Friendless Lane

by Helen Black

  ‘Heave,’ Elsa and Lilly would scream over their bowls of Swiss roll and custard.

  ‘Heave,’ came through the anaglypta from the Warrens next door.

  ‘Heave,’ shouted Lilly in the storeroom, her knee shaking with the exertion. ‘Heave.’

  Finally she felt it give. Just the tiniest amount, a hint of it. Then a bit more. Then more still. She knew what was about to happen, but she couldn’t resist the momentum. Like a boil, the drawer burst, flying from its runners, catapulting Lilly across the room so that she fell arse over tit, her head in a box of disintegrating newspapers, her shoeless feet in the air.

  ‘Could I perhaps lend you some assistance, Miss Valentine?’ said a voice as thick as hickory smoke, and Gregor Stone gave Lilly a very puzzled smile.

  [#]

  Back upstairs in reception, Lilly attempted to regain her composure. She smoothed down her skirt and ran her fingers through her hair, but it had dried into a matted tangle Bob Marley would have been proud of and she had to give it up.

  ‘You got caught in the downpour?’ Stone asked.

  Lilly noticed a golf umbrella by the door that clearly belonged to her visitor. She tried not to growl.

  ‘So what brings you to this neck of the woods?’ She kept her tone breezy. ‘Besides the weather.’

  ‘I was just wondering if y’all had any information about Gemma,’ he said.

  Lilly shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t expect to.’

  ‘The police haven’t been in touch?’

  Lilly knitted her brow. Why would he think the police would keep her informed? Surely if there was anything to know, Stone would be the first to hear it?

  He leaned back in his chair, right foot crossed over left knee, dark grey sock on display. ‘And what about her mom? Has she been in touch?’

  Lilly took in the relaxed body language, the smoothest of voices. Stone was a picture of nonchalance … until you looked closely. If you did that, you’d catch the telltale signs: the toe wiggling inside the shoe, the throb in the vein at his temple. What the hell was bothering Gregor Stone?

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve never met her, to be honest.’

  Stone nodded. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Is it?’ Lilly asked. ‘Don’t you need to find her and tell her what’s happened?’

  ‘Of course.’ Stone got to his feet. ‘You must forgive me, Miss Valentine, I’m still all at sea.’

  Yes, you are, thought Lilly. And why is that?

  She followed him to the door and opened it for him. Outside, the wind and the rain had stopped.

  Stone picked up his umbrella, tucked it under his arm and stepped into the weak sunshine. ‘How about that?’

  [#]

  The Chief Super was filling his fountain pen with black ink.

  His office was pristine, the desk clear except for a computer at one end and a telephone at the other. The glass pot of ink sat dead centre in the vast expanse of polished wood.

  ‘Sit down, Jack.’

  Jack did as he was told and took the chair opposite his boss. No matter how many stripes he earned or how good his clear-up rate, he always felt nervous in this room. Like a child in front of the headmaster, waiting to find out if he was to receive a certificate of merit or was in for the strap.

  ‘So tell me about your new body,’ said the Chief Super.

  ‘Gemma Glass, fifteen years old,’ said Jack. ‘Strangled.’

  ‘Definitely murder?’

  ‘No doubt about it.’

  The Chief Super nodded, then with meticulous care dipped the nib of his pen into the ink and squeezed the pump.

  Jack hadn’t realized anyone used those things these days. Weren’t they just a recipe for disaster? He remembered a shoebox of Berol ink pens at River Bann Grammar School for Boys. How Mr Collins had handed one to each boy with the sharp reminder to be ‘bloody careful’. How the wee men had removed the plastic barrels and pushed in their cartridges, screwing the barrel back into place until they felt the telltale click as the seal broke.

  But there would always be a couple of lads for whom the ink didn’t flow. Usually Jack and his mate Danny O’Connor. They’d have to squeeze their cartridges until a fat drip of ink fell from the tip of the nib. Sometimes the drip would become a gush and royal-blue puddles would splash on to exercise books and tables. Jack and Danny would look around for a tissue to blot the mess but would end up using the cuff of their shirt.

  Later, at home, Ma would give out to Jack about the shirt, clipping him round the back of the head, screaming, ‘Do I not have enough work to do around this place without you making more?’

  ‘The victim was a prostitute, yes?’ asked the Chief Super.

  ‘That’s right,’ Jack answered.

  ‘So we could be looking for an overenthusiastic customer?’

  Jack seesawed his hand. ‘Overenthusiastic might not cover the extent of the injuries.’

  The Chief Super removed his pen from the ink pot and let it hover above the gaping mouth. Then he replaced the heavy-looking barrel. No chewed grey plastic for the Chief.

  ‘But we are looking for a punter, I take it?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jack. ‘If that’s what this is, then we’re looking for three of them.’

  The Chief Super paused, pen still in hand.

  ‘We’ve DNA for three Asian males,’ Jack continued. ‘I think we’re looking at some sort of joint enterprise here.’

  He let the news hang in the air like a fresh fart at a funeral. He’d chosen his words carefully. He’d steered clear of ‘grooming’ and ‘gang’, but the implication was there. How could it not be?

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Jack.’ The Chief Super put the lid on his pen, opened a drawer and placed it inside. ‘Prostitutes sleep with lots of men. Three sets of DNA would represent a quiet night.’

  ‘True,’ said Jack. ‘But these men seem to be linked.’

  The Chief Super gave a smirk. ‘Come now, man, Luton’s full of Asian men. They don’t all know one another.’ He laughed as if he’d told a good joke. Jack joined in.

  ‘The thing is, sir, we know that at least two of them did know one another.’

  ‘How can we possibly know that?’ asked the Chief Super.

  ‘Because the DNA profiles tell us they’re family.’

  Neither man spoke for a second, each processing this information. Luton was divided. There were racial tensions. The multi-culti smiling faces on the borough website belied the serious problems. Only last week the EDL had held a rally calling for the end of immigration. The front page of the local paper had featured a man dressed as St George holding a banner that read ‘Get the Muslim Bombers off Our Streets’.

  If word got out that a gang of Asian men had kidnapped and murdered a young white girl, the tinderbox would go up.

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Jack,’ said the Chief Super. ‘But we need to tread very carefully here, no jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jack replied. ‘It’s just very difficult to see how there could be any other conclusion in this case.’

  He ran his fingers through his hair. Obviously the idea of a grooming gang wouldn’t go down well with anyone. Word would get out and flow like a poisoned underground stream. The press would be on it like a shot. But what could be done?

  The Chief Super paused, then snapped his fingers. ‘A stag night.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘A group of lads go out on a stag do, including a couple of brothers. Happens all the time.’ He wagged his finger, warming to his theme. ‘They pay for the services of a young lady—’

  ‘She was fifteen,’ Jack interrupted.

  The Chief Super frowned. ‘How were they to know that? They wouldn’t ask for her birth certificate. It’s just a bit of fun, then things get out of hand.’

  ‘This wasn’t a rowdy stag night, sir,’ he said. ‘The girl was kept prisoner several days before her death. These men took her, kept her, hurt her, then killed her.’
<
br />   They looked at one another. The silence pressed in on Jack. At last the Chief Super spoke.

  ‘So be it, Jack. This is your case and you must run it how you see fit.’

  Jack stood to leave. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  When he got to the door, his hand outstretched, the Chief Super spoke again.

  ‘Just keep in mind that accusations of racism can ruin a career.’

  [#]

  The poster on the surgery wall was in six languages.

  Stop Smoking Clinic – Tuesdays 6.30 p.m.

  Kelsey guessed that one of them was Polish, and she could recognize Urdu. You couldn’t live your whole life in Luton and not recognize Urdu. Fuck only knows what the others were, though.

  She picked up a magazine from the table and began reading an article about Kim Kardashian’s arse cheeks. It said she’d had implants. Seriously? Arse cheek implants? There were girls at the club who’d had boob jobs and they were hard as rocks, stuck on their chest like plastic jelly moulds that didn’t move when they danced. Who’d want that on their arse? How would you even sit down?

  ‘Kelsey Brand,’ the receptionist called out.

  Kelsey chucked the magazine back on the table and made her way to Dr Rahman’s room. She knocked and let herself in. Dr Rahman was tapping at his computer with small, clean fingers. He wore a bow tie and waistcoat in the same blue paisley pattern.

  He gestured to the chair and smiled. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Brand?’

  Kelsey sank into the chair. She knew what she wanted to say and had practised it inside her head, but now she was here, she couldn’t find the right words.

  Dr Rahman put his hands in his lap and smiled again. He didn’t stare at her boots, or the scars around her mouth; he just smiled. What the fuck? She’d just have to blurt it out.

  ‘I need to go to rehab,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘For drug addiction?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask a few questions?’ he asked.

  Kelsey shook her head.

  ‘Are you involved in any current criminal proceedings?’

  ‘What?’ She felt flustered. ‘No. Why?’

  Dr Rahman smiled again and touched the pocket of his waistcoat. It wasn’t a real pocket. You couldn’t put anything in it. It was just a flap to look like a pocket. What was the point of that?

  ‘It’s just that some people do come asking to go to rehabilitation when they think they’re likely to be sent to prison,’ he said. ‘They think it’ll be easier.’

  Kelsey laughed. ‘Then they’re bleedin’ stupid. Jail’s all right if you keep your head down, but doing your rattle’s something else.’

  ‘Very true, Miss Brand.’

  She liked it when he called her that. It sounded respectful. Like he didn’t think she was shit on his shoe.

  ‘I know it’ll be bad in rehab,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got to do it. I wanna see my sisters. I need to see them.’

  He held her gaze for a second, then pulled out a pad of paper. ‘What drugs are you addicted to, Miss Brand?’

  Fuck.

  He waited for her, tapping his biro on the paper, making little blue dots.

  ‘Crack,’ she said at last.

  He scribbled it down, then, without looking up, asked, ‘And?’

  ‘Jellies,’ she said. ‘For the comedown.’

  ‘Temazepam?’

  Christ, he weren’t as green as he looked.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘And Valium if I can get it.’

  ‘Heroin?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘Yeah.’

  He put down his pen. ‘I’m going to refer you to the substance abuse team, Miss Brand.’

  Kelsey felt a wave of panic. She liked Dr Rahman. She didn’t want to have to go talking to the world and his wife.

  ‘Can’t I just deal with you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not an expert in this field,’ he said. ‘My colleagues on the substance abuse team are far more knowledgeable. They’ll be able to give you the help you need.’

  Kelsey wasn’t convinced. Over the years she’d come into contact with hundreds of bloody teams. The children and families team, the key work team, the housing team, the young offending team. Armies of them. And where had it got her?

  ‘I just wanna get started,’ she said. ‘I can’t live like this no more.’

  He gave her another warm smile. ‘You’ve taken the first step to your new life, Miss Brand. You’re on your way,’ he said. ‘You should be proud of yourself.’

  He wrote something down and handed it to her. ‘Take this to reception and they’ll make you an appointment.’

  Outside Dr Rahman’s surgery she took a breath. It hadn’t been as bad as she’d thought. It hadn’t been bad at all.

  She took the paper to reception and handed it in to the woman at the counter. The woman peered at the note over a pair of ugly square-rimmed glasses that did her no favours, then at Kelsey. Her face was like a slapped arse, as if Kelsey was pissing her off just by standing there.

  ‘Monday, ten fifteen,’ she spat out. ‘If you don’t turn up, the team won’t be able to see you for another month.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I turn up?’ Kelsey asked.

  The woman gave a snort and looked past Kelsey to another patient. ‘Next.’

  Kelsey wanted to stand her ground. She wanted to tell the stuck-up bitch that she could shove her attitude where the sun didn’t shine. That she was just a fucking receptionist, not a doctor. She answered the phone and called out people’s names. It didn’t make her clever or special.

  But she didn’t. She walked away from the sour old cow, because she’d just taken the first step to her new life.

  [#]

  Lilly was still wondering what Gregor Stone had wanted, as she drafted Kelsey’s application for contact with her sisters. For all his Southern laid-back charm, she knew a worried man when she saw one. Whatever was eating him had been enough to bring him to Lilly’s office in the lashing rain.

  She pushed the thought to the back of her mind and concentrated on the task at hand. This application was Kelsey’s springboard and it needed to be right.

  When she was satisfied, Lilly opened her drawer and surveyed its contents: Toffee Crisp, Mint Aero, Creme Egg.

  Her fingers danced above her stash as she tried to choose. Then she slammed the drawer shut and rechecked the application.

  [start form]

  Form C15

  Application for contact with a child in care

  Section 34(2) and (3) Children Act 1989

  Date issued:

  The Court: Luton County Court

  Case Number:

  The full name(s) of the child(ren):

  Gemma Brand

  Sophie Brand

  Scarlet Brand

  Your relationship to the child(ren):

  Sister

  The order applied for and your reason(s) for the application (if you are relying on a report or other documentary evidence, state the date(s) and author(s) and enclose a copy):

  The applicant, Kelsey Brand, seeks an order for contact with her sisters Gemma, Sophie and Scarlet Brand.

  On 22 August 2008 the applicant and her sisters were placed in care by their mother, Grace Brand. An interim care order was sought by the local authority on 29 August and granted by Luton County Court. The mother did not oppose the application or attend court.

  Gemma, Sophie and Scarlet were placed in foster care; the applicant was placed in the residential unit known as the Bushes.

  The local authority began the process of preparing care plans for the children as part of an application for a full care order. It is clear from the provisional documentation that contact between the sisters was to be facilitated.

  Unfortunately, before the application came to court, Grace Brand was found dead and the applicant was wrongly accused of her murder. Following the collapse of the criminal case on 26 September, full care orders were made in respect of all the gir
ls and the care plan included provision for regular contact.

  The applicant and her sisters enjoyed contact until March 2009, when the local authority informed the applicant that contact was terminated. The local authority made this decision unilaterally without returning the matter back to court or providing the applicant with detailed reasons.

  It is the applicant’s contention that the Brand children would benefit greatly from contact with one another, especially as they have no living parents or grandparents. The applicant is essentially the only surviving relative of Gemma, Sophie and Scarlet.

  [end form]

  The application wasn’t perfect. For a start, anyone with half a brain would ask why Kelsey had done nothing for so many years. Then again, she’d been a child, and should have been getting help from social services herself at the time. They should have referred the case back to court in 2009.

  She’d be surprised if the application was dismissed out of hand. Surely a judge would want to get social services in and ask a few pertinent questions? That wasn’t to say she would win, of course. It was going to be a tough case, this one.

  The office door alert sounded. God, she needed a receptionist or a secretary or something.

  She trooped upstairs and found a tall, fine-boned woman in her late forties. Her hair was very fair and her skin very pale. She was wearing a grey scarf that looked expensive but did her no favours.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Lilly asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘I don’t know.’ She burst into tears.

  ‘Hey now.’ Lilly led her to a chair. ‘Sit down here.’

  The woman buried her face in her hands. ‘I’m so sorry, this is horribly embarrassing.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, it happens all the time.’ Lilly handed her a box of Kleenex. ‘Why do you think we always have some of these?’

  The woman gave a watery smile and wiped her nose.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me the problem?’ Lilly asked.

  The woman nodded and pressed the tissue against each eye in turn. ‘It’s my daughter, I think she’s in trouble.’