by Bill Rogers
The front seat passenger leaned across. ‘That would be me. DS Muller. What are we dealing with, Ma’am?’
‘I’ll be able to tell you when I’ve been inside. Bottom line is this is the victim’s home. Not a primary crime scene. You’ll be looking for anything that might lead us to suspect that she was targeted as opposed to a random victim. Also the names of friends or associates. In particular, anything that suggests she may have had a pimp. And anything to suggest that she may have had a drug habit.’
Muller nodded his understanding. ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’
She shook her head. ‘There are two young children, one of whom has just lost his mother. Give me a few minutes. You can brief the team and remind them they need to be sensitive to the situation. I’ll give you a shout when I’m ready for you.’
Jo pushed open the wooden gate, and walked down the concrete path. Women stood watching her from the doorsteps of three neighbouring houses. A curtain twitched in a downstairs kitchen window. As she raised her hand to ring the bell, the door swung open.
A young woman stood there, her face grief-stricken. One hand on the door, the other scrunching her tee shirt between her breasts. There were dark rings beneath her eyes and dried tear stains on her cheeks. Jo guessed she was in her early twenties. She looked like a frightened teenager.
Jo held her ID up, and began to introduce herself, but the young woman had already turned and was leading the way down the narrow hall.
In the tiny lounge, another woman in her early thirties was sitting on a couch with her arm around two infants, a boy and a girl, their heads buried in her chest. She looked up as Jo entered the room. The younger woman stood nervously by the fireplace.
‘My name is Joanne Stuart,’ Jo said. ‘I am a senior investigator with the National Crime Agency. You must be Tricia.’
The woman nodded. The little girl turned her head to sneak a look at the newcomer. Tricia Garbett hugged the girl closer, and pointed to the only other chair in the room. She waited for Jo to sit down.
‘It’s about Mandy, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You’ve found her.’
‘Is this your daughter?’ Jo asked.
‘Michaela. And this is Sean.’ Tricia gave the children a squeeze. Both looked to be about three years old.
‘I think it would be best,’ Jo said, ‘if . . .’ She looked up at the young woman by the fireplace.
‘Kat,’ said Tricia.
‘Would it be possible for Kat to take them somewhere else down here while we have a chat?’
Tricia gently released her grip on the children.
‘Come on, Michaela – and you, Sean. Kat is going to take you into the kitchen for a little treat.’
As the young woman stepped forward, the little girl squirmed off the couch, and grasped an outstretched hand. The boy tried to burrow deeper into Tricia.
‘Come on now, Sean,’ she said, gradually prising him free. ‘Show the nice lady what a brave boy you are.’
Reluctantly, the boy allowed the nanny to take his hand and lift him from the couch. He immediately clasped his other arm around her leg.
‘One biscuit each, and a juice tube,’ Tricia called after her.
When Tricia turned back to face Jo, the full extent of her own grief became apparent. Despite the artificial tan, her face was ashen. Her eyes were smudged with blue mascara. Tears had left track marks down heavily made-up cheeks. She groped down by the side of the couch and retrieved a near-empty box of tissues. Taking one, she blew her nose and dropped the tissue on the floor, where the box had been. She raised her head and looked at Jo.
‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ Tricia said, nodding at the blank television screen in the corner.
‘You saw something on the news?’ Jo guessed.
Tricia nodded. ‘That body found by the River Medlock. It’s Mandy, isn’t it?’ She clasped her hands tightly together. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
‘We don’t know that for certain,’ said Jo. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
Tricia wiped her cheeks with the heels of both hands. ‘It is her. It’s the only explanation. She wouldn’t just go off without warning and leave Sean. There’s not been so much as a phone call. I’ve tried texting and ringing since five this morning. It just goes to voicemail.’ She shook her head. ‘We always met up at the end of the night and walked back here together. It wasn’t just for company. It was so we’d know the other one was alright.’ She started crying again. ‘That’s how I knew.’
Jo waited while Tricia took another tissue, dabbed her cheeks, and blew her nose again. When she seemed to have composed herself, Jo leaned forward.
‘I’m very sorry about your friend,’ Jo said. ‘You do understand that I’m going to have to ask you some questions so that we can find out what happened.’
Tricia nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘What did you do when Mandy failed to turn up?’
‘After half an hour and no replies on her phone, I started looking for her. It was hopeless. None of the other girls had seen her since about 1am. So I came back here. When she still wasn’t home by 7am, I rang 999.’
‘What did they say?’
‘What do you think they said?’ Tricia’s tone was scornful. ‘They wanted to know why I’d rung the emergency line. I told them because I was worried she was at serious risk of harm, if something hadn’t already happened to her.’ She scowled. ‘I could almost hear them laughing on the other end of the line. A street worker has been missing for a few hours? She isn’t answering her phone? Maybe she’s got a client who’s taken her back to his. They told me to ring the local station.’
‘Did you?’
She nodded.
‘They said they’d send someone round to get a description. I’m still waiting.’
Jo knew from experience that the response would have been much the same if the missing person had not been a sex worker. It wouldn’t help to say so.
‘That description,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me what Mandy was wearing when she went out last night?’
Tricia took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘A brown parka with a fur-lined hood. A white silk blouse. A red leather skirt. Red stiletto shoes. She’ll have had a pair of Nike trainers in her bag.’
She looked up at the ceiling. Jo followed her gaze. There was nothing to see.
‘We bought identical pairs at the Trafford Centre last month.’ She lowered her head and stared straight at Jo.
‘And there was a large brown leather bag.’
Her stare was desperate and relentless. She began to sob.
‘I am truly sorry,’ said Jo.
She had lost count of the number of times she had said those words to families and friends of victims torn from them by the senseless actions of others. Yet still she found it hard to repeat the words without feeling some of their pain. She hoped it would always be so. That more than anything was what spurred her on and gave her the strength and determination to bring to justice those responsible for upending their lives.
Chapter 7
Jo left Tricia Garbett checking on Katalina, the nanny, and the children while she briefed the search team and set them to work upstairs. She also called Gordon and asked him to chase up the family liaison officer. Jo had a feeling that some very difficult decisions might have to be made.
‘So, Tricia,’ she said on her return to the front room, ‘how long had you and Mandy known each other?’
‘Forever. She was my best friend. We were like sisters.’ Tricia dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘We grew up together on the same street on the Cardroom Estate. Where that posh New Islington development is now.’
Jo remembered the development from her early days on the Force. The slums had been cleared in the 1960s to create a brand-new council estate, bordered by the Rochdale and Ashton canals. Devoid of any through roads, with many inward-facing properties and a lack of boundaries between the gardens and open spaces, the estate had proved impossible to police. Inexorabl
y it had become a sink estate. As aspirational families moved out, the council moved problem families in. Alcoholism, drug use, and antisocial behaviour took root. It was out of bounds to taxis and pizza deliveries. If this was where the two friends had grown up, it was hardly surprising they had gravitated towards sex work.
‘Did you both move out at the same time?’
‘More or less. Mandy’s mum and dad moved to Openshaw in 2004. Mine clung on for another year to get the maximum compensation when the whole place was demolished. Three years later we both moved in here together.’
‘So you live here too?’
Tricia shook her head. ‘I live with Michaela’s father in Miles Platting. It’s only ten minutes away.’
Jo was confused.
‘He works nights,’ Tricia explained. ‘As a hotel night porter. That’s why I drop Sean off for her. I go halves with Mandy . . .’ She paused to take a breath. ‘Went halves with Mandy, to pay Kat.’
Jo wondered if Tricia’s partner was aware she was a prostitute. Tricia saved her the trouble. ‘And before you ask – because everybody does – yes, he knows I’m a sex worker. And no, he isn’t my pimp. We have separate bank accounts. He doesn’t touch a penny of my money. I’ve promised him that as soon as we’ve saved enough for a small mortgage, I’m going to pack it in. He’s fine with that.’
Jo doubted he would be now, after what had happened to Mandy Madden. She also wondered if either Tricia or her partner were aware that buying a house with money she had earned this way would be interpreted as his benefiting from the proceeds of prostitution and leave him open to prosecution.
‘Did Mandy have a partner or a boyfriend?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘What about Sean’s father?’
Tricia shrugged. ‘Long gone. They’d been going together for six months. As soon as he found out she was pregnant, he legged it. Before he did, he told her there was no way it was his. That as far as he was concerned it could belong to any one of a hundred blokes she’d slept with, and she wasn’t going to pin it on him. What’s more, she could kiss goodbye to child support payments. That was never going to happen. The bastard!’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Liverpool, the last we heard.’
Jo made a note to get the father’s details, though she thought it highly unlikely he could be involved after all this time. ‘Did Mandy have a pimp?’ she asked.
Tricia looked offended. ‘No way. Never. Neither of us did. The foreign girls do. Most of them were either trafficked or brought here under false pretences, had their passports and other papers taken off them, and given no choice but to work in a brothel or on the street. You go down that route you lose all your independence. You do all the work, he takes most of your money. For what? A promise of security? Don’t make me laugh.’
Her voice trailed off as she tried to convince herself that they had made the right decision. That having a pimp would have made no difference to what had happened last night.
‘Did Mandy have a drug habit?’
‘No! Neither of us ever have. Not even legal highs. We saw what that did to people on the Cardroom. What it did to her brother, Ronnie.’
She began to cry again. Jo waited patiently. DS Muller tapped on the door and stepped gingerly into the room. Jo ushered him back out into the hall, where she joined him, pulling the door closed behind her.
‘We’ve finished upstairs, Ma’am,’ Muller said. ‘Is it alright if we have a look in the kitchen?’
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Bugger all.’ He looked disappointed. ‘Not so much as a spliff. Her iPad’s not even password-protected. It’s full of kids’ stuff, literally. Games and videos mainly. She hardly uses her email account, and she doesn’t even have a Facebook page. We found two hundred and fifty pounds in cash in a box in the wardrobe. Hardly sinister.’
He was right. For someone who was paid a considerable amount each night in cash, it was chicken feed.
‘What about names?’
‘There were only a couple of dozen in her contacts file. There’s also a card index by the landline phone. That’s mainly takeaways and tradesmen.’
‘What about bank accounts?’
‘Looks like she banked online. Without the username and password you’ll have to speak to the bank.’
‘Look at this, Sarge.’
They both turned to look up at the officer leaning over the banisters. He was waving a large purple dildo.
‘Put it back where you found it, and then go and wait for me in the van,’ Muller snapped. He turned to Jo. ‘I’m sorry about that, Ma’am. He’s a new member of the team. He’s close to becoming an ex-member.’
‘I’m not finished in there,’ she said. ‘And I’ve yet to speak with the nanny. Do you mind taking what you’ve got out to your car and asking the team to sit pretty until I’m ready? Ten minutes should do it.’
Muller smiled grimly. ‘No problem, Ma’am. It’ll give me a chance to explain to that plonker the meaning of the word sensitive. Before I kick him somewhere where that is.’
When Jo went back inside, Tricia was crouching in the doorway to the kitchen, talking to her daughter. She gave her a hug, kissed her on the cheek, gently closed the door, and came back into the room.
‘Will this take much longer?’ she asked. ‘Only . . .’
‘I understand,’ said Jo. ‘I’ve only a few more questions. You mentioned that Mandy had a brother, Ronnie.’
‘A year younger than her. Life was difficult at home. Her dad is a control freak. Ronnie rebelled. He got in with a gang of youths and started taking drugs. Two days before his sixteenth birthday he overdosed on some really bad stuff and died. Mandy and me, we vowed we’d never ever do drugs.’
She grimaced.
‘Alcohol didn’t count. There was a time a couple of years ago where we drank so much so often that we were both heading for rock bottom. It was Mandy who saw the light. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d be homeless and Michaela would be in care.’
The thought brought more tears to Tricia’s eyes. She bent down, picked up the box of tissues, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose. Jo waited for her to sit down.
‘Tricia,’ Jo said, ‘I need you to think carefully about these next two questions.’ She paused until she had eye contact. ‘Last night from the time that you left here until you arrived back, did you see or hear anyone or anything out of the ordinary? Anything unusual?’
Tricia bowed her head and closed her eyes. She hugged herself and began to rock slowly backwards and forwards. When she opened her eyes, she looked despondent. ‘No, I don’t remember anything strange happening, or anyone behaving differently from how they usually do.’
‘Which is?’
‘Shifty, furtive, abusive, patronising, sexist, desperate. Take your pick.’
‘Did you see any of the punters Mandy went with?’
She shook her head.
‘No. I was the first to pull a client. When I got back to our pitch, she was gone. I had another five clients before I started looking for her.’
‘So you never saw her in between clients that night?’
‘No.’
‘Was that usually the case?’
She thought about it.
‘It varied. I suppose about once a week we might not see each other until it was time to go home.’
That explained why Mandy was not missed until shortly before dawn.
‘The place where Mandy was found,’ Jo said. ‘Off Pin Mill Brow. Do you know it?’
Tricia nodded. ‘Limekiln Lane. It runs beside the Medlock all the way up to Holt Town. We used to play in those woods as kids. As teenagers too.’
‘Can you think of any reason why Mandy might have been there?’
Tricia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why do you think?’
‘I’d rather you told me, Tricia.’
‘Because a client took her there in his car.’
‘Was it somewhere she might ha
ve suggested to a client?’
A shake of the head. ‘That’s unlikely. I wouldn’t. Nor do any of the other girls as far as I know.’
‘Why not?’
‘It means driving on to the ring road and then turning off near the lights. It spooks the clients if we take them somewhere that close to a main road. And it’s too exposed. You can only drive as far as the gates, which means the car can be seen from the road. And there’s always a chance of someone using it as a shortcut to the Viaduct Street estate. And at night your lot sometimes park there to watch for speeding motorists and drink-drivers jumping the lights.’
‘So it would definitely be a client’s choice, not hers.’
‘That was what I thought when I saw it on the news.’
There was a long silence while Jo considered the implications. If a punter had taken Tricia there, it suggested he was either unaware of the risks he was taking or oblivious to them. Tricia interrupted her thoughts.
‘What’s going to happen to little Sean?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jo, ‘that’s not for me to say. Someone from social services is on their way. They’ll have to decide. They’ll want to talk to Mandy’s next of kin.’
‘Her parents?’ Tricia sounded incredulous. ‘You can’t force him to live with that miserable drunken bastard. He all but killed Ronnie, and he was the reason Mandy left home. It’s the last thing she’d want.’
‘You’d better tell . . .’ Jo began.
‘I’ll keep him!’ Tricia declared. ‘I’ll adopt him. Sean and Michaela are like brother and sister. I’ll keep Kat on full-time.’ She was excited at the prospect. Desperate to convince Jo. ‘I can persuade my partner. We’re getting married. We’ll be a stable family. That’s what Mandy would want.’
‘Talk to the social worker when she gets here,’ said Jo. ‘They will want to consider all of the options.’
She knew from experience that Tricia’s proposal had about as much chance of being accepted as her winning the lottery. Probably less.
‘Do you have an address for Mandy’s parents?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Could you write it down for me? And then would you ask Kat to join me please? I’ll need to speak with her too. I won’t keep her long. I promise.’