A flicker in Bruton’s eyes gave him away. ‘You know who it was.’
‘No, no. I suspected boys, of course I did, but with Stephen so uncooperative . . .’
‘He was raped. That’s bad enough. The fact that it was girls . . .’
‘He’s humiliated. I do understand that. The psychiatrist—’
‘Forget about the psychiatrist for a minute. I want to know how you’re going to find out who was responsible.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that the police can start an investigation with or without Stephen’s cooperation.’
Bruton sucked air between his teeth, tapping the desk with his thumb. ‘One of the girls . . . Julie. She’s nineteen. She’s in here because she . . . lured a fifteen-year-old boy with the promise of sex, got him drunk and held him down while her sixteen-year-old boyfriend raped him. The boyfriend got five years. Julie was identified as the ringleader and sentenced to seven.’
‘How long has she been here?’
‘Eight months.’
Marnie looked at the happy family photos on Bruton’s desk, the upbeat posters on his walls reminding inmates of their right to rehabilitation. He’d filled the room with false promises, as slickly smiling and wolfish as anything the Grimm brothers had dreamt up. The family photos were a cruel, teasing touch – rubbing the offenders’ faces in what they’d lost, or never known.
‘She’s locked up with teenage boys.’
‘Sommerville takes offenders of both sexes. We segregate where appropriate, but . . .’ Bruton rearranged his hair with his hands. ‘I’ll question her, and the other girls. We’ll follow the necessary procedures, you can be sure of that.’
‘You were following them before,’ she said, ‘weren’t you? It didn’t stop this happening.’
39
Six months ago
The second time, it’s different. Not like the nightclub, the cheap hotel. She’s a mess, but she’s not bleeding, not to begin with, anyway.
It’s different because he’s expecting it, knows exactly what he’s getting into, and fuck, he thinks, this isn’t what I wanted. It’s out of his control. Another thing out of his control. When what he wanted was a chance to even the odds. Leave Freya and the twins behind for a couple of hours and be someone else, someone they wouldn’t recognise. A stranger.
He wanted to hide from the three of them, Freya and the twins, inside someone else’s skin. Deep, deep down. Except the second time, it’s different. The second time, she really hurts him. Uses her teeth and nails, and her fists.
This wasn’t what I wanted, he thinks. I wanted to be the one in control.
Then he thinks, I’ll have to explain the bruises to Freya.
That – the thought of Freya’s shock, and her questions – turns him on. The thought of something on his skin that isn’t dried formula milk, or baby puke, or stinking sweat from sleepless nights . . . It turns him on, and so he lets her do it. Hurt him. And when it’s his turn, he knows exactly what she wants.
She wants him to mark her, make her different. A stranger – a shock – to whoever she goes home to, when he goes home to Freya and the twins. If there is anyone.
Perhaps – and this is what he really thinks – there’s no one.
She goes home to an empty house. Mirrors in the house, but no people.
That’s where she looks.
In the mirrors.
That’s where she wants to be unrecognisable.
A stranger, to herself.
40
Now
‘The prick in the Prius,’ Noah Jake said. ‘Where’re we up to with that?’
Ron Carling looked up from his mug of tea, sporting a Danish pastry moustache. ‘Got a name and address. No criminal record. Just a couple of points on his licence.’ He looked disgusted. ‘Might turn out to be nothing.’
‘Might not.’ Noah walked to his desk, asking over his shoulder, ‘What’s the name?’
‘Henry Stuke.’ Carling stood up, handed Noah a sheet of paper. ‘Current MOT. Full service history. The points were for speeding, but something pathetic like thirty-two in a thirty-mile zone. Hardly Jenson effing Button.’
Noah switched on his computer, calling up the man’s address.
Henry Charles Stuke lived in West Brompton. His insurance said he was married, with two dependants. Noah requested a print-off of the DVLA paperwork, before logging on to the missing persons database.
Carling watched over his shoulder. ‘Welland’s after the DI,’ he warned. ‘CPS’s shitting its shorts over the scimitar. That’s your case, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So where’s the DI?’
‘Working the case.’ Noah made a careful study of the screen, not wanting to give the impression that he hadn’t the foggiest where Marnie was.
‘Getting her hands dirty?’ Carling folded his arms, perching his large arse on the edge of Noah’s desk, as if he was testing Noah’s powers of resistance. ‘That’s what she’s got you for, isn’t it?’
‘We’re working two cases. The scimitar and a separate stabbing.’
Carling peered at the screen. ‘Missing persons. Who’s that, then?’
‘Simone Bissell and Hope Proctor.’
‘Which one got stabbed?’
‘Neither. Hope Proctor stabbed her husband at the refuge in Finchley.’
‘Right, that one. Been knocking her about, had he?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Scum.’ Carling leaned back. ‘Your lot don’t get much of that, unless it’s mutual.’ He tapped his nose. ‘You into the old leather dog-collar scene?’
Noah continued to scroll through the online database. ‘I prefer sounding.’
‘What the shit’s sounding?’
Noah shut down the database and got to his feet, clapping a hand to Carling’s shoulder. ‘Look it up on Wikipedia.’
It had rained, but now the sun was out, lifting steam from the pavements and crazing the windows of parked cars. Noah unpocketed his phone and dialled Marnie’s mobile, getting voicemail. ‘Carling says Commander Welland’s looking for you. I thought I’d better pass it on. The CPS is getting nervous about Nasif Mirza. I’m heading to the refuge with Ed, to ask Ayana some questions. I’ll probably be there a while.’
The refuge looked less inviting than ever after the rain, its roof wrapped in black plastic sheeting. No sign of a workforce up there, or elsewhere. Noah found the main entrance locked and pressed the intercom, showing his badge to the security camera. After a delay of maybe half a minute, the door buzzed open. He walked to the office, where Jeanette was sitting with a mug of Horlicks. She gave him a sour look but said, ‘Hiya.’
‘Hi. Is Ayana in the dayroom?’
‘Yes.’ The emphatic way she said it made Noah suspect that she had no idea where any of the women were.
In the dayroom, Shelley Coates was painting her toenails neon pink. Tessa Stebbins sat next to her on the sofa, vacant eyes on the TV, chewing gum. Mab Thule was in an armchair, asleep by the look of it, gloved hands folded in her lap.
‘Hi,’ Noah said. ‘Has anyone seen Ayana?’
‘At lunch.’ Shelley adjusted the foam that was wedging her toes apart. ‘Not since.’
‘Thanks. I’ll try her room.’
He walked back to the office and asked Jeanette to direct him to Ayana’s room.
‘In trouble, is she?’ Her eyes grubbed at Noah’s face.
‘No. I just need her help.’
Ayana’s door was shut. He knocked with two knuckles. ‘Ayana? It’s DS Jake. Noah. I need your help with something.’ He waited, but there was no answer from inside the room. ‘Ayana?’
After hesitating, he tried the handle. She’d locked the door.
‘It’s about Hope, and Simone. If we could talk, just for a few minutes?’
No answer. No sound of any kind from inside the room.
Noah was on his way back to the office when he met Ed Belloc coming the other way. Ed
read his face and looked alarmed. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Possibly nothing. Ayana’s locked in her room. She isn’t answering the door.’
Ed turned on his heel and jogged back to the office, returning with a set of keys. He searched for the right key, knocking on the door. ‘Ayana? It’s Ed. Are you okay?’
Nothing.
‘I’ve got a key. I’m coming in. Is that okay?’ He waited another couple of seconds, then unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The room was empty, the bed flatly made.
Ayana was gone.
41
‘Lee Hurran.’ Commander Tim Welland sounded as if he’d swallowed a wasp, his voice an angry buzz in Marnie’s ear as she sat in traffic on her way back into London.
Scimitar. Severed hand. Ayana Mirza’s brother, Nasif.
‘Lee Hurran,’ she repeated. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘MRSA infection, a couple of hours ago. So I say we go after manslaughter. Maybe even attempted murder. Have we got enough to charge this maniac Mirza, or not?’
‘We’re working on it, sir.’
‘Really? I thought you and the boy wonder were fannying about in Finchley trying to figure out why some battered wife took a knife to her husband. Hardly the zenith of investigative police work. Meanwhile, the CPS is showering six shades of shit on me because our suspect hasn’t any form and we haven’t any evidence to put him in the relevant dark alley, let alone armed with a scimitar.’
‘Nasif Mirza looks good for it, sir. We’re talking with his sister, just as you suggested. I think we can persuade her to give evidence against him, maybe even press charges for the bleach attack.’
‘You can’t cut off someone’s hand with a bottle of Domestos. We need to link him to the scimitar.’
‘He’s already linked to it, sir. His fingerprints . . .’
‘We need more, and you know it.’ Welland retracted some of the barbs from his voice. ‘Where’re you anyway?’
‘Just getting on the A4, sir. I’ll be back in London any time now.’
She should’ve been vaguer.
‘What’s happened?’ Welland demanded.
‘An assault.’
‘Stephen Keele? How bad is it?’
‘He’s . . . out of hospital. Recovering. But it was as nasty as it could be.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. Under other circumstances, I’d recommend time off, but we both know that’s not going to happen. I need you back on the scimitar case.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Good.’ Welland rang off.
Marnie took the turning for Finchley. Welland was right about the scimitar assault. If racially motivated, maybe even gang-related, it’d have worse repercussions than Leo Proctor’s stabbing. They needed Ayana’s evidence against Nasif. According to his voicemail message, Noah Jake was already at the refuge. With luck, he was persuading Ayana to help put her brother where he belonged: behind bars.
Noah was standing with Ed outside the office where Jeanette Conway sat, watching the two men across the rim of a mug. The mug, dressed in a red woollen glove, looked aggressively festive. Jeanette had new earrings, Swarovski crystal, not cheap. Marnie wondered if the men had noticed the bling.
‘What’s up?’ she said, seeing their faces.
‘Ayana’s gone,’ Noah said.
‘When?’
‘Sometime after lunch.’
Marnie pulled shut the door, leaving Jeanette inside. She turned her back on the office, facing the two men. ‘Why?’ She looked at Ed. ‘I thought she said she couldn’t leave here under any circumstances.’
‘I don’t think she chose to go.’ He looked shattered. ‘I think she was tricked, or taken.’
‘We tried her phone,’ Noah said. ‘It’s switched off. I put a call through to the station, asked a uniform to go to her parents’ house. No one’s home.’
Marnie let that hang for a second. ‘Any news of Hope or Simone?’
Noah chewed at the inside of his cheek. ‘No sightings yet, but Ron Carling spotted something, on the CCTV. The same car, parked outside the refuge on Friday then again at the hospital earlier today.’ He handed her the DVLA print-off.
‘Coincidence? The hospital’s local. And if the Prius was parked . . .’
‘It wasn’t just parked. CCTV shows the windscreen wipers going for more than ten minutes during that downpour on Friday. What if he was sitting in the car, watching the refuge, or trying to watch it?’
‘Henry Stuke.’ Marnie showed the print-off to Ed. ‘Does he look familiar?’
Ed studied the mug shot and shook his head. ‘No.’
Marnie pocketed the sheet. ‘What does Jeanette have to say about Ayana?’
‘Jeanette was in the kitchen,’ Noah said, ‘helping with the washing-up. Ayana ate with the others, seemed her usual self. Jeanette didn’t see her leave, swears blind no one came into the refuge until I got here, just before five.’ He paused. ‘The entrance was locked this time.’
‘What about the men working on the roof?’
‘Good point.’ He put his head around the office door. ‘Were they working on the roof today?’
Jeanette shrugged. ‘As much as they ever are.’
‘Did they come into the refuge?’
She widened her eyes, as if the idea was incredible. ‘No.’
‘Do you have a phone number for the contractor?’
‘I can get it.’ Ed took out his phone, dialled a number, walked away.
Noah asked Marnie, ‘Everything all right?’
‘Apart from missing witnesses in every direction? Peachy.’
He took his cue from her tone, returning to the business in hand. ‘Something from the hospital: Hope had a phone call late last night. The ward sister says she was talking for twenty minutes. Abby confirmed it, said she came back from a comfort break to find Hope on the phone. I’m guessing the caller was Simone.’
‘So they were making plans. How did Hope seem after the call?’
‘Very quiet. The ward sister put it down to the length of the call, thought maybe the caller was one of those pushy friends who mean well but don’t understand that the best thing for a patient is rest.’
‘Do you think Hope was reluctant to leave?’
‘Possibly. From what Ed says, Simone can be forceful, and Hope’s been conditioned to do as she’s told.’ Noah paused. ‘I checked Simone’s room. She took most of her clothes, just a few things left behind. Hope’s room looks like Simone stripped it down. Not that she had much to start with. I don’t think they’re planning to come back.’
Ed rejoined them. ‘Calvin Roofers.’ He handed Marnie a scrap of paper with the number on it. ‘I thought you’d probably want to make the call.’
‘Thanks.’ She handed the number to Noah. ‘And the CCTV’ll need checking again, in case she left that way. Show me the other exits?’
Ed nodded, leading the way.
The fire exit at the end of the corridor was barred, but not alarmed. ‘All the windows have locks,’ Ed told them, ‘but most of them aren’t big enough to climb through.’
‘It wouldn’t need to be very big, for Ayana.’
‘She didn’t leave,’ Ed said again. ‘She was tricked, or she was taken.’
‘Who would take her?’
‘Her brothers. Her family.’
‘I should tell you . . . Lee Hurran – the man Nasif attacked? Died two hours ago. We’re going after attempted murder.’
‘You think Nasif Mirza knows it’s a murder inquiry now?’ Noah asked.
‘The timing’s a bit too much of a coincidence. What bothers me is how her family knew she was here. She held out this long without calling home. Why snap now?’
Ed shook his head.
‘The office,’ Marnie said. ‘Do they hold contact details in there? Could someone have lifted her records, found next-of-kin that way?’
‘Not from this office,
’ Ed said. ‘I checked as soon as I saw how . . . diligently Jeanette was doing her job. There’s nothing here. We use central records, very secure.’
‘So she must have called them herself.’
‘She wouldn’t do that,’ Ed insisted. ‘Why would she?’
Noah said slowly, ‘She wouldn’t need to call anyone.’ He put a hand across his mouth before taking it away again. ‘They could have followed us. The brothers. They know we’re investigating Nasif. They know we need evidence against him. They could’ve guessed where that would lead us. Maybe they even hoped it would lead us. Here. To Ayana.’
‘You think you were followed,’ Marnie said, nauseated. ‘Or I was.’
‘We’ve been here more than once since the scimitar attack.’ Noah looked from Marnie to Ed. ‘It could’ve been us who gave her away.’
‘If her brothers came here, someone would’ve seen them. If not Jeanette, then one of the others. She wouldn’t have gone quietly. Ed?’
‘I’d like to think not. But if they turned up here . . . she’ll have been in shock.’
‘Where are the others?’ Marnie asked. ‘It’s time we asked some tough questions.’
On the dayroom television, an axe-faced woman was gesticulating at a spotty boy, listing his failings in graphic detail.
‘You go, girl.’ Shelley snapped her fingers at the screen.
Tessa was sitting on the floor at Shelley’s feet. Mab was sleeping in a chair, her head nodding on her chest. Marnie crossed the room to switch off the TV, standing with her back to it, fixing the three women with a firm smile. ‘We need your help.’
The sudden silence woke Mab. She lifted her head and looked at Marnie. Shelley crossed her arms at her chest, rolling her eyes. On the floor, Tessa hugged her knees.
‘Ayana’s missing. I think you all saw her at lunch, is that right?’ A trio of nods. ‘Did anyone see her after that?’
Shelley said, ‘She was in her room. That’s what we thought, right, Tess?’
Someone Else's Skin: (DI Marnie Rome) Page 15