A Place Of Safety (23 page)

Mrs Walker shook her head again, but this time she was sad and resigned. ‘I know you’re just trying to be kind, but I can promise you Luke’s disappearance had nothing to do with Charlie’s murder.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because he left the day before.’

Lilly reeled at the news. Luke had run away before the murder. She looked at the woman in front of her, bereft and empty: how would she feel if she knew Luke had potentially been involved in a rape? Lilly hadn’t the heart to find out.

Lilly poured two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, took a huge gulp from one and passed the other to Rupinder.

The silence of the countryside was cracked apart by an orchestra of bangs and screeches. Green and gold stars splashed into the night.

Sam was tucked up in bed, headphones screwed tightly into his ears blasting Amy Winehouse.

‘That’s bit depressing, big man,’ Lilly had said, but Sam was a fan of anguished divas and loved to hum tunelessly along to ‘Love is a Losing Game’.

‘Thanks for coming over,’ Lilly said to her boss.

‘If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed.’

‘I thought he was with the other lot.’ Lilly rummaged in the fridge and brought out the remnants of a leftover roast chicken and a tub of sour cream. ‘Things are getting complicated,’ she said to her boss.

Rupinder smoothed down her sari. The spotlights on the kitchen ceiling caught the silver flecks that darted through the jade silk. ‘Straightforward is so last year.’

Lilly laughed and reached for fresh red chilli.

‘You remember my shrink said Anna had PTSD?’

Rupinder nodded. ‘And the rape was a catalyst.’

‘Well, I’m going to have real trouble proving Anna was actually raped. The main protagonist will deny everything and the second is dead.’

‘What about Anna? Can’t she tell the story herself?’

Lilly tossed the chicken and chilli into the sour cream and snipped coriander over the top.

‘Hans Christian Andersen she ain’t,’ said Lilly, and plonked the bowl on the table with a huge bag of nachos. ‘There was another kid there, and I thought he might help us.’

‘But?’

‘He’s had it away on his toes.’

Rupes raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘He’s run away,’ Lilly clarified.

They sat in silence for a few moments, filling each crisp nacho with spicy dip and shovelling them into their mouths. For someone so elegant, Rupes could really put it away. Lilly wondered if Dr Kadir ate with such gusto. She hoped so.

Rupes licked each nimble finger. ‘If you can’t prove the rape then you’ll have to put your emphasis on what you can prove.’

‘Kosovo.’

Rupes nodded and finished her wine. ‘You have all the information to show exactly what happened to Anna during the genocide.’

‘You’re right,’ said Lilly. ‘That’s something no one can dispute.’

The gun was Russian. Manufactured by Baikal as a harmless starter pistol, it had been smuggled into the UK and converted to take bullets. It had been dusted for fingerprints and two sets were found.

Kerry stifled a yawn. She had been at the paperwork for hours. File after file of photographs, autopsy reports and scene-of-crime maps sat at her feet. All that was left on her desk was the stuff about the gun.

She had so wanted to impress Jez. To find the one nugget of evidence that would blow Lilly Valentine’s case out of the water. And she was hungry. She had toyed with the idea of going to the firework display at her local park. Not that she was a great fan of the pyrotechnics but she had fancied a hot dog or two. Or a burger. She was very partial to a burger, especially with cheese and lots of ketchup.

No doubt she’d missed the whole thing by now.

She went back to the papers. The first set of prints were Jack McNally’s, the second were Duraku’s. So what? She had never denied holding the damn thing.

Kerry stretched down for her bag and retrieved a menu for the Royal Bengali Restaurant and Takeaway. If she ordered a chicken korma now, she could collect it and be home in twenty minutes. She might even treat herself to a portion of onion bhaji—after all, she’d virtually skipped lunch. And that couldn’t be as fattening as burger could it? Onions were vegetables, after all.

As her hand hovered over the phone, her email pinged to life. It was from the database. Earlier that evening she’d requested confirmation that Duraku’s DNA had never been previously recorded. She hadn’t really expected a response, thought everyone would be out enjoying themselves. Obviously someone in records was as sad as she was, because here was the answer. Kerry was pretty certain that the girl would have no previous convictions, but you could never be sure.

She read the results as she dialled, making up her mind to get a peshwari naan while she was at it. When she got past the introductory paragraph her jaw dropped.

‘Royal Bengali. Can I help you?’ came the voice from the other end of the phone.

Kerry was speechless.

‘Would you like to place an order?’

Kerry shook her head and hung up.

She reread the mail to make sure she hadn’t gone insane, then pulled out Jez’s card.

‘It’s been my life’s ambition to be a barrister,’ said the young woman, her eyes earnest.

Jez nodded sagely. She was the newest member of chambers, fluent in three languages, fresh out of bar school where she had excelled, having gained a first at Cambridge.

Jez wondered if she put out on a first date.

She stood on her tiptoes to slide the last Duraku file back onto the shelf. ‘It’s an honour to be asked to help you on this case.’

Jez had asked her to schlep through all the statements while he went to the gym.

He admired her pert little arse from behind. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t find what you were looking for,’ she said sadly.

Jez put a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘Sometimes the evidence is just against us.’

They looked at each other and Jez toyed with kissing her right there in his room. Maybe bending her over his desk…

His phone rang. He shrugged and answered it.

‘I’ve got it,’ came a strangled squeal.

‘Who is this?’ said Jez.

‘Kerry,’ she replied, her voice almost hysterical, ‘and I’ve got exactly what we need.’

All thoughts of the pretty pupil were banished from Jez’s head and he concentrated on what really turned him on. His career.

‘Tell me.’

Kerry took a deep breath. ‘I checked the defendant’s DNA sample against the register, just to check she hasn’t had any dealings with the police before.’

‘And has she?’

‘The readout shows that Anna Duraku has been arrested for soliciting over ten times.’

Jez whistled. ‘So our sweet little frightened kid isn’t nearly as sweet as she made out.’

‘It’s difficult to say.’

Jez laughed. ‘Being on the game is fairly conclusive. Still, I know what you’re saying—it doesn’t mean she doesn’t have PTSD and, knowing Lilly Valentine, she’ll probably come up with an expert who’ll testify that her client went on the game as a direct result of the war in Kosovo.’

‘I think she’ll have trouble getting anyone to do that,’ said Kerry.

‘You don’t know Lilly.’

‘But I do know that her client has lied about just about everything.’

‘The report hardly says that.’

‘It says Anna Duraku has previous for prostitution.’

Jez began to feel impatient. ‘Which isn’t the same thing as lying about everything.’

‘It also says Anna Duraku killed herself three years ago.’

Jez was stunned into silence.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yes,’ he spluttered. ‘But how can that be right? There must be some mistake.’

‘No mistake.’

‘So who’s our girl?’ he asked.

‘Good question.’

Chapter Eighteen

The smell of bacon wafted up the stairs and made Lilly’s stomach flip. Normally she loved a fried breakfast but this morning even the thought of it made her shudder.

Anna looked up from buttering toast for Sam. ‘You want something?’

‘Just coffee.’

She watched Sam pile his plate high. He never spoke to Anna or looked her in the eye, but she quietly cooked for him and, in turn, he accepted her food.

Sam pointed with his knife at Lilly. ‘Research has shown that people who eat breakfast perform their morning tasks more efficiently.’

Lilly wrinkled her nose at the yolk running down his hand. ‘Fortunately my morning’s tasks are minimal,’ she said.

‘We don’t go to the office?’ asked Anna.

Lilly shook her head. Even the smell of Nescafé was hard to bear.

‘Nope. I’m working from home, doing as much research as possible into the conflict in Kosovo.’

Anna immediately looked away. Lilly reminded herself not to be annoyed by the girl’s aversion to discussing it. This was simply a symptom of PTSD.

‘If I look on the Net I might even find other accounts from your village. What was it called again?’

Anna didn’t answer.

‘Your village,’ said Lilly. ‘What was its name?’

There was an uncomfortable silence finally punctuated by the phone.

‘Hi Rupes,’ said Lilly. ’Are you okay? ‘Cos I feel bloody awful. Maybe the chicken was off.’

‘What?’ said Rupes.

‘Do you feel sick at all?’ said Lilly. ‘Well, not sick exactly, just a bit queer.’

‘No.’

‘Must be a bug then.’ Lilly looked towards her son. ‘Anything going around at school?’

Sam shrugged.

‘Listen,’ Rupes interrupted. ‘The Bailey have just called. They need you in court this morning.’

‘For what?’ Lilly roared.

‘Don’t shoot the messenger. The list office only told me to get you there ASAP.’

Lilly leaned against the worktop for support and pulled her dressing gown tightly round her. She felt lousy.

‘I have to go to court.’

Sam pushed away his empty plate. ‘Should have eaten some breakfast.’

‘This is shit.’

Steve held Alexia’s draft article between thumb and forefinger like a filthy pair of socks.

‘I thought it would be good to show how local people are thinking,’ she said.

‘A handful of Nazis saying they hate asylum seekers.’ Steve snorted his disgust. ‘It’s hardly a surprise, is it?’

Alexia stood her ground. ‘A lot of people feel the same way. The Net is full of this stuff.’

‘The Net’s full of folk who believe they’ve seen aliens. It depends what you fucking tap in, doesn’t it?’

Alexia stared him down, hands on her hips. ‘It’s interesting.’

‘It’s blather,’ said Steve, and filed her copy in the bin.

She sighed and sank into her chair.

‘Listen, Posh, that just isn’t news.’ Steve lit a cigarette and Alexia couldn’t even be bothered to tell him off. ‘The skinhead angle’s not bad, but they haven’t done anything, have they?’

‘Apart from trashing the solicitor’s car.’

‘We can’t prove that.’

‘What about throwing dog crap all over the courtroom?’

He waved his arm, showering ash across her desk. ‘Yesterday’s fish and chips.’

Alexia wrinkled her nose at the grey flakes peppering her laptop. She knew he was right. She needed some action.

‘So what do
you
suggest?’

‘Get yourself down the Bailey,’ he said. ‘Find some idiot in the list office who’ll tell you what’s happening on the case.’

Luke’s fingers are numb and his back is killing him. He’s been picking tomatoes since six-thirty without a break.

He had finally plucked up enough courage to turn up at the Black Cat. He thought he would be washing up, sweeping floors and emptying the bin. Instead he was given a blue raffle ticket and told to wait. He sat in the corner and peeped at his number. Thirty-six.

The café was full. Not customers, although a few were drinking tea, but young men, laughing and chatting in a foreign language.

A woman walked in with a clipboard and a hush settled over the crowd. She had yellow hair that Luke’s mum would call ‘bottle-blonde’, and eyebrows pencilled in in a much darker brown.

‘Numbers one to twenty outside now,’ she shouted. ‘The vans are over the road.’

The men showed one another their tickets as if to confirm where they should be.

‘I ain’t got all day,’ the woman barked. ‘If you want a day’s work, get in the vans now.’

The men tumbled forward and out of the door. She watched them disappear into the back of two vans and went back to her list.

‘Numbers twenty-one to thirty-five, outside now.’

Another fifteen shuffled outside. There were only four men left in the café.

‘Sorry,’ said the woman, sounding anything but. ‘There ain’t nothing more today.’

She turned to leave.

‘Can you fit me in?’ Luke asked.

The woman raised her chocolate eyebrows. ‘You English?’

Luke ignored the question. ‘I’m number thirty-six. Can you fit me in? Please.’

She shouted over to the man behind the counter. ‘This the one you told me about?’

The owner nodded but didn’t take his eyes off the griddle he was scraping.

‘All right,’ she said to Luke. ‘But only because your manners is so nice.’

He couldn’t contain his smile.

‘It’s not a luxury cruise I’m offering,’ she said.

‘I don’t care,’ he answered.

All Luke’s life he’d done as he was told. His mum wanted him to do well in exams so he’d revised. His dad wanted him to board so he’d packed his trunk. Tom wanted him to play sidekick so he’d laughed at his crap jokes and endless torments. His life was mapped out and he’d followed the dotted lines. Well, no more. Luke had taken control. By Manor Park standards his life might look a mess, but for the first time he was the one calling the shots. And that felt good.

The farm is somewhere in Kent, about an hour’s drive out of London. It seems to be in the middle of nowhere with row upon row of polytunnels. The smell inside is overwhelming. It reminds Luke of the time he went on a school trip to Provence and Mademoiselle Townsend insisted they visit a typical French market. The stalls were piled high with wrinkled black olives and bunches of basil. But it was the smell of the tomatoes that filled the air. Mountains and mountains of them, attached to their vines in little bunches of three and four.

He rubs his hands against his jeans, leaving red smears on his thighs, his fingers cramping from the relentless repetition.

‘Okay?’ asks the man beside him.

Luke was given strict instructions not to speak in front of the owner. ‘Just nod,’ the woman with the yellow hair had said. ‘That way he’ll think you’re one of them.’

Luke scouts around. It’s just the two of them in the tunnel. And thousands of cherry tomatoes.

‘They tingle,’ he says, and wiggles his fingers like a puppeteer.

‘Do like this,’ says the man, and blows on the tips of his own.

Luke does as he’s told and the man nods.

‘You English,’ he says. It’s not a question.

‘You?’ asks Luke. ‘Where do you come from?’

The man goes back to the plants, twisting each fruit from its stem and laying it in his box. ‘Ukraine,’ he says.

‘Do you do this every day?’ asks Luke, his eyes following the endless rows to the horizon.

The man shrugs. ‘Some days this, other days not this.’

‘I bet you prefer the other days.’

‘This better than fish factory,’ says the man, and empties his full box into a crate.

‘Less talking and more working,’ shouts the owner from the entrance. He strides down towards them, his belly straining against the buttons of a polyester cardigan.

The Ukrainian points to the crates brimming with tiny red balls. ‘We do very well, mister.’

‘You’d do better with less chat.’ He bares uneven brown teeth. ‘Understand?’

‘Yes, mister.’

‘And your friend?’ snarls the owner.

Luke doesn’t know what to do. He’s not supposed to speak.

The Ukrainian pats his arm. ‘He understands.’

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on or do I have to beat it out of you?’

‘Let’s discuss this in private,’ said Jez, and led Lilly up the stairs of the Old Bailey to the robing room. He sat down and patted the chair next to him. ‘Take a pew.’

‘I’m fine.’ She towered over him. ‘This had better be important.’

‘It is.’

‘I mean bloody important,’ she snapped. ‘The sort of important that justifies dragging me away from my work at a second’s notice.’

‘I really think you should take a seat, Lilly.’

‘This had better not be about me standing down from the case because if it is I might just punch you.’ She clenched her fists. ‘And I should tell you that the last man I punched was a black belt and he still ended up on his arse.’

If Jez was worried he didn’t show it, which only incensed Lilly more.

‘Here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘Your client isn’t who she says she is.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The name she’s been using belongs to a girl who committed suicide three years ago.’

Lilly shook her head. ‘It’s a coincidence. Maybe Anna Duraku is as common as Joe Bloggs in Kosovo.’

‘With the same date of birth? I don’t think so.’ He handed Lilly a print-out. ‘This is all the information we have on the real Anna Duraku. It accords exactly with what your client’s been telling everyone. Right down to the name of her brother.’

‘It can’t be right,’ said Lilly scanning the information.

‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Jez. ‘Your client has been using someone else’s identity.’

Lilly wandered back to her client as if in a trance. Anna had been lying from the very start. She had not escaped a brutal war. Her family had not been burned alive before her very eyes.

‘Something is wrong?’ said Milo.

Lilly almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

‘Anna Duraku is dead,’ she said.

No one spoke. No one seemed to breathe. Lilly looked from Anna to Milo and back again.

‘The girl who came to this country to seek asylum died three years ago.’

Tears welled in Anna’s eyes and ran down her cheeks as if in slow motion.

‘Which begs the question,’ said Lilly, ‘who the fuck are you?’

‘This is a matter of the utmost seriousness,’ said Judge Roberts.

No shit, Sherlock.

‘It affects every aspect of the case,’ he continued. ‘Do you have instructions, Miss Valentine?’

Lilly looked back at her client, huddled in the dock, weeping. She hadn’t uttered a word since Lilly had told her what she knew, and ten years’ experience had taught Lilly that there was no point pressing.

The judge turned to Jez. ‘What do the prosecution say?’

Lilly expected Jez to wring every drop out of the situation, but instead he rose slowly to his feet and coughed as if embarrassed.

‘My friend will need time to address this,’ he said. ‘As you say, Your Honour, it affects every aspect of this case.’

The judge nodded and sighed. ‘I will give you a week, Miss Valentine, during which time I expect you to thrash out with your client what on earth is going on.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Lilly.

‘And in the meantime we must address the issue of bail,’ said the judge.

Lilly’s stomach lurched.

‘The current position is now untenable,’ he continued. ‘Your client must be remanded into custody.’

Lilly jumped to her feet. ‘Your Honour, can we not let things stand?’

The judge removed his glasses and peered at Lilly. ‘Miss Valentine, neither you, nor I, nor indeed anyone in this courtroom, have the slightest idea as to your client’s identity. Do you seriously propose that I allow her just to leave the building?’

‘But she’s with me all the time,’ Lilly blurted.

The judge shook his head.

‘I wouldn’t let her out of my sight,’ Lilly shouted.

The judge put up his hand. ‘You are not a character in a Jodi Picoult novel, Miss Valentine.’

‘She won’t run away, I promise.’

‘Not another word.’

He signalled for the guards to take Anna down.

Alexia sidled onto the bench, next to a man with the worst case of adult acne she had ever seen.

‘Tell me all about yourself, Mick,’ she purred.

‘It’s Mark,’ he said.

She let out a tiny tinkle of a laugh and smoothed a hand over a skirt that grazed her thighs. ‘Of course it is.’

A scarlet stain flushed down from the man’s prematurely balding temples to his pitted and infected chin.

Thank God for fishnets, she thought. Whoever had invented them should be canonised.

‘So tell me, Mark,’ she said, trying not to focus on a particularly large boil on his upper lip, ‘is your job very interesting?’

‘Not really,’ he said, the angry lump moving up and down as he spoke.

Alexia sighed. After her argument with Steve she’d jumped onto the next train to London and raced to the Old Bailey determined to find a lead. She needed to find out what was going on and fast. One of the ushers had appeared with a face like a relief map of Africa and she’d dragged him off to El Vinos on Fleet Street.

‘I bet you get to hear lots of juicy cases,’ she said.

Mark rubbed his boil with the edge of a beer mat. ‘Not many.’

‘No murders?’ she asked.

Mark shook his head.

‘That’s a shame.’ Alexia licked her liberally glossed lips. ‘I find all that stuff exciting.’ She leaned close enough to smell his antiseptic cream. ‘Very exciting.’

He looked Alexia up and down, taking in every inch of her. She stretched out a slender wrist and picked up her glass. Gotcha.

‘You from the papers then?’

Alexia spluttered on her drink. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘’Cos if you ain’t, I’ll be off.’ He stood to make his point.

‘Sit,’ she hissed.

He appraised her again, and this time Alexia could see the predatory look in his eye.

‘You want to know about the asylum seeker?’

Alexia nodded.

‘Five grand,’ he said.

‘Five thousand quid!’ Alexia shouted. ‘I’m from the
Three Counties Observer
not the
News of the World
.’