Damaged Goods

by Helen Black

  ‘You should use your influence to put an end to this,’ she said.

  ‘Like I said, it isn’t my case.’

  Lilly stared out of the window into the darkness surrounding The Bushes and wondered if the world beyond was still sizzling. Jack was right, this wouldn’t be the end of it. The police had their hooks into Kelsey and would keep picking until something began to unravel. It would be virtually impossible to find a foster placement for Kelsey with this hanging over her.

  Lilly was exhausted and on the brink of a killer headache. She pulled a plastic bottle of warm water from her bag. Sam would be starving when she collected him but cooking was not an option. It was strictly fish and chips after a day like today.

  Miriam’s voice pervaded the unit. Her lilting accent had returned, the anxiety of earlier banished, for now at least. Didn’t the woman ever get tired of it all? Lilly would ask her one day, but not today.

  ‘Miriam, I need fifteen quid,’ came a familiar yell.

  Lilly poked her head around the door. Jermaine stood on the stairs, his arms wrapped around him in his best gansta pose, glowering down at Miriam.

  ‘I’m not deaf, Jermaine,’ said Miriam.

  ‘I need fifteen quid,’ the boy repeated, almost as loudly.

  ‘For what?’ Miriam asked.

  ‘A haircut.’

  Miriam pushed a stray braid behind her ear and laughed. ‘You must think I’m mad.’

  ‘Why?’ Jermaine shouted.

  Miriam reached up, knocked off his hat and revealed his number-one cut. Jermaine kissed his teeth and disappeared.

  ‘Kelsey okay?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘The poor kid’s shattered. I don’t know why the hell they think she killed her mum.’

  Lilly shrugged. ‘Most murders are by family members. Kelsey must have been pretty mad when her mum dumped her in here, so that gives her a motive.’

  ‘That’s not much to go on,’ Miriam said.

  ‘Which is why Jack’s buggered off,’ Lilly replied.

  Miriam stepped out of her battered sandals and lowered herself into the chair next to Lilly. ‘Kelsey didn’t do it.’

  Lilly passed over her bottle. ‘Who else has a motive?’

  ‘Come on, that lifestyle is dangerous,’ said Miriam between sips. ‘Working girls get beaten all the time.’

  ‘Yet according to Kelsey her mum was clean, so why would she even be with a punter?’ said Lilly.

  ‘Old habits die hard.’

  Lilly conceded the point. ‘True, and maybe some misogynist did bash her head in cos she wouldn’t take it up the trap door, but why mutilate the body?’

  Miriam raised her eyebrows. They both knew people got their kicks in the strangest ways. Most of the kids in The Bushes could testify to that.

  The inhabitants of southern England had communally declared it too hot to cook and the fish and chip shop was full. Its owners bellowed at each other in Turkish, throwing their arms around them like Basil Fawlty on acid. Their young assistant fried the cod, his face glistening with sweat and hot fat, and ignored both his employers and the customers.

  Eventually, a parcel of food was unceremoniously dumped onto the counter. Lilly’s Auntie Val, who had run the Castle Wall Fish Palace for thirty-six years and knew every regular order by heart, would have turned in her grave.

  The wrapping paper steamed and smelled of vinegar.

  ‘What do you think we got today, big man?’ asked Lilly.

  Sam giggled in anticipation. It was like a Christmas present, you never knew what was inside until you opened it. The poor service annoyed Lilly but Sam lapped it up.

  ‘Did you ask for a sausage?’ he asked.

  ‘Three times, my love,’ Lilly replied.

  ‘So it’s probably a fish cake.’

  Lilly’s mobile rang. She ruffled her son’s hair and checked the caller ID.

  ‘Hi Jack. Sorry if I seemed a smart arse today, just doing what I thought was right.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Jack. ‘Which is why I’m giving you a heads-up on this.’

  Lilly left the correct money on the counter and scooped the greasy packet into the crook of her arm. ‘Go on.’

  ‘On the night Grace was murdered a neighbour saw Kelsey entering the flat on two separate occasions. She can also vouch that no one else visited that night.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wednesday, 9 September

  It was the same as always. The girl covered her ears to drown out the noise. Life on site was never quiet. Sure, she shared a caravan with her ma, da and four baby brothers, so a moment’s peace was a rare thing indeed, but this was different. The screaming and cursing into the darkness was unbearable.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and turned in her bunk, her hand brushing the smooth stone of the wall. She flinched from the cold of it. The hardness of it. The suffocating density of it.

  Rochene had been born in a caravan, had lived in one all her life, and until two weeks ago she had never before spent the night in a building.

  When Lilly woke she too was touching the wall beside her bed. She shook the dream from her head and tried to get back to sleep. It always stopped in the same place, as if willing Lilly to play out the rest.

  Not tonight. Lilly simply couldn’t bear it.

  Instead she threw off the sheets to the intolerable heat of the night and went downstairs to raid the fridge.

  * * *

  Lilly was in a rush. She needed to be at Ring Farm in twenty minutes. Given that she hadn’t yet finished the school drop-off she was becoming increasingly agitated. She threw Sam’s wellies into his boot locker and wondered why he needed them when it hadn’t rained a drop for five weeks.

  She stuffed a cap into his kitbag. ‘That’s not a regulation hat, is it?’

  Sam responded with a sideways smile. ‘It is for the England squad.’

  She kissed his head. ‘Smart arse.’

  ‘That’s a bad word,’ he chided, wagging a finger.

  Lilly laughed and ushered him into his classroom.

  Then, on the verge of escape, she heard the nasal tones of one of the other mothers.

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow, Lilly?’

  She turned and saw the perfect smile of Penny Van Huysan. Was the woman having an affair with her dentist?

  ‘The other mums are meeting for coffee,’ Penny continued.

  Had she not been so exhausted from her sleepless night, Lilly would have thought on her feet. Work, chiropodist, smear test. Anything.

  ‘I think I’m free.’

  Oh God, coffee with the Manor Park mums. Dante’s third circle of hell.

  Lilly parked outside the Spar. Although it was a good walk to where she needed to be, the shop was busy and her car stood less chance of being stolen. The Clayhill Estate was one of the roughest in Ring Farm, awash with addicts and dealers. The crime rates were high and the employment figures low. Grace Brand had lived there with her kids for fourteen years.

  Lilly wrinkled her nose at the smell of urine in the stairwell and made her way up to the third floor. The lights were smashed and the gloom coupled with the stench made a depressing cocktail.

  A woman answered the door instantly. She was in her mid-seventies, sporting a frizzy perm and a scowl.

  Lilly held out her hand. ‘Mrs Mitchell? I’m Lilly Valentine. Sorry I’m late.’

  The old woman smoothed down her house coat with arthritic fingers and frowned, no doubt offended by a younger generation who managed their lives so inexcusably badly that they couldn’t make important appointments on time.

  Lilly let her hand drop and followed Mrs Mitchell through the hallway to a stuffy sitting room with shelves full of china animals dressed in Victorian clothes. A tabby cat smiled out from the brim of her blue bonnet, the ribbons held in place by two paws.

  Despite the weather every window was closed, and a man sat in the corner, a blanket over his knees, staring into space. A cuckoo clock sounded from another room and the man’s lips began to
move gently and soundlessly.

  Mrs Mitchell gave her husband a contemptuous nod. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s away with the fairies.’

  The old man didn’t look over but continued his silent monologue.

  Lilly plumped for a no-nonsense approach and dived straight in. ‘Can I ask you about Monday night, Mrs Mitchell?’

  ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it,’ the old woman snapped.

  Lilly remained polite. ‘I’ve seen the statement you gave to the police and you say you saw Kelsey Brand going into their flat on the night Grace was killed.’

  Mrs Mitchell sniffed. ‘That’s right, I saw her twice.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Lilly.

  Mrs Mitchell flashed an angry look. ‘Of course I’m sure. The first time was around eight o’clock. I know that cos EastEnders had just started. The second time was about half an hour later.’

  Lilly kept her smile glued in place. ‘Maybe it wasn’t Kelsey.’

  Mrs Mitchell tightened her moue until she reminded Lilly of the pickled walnuts her nan had always loved. ‘I may be old but I’m not daft. I know what I saw.’

  Lilly cocked her head to one side and tried a different tack. ‘Maybe you weren’t paying much attention, maybe you were busy.’

  The old lady shot a withering look at her husband. ‘Doing what?’

  A witness who was a prisoner in her own home. Great.

  ‘Did you know Grace?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘Didn’t want to.’

  Lilly kept her tone light. ‘How about Kelsey?’

  ‘She used to go to the shops for me when she was little. Skinny thing, well, they all were,’ said Mrs Mitchell, almost pleasantly, then, as if remembering herself, she added, ‘Of course the change started coming back short so I didn’t ask no more.’

  It was plain to Lilly that this witness had no intention of describing the Brands with anything less than poison. Their tragic end had clearly failed to temper her views.

  ‘Did many people visit the flat?’

  ‘Not since the social took her kids. Before that it was like Piccadilly bleeding Circus, men arriving at all times of the day and night. Clients, I suppose you’d call them. And more girls.’

  ‘You mean prostitutes,’ said Lilly.

  Mrs Mitchell sniffed in disgust. ‘Vile, the lot of them. Came for drugs, I suppose.’

  Lilly was surprised. ‘Was Grace selling drugs?’

  ‘Not her, the darkie that was there all the time. Max, he calls himself.’

  ‘A boyfriend?’ asked Lilly.

  Mrs Mitchell shrugged. ‘I’ve heard him say he’s an entre-whatsit.’

  ‘Entrepreneur,’ Lilly suggested.

  ‘I know what he is,’ Mrs Mitchell replied. She leaned in closer to make her point. ‘This used to be a decent place to live before that lot moved in.’

  Lilly gladly closed the door to number 62. The pungent smell in the walkway was an open meadow compared to the bitter hole behind her. She passed along to number 58, the Brands’ flat, and paused at the police tape. She peered into the kitchen window and saw the room inside was modestly furnished but clean and tidy.

  ‘Can I help you, Miss?’

  Lilly could feel Jack standing behind her, close enough for her to smell the ancient leather of his jacket. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said.

  He gave a small chuckle. ‘I suppose you want to go in.’

  It wasn’t a question and he was already unlocking the door.

  Inside, the flat had the same layout as number 62, but Grace’s home seemed much less claustrophobic. The hall was painted in a soft pastel shade and cotton curtains let in plenty of light. The carpet was worn but neat, unusual for a junkie.

  Although Grace had sent the girls’ belongings with them into care, the place remained full of evidence of their existence. A painting of a fairy was tacked to the fridge, her wand held aloft like a glittery spear. There were photographs of all four girls fixed to the walls with Blu-Tack, their edges curling inwards, the images, like the family, imploding. The shelf by the sink was empty apart from a lone spider plant, gently dying in the fierce sunlight, its pot incongruously colourful and inscribed with the words ‘World’s best Mum’.

  Lilly rubbed the dry leaves between her thumb and forefinger, feeling the papery disintegration. ‘Whoever did this must have had a reason.’

  Jack gave Lilly a charming smile. ‘Yeah. Her ma abandoned her and she got stuck in a children’s home.’

  Lilly smiled back. ‘Have you considered that maybe she didn’t do it?’

  ‘Have you considered that maybe she did?’

  Lilly didn’t answer, instead she peered down the hall, her gaze following the trail of dark stains from the kitchen to the bedroom door.

  ‘Is that where it happened?’ she asked.

  ‘She received the head wounds in here then got dragged down there.’

  They skirted the walls as they passed along the hall and entered the room where Grace had been mutilated.

  Lilly took in the scene, her breath shallow. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, perhaps in deference to the deceased or perhaps they had been like that all along. Whatever the reason, the room was cast in a grey light and the noise of the world beyond was muffled.

  Apart from the bed the only other stick of furniture was a single white wardrobe. Lilly opened the door and fingered the sparse contents. A few T-shirts and flimsy shirts small enough to fit Sam. A pair of black jeans, faded at the knee, and a plastic mini skirt. Lilly felt so solemn she made the sign of the cross, a meaningless affectation from her childhood, like saluting magpies.

  She didn’t want to but she knew she couldn’t avoid looking at the bed. The sheets and mattress had been removed for forensic examination but Grace’s blood had soaked right down to the base.

  Without thinking, Lilly put her hand out to touch the black shape, using the same instinct that a wet-paint sign will arouse.

  ‘Tell me about a face round here called Max,’ she said.

  Jack gently pushed her hand away before she made contact. ‘If we’re talking about the same person, he’s hardly a face. Max Hardy, drug dealer, pimp, purveyor of porno films. Low-level stuff.’

  ‘Had any dealings with him?’ asked Lilly.

  Jack shrugged. ‘Loads. I’ve known him since his time at The Bushes.’

  Lilly widened her eyes. ‘The res unit?’

  He applied a gentle pressure to the small of her back and eased her towards the door. ‘In those days it was called The Bushberry Home for Disturbed Children.’

  Lilly paused to let this information sink in, before allowing Jack to manoeuvre her out of the house entirely.

  ‘I can’t believe you knew him back then,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t believe I’ve been doing this job for so bloody long,’ he said. ‘Twenty years and change.’

  ‘And every day a joy.’

  ‘A life sentence would have been shorter. What an eejit, eh?’

  ‘A saint more like.’ Lilly patted his arm. ‘Anyway, this Max sounds like a nasty piece of work.’

  Jack couldn’t and didn’t argue.

  ‘Let’s assume Grace worked for him and that he controls his girls in the usual way,’ Lilly continued.

  Jack closed the door and fixed a fresh piece of police tape around the frame. ‘Fist and needle.’

  ‘Exactly. So what if one of his girls gets clean, how can he make sure she keeps working for him?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘His charming repartee.’

  Lilly worked through her thoughts to their logical conclusion. ‘When that doesn’t work he resorts to what he knows best.’

  ‘He’s no previous for violence,’ said Jack.

  Lilly gave a dismissive wave. ‘No one’s ever reported him.’

  She wondered if this could be the lead she was looking for. She needed to get Jack interested and get him to do some digging. And do some herself.

  ‘Is this why you asked me to meet you here?’ asked Ja
ck.

  ‘Naturally. Did you have something else in mind?’

  ‘Maybe a drink?’

  She eyed his cheeky grin. ‘Are you inviting me on a date?’

  ‘I thought asking for a shag might seem a bit forward.’

  William Barrows watched his wife reapply her makeup in readiness for her meeting. The process fascinated and appalled him in equal measure. He often wondered why she bothered to wear any since it made her look neither younger nor prettier, which was presumably her aim. It seemed to him that, as with any old building, the façade remained more or less the same after a paint job and any cement used to cover cracks was too obvious to fool anyone. If anything it drew attention to the flaws. He longed to dig his fingers into her cheeks and peel the painted flesh from the bone.

  Sometimes he entertained himself by playing games with her and suggested a little more rouge or a darker shade of lipstick. It amused him that she was so ready to leave the house like a geisha girl. But today was for a different kind of game entirely.

  ‘I read in the local rag that one of your constituents was murdered, darling,’ he said.

  Hermione continued to apply dark pencil around her eyelid. ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You don’t seem very interested.’

  She turned to her husband, pencil still poised. ‘She was a drug addict living on the Clayhill Estate. I don’t think anyone is interested.’

  The estates in the Ring Farm area of Luton had the lowest voter turnout in her constituency, so Hermione Barrows, MP for Luton West, like her predecessors, expended little energy courting the support of their residents. She went back to her reflection.

  ‘You could push the issue, make it gather some speed,’ Barrows said.

  ‘Why would I?’

  He felt his impatience begin to rise. ‘To raise your profile, darling.’

  She snapped her head around. He had her attention now.

  ‘Like you say, no one’s interested, so anyone making some noise will have a clear field.’

  Barrows watched her hungry smile emerge. She needed recognition and publicity as much as he needed the hobby. Well, almost.