by Black, Helen
Back in court, Mr Manchester was waiting for Lilly with a grim expression. ‘I trust the vital information that could not wait has been passed to you, Miss Valentine.’
Lilly sighed. She didn’t have the energy for more fighting.
‘I trust also that while you had your client’s doctor here, you obtained written confirmation that she is unable to attend court.’
Kerry stood. ‘As should have been provided beforehand.’
Lilly didn’t rise to it. The stuffing had been knocked out of her.
‘Perhaps you’d like to hand it over.’ Mr Manchester held out his skeletal fingers.
‘No.’
Mr Manchester let his hand fall with a slap. ‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Miss Valentine, there had better be a very good explanation for your behaviour because you are very close to being put in the cells for contempt of court.’
Lilly closed her eyes. People like Manchester and Kerry had no idea. They sat in their little ivory towers making judgements about the lives of others, but what did they know? Their lives were bound up in this tiny corner of the universe, light years away from whatever tortured a child like Lydia until she felt there was only one escape.
‘Miss Valentine,’ the magistrate bellowed. ‘You are this close.’ He held his thumb and index finger a centimetre apart.
Lilly opened her eyes. ‘There is no point in providing anything to the court.’
Mr Manchester was now so angry he could not speak, but he didn’t scare Lilly. Let him throw her in the bloody cells.
‘There is no point, sir.’ She fixed him with the coldest of glares. ‘Because Lydia Morton-Daley is dead.’
Jack was mightily pissed off.
He wasn’t a man prone to the excesses of ego, not up himself in the slightest, he’d like to think, but Mary, Mother of God, this was a joke. He was an officer in the MCU, and shouldn’t be dealing with suicides.
He’d only allowed himself to get sucked into this one because the woman on control had no uniform in the vicinity of the Grove.
‘Please, Jack,’ she’d said. ‘It’ll be a five-minute job, straight in and out.’
A soft touch, that was his trouble.
He stalked his way down the corridor to the room where he’d been told he would find the body. A young nurse hovered in the doorway, passing in and out like an agitated insect.
‘I’m afraid I can’t let anyone in.’ She pushed a flustered hand against the pink spots appearing on each cheek. ‘Not until the police arrive.’
‘I am the police,’ Jack snapped, immediately sorry for his tone. It wasn’t this poor woman’s fault that he’d been sent on an errand like a rookie two weeks into the job.
‘Sorry … I didn’t … you’re not …’ She waved a hand at his jeans and leather jacket.
‘No worries,’ he said.
The truth was the task wasn’t the only thing affecting his mood. There was also the Grove itself. A mental institution. A loony bin. And memories of his youngest sister Teresa, being dragged away screaming.
‘Jack.’ She’d held her arms out to him. ‘Tell Mammy I don’t want to be here.’
Everyone said it was the best place for her. That she’d soon get better. But she hadn’t, had she? And neither had the wee girl lying on the other side of the door.
‘Who’s in charge of the wing?’ Jack asked the nurse.
‘Doctor Piper,’ she said.
‘And where is he?’
The nurse scrabbled for her pager. ‘I don’t know. I bleeped him ages ago.’
‘Never mind,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s crack on.’
As he entered the room, what hit him first was the deep sense of peace. The room was bare and silent and cold. The girl in the bed could have easily been asleep, her eyes closed, her mouth relaxed, her duvet pulled up to her chest.
‘What’s her name?’ Jack turned to the nurse.
She took a tentative step over the threshold, one foot in the room, the other still outside. ‘Lydia,’ she said. ‘Lydia Morton-Daley.’
Double-barrelled surname. Expensive haircut. Posh kid, Jack guessed.
He skirted round the body to the bedside table. There were some white pills scattered around.
‘Do you know what these are?’ he asked.
‘Probably her prescription,’ said the nurse. ‘I think she was taking Xanax.’
‘How many would it take to kill a girl this size?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure. Depends what they’re mixed with.’ The nurse frowned. ‘I don’t know how she had access to medication. Everything’s locked away. We’re very careful to only give out one dose at a time.’
Jack shrugged. ‘I’d say someone wasn’t careful enough.’
He looked on the table for a note. Nothing. He checked on the floor. Nothing.
‘So, Lydia, did you leave us any clue as to why you did this to yourself?’
The nurse coughed. ‘Obviously she wasn’t well or happy.’
‘Obviously.’ Jack moved back to the bed. ‘Could you come here, nurse?’
Her eyes shot open but her feet didn’t move.
‘First time?’ Jack asked.
The nurse nodded.
‘Sorry,’ he said. And he was. You never forgot your first. It made its indelible mark on you. ‘I want to lift the cover and I’d like you to witness me doing it.’
‘Why?’ The nurse sounded aghast.
‘Allegations are sometimes made about theft or other matters. Just a precaution to protect Lydia and me.’
‘I meant why do you need to lift the cover?’ asked the nurse.
‘Oh right,’ he said. ‘Some suicide victims die with a note in their hand.’
It happened often actually. The dead clutched their last words to their heart, as if to emphasize their importance.
‘Okay then,’ she said.
Jack wondered if he should warn her about the smell. At the moment of passing, a body released more than its spirit. He decided against it, what with her being a nurse.
Gently, he took hold of the duvet and peeled it backwards, revealing the tombstone pallor of Lydia’s skin. Her shoulders so white they were almost blue.
‘She was a very beautiful girl,’ said the nurse.
Jack could see that must have been true. Even now, with her life force drained, she drew his eyes in. Like an exquisite statue. As he uncovered the rest of her upper torso, they discovered her naked breasts, partially hidden by crossed arms.
The nurse gasped. ‘She looks like an angel.’
Jack nodded. The girl did look angelic, but there was no note in either hand.
‘Let’s just check down by her sides, then we’ll leave her be,’ he said.
He rolled back the duvet to the top of Lydia’s pubis and stopped in his tracks. The room seemed to tilt and he had to clutch the fabric so as not to drop it. Neither he nor the nurse breathed. Open-mouthed, they looked at one another in horror.
Suddenly there came a sound at the door. A good-looking man in his mid-forties breezed in. ‘Sorry I wasn’t here to meet you, officer.’ He extended a hand towards Jack. ‘I’m sure Georgia here has taken good care of you.’
‘Could you stay where you are, sir,’ said Jack.
The man pursed his brow. Clearly more used to giving the orders around here. ‘Is there problem?’ he asked Jack.
Jack looked back at Lydia, where there was a very big problem indeed.
When Lilly collected Alice from nursery and headed home, David was already there. Her face must have told a thousand words.
‘Rough day?’
Lilly let a stream of air reverberate across her lips. ‘You could say that.’
‘Want to talk about it?’ David asked.
Lilly wrinkled her nose so David ushered her through to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and dropped a four-finger KitKat into her lap.
‘I’ll make supper,’ he told her and buried his head in the fridge, raking through the veget
able tray at the bottom.
‘No salad, please,’ Lilly begged.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
Lilly sipped a cup of Earl Grey and watched him chop mushrooms, peppers and cabbage.
‘Got any soy sauce?’ he asked.
Lilly leaned her chair back on two legs, as she was forever telling Sam not to do, and reached into the cupboard for the bottle.
‘Have you spoken to Cara today?’
David poured a generous glug of sauce over the sizzling vegetables. A cloud of salty steam hit the air.
‘I sent her a text this morning.’
‘Saying what?’ Lilly asked.
‘Saying I’d like to see Flora.’
Deftly, he tossed the pan, the ingredients dancing in the air, before falling back into the heat.
‘And what did she say?’ Lilly asked.
‘She said I should get my stuff by tomorrow or she’s taking it to the tip.’
Lilly hid a smile. Cara was used to getting her own way. ‘So what are you going to do?’
David threw a handful of noodles into the mixture and Lilly’s stomach growled. She really fancied stodge. A nice chicken pie. With mash.
‘Find a flat.’ He gave a sneaky grin. ‘Find a good solicitor.’
Lilly rolled her eyes. ‘This is serious, David.’
‘I know, I know. I’ll go over there first thing and collect my stuff, then I’ll find somewhere to stay.’
‘And tonight?’
David turned back to his cooking. ‘I wondered if I could crash here again.’
Lilly rolled her eyes again. His bashful routine was a bit ridiculous considering he was already here. She was about to tell him so when the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll go.’ David almost ran out of the kitchen, presumably glad to avoid further discussion. When he returned, Jack was in tow.
‘I explained that now wasn’t a good time,’ said David. ‘But Jack insists it’s urgent.’
Jack narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t insist anything. It is what it is.’
Lilly groaned inwardly. Please let this not be about Alice’s arm. She’d checked and double-checked it. She’d covered the puncture mark in Savlon. What more could she have done?
‘We’re about to have dinner, Jack,’ she said.
Jack sniffed at the pan of stir-fry. ‘Very nice.’
‘Not really,’ said Lilly. ‘David made it.’
‘Hey,’ shouted David in mock indignation.
She had hoped it would break the tension but Jack’s face was rigid.
‘I hear you repped Lydia Morton-Daley,’ he said.
Lilly nodded. ‘I was in court this afternoon.’ She held up a hand. ‘Before you mention anything about further charges let me give you a heads up; she’s dead.’
‘I know,’ said Jack.
‘Then what’s this about?’ asked Lilly. ‘Even the MCU can’t push a case where the defendant’s pegged it.’
Jack didn’t answer.
‘It’s game over, Officer McNally. She topped herself.’
Jack appraised her coolly. Whatever had been between them was long gone. He looked at her as if she were a stranger to him.
‘Actually, we don’t think she did top herself,’ he said.
Lilly sat up straight. ‘What?’
‘We don’t think that Lydia killed herself,’ he said.
‘I don’t understand.’ Lilly shook her head. ‘Harry said it was an overdose.’
‘Harry?’
‘Harry Piper, her therapist,’ said Lilly. ‘He came to court to tell me himself.’
Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘So that’s where he was. We were all wondering what was so important when one of his patients had died.’
‘He thought I needed to know …’ Lilly let the words trail away. ‘What did she die of?’
‘Drug overdose.’
‘I thought you just said it wasn’t suicide.’
Jack cocked his head to one side and something in Lilly’s brain clicked.
‘You think someone deliberately gave her too much.’ She pointed at Jack. ‘You think she was murdered.’
‘We both know it can happen,’ said Jack.
Lilly tapped her forehead with her fingers. Not long ago, when she had been pregnant with Alice, they’d been involved in a case where a girl had her drink spiked with drugs purchased from the internet. For all intents and purposes it had looked like suicide, when in fact it had been an honour killing.
‘Something like that has got to be rare, Jack. Is there anything else to indicate murder?’
Jack reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an A4 manila envelope. ‘I’m just back from the autopsy. This is a photograph of what we found on Lydia’s stomach.’ He pulled out a glossy sheet and laid it on the table in front of them. Lilly gasped. David gagged.
The photograph showed her young client prone on the mortuary cot. Her skin was the matt alabaster of the dead, but across her stomach were cuts of the deepest crimson. Someone had cut into the body, spelling out two words.
Help us.
Chapter Four
Transcript of Interview Conducted by Luton Social Services on 15 June 2004
Those present: Selima Begum (Head of Child Protection Team), Sarah Hind (Child Psychologist), Terrence De Souza (Luton Police).
Interviewee: Phoebe Talbot (date of birth unknown).
Selima: Hello, Phoebe. My name’s Selima and I’m a social worker. Do you know what that means?
Phoebe: Why is you wearing a scarf on you’s head?
Selima: [laughs] Haven’t you seen ladies wearing these before?
Phoebe: No.
Selima: It just means I’m a Muslim, okay? Do you know what a Muslim is?
Phoebe: No.
Selima: It means I believe in God and I call him Allah.
Phoebe: I believe in God.
Selima: And what do you call him?
Phoebe: God.
Selima: [laughs] That’s nice and simple [pauses] so can you tell me your name?
Phoebe: You’s already said it.
Selima: I just want to check I’ve got it right.
Phoebe: It’s Phoebe. P.H.O.E.B.E.
Selima: Excellent.
Phoebe: Not phobia. P.H.O.B.I.A. That’s when you’s scared of stuff.
Selima: That’s great spelling, Phoebe. Who taught you to do that?
Phoebe: Gigi.
Selima: Your big sister?
Phoebe: She teached me to read as well but it’s shhhh.
Selima: You’re putting your finger on your lips, Phoebe. Does that mean it’s a secret?
Phoebe: Yes.
Selima: Do you and Gigi keep any other secrets, Phoebe?
Phoebe: She make me nice cards for birthdays.
Selima: Oh that’s nice isn’t it? And do you know how many birthdays you’ve had, Phoebe? [pause] You’re holding up six fingers, Phoebe. So you’re six years old?
Phoebe: Yes but we’s don’t tell when it’s a birthday.
Selima: Why is that, Phoebe? Why don’t you and Gigi tell anyone it’s your birthday?
Phoebe: I don’t know. Gigi says it me. I don’t think she wants them to have a party.
Selima: Why not?
Phoebe: They might invite other peoples.
Selima: Gigi worries that Mummy and Daddy might invite other people to the party?
Phoebe: Maybes.
Selima: And why would Gigi worry about that? Doesn’t she like the people Mummy and Daddy might invite?
Phoebe: None of us like the peoples.
Selima: Why is that Phoebe?
Phoebe: We’s just don’t like them.
Selima: What do they do, Phoebe? What do they do to make you feel like that about them?
Phoebe: They do … [pauses].
Selima: Go on, Phoebe, you can tell us what they do.
Phoebe: They just do whatever they like.
Lilly opened the curtains to a fresh snowfall that had covered the garden in a white r
ug at least ten inches deep.
‘School’s closed,’ Sam sang out from his laptop.
‘Great,’ said Lilly.
‘You’ll never get the Mini off the drive,’ said David.
‘Excellent,’ said Lilly.
There was a meeting with Lydia’s parents scheduled at the Grove and Lilly had intended to call in and speak to the pathologist beforehand.
David handed her a coffee. ‘I’ll take you in my car.’
‘What about work?’ she asked.
‘No one will bother on a day like today.’
Lilly eyed him over the rim of her mug. ‘What about Cara?’
‘I’ll head over there this afternoon.’ David rummaged in the fridge. ‘Then I’ll pop into the local estate agent’s for details of rentals.’
Lilly was unconvinced as she watched him juggle a block of cheese and a tomato, whistling as he thinly sliced them onto some toast. If he thought he could stay in the cottage indefinitely he had another thing coming.
As David’s Range Rover powered through the country lanes, passing countless cars abandoned in snowdrifts, he gave Lilly a sneaky sideways look.
She pretended she didn’t know what was coming. ‘What?’
‘Not so bad now, is she?’ He patted the steering wheel. ‘The old Chelsea tractor.’
Lilly pulled a face. She had indeed criticized the monster four-by-fours the Manor Park yummy mummys used for the school run and a weekly shop at Waitrose. She had also, on more than one occasion, described David’s enormous beast as his ‘penis extension’.
‘You can’t justify the amount of fuel this thing guzzles because it’s proved useful one day of the year,’ she said.
‘You’re welcome to walk,’ he said.
She sniffed imperiously as she turned on the seat heater and stretched out her legs, watching the landscape pass as the car powered through snow and ice. When they arrived, Luton was eerily deserted. This early in the morning the street lights were still lit, casting the yellow light of a town across the snow-covered roads, making them seem sickly and wrong.
‘Over there.’ Lilly pointed to an unobtrusive brick building.
‘Doesn’t look much, does it?’ said David.
‘What were you expecting? Something out of CSI?’