by Tania Carver
33
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’ Imani Oliver sat down in the consulting room easy chair, Avi Patel in the one next to her.
‘Not a problem. Anything I can do to help.’ Keith Bailey sat opposite them, one leg thrown casually over the other.
The two of them had come straight to the Relate office in the centre of Birmingham. Hidden behind a seventies strip mall of cheap clothes and phone shops and fast food outlets just off Colmore Row, it had barely any markings and no advertisements as to what went on behind the shuttered store front. Imani wasn’t surprised by that: no one wanted to broadcast their marriage troubles to the world.
She had phoned ahead, checked that Keith Bailey was in. He was. He sounded young on the phone, open and pleasant. Like she imagined a counsellor would be. In person he lived up to his voice. There was something engaging about him. She felt immediately he was the kind of person she could open up to, tell her problems to. The receptionist had said he was popular with the clients. She could see why.
And he looked like she imagined too. Sandy-blonde hair, perhaps less of it than he wanted, swept over his head, parted, falling boyishly to one side. A red plaid shirt and jeans. Some kind of jewellery, metal and leather, poking out from under his right sleeve. Trainers. A heavy silver ring on his wedding finger. Metal-framed reading glasses. Like his whole wardrobe came from Fat Face or Mantaray at Debenhams. A bookish lumberjack who’d never cut down a tree.
The room was bare. Some pre-school toys in the corner; three chairs. A couple of boxes of supermarket paper tissues sat on a small table between the two police officers and Keith Bailey. Imani nodded to them.
‘I imagine they get used a lot, Mr Bailey.’
He smiled. ‘Constantly. Should have shares in Tesco.’ The smile faded. ‘Can I ask what this is about, Detective…’
‘Oliver,’ she said. ‘And this is my colleague, Detective Constable Patel.’
Patel nodded, then settled back in his chair. Just like a married couple, she thought. Except we’ve jumped straight to the bad bits.
‘I believe you have a client called Janine Gillen.’
Keith Bailey glanced between the two of them, a slightly worried look on his face. ‘Should I be discussing my clients with the police?’
‘I’m afraid she’s dead, sir,’ said Patel. ‘And we’re investigating her murder.’
Bailey’s eyes widened. ‘Dead?’ He looked at them once more, mouth open in shock, eyes eventually settling on the tissues, as if the answer lay there. ‘But… I just saw her yesterday…’
‘It happened last night,’ said Imani. ‘Very suddenly. Very nastily too, I might add.’
Bailey shook his head. ‘Dead… Oh my God…’
Imani shared a look with Patel. Get him going, her eyes said.
‘We realise this must be upsetting for you,’ said Patel, ‘but if you could just give us a few details about Janine Gillen, we’d really appreciate it.’
‘Of course, yes…’ Bailey still looked like he wasn’t listening properly. ‘Anything I can…’
‘What did you talk about at your session yesterday, Mr Bailey?’ asked Imani. ‘You did say you saw her yesterday?’
‘I… I did, yes. She was…’ He looked up, quizzical. ‘Should I be talking about this? Client confidentiality and all that?’
‘I don’t think that comes into it now, sir,’ said Patel.
‘Oh yes. Yes. You’re right.’ He rubbed his chin, eyes staring off into the distance once more.
‘So what kind of things did you talk about?’ Imani again.
‘Well, she…’ Bailey shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’d have to get her notes. She was… unhappy at home. I used to see both her and her husband. Thought they were making good progress together. So did she. But I think her husband had other ideas.’
Imani leaned forward. ‘In what way?’
‘Well, he…’ Bailey moved about, as if the seat had become suddenly uncomfortable. ‘He wasn’t supportive of Janine seeing me. Of the whole process, really.’
‘And he let you know?’
‘He did. Very vocally. One session he just walked out. Effing and blinding. Awful. Never came back again.’ He shrugged. ‘But you get that sometimes. You tend not to see people at their best in this job.’
‘But she still came to visit you after that? Janine?’
Bailey nodded.
‘Did her husband not mind?’ asked Patel.
Bailey’s voice dropped, became conspiratorial. ‘I don’t think he knew. Or if he did, she tried to sugarcoat it somehow. Told him it was good for her. I don’t know.’ He became silent then, pensive. Shook his head. ‘So she never reached the refuge, then.’
‘Refuge?’
‘Yes, Safe Haven. I could tell she wasn’t happy with her home life. An abusive husband, and it sounded like he was turning her children against her too. There wasn’t a lot more I could do for her really. It was a toxic environment and things clearly weren’t going to get any better. So I suggested a way out. But I was too late. He got her.’
Neither Imani nor Patel answered. Bailey looked between the two of them, his expression quizzical. ‘He did… do it, didn’t he?’
‘We’re keeping an open mind at the moment, Mr Bailey,’ said Patel.
‘This refuge,’ said Imani, before Bailey could speak again. ‘Have you any details?’ She took out her notepad, noticing that Patel had done the same.
‘Er… yes,’ he said, and got up, crossed to a filing cabinet behind him. He took out a card, handed it over. ‘This is it. A phone number and an address. Obviously they’d appreciate discretion when you go to call.’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr Bailey?’ asked Patel.
He frowned. ‘I… don’t think so. That’s just about everything from yesterday.’
‘Did she mention any other men?’ asked Imani. ‘Friends, boyfriends, even?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No one. She was very lonely, really. Quite isolated, I thought.’ He sighed. ‘I felt sorry for her. Sweet girl. Just married the wrong man.’ He shook his head once more. ‘Not alone there, sadly.’
Imani and Patel shared a glance. Imani stood.
‘Well, we’ll not take up any more of your time, Mr Bailey. If you do think of anything more, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.’ She handed him her card.
He took it. ‘Thank you. I will.’ He sighed. ‘Poor girl. Times like this, makes you wonder why you bother.’
‘I’m sure you did what you could to help her. We’ll see ourselves out.’
Out on the street, Imani took a deep breath. She turned to Patel. ‘What did you think?’
‘What a depressing place. Suppose it would be, though.’
‘Not much laughter in there.’ She looked at the card in her hand. ‘Fancy a trip to a refuge?’
He smiled. ‘Who’s doing the paperwork for all this?’
‘Toss you for it,’ she said.
His smile widened. ‘Got a better idea. Tails, you do the paperwork. Heads, I do the paperwork. And I get to buy you dinner.’
‘If it’s tails, don’t I have to buy you dinner?’
He shrugged. ‘Only if you want to.’
She smiled. ‘And I suppose now’s the time you tell me you’ve got a two-headed coin.’
He returned her smile. ‘You’re too clever for me.’
34
By the time Phil drove up in his Audi, Wheeler Street in Handsworth, the home of the One True Church of God Pentecostal church, had been cordoned off.
Phil pulled up by the police tape, got out. Walked over to the nearest uniform, showed him his warrant card.
‘DI Brennan,’ he said. ‘I’m expected.’
The call had come in just after he had left the university. He had sat in his car for what felt like years, trying to pull himself together after his abortive attempt to talk to Marina. His first thought was to take the rest of t
he day off. Find a pub somewhere and drink the daylight hours away. Then the night-time ones too. But he stopped himself from doing that. It wasn’t easy, and it took a huge amount of willpower, but he managed it. He patched himself up, at least as far as facing other people went, talked himself into being as functional as possible, and drove towards the station.
He never got there. A call came in for him, reporting a disturbance at a church in Handsworth. Someone had barricaded themselves inside, taken hostages. And they would only speak to Phil.
‘Who is it?’ he had asked.
‘Roy Adderley. Says you’ve been questioning him.’
Phil’s heart sank. ‘Yeah. On suspicion of murder.’
The sergeant on the other end of the phone laughed. ‘I think this is what you might call an escalation of the situation.’
Phil drove straight to Handsworth. The afternoon was drawing to a close as he got there. The clouds threatening to let loose once more. The darkness of early dusk creeping over the city.
The uniform led him through the barrier towards the church. A mobile incident van had been set up in the middle of the street. He headed straight for it. Sperring was already inside.
‘Here he is,’ said the DS.
Another man was sitting with Sperring, a bank of CCTV and communication instruments before him. They all showed the outside of the church.
‘You Phil Brennan?’ said the man, rising.
Phil identified himself, shook his hand.
‘Mike Battersby. Hostage Negotiation Unit. He’s been asking to speak to you and you only.’
‘Lucky me,’ said Phil. ‘What’s happening in there?’
Battersby was tall, stocky and black. Dressed in a suit and shirt, no tie. ‘Went in a couple of hours ago, from what we can gather. Closed the place up. Couple of cleaners in there, local community volunteers. Both women. Had a couple of jerry cans with him. Full of petrol.’
‘Oh God,’ said Phil. ‘I can see where this is going.’
‘You’re not wrong. Poured petrol all over himself and got the two women as hostages. Won’t let them go, won’t leave, won’t do anything until you talk to him.’
Phil sighed. This was all he needed, he thought, suddenly weary beyond belief. ‘He given any reason for this?’
‘Apart from the fact he’s mental?’ said Sperring.
Battersby gave him a sour look. ‘Nothing. Wouldn’t go into details until you got here.’
‘How d’you contact him?’
‘Mobile.’
Phil nodded. ‘Okay then. Give him a call. Tell him I’m here.’
Battersby dialled. Waited. ‘Mr Adderley?’ he said eventually. ‘I’ve got Detective Inspector Brennan for you.’ He handed Phil the phone.
‘DI Brennan here,’ said Phil. ‘What’s going on, Roy?’
‘Detective Brennan?’ Adderley’s voice was shrill, tinged with madness. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘So talk.’
Battersby gave Phil a sharp look. That clearly wasn’t the tone he was supposed to take.
‘Not here.’
‘Where, then? Shall we make a date? Cosy little bistro, bottle of wine?’
Silence on the line. Phil was aware that Battersby was gesturing at him. He ignored him.
‘Just insults,’ said Adderley eventually. It sounded like he had been crying. ‘That’s all I get. No respect. Just accusations. Insults.’
Phil sighed. ‘Let the women go, Roy. Then we’ll talk.’
‘No. they stay here. If any of your armed police try to storm this church, I’ll use my lighter. Then we’ll all go up. Got that?’
‘Got it. So what d’you want to do, Roy?’
‘Come inside,’ said Adderley.
‘Into the church?’
‘Yes.’
Beside him, Battersby was shaking his head vigorously, trying to attract his attention.
‘Just a moment, please,’ said Phil. ‘I have to put you on hold.’ He covered the mouthpiece with his hand, turned to Battersby. ‘What?’
‘No,’ said Battersby. ‘Under no circumstances are you going in there.’
‘He wants to talk to me,’ said Phil.
‘Are you being deliberately stupid?’ said Battersby. ‘He’s volatile, in an unpredictable state. He needs calm handling, not provoking. We don’t know what he’ll do next. He could kill himself and take the two women with him.’
‘He could,’ said Phil. ‘But he might not. Could be bluffing.’
‘You going to take that chance? I’m telling you. Under no circumstances are you to go inside.’
Phil listened, said nothing. Then put the phone back to his ear. ‘You still there, Roy? Sorry about that. Should have had some music to play for you. Wind you up a bit more.’
Battersby shook his head again, turned away.
‘You want me to come in?’ asked Phil.
‘Yes,’ said Adderley. ‘But just you. And unarmed.’
‘I never carry a gun,’ said Phil. ‘Hate them. Not even firearm-trained. Okay. I’ll be in. Put the kettle on.’ He broke the connection.
Battersby turned to him, furious. ‘What the fuck are you playing at? Didn’t you listen to a single word I said to you?’
‘Yeah,’ said Phil, taking off his leather jacket. ‘And don’t worry. You’ll get to try your way if my way doesn’t work.’ He walked towards the door.
Battersby looked about to explode. ‘For the record,’ he said, his gaze bouncing between Phil and Sperring, ‘I want nothing to do with this. You’re acting on your own. Against rules and regulations. Against my better advice. If anything happens to those hostages, it’s entirely down to you. D’you understand?’
‘Whatever,’ said Phil.
‘Boss?’ said Sperring.
Phil pretended he hadn’t heard him.
Just stepped out of the incident van, headed straight for the church.
Trying to wipe the image of Marina in her office from his mind.
35
Imani looked at the building again. A nondescript house in a nondescript street. Somewhere in Kings Heath. The houses were all big, Edwardian and Victorian, the majority of them turned into flats. The refuge seemed at first glance to be no exception.
She got out of the car, walked up to the front door. Patel stayed in the car. No men allowed. She rang the bell. A voice came through the intercom. Imani introduced herself.
‘Right,’ said the voice. ‘There’s a camera just above your head. Could you hold your identification up to it, please?’
She looked up, saw the camera, held up her warrant card.
‘Thank you,’ said the voice, and the door was buzzed open.
The hallway was bright and trying to be cheery. Homely. Pictures and posters. Some that looked like they’d been done by children. The woman who stood before Imani was medium height, blonde hair pulled into two long plaits. She was dressed casually in jeans and a peasant-type blouse. If Keith Bailey, the counsellor, was Fat Face man, this, Imani decided, was Fat Face woman.
‘Could I see your identification again, please?’ she said.
Imani had expected that, still held her warrant card in her hand. She passed it over. The woman examined it carefully, returned it.
‘Thank you.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘Can’t be too careful.’
‘Quite agree,’ said Imani.
‘I mean, obviously we deal with the police on a day-to-day basis, but I’ve never seen you before, Detective Constable Oliver.’
‘No, I’m with MIS. Major Incident Squad.’
The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Oh dear.’ She braced herself for bad news.
‘Is there anywhere we can go to sit?’
‘Come into the office.’ She walked along the hallway to the back of the house. There was a kitchen with a door off to the side. They went through it. Inside was a desk with a chair behind it, a couple of filing cabinets, shelves two old armchairs and not much else.
‘Pull up a chair,’ said the woma
n, sitting behind the desk.
Imani dragged one of the armchairs over, sat down. ‘Sorry,’ she said to the woman, ‘I didn’t get your name.’
‘Haven’t given it yet. Claire Lingard. I run this place.’ She didn’t smile as she spoke.
Imani wasn’t getting much warmth from her. But that, she thought, was to be expected. This was a woman who would be naturally wary of everyone.
‘Then it’s probably you I need to talk to,’ said Imani. ‘Have you heard of a woman called Janine Gillen?’
Claire Lingard thought for a moment. Shook her head. ‘No. Should I?’
‘What about Gemma Adderley?’
‘Rings a bell,’ she said. She thought some more. ‘Wasn’t that the name of the woman who was found dead in the canal?’
‘That’s her.’
Understanding dawned on Claire Lingard’s face. ‘And that’s what you’re working on.’
‘That’s right. Janine Gillen was found dead this morning. We don’t know yet whether there are links between the two, but it’s a line of enquiry we’re following.’
‘So what has it got to do with us here?’
‘Janine Gillen was found with your card in her purse. It was given to her by a counsellor at Relate.’
Claire Lingard smiled. ‘Bet I know which one. Keith Bailey?’
‘That’s right. D’you know him?’
‘Should do. I’m married to him.’
Imani’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Oh.’ Then she thought about it. Fat Face man and Fat Face woman. Yes, she could see that.
‘Our work tends to overlap sometimes. When he gets someone he thinks can go no further with their domestic situation, or is in real danger, he gives them our number.’
‘Is that how you get all your referrals?’
‘No,’ she said, sitting back, stretching. On her own territory now. ‘There’s lots of ways. They can look at one of the websites, Refuge, Women’s Aid, the city council, even, and phone one of the numbers on there. Depending who they are, where they are and what their needs are, they’ll get put through to whoever can help them best.’
‘Their needs?’
‘Birmingham has a very big Asian population. Muslim women who are forced into arranged marriages, or home slavery, or even FGM, may not feel comfortable going to a refuge with other cultures there. Especially because what they’ve experienced is so integral to their own culture. So we know who to put where.’