Untouchable (15 page)

I look at her. ‘Do you think it is? Connected to Amanda, I mean?’

‘I don’t see how,’ Kristen sighs. ‘It’s not as if burglaries are exactly rare round here. The man who lives above the corner shop got broken into several months ago. Crack addicts, he reckons. This is probably the same lot.’

I stare around me. ‘But why would they do this?’ I sweep my gaze across the carnage. ‘And how did they know you were out? You work from home, don’t you?’

She nods. ‘I’ve hardly left the flat since Amanda died. I guess they must have known about the funeral.’

‘I still don’t get why they’d waste the place like this. It’s unbelievable.’

Kristen looks around, her eyes glistening. ‘The worst is the stuff I had left – of hers, I mean.’

‘What did they take?’

‘A bit of money we kept in a pot in the kitchen. Our jewellery … well mainly hers. I didn’t really have much worth stealing, only a few things she gave me.’ She runs her hands through her hair, which is loose today, dishevelled and in need of a wash. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. I’m not supposed to touch anything, not until the police have been over the place. So it’s hard to say exactly what’s missing.’

She starts crying in earnest, tears spilling down her cheeks.

‘Here.’ I hand her a tissue from my bag. She wipes her eyes, then presses it to her lips, trying to hold in a wail of anguish. I step forward and fold her into my arms. This time she doesn’t pull away, her head sinking on to my shoulder. We stand there for several minutes until the crying subsides.

‘Sorry,’ she whispers, her voice choked with emotion.

‘Oh God, Kristen, I’m the one who’s sorry. This is awful. The last thing you need after …’ I stop and stare at her helplessly.

She meets my eyes briefly, then looks away, her gaze unfocused.

‘Do you want a cup of tea? I haven’t any coffee, it’s all on the floor, but I’ve salvaged a few tea bags if you don’t mind having it black. A couple of mugs are still intact and I think the kettle’s OK.’

‘Listen. You make the tea. I’ll pop down to the corner shop and get some milk.’

She gives me a grateful smile. ‘Thanks, Grace. That would be great.’

While I’m there I pick up everything I can think of. Milk. More coffee. Another packet of tea bags, a loaf of bread and a pack of biscuits. A reasonably moist-looking carrot cake. A few cans of soup and some dried pasta and Bolognese sauce. Enough to keep Kristen going until she can leave the flat.

On the way back I stop outside the house. Put down the two carrier bags and check over the door and the frame. I rarely dealt with burglars – even serial housebreakers don’t end up in maximum-security prisons, not unless they progress to more violent crime. But I remember the profile well enough. Poor, young, male, usually from an unstable home with a single mother. Often living nearby. Opportunistic rather than organized. And commonly under the influence of alcohol or drugs at the time of the offence.

Generally not well-equipped, however. No skeleton keys or sophisticated electronic gadgets. Most burglars prefer to enter through inadequately secured doors or windows, and that invariably leaves tell-tale signs like scrapes or scratches. Smashed glass or cracks in the frame where they used a jemmy.

Only I can’t see any sign of forced entry. The area around the lock looks normal; pristine even, the paintwork glossy and smooth. I glance over the bay window of the downstairs flat; everything seems intact.

I let myself in with the keys Kristen gave me. Check the internal door to the flat. Again, no signs of it having been levered or forced.

‘Any idea how they got in?’ I ask as I hand Kristen the shopping.

She sighs. ‘I’ve no idea. There’s a Yale lock and a mortice. You have to have both for the insurance.’

I chew the inside of my lip. ‘Where are you going to go for the next few days, Kristen? You can’t stay here with it like this.’ I consider inviting her to my place, but it would be tricky with the in-calls.

‘Don’t worry. I rang my sister while you were out. I can stay with her until we’ve cleared all this up.’

I feel relieved. The idea of Kristen alone here tonight troubles me. I’m not sure the people who did this were vandals or druggies high on crack. After all, they broke into a well-secured property without leaving a trace.

They clearly knew what they were doing.

It doesn’t add up, I think, as I take the tube back home. Why make the effort to get in so cleanly, then trash the place? It’s almost as if …

My mind flashes to the man waiting … no,
watching
outside the crematorium. The cool, appraising way he regarded me, as if determining something.

You’re getting paranoid, Grace, says a more sensible voice in my head. Cognitive distortions. You don’t need eleven years in psychology to know that isn’t good.

But somehow, as I reach my station and rise back up into the London daylight, I can’t shake off the feeling that something about this isn’t right at all.

23

Monday, 16 March

What the fuck am I doing here?

I stare at the bland cream paintwork, the fake oak panelling around the reception area, trying not to think about the last time I was in a police station.

That
interview. I jerk my mind away from the memory, but there’s already a constriction in my breathing. A tension too close to panic. The body always remembers, the therapist in my head repeats; the mind forgets, but the body always remembers.

Another five minutes idles by. My stomach is light and jittery, the urge for a cigarette growing stronger. I remember the first I ever had – afterwards, outside the station – and the face of the detective offering it, the way he couldn’t quite look me in the eye.

I’d never smoked before, not even tried one at school, but I held the cigarette in my fingers and let him light it. I’d have taken anything at that moment – crack, smack, Prozac – whatever might distract me from what I’d just done.

‘She won’t be a minute.’ The voice of the duty officer pulls me back. He looks over and gives me a perfunctory smile. Returns his gaze to his computer screen.

Cigarettes. That acrid taste of smoke and chemicals, so vile and yet so addictive. It took nearly five years to kick the habit, to reach the point where I no longer need nicotine to get me through the day. Though God knows, there are times I still crave it like air.

Like now.
The body always remembers.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I check the screen.
Alex
.

I stand up and make for the door.

‘Stella Wilson?’ I stop and turn around. A slim woman with short dark hair walks up and offers her hand. I put my mobile back in my pocket, reach out and shake it.

‘Detective Inspector Shaw,’ she says. ‘Annette Shaw.’

About forty, I reckon, dressed in ordinary clothes. Her voice has that tone of quiet authority I once aspired to. She studies my face so intently that for a moment I’m wondering if she might somehow be connected to what happened back then.

Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself, as she leads me down the corridor. It was another time, another place entirely. And she has no idea of my real name.

We enter a small interview room. Not the usual setup, the clinical desk and chairs and tape recorder you get when things turn serious. This is four cheap armchairs gathered around a mug-stained coffee table. The put-you-at-your-ease room. I used to use one myself.

She sits in the chair facing the door, indicating the one opposite. ‘OK, Ms Wilson …’

‘Stella.’

‘Right, Stella. Thank you for ringing this morning. So what have you got to tell me?’

I clear my throat. Remind myself why I’m here. ‘Can I ask you a few things first?’

She looks at me. Nods. Her eyes are brown, the creases around them barely visible.

‘I just wanted to ascertain how far you’d got with the case.’

‘Amanda Mansfield’s murder?’

‘Yes.’

DI Shaw presses her lips together, assessing me again. ‘You know we can’t disclose any details, Stella.’

‘Have you got any suspects?’

She doesn’t answer. I take that as a no.

‘There are … things I think perhaps you should be considering. And maybe you already are. I don’t know.’

She cocks her head. ‘Such as?’

I take a deep breath. ‘You believe Amanda was killed by a client, right? During an appointment? But I’m sure she wasn’t.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘Because I used to work with her. And it doesn’t fit.’

‘You worked with her? You’re an escort?’

I nod, holding her gaze.

‘Did you two
work
together much?’ Subtle, but unmistakable, her intonation.

‘Six, maybe seven times. A couple of duos. The rest were parties.’

She stares back at me for a few seconds, her expression unreadable. ‘So tell me what you’re thinking, Stella.’

I’m feeling increasingly nervous. Inhale again as I gather my thoughts. ‘Amanda was always very hot on security. Made sure she had a valid mobile number for a client, that sort of thing. Kristen – her girlfriend – said Amanda always told her where she was going and how long she’d be away. But not this time.’ I pause, swallow, wishing I’d been offered a cup of tea. ‘So I was wondering, were they on her laptop? On her work phone?’

The detective sizes me up. Considering how much to tell me. ‘There’s nothing on either that might suggest the identity of her attacker, no.’

‘She kept details of all her appointments on her computer, right?’

She nods.

‘And this one, at the hotel, it wasn’t on there?’

Another barely detectable nod.

‘So why do you think that was?’

She shrugs. ‘Maybe it was a late booking and she didn’t have time for the usual checks. Or maybe she couldn’t be bothered.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Do you always bother, Stella? Aren’t there times some man rings on the off-chance and you forget? Or decide to take a gamble?’

I force myself to regard her as coolly as she’s looking at me. ‘We’re not talking about me, are we?’

‘I’m not sure what we’re talking about, Stella. Or quite why you’re here.’

That makes two of us, I think, hesitating. Then remind myself exactly why I have dragged my sorry arse into this claustrophobic little room.

‘I don’t believe it was a client who killed Amanda.’

‘You don’t?’

‘It doesn’t make sense. The lack of information about the appointment. The fact she didn’t say anything to her girlfriend. And the hotel.’

‘What about the hotel?’

‘Kristen said she paid for it herself, on her credit card. I mean, why the hell would she do that? Clients book the room, not the other way round. Not to mention that it’s hardly the sort of place Amanda usually worked in.’

DI Shaw lifts an eyebrow.

‘Amanda was very much a five-star girl. Four at the outside. And any client who could afford her fees wouldn’t stay in a hotel like that either.’

Nothing from the detective. I know what she’s doing. It’s a standard interview technique – maintain a steady silence and the interviewee will blurt things out to fill the gaps.

But right now I don’t care. ‘And why the delay? Kristen said she went missing on the Tuesday afternoon, yet she wasn’t discovered until the Friday. Surely if she’d been off with somebody for three days she’d have mentioned it to her partner? And why was the hotel booked for only one night? If she was on such a long booking, why did she check in the evening before?’

Still no response.

I press on. ‘Why weren’t there any condoms missing? You found five in her bag, am I right?’

DI Shaw makes no move.

‘Kristen said she always carried five. Always. It was like a habit … no, a talisman, a ritual. Always five.’

‘So she got careless. Taking risks goes with the territory, doesn’t it, Stella? In your business?’

I fix my eyes on hers. ‘Not really. How many women go out to a bar and get drunk and go off with some bloke they’ve only just met? How many bother to check out his name first, or get his phone number? How many tell someone exactly where they’re going and for how long? Have
you
ever had a one-night stand?’

Silence.

‘That’s pretty risky behaviour, wouldn’t you say? Yet it happens all the time. We’re not idiots, Detective Shaw, those of us who prefer to be paid for our trouble. We aren’t all feeding a drug habit or controlled by pimps. Some of us probably had a better education than you.’

She doesn’t turn a hair at this. Just keeps her gaze locked on mine.

‘And when it comes to it, Detective, rape, assault, murder – how many of these are committed by men the victim actually knows? By boyfriends or husbands, ex-boyfriends or ex-husbands? It doesn’t make the headlines, does it, that routine domestic abuse? But if a woman’s on the game and gets knocked off, that’s big news.’

A half-smile creeps across Annette Shaw’s lips. ‘OK, Stella, fair point. So you tell me, what do you imagine happened to Amanda?’

I pause. Choose the right words. ‘I reckon whatever brought her into contact with this man, it wasn’t about sex.’

The detective raises her eyebrows. ‘So why did she have the condoms with her?’

‘Kristen said she kept them in her handbag, in a special case. She never took them out.’

‘Fine,’ she muses, ‘let’s say she met up with her killer for other reasons. I agree, that could explain the lapse in her usual procedure. So how come we found her naked on a hotel-room bed?’

I hesitate. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he lured her back for some reason. Or maybe he killed her first and dumped her there.’ Though as soon as I suggest this, I realize how difficult that would be.

‘Or perhaps they were having an affair,’ suggests DI Shaw, with a wry smile.

‘Is that the line you’re taking? That he was her lover?’ I feel a lurch of concern for Kristen.

‘It would make sense.’

‘But why meet in a hotel?’

She shrugs. ‘Perhaps he was married.’

I consider this for a second, then shake my head. ‘I don’t reckon that’s it.’

‘Why not?’

‘She was gay.’