come back to work, is there? Sounds as if you’re working on an interesting case.”

  I see a glimmer of Janey’s usual wry humour and am relieved.

  “You probably know about it. I’m helping Juliet Armstrong by doing some background research after the disappearance of an Indian girl. Ayesha Verma. I think she went missing before you left for your holiday.”

  “Yes, she did. Poor kid. I hope you’re wrong about the honour killing. But isn’t it Tim’s case?”

  “Partly. Tim’s gone to India to interview the girl’s fiancé. He’s really grabbed by the honour killing idea. Juliet’s asked me to look at it from a different angle, see if the circumstances really fit the pattern. And there’s been another development which hasn’t been made public yet. Another girl has disappeared now. I know her, as a matter of fact: she works for Sophia’s childminder.”

  “Is she Indian, too?”

  “No. A local girl. Parents are separated.”

  “If the two cases are linked, it seems unlikely that Ayesha Verma was an honour killing victim.”

  “I agree. But we don’t know yet if the other girl – her name’s Margie Pocklington – has disappeared, or is just visiting someone or has run away. Her home life is pretty bleak, by all accounts.”

  “You don’t actually know that Ayesha Verma is dead, do you?”

  “No. But finding out what happened to both of them is Juliet’s job. And Tim’s. Tim’s asked a DC from the Met who’s an expert in honour killings to help Juliet.”

  “I bet that’s gone down well!”

  “You’ve got it in one. Which reminds me, the DC in question’s offered to come to this meeting. I don’t know what’s happened to her. She stayed with us last night. She left for the station first thing but she should have been here by now. I’ll give her a call.”

  “Tim been generous with your hospitality again, has he? You go ahead. I’m going to put the kettle on. It looks as if we’re going to be having a tea party very shortly.”

  “Thanks!” I ignore the jibe at Tim. I really can’t be bothered to defend him at the moment, and, like Janey, I seem to have developed some no-go areas. I look at Janey as she gets up. She’s always been slender, but now she’s positively gaunt. I wonder what can have happened to upset her so much. It’s bound to be something to do with Gwillim – his father kicking up about custody again, perhaps. I know there’s no point in pressing Janey about it until she’s ready to tell me.

  I can’t get a reply from Nancy Chappell’s mobile. I try calling Juliet’s extension at the station, but there’s no reply from that, either.

  Chapter 52

  Juliet was feeling better after her call to Nancy Chappell. She found it hard to be annoyed with anyone for any length of time and she was aware that she’d been a bit unjust to Nancy. It wasn’t her fault that Tim had involved her in the case. Nancy had seemed to be pleased to be asked to interview Gerald Pocklington. She mentioned that she’d offered to sit in on Katrin’s meeting with the two women from the refuge, but she didn’t think it would be a big deal if she wasn’t there. She’d let Katrin know.

  The day staff were on duty at the hospital now. Juliet asked a staff nurse to show her to a bathroom where she could freshen up. After she’d washed and had some toast and tea she was able to grab back a bit of energy.

  Giash had already left the hospital. They’d agreed that on balance it would be better if he picked up Gerald Pocklington from the house he was living in in Bourne and drove him to the station to be interviewed. Juliet wanted to keep him away from his ex-wife and she w
as equally keen to get a proper statement from him about the last time he’d seen his daughter.

  Juliet returned to Liz’s bedside to find her stirring. The pretty nurse who’d supplied Giash with tea was bending over her, wiping her face with a damp flannel. She looked round at Juliet and wrinkled her nose.

  “She’s going to need a shower when she’s up to it. She stinks.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault! And you’ve had to put up with it all night. I’ll bring some lemon barley for her, see if she can keep it down. Probably best not to try her on tea just yet.”

  “Thanks.”

  Juliet sat down in the chair in which she’d spent the night. Liz’s headrest had been raised high to stop her choking on vomit if she’d thrown up while no-one was with her, so Juliet was looking up at her when she opened her eyes. They quivered for a moment and closed again. Juliet thought she glimpsed a flicker of recognition, that Liz had now screwed them shut more tightly than someone behaving involuntarily.

  “Liz,” she said firmly. “Liz, it’s DC Armstrong. You need to try to wake up now.”

  Liz Pocklington groaned theatrically. She pushed rank hair away from her face and sat up.

  “God, I feel terrible,” she said. “What am I doing here?”

  “You’re in hospital. I don’t know how much you remember about last night, but you were dangerously drunk.”

  “I expect you’re right.” She gave a harsh laugh. “Why do you care, though? Why did you bother about me?”

  “Quite frankly, I didn’t. You can leave here and get rat-­arsed again straight away for all I care. But before you do, I need to speak to you about your daughter. I came to see you last night because she’s been reported missing.”