Damaged Goods (9 page)

The other woman squeezed behind the seat opposite. In the harsh, fluorescent lights of the all-night café Lilly saw the skin of the woman’s stomach peep through the gaping spaces between her buttons. Around her neck hung a necklace with gold letters that spelled out the word ‘ANGIE’.

‘I feel a bit of a fraud,’ said Lilly. ‘I mean, he hardly touched me.’

Angie lit a cigarette and blew the smoke above her head. ‘You’re just shook up.’

She took another long drag and eyed her companion. ‘Can I ask what you’re doing here?’

Lilly knew better than to dive in. If she was to get anything useful from Angie she’d need to strengthen their connection.

‘I could ask the same of you. Is that a Scottish accent?’

‘Aye. Still haven’t lost it in twenty years.’ Was it pride in her voice or nostalgia?

‘What brought you down south?’ asked Lilly.

Angie eyed her suspiciously through the smoke. Eventually she shrugged, perhaps acknowledging that she may as well tell the truth.

‘A fella. I was sixteen and I followed him to London.’

A man. Always a man. Hadn’t Lilly done the same thing herself?

‘What did your parents think to that?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have given a shit as they put me in care at twelve.’

Lilly wasn’t surprised.

‘Once we got to the city we’d no money for rent or nothing so we slept in a shop doorway.’ Angie didn’t court sympathy. These were the plain facts of her story. ‘After a couple of nights a man offered me a fiver for a blowjob and the rest, as they say, is history.’

‘What brought you to Luton?’ asked Lilly, her interest genuine.

‘My man ended up in prison over this way and I got sick of the train ride. Anyways, the brothels were full of foreign girls in London and there was still plenty of work over here.’

They watched two younger women enter the café and order coffee at the counter to take away. Both spoke with heavy accents and their dark complexions set them apart.

‘But it’s the bloody same here now. Russians, Turks, Albanians. It’s the United Nations out there.’

‘The girl I was looking for is from Eastern Europe. Russia, perhaps. She works for Fat Eric,’ said Lilly.

‘They’re all from over there in his place. He brings them here himself, or gets his brothers to do it for him. Not one of them girls is legal.’

‘Is that why the man on the door wouldn’t let me in?’

Angie nodded. ‘They don’t talk to outsiders. Poor cows, they work that club sixteen hours a day. If it’s quiet they do the chat rooms and the porn sites.’

‘Where do they sleep?’ Lilly asked.

‘He’s got some flats just outside the Cross. They get taken there after work.’

‘You make it sound like they’re prisoners.’

Angie’s over-plucked eyebrows shot up like speech marks around her forehead and accentuated the thick layer of foundation that had sunk into every crevice. ‘What else can you call it when they’re watched twenty-four seven?’

‘Why don’t they run away? Even without passports they could disappear. London’s so close.’

‘These girls are from small places, villages and that, Eric knows their families. One tried to leg it and her uncle’s throat got cut in front of his kiddies. She soon came back.’ Angie pointed a stubby finger at Lilly, its tip stained an unhealthy yellow, not unlike the colour of Kelsey’s hair. ‘So if you’re here to help Mandy, or whatever she’s called, I’d think twice if I were you.’

‘I’ve never met her, I just wanted to ask her some questions about a website called Maximum Exposure.’

Angie nodded to a silver Volvo that had pulled up outside. It was clean, brand-new, its owner obviously well-heeled.

‘Punter,’ she said, and made for the door.

As Lilly drank the dregs of her tea, Angie turned back.

‘I’ve never heard of that site, but I bet it’s got something to do with Max Hardy.’

Before Lilly could open her mouth, Angie had sprinted to the car with an astounding fleetness of foot and jumped inside.

Jack was working late at the station. He’d pulled out all the old files on Max Hardy, going right back to when he was a kid in care. The man had a sheet as long as the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Lilly was right, he was a nasty piece of work.

Jack remembered the first time he’d nicked him. Max must have been about fourteen, but he was small for his age, and Jack had seen more meat on a spare rib. Jack had let him off with a warning, like he always did, but it was only a matter of months before he was in again for possession, then for thieving cars.

Over the years his name came up time and time again, running girls and drugs. And yet Jack had never had him down as a killer.

During his years in the RUC, Jack had come across heavyweights on both sides of the divide. Hard men who knew what they wanted and how to get it. Shootings, kneecappings, Jack had seen it all, and Max Hardy didn’t fit the mould.

Maybe things had changed.

Jack sighed. Bradbury and the Chief Super had been in a huddle for hours now and he was itching to know what was going on. He’d love to be the one to tell Lilly the case against Kelsey had been dropped.

He tried not to imagine her smile and opened his emails.

To: Sergeant Jack McNally

From: Detective Inspector Marcus Bradbury

Subject: Grace Brand

Here’s the extra piece of evidence we were looking for. Have sent it to CPS today. Technically we don’t need to disclose it to the defence at this stage, but feel free to give a copy to Valentine.

I wish I could be there to see her face.

‘Shit,’ said Jack when he received another message.

To: Jack McNally

From: The desk of the Chief Superintendent

Subject: Grace Brand

By now you should have received the new information in the Brand case. Clearly this casts the situation in a new light, and although we do not wish to be seen to be putting all our eggs in one basket, you should keep resources to an absolute minimum in pursuing the second suspect.

‘Double shit.’

He decided on a text. Yes it was cowardly, but what could he do?

M
EET ME AT THE STATION
S
UN
5
P.M
.

Y
ES
, L
ILLY, IT IS IMPORTANT
.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sunday, 13 September

Sundays spent in the office were anathema to Lilly, but Rupinder had made it clear that the other partners were placing her under pressure to ‘do something about the northerner’. Guilt about her boss’s position rather than fear for her own made Lilly agree to spend the day at her desk. Miriam had taken Sam to the cinema so there was no excuse not to put in a full one.

By three thirty Lilly poked her head around the door to Rupinder’s office.

‘I’m going to meet McNally.’

‘You have other cases,’ Rupinder grumbled.

Lilly waved her mobile phone as if Rupinder could read the text from her position at her desk. ‘He said it was important.’

‘I’m sure he did, but you must put time aside to catch up on paperwork,’ said Rupinder.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘I mean it, Lilly, even if I have to tie you to your desk.’

‘Easy, tiger.’

Rupinder went back to her work. ‘I’m ignoring you now.’

Lilly was too preoccupied to worry about the mountain of forms and memos screaming for her attention. She just hoped Jack needed to see her about something he’d got on Max, something that would help Kelsey’s case. After she’d caught up with Jack she would head straight back to Tye Cross to track down Angie, who also knew something about Max.

Things were looking up, and Lilly felt excited and buoyant.

Jack was waiting for her at the entrance to the station.

‘Are you arresting me, McNally?’ Lilly teased. ‘I’m not coming quietly.’ She held out her hands to him. ‘You’ll need to cuff me for starters.’

Jack said nothing but steered her through the security door to one of the evidence rooms inside the station.

‘As for the strip search …’ she continued.

‘Shut up and sit down, woman.’

Lilly moved a box of trainers from a plastic chair. Each shoe was separately bagged in clear cellophane and labelled. Maybe one held a vital piece of information, a clue as to who had committed a burglary, a rape or some other crime. It occurred to her that investigations were like jigsaws, sometimes one piece would reveal the whole picture. Again she thought of the letter and how pivotal it might be if she revealed it to Jack. Although she felt bound by her client’s right to confidentiality, it did nothing to make her feel less disingenuous.

She moderated her tone. ‘What’s up, Jack?’

He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk to Lilly.

I, Millicent Mitchell, of 62 Meadow Hawk Way, Clayhill
Estate, Ring Farm, make this statement further to my
statement of 8 September in which I stated that on the
previous night I saw Kelsey Brand go to the door of
number 58 on two separate occasions.

I have thought about that night long and hard and I
now wish to add that about five minutes after the second
occasion when Kelsey went to number 58 I heard voices
and so I went to my window again.

I saw Grace Brand answer the door to Kelsey, who
followed her mother inside. I then saw them both in their
kitchen and they looked as if they were arguing.

I went to turn down the television so I could hear
what they were saying, but when I got back to the window
they were no longer in their kitchen.

I confirm that the contents of this statement are true
and that they may be used as evidence in a court of law.

‘This is crap,’ said Lilly, and pushed the statement away in disgust. ‘I’ve been in her flat and I’m pretty sure you can’t even see into Grace’s kitchen from there. Max is the man you want.’

Jack steeled himself to tell her he could no longer pursue that line of inquiry when Lilly looked at her watch.

‘Shit, I have to collect Sam, but I’ll meet you on the Clayhill later.’

‘I can’t do it, Lilly.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘The Gov is on my back,’ he said.

‘I’ll prove to you that Mitchell has got it wrong,’ she retaliated.

Before Jack could mention expenditure and resources Lilly had dashed out of the station.

Lilly was damn sure guilt had played a part in David’s agreement to look after Sam, but whatever the reason, as soon as he arrived Lilly pulled on her shoes.

‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ he asked.

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

He walked with her to the door and crumbled the rotten wood of the frame in his fingers.

‘This is dangerous. You need a new one.’

‘Can’t afford it, David.’

He opened his mouth but didn’t press it. She was glad as she could spare neither the time nor the energy on an argument.

Money was always an issue between them, or, more precisely, the lack of it. David made a generous payment to Lilly each month, but over half was swallowed by Sam’s school fees. Lilly, who had never wanted a private education for her son, would have happily let him take a place at the local village school, but David wouldn’t hear of it. He had attended an all-boys boarding school and attributed much of his tenacious personality to his time there.

By the time Lilly had paid the mortgage and other household bills on the cottage there was hardly anything left for luxuries, like a car with a fully operational gearbox or a front door that actually locked.

At first she’d tried to reason with David and pointed out that there were only ten children in each class at the local primary, which was a better teacher–child ratio than Eton or Harrow. David remained unmoved, so Lilly changed tack, arguing that Sam would always be the poor kid at Manor Park, which she knew from her own experience was not a comfortable position.

When that failed she threatened David with court action, but they both knew that most judges would have shared David’s background and would be hard to convince that school fees were not money well spent.

She had been furious for months and seized every opportunity to voice her complaint. Now she was resigned to her situation, worn down by it.

‘You should ask Rupinder for a pay rise,’ said David.

‘I already have.’

Max was vexed. Things were not going the way he’d planned. First that stupid girl had got herself nicked by McNally, and now this. He hated the lack of control.

Grace used to call him The Captain because he needed to be in charge, whereas she didn’t care, in fact she preferred not to make decisions.

‘I go with the flow, me,’ she used to say.

Max tried to put her out of his mind. Although things were simpler now she was gone, the thought of her still burnt him. Alone in the world they had found sanctuary in each other. Or that’s how it had seemed to Max at the time.

‘You watch my back and I’ll watch yours,’ she’d said again and again.

As a boy, Max had been overwhelmed by the idea of having someone on his side, someone who cared. He dreamed of running away with Grace, of marrying her. Instead, she fell in love with a wanker, went on the game and fell pregnant.

Kelsey had been a sweet baby. Hardly ever cried and always had a big smile for Max. He’d have married Grace and looked after them both if only she’d asked. But she never did. She stayed on the game, and then came the drugs.

Max hadn’t touched anything but weed in those days and had watched Gracie’s nosedive into addiction with horror. She’d lost weight and all her sparkle. She never went anywhere or did anything else, her life revolved around getting drugs, taking them, then getting some more.

Even so, she’d continued to watch his back, he had to give her that.

As the years progressed she’d often spoken of getting clean, and each time she fell pregnant he thought she might. It was weird how she finally did it at the end. How she finally tried to change her life.

Silly cow, she knew Max couldn’t let anyone get in his way.

He cleared his mind and walked towards the club. The man at the door greeted him with a nod.

‘The man’s expecting me,’ said Max.

‘You’re late.’

Max shrugged. ‘I had things to do.’

It wasn’t true. Max had waited around the corner for ten minutes. He didn’t like being summoned by Fat Eric and refused to behave like an underling. Instead he strolled through the door as if he were passing by and had decided to stop for a drink with an old mate.

He ordered a bottle of tepid beer from the bar and, propped against one elbow, casually surveyed the scene. The girl on the stage wrapped herself around a metal pole and snaked her way to the floor. The spotlights reflected in her hair, which undulated past her shoulders. A looker, right enough.

About twenty men sat at the tables in front of the stage. Some were alone, others sat in groups, drinking and laughing. Most were accompanied by one or more of the girls working the club, who encouraged money out of wallets with their white smiles and black underwear. Occasionally, a girl would lead her client to the VIP room in the back, where hard cash bought hard sex.

‘You’re impressed by my girls?’

Max had not noticed Fat Eric’s approach. He shook his hand warmly.

‘What’s not to like?’

‘No junkies, no drinkers, no thieves. This is the best way to make money, no?’ Fat Eric nodded gravely to emphasise his point. ‘Anyway, my friend, come to the office. We have things to discuss.’

Fat Eric’s office was no more than a dirty, windowless room used to store crates of beer and spirits. A small desk was placed to the side, its surface littered with papers, ashtrays and empty glasses. The air was thick with smoke.

‘Drink?’ asked Fat Eric, already reaching for clean glasses behind him.

Max noticed that the other man was not fat at all, and although his frame was large he had good muscle definition. He probably spent hours at the gym parading like a peacock.

Fat Eric opened a drawer and took out a bottle of vodka. Not the commercial kind found in bars and supermarkets, but imported from Sweden at over £30 a time.

He held up his glass to Max.

‘Prost.’

Both men emptied their glasses in one easy swallow.

‘We go back quite a few years, you and I,’ said Fat Eric, pouring more vodka.

It was true. Max remembered when the Russian had first arrived in Luton with only two girls in tow. His name had been Gregor in those days, but somewhere along the line he had acquired his new title along with several clubs and over 100 girls.

When Max first started his porn business he had sometimes used Eric’s girls, but Eric charged too much and it had eaten into Max’s profit margin. Later he used some women Gracie knew. They expected little but their habits made them unreliable and in close-ups they looked like shit.

These days he expended nothing on his stars except TLC and the odd £10 bag.

‘We’ve both diversified, Max, and I cannot say I appreciate the way in which your line of work has gone. But business is business, I don’t judge,’ said Fat Eric.

I should think not, man. Your girls are no better than
slaves, so don’t get ideas that you’re higher up the food
chain
.

Max flashed a smile. ‘So what can I do for you, Gregor?’

‘A woman has been round here asking questions about you. She spoke to Mandy on the net and then tracked her down to the club.’

‘Police?’

Fat Eric shrugged. ‘I doubt it. Social services maybe.’

Max forced himself to remain calm but a prickle of fear was spiking the base of his spine. ‘What did she want?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care, except that maybe she come back and next time not on her own,’ said Eric.

Yes, you bastard, you wouldn’t want immigration
turning up here, would you?

‘I’ll look into it,’ said Max.

‘Sort it out, my friend. Make sure no one comes here again or I will take my own action.’

Max tried to sound indignant. ‘Like what?’

Fat Eric smiled. Despite Max’s machismo they both knew who was in charge. ‘Like asking you, very politely, to shut down your business.’

‘I need a pay rise,’ said Lilly.

Rupinder sighed.

‘I don’t want to be a pain. You know me, Rupes, I just want to get on with my cases, but I can’t manage on what I’m getting.’

Rupinder sighed again. Publicly funded cases brought little revenue to the firm. The hourly rate paid by the government was less than most plumbers charged. The other partners felt they were loss-makers and that the firm should concentrate its resources on private matters and get rid of the foul-mouthed Yorkshire pudding, but Rupinder had argued that to keep both Lilly and her small number of public cases was a way of providing a service to the vulnerable. Lilly teased Rupinder and called her a ‘do-gooder’ but she knew that her boss had always put her money where her mouth was.

‘You earn more than most childcare lawyers, Lilly. I can’t justify more.’

Lilly slumped into one of the chairs. ‘I know, but you can’t blame me for trying.’

Rupinder pushed a tiny wisp of midnight hair back into her plait. ‘There is a way round this, Lilly.’

‘A paper round?’

‘You’d never get up in time,’ Rupinder laughed, ‘but you could change your case load and take on some private work.’

Lilly scowled. ‘Divorces.’

‘And other things. Custody cases, adoptions, and so on. Don’t look at me that way, Lilly, the charge-out rates are good and I could pay you more.’

Lilly knew she couldn’t do it. ‘Rich couples arguing over the contents of the hoover bag. I’d top myself within a week.’

‘You could still do your care work, just split your time fifty-fifty. Think about it at least,’ said Rupinder.

Half an hour later, on her way to Tye Cross with £1.27 in her current account, Lilly was indeed thinking about it. She knew it made sense but still balked at the idea.

When David had left she’d drowned in misery and antidepressants. The divorce and subsequent arguments over the house and maintenance had left her unable to breathe. To come to work each day, not to escape, but to jump into other people’s oceans of despair, filled her with horror. She didn’t think she would be able to bear the gloom.