Risk of Harm

by Lucie Whitehouse

  The Kitchen, she read, was opened in 2018 by our Director, Daniel Reid, who was inspired by his decades of charity work in South America and South Africa – South Africa, nice dodge, she thought – to give back closer to home in the UK. Funded entirely by donations, he was able to establish Good Hope as a bright spot for the homeless and hungry in inner-city Birmingham.

  Underneath Reid was a list of ‘Our Volunteers’, voluminous paragraphs about each – partners, hobbies, pets, life goals – accompanying smiling headshots. Reid, at the top of the page, was photo-less.

  At half past six she called Samir. It rang five times before he picked up. ‘I thought you weren’t going to answer,’ she said. ‘You told me you were up early.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I texted you ages ago.’

  ‘You were up too early. I got up a minute ago and thought I’d quickly use the bathroom, if that’s all right, before getting sucked into whatever new vortex you’re about to set spinning. Go on then.’

  She told him in the order it had fallen into place for her: Zimbabwe, Victoria, the soup kitchen.

  ‘If I’m right,’ she said, ‘he’s here, in Birmingham, and I know who he is – I’ve met him. Brother Phil Hatton also known as John Philips is now also known as Daniel Reid of the Good Hope Kitchen.’

  ‘What, is that the soup kitchen in Bordesley?’

  ‘Where Stewpot and Martin go to eat – we’ve left messages for them there, I asked him, Reid, myself if we could. I reckon that’s how he knew about Gisborne’s in the first place, from them. He even told me they’d taken food to the homeless at the back, off Warwick Street.’

  It occurred to her now that they hadn’t heard from Stew and Martin since she left the message for them on Saturday night.

  ‘And you’re sure Reid is Brother Phil?’

  ‘Not a hundred per cent, not yet, but … There’s not a photograph of the man to be had, Samir, anywhere. We need CCTV of him at the factory and I’m going to call Jude.’

  ‘And Martin Engel?’

  ‘Not until we’ve got Reid in custody and I’ve spoken to him. Not until I’m sure I won’t be raising his hopes only to dash them again.’

  Samir was quiet for a moment as he absorbed it. ‘Bloody hell, Robin, if you’re right … Victoria Engel and Miriam Chapman.’

  Robin remembered Jude in the stockroom behind her shop, her emotional turmoil. But if she is her daughter, and if Mirry is alive now, then her daughter is dead.

  ‘But not Hannah,’ she said.

  ‘No, not Hannah.’ He was quiet but then he said what she’d been thinking, ‘Miriam disappeared nearly twenty years ago; Victoria was five years ago. Rob – what if there were others in between? What if there are more girls?’

  She texted Jude asking her to call, then emailed Tark to put his entire crew on footage of Warwick and the surrounding streets on Saturday afternoon. She was buttoning her shirt after a fleeting shower when her phone rang. She reached for it, expecting Jude or Malia responding to her earlier message. It was her dad.

  ‘Your mother wants to see you,’ he announced. ‘Now.’

  ‘Now? I can’t, Dad, believe me, I really can’t, I—’

  ‘Now,’ her father said, brooking no argument. ‘Before you go to work. You and Lennie.’

  Chapter Forty-three

  Malia called as they were leaving the house. Robin looked up and down the street where, as far as she could see, no one from the Daily Herald was lurking. Nevertheless, she waited until the car doors were closed before telling her what was going on. ‘We need to bring Reid in this morning,’ she said, ‘Let’s get teams to Good Hope and his home address. If we get him, we’ll give him two or three hours to sweat then let’s interview him together, you and me.’

  Lennie was hearing about Reid for the first time, too, and even in the depths of her misery, she was incredulous. When the call ended, she said, ‘So all this time, like, twenty years, he was going back and forth between the UK and these other places, taking girls away from their families, hiding them and living with them for a bit, then moving on?’

  ‘That’s what happened with Miriam, yes; we don’t know about Victoria yet.’

  ‘But that’s what you think. For God’s sake, what’s wrong with them?’ Lennie said. ‘These … men.’ Among them, his name never spoken, the one who’d taken her from her family, or tried.

  ‘It’s a handful, sweetheart, just a handful.’

  ‘It’s enough.’

  For the rest of the ride, Len’s responses were monosyllables, and as they waited at the barrier for the hospital car park, Robin looked over and saw that she’d folded in on herself, made herself as small as possible, as if she was expecting physical blows. When she’d gone to wake her up, she’d been lying on her back, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. She hadn’t moved and she didn’t say a word until Robin told her that her granny wanted to see her. ‘Is she okay?’ she’d asked quickly and then, when she heard yes, she’d closed her eyes. ‘She knows then, doesn’t she? About me.’

  ‘Yes, love.’

  ‘You told her.’ An accusation.

  ‘No. Uncle Luke did.’

  When they arrived on the ward, her mother’s bed was empty. Seeing Lennie’s face, the nurse at the desk assumed that she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. ‘Oh no, love, don’t worry, she’s fine,’ she smiled. ‘In fact, she’s doing much better – cup of tea this morning and she was up and out, in the shower. She’s in the TV room.’

  Her mother had set herself up in a small bay off the main room where, Noël Coward-resplendent in a smart pink paisley dressing gown that Robin hadn’t seen before, she’d taken a corner chair with a view of the door like a Mafia don.

  Robin kissed her hello – she had her perfume on, too; Dennis must have brought it in – but Lennie hung back.

  ‘Don’t I get a kiss, love?’

  Len shot Robin a pained look then moved in. Her mother hugged her for a long time then directed them into chairs, one on either side.

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I can’t speak loudly so you’ll have to listen.’ She looked at the door to check no one was coming, then lowered her voice again. ‘I spoke to Luke last night.’

  Robin opened her mouth but her mother put up a hand. ‘As you know, Robin, he’s been doing some thinking and now he’s made his decisions.’ She paused, and cast another look at the door. ‘He’ll tell the police he threw the stone at that man.’

  Lennie’s eyes went round. ‘What?’ she cried. ‘No. No way, he—’

  ‘Be quiet,’ her grandmother hissed, ‘and listen. I know what happened, yes, all of it, and I’ve thought about it very carefully, as has he. We’re agreed: it’s the right thing.’

  Robin felt momentarily light-headed, as if, like earlier, she’d stood up too quickly. The edges of her vision pixelated. She heard Lennie’s voice, an urgent whisper. ‘Gran, you can’t—’

  ‘Your uncle’s actions nearly cost that young man his eyesight, Elena, do you understand?’

  ‘I nearly cost someone his life! I might still – we don’t know how …’

  ‘Be quiet!’

  Lennie stared. She’d only ever seen the velvet-glove side of her grandmother, Robin realized, coming back to herself. Under normal circumstances, the iron fist was reserved for her.

  ‘He’s all over the newspapers with Nazis.’ Her mother spat the word. ‘White supremacists. He chose to go there, he knew what the protest was about – susceptible or not, depressed or not, he chose. His grandfather fought in the war to stop people like that – millions of people died. He knows where it leads, that kind of behaviour. There’s no excuse.’

  Lennie’s eyes were bright with tears; her grandmother ignored them. ‘The police are looking for him and, as I know from your mother, he’ll be charged for what he did to that student and he’ll go to prison. So he can add on some time for the stone.’

  Len shook her head, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  ‘Yes,
Elena. I’m not having my granddaughter in the slammer as well as my son, and that’s final. You made a mistake, a stupid, stupid mistake, but I’m not going to let it mess up your life. Because that is what will happen. If you’re charged, if – God forbid – you’re sent to a young offender’s institute, it will ruin your life. I won’t have it.’

  ‘Mum …’

  ‘And it’s time for Luke to start taking some responsibility for his actions,’ her mother said, looking at Robin. ‘We can’t claim this is a one-off, these views aren’t new. We’ve all heard his comments before, I’ve spoken to him about it countless times, so has your dad, but I didn’t know until this week how much damage they’ve caused.’ She looked back at Lennie. ‘If you can’t live with Luke taking the blame for you,’ she murmured, ‘think of it as him finally taking responsibility for what he did to your mother and Samir.’

  They were silent in the elevator, silent as they crossed the lobby towards the main entrance, but outside, as they approached the car, Lennie stopped. ‘Mum.’ Emotions were moving across her face like clouds, grief and fear, guilt then relief. Like the team on the morning of Gupta’s death, she was looking for guidance: What do I do, Mum? her eyes said. How am I even supposed to feel?

  Robin pulled her into a tight hug and felt her shaking. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’ll be okay. She’s taking care of us, Len. Both of us.’

  Lennie had come downstairs in her uniform and when they left the hospital, she was adamant that school was where she needed to be. ‘Same as yesterday – what am I going to do otherwise, sit at home with it all whirling round my head?’

  ‘No, I get it,’ Robin said. More than she’d ever admit; work had been her refuge for years.

  She pulled over in the designated spot around the corner from St Saviour’s to protect Lennie’s street cred. The rush was over and only the stragglers were left, a couple hurrying, bags banging against their backs, the one she was watching now, a sixth former, dragging his feet as if he were trying to scrape the tread off his trainers.

  ‘How’s Austin?’ she said. ‘Have you been in touch with Asha?’

  ‘Yeah. And him.’ The faintest hint of a smile. ‘We were texting last night. He says as long as he keeps popping ibuprofen like Smarties, he feels a bit better.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s going to try and come back to school next Wednesday or Thursday.’ The dashboard clock changed to 8.37. ‘I’d better go.’ She reached into the footwell for her backpack, pulled it on to her knee. ‘I’ll see you later. Good luck today – get him, Mum.’ She opened the door.

  ‘Len, wait a minute. Are you going to be all right? Really – no bravado?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ll be okay.’

  Chapter Forty-four

  ‘Anything?’

  Tarka looked round only briefly. ‘Not yet.’ Down the row of desks, and the parallel row behind, his crew were in thrall to their screens, even Phil Howell looking as if he was watching Game of Thrones rather than CCTV of a scruffy industrial street on a Saturday afternoon.

  ‘He’s got to be here somewhere, Tark,’ she said. ‘If he got out, he got in.’

  ‘We’re on it, guv. We’ll find him.’

  ‘Let me know the moment you get something.’ As if he wouldn’t.

  At least she wasn’t the only one on edge. The atmosphere had been palpable the moment she’d come through the door, alive with energy. If they touched, she thought, they’d give each other little static shocks. Everyone was waiting; it was like Christmas Eve but with the possibility that Santa might pull a no-show.

  She’d missed two calls from Jude while she’d been driving so she went to her office, took a couple of deep breaths then rang her back.

  She answered immediately. ‘Robin?’

  ‘Hi, sorry for the delay, I was in the car. Are you at the shop?’

  ‘No, I stayed at home.’ She sounded a bit breathless. ‘When I got your message, I thought maybe something had happened and … John’s with me.’

  ‘Good. Do you want to sit down?’

  Chair legs scraped a wooden floor. ‘What is it?’ Her voice was full of fear. ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Jude, I spoke to Miriam last night.’

  A cry, sharp as if she was hurt, but there was joy in it, too. ‘They’ve found her,’ a male voice said in the background. Footsteps then the chair legs again, the rustle of a hug, ‘Oh, love.’

  Jude was crying when she spoke again. ‘I was trying so hard not to hope. After you came, and after we spoke the other day … If I hoped, and she hadn’t … Where is she? Is she all right? Can I see her?’

  ‘She’s all right, yes. Devastated to hear about her daughter, but herself, physically, okay.’

  ‘Oh my God, poor Mirry – poor Mirry. Hannah,’ she said to John.

  Robin told her about the church in Buenos Aires. ‘She’s married – very happily, I think – she’s Mimi Lopez now, and she has two younger children, a girl and a boy.’

  ‘Mimi Lopez? Buenos Aires? Whoa – that’s … John, she’s in Argentina.’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Robin said, ‘but I hope you might hear it from her soon.’ At that, Jude started sobbing; Robin waited until she was able to listen again. ‘I hope I’ll be able to tell you more later today. But there’s something I need. If I send you a photograph of a man this morning, could you tell me if you recognize him?’

  She was distracted by her mobile, a text lighting the screen: Malia.

  Got him at Good Hope. On our way.

  *

  While she waited, she began making notes towards an interview strategy. Where to start? She looked through her window at the whiteboard. Mimi was up there now, she’d added her before she left yesterday because she’d wanted Hannah – she knew it was ridiculous – to have her mother with her overnight. None of what she’d worked out this morning was up. She was waiting, holding off for fear that by trying to pin it down too roughly, too fast, she would scare it away. So often this case had felt like a will o’ the wisp, now a flickering, tantalizing light, now nothing at all.

  From this distance, Hannah’s face in the scene photographs was a pallid oval. She’d ask Miriam for new ones today in which she wasn’t a victim but a human being, a young woman. Hannah Lopez of Buenos Aires, a young woman on the cusp of her adult life.

  Her phone lit up again, not a text this time but a call. Kevin Y. She looked at it while it rang three times. Then she picked it up, stood and rounded her desk to close the door.

  ‘Kev?’

  ‘Hello, I was just thinking about you, thought I’d give you a buzz. How are you getting on over there?’

  The warmth of his voice was like a blanket round her shoulders and Robin felt a pressing sadness. She would miss these calls – she would miss him, his texts and talking in his car, snogging like teenagers, the occasions when they managed a night together. She liked him.

  She liked him but she wasn’t going to fall in love with him. She couldn’t – she wasn’t free to.

  ‘Doing okay,’ she said. ‘Making progress, I think. At last.’

  She’d justified their new kind of relationship by thinking he wouldn’t fall in love with her, either – he never had before, why now? But he was a man who liked people in his life, a woman to look after as much – no, more than – to look after him, and Sasha’s leaving had made him vulnerable. She could see how, because they got on, he might convince himself it was more than it was and find a way to settle for her. He deserved better.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said, ‘I won’t ask details – you can tell me when you’ve got the bastard. Soon, I hope. Any chance of that dinner this weekend, do you reckon?’

  ‘Kev …’ She closed her eyes for a second. ‘Probably not dinner.’

  ‘Sure, whatever you fancy.’

  ‘Can we meet for coffee? Saturday morning? We should talk.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, and it was less a word than a sigh.

  Chapter Forty-five />
  For someone who’d been plucked from work in full view of his staff and clientele, arrested for murder and left to contemplate his fate in a cell for three hours, Daniel Reid was almost preternaturally composed. As she and Malia entered the interview room, he smiled at them not in the supercilious way of a man who believed he was too clever to be undone by the mere legal system but as if he were actually pleased to see them. His body language was relaxed; he sat straight but not bolt upright, his forearms resting lightly on the edge of the table. His blue and white striped shirt looked softened by wear in a way that made Robin think with a pang of Lennie’s Malibu T-shirt. The top button was undone, the sleeves rolled to below the elbow, all the better to showcase the dread leather bracelets.

  His solicitor, a man called Andrew Evans whom Robin hadn’t dealt with before, looked relaxed, too, as if he was confident this would all be easily sortable, and they’d be out, no harm done, in time for a bite of lunch.

  Malia started the recording and while she gave their names for the tape, Robin made eye contact with Reid. Like when she’d met him at the soup kitchen, his eyes were warm, the thick lashes adding to an impression of smiling kindness. He was watching her as intently as she was watching him; in other circumstances, she thought, she might have been flattered.

  ‘Mr Reid …’

  ‘Please – Daniel.’

  Robin nodded but didn’t say it. ‘You understand that you’ve been arrested on suspicion of the murder of Hannah Lopez, just turned nineteen, whose body was discovered on the morning of June ninth at the disused Gisborne works in Deritend.’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying, yes, but not why. Why me, I mean. There’s been a mistake somewhere along the line.’

  ‘Mr Reid, did you know Hannah Lopez?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  She looked at Malia, who opened her folder and took out a headshot from the scene. She slid it across the table, telling the tape what she was doing. Reid looked at it, his expression one of pity and regret for the stranger who’d met a violent end.