Damaged Goods

by Helen Black

  ‘Hello, Angie,’ said Lilly.

  ‘Who pissed on your chips?’

  Lilly laughed in spite of herself. ‘Things are, how shall I say, difficult.’

  Angie looked at the film of regurgitated food floating on top of her bucket. ‘Things are, how shall I say, fantastic in here.’

  Lilly laughed again. ‘I’m sorry, Angie.’

  ‘Don’t be, it’s better than bang-up. At least I get a blather with some of the girls.’

  Angie pulled out a roll-up from her pocket and lit it without removing her rubber gloves. ‘Anyway, I’m glad I caught you, it’ll save me using my phone card. I spoke to the girl who got cut and she says she’ll talk to you but only cos I told her you were sound, so don’t go fucking it up.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Lilly.

  The guards gestured to Angie to get back to work and moved Lilly along.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked Sheba.

  ‘Good news, I hope.’

  Generally barristers liked to do business in their chambers. Old-fashioned, book-lined apartments set in airy squares around Temple, the area in the city between the Embankment and Fleet Street.

  Lilly resented going there. She hated being met at reception by the teenaged clerks straight out of central casting for EastEnders and their endless yet fruitless offers of coffee. She loathed being made to wait while the barristers finished their oh-so-important case in the High Court. Always, it seemed, far more complex than her own.

  She wanted to run amok down the dark corridors shouting, ‘I’m the bloody client here.’

  But no, she would sit and fidget and check her watch until someone would sweep her into their room with more offers of nonexistent coffee.

  Happily, Lilly undertook most of her own advocacy in court and so had precious little need of barristers. She had never understood solicitors who did all the hard work – the paperwork, the interviews, the endless conversations with clients – only to hand over the case to a barrister at the fun part: the trial. Lilly would go to any length to avoid such a scenario. Occasionally, when two trials fell on the same day she had no option but to pass one on. Even Lilly couldn’t be in two places at once.

  But Kelsey’s case was different. Lilly couldn’t do it alone. She might have years of experience but even she wouldn’t attempt a murder case at the Old Bailey.

  Jez, however, was not one to stand on ceremony and had proved amenable to Lilly’s suggestion that their meeting take place in her office. He arrived early and was shown to Lilly’s room by a sullen-faced Sheila.

  He looked at the mountainous paperwork dumped on every surface in the small room. ‘Let’s do this in the pub.’

  They ordered their drinks and took a table in a smart and almost empty bar called Lancasters. It seemed to change hands every six months and its current reincarnation was a New York loft conversion with grey walls and blond wood. The wine list was extensive and the staff predominantly Australian. Quite a change from its former life as a tapas bar with live flamenco dancing on Thursdays and Saturdays. Lilly noted that the only thing that never changed was the lack of customers.

  Jez put his file on the table but didn’t open it. ‘This is a difficult one, Lilly.’ He tapped the folder. ‘There’s not much evidence against Kelsey and I’m tempted to treat it with the contempt it deserves and ask the judge to kick it out before arraignment.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Lilly.

  ‘I doubt that this one will go for it, of course.’

  ‘But the case is so weak,’ said Lilly.

  Jez waved a dismissive arm. ‘Politics.’

  Lilly opened her mouth to argue but was loath to appear the silly ingénue. Instead she voiced her other concerns.

  ‘But you know what trials are like. There’s always the risk that the jury go off-piste.’

  Jez nodded. ‘Too unpredictable. The problem is the general public like to feel these things are resolved. Someone’s dead and someone must be to blame.’

  ‘Then we give them someone else,’ said Lilly.

  ‘Like who? It needs to be credible.’

  Lilly thought about Max. ‘I thought I knew who did it. A dealer, pimp, all-round scumbag. He knew Grace, and when I tried to ask questions he attacked me.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘Just one problem,’ she said. ‘He didn’t do it.’

  Jez shrugged. ‘Doesn’t really matter. He’s not on trial so we’ll just give him to the jury as a possible alternative. Rake enough muck to cast doubt on Kelsey’s guilt.’

  The waitress came over with their bottle of wine. Both Lilly and Jez fell silent until she left.

  ‘Normally I’d agree, but the police know for sure it’s not him,’ Lilly said. ‘They’re his alibi.’

  ‘Then we’re back to square one.’

  A group of young men at the next table, flushed by the heat and lunchtime beer, began to whistle and shout. Lilly realised that Sheba was the focus of their attention. She graced them with a wink before sitting next to her brother.

  ‘Such a tart,’ he chided.

  Sheba drank from his glass. ‘Hello, little brother.’

  He wrinkled his nose at the lipstick she left on the rim and gestured to the waitress to fetch another glass.

  ‘How did you find us?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘Your secretary told me your room was a pigsty so you’d hit the nearest pub.’

  Lilly blushed. Neither Jez nor Sheba seemed like the messy types. She had never seen them dressed anything less than immaculately and both were loaded with cool.

  ‘So what have you decided?’ asked Sheba.

  ‘We’re going to run a soddi,’ said Jez.

  ‘Sod what?’ she said.

  The clean glass arrived and he poured himself more wine. ‘A soddi. SODDI. Some other dude did it.’

  Sheba opened her palms, none the wiser.

  ‘It’s a defence. We can’t just say Kelsey didn’t do it. If it comes to a trial we’ll have to give the jury another explanation of who did,’ said Jez.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought you were the shrink,’ he said.

  ‘And when you say something remotely sensible I’ll analyse it.’

  They were quite a double act.

  Lilly came to the rescue. ‘Nature abhors a vacuum. If we take Kelsey out of the frame we have to put someone else in.’

  Sheba nodded that she understood. ‘So which poor sod is it going to be?’

  ‘We had the perfect candidate but it turns out he’s not guilty,’ said Jez.

  Sheba patted his head in mock sympathy. ‘What a shame.’

  ‘Grace was on the game so it could just be a punter,’ said Lilly.

  ‘Would a jury buy that?’ asked Sheba.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Jez. ‘It’s an alien lifestyle and most people are prepared to accept it has its inherent dangers. We can certainly wheel out the statistics about how many prostitutes met violent deaths in the last three years.’

  Lilly looked at Sheba. ‘You don’t seem sure.’

  ‘The pathology’s wrong. Most prostitutes are killed in very violent circumstances.’

  ‘Grace didn’t exactly die in her sleep,’ said Jez.

  Sheba furrowed her gorgeous brow, the nearest she came to wrinkles. ‘Let me finish. The statistics you want to offer up in evidence will tell you that most die as a consequence of unplanned attacks. They’re often beaten to death or stabbed by assailants who didn’t necessarily want to kill them but clearly didn’t care less at the time. Sometimes a client will lash out and then fail to curb the aggression.’

  ‘I think we can safely say Grace’s killer failed to curb his,’ said Jez.

  Sheba shook her head. ‘I disagree. Grace received two clean blows to the back of the head. There were no signs of a struggle, nor defensive wounds. I’d say there was no fight at all, no attempt to overpower her, no aggression. He simply waited until she turned around and then wham.’

 
‘Grace never knew what hit her,’ said Lilly.

  ‘Literally,’ said Sheba.

  ‘But what about the mutilation?’ asked Jez.

  ‘It’s difficult to say what would motivate a person to do that,’ said Sheba.

  ‘Dr Cheney, who did the autopsy, thought there might be a bond between the killer and victim,’ said Lilly.

  ‘That’s probably true,’ said Sheba.

  ‘So our killer wasn’t a stranger,’ said Jez. ‘Which would explain why she let him in.’

  Sheba’s lips glistened with wine. ‘But the bond needn’t be real. It doesn’t have to be familial, which is no doubt what the prosecution will say, it needn’t even be mutual. It just needs to exist in our killer’s mind.’

  ‘Could a punter feel that sort of bond with a girl he used regularly?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘Oh yes. Lots of men, with poor or nonexistent relationships with other women, form deep attachments with a prostitute. It’s one-way traffic, of course,’ Sheba looked sideways at her brother, ‘but self-delusion is a powerful thing.’

  Jez lifted his glass in triumph. ‘A regular punter it is. I shall be famous for being the first barrister to use the Pretty Woman defence. It’ll become legendary.’

  Sheba put her hand on his wrist and lowered the glass to the table. ‘As I said, the pathology’s wrong. There’s no sign of sexual activity whatsoever.’

  ‘Maybe he killed Grace before it got to that,’ Jez offered.

  ‘It’s possible, but why go on to cut her?’

  ‘Because he likes it,’ said Lilly.

  Jez laughed.

  ‘It’s not as daft as it sounds,’ said Sheba. ‘There are three main reasons why assailants inflict post-mortem mutilation of this kind. The first is to disguise the identity of the victim, which doesn’t apply here because facially she was left intact. The second is where the assailant is so caught up in his actions he (a) doesn’t realise the victim is dead or (b) realises they’re dead but can’t stop the flood.’

  ‘Doctor Cheney said Grace would have died in the kitchen almost instantly so the killer must have dragged the body to the bedroom to start the cutting,’ said Lilly.

  ‘Exactly, not the actions of someone caught in an adrenalin rush,’ said Sheba.

  ‘And the third reason?’ asked Jez.

  Sheba took a long drink. ‘Much more interesting. The mutilation is actually more important to the killer than the killing. The post-mortem ritual provides a release which may be psychosexual, particularly if he’s impotent, which would explain the lack of semen at the scene. It’s as Lilly says, he does it because he likes it.’

  ‘Would someone like that visit prostitutes?’ asked Lilly.

  Sheba nodded vigorously. ‘Almost definitely.’

  ‘Then we have our other poor sod,’ said Jez, triumphant again.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Sheba.

  ‘You still have doubts?’ Lilly queried.

  Sheba circled the rim of her glass with a wet finger, an impossibly sensual gesture of which she seemed oblivious. ‘It’s so extreme yet so meticulous. Almost textbook.’

  ‘So our man’s tidy,’ said Jez.

  ‘It’s much more than that,’ she said. ‘For anyone to go this far he’s been fantasising for years. He will probably watch lots of porn, not vanilla flavour, and visit lots of prostitutes. It’s all so perfect I would doubt this is his first attack.’

  Jez’s eyes opened wide. ‘He’s done it before?’

  ‘Very possibly, although perhaps to a lesser extent,’ she answered.

  Jez tapped his nose. Lilly could almost hear his mind whirring. ‘Something like that would have hit the press. Or at the very least the police would know about it.’

  ‘Maybe they do know,’ said Lilly, ‘and maybe it’s been swept under the carpet.’

  Her audience waited, breath held, for more information.

  ‘There’s a woman in Parkgate who was cut to ribbons by a punter. She was working the same patch as Grace.’

  ‘We need to find out who she is and see if she’ll talk to us,’ said Jez.

  Lilly gave a half-smile. ‘I know who she is and she’s already agreed to see me.’

  Normally vocal in her complaints, Charlene sat at the kitchen table quietly with the other residents. She didn’t comment on the wrinkled potatoes, singed and black like dirty stones. Instead she pushed them around her plate in contented silence and even nibbled at the accompanying carrots which squatted in a cold, accusing pile.

  ‘You on a promise?’ asked the boy across the table.

  Charlene refused to look at him. Max had told her there were two types of people in the world: those who made something of themselves, and those destined for the bottom of the bin. Winners and losers, take your pick. Charlene knew what she was and wouldn’t waste another second on the sad idiots in The Bushes. Really, she should feel sorry for them.

  The boy balled up a piece of kitchen roll and threw it at Charlene. ‘Chaz is on a promise.’

  ‘That’s right,’ shouted Jermaine, joining his friend in the torture. ‘He’s promised her a facelift.’

  Charlene itched to flick him with the nearest dishcloth but reminded herself that contact was futile and dangerous. These lowlifes were infectious, ready to drag you down.

  Knowing that all eyes were on her, she smiled to herself and dissected the dry food on her plate. Miriam, who had no doubt anticipated a battle of insults and low-level assaults, looked particularly wary of Charlene’s newfound pacifism.

  When the table, floor, walls and cupboards had been wiped down to Miriam’s satisfaction, the children sloped off to the television room, but Charlene was held back by the firm hand and insistent look that Miriam could employ with ease.

  ‘Anything you want to tell me?’ she asked.

  Charlene shook her head and turned to go. Miriam was all right, but she chose to work here and breathe the same air as the others so that must make her a loser too. Charlene would check with Max but was sure he’d agree.

  Miriam kept her hand on Charlene’s arm. Not tight, but with enough pressure to convey who was in charge. ‘Will you do a drugs test for me?’

  Charlene snorted. Miriam regularly tested her charges. Everyone knew she couldn’t force them to take the test but everyone also knew a refusal would be taken as a sign of guilt, which more often than not would result in a swift transfer to another unit. Miriam would deal with truancy, swearing, fighting and even stealing with the lightest of touch, but she would not tolerate drugs in the unit.

  The Bushes was no palace, but for most of the residents it was the nearest they’d ever come, with warm beds, three meals a day and the grudging acceptance that Miriam did, in fact, give a shit. For most it wasn’t a risk worth taking.

  ‘Why should I?’ asked Charlene, her return to petulance instantly familiar.

  Miriam kept her gaze as steady as her voice. ‘Because I’m worried about you.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ snapped Charlene.

  There was a brief hiatus as Charlene tried to push past the much taller woman, who stood oak firm and blocked the escape route.

  ‘You know what will happen if you refuse,’ said Miriam.

  Charlene began to panic. If she was kicked out of The Bushes where would she go? Her dad wouldn’t have her back, not now the bitch from hell and her four dirty kids had moved in, and her mum was still in the nut house after she threatened to throw herself off the flyover.

  They might send her to a unit miles away. The last boy went to some place near Dover, wherever that was. Worse still, they could put her in a secure unit, which might as well be prison because you weren’t allowed out on your own. Either way, she wouldn’t be able to see Max, and although she was special and had star quality she wasn’t naive enough to think she was the only girl he was helping. If Charlene didn’t grab every opportunity on offer she was sure that some other stupid tart would.

  ‘I ain’t on drugs,’ said Charlene, but she opened her mouth and allowed
Miriam to scrape the inside of her cheek with a swab. After all, the test would take ages to come back, and it was only a week before her new life began.

  ‘And I’ll expect an apology.’

  Lilly left Jez and Sheba drinking happily and copiously in Lancasters. Their bond was so strong Lilly wished, not for the first time, that she had a sibling.

  As a child she had always imagined having a sister, someone with whom to discuss the stories in Cathy and pierce one another’s ears with a kilt pin. All her life she had been an outsider, always on the outside looking in. Wouldn’t it be great to fit in with someone like connecting pieces in a puzzle?

  She hoped Jez and Sheba had at least been impressed that she had already managed to track down another victim, that if not part of their gang they at least saw her as an equal.

  She went to collect Sam, and planned to call in at the baker’s on the way home to choose a chocolate-covered treat, but as soon as she saw her son she could see he was in no mood for sugar.

  Usually, Sam shook his teacher’s hand like a fireman at a pump, and bounded out of his classroom, full of enthusiasm for the day’s next chapter. Today he mumbled good afternoon and offered a limp wrist, which Miss Lewis mechanically moved up and down, then dragged his feet all the way to the car.

  ‘Good day, big man?’ Lilly asked.

  Sam didn’t answer, but Lilly knew she would find out what was bothering him soon enough. Sam was not a boy to keep any grievance to himself. Lilly wondered if Cara’s pregnancy was still playing on his mind.

  Sure enough, after a silent journey home, Sam sat at the kitchen table and gave a deep and weary sigh. Lilly would have laughed at the melodrama but knew Sam was in no mood for humour.

  Apropos of nothing, Sam demanded to know if his mother knew what Austria was like and had she ever been skiing. Lilly understood where the conversation was going and knew her answer would affect its development. Relieved that his mood wasn’t about the baby, Lilly considered how best to deal with her son. Sam, like Lilly, hated diversion tactics, particularly the transparent kind that insulted the intelligence, so talk of cakes or confectionery would only start an incendiary. Pretence by Lilly that she didn’t know what he was getting at would simply allow Sam to spell things out at length and in excruciating detail.