‘Someone she knew?’ Lorraine suggested, closing her eyes to prevent another gag. The air reeked of fresh blood.
‘Possibly. There’s no sign of a break-in,’ Adam noted, glancing at the door.
‘Who’d want to?’
They looked around the grim flat. There wasn’t much to see. A tiny kitchenette with an old gas cooker took up a cupboard-like amount of space at one end of the council accommodation, while a dingy living room – the only window was shadowed by an evergreen tree outside – contained a single sofa, now bloodied, and an old portable television. The bedroom was filled with a double bed and a wooden cot, which was piled high with what appeared to be clean laundry. Lorraine assumed it was clean, anyway.
‘The victim’s friend found her on the sofa here.’ Adam was stalking around the living area. He was getting in the photographer’s way.
Lorraine peered at it. Mushroom-coloured velour had largely been transformed into rust-red. Congealed and already cracking around the edges, the blood had made a remarkable pattern. If viewed through a squint the sofa’s new style could almost be mistaken for something deliberate, something macabre.
‘She was due any day.’
They stared at each other, everything else in their lives on hold temporarily.
‘The friend is waiting next door with the neighbour,’ Adam said, and then took a call on his phone.
Lorraine went back out into the communal hallway. The dark, cold space stank of urine and weed. A cluster of youths had gathered at the top of the concrete staircase. ‘Get off with you,’ Lorraine said to them as she peeled off her shoe covers. She bagged them and gave them to the guarding officer to dispose of. The kids just stared at her. One belched. She felt ancient again.
The door to flat number seventy-three was ajar so Lorraine went straight in. She could hear the soft weeping of a female overlaid with the cajoling tones of a trained officer. As she went through to the living room – the flat had the same layout as next door but in reverse – Lorraine heard the rasping voice of an old man trying to help. Cups were clattering.
‘Hello?’ she said, and rapped on the living-room door. ‘Detective Inspector Fisher here,’ she added, going straight in.
A young woman sat in a puddle of grief in a green wing-back chair. The gas fire belted out a fierce, dry heat. The window was dripping with condensation and the sill was crusted with years of black mould, oddly mimicking the young girl’s face with her tears and streaked mascara. She couldn’t have been more than twenty.
‘I’m so sorry about what’s happened to your friend. Is there any news from the hospital?’ It wasn’t a murder inquiry yet, unless the unborn baby had died.
When the girl didn’t manage an answer, the WPC turned and shrugged. ‘All we know, ma’am, is that she was still alive when she was taken away. Emma here is very upset. She wants to visit her friend in hospital – Carla,’ the WPC added in case the DI didn’t already know the victim’s name.
‘Thanks, love,’ Lorraine said, feeling doubly maternal as she noted the similarly young age of the constable. She sat down on the edge of a small matching sofa.
The old man, presumably the occupant of the flat, came in with a tray of tea. ‘Now we need another one,’ he grumbled, staring at the detective. ‘Sugar?’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ Lorraine said. The hygiene of the place was dubious. ‘It’s good of you to have us here. We’ll be gone soon, once Emma recovers.’
‘No problem,’ the old man said. He scratched his balding scalp. White flakes floated to his shoulders. His brown cardigan was covered in bits of skin. ‘She came a-hammering on my door something urgent,’ he continued. His voice was caked with phlegm and he struggled to clear it. He gripped his crotch briefly. ‘When I let her in she was screaming to use the phone. Thought they all had them mobile things these days.’
‘Thank you, Mr . . .?’ Lorraine wanted to talk to Emma. The old man would have to wait.
‘Mr Duggan,’ he stated.
‘I need to speak with Emma now. We can talk about what you heard shortly.’
The old man muttered something and went back into the kitchen. There was more clattering.
‘Emma,’ Lorraine said, ‘I want you to tell me everything that’s happened to you this morning.’
The WPC passed Emma her tea. Emma’s hands shook as she took it, spilling some on the grey marl track pants she was wearing. They were grubby anyway, Lorraine noted. But the pink and blue sweat top she had on appeared clean and was printed with the fading name of a band, perhaps someone she’d seen years ago. It was far too small for her. Emma’s streaky blonde and mousey-brown hair was pulled back into a high and tight ponytail. Her life, her looks, her past, her prospects couldn’t be further from that of her own daughters’.
And then she remembered that her eldest child was giving up her comfortable home and loving family and most likely heading for a life of single motherhood on benefits. Perhaps they weren’t that different after all.
‘I was coming to see Carla, yeah?’ she began. It was all mixed up with sniffs and sobs and quick bursts of breath. ‘We were going to get a shake or something.’ Something was ‘sumfing’. Lorraine was patient. ‘I knocked but there was no reply. I heard something, like an animal in pain and that, yeah? So I just went in. The door was unlocked.’
‘Go on.’
‘My eyes didn’t believe what they was seeing. As soon as I went into her living room, even before that, there was this smell. This stink of blood and shit.’ Emma let out a small retch as she recalled. ‘Then I saw Carla lying on the sofa and I thought she were dead, yeah?’ She stared directly at Lorraine. Her eyes were velvet brown, her pupils indistinguishable through the tears and sadness. ‘She was naked apart from her bra. She had blood all over her. On her face, her arms, her legs. Oh God!’ Emma dived into her hands and sobbed. The constable produced some tissues. ‘There was this big gash on her belly and it was like she was heaving or pushing, like her body didn’t know what it was doing.’
‘And there was no one else in Carla’s flat, apart from her?’
Emma shook her head. ‘She opened her eyes and looked at me. For a second, she knew I was there.’
‘Did she say anything?’
Emma paused and thought. ‘All she said was “Help me” before she passed out again. I was screaming and I ran round here to use the phone.’ She was panting again, blowing her nose, rubbing her eyes with the snotty tissues. ‘I called for an ambulance and the police. They came really quickly and took her away. I stayed with her until they came and when I tried to follow them, they wouldn’t let me. They said I had to stay here to talk to you. Is she going to die?’
Lorraine sat up straight. ‘Honestly, I don’t know the answer to that. We’ll get an update from the hospital soon. Tell me about the baby’s father, Emma. Do you know him?’
‘No,’ Emma replied, as if it was a silly question. ‘Not even Carla knows that.’
*
Carla Davis was in theatre when Lorraine and Adam arrived at Queen Elizabeth Hospital. They were met by the ward sister who told them that Carla would be brought to the critical care ward within the hour. ‘Don’t expect much from her,’ she added. About the same age as Lorraine, the sister was a stocky red-haired woman with green-framed glasses, the lenses of which made her eyes appear twice their normal size. ‘She’ll be groggy from the anaesthetic and pumped full of drugs. My guess is she won’t be fit to interview until at least the morning.’ She nodded a firm full stop. ‘You can wait in here if you’ve nothing better to do.’ She eyed the pair suspiciously.
When the ward sister left them to it, Lorraine went off to find a drinks machine. When she came back, Adam was talking into his phone. He hung up as soon as he saw her return. Lorraine’s stomach knotted. She bit the inside of her mouth and handed Adam a bottle of water.
‘How long do we wait?’ she said.
She could see Adam was about to give a considered reply when they heard a scuffle and n
oise coming from the nurses’ station. ‘I want to see her now . . . I’m her fucking father . . . let me see her . . . I have rights, you know . . .’ They went to find out what was going on. The young girl from the flat, Emma, was attempting to calm down a man dressed in black jeans and a leather biker’s jacket. He had a helmet under one arm and wore long buckled boots that reached his knees. He reeked of cigarette smoke. The ward sister had been joined by a male nurse, and between them they weren’t doing a particularly good job of silencing him.
‘This is a hospital. You need to keep the noise down and respect what the sister is telling you.’ Adam’s attempt at discipline wasn’t much more successful.
The man swung round. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ His face was a mix of anger and fear.
‘The police, so you might want to pack it in,’ Lorraine replied wearily.
‘Don’t tell me what to fucking do.’ He took a step forward. Lorraine and Adam stepped closer, ready to restrain him. ‘My daughter’s been fucking stabbed so don’t you—’
‘Mr Davis?’ Lorraine interrupted. The man nodded, his face crumpling. Lorraine thought he was going to break down. ‘We’re here about your daughter’s case. She’s in theatre right now.’
‘See, Paul? I told you they was going to make her better, didn’t I?’ Emma’s hopefulness was, well, hopeless, Lorraine thought. From what she’d heard so far about Carla’s injuries, it was less than fifty-fifty at best.
‘Can we speak to you, Mr Davis, while we’re waiting for news of Carla?’ Lorraine asked. ‘We can talk in here.’ She led the way to the visitors’ room when Paul Davis showed a flicker of compliance.
They sat in plastic stacking chairs that were set out around an old wooden coffee table strewn with magazines. Paul Davis’s leg was jiggling up and down while his hands pulled tirelessly at the wisps of hair hanging around his ears. Emma sat silently, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, making everything seem rather surreal. Occasionally there was the beep of a machine in a side ward and a nurse would dash past. The telephone rang, porters clattered along the corridors with beds – some empty, some filled with patients hooked up to drips and monitors.
Lorraine asked questions as carefully and tactfully as she could.
‘Carla’s all I got,’ Paul said. ‘She’s so independent. Likes to manage alone.’ His voice was croaky, as if he was a heavy smoker.
‘Is her mother around?’ Lorraine asked.
‘She died a couple of years back.’ He paused a moment. ‘I never expected nothing like this to happen to Carla. They said she’s been stabbed. Who would do that to a pregnant lass?’ The man writhed in his chair. His face was torn with pain and he swept his hands down his face. ‘I couldn’t stand to lose her too.’
Lorraine glanced at Adam. Like her, she knew he would be feeling dreadfully sorry for this man. She also knew that the shock of Grace’s news was still sitting just as heavily in his chest as it was in hers.
‘Does she have a boyfriend?’ Adam asked, mirroring Lorraine’s train of thought.
‘She’s had a few. Don’t they all, these young girls?’ He glanced across at Emma. That single, questioning look told Lorraine that he hadn’t really got a clue about his daughter’s life. She’d moved out, lived off benefits and probably, truth be known, hadn’t seen her dad in months. Was this how things would be between them and Grace?
‘Carla had a few one-night stands. She were dead pleased about the baby when she found out,’ said Emma, who, Lorraine thought, would probably be the best source of information until they could speak with Carla herself. ‘She hasn’t had much luck with boyfriends and that. When she were in care—’
Emma received a sharp kick in the leg from Paul Davis.
‘Foster care?’ Adam asked.
‘It wasn’t nothing,’ Paul replied quickly. The nervous leg-jiggling started up again. ‘Sandy and me, well, we found it hard sometimes. We thought it best if Carla were looked after. She could be a difficult girl.’
Adam and Lorraine each made a mental note to contact Social Services. There’d be a case file, the usual miserable story of a family gone to the wreckers through lack of money, drugs, alcohol, laziness, violence, or a combination of those things. It might throw something up.
The ward sister came into the visitors’ room. Her face was expectant, her tone reserved. Everyone looked at her. ‘Carla’s on her way back from theatre. She’s stable. Things went as well as they could.’ She took a breath that seemed to suck all the air from the miserable room.
‘Things?’ Lorraine said, standing. Carla’s father also stood, and approached the nurse in a slightly aggressive way. Adam was immediately beside him, watching his every move.
‘It’s the baby, I’m afraid,’ she went on. ‘There was nothing they could do to save it.’
‘But Carla’s going to be OK?’ Paul said, grappling with his emotions.
‘There’s a good chance, yes,’ she replied.
Paul sobbed, stumbling back to the chair with Emma’s help. Lorraine beckoned to Adam and they left the visitors’ room together. They waited in the corridor and within ten minutes a pale young woman was trundled through to a side ward on a high-sided bed. The porters nodded at them as they watched the girl go past. She didn’t look much older than Grace. Unconscious, waif-like, hooked up to a drip and portable monitor, it was obvious there would be no talking to her that day.
‘I’ll wait,’ Adam said, glancing at his watch. ‘You go home. Grace will be back from school soon and she needs her mum.’ He squeezed her arm. Lorraine stared at his hand on her jacket before shrugging it off. ‘See if you can talk her round.’
On the drive back, she rang the unit for an update. DC Barrett told her that aside from a three-month suspended sentence for theft, Carla Davis was a heroin addict and her baby was already on Child Protection’s at-risk register. It would probably have been taken into care as soon as it was born.
Lorraine pulled up outside her house. She locked her car and went inside. ‘I’m home,’ she called out. As usual, there was no reply. She heard the faint thud of music coming from upstairs. Then louder giggles as a door opened and someone scampered across the landing, banging the bathroom door. Moments later there was more girlish laughter.
My beautiful daughters, Lorraine thought proudly. A soft smile crept across her face as she draped her coat over the banister rail. Then her stomach knotted once more at the thought of it all.
18
THE DOOR IS locked. I rattle it again to make sure I’m not mistaken.
Damn.
I want to kick it, punch it, get a crowbar, shove it between the brass knob and the frame and wrench until the wood splinters and cracks and falls away, allowing me in.
I glance at my watch. I don’t have much time. I need to find out about the family and how much money they have, how they function, who’s in control of what, who deals with the finances. Any snippets going will do. I want to build a picture of their past, their present, but not their future. I can guess what that holds. For now, I want a snapshot of their lives – the big picture as well as the minuscule one.
I crouch down and peer through the keyhole. I can see the front of James’s desk but that’s all. Last time I was in his study was to extract Noah from the green-leather captain’s chair behind the desk. He was begging Oscar to spin him round but his brother was standing in the doorway shaking his head and biting his bottom lip, crying that they weren’t allowed in there. ‘Come on, Noah,’ I said from behind Oscar, my arms spanning the doorway. It felt as if there was an invisible force-field protecting the entrance, but, while Oscar and I knew not to cross it, Noah didn’t care a hoot. What was it James had said, not long after I’d moved in?
It’s private in here.
There must be a key somewhere. I glance around the hallway. There are several tables – a battered pine one on the way to the kitchen and an antique demi-lune piece set against the long wall leading to the staircase. A vase of fresh lilies adorns its s
emi-circular top, and there’s a drawer in the mahogany front. I open it. There are some receipts, some batteries rolling around, a lone glove and a couple of biros. There are also two keys on unlabelled plastic fobs. They don’t look like the sort that would fit the big old door to the study, and I’m right. When I try, they’re a hopeless match.
I fumble my way through all the pockets of the coats hanging in the porch, and suddenly it all feels very underhand, as if I’m betraying their trust in me. My mouth goes dry, which is frankly ridiculous, and I’m reminded of being a kid desperately in need of money for the cinema or some sweets and scrounging off my parents by secretly checking their clothes for loose change. I always found a quid or two, always managed to just fit in with my mates somehow, appear like one of the gang even though I wasn’t. Considering everything, I was the lucky one.
I don’t find any keys. Just an assortment of tissues, half a packet of mints, a hair band, and a set of ear phones.
I think carefully as I rearrange all the coats. James would have been the one to lock the door before he left. It’s his study. But it would be impractical for him to take the key with him. Claudia is bound to need to go in there at some point while he’s away. What if there is a financial crisis, or a passport or birth certificate or other important document is required? I’m certain he keeps that sort of thing in there. He has filing cabinets. I’ve seen him poring over papers when the door’s not quite been shut late at night. He’d glance up from his desk, eyeing me as I walked past with piles of laundry or a sleepy boy in my arms. Only important things get kept in fireproof metal filing cabinets.
I conclude that the key will either be somewhere in this house or in Claudia’s possession. Earlier, after I returned to the house following my unexpected trip out this morning – what was I supposed to do after she hit a nerve so raw it took all my willpower not to cry out in pain? – Claudia had left for work. There was a note on the kitchen table.
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