by Mark Roberts
‘The pictures were sent to my phone,’ replied Poppy.
‘I printed them off. It gives you a better impression.’ White handed Poppy three colour images. ‘Her skirt’s at the lab along with her T-shirt and jacket.’
Poppy looked at the top picture of the grey T-shirt and winced at the irony of the word ‘LOVE’ on the lighter part of it. She turned to the next picture, of the flimsy black jacket, and said, ‘It was a cold night. What was she thinking of?’ She held up the third image, of the white denim mini-skirt.
‘I think she was thinking Come and get it,’ said White. ‘The poor woman. She got a lot more than she bargained for.’
‘Any pictures of the victim?’ asked Poppy.
‘Brace yourself.’ White pulled up an image of the woman’s head and face, taken on the embankment near the railway bridge in Otterspool Park. Poppy said nothing as White moved on to a picture of her legs. ‘On CCTV, we’re looking for a woman with a dark complexion wearing a white denim mini-skirt, a grey T-shirt and a black jacket. Where do you suggest we look first?’
‘The footage from Gino’s Bar.’ replied Poppy.
‘It doesn’t open until five, so I suggest we do this. You look from five to eight o’clock. I look from eight until eleven. Then we watch in half-hour blocks until Gino’s closes at midnight and beyond as the customers drift back home. Good with that?’
‘Good. She’s going to be easily identifiable. I mean, other people who got caught on CCTV will be dressed for winter, not a walk on the beach.’
‘You’d be surprised how many men and women under-dress when they’re out on the lash. Whatever the weather. We’re looking out for her entering the bar with or without company and, most significantly, when she leaves and who she leaves with. Ready to go?’
‘Sure.’
‘Happy hunting.’
60
8.08 pm
In the reception area of Trinity Road Police Station, Sergeant Harris sipped tea and watched Aneta Kaloza in cell five on the monitor. She took the blanket from the bed, folded it and placed it on the floor.
The main door opened and Sergeant Harris looked across at an old woman standing in the entrance.
On the monitor, Aneta knelt down on the folded blanket and made the sign of the cross. She folded her hands and lowered her head in prayer.
Harris looked again at the old woman, dressed in a thick woollen coat, with trousers and shoes that looked more suited to a man. Her head was wrapped in a black scarf against the foul weather. He smiled at her, taking in her look of anxiety.
Aneta’s back was turned to the CCTV camera on the wall across from her bed, but she appeared to be deep in prayer.
You haven’t started that list for Eve Clay yet, thought Harris. You’d be better off doing that to get yourself off the hook than praying for a miracle.
He looked to the old woman and asked, ‘How can I help you?’
She didn’t move or speak, but looked at Harris as though weighing him up.
Harris eyed the paper and pen he had given Aneta and saw she had left them near the top of the bed. When I get cover at the desk, he thought, I’ll come and remind you to get on with it.
He returned his attention to the old woman and, as he spoke, saw she was focusing on his lips. ‘Would you like to step closer to the desk, please, Madam? I don’t bite.’
As she came closer, he smelled the wetness of wool from her coat and a distinct note of lavender. She tried to smile and he caught a glimpse of her white dentures.
‘My name is Sergeant Harris. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting this foul, foul night?’
She took a handwritten card from her pocket and placed it on the desk in front of him. My name is Miss Kate Thorpe and I am a deaf-mute.
Harris pulled a notebook and pen from under the desk and gave it to Miss Thorpe. He mimed writing and pointed at the empty pad.
She picked up the pen and frowned, looked at the blank page and then at Harris. Putting the pen down, she looked at the main exit.
‘Miss Thorpe, you can lip read, right?’
She nodded.
‘With respect, can you read and write?’
Annoyance flashed in her eyes and she set about writing. A few moments later, she showed her words to Harris.
I was at the top of my class at the Glasgow School of Art before you were born.
The writing was spidery but the message was clear.
‘I apologise, Miss Thorpe. I had to ask because I want to help you. Write down why you’ve come in to Trinity Road Police Station.’
She picked up the pad and sat down across the space in front of the desk. With the pad on her knee, she looked into space and Harris was aware that his presence was making her self-conscious. He half-turned his back and returned his attention to Aneta Kaloza, who was still on her knees in prayer.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Thorpe writing as DCI Eve Clay entered reception from the main body of the station.
Harris pointed at the image of Aneta on her knees.
‘No list of names yet?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘Can you go and have a word, please? I’ll cover you here.’
As Harris went out of reception, Clay looked at the old lady and said, ‘Good evening, Madam.’
She didn’t respond, but a few moments later, she looked up and frowned on seeing that Harris was no longer there. Clay glanced down and saw the handwritten card on the desk.
‘He’s been called away,’ explained Clay, as the woman made her way over, placing the pad down. She smiled at the old lady and read her words back to her.
‘I can’t think why I came here. I simply can’t remember.’ Clay looked into the sky blue of the old lady’s eyes and saw a woman with huge depths. ‘Well,’ she continued. ‘If you do remember, come straight back. Though it’s not a very nice night.’ Clay showed her warrant card. ‘Would you like me to organise a lift home for you?’
Kate shook her head and, as she scrutinised the warrant card, a look of recognition filled her face. She hunched over the pad and wrote, then handed her words to Clay.
Clay read back, ‘If I remember what I came here for, I will come back immediately.’
The old lady nodded.
Clay pushed the pad and pen towards the old lady and said, ‘Could you write down your home address for me please, Miss Thorpe. Maybe I could come by and jog your memory over a cup of tea.’
The woman took the pen and wrote: 131 Grant Avenue, Liverpool 15.
‘Your house overlooks the Wavertree Mystery Park?’
Miss Thorpe nodded.
‘Did you see something in the Mystery? The front windows of your house must have a wonderful view of the park.’
Miss Thorpe’s head stayed still, but she raised a hand. Farewell.
Clay watched her as she left Trinity Road. Looking down at her spidery writing, she was completely intrigued, and had the clearest sense that some light was about to appear in the dense bank of dark clouds that mounted up in front of her.
61
8.45 pm
‘You certainly had it nailed about the dress code, or lack of it,’ said Poppy Waters from the screen of her laptop. ‘I’ve just seen a woman go into Gino’s looking like she’s going for an audition in a lap-dancing club.’
‘The men are as bad,’ replied White.
‘Short-sleeved shirts when there’s a weather system sitting on us from Scandinavia. No sign of White Denim Woman yet?’
‘No, plenty of short skirts but not our target.’ White rubbed her eyes and hoped that they weren’t chasing shadows.
They returned to their screens.
‘Bastard,’ said White.
Poppy looked across the incident room. ‘Someone on-screen?’
‘No, just thinking of my soon-to-be-ex-husband and that bitch Alice who pretended to be my friend when we were assigned to trawl through child pornography together.’
‘That must have been awful for you.’
‘Still
is. Worse for them though. He’s going down for perverting the course of justice and she’s been drummed out of the force. I still wake up in the middle of the night, thinking, did they really try to frame me? And the answer’s always unfortunately, Yes they did, and how.’
Poppy poured the water and milk into the cups, not knowing what to say, but wishing she had words that could help a helpless situation. She put the drink down next to Carol.
‘You’ve got a beautiful little boy, Carol.’
‘One significantly great thing from a shite marriage that was built on a load of lies.’
‘Everyone says how dignified and brave you’ve been.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you want to give your eyes a rest for two minutes?’
‘I wouldn’t mind a trip to the bathroom. Keep an eye on it for me, Poppy.’ Poppy paused her screen.
White stood up and Poppy sat in her place, watching the footage from Aigburth Road outside Gino’s Bar, and was impressed with the quality of the CCTV material.
A man and a woman came out of the bar and lit up cigarettes as a group of women entered. Poppy paused the tape and checked out the three women, but there was no sign of White Denim Woman. A man walked out on his own, worse for wear. To Poppy’s eyes, the footage Carol was looking at mirrored what had been going on earlier in the evening. People walked into the bar. People walked out of the bar, some tipsy, some well-cut. People smoked outside and went back in. Then there were acres of nothing.
The door of the incident room opened and White asked, ‘Anything?’
‘No.’
Poppy stood up to allow White into her seat, but kept watching the screen.
‘Wait, yes,’ said Poppy, pausing the film.
As White sat down, Poppy touched the screen on the right-hand side.
‘It looks like her, doesn’t it?’ said White, unpausing until White Denim Woman was clearly in the middle of the screen, heading for Gino’s Bar.
‘White denim skirt,’ said White. ‘Tick. Black jacket. Tick. Grey T-shirt. Tick.’
Her hair was thick, long and black, and as she came close to the CCTV camera, she looked up and blew the camera a kiss.
‘She’s not hammered,’ observed Poppy. ‘But she certainly looks like she’s had a couple of scoops already.’
White paused the film and rewound it to the point where the woman’s face was clear to see. ‘That’s what she looked like before they set her on fire,’ she said. ‘We’ll print this off and circulate it.’
She unpaused the film and they watched the woman enter Gino’s Bar.
‘She’s wearing a pair of black flats,’ observed Poppy, recalling that no shoes had so far been recovered from the scene.
White took out her mobile and dialled Eve Clay, turning on the speakerphone.
‘Hi Carol, any news?’
‘We’ve got our Otterspool Park victim on CCTV. Identical clothing. And we’ve even got a shot of her face. She went into the bar at 8.44 pm; she’s in there now on CCTV.’
‘Was she alone?’ asked Clay.
‘Yes.’
‘Send the image of her face to my phone, please. Very well done to both of you.’
‘If it wasn’t for Poppy, it’d have taken me a lot longer to find it.’
‘I owe you one, Poppy,’ said Clay. ‘Is Barney around?’
‘He’s in the canteen. He should be back soon.’
‘Are you going to be in the incident room for the foreseeable, Carol?’
‘Yes.’
‘Barney could do with some fresh air. I’ll call him. I want him to go to Gino’s Bar and find out what happened beyond the range of the Aigburth Road CCTV. I’m grateful to both of you for this. I’ll call him now.’
Carol looked at the image of nothing much happening outside Gino’s on a very cold night, and her own troubles fell into a form of perspective.
She pictured the woman blowing a kiss to the CCTV camera, an unwitting kiss of death.
62
8.55 pm
When Riley’s iPhone pinged with an incoming message, the sudden but slight noise drew Marta’s attention away from the space into which she was staring. Her eyes connected with Riley standing at the glass partition.
Riley glanced up from her iPhone and smiled at Marta.
‘Kate, can you tell Marta we’ll have another go at trying to remember what happened while she was away.’
As Kate spoke to Marta and Riley checked the images on her phone sent by DS Karl Stone from the Otterspool Park murder scene, Verka spoke over the translator.
‘DS Riley, my daughter, her mind is full of holes. She understands little and remembers less.’
‘I understand that, Verka, but we’ve got to keep pushing on the door...’
‘Pushing on what door?’ Verka sounded perplexed.
‘What I mean is, we have to keep trying to get her to remember, to speak. She was a victim but she is also the key witness to her own abduction, which is linked with some other serious crimes. Kate will start things off after I’ve shown you these pictures. Could you come over here, please?’
Riley lined up the image of the black corduroy jacket and turned the iPhone screen to Verka, who looked intently at the Primark garment.
‘Do you know anyone who wears a black jacket such as this?’
‘No.’
Riley brought up the grey T-shirt with the forlorn message ‘LOVE’ on its lighter middle section. ‘I’m asking you because it was manufactured in the Czech Republic. It belongs to the victim of a serious violent crime. And we think the victim may well come from the Czech Republic.’
‘Is she alive?’
‘Sadly, no, she’s not alive.’
‘How did she die?’ asked Verka.
‘I can’t discuss the detail with you. I’m sorry.’
‘Poor woman. Show me the next item of clothing, please.’
Riley showed her the image of the white denim mini-skirt.
‘She went out in that, in this weather?’
‘Yes. Recognise it?’
Verka shook her head. ‘No, I don’t recognise it. I own nothing like these clothes. Especially this short white skirt. None of the women I know own clothes like this. I am sorry for her that she was no doubt murdered. But she dressed herself like a prostitute. Was she a prostitute?’
‘We don’t know yet whether she was or she wasn’t. Is it relevant, Verka?’
‘I’m saying nothing. I was here as a child years ago. But I’ve only been in this country for three weeks. How do I know what your values are? Mine may be different. I don’t want to argue with you. You are helping my daughter. That is all that matters to me. Thank you for that.’
‘Thank you for looking at these pictures...’
‘Mama!’
Verka hurried towards Marta’s bed. The girl held her arms out, as if a light had switched on inside her head and she now suddenly understood that the woman in front of her was her mother. Verka embraced her, sobbing and holding her tightly.
Marta pressed her lips against Verka’s right ear and spoke a few words quietly.
‘What did she say, Kate?’ asked Riley.
‘She said, ask the man to give back my hair.’
‘Verka!’ said Riley. ‘Ask her who the man was! What did he look like?’
Verka spoke, and, as Marta looked over her mother’s shoulder, she looked directly at Riley. The sudden light in her eyes faded as quickly as it had turned on, her mouth moving.
‘Tma, tma, tma...’
Riley wished she could take hold of silence and shake it into sound. Tma? Tma? Tma? The words sank deep under Riley’s skin.
Darkness? Darkness. Darkness...
63
9.05 pm
‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Gino. It’s a really serious matter we’re dealing with here,’ said Detective Constable Barney Cole, shaking hands with the owner in the office above the bar.
‘You’re more than welcome, Mr Cole,’ said
Gino, in a broad Scouse accent. He sparked a cigarette. ‘Do you want a drink, or something to eat?’
‘No, but thank you for offering. I take it you’re not actually from Italy?’
‘My great-grandfather came here after the end of World War Two. I’ve tried to bring a little piece of Mediterranean sunshine to wintry Aigburth Road. How can I help?’
‘Last night,’ said Cole, showing him the picture of the Otterspool Park victim blowing a kiss to Gino’s CCTV, ‘this woman entered your bar.’
‘Entered? She more or less came in here like a lamb and transformed into a lioness. Oh!’ Cole watched the silver dollar drop in Gino’s head as his eyes filled up with darkness. ‘Otterspool Park, right?’
‘Right,’ confirmed Cole. ‘Was she a regular?’
‘The one and only time she came in here was last night. I barred her before I threw her out.’
‘What happened?’
‘You’ve got to understand, Mr Cole, my bar has a certain sophistication. We don’t have loud music that punters have to shout over – we have the likes of Sinatra, Dean Martin and Nat King Cole playing softly in the background. Couples come here to talk, friends to meet. Zero tolerance for bad behaviour. There’s a notice above the bar: Be Nice Or Leave. So, when this woman came in, I clocked her mini-skirt and T-Shirt that was way too tight, you see what I’m saying?’
‘She was showing off the goods.’
‘Exactly. I mean, she was reasonably good-looking, thirty-fiveish. I’ll be honest, my very first impression was this: I’d give her one. The trouble started when the men’s heads started turning. You could see the women they were with getting really pissed off by the silent attention she was drawing. There were a lot of PMT and armed-with-a-machete faces. She went up to the bar...’
‘You didn’t get a name?’