Take Out (28 page)

Col beckoned her over and handed her a computer image of an aged Jennifer Granger, a picture Stevie had not yet seen. Pulling a photo of the young Granger from her jeans pocket she compared the peachy round face, wide innocent eyes and gap-toothed smile to the woman in the age-enhanced picture. Could the cherub really have turned into this dugong-faced creature? Stevie’s inability to spot a single shared feature made her sceptical of the picture’s value. She knew the age-enhancing process involved a mixture of science, art, facial growth data and heredity, and had often been invaluable in the hunt for long-term missing persons. But she had trouble coming to terms with the idea that an artist or scientist could predict the influence of lifestyle and experience on a face, when he had no idea what those influences might be. In this instance, he certainly seemed to have expected the worst.

She made eye contact with Col. ‘Surely this doesn’t take plastic surgery into account? You said she’d had various makeovers.’

He shrugged—God only knows—and urged her back to Mai with a firm nod of his head.

‘Do you know who this woman is, Mai?’ she asked, forsaking her chair to perch on the edge of the bed.

Mai’s head dipped as she examined the picture of the older Granger, a veil of hair falling over her face, hiding it. Pimjai took a peep at the picture too and said something to Mai who returned a single word answer. Pimjai responded with an uneasy laugh.

‘Well, Pimjai?’ Stevie asked.

‘She said the woman is very ugly.’

Stevie blew out a breath of impatience. ‘Yes, but does she recognise her?’

‘Wait, give her longer.’

Shit,
how long does she need? Stevie fidgeted with her shirtsleeves while she waited, trying to roll them into neat folds of military precision, ending up making uncomfortable knots at her elbows instead. Her gaze dropped once more to the picture Mai held in her hand.

And then her breath caught.

She bent over the picture and examined it again, her cheek almost touching Mai’s. She knew that face, she was certain, there was something about the mouth. Must be a known Madam, she reasoned, familiar from one of the reams of mugshots imprinted on her mind. She would send this composite to her colleagues in Sex Crimes and see if it rang any bells.

Mai took a bolstering breath. ‘Mamasan.’ The single word needed no translation. Col pointed a told-you-so finger at Stevie before indicating for her to continue with the questions. ‘But now she looks different,’ Pimjai added after listening again to Mai.

‘Different, how?’ Stevie asked.

‘Mai, do you know an old woman called Mrs Hardegan?’ Fowler asked simultaneously. Stevie could have murdered him.

‘No!’ Mai gasped in English, having obviously recognised the name. Her dark eyes flitted in panic away from Stevie’s. She pulled the sheet over her head and lay as inert as a body under a shroud.

‘She’s an old woman who lives next door to the Pavels.’ May as well finish what Fowler had started, Stevie decided. ‘Mai, you must know who she is.’

Mai shook her head vigorously under the sheet, making a low, keening sound. Stevie glanced toward Fowler, who looked on with exasperation.

Pimjai turned on Stevie. ‘This must end now—you, your questions, you are upsetting her.’ Before Stevie could react, Pimjai gave the nurses’ call button three sharp jabs—emergency—then let rip with a rapid stream of Thai.

‘Hey, wait on a minute...’ Stevie began.

‘No more talk,’ Pimjai said, ‘If she has to speak to you again it must be with a lawyer.’

Stevie plucked at the sleeve of Pimjai’s Audrey Hepburn suit and shook her head in desperation. ‘Pimjai, Mai’s not in trouble, she’s a witness only—you’re hardly being professional about this...’

A nurse dashed into the room and pulled up short when she realised it wasn’t an emergency. Despite Fowler jabbing his thumb accusingly at Pimjai, they were told they had to leave.

‘Shit,’ Fowler said as they stepped into the passageway, his lower lip jutting with disappointment. ‘What an obstructive little cow, she doesn’t miss much does she? Talk about the sisterhood. We’re going to have to lodge a complaint against that one.’

Stevie bit her tongue; the situation was hard enough without Fowler making it worse. Some of her hair had come loose; it must’ve been from all that frantic head shaking at Pimjai. She smoothed it back and tightened her ponytail. What she really wanted to do was get out of here, return to her mother’s house and sleep for a week.

‘Pimjai was only doing her job, Fowler,’ she said. She glanced back into the room and saw Pimjai reach for the sobbing girl and felt the last of her energy drain away. After everything that girl had been through and despite her best intentions, all she’d succeeded in doing was make Mai cry.

Fowler folded his arms and glared at her. ‘You should have been tougher, Hooper, cut to the chase sooner, shown her the dress and asked her about the bus crash.’

‘Look what happened when you cut to the chase,’ Stevie said.

Fowler appeared not to hear her. ‘What a waste of bloody time that was.’

‘Bull it was,’ Col said to Fowler with uncharacteristic sharpness, the strain was getting to him too. ‘We now have proof of everything we suspected and more. The hunt for Mamasan and The Crow can begin for real now we have that positive ID.’

‘If you believe in that kind of composite garbage—the girl said Mamasan looked different now.’

‘Jesus, Fowler, stop and listen to yourself,’ Stevie said, his negativity was getting to her even though she had a feeling that he might be right. In small doses she found she coped quite well with Fowler—there were even moments of camaraderie—but after a while his minor irritations built up like lead poisoning in her system. He was more of an old woman, she decided, than Mrs Hardegan could ever be.

‘And what’s more,’ Col continued, flexing his fingers, doing his best to ignore the growing tension between the detectives, ‘we now know that Jon Pavel is seriously dead and not still driving around terrorising people in that green Jag of his. Any luck with the trace so far, Fowler?’

‘Not yet, sir, Wong’s people are still on it,’ Fowler said moodily.

‘Stevie,’ Col went on, ‘I’ll organise a lawyer from Legal Aid and then maybe you can sweet-talk Pimjai into letting you have another word with Mai. If not we’ll have to find a different interpreter. I want to talk to the other girl’s doctors too, get a progress report. Last time we spoke they seemed to think she’d be waking up soon.’

‘What will happen to Mai and Lin?’ Stevie asked.

‘They’ll be offered amnesty—and a happy ending, hopefully.’

Stevie raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Provided Mai had nothing to do with Notting’s death.’

Col paused. ‘Well, yeah.’

‘She was a whore, anyway,’ Fowler said, ‘It’s not like she was being forced to do anything she hadn’t done before. Get her off the hook and she’ll end up right back where she started.’

Stevie’s pent up frustrations exploded. ‘Haven’t you learnt anything over the last few weeks? The fact that Mai was a sex worker makes no difference; she was coerced into coming to this country to work, a sex slave no less—she did not ask for this. It’s time you got over this madonna – whore complex of yours. The nature of her work before she came to this country is totally irrelevant.’

Fowler lowered his head. If he had any sense at all, he’d have to know what she was alluding to. ‘I’d better go and report all this to Wong,’ he mumbled, thwacking his hand through the air. Things hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted, how any of them had wanted, but jeez, Fowler, get over it.

‘He’s an odd one,’ Col said as they watched the detective stride down the ward, swatting imaginary flies.

‘You get used to him.’ She gave an indifferent shrug, too tired even to keep her anger simmering. ‘Kind of.’ (Image 28.1)

Monty was dozing when Stevie crept into his hospital room. Without disturbing him, she slipped onto his bed, fitted herself to his body, and was asleep within seconds. Fowler woke her with a tap on the shoulder an hour and a half later. She washed the sleep from her eyes and combed her hair in the small bathroom, avoiding the mirror lest she see the hard face and ruffled collar of an interrogator of the Spanish Inquisition staring back at her.

The lawyer from Legal Aid, a young man called Russell Simpson, was waiting for them outside Mai’s door.

The gentle aroma of baby powder had replaced the earlier unpleasant smells in the room. A stainless steel bowl of scummy water sat upon the tray table. Mai’s hands had lost all traces of red dirt and her hair gleamed with every sweeping stroke of the hairbrush gripped tight in Pimjai’s hand. Stevie spent a moment watching the Thai women as companionable as sisters despite their being at opposite ends of the social spectrum. She glanced at Fowler and guessed what he was thinking. Jesus, Fowler, she thought, sometimes I wish I could just blank you from my mind.

Mai’s eyes were closed as if she was revelling in the sensation of this small act of kindness. Stevie found herself yearning to do something positive too for the girl who appeared to have so little.

Pimjai put the brush on the tray table and Mai joined her hands with a word of thanks. Stevie introduced the lawyer, who sat down in the chair Col had occupied earlier, and exchanged pleasantries with the women: ‘Feeling better, Mai? How’s the leg? Pimjai has made you look beautiful.’ She knew she risked being condescending, but was rewarded with a small smile from each of them.

Fowler pressed the record button on the camcorder as soon as the questioning began. Stevie removed the housedress from the plastic bag and held it up for Mai to see. ‘Is this yours?’

The girl slowly reached for the dress, rolled the silk through her fingers; she felt the hole left by the missing button and nodded her head.

‘Mai, did you go to the Pavel house and feed your baby after Delia and Jon were killed?’

Pimjai listened and then interpreted Mai’s reply. ‘Yes, she overheard the men talking about what had happened—Jon Pavel was still alive then. The Crow shot Delia from the kitchen window, then took Jon with him and left Mai’s baby in the house. Mai travelled by bus several times to the house and fed her baby. But then Rick found out, told The Crow and he burned her feet.’ Pimjai pulled back the bedclothes to expose Mai’s unbroken leg. The burn was healing, although the skin on the sole of her foot was still red and flaking in places. Stevie winced. Fowler and Russell Simpson leaned forward in their chairs to inspect the injury. The young lawyer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Before this she tried to call the police and tell them what was happening,’ Pimjai said, ‘but they did not understand what she was saying.’

Fowler shifted in his seat with embarrassment—as well he might, thought Stevie.

‘And you used Mrs Hardegan’s phone?’ Stevie queried.

Mai paused as she listened to Pimjai and shook her head violently, her eyes once more eyes brimming with tears at the mention of the old lady’s name.

‘She phoned from call box,’ Pimjai said with a decisive snap to her jaw.

‘No.’ Fowler could remain silent no longer. ‘There was no call box listed in the phone log. Each phone call was made from the same private number listed as belonging to Mrs Lilly Hardegan.’

Pimjai told Mai what he’d said. Mai shook her head, but Stevie knew Fowler was right. All the unintelligible calls were made from Mrs Hardegan’s phone, including the final, successful call from Skye.

Why would Mai apparently tell the truth about everything else, but lie about this one insignificant matter? Was she trying to protect the old lady from something—were they in collusion? Stevie expelled a breath; it didn’t make sense. She would have to visit Mrs Hardegan again. Perhaps she’d get some sense out of the old lady once she knew Mai was safe.

‘The bus crash, Hooper, ask about the bus crash,’ Fowler hissed in a stage whisper.

She shot him a look; all in good time. But Pimjai took it upon herself to ask Mai before Stevie could stop her. Stevie sighed and made a mental note to enquire if the Academy offered courses in ‘Techniques of interrogation through translation’—both of these sessions had been bloody nightmares.

It wasn’t dark but it was getting there; the sky filled with the soft purple of evening. Mrs Hardegan’s light was on but she had not yet drawn the curtains. As Stevie made her way down the back garden path, she found herself smiling at the scene before her, an absurd shadow puppet show—Long John Silver, bird on shoulder, watching the evening news.

After tapping on the window she entered the room, her tread light and springy on the lino floor. The interview with Mai hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped, but it buoyed her that for once she was not the bearer of bad news.

‘She’s safe, Mrs Hardegan, Mai is safe.’ Stevie beamed at the old lady and put her arm out to the bird. It hopped from Mrs Hardegan’s cashmere shoulder onto Stevie’s naked forearm, digging in with its nail-like claws, much lighter than it looked. She put it in its cage, closed the door and turned back. The old lady said nothing, sat there, a lopsided grin from ear to ear, the first Stevie had seen from her. There was no denying it, she knew exactly whom Stevie was talking about.