by Tania Carver
‘Okay,’ said Imani. ‘So I’m presuming that the location of this place is secret?’
‘The locations of all the refuges in the city are secret.’
‘Right. So how would someone get here, then? Say they phone the helpline. What happens then?’
‘Well, as I said,’ a slight note of irritation crept into Claire Lingard’s voice, ‘they would be put through to the place or person that could serve them best.’
‘Assuming it was this place.’
‘Well, assuming it was this place, we would tell them to be at a prearranged spot and a car would come to pick them up. We’d give them a particular word that they would expect the driver to say so they would know to get into the car. Then they’d be brought here.’
‘Right.’ Imani looked round the room once more. It gave as much away about the refuge as its boss was giving away about herself. Virtually nothing. ‘And then what?’
‘The refuge is divided up into flats, so the women can lock their own door and feel safe. Once they’re here, we sort out counselling, help with money, childcare, education, whatever’s needed.’
Imani nodded, thinking. ‘Could someone intercept the calls? Be there to pick the women up instead of your arranged driver?’
Claire Lingard’s features hardened. ‘Definitely not. Are you saying someone from here did it? Definitely not.’
‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m just wondering if the system could be hacked in some way, that’s all. Whether that was a way this person was meeting these vulnerable women.’
Claire Lingard relaxed slightly. Imani seemed to have said the right thing.
‘I couldn’t think of a way. But then I’m not computer-minded.’
Imani smiled. ‘Me neither. Can barely work my iPad. Did you have any calls last night?’
‘I wasn’t on duty,’ Claire Lingard said, features impassive. ‘I don’t know offhand.’
‘Right. Do you keep a list of the names of the women who contact you?’
‘If they give their names. Some give false ones. Some of them prefer not to give any name at all. We always ask for one, just so we know who we’re talking to. It’s up to them what they say. Remember, we provide a confidential service. But there’s a transcript made of each call. Notes are taken. We can use those notes as a basis to assess their needs.’
‘D’you keep recordings of the calls?’
‘No, just the transcripts.’
‘But you log the calls. Keep a list.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Could I have a copy of that list, please? And a copy of the transcripts?’
Claire Lingard sat back once more. ‘I don’t know. I’d have to talk to my superiors. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Imani. ‘Definitely.’ She’s a tough one, she thought. Harder to crack than a walnut at Christmas.
‘Thank you.’ Claire Lingard spoke as if Imani was being dismissed.
Imani didn’t move. ‘Look, I understand about your client confidentiality. I really do. But I’m investigating two murders. And if there’s a link between these two dead women and your refuge, it’s best if we all know about it, don’t you think? Then we can deal with it. All of us. Together.’
Claire Lingard realised what Imani was saying. She nodded, face held tight like a mask. ‘I’ll get a printout for you.’
She stood up and left the room.
On her own, Imani looked round once more. She saw something on the wall behind the desk that she had overlooked before. She stood up, crossed to it. A poem. She read the title: ‘The Softest Bullet Ever Shot…’
Then the rest of the poem.
You hurt me and chained me
Humiliated and raped me
Spoke hate to me, taunted me
Tried to kill me inside
The bullet hit slowly
Fired year after year by you
Got right in the heart of me
Spread its fire all around
But I wouldn’t let it
I found I was stronger
I ran and I healed and
I built myself up again
And now I grow stronger
And stronger and stronger
And the best thing of all
Is that you’re out of my head
For ever.
‘The title comes from a Flaming Lips song.’
Imani jumped, turned. Claire Lingard was standing in the doorway. Imani immediately felt shamefaced, like she was a schoolgirl who had been caught in the headmistress’s office.
Claire Lingard smiled, entered the room, a bundle of paper in her hands.
‘You wrote that?’ asked Imani.
‘I was a fan of the band. Had to get the title from somewhere.’
Imani looked again at the poem, then back to Claire. ‘So you…’
She nodded. ‘It was the album I kept playing. When I was in… somewhere like this. The poem was my therapy. Or part of it. Now I keep it there to remind myself of how far I’ve come. And why I do what I do. Every day.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘And necessary. It’ll stay there until I go. Or until it’s not necessary. Whichever happens first. And I think I know. Unfortunately.’
Imani understood the woman now. And began to warm to her. ‘But your story had a happy ending.’
‘Keith? Yes, it did. I was lucky to meet him after what had happened. We understand each other. Know what we’ve both had to go through to be happy. But not everyone is so lucky. Here.’ Claire handed over the papers. ‘I didn’t know how far back you wanted to go. Is six months okay for you?’
‘That’s fine, thank you.’ Imani took them off her.
Claire Lingard stood there, seemingly thoughtful.
‘Two women, you say?’
‘We think so.’ Imani gestured to the paper. ‘Hopefully no more than that.’
‘You looked at the husbands?’
‘It’s where we always look first. We’re still looking. Nothing’s off the table yet.’
Claire nodded.
They shook hands.
‘Let me know what happens.’
‘I will.’
Imani said her goodbyes and made her way back out to the car. Patel was asleep when she got there, the radio blaring. She rapped on the window with her keys. He jumped up, startled. She smiled, got in.
‘What you got there?’ he asked.
Still smiling, she turned to him. ‘You know how you said you would do all the paperwork for this job?’
He looked at it.
‘Aw, no…’
36
‘St-stay where you are. I’m… I’m warning you…’
Phil had opened the doors of the church, walked straight inside. He took it in immediately, made judgements, decisions, just as he had been trained to do. The building was old, originally a community centre. A concrete and plasterboard exterior gave way to a bare and uninspiring interior. No adornments, a minimum of religious trappings, just rows of wooden chairs, a slightly raised stage at the front and space for an electric keyboard at the side. A simple wooden cross was on the wall, a doorway to the left.
There had been an attempt at cheering the place up, with vases of flowers dotted round the windowsills. Stalks and petals were strewn on the floor. Phil surmised that the two elderly black women cowering in the front row, clutching each other in terror, had been engaged in flower-arranging when Adderley arrived.
‘I said, I’m warning you…’
Adderley stood on the raised stage, soaking wet, squinting. Two large jerry cans beside him, the floor wet also. A cheap lighter in his hand.
‘Stay where you are…’
Phil kept walking, slowing his pace only slightly. ‘What’s this about, Roy?’
‘I’m… I’m innocent…’ Adderley’s eyes were almost closed.
The air stank of petrol; Phil could feel the sting of it in his own eyes, light-headed from the fumes. He stopped walking, looked at Adderl
ey.
‘So simple,’ he said. ‘Just click and burn and it’s all over…’
Adderley frowned: not the words he had been expecting, not sure if they were actually directed at him.
Phil continued. Tried to wipe that image of Marina away, the hopelessness that accompanied it. ‘All that pain, gone. Forever…’
He started walking again.
‘Stay back…’
Phil spoke louder this time. ‘I said, why did you want to see me? Why me?’
‘Because. Because you think I did it…’
‘So? You think this is going to change my mind?’
‘I’m innocent…’ Screamed at him, a cry of pain torn from Adderley’s body. Then softer, ‘I… I didn’t kill her…’ He looked at Phil once more, focusing through the stinging fumes. Noticed how near Phil was to him. ‘Stay there, stay back…’ He moved his thumb over the lighter. ‘I’ll… I will…’
Phil stopped walking. ‘So if you didn’t kill her,’ he said, ‘why all this?’
‘To make you… make you listen to me…’
Phil sat down on the nearest chair. ‘You want to talk to me?’ He folded his arms, crossed his legs. ‘Talk.’
Adderley stared at him, suspecting some kind of trick.
‘Come on, Roy,’ said Phil with a sigh. ‘Can’t wait all day. I’m sure these ladies have somewhere they’d rather be.’
The two cowering women looked up at him then. Phil saw a flicker of hope in the eyes of one of them.
‘I’m waiting, Roy. Convince me that you didn’t kill your wife. The one you used to regularly beat up.’
‘I… I…’
Adderley looked at the two women. It was clear that they knew him. Phil was sure that disapproval was now mixed in with their fear. Adderley dropped his head, shame on his features.
‘She… she wouldn’t do what she was told…’ he said weakly.
‘So you assaulted her. Repeatedly.’
‘I… She had to learn that a… a wife’s place is in the home. She… she had to —’
‘Really? You mean when she wouldn’t do what you told her, when she demonstrated independent thought, you hit her, is that it?’
‘It says in the Bible, a woman must… must submit to her husband.’
Phil stood up. Adderley flinched, held the lighter aloft once more.
‘You sick bastard,’ said Phil. ‘You weak, pathetic little man.’ He began walking forward again.
‘Stay back…’
Phil ignored him. ‘What about your new girlfriend? Does she know her place?’
‘Don’t… don’t bring her into it…’
‘Oh, she’s a good girl, is she? Does as she’s told?’
‘It’s different, different…’
‘Right,’ said Phil, still walking. ‘Of course. It’s different. It would be, because you’re making this shit up as you go along, aren’t you? Whatever it takes to justify what you do. Blame it on the Bible. Women are either saints or whores, is that it? Nothing in between? That what your book tells you?’
‘I… I…’
‘And when women, when human beings, don’t fit into those roles, you get angry, is that it?’
‘I… I didn’t kill her…’
Phil had reached the two women. He looked down at them. ‘You can go now,’ he said. He looked at Adderley. ‘Can’t they?’
Adderley said nothing.
The women hadn’t moved. ‘He’s not going to do anything,’ Phil said. ‘He’s not going to hurt you. He never was. Just go. Now.’
The two women, dazed and confused, as if they were being told to leave a car crash that they thought had been fatal for them, got to their feet and moved hurriedly down the aisle and out the door.
Phil turned to Adderley. Smiled. ‘Alone at last.’
Adderley kept brandishing the lighter. ‘Stay… stay back…’
‘Why? You scared of me? Because I’m bigger than you? Because if you hit me, I’ll fight back?’
‘I… didn’t kill her…’
Phil reached the small stage. He looked at the jerry cans once more. One of them seemed to be quite full. He stepped up on to the stage. ‘You know what? I don’t fucking care.’
‘Don’t… don’t swear in the house of the Lord…’
‘Fuck you,’ said Phil, still walking. He suddenly felt tired. Beyond tired. ‘I don’t care. I don’t care about you, or your God, or your dead wife, or whether you think you’re innocent or guilty or whether you were fucked by your uncle when you were a kid. I don’t care about any of it.’ He stood right beside Adderley. The man seemed to visibly shrink before him.
Phil reached down, picked up one of the jerry cans.
‘I don’t care whether my wife hates me because I can’t make her feel safe, or that I’ll never see my daughter again… I just want some peace, that’s all…’
He held the can over his head, upended it until it was empty, soaking himself completely. His eyes were stinging.
He threw the can to one side, looked at Adderley. The man was cowering away from him now, trying to reach the back of the stage, look for the door behind them. Phil grabbed him.
‘Where you going?’
He grabbed the lighter. Adderley screamed.
‘Thought this was what you wanted,’ said Phil.
‘Don’t,’ sobbed Adderley. ‘Please don’t…’
‘Come on, Roy, don’t be like that.’ Phil pulled Adderley close to him. Above the smell of petrol, he realised that the man had pissed himself. ‘This is what you wanted…’
He held the lighter high, moved his thumb back…
The armed response unit burst in.
Phil heard noise, confusion, shouting. He was grabbed, pushed to the floor, the lighter taken forcibly from his hand.
He didn’t resist, didn’t complain. Said nothing.
Just lay there smiling.
37
Imani had taken Patel back to the incident room and, introductions made, the two of them and Elli settled down to work.
‘This is the list Claire Lingard gave me,’ said Imani, hand on the pile of paper. ‘From Safe Haven. They log all the calls, take a few details, that sort of thing. They’re rough transcripts of the conversations. It’s a long shot, but let’s see if we can match some of the names with missing persons. Start with last night, go a couple of months back.’
It was hard going, as Claire Lingard had predicted. Sometimes all that had been given was a first name, and they had no way of knowing if it was false or not. But they started with Janine – not a false name; at least they knew that – and worked back from that.
‘Let’s look at the ones that say they want to come to the refuge,’ said Patel. ‘That should narrow it down a bit.’
They read. Cross-referenced.
It made for depressing reading. Imani knew that the other two were thinking the same thing. So many sad, blighted lives. So many men who hated women.
Patel shook his head, leaned back, rubbing his face and sighing. ‘My God… Never stops, does it?’
‘Tip of the iceberg,’ said Imani.
They kept going.
‘Here,’ said Elli eventually. ‘Found something. It’s Gemma Adderley. Look.’ She pointed to the date on the transcript, then to the missing persons report on the screen. ‘They match, give or take a day or two.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Imani. She looked at the other two. Knew they were experiencing what she was: that copper’s thrill of knowing you were on to something. ‘Keep going.’
They did.
‘I think…’ said Patel, after a while. ‘Have a look at this. This woman here. Gives her name as Mandy. Then here…’ He looked at his laptop screen. ‘Missing persons report for the beginning of September. Amanda Harrison. Small Heath address. Still flagged as open. Never found, never turned up. Anywhere, never mind Safe Haven.’ He looked at Imani, frowned. ‘So where is she?’
‘Or where’s the body?’ said Imani.
Elli
shuddered. ‘You think we’ve got a serial killer?’
Imani kept staring at the screen, the unsmiling face of Amanda Harrison gazing back at her.
‘Let’s not be hasty,’ she said, ‘But we could be on to something.’
‘What would that be, then?’
The three of them looked up. An untidy, overweight man was standing before them.
‘Detective Sergeant Hugh Ellison,’ he said. ‘From down in Digbeth. Just passing through.’
Imani stood up, positioned herself instinctively in front of the laptop. ‘Detective Constable Oliver,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Oh,’ he said, trying to look over her shoulder at the screen. ‘Just seeing how you’re doing.’ He gave up and looked round the room. ‘Nice place. Well funded. Always liked it here.’
Imani looked at the other two. They seemed equally uneasy, as well as clueless as to why Ellison was there.
‘Is there something I can do for you, DS Ellison?’ said Imani once more.
‘Oh…’ He shrugged, tried to make his enquiry casual. Failed. ‘I headed up the Gemma Adderley missing persons case. Heard it was murder now. Just seeing how you were getting on.’
Imani hesitated. She was naturally disinclined to share information unless she was getting something in return. But there was something shifty and unsavoury about this man that made her even more reluctant to do so.
‘Spoke to your CIO. Phil Brennan?’ said Ellison. ‘He can vouch for me. Worked with his missus, too. Just seeing how you’re getting on.’
‘We’re —’
‘Still at the evidence-gathering stage,’ said Patel.
Clearly, thought Imani, he was feeling the same as she was.
Ellison nodded. ‘I know you lot think that us in Missing Persons do nothing all day. Just fill in forms, do a few internet searches and leave it at that. But we don’t, you know.’